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carnalcrows · 5 days ago

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NINE LIVES, ONE BULLET

pairing: outlaw! gojo saturo x male reader

synopsis: You’re a thief. He's a legend. All you wanted was the artifact — not a partner, not a bounty, and definitely not feelings. But there’s only one bed, one bullet, and maybe one shot at making it out alive. (And gods help you, you’re starting to like him.)

content warnings: 18+, outlaw/thief dynamic, bottom male reader, heavily inspired by puss in boots, Gojo is feral in a silk shirt, slow burn with explosive payoff, community bathhouse smut (fingering, p in a, reader receiving), one bed trope, fake marriage but the feelings are real, suggestive swordplay, magical artifact slowly corrupting the reader (he’s fine. probably), minor blood and injury, mutual possessiveness disguised as banter, major character death, emotional vulnerability in stolen clothes, they save the day but lose some of themselves, Gojo probably steals your boots.

word count: 10.5k 💪🏼

You were two clicks away from glory.

The last mechanism in the vault lock was nearly purring under your tools, an intricate thing of gears and whispers that had taken you three nights to decode. The room was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a stolen lantern and the soft red glow of rune-etched stone along the floor. Whoever built this place wanted the treasure buried and forgotten, but they hadn’t counted on you.

You adjusted your gloves, fingers nimble as the final latch gave the faintest click. Satisfaction hummed through you, the kind that only came from outsmarting kings and walking away richer.

And then you heard it.

A crunch.

You froze.

Not the stone-shifting crack of an ancient trap. Not the telltale grind of armoured boots. No—this was sharper. Wetter. Smugger.

You turned your head, slowly, already dreading what you’d find.

And there he was.

Satoru Gojo. Leaning casually against the far column, biting into a red apple like he’d strolled into a marketplace instead of a cursed noble’s vault. White hair gleaming. Mask angled just enough to be obnoxious. His boots were dusty, his grin shit-eating, and his eyes—fuck. Of course, he didn’t bother hiding them.

"Don’t stop on my account," he said, juice running down his wrist. "You looked so focused. It was adorable."

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then said, flatly, “What the fuck.”

He gestured with the apple. “Hi.”

“Did you follow me?”

“Technically, I was here first. I just took a more dramatic entrance route.” Another bite. “Rooftops. Rope. Possible broken window.”

You looked past him, and sure enough, one of the stained glass panels high above was cracked open, edges glittering with fresh damage.

“You’re a fucking legend,” you muttered, turning back to the vault.

"Aww, you do know me."

“I also think you're a fucking nuisance.”

Gojo laughed, low and pleased. "You say that like it’s mutually exclusive."

You exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “You planning on standing there eating fruit while I do all the work?”

“Actually,” he said, and there was the sound of something metal shifting behind you, “I was thinking I’d help.”

You spun, knives drawn in a blur.

But Gojo wasn’t threatening you—he was kneeling beside the pedestal now, peering at the exposed vault like it was a puzzle box.

He whistled. “Damn. You already disarmed the pressure plates?”

“You’re loud,” you said, circling him warily. “And messy.”

He looked up at you, bright-eyed. “But cute, right?”

Your blade hovered an inch from his throat.

“You’ve got five seconds to leave.”

“Oh?” His smile widened, infuriating. “Or what? You’ll stab the most charming outlaw in the land?”

“If it shuts you up, absolutely.”

“Harsh.” He leaned in, voice lower now. “You always this violent on first meetings, or am I special?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

"And you're hot when you're mad."

The moment stretched between you like a tripwire. His smile didn’t falter, but his fingers twitched near the hilt of the blade at his hip. Not drawn, not threatening. Just… prepared.

So he wasn’t an idiot. That was disappointing. You liked idiots. They bled easier.

“I know who you are,” you said finally.

“Everyone does.”

“I don’t mean your wanted posters. I mean your real reputation. You get people killed.”

His expression didn’t change, but something cold flickered behind his smirk. “People get themselves killed. I just make it interesting.”

You hated how good that line was. Hated more that it made you want to smirk back.

Instead, you sheathed your knives and moved past him to the artifact.

Small. Black. Humming with a pulse you felt in your ribs. The voidseed, they called it. One wish. One curse. Same odds, depending on how desperate you were.

Gojo stood too, closer now. You felt him behind you, tall and warm and irritating.

“Any chance you’ll split it?” he asked.

“Not even if you begged.”

“Mmm. I am good at begging, though.”

You straightened, turned, and faced him properly for the first time.

Sharp white hair. Lashes too long. Lips still stained from that damn apple. He was every kind of trouble, wrapped in silk and arrogance, and now he was standing between you and the exit.

You sighed. “I’m not fighting you in here. Too cramped.”

“Shame. I like it cramped.”

You stepped around him, slow, purposeful. “Touch me again and I’ll bury a dagger in your throat.”

He chuckled, following. “That’s not a no.”

You reached the exit passage, then paused. Looked back at him.

“You planning to follow me out?”

Gojo shrugged. “I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

“So rob someone else.”

“But you’re so much more fun.”

You stared. He smiled.

Then you threw a smoke vial to the ground and vanished into the haze, vaulting up the hidden escape shaft you’d scouted days ago. You didn’t bother looking back.

Let him chase you if he wanted.

You’d cut him off at the knees later.

---

The city was quieter at night—if you could call this a city. It was more like a stitched-together sprawl of forgotten temples, crumbling stonework, and wealthy cowards playing noble. Beyond the roofs stretched the distant outline of forest, where the real dangers lived. Where you were planning to disappear.

If not for the man currently chasing you.

You moved fast, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, leather boots gripping slick clay tiles. The wind tugged at your coat and hissed in your ears. You landed, rolled, and sprang again without pause—muscle memory and adrenaline making you feel half-feral, half-myth.

Gojo was still behind you.

Gods, how was he still behind you?

You glanced back just as he landed a story down, arms outstretched like a damn acrobat, long coat flaring, silver hair glowing in the moonlight. He looked delighted. Delighted.

“This is the most cardio I’ve done all year!” he called, grinning. “Is this foreplay? Feels like foreplay.”

“Try dying!” you shouted back, and dropped smoke behind you again.

But he didn’t slow. Didn’t stumble. If anything, he laughed harder—like this wasn’t a chase at all but a fucking game, and you were the only one pretending to play it seriously.

You hated how good he was at this.

You hated that it was kind of fun.

You pivoted hard, ducked under a broken arch, and slid down the angled side of an old cathedral roof, boots skimming the rain-slick edge. You landed in the alley with a sharp grunt, breath visible in the cold.

Then silence.

No footsteps. No Gojo.

You waited five, ten seconds—ears straining—then exhaled slowly and melted into the shadows, slipping through the gap between buildings you’d marked earlier. It led into the narrow passage behind the bell tower, where the stone was warped from age and easy to scale.

You climbed three stories before you heard it again.

Crunch.

You looked up.

There he was.

Leaning against the spire like a gargoyle, eating another fucking apple.

You stared. “How��”

“I’m very light on my feet,” he said cheerfully, tossing the core into the dark. “Also, you take the exact same route every time. Predictable, but sexy.”

Your hand twitched near your knife. “If I kill you, does the bounty double?”

He cocked his head. “Are you flirting?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached the top of the roof and sat, boots swinging over the edge, chest rising and falling from the sprint. Gojo watched you, then flopped down beside you like this was all part of the plan.

Below, the city was a patchwork of flickering lamps and watchfires. The guards hadn’t spotted either of you yet. You could still vanish. You could still shake him. But for some reason, you didn’t move.

“I should stab you,” you muttered.

“You keep saying that,” Gojo replied, voice lighter now. “But here we are.”

Silence stretched between you. Not tense, exactly. Just full—with things you weren’t going to say and things he probably already knew.

Gojo broke it first. “That vault was yours?”

“Obviously.”

“You cracked it clean.”

“Obviously.”

He grinned. “I’m impressed.”

You glanced at him. “That doesn’t mean anything coming from you.”

“It does to me.”

And there it was again—that thing he did, that flicker behind the jokes and showmanship. Like he saw something in you that he wasn’t supposed to. Like he was trying to get under your skin on purpose.

“Why do you keep chasing me?” you asked, finally. “You could be halfway to the next kingdom by now.”

Gojo stretched his legs out, boots scuffed and dusted with rooftop grit. “Maybe I like shiny things.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t even want the artifact.”

“Nope.”

“Then why—”

“I wanted to see who got there first.” He looked at you. Really looked. “And what they’d do with it.”

You met his gaze and felt something tighten in your chest.

“You think I’ll use it?”

He shrugged. “I think you’re not as heartless as people say.”

You laughed once, short and bitter. “And what gave you that idea? The knives or the running?”

“The way you looked at it. Like it scared you a little.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head toward the stars. “I’ve seen men go mad for things like that. Or worse—get hopeful. That’s always when it breaks them.”

“Hope?”

Gojo nodded. “It’s a fragile thing. Makes people desperate.”

You turned away. Looked down at the artifact in your coat pocket. Still warm. Still humming. Like it was alive. Like it knew it had just become yours.

“I’m not desperate,” you said quietly.

“No,” Gojo agreed. “You’re angry.”

You didn’t ask how he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was guessing. Or maybe he really did see straight through people the way they said he could. Whatever it was, it made your skin itch.

“You gonna tail me all night?” you asked, voice back to flat.

“Depends,” he said, stretching. “Are you gonna make it worth my while?”

You stood abruptly. “Don’t follow me, Gojo.”

He didn’t rise. Just watched you from where he lay, too relaxed for someone who could be skewered in two seconds.

“You’re not the only outlaw after that thing, you know,” he said casually. “You might want backup. Or a partner.”

You looked over your shoulder. “I don’t do partners.”

“You might change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Gojo smiled, softly this time. “I’ll see you again anyway.”

You disappeared into the shadows before you could give him the satisfaction of a reply.

And still, somewhere behind you, you heard him laughing.

---

You smelled blood before you stepped inside.

The tavern was quieter than you remembered, and that was saying something—it was already a shithole on a good day. You’d holed up here before: halfway between two borders, just obscure enough to be ignored by local law. Perfect for laying low after a heist. Perfect for disappearing.

But tonight, something was… off.

You kept your back to the wall and your hood up, fingers tracing the hilt under your coat as you passed between half-empty tables. A few men looked up—one blinked too slow, another’s hand twitched toward his belt. You kept walking.

The barkeep didn’t speak. Just jerked his chin toward the back room.

You slipped through the curtain.

Kaito was waiting. Ex-fence, part-time drunk, full-time coward. But useful—if you were willing to stomach the smell.

“You got it?” he rasped, eyes wide. “You actually got it?”

You didn’t answer. You pulled the object from inside your coat, still warm and faintly pulsing. The voidseed sat between you like a heart torn from a god. Kaito leaned forward, reverent.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You really pulled it off.”

“I need papers,” you said. “New name. New country. And I need it fast.”

Kaito nodded too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I got a guy—wait, no—had a guy, he moved east, but I can get—”

The door behind you slammed open.

You turned just as the first knife whistled through the air. You ducked. It hit the wall behind you with a dull thud.

Four bounty hunters. Maybe five. All armed. All grinning.

You moved before they could surround you, flipping the table and vaulting over it. The room exploded into motion—Kaito shrieked and disappeared under a bench, typical—and you drew both knives in one smooth motion, spinning as the first man lunged.

You slashed his thigh, ducked a club, kicked the third in the stomach hard enough to hear ribs crack. It was fast. It was brutal. But they kept coming.

They weren’t just here for blood.

They were here for the artifact.

Shit.

You were outnumbered, boxed in, and—

The window shattered.

Something slammed into the room in a blur of white and blue. The air twisted, and suddenly three men were on the floor, groaning or unconscious. One tried to crawl away. A boot stepped on his hand.

Gojo.

“Miss me?” he said, smile sharp and stupid and radiant.

You didn’t answer. You threw a bottle at the last standing hunter and watched it explode against his face.

“Charming,” Gojo said. “Didn’t know you could throw like that.”

“I’ll throw you if you don’t explain how they found me.”

Gojo crouched, yanked a bounty poster from one of their belts, and tossed it to you.

You caught it.

And froze.

Your name.

Your face—sketched, but unmistakable.

And scrawled beneath it in fat, blood-red ink:

WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE – POSSESSION OF AN ANCIENT CURSE REWARD: 5,000 GOLD COINS

You stared. “Five thousand?”

Gojo whistled low. “Even I’m not worth that much.”

“This wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Which means someone talked.”

You turned to Kaito. He held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything, I swear—!”

You kicked over his table. He screamed and ducked.

Gojo chuckled. “So. What’s your plan now?”

“Run,” you snapped. “Fast and far.”

“You won’t make it through the border checkpoints with that poster circulating. Every pair of eyes from here to the capital’s gonna be looking for you.”

“Not if I move fast.”

“Not if you move alone.”

You stopped.

Gojo smiled, all lazy amusement. “Travel with me. We’ll cut through the cliffs and loop around the marshlands. No patrols, no checkpoints. I’ve got people there. We’ll be ghosts.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That’s mutual.”

You glared. “Then why help me?”

He looked down at the voidseed, then back up at you.

“Because,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re not the only one who wants to know what that thing does. And I’ve got a map.”

You paused.

He added, “To the place it came from. The one no one dares go near. Not unless they want answers. Or power.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You could stab him. You could go alone. You could disappear into the woods and take your chances with the bounty on your back and the hunters at your heels.

Or you could take the risk.

You sheathed your knives. “Fine. One week. Then we’re done.”

Gojo grinned. “Whatever you say, partner.”

“I’m not your partner.”

“We’re travelling together. You’re not not my partner.”

You shoved past him. “If you talk this much while we’re walking, I will kill you.”

“That’s fine. You’ll miss me.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t look back, either.

Because for the first time since stealing the voidseed, you weren’t running alone.

And you hated that it made you feel a little less doomed.

---

You hated traveling with other people.

They slowed you down. They made noise. They had opinions about things like “breaks” and “which direction the cliffs are” and “not threatening every barkeep you meet.” And yet, here you were.

With him.

Gojo Satoru walked like a man who’d never feared a fall. Long strides, loose limbs, like the world was his to trip through. He hadn’t shut up for hours—about the voidseed, about local legends, about a mythical hot spring he swore was nearby and probably full of naked people.

You barely grunted in response.

Mostly to stop yourself from saying something you’d regret.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“So,” Gojo drawled as you both passed through the last arch of the ruined bridge, the cliffs yawning on either side like jagged teeth, “are you always this fun, or am I just special?”

“You talk too much.”

“And you glare like it’s a love language.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About killing me? Or kissing me?”

You didn’t answer.

Gojo laughed. “Ah, so both.”

The path ahead narrowed—just a crooked trail winding down into the ravine. No signs, no markers. You knew this route, barely. Smugglers used it sometimes, but it wasn’t exactly a highway. The wind picked up as you descended, sharp and biting, tugging at your coat and snapping branches overhead.

Behind you, Gojo sighed dramatically. “So… what’s your plan once we get across? Sell the voidseed? Hide it? Build a shrine and worship it?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “You really think I’d tell you that?”

“No,” he said. “But I like your voice. Could listen to it for hours.”

“You’re lucky I don’t slit your throat in your sleep.”

“I am lucky,” Gojo agreed. “Every day.”

You rolled your eyes. And still—somehow—didn’t stop walking next to him.

You camped that night in a hollowed-out cave, tucked into the cliffside like a secret. You’d found it years ago, when you were still running jobs with people who were now either dead or very, very far away. It was dry. Sheltered. Just big enough for two.

Which was annoying.

Gojo flopped down beside the fire you built, unbothered as always. He peeled off his coat, set down his sword with something resembling care, and stretched like a damn cat.

“You know,” he said, watching the flames dance, “you snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. It’s kind of endearing. Like a very angry bear.”

You threw a twig at his face. He caught it, grinning.

“You know you’re insane, right?” you said.

Gojo shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t reply.

The fire popped softly. Outside, the wind howled through the canyons like a warning. But in here, it was warm. Almost… peaceful.

You hated it.

“You’ve done this before,” Gojo said, after a beat. “Stolen something dangerous. Run from a bounty. Lived with a target on your back.”

Your jaw tensed. “You haven’t?”

“Oh, I have,” he said lightly. “But I tend to leave a trail of ash and broken hearts. You’re more subtle.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

Gojo turned his head, looking at you through the flickering light.

“No,” he said. “It’s impressive.”

You stared at the flames. Let the silence grow teeth again.

“I’m not interested in your compliments,” you muttered.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured. “Sharing fire. Sharing risk.”

“Not a team.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

The next day, you crossed the ravine and headed toward the outer reaches of the valley—closer to the forgotten routes that led to the Wastes. That’s where Gojo said the answers were. Where the voidseed had been found once before.

But first, you needed supplies.

And supplies meant towns.

You picked a smaller one. Backwater. No central guard. Fewer chances to be recognized.

Or so you thought.

The minute you stepped into the town square, Gojo nudged your side. “Don’t react.”

You didn’t move.

But you saw it.

A new bounty poster.

Your face, again.

And Gojo’s. Right beside it.

Same scrawled headline: WANTED FOR THEFT OF AN ANCIENT RELIC – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS REWARD: 7,000 GOLD – DEAD OR ALIVE

“Didn’t know you were that popular,” Gojo muttered.

“I thought you said your contacts were clean.”

“They were. Someone’s really invested in finding us.”

You ducked into a side alley, heart thudding. Gojo followed.

“What now?” he asked.

You were already scanning. Thinking. Calculating.

“They’ve got spotters,” you said. “We can’t stay long. We grab supplies and get out.”

“They’ll flag the wanted faces the second we walk into the market.”

“Then we won’t walk in as us.”

He blinked. “You’ve got disguises?”

“Better,” you said grimly. “A local custom.”

Gojo raised a brow. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Two hours later, Gojo stood beside you in front of the town registrar, wearing ceremonial robes that didn’t fit and smiling like he was having the time of his life.

You, on the other hand, were trying not to punch someone.

The registrar blinked down at the paperwork. “So… you’re here to register a bond?”

“Just passing through,” Gojo said brightly, sliding his arm around your waist. “But my beloved and I are finally tying the knot. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You gritted your teeth. “Ecstatic.”

The woman beamed. “Well, congratulations! I’ll just need you both to sign here—”

You grabbed the pen before Gojo could write something stupid.

You didn’t look at him when you scribbled your name—fake, of course—but you could feel his eyes on you. Amused. Curious. Warm in a way you didn’t want to think about.

“Done,” you said. “Can we go now?”

The registrar handed you a scroll. “Welcome to marital bliss!”

Gojo winked. “We’ll try not to kill each other.”

“Please don’t!” she called cheerfully as you walked away.

Later, back in the woods with the supplies stashed and your cover intact, Gojo laughed until he almost fell over.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “We just got fake married.”

You didn’t respond.

“Do I get a honeymoon? What about a kiss? Should we consummate the union?”

“Shut up.”

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, hubby. Admit it. You liked holding my hand.”

“I was restraining you.”

“Semantics.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed harder.

And somehow, you weren’t annoyed.

Not really.

Because for the first time since this whole cursed job started—you didn’t feel like you were running. You felt like you were walking beside someone who might actually survive the ending with you.

Maybe.

If he didn’t die first.

---

You knew something was off the moment the birds stopped singing.

It was dusk. The sky had softened into gold, trees slicing the light into ribbons as you and Gojo crept along the overgrown trail just past the ridge. You were supposed to be half a day ahead of any bounty trackers. Supposed to be deep enough in the forgotten woods that no one would dare follow.

But the silence gave it away.

Not natural. Not safe.

You stopped moving.

Gojo stopped too. “What is it?”

You didn’t answer. Just drew one of your knives and slipped into the trees.

Behind you, Gojo made a low sound—approval, maybe. He followed without complaint. Quiet. Efficient. Annoyingly graceful.

Then the first arrow struck the dirt near your boot.

You reacted instantly, diving behind a fallen log as the air exploded with motion. Figures burst from the brush—five, six, maybe more. Faces masked, blades out, a full ambush party and not the amateur kind. These weren’t bounty hunters.

These were bounty killers.

Gojo cursed behind you. “Friendly crowd.”

You gritted your teeth. “They were waiting.”

“For us?”

“For me.”

“God, you’re popular.”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Instead, you moved.

Two in front. One on the ridge. Another circling left. You lunged for the closest figure, catching them by surprise, your blade slicing across their thigh as you twisted to avoid a second strike. Blood splattered the leaves. They went down with a grunt.

Gojo was beside you in a blink, staff spinning, cracking skulls with that infuriating ease of his. But you could tell he was holding back. Always did. Like he was dancing, not fighting. Like none of it really mattered.

Until it did.

Because one of them got close—closer than you expected. A blade slashed across your arm. Hot pain bloomed. You staggered, just a second too slow.

Gojo turned, face shifting from amused to lethal.

The man didn’t even get to scream before Gojo drove his palm into his chest with a sickening crack.

Then silence.

Not quiet like before. Not suspicious.

Just stillness.

Bodies on the ground. Blood steaming in the cool night air.

You hissed, clutching your arm. “Fuck.”

“Let me see.” Gojo stepped closer.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

“Stop being difficult,” he muttered. “You’re not impressing me.”

You glared at him but let him push your coat off your shoulder. He knelt beside you, fingers brushing the torn fabric gently—almost too gently. His hands were warm. Steady.

“Not too deep,” he said. “But it’ll scar.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then you scoffed. “You care about a lot of things that don’t concern you.”

Gojo didn’t answer.

Just tied the bandage tight and stood.

You stood too, slower this time. Wincing. You wiped the blood off your blade and sheathed it again, staring down at the bodies.

“They knew we were coming,” you said.

“Looks like it.”

“Which means someone’s tracking us. Close.”

Gojo was quiet.

Then: “Geto.”

You looked up.

He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t teasing. That brightness he usually wore like armor had dimmed, pulled back like a tide.

You swallowed.

“You think he sent them?”

Gojo nodded once. “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask how he knew.

Not yet.

But something in your chest twisted.

You made camp deeper in the woods, away from the blood. The night was colder now, as if it knew something had changed.

Gojo didn’t joke. Didn’t chatter.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you sat with your back to the fire, knife in your hand, watching shadows flicker against the trees. You could still hear the sound of that last man’s chest caving in. Still feel Gojo’s hands on your arm. Still—

“You were good today,” Gojo said softly behind you.

You didn’t turn. “I’m always good.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You are.”

Another pause.

Then:

“Thanks for not dying.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He was leaning back, arms behind his head, hair messy, eyes soft and unreadable in the firelight.

And for once, he wasn’t smiling.

You didn’t know what that meant.

So you said, “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

He met your gaze.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

---

The village wasn’t on any map. It didn’t even have a name, just a rusted sign by the gate that read STAY OUT in faded red paint. That didn’t stop Gojo from walking right in, of course—whistling like he owned the place.

You followed him reluctantly, steps slower, warier. Something about the place made your skin itch. The houses were squat, sagging under their own weight, and the streets were too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with sleep or peace—but the kind that settles when something is wrong.

You passed a farmer hammering wooden planks across his windows. He didn’t look up.

Gojo leaned toward you, voice light: “Charming little vacation spot, huh?”

You didn’t smile. “Let’s find a place to rest. In and out. No distractions.”

Gojo just nodded, but you knew better. The man couldn’t resist poking the bear—especially if the bear was cursed, dangerous, or full of secrets.

It wasn’t hard to find the inn. It was the only building still standing straight. The sign above the door read The Hollow Lantern in cracked gold paint. You pushed the door open, and the air inside smelled like dust and oil and something faintly metallic.

A woman sat at the counter. Her eyes flicked to you, then to Gojo. “Rooms?”

“Two,” you said quickly.

She shook her head. “Only one left.”

Of course.

Gojo didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll take it.”

You didn’t protest. Not out loud. But the look you shot him could’ve burned a hole through stone.

He just grinned.

The room was small—barely enough space for your bags, your weapons, and the one creaky-looking bed shoved up against the far wall.

The silence stretched.

Gojo flopped onto the mattress like it was a king’s feast. “Not bad! Sheets even smell clean.” He rolled onto his back, arms behind his head. “You want left or right side?”

You stared at him. “I’ll take the floor.”

“No you won’t. You’re still injured.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to suffer through worse now.” He patted the space beside him. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite—unless you ask nicely.”

You flipped your knife once between your fingers before sliding it back into your boot. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Gojo smiled, but didn’t answer. For once, he let it be.

You didn’t lie down. Not yet. Instead, you stood by the window, eyes scanning the dark street below. Somewhere out there, the forest still whispered. The same forest that had nearly buried you both in bodies just hours earlier.

Something wasn’t right.

You turned to Gojo. “Why this village?”

He blinked at you, sitting up. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t hesitate. You just… walked in. Like you were looking for it.”

Gojo looked away then, expression shuttering. His smile faded—just for a moment, but enough to catch.

“There’s a rumor,” he said finally. “Old one. Says this place was cursed after a voidseed burst under the mountain. Says anyone who stays too long starts hearing voices in their sleep. Seeing things that aren’t there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you thought we should spend the night here?”

He shrugged. “If it’s cursed, it means no one will look for us here.”

You didn’t have a counter to that.

But you still didn’t like it.

You lay down reluctantly that night, fully dressed, your back to Gojo, your hand never straying far from the hilt at your hip. The bed was warmer than expected. You hated that. Hated the way your muscles loosened despite yourself. Hated the way Gojo’s breathing, soft and even beside you, almost calmed you.

Almost.

“You awake?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

He continued anyway. “I get why you don’t trust me.”

Your jaw tightened.

“But I’m not your enemy.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the moonlight leaking through the cracked shutters. His eyes were open. Bright. Watching the ceiling like it held the answers.

“I’m not anyone’s ally either,” you said. “I work alone.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then softer: “You don’t have to, though.”

You closed your eyes. Tried to pretend it didn’t make something sharp twist under your ribs.

You dreamed that night.

Of fire. Of eyes in the trees. Of a voice calling your name in someone else’s tone. You woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding—and Gojo was already sitting up beside you, alert. Barefoot. Shirt rumpled.

He looked at you like he’d seen something too.

“You felt it too?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. “Something’s here.”

Gojo’s voice dropped. “Voidseed.”

You stared at him. “How do you know?”

“I’ve felt it before.”

There it was again. That crack. That space where the mask slipped.

You sat up. “How many times?”

Gojo didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, crossing to the window.

“Geto used to track them,” he said finally. “Years ago. Said they were pieces of a bigger magic—older than anything in this world. Said if you collected enough of them, you could change fate.”

“And you believed him?”

Gojo gave you a sad smile. “I believed in him.”

You stood too.

And the floor creaked between you, quiet and heavy, like it was holding its breath.

Morning came gray and slow. You packed in silence. Gojo didn’t press you again. But something had shifted between you. Not quite trust. Not quite warmth.

But something.

You left the village by noon. The innkeeper watched you both with tired eyes. And just as you passed the edge of the woods again, Gojo looked at you sideways.

“One bed,” he said casually.

You grunted. “What about it?”

He smirked. “You didn’t stab me.”

You didn’t smile.

But you didn’t deny it either.

---

You’d barely made it past the village border when Gojo started whistling again. Same tune, same arrogance, like the ambush, the cursed bed-sharing, and the voidseed whispers hadn’t left even a scratch on his soul. You, on the other hand, were nursing a splitting headache and a very real ache in your side that you absolutely were not going to let him notice.

“Stop that,” you muttered.

“Stop what?” he said, cocking his head with a mock innocence that didn’t fool you for a second.

“That noise.”

“I’m creating ambiance. Mood. Vibes.”

“Your vibes are making me homicidal.”

Gojo grinned, “Well, at least they’re working.”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer. Just adjusted your coat, made sure your dagger was still where it belonged, and scanned the horizon ahead.

A town lay a few miles out—marked on Gojo’s stolen, half-burned map as “Rookridge.” He’d claimed there was a shortcut through its back alleys that would take you both to the pass ahead. You didn’t trust him, or the map, or frankly even the ground beneath your boots right now. But it was the only real lead you had. That, and the faint whisper of voidseed still lingering like smoke on the wind.

The town looked normal at first glance. Dusty. Quiet. The kind of place where people didn’t make eye contact unless you paid them for it. But Gojo slowed slightly as you entered the main square, steps lighter than usual. His hand brushed yours—barely.

“Careful,” he murmured, just for you. “We’re not alone.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You felt it too. That ripple in the air. That hunter’s tension curling along the back of your spine.

And then they stepped into the street.

Two of them. Dressed like theatre villains, all leather and buckles and unnecessary capes. One was tall and lean, with a blade so polished it shone like a mirror. The other was shorter, broader, and carried a spiked flail that looked like it belonged in a torture museum.

But it was their faces that made your stomach sink.

They were smiling. Like they’d been expecting you.

“Well, well,” the tall one purred, pointing his sword lazily between you and Gojo. “If it isn’t the infamous sorcerer and his grumpy little bodyguard.”

Gojo perked up. “You think I’m infamous? Aww, stop.”

“I won’t,” the shorter one said, cracking his knuckles. “The price on your head is enough to buy a kingdom.”

You tilted your head. “Whose head?”

Both bounty hunters blinked.

Gojo elbowed you lightly. “Aw, don’t be shy. They’re clearly here for me.”

“You wish.” You rolled your eyes, but your hand was already on your dagger.

“Don’t fight over me,” Gojo sighed. “There’s enough bounty to go around.”

The tall one moved first—fast, practiced, but not fast enough. Your blade met his mid-air with a clash of steel and a flick of your wrist that sent him staggering back.

“Whoa!” Gojo laughed. “Look at you go, sweetheart!”

You didn’t answer. You were already moving—ducking a strike, spinning, slashing low. The flail swung behind you, a whistle of iron in the air, and Gojo intercepted it with a wall of crystal-clear magic that cracked the earth.

“Oh, come on!” the shorter bounty hunter shouted. “Magic?! That’s cheating!”

Gojo grinned. “I know.”

The fight spilled into the square, drawing attention from the nearby tavern and market stalls. But no one stepped in. They just watched—silent, sharp-eyed. Rookridge didn’t seem like the kind of place that interfered.

The tall one tried a fancy move—flipping off a crate and aiming for your head with a scream of overconfidence. You ducked, grabbed his belt mid-air, and slammed him into the ground.

He groaned. “You’re… stronger than you look.”

“Yeah,” you said, flipping your dagger once, “I get that a lot.”

Gojo, meanwhile, had turned the fight into a performance. He was laughing, spinning, summoning brief flashes of light to blind and dazzle. Every move was unnecessarily theatrical, but undeniably effective.

The flail came flying again, and Gojo sidestepped with a flourish. “You know, I thought about becoming a dancer once,” he mused. “But bounty hunters make such terrible partners.”

The flail-wielder screamed in frustration and charged.

Gojo just blew him a kiss and raised his hand—boom. A pulse of energy sent the man flying into a water trough.

Silence settled.

You stood over the tall one, breathing hard, dagger pressed to his throat.

“Still want that bounty?” you asked.

He wheezed. “You’re… both insane.”

Gojo popped a piece of dried fruit into his mouth and winked. “And you’re boring.”

The bounty hunters crawled off eventually, muttering curses and threats. You didn’t follow. You’d made your point.

“Do you always piss people off that quickly?” you asked Gojo, wiping blood off your blade.

“Only the people worth pissing off,” he said cheerfully. “That guy’s sword was too clean. He needed humbling.”

You glared at him. “They could’ve killed us.”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “But they didn’t. Because you’re terrifying and I’m fabulous.”

You exhaled hard and kept walking.

That night, you ended up at a tiny tavern on the edge of Rookridge. The innkeeper gave you both a once-over, eyes narrowing.

“You bonded?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Town’s prepping for the Moonbind Festival,” she said. “Only bonded pairs can stay the night. Security measures. Too many outlaws and opportunists about.”

You turned to Gojo. “Tell her we’re not staying.”

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders before you could move. “Of course we are! My darling and I just survived a double bounty ambush—we deserve a real bed.”

The woman squinted at you both.

You forced a smile. “We’re very happy.”

She handed over a key. “Only one bed.”

Gojo winked. “Even better.”

You didn’t punch him. That counted as restraint.

---

You woke up to the sound of bells.

Not the sharp clang of alarms or the echo of church towers—these were delicate, wind-chimed things, threaded between banners overhead and strung along doorways like blessings. The whole village had changed overnight. Rookridge was unrecognizable. The market stalls were blooming with silk and smoke, incense curling between jewel-toned tents, and the streets were packed with masked dancers who moved like water.

Gojo was already outside when you stumbled down from the room, leaning against the inn’s outer wall with a pastry in one hand and glitter on his cheek.

“Happy Moonbind,” he said, offering a bite like you hadn’t nearly murdered him in the night for stealing the blanket.

You took it anyway. “What the hell is Moonbind?”

“Seasonal festival,” he said, chewing lazily. “Magic’s thin during the solstice, so towns get nervous. The masks confuse spirits. The dancing keeps things grounded. And the baths—oh, those are for purification.”

You arched a brow. “You sound like a tour guide.”

He winked. “I did a season as one. Got fired for seducing the clientele.”

You didn’t respond. Mostly because you were too busy trying to ignore the fact that he looked really good in the morning light. Loose shirt. Messy hair. Smudged charm and the kind of smile that had ruin me written all over it in invisible ink.

You hated him. You hated him.

You were starting to like him.

The festival carried on around you, full of performances and half-magic rituals. You watched a child pluck fire from a bowl with bare hands and turn it into confetti. A woman offered to tell your fortune for a coin and a strand of hair. Gojo convinced an illusionist to make him float six feet in the air, lounging like a cat on an invisible hammock, just so he could yell at you from above: “You should try smiling sometime, y’know!”

You did smile. A little.

Just not at him.

Not that he noticed.

Or maybe he did. Bastard probably noticed everything.

By midday, you reached the temple.

It looked abandoned—half-sunken stone and creeping moss—but the inside pulsed faintly with something ancient. The puzzle room was beneath it, down a spiral staircase so narrow Gojo kept bumping into you “on accident.”

“You don’t have to keep touching me,” you said.

“I know,” he whispered, too close. “But it’s more fun if I do.”

The trial was designed for two. Pressure plates. Mirrors. Glyphs that lit up when touched simultaneously from opposite ends of the room. It was built for partnership. Trust.

You hated it.

But you worked through it—together.

You read the symbols. Gojo solved the riddles aloud like a smug professor. At one point, he grabbed your hand to guide it toward a panel and didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

Not immediately.

At the end of the trial, a vision struck.

You touched the relic in the center of the room—and it hit you like a punch to the chest. You saw yourself, older. Alone. Blood on your hands. Gojo—gone. Or worse.

You stumbled back, dizzy with the weight of it.

Gojo caught you. Didn’t say anything. Just braced your fall like he’d known it was coming.

“Don’t touch it again,” he said softly, voice suddenly too serious.

“What did you see?” you asked, still breathless.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Something I deserved.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Not through the walk back, not through dinner, not even when Gojo tried to distract you by juggling apples for a group of children.

You kept thinking about what you’d seen.

Not just the blood. Not just the loss.

You were starting to understand why he moved the way he did. Like he was running from something.

Same as you.

The bathhouse was empty when you entered.

Steam curled along the surface of the water, warm and thick. The stone walls were carved with crescent symbols, and candles floated in little wooden bowls, their reflections soft and golden.

Gojo was already in, of course. Neck deep, hair slicked back, eyes half-lidded.

“You coming in or just planning to stare dramatically from the doorway all night?”

You didn’t answer. Just undressed, slow and deliberate, like it didn’t matter.

But his eyes tracked every movement.

You slid into the water across from him and leaned back.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence was charged—thick as steam, warm as blood.

Gojo broke it first.

“You really trust me this little?”

You opened one eye. “It’s not about trust.”

“What is it about, then?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He moved through the water slowly. Closer. Close enough that his knee brushed yours.

“You looked scared today,” he said. “When the relic showed you something.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’ve been scared of that future a long time.”

You watched him.

He wasn’t smiling now. No jokes. No theatrics. Just Gojo—quiet and tired and real.

And maybe it was the warmth. The silence. The ache in your chest that hadn’t left since the trial.

But you moved.

Just a little.

And he moved too.

When your mouths met, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Desperate. Sharp. You gripped his hair. He tugged you closer. Water splashed between you, arms and mouths and heat tangled like you were both afraid the other might disappear.

His lips trailed down your jaw. “Still hate me?”

You exhaled hard. “You talk too much.”

He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into his lap like it cost him nothing.

But it did. You could feel it—in the way his hands shook slightly when they touched your waist, the way he kissed like someone trying to memorise the taste of safety.

You let him.

Let him press against you, skin to skin, steam rising around your joined bodies like a prayer.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough either.

It was real.

Slow, gasping, fingers on hips, lips at neck. Your body burned. His voice broke. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel hunted. You didn’t feel like an outlaw.

You just felt wanted.

After, you stayed in the water.

Gojo rested his head against your shoulder, quiet. For once.

You let him.

You didn’t say it. Not out loud.

But you were falling.

And it was already too late to stop.

---

The last time Gojo saw Geto Suguru, the world was on fire.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. Flames licked the rafters of the old church they’d hidden in for weeks, smoke curling like claws through the broken windows. Geto had been standing at the centre of it all, calm and golden and furious.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” he asked.

Gojo didn’t answer. He was too busy choosing which lie would hurt less.

Geto already knew the truth.

They’d grown up together—same orphan network, same underground circuit, trained to steal from sorcerers and run cons on temple grounds. Geto was the planner. Gojo was the charmer. And between the two of them, there wasn’t a vault in the empire they couldn’t crack.

They’d talked about building something. Not a gang—a sanctuary. A real home. For people like them. Outlaws. Half-magic runaways. Curse-born kids. No one else would give them peace, so they’d make their own.

But then the Voidseed came into play.

An artifact that didn’t just show the future—it rewrote it, anchored by whoever held it long enough to burn their soul into it. And Geto... Geto wanted to use it. Not to steal gold, but to change everything. Uproot the monarchy. Collapse the sorcerer courts. Win.

Gojo said no.

It wasn’t because he disagreed. It was because he knew what it would do to Geto. And to himself. You don’t touch a god and walk away unchanged.

So he stole it.

And ran.

Geto found him three days later with blood on his sleeve and the Voidseed gone.

“You always think you know better,” Geto said, voice like thunder in the silence. “You always think you’re saving people. But you only ever save yourself.”

The building collapsed before they finished that fight.

They haven’t seen each other since.

But Gojo still wakes up some nights with ash in his lungs and Geto’s words etched into his ribs like scripture.

---

You didn’t talk much after that night.

Which was funny, considering the things you’d done to each other in the water.

Gojo didn’t seem interested in defining anything. Just kept walking beside you like always—cracking jokes, stealing fruit, humming off-key under his breath like nothing in the world could touch him.

But it had.

You saw it in the way he paused before reaching for you now. The way his smile lingered longer than necessary. The way he said your name softer, like it meant something new.

He didn’t push. You didn’t ask. Whatever this was, it was becoming something more. And it terrified you.

The forest had grown thicker the closer you got to the outskirts of Serinfall.

Birdsong had vanished. The air was too still. Even the trees seemed to lean in, eavesdropping.

That’s when you felt it.

Pressure. Wrongness. Like the kind of curse that leaves no mark but still crawls into your bones.

You stopped walking.

“Don’t move,” you muttered.

Gojo froze, one hand halfway to his coat pocket. “You sense it too?”

Three shadows dropped from the trees. Silent. Sharp. Their movements weren’t human—smooth like oil, reeking of borrowed magic and blood money.

One of Geto’s, you realized. Or maybe all three.

“Well, well,” the tallest one said, voice like spoiled honey. “Look what the moon dragged in. Satoru Gojo and his latest fling.”

Gojo didn’t rise to the bait. He just tilted his head and smiled like he was bored. “You should’ve brought more than three.”

You didn’t wait for them to strike.

You moved.

It wasn’t clean. Fights never were.

Steel met steel. Cursefire crackled in the underbrush. You ducked, rolled, blocked a blade with your forearm and sent your dagger into the bastard’s throat before he even blinked.

Gojo handled two of them at once. No blindfold this time—just power barely held in check, lighting his hands like wildfire. He moved like sin, like something too beautiful to survive this world. You hated how much you liked watching him fight.

When it was over, you stood with blood in your mouth and a tear in your sleeve.

Gojo looked worse—cut lip, bruised cheekbone, smile still in place.

“You alright?” he asked.

You stared at him. “Did you let one of them punch you?”

“…Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you to worry about me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You didn’t answer.

Because it was starting to feel a little bit true.

You set up camp that night under a sky full of stars.

The fire crackled. The silence stretched. Gojo poked at the flames with a stick like a bored child.

You finally broke it.

“Why’d you leave him?”

He didn’t pretend not to know who you meant.

“I thought I was saving him,” he said, softly. “And I was wrong.”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared into the fire like it held the answer to a question he still didn’t want to ask out loud.

“He had a plan,” Gojo continued. “A big one. Clean the slate. Destroy the courts. Give power back to the cursed-born. But the relic… it doesn’t work like that. It takes. It always takes. It would've eaten him from the inside out.”

“So you stole it.”

“I stole everything,” he said. “His trust. Our future. Maybe his soul.”

You sat there in silence for a long time.

Then you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You don’t look like a hero,” you said.

He huffed a laugh. “You don’t either.”

You let his hand find yours in the dark.

Neither of you said anything after that.

But the fire burned warm, and the stars didn’t feel so far away anymore.

---

You felt it thrumming. Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you.

The Voidseed.

Still tucked safely in the hidden lining of your coat. Still pulsing like it knew you were close — too close. It had started earlier that morning, a low buzz under your ribs, and hadn’t stopped since.

“You’re twitchier than usual,” Gojo said, walking just behind you.

You didn’t turn. “Twitchier than you when someone tells you no?”

“Please. I thrive on rejection.”

The path narrowed as the trees thinned into pale, bone-dry rock. You could smell the vault now — stone and decay and something that didn’t belong in this world. A place that had been locked away for good reason.

And yet, you were headed straight for it.

Gojo adjusted the strap of his pack with a whistle. “So. End of the road.”

You exhaled. “Not yet.”

“Close enough.”

He caught up, his shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t move away.

“It’s still with you, right?” he asked, voice low but easy. “The Voidseed.”

“Yeah.”

“No sudden urges to use it? Wield a little death? Rewrite the laws of the known universe?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not today.”

“Good. Would’ve hated to kill you before dinner.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

The vault sat buried beneath the ruin of a forgotten temple — jagged stone stairs leading down into shadow. The door was etched in old language, crawling with vines. No lock. No trap. Just a sense of wrong that made the skin on your arms rise.

Gojo stood beside you, quiet for once.

“What happens if we open it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door like it had whispered something only he could hear.

“Depends,” he said eventually. “What Geto wants… it’s not just power. It’s change. Revolution. Burn-it-all-down kind of change.”

“And you don’t?”

“I wanted it too,” Gojo said. “Once. But not like this.”

He looked at you, eyes clearer than they had any right to be.

“I want to live. That’s different.”

You looked away.

Because suddenly the Voidseed felt heavier.

Because his hand was brushing yours again, and you didn’t pull back.

Because you weren’t sure who you were anymore without the violence, the chase, the lie.

And because you might want the same thing.

---

The air changed the moment you stepped inside.

Colder. Thicker. Like something was pressing down on your lungs, or maybe pressing in—watching. The stairs spiraled tight, stone slick with condensation and old blood. Each step you took felt louder than the last.

Behind you, Gojo didn’t say a word.

He hadn’t spoken since the door unsealed itself at your touch.

Didn’t have to.

You both knew what this place was.

Not just a vault. Not just the end of the map.

It was the place the world came to die.

At the bottom, the space opened wide.

A dome of black stone, pulsing faintly with light from no source at all. Runes crawled across the walls like scars. And in the center — a dais. Empty. Waiting.

You felt the Voidseed in your coat begin to ache.

Gojo stepped forward slowly, gaze moving across the carvings.

“This is older than the clans,” he murmured. “Before the curses. Before the courts. Before the Nine.”

“You think Geto knows that?”

“I think he doesn’t care.”

He turned, eyes meeting yours.

“You know he’s here, right?”

Your jaw tightened. “How long?”

“Since the last town. Maybe longer.”

You exhaled through your nose. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the honeymoon.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

But the temperature dropped again—hard.

The shadows in the corners moved.

And then he stepped out.

No disguise. No mask.

Just Geto Suguru, dressed in travel-worn robes and half a smile.

He looked like a man who’d already won.

“Hello, boys.”

Gojo didn’t flinch. “You’re late.”

“I figured I’d let the newlyweds have their privacy.”

He glanced at you—at the Voidseed you hadn’t yet drawn.

And smiled.

“You brought it,” he said softly. “I knew you would.”

You held your ground. “I didn’t bring it for you.”

“No?” Geto tilted his head, almost fond. “Then why come at all?”

Gojo moved slightly—just a step, a shift in weight, the start of something violent.

And Geto raised one hand.

The air shattered.

A blast of cursed energy slammed the space between you, forcing you back.

Gojo caught your wrist to steady you, his own energy flaring like lightning beneath skin.

Geto didn’t press.

He just looked at the two of you like something hurt.

“You could’ve come with me,” he said. Quiet. Intimate.

“You could’ve stayed,” Gojo answered.

Their gazes locked. A thousand memories between them. All knives.

And you stood between them—Voidseed burning against your ribs, heart in your throat.

Because the real question wasn’t who was right.

It was who you were going to choose.

---

The air cracked.

No warning, no flare of ego, no last chance to run—just Geto, moving. His cursed energy split the silence like a fault line, and suddenly you were airborne, legs kicked out from under you by a wave of force that struck faster than thunder.

Gojo caught it before it could reach you again—his arm out, barrier flaring with that same searing white-gold burn that lived behind his blindfold.

“Language of violence, huh?” he muttered. “Guess we’re skipping the dance.”

You rolled to your feet. “Weren’t you the one saying he was sentimental?”

Gojo grinned without humor. “Yeah, and now I remember why that’s terrifying.”

Geto didn’t wait.

Another flick of his wrist and the temple shuddered, a wall of blackened energy exploding upward like a tide—jagged, writhing, wrong. Gojo met it mid-air, a flash of his Limitless energy spiraling into the blast and cracking it apart like glass.

You moved then. No hesitation. No warning.

Your dagger—your favorite one, the one hidden in the boot heel you never took off—was in your hand before your mind caught up, your body cutting toward Geto in a blur. He saw you coming. Let you come.

“You’ve been walking with him all this time,” he said as you struck. “Does he even know what you are?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Your blade met the edge of his cursed barrier and burned—not from contact, but from your own energy spiking harder than you expected. The Voidseed pulsed once against your chest, like it wanted out.

Geto’s eyes flicked to it.

And then he struck.

A cursed lash shot out from his palm like a whip of shadow, aimed not at you but through you—targeting Gojo. You twisted, took the hit sideways instead of clean through. The energy scraped through your side like acid, but you didn’t fall.

You screamed something raw and wordless—maybe Gojo’s name. Maybe just rage.

Gojo answered with silence.

And violence.

He vanished. Reappeared behind Geto with that cruel smirk he wore like armor. His hand curled around the base of Geto’s skull and slammed him forward, into the stone floor. The ground cratered. Dust filled the vault.

Geto coughed blood, cursed energy flaring around his body like a second skin.

“Still hiding behind your pretty face, Satoru?” he rasped. “Still scared of what you could be if you stopped playing the hero?”

Gojo didn’t reply.

This wasn’t about philosophy.

This was about the Voidseed. About you. About the temple that was not meant to open, and a past that refused to stay buried.

You pressed your palm to the wound on your side, felt the hot, slow trickle of blood. The Voidseed thrummed harder now, wild and hungry, like it was tasting the end before it came.

The world narrowed. Geto was rising. Gojo’s hands curled into fists.

And you? You moved toward the center.

Toward the dais. Toward the thing you’d carried through storms and near-death and stupid arguments and fake marriages and quiet, aching mornings where Gojo let you rest your head against his shoulder and didn’t say a thing.

It was time to decide what to do with it.

Whether to keep running.

Or finally let the whole world burn.

---

The Voidseed was screaming now.

Not with sound, but with want. With a pressure behind your eyes, a song in your teeth. Your skin burned where it touched your chest, your blood responding in time to its pulse. It wanted to be used. To become something.

You staggered toward the dais, vision tunneling. Behind you, Gojo and Geto were still locked in war—flashes of cursed energy so bright they lit the room in strobes, tearing cracks through ancient stone and memory alike.

“Satoru,” Geto was snarling, somewhere in the wreckage. “You always were too soft.”

“And you were always too bitter to admit you lost me first,” Gojo spat back. “Don’t take it out on him.”

On him.

You turned sharply. Gojo wasn’t even looking at Geto anymore. His eyes were on you.

Blood dripped from his temple. One arm hung at an awkward angle. His barrier flickered like a dying star—but his focus was clear. Steady. Like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hey,” he called out, half-laugh, half-desperation. “Don’t let it eat you. You’re more stubborn than that.”

Geto moved to strike him down. A flick of the wrist, a curse erupting in a black wave— —but you moved first.

You didn’t think.

You threw the Voidseed.

It spun in the air like a star too bright to touch— —and exploded.

Not outward. Not in heat or fire or destruction.

It unfolded.

The world warped inward, colors leaking, time hiccuping. Everything twisted like you were looking through broken glass. You felt your feet leave the floor. The dais cracked beneath you. Gojo and Geto were both flung backward like dolls caught in the mouth of a storm.

But you… You were still standing.

Because it had chosen you.

You don’t remember grabbing it again.

But suddenly, the Voidseed was in your palm, blooming like a flower carved from shadow and light.

And Gojo was dragging himself toward you, chest heaving, hand outstretched.

“Don’t—” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t use it. Not like this.”

Geto, on the other side of the rubble, laughed—ragged, ruined.

“You think he hasn’t already?” he spat. “You think he’s yours now?”

Gojo didn’t look away from you. Not even for a second.

“He’s his own.”

You looked at him.

At the man who saw you break open a vault, who shared meals and bathtubs and one stupid bed. Who let you steal the Voidseed and never once asked you to give it up.

And something inside you—something poisoned by rage and survival and so many lonely nights—broke.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. You weren’t even sure who you were talking to.

Gojo was there in an instant. Hands on your wrists. Warm. Real.

“I know,” he said. “I know. Just stay here. With me.”

The Voidseed flared.

And then—

You turned.

You faced Geto.

And you chose.

---

You didn’t remember lifting the Voidseed. You just remember how quiet it got.

Geto rose from the rubble, his body wrecked and bleeding, but still standing. He looked at you like he pitied you. Like he thought you were still small.

“You don’t know what that thing will do to you,” he said softly, like a prayer gone bitter. “It’s not a weapon. It’s a mirror.”

You stepped forward, past Gojo’s outstretched hand. Past his warning. Past your own fear.

“I know,” you said. And you let it bloom.

The world peeled open.

No light. No sound. Just pressure — the unbearable density of everything at once. Your breath caught as the Voidseed unraveled in your chest, carving lines of raw power across your skin like constellations.

Geto braced himself. Raised his hand.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

The Voidseed reached out like a second spine, like your soul had teeth, like the universe remembered you owed it something — and this was how you’d pay.

You spoke his name.

Not out loud.

Not in a language with words.

You just spoke it, and the power knew what to do.

Geto didn’t scream. He just— folded in on himself.

Unmade. Quietly.

Not as revenge. Not even as punishment.

Just as balance.

When the light returned, the temple was cracked open like a wound.

You were still standing. Barely. The dais had crumbled beneath your feet, the Voidseed now dark in your palm — used, emptied, but still warm. Like it hadn’t left, just gone quiet.

You dropped it.

It didn’t bounce.

Gojo caught you before you fell, one hand steady under your ribs, the other cradling the back of your head like something fragile had survived.

“I thought I told you not to use it like that,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, blood in your teeth. “You also told me not to flirt with bounty hunters. We both ignore good advice.”

He laughed, then kissed your forehead like he needed to know you were real.

You didn’t speak for a long time after that.

You sat with him in the broken vault, backs against the ruins, breath syncing up again. The kind of silence that meant you weren’t running anymore. Not today.

Eventually, he nudged your shoulder.

“You still got one bed in you?” he asked. “Because I’m thinking hot springs, low ceilings, terrible fake names.”

You looked at him — messy, bleeding, half-destroyed.

And grinned.

“I’ve got a hundred.”

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kathaelipwse · 1 month ago

Text

Hate You Less Every Day | K.Seungmin

Pairing: Seungmin x F.Reader

Word Count: 12,711 words | Reading Time: 45-ish mins

Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers | Angst | Slow Burn | Fluff | College AU

Trope: Grumpy x Grumpy | Forced Proximity | Academic Rivals | Soft for Her Only

Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, physical altercation, bruises, strong language, emotional vulnerability, first person pov {I, my, mine, etc}, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.

Synopsis: You’ve hated each other since first year. He’s cold, sarcastic, and always seems one insult away from combusting. But when a university project forces you together — and fate keeps trapping you in the same orbit — cracks begin to form in the walls around your hearts. Turns out, there’s more to Seungmin than biting words… and more to this "hate" than either of you expected.

Author’s Note: For the girls who fall for the quiet, mean ones that secretly remember your favorite snack. If you’ve ever wanted to punch a man and then kiss him right after — this one’s for you.

The syllabus landed on my desk with a final, echoing thud, the sound reverberating through the otherwise quiet lecture hall like a death knell. Its weight, a deceptively thin stack of papers, mirrored the leaden dread that instantly settled in the pit of my stomach. My eyes, usually quick and efficient at skimming academic jargon, now moved with agonizing slowness across the printed words: "Semester's main project: group collaboration." Just three words, innocuous on their own, yet together they possessed the sinister power to unravel my meticulously planned, already stressful academic year. I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles white, as I desperately scanned the list of assigned partners. My heart, usually a steady drumbeat, now pounded a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs, each beat a desperate plea for a miracle. And then I saw it, the name that made my blood run cold, freezing in my veins: Kim Seungmin.

A strangled gasp escaped me, a mortified little sound instantly regretted as a few curious heads snapped in my direction. This couldn't be happening. Of all the hundreds of students in our vast, anonymous cohort, the universe, in its most twisted, sadistic sense of humor, had conspired to shackle me to him. My mind raced, frantically searching for an escape route, a loophole, anything. I’d honestly rather be hit by a bus – repeatedly, slowly, painfully – than endure a semester tethered to Kim Seungmin.

Our first, and frankly, only, true encounter had solidified our antagonistic dynamic during freshman year, carving an indelible scar into my university experience. It was a miserable, drizzly Tuesday morning, the kind that promised a day as dreary as my mood. I, perpetually clumsy even on the best of days, had been attempting to navigate the crowded hallway, juggling an armful of weighty textbooks and a steaming, scalding coffee from the campus café. Rounding a blind corner in the bustling corridor too quickly, my foot caught on an invisible crack, and I’d lurched forward, colliding with a solid, unyielding force. It was him. Seungmin.

My coffee, a dark, bitter cascade of liquid, exploded upon impact, drenching his pristine, freshly ironed white shirt. The hot liquid seeped instantly into the fabric, blossoming into an ugly brown stain right on his chest. "Oh my god, I am so, so sorry!" I’d stammered, my voice high with panic, my hands fumbling frantically for the few crumpled napkins I always carried. He hadn't uttered a single word. Instead, he’d simply stared at me, his eyes twin pools of glacial ice, promising an eternity of unadulterated damnation. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle twitching just beneath his skin, his perfect eyebrows narrowed into furious, accusatory slits, and the sheer, palpable disdain radiating from him was a physical force, pushing me back. Even after my torrent of profuse apologies, my desperate offers to pay for dry cleaning, to buy him a new shirt, to literally bow at his feet, his expression remained rigidly unchanged. He simply turned on his heel and stalked away without a backward glance, leaving me standing in a rapidly expanding puddle of my own making, utterly, completely mortified, the lingering scent of burnt coffee clinging to the air. That was three years ago, a lifetime ago in university terms, and he had never, not once, let me forget it. Every fleeting, accidental glance across the lecture hall, every unavoidable proximity in the cramped hallways, was met with the same chilling contempt. He’d perfected the art of looking through me as if I were a particularly annoying smudge on the wall, an inconvenience he tolerated only because he had to breathe the same air.

Now, here we were, bound by the cruel, unyielding dictates of academia, forced to become "collaborators." I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable onslaught. Our first "collaboration" meeting was set for that afternoon in one of the library’s designated group study areas, a glass-walled box that offered no escape. I arrived a full fifteen minutes early, determined to project an air of professional calm, to be the unequivocally mature one in this impending disaster. I spread out my notebooks, pens, and laptop, trying to look busy, in control. He sauntered in precisely five minutes late, his backpack slung with an almost arrogant carelessness over one shoulder, his expression as unreadable and cold as a blank slate. He didn't acknowledge my presence, didn't make eye contact. He simply pulled out a chair opposite me, the screeching scrape of the legs against the tile floor grating against my already frayed nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. He settled in, crossing his arms, his posture radiating an air of bored indifference that was somehow more irritating than outright hostility.

"So," I began, clearing my throat, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet study zone. "For the project, I was thinking we could start by brainstorming some ideas for the theoretical framework, and then perhaps divide the research tasks based on our initial findings?" I tried to keep my voice even, professional, my tone a polite invitation for cooperation.

He didn't even let me finish. His eyes, though not directly on mine, were sharp and dismissive. "Let’s just get this over with," he cut in, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth, resonating with a familiar, barely concealed disgust. "The sooner we finish this, the sooner I don't have to look at you. Or hear you. Or, god forbid, smell your cheap coffee again. Is that even what it was? Smelled more like regret."

My jaw tightened, a muscle throbbing with instant irritation. I could feel a flush creeping up my neck. I took another deep, fortifying breath, counting slowly to three in my head, reminding myself of the scholarship, of my future. "Look, Seungmin," I forced a strained smile, trying to inject some semblance of humor into the abysmal situation, "I know we're not exactly going to be braiding each other's hair or exchanging friendship bracelets, but we have to work together. For the sake of our grades, can we at least try to be civil? Just for the next few months?"

A humorless smirk, sharp and cutting like broken glass, played on his perfect lips. "Civil? What's the point? It won't change the fact that you’re probably going to be a dead weight, clinging to my academic success like a barnacle to a ship. Knowing your track record for… 'accidents'." His gaze flickered meaningfully to my hands, then to the clean, empty table between us, a clear, unwelcome reminder of the coffee incident. The implication was that I was inherently clumsy, unreliable, and bound to mess up.

A sharp, furious retort sprang to my tongue – something about his own questionable social skills, his perpetually sour expression, his inability to interact with another human being without radiating hostility – but I bit it back, hard, my teeth digging into the inside of my cheek. "My GPA is just as high as yours, Seungmin, if not higher, actually," I stated, my voice losing its cooperative edge, becoming colder, more defensive. "I assure you, I'm perfectly capable of doing my share, and I won't 'drag your grade down'."

He leaned back further in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture radiating an air of superior disdain. His gaze swept over me with an almost clinical detachment, as if evaluating a specimen under a microscope, or perhaps a particularly persistent pest. "Right. Just try not to trip over your own feet this time, or spill anything important. Or accidentally set the library on fire with your sheer lack of grace. My patience is already thinner than a single strand of hair, and frankly, I don't have enough spare brain cells to deal with your particular brand of… enthusiasm for misfortune."

My hands clenched into tight fists under the table, my nails digging into my palms, the physical pain a dull anchor against the sharp sting of his words. This was going to be an impossibly long, agonizing semester. We forced ourselves through the initial brainstorming session, the entire process punctuated by his relentless passive-aggressive comments and my increasingly strained, brittle politeness. Every single suggestion I made was met with a skeptical hum, a dismissive wave of his hand, or a thinly veiled criticism disguised as constructive feedback. "That's… an idea," he'd say, his tone suggesting it was the worst idea he'd ever heard. Or, "Are you sure you understand the parameters? Because that sounds wildly off-topic." Every time he spoke, it felt less like a productive conversation and more like a tiny, precise cut, each one a fresh wound.

As the meeting finally, mercifully, drew to a close, I began packing my things with an almost frantic speed, relief flooding through me like a cool, cleansing wave. "Okay, so I'll work on researching the historical context of the topic for the first section, and maybe you can look into the contemporary case studies for the second part of the draft?" I suggested, trying desperately to end on a cooperative, forward-looking note, a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of normalcy, to make it seem like we were two rational human beings capable of collaboration.

He merely grunted, already halfway out of his chair, seemingly desperate to escape the vicinity of my very existence. He paused beside the table, his shoulders squared, his eyes, dark and piercing, finally locking onto mine with an intensity that made me instinctively flinch, a sudden predatory gleam in their depths. His voice dropped, losing its usual mocking, sarcastic edge, becoming a low, chilling whisper that was somehow infinitely worse than any shouted insult, cutting deep into the thin veneer of my composure. "If I never see you again," he articulated each word slowly, deliberately, his gaze unwavering, "it still won’t be long enough."

He said it with such absolute conviction, such raw, unadulterated animosity, that it momentarily stunned me into silence. For once, my mind went blank, devoid of any snappy comeback, any witty retort to deflect the blow. My shoulders slumped, the last vestiges of my manufactured composure crumbling, leaving me feeling exposed and raw. All I could manage was a weary sigh, a heavy exhalation of defeat, and a slow, deliberate roll of my eyes, a silent admission that he had, for once, truly disarmed me. He watched my reaction for a second longer, a flicker of something unreadable – was it satisfaction? A cold triumph? – in his dark gaze, before turning sharply and walking away without another word. He disappeared around the corner, his retreating figure seeming to dissolve into the bustling library, leaving me utterly alone in the vast, echoing silence of the study area, the bitter, undeniable truth of his hatred hanging heavy in the air, a suffocating shroud. This project wasn't just going to be difficult; it was going to be pure, unadulterated torture. And somehow, I knew it had only just begun.

The initial dread of working with Seungmin had, against all odds, morphed into a fragile, strained routine. Weeks blurred into a grueling cycle of forced proximity and thinly veiled animosity. Our project, a complex analysis of ancient civilizations, was slowly, agonizingly, progressing. Every collaborative session felt less like an academic meeting and more like a minor diplomatic battle. Seungmin remained consistently cold, his every utterance a barbed wire fence between us, his expressions a constant, unyielding mask of disdain. I’d perfected the art of the subtle eye-roll and the tight-lipped nod, a silent, mutual agreement to endure for the sake of our grades, our coveted GPAs looming large as the ultimate prize. It was a miserable truce, a slow poison, but a truce nonetheless.

Then came the announcement that sent a fresh wave of ice-cold dread through me: the university's annual geology excursion. A mandatory, week-long camping trip to study rock formations and ecosystems, miles from campus, very useless yet helped in the grades. The moment the detailed itinerary landed in my inbox, my heart sank lower than a geologist's pickaxe hitting bedrock. Group assignments for tents. I scrolled down the PDF, my eyes scanning the list of pairings, my heart a leaden weight in my chest with each name I passed. And then I saw it, stark and undeniable, right below mine: Kim Seungmin. Of course. Just my luck. The universe truly did possess a cruel, sadistic sense of humor, determined to see just how much misery it could inflict upon my existence.

The bus ride to the remote campsite was a torturous blur. Jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with excited, chattering students, I mostly tuned out the cacophony, opting for oversized headphones and a grim, determined silence. Each bump in the road felt like a premonition of the discomfort to come. Upon arrival, the campsite was pure, unadulterated chaos – a sprawling expanse of muddy ground where tents were being erected like mushrooms after rain, equipment unloaded haphazardly, and hundreds of students milled about, their youthful energy a sharp contrast to my internal gloom. I located our designated plot, a patch of slightly less muddy earth where two flimsy pieces of canvas lay discarded, somehow constituting a shelter. Seungmin was already there, his movements precise and efficient, meticulously unrolling his sleeping bag inside what would soon be our shared enclosure. His back was to me, his broad shoulders squared, already staking his claim. He hadn't even waited.

"Great," I muttered under my breath, loud enough for him to undoubtedly catch the biting sarcasm. "Just fantastic."

He turned slowly, a dark eyebrow raised in that characteristic, disdainful arch. "What's 'fantastic'? The thrilling opportunity to spend a week in the unforgiving wilderness with someone whose primary skill seems to be being a persistent, irritating nuisance?" His voice was low, laced with his usual biting sarcasm, each word a perfectly aimed dart. He didn't even bother to look me in the eye.

"No, what's 'fantastic' is being trapped in a glorified cloth sack, barely big enough for one person, let alone two, with someone who treats me like I’m a particularly unpleasant germ," I retorted, dropping my heavy backpack with a thud that kicked up a puff of dry dust, a small act of defiance. "Did you even consider trying to get the tent assignment changed, Seungmin? Or are you just reveling in this, enjoying torturing me slowly, inch by agonizing inch?"

He let out a short, scoffing laugh, devoid of any genuine amusement. "Why would I? This is just part of the grand tapestry of my life, I suppose. Enduring minor annoyances for the greater good. Like passing this class with a decent grade, despite the handicaps I'm clearly being assigned." He unzipped his backpack, pulling out a thick geology textbook and a pen, as if he were about to start studying right there, mocking my frustration with his sheer indifference.

"You really are unbelievable," I spat, yanking my own sleeping bag out of its compression sack with unnecessary force, almost tearing the fabric. The tent, once just a visual, now felt impossibly small, a claustrophobic box that was already stealing my breath. Just the thought of breathing the same stale air as him, night after night, for five consecutive nights, sent a shiver of genuine dread down my spine. This wasn't just a project anymore; it was psychological warfare.

The first two days of the trip were a precarious, exhausting dance of avoidance. We hiked in separate groups whenever humanly possible, ate at opposite ends of the muddy picnic tables, and spoke only when absolutely, unequivocally necessary for the project tasks – identifying rock types, mapping geological features. But the evenings, oh, the evenings. Trapped in the shared tent, the air crackled with a suffocating silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of his sleeping bag, his deep, exasperated sighs, and my own jaw clenching so tight it ached. The unspoken tension was a live wire stretched taut between us, waiting for the smallest spark.

It finally snapped on the third night. A vicious, unseasonal storm had rolled in, turning the entire campsite into a muddy, miserable quagmire. Rain lashed against the thin tent fabric like thrown gravel, and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance, shaking the very ground beneath us. We'd been huddled inside, trying to go over some field notes by the weak, flickering glow of a single, battery-operated lantern. The damp cold had seeped into my bones, making my temper dangerously short.

"This data collection is sloppy," Seungmin stated, his voice cutting through the incessant drumming of the rain, sharp and dismissive as he jabbed a finger at my notebook. His tone was always one of cold authority, never of genuine help. "Did you even pay attention during the rock identification lecture? This is completely wrong. Look at these sketches. Are you drawing a cloud or a mineral sample?"

My patience, already worn thinner than old paper by the damp cold, the cramped space, and his constant, relentless criticisms, evaporated instantly. "It's not 'sloppy'!" I snapped, my voice rising, fueled by raw frustration. "It's a first pass, Seungmin, and the light out there was terrible! And honestly, your handwriting isn't exactly calligraphy either, Mr. Perfect! At least mine's legible even if my sketches aren't up to your impossible standards!"

"My handwriting doesn't affect the accuracy of the observation, unlike your apparent inability to distinguish between granite and quartzite," he shot back, his voice rising, a cold, controlled anger seeping into each syllable. His eyes, usually so impassive, now held a dangerous glint. "You know, for someone who claims to have such a high GPA, you really do struggle with basic concepts. Or perhaps you just trip your way into good grades like you tripped into me that day?"

The jab was unexpected, raw, and it hit a nerve that had been festering for three years, a deep-seated wound of humiliation and injustice. My vision narrowed, the weak lantern light suddenly blurring. The rain outside seemed to amplify the sudden, ringing silence in the tent as I took a ragged, trembling breath. This was it. I was done.

"Oh, so we're going there, are we?" My voice was low, dangerous, a low growl of pure, unadulterated fury. "Still hung up on a coffee stain from three years ago? Get over yourself, Seungmin! It was an accident! I apologized a hundred times! What is your actual problem? Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to deserve this constant, bitter, nasty attitude from you, huh? Was it just a bad hair day that morning, or are you just fundamentally incapable of being a decent human being?"

His eyes, usually so impassive, now flared with something akin to genuine rage. His face was pale in the flickering light. "My problem? My problem is having to tolerate your existence! You're clumsy, you're annoying, you're always trying to play the victim! You're like a loud, persistent buzzing in my ear that I can't swat away! Do you know how many times I've tried to avoid you? You're like a bad rash that keeps reappearing no matter what I do!"

"A bad rash?" My voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief, humiliation, and a surprising, deep well of hurt. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back fiercely. I would not cry in front of him. "You think I enjoy this? You think I enjoy being around someone who looks at me like I'm dirt under his shoe? I've tried to be civil! I've tried to be professional! I've tried to ignore your petty insults! But all you ever do is tear me down! What, is it that hard for you to see someone else succeed? Is it that hard for you to just be a decent human being for five minutes without making someone else feel small and insignificant?" My voice was rising, trembling with suppressed rage and a surprising amount of genuine pain. "You are cold, Seungmin. You are just utterly, completely cold. You're a walking, talking glacier! And frankly, I'm sick of it! I am sick of you and your self-important, hateful attitude!"

The last words hung in the air, echoing in the claustrophobic space, punctuated by a particularly loud clap of thunder that rattled the tent. We stood there, glaring at each other across the tiny expanse of the tent floor, our chests heaving, the air thick and crackling with the intensity of our raw, exposed resentment. His perfect composure was finally, irrevocably shattered. For a long, drawn-out moment, his eyes, usually so hard and unyielding, softened, just a fraction. A flicker of something crossed his face – was it surprise? Vulnerability? A hint of hurt beneath the anger? – a fleeting, almost imperceptible emotion that was so unlike him, so utterly human, that it caught me off guard. It was the first crack in his meticulously constructed wall, a tiny, almost imperceptible fissure, but it was unmistakably there. And for the first time, in the midst of all the anger and hatred, I felt a strange sense of something beyond pure fury. A tiny, almost unnoticeable shift.

The raw, echoing silence that followed our explosion in the tent on that stormy night was almost more deafening than the relentless drumming of rain outside. The air still vibrated with the violent echoes of shouted words, of exposed nerves and bruised pride. Seungmin had simply stared at me for another long, unblinking moment, that fleeting, unreadable flicker in his eyes, before turning abruptly to face the tent wall, effectively ending the confrontation. There was no apology, no acknowledgment of the raw emotions that had just flared. He just… shut down. I lay rigidly in my sleeping bag, back to him, listening to the persistent drumming rain and the frantic, chaotic beating of my own heart, a drumroll of lingering anger and a strange, unsettling vulnerability. Sleep didn't come easily that night, disturbed by the ghost of his unspoken emotions and the replay of my own desperate accusations. The next morning, a fragile, unspoken truce had settled between us, heavy and awkward, a layer of thick, uncomfortable frost.

The remaining days of the camping trip were a masterclass in uncomfortable coexistence. We moved through the schedule like two separate, carefully orbiting planets, never quite colliding, never quite separating. Our interactions were clipped, functional, and strictly academic. "Pass the map," he’d utter, his voice flat. "Did you record the pH levels for this soil sample?" I'd respond, my tone equally devoid of emotion. "The coordinates are slightly off here," I might point out, and he’d merely hum in acknowledgment. There were no more direct insults, no more snide remarks. But there was also no warmth, no easing of the tension that still hummed like a live wire beneath the surface. Each hour was a slow, agonizing countdown until we could return to campus, to the blessed anonymity of our separate lives, where the only shared space was a large lecture hall.

Yet, even in this strained quiet, amidst the mud and the mandated group activities, I started to notice things. Small, almost imperceptible moments that chipped away at the monolithic image I had built of him – the "walking glacier," the "cold, hateful Seungmin."

One afternoon, while hiking along a particularly steep, rocky trail, the air thick with damp earth and the scent of pine, a younger student in our group, clearly struggling with a heavy backpack and an armful of rock samples, slipped on a loose patch of shale. Their bulky sample bag tumbled down the incline, scattering carefully collected specimens everywhere. Before anyone else could react, before even the professor could shout a warning, Seungmin, who had been several paces ahead, his eyes usually fixed on the path, paused. He looked around quickly, a swift, almost furtive glance, as if checking if anyone was watching. Then, without a word, he silently walked back down the treacherous slope. He knelt down, his expensive trekking pants getting covered in mud, and began to help the flustered, embarrassed student gather their samples, even reaching into difficult crevices to retrieve a few that had rolled far. His expression remained neutral, unreadable, giving nothing away, but the act itself was undeniably, undeniably kind. He then offered a steady hand to help the student back up the slippery incline, a silent, supporting anchor. He hadn't said a word, just did it, then strode off quickly, resuming his place at the head of the line, leaving the student stammering their thanks to his retreating back. I watched the entire exchange, half-hidden by a cluster of thick, damp trees, a surprising, almost unsettling warmth spreading through my chest. The "walking glacier" had a hidden current, after all. A quiet, unexpected decency.

Another evening, back at the campsite, the air chilled and damp, we were trying to go over the day’s complicated data. The battery in our shared lantern flickered ominously, threatening to die, plunging us into darkness. I muttered, annoyed, about how impractical and inefficient it was. Without looking up from his notes, or even pausing his rapid scribbling, Seungmin reached into his own meticulously organized bag and pulled out a fresh set of batteries. He tossed them onto my lap with a soft thud. "You need these," he said, his voice flat, but without a hint of his usual derision. "It's inefficient to work in the dark. Your notes are illegible enough as it is, no need to worsen them by adding shadows." It was still a jab, a reference to my supposed clumsiness and incompetence, but the gesture itself was… helpful. Practical. And for the first time, it didn't feel entirely malicious. It felt less like an insult and more like a statement of fact, coupled with a solution.

"Thanks," I said, genuinely surprised, picking up the batteries. I waited, bracing myself, expecting a sarcastic retort, a follow-up barb. But he just grunted, a noncommittal sound, continuing to scribble furiously in his own notebook. The silence that followed wasn't entirely hostile. It was just… silence. A comfortable, almost companionable silence, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp and the scratch of our pens.

On the final morning, as we packed up our muddy gear to leave, a palpable sense of relief permeated the air. As I struggled with a particularly stubborn tent pole, Seungmin, already finished with his own packing, unexpectedly reached over and expertly untangled it with a single, swift movement. "You're doing it wrong," he stated, but this time, there was no contempt in his voice, just a simple observation. It was infuriatingly helpful.

Then, as we waited for the bus, he actually initiated a conversation that wasn't solely driven by immediate necessity. It was about our project, of course, the ever-present anchor of our interaction, but it was the first time we’d spoken without the air crackling with resentment, without the invisible barrier of animosity.

"We need to finalize the structural analysis section as soon as we get back to campus," he stated, his voice a low, even tone, completely devoid of its usual sharp edges. He glanced at his own notes, then back at me. "I've started drafting some of the geological arguments, integrating the new field data. And, I have to admit…" He paused, as if the words were physically painful to utter. "I think you've actually got a decent grasp on the historical context, surprisingly. Your research on the ancient trade routes was quite thorough."

I paused, midway through zipping my overstuffed backpack. My eyebrows raised in genuine amusement, a small, involuntary smile playing on my lips. "Surprisingly?" I echoed, a hint of playful sarcasm in my voice. "I thought you were utterly convinced I was going to drag your precious GPA down to the academic abyss, Mr. 'Clumsy-and-Annoying'."

He straightened up then, turning to face me fully, meeting my gaze directly. His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, in what might have been the fleeting shadow of a smirk. It was so subtle, I almost missed it. "Well," he began, his voice a low drawl, "let's just say you're not entirely useless. Your research skills aren't as catastrophically bad as your spatial awareness, or your ability to handle a simple cup of coffee." The insult was still there, woven into the fabric of the reluctant compliment, yes, but it was delivered with a different cadence, a lighter touch. It felt less like a genuine attack and more like… banter. And instead of feeling hurt, instead of feeling the familiar sting of his contempt, I felt a strange, bubbling urge to laugh. I managed a scoff instead, shaking my head. "Coming from Mr. Perfect, the human embodiment of flawless execution, I'll take that as a glowing commendation."

He let out a soft sound then, a quiet huff that was almost, almost a genuine chuckle. The sound was so unexpected, so entirely out of character, that for a split second, I froze. He caught himself quickly, though, his face settling back into its usual carefully constructed stoic expression, his shoulders straightening. "Don't get used to this," he muttered, his voice regaining a hint of its usual dryness as he hoisted his heavy backpack onto his shoulders. He didn't look at me as he started to walk towards the idling university bus. "Our GPA depends on it, nothing more. A means to an end." And with that, he was gone, blending into the stream of students, leaving me standing there, a small, unexpected smile still touching my lips. The truce was still fragile, built on the shifting sands of academic necessity, but maybe, just maybe, it wasn't quite so miserable anymore. Marks mattered, after all, and for the first time, I felt like we might actually achieve them without either of us ending up in the infirmary. Or jail.

The subtle shift that had begun in the muddy, cramped confines of the campsite continued to unfurl, slowly but surely, back on the sprawling, familiar grounds of campus. The bitter, acidic edge that had defined our every interaction for so long began to soften, imperceptibly at first, then with a gradual, almost shy consistency. It wasn't a sudden transformation, but a nuanced evolution, like ice melting into a slow trickle. The "truce" we'd forged for the sake of our precarious GPAs started to expand beyond just academic necessity. Our weekly project meetings, once dreaded endurance tests I approached with a pit in my stomach, now held a strange, almost enjoyable rhythm. The insults were still very much present, Seungmin wouldn't be Seungmin without them, but they were lighter, less aimed to wound and more to playfully prod, to challenge. It was a new kind of verbal fencing, where the foils were blunted.

"Are you absolutely certain you formatted that bibliography correctly?" Seungmin would ask, leaning over my shoulder, his voice a low, dry murmur that no longer sent shivers of annoyance down my spine. "I wouldn't want your general clumsiness to extend to proper citation; that would be a catastrophic academic event."

"And I wouldn't want your overly critical eye to miss the actual, groundbreaking point of the research, Mr. Perfect," I'd shoot back, a small smirk playing on my lips. "There's more to a thesis than just impeccable formatting, you know." The old sting was gone from his words, replaced by a subtle challenge that I found myself, to my surprise, genuinely enjoying. The air between us, once thick with unspoken animosity and unspoken threats, now carried a faint, almost playful current, like static electricity before a summer storm. We’d even started to fall into step with each other sometimes, walking in the same direction after class, a comfortable silence settling between us that hadn’t existed before.

One particularly grueling afternoon, buried under a literal mountain of research papers in a secluded corner of the library, we were locked in a heated, albeit now less hostile, debate about the merits of a particularly obscure historical theory. My brain felt like it was melting from lack of sleep and too much caffeine. As I, perhaps overly dramatically, tried to explain a convoluted point, I made a rather wild, exaggerated gesture with my hands, accidentally knocking my pen off the table. My reflexes, surprisingly quick for my current state of exhaustion, allowed me to catch it mid-air with a dramatic, somewhat theatrical flourish.

"See?" I exclaimed, trying to look nonchalant, as if I did that all the time. "Not so clumsy after all, am I? Perhaps I'm evolving."

Seungmin, who had been watching me with his usual critical, assessing gaze, a faint frown line between his brows, suddenly let out a sound. It wasn't a scoff, or a grunt, or a sarcastic remark. It was a genuine, startled burst of laughter. A short, sharp sound that quickly died, quickly muffled, but undeniably, unequivocally a laugh. It came out of him so unexpectedly, so out of character, that both of us froze. His eyes widened slightly, the barest hint of a surprised flush creeping up his pale neck. My own eyes went wide in response, my breath hitched. We stared at each other for a beat, two beats, an eternity, the faint echo of his laughter still hanging in the quiet library air like a phantom. It was the first time I had ever made him laugh. The first time I'd even heard him laugh, period. The moment stretched, awkward and profound, before he quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat loudly, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," he muttered, his voice a little gruff, a little rougher than usual, as he immediately picked up his pen and pretended to be deeply, urgently engrossed in his complex notes. "Beginner's luck. A fluke. Don't expect a repeat performance."

I didn't press it, didn't dare to. But a warmth spread through me, something more potent and comforting than the library's stuffy heating. The tension that had snapped between us was no longer the familiar, searing anger, but a new, exhilarating kind of awkwardness, a feeling of having stumbled upon something fragile and unexpected.

Our project work often ran late, pushing us into the quiet hours of the campus, long after most students had retreated to their dorms. One evening, after a particularly intense, four-hour study session that had left my brain feeling like scrambled eggs, we emerged from the almost-empty library. The campus lights cast long, stark shadows across the deserted pathways, and the usual daytime bustle had died down to a hushed murmur of rustling leaves and distant traffic. It was a crisp, cool night, the air carrying the subtle scent of damp earth. We started walking, quite naturally, in the same direction, towards the main gate.

"Which way are you headed?" he asked, his voice low, breaking the comfortable silence that had fallen between us. It wasn't a question delivered with forced politeness, but with a natural curiosity, a casualness that surprised me.

"My apartment is just a few blocks past the main gate, near the old bookstore," I replied, gesturing vaguely into the darkness.

"I'll walk with you," he said simply, not as a question asking for permission, but as a statement of fact, a decision already made. And he did. We walked in comfortable silence, the kind that didn't need to be filled with forced conversation or the tense expectation of a verbal attack. There was no longer the oppressive weight of his animosity, no need to brace myself for a cutting remark. It just… was. The silence felt okay. More than okay, it felt surprisingly pleasant, even companionable. I found myself stealing quiet glances at his profile, illuminated intermittently by the yellow glow of the streetlights, feeling a strange, unexpected sense of peace settle over me. It felt less lonely than walking home by myself.

These small shifts weren't just in our shared, silent walks. They began to appear in smaller, more meaningful gestures, quiet acts of thoughtfulness that built up like tiny, invisible bricks. I remembered one afternoon when I was struggling with a particularly complex statistical problem for another class, completely unrelated to our project. I had mumbled my frustration aloud during a brief coffee break, half to myself, half just releasing steam. Seungmin, who had been engrossed in his own notes, seemingly oblivious, had, without a word, taken my textbook, scanned the problem, and then, with frustrating ease, explained the solution in a few concise sentences, patiently, clearly. He didn't mock me for not understanding it, didn't make me feel stupid for needing help. He just… helped. Simply. Efficiently.

Another time, I’d been working late in the campus study lounge, feeling a familiar, insistent grumble in my stomach. I'd mentioned offhand to no one in particular that I was starving, wishing I had my favorite brand of spicy snack crackers, the ones they only sold at the small convenience store off-campus. The very next day, after our project meeting, as I was packing up my bag, I noticed a small, crinkly bag tucked almost hidden under my notebook. It was my favorite snack, the exact brand, still perfectly sealed. I looked up, my eyebrows raised in surprise, to catch him already walking away, his back to me as he pushed open the heavy library door. But just before he disappeared, I caught the barest hint of a smirk, a flicker of something almost smug, on his face. He knew I’d seen it.

Banter had replaced bitterness, and small, unexpected acts of thoughtfulness were slowly, painstakingly chipping away at the seemingly impenetrable walls he'd built around himself, revealing quiet, fleeting glimpses of the person beneath the cold, sharp exterior. We weren't friends yet, not by a long shot. The word felt too big, too fragile for the tentative connection forming between us. But the vast, seemingly impassable chasm that had once separated us was slowly, tentatively, beginning to bridge, one quiet moment, one shared laugh, one thoughtful gesture at a time. I found myself wondering, more than once, what else lay beneath Seungmin's carefully constructed facade.

The subtle shift in our dynamic continued, growing more pronounced with each passing week. The library, once a battleground, had become a quiet, almost comfortable space for us. Our project was nearing completion, its impending success a testament to our strange, evolving partnership. The teasing from Seungmin still came, sharp and witty, but now it felt less like a threat and more like a secret language, a peculiar form of affection only we understood. He’d ruffle my hair sometimes, a quick, almost imperceptible gesture, and once, during a particularly stressful moment with a malfunctioning printer, he even offered a brief, solid hug when I finally got it to work, then immediately pulled back as if burned.

It was during one of our late-night study sessions that I overheard fragments of his past. I was grabbing water from the cooler when a few students, huddled in a hushed conversation near the entrance, mentioned his name. My ears perked up, against my better judgment. They spoke of his family, hushed whispers of abuse and a tortured upbringing, how he had moved out at a young age, essentially cutting ties, building walls around himself to survive. They were saying things like:

"Did you hear about his parents? Apparently, they were completely awful. Like, physically and emotionally." "Yeah, someone said his dad was violent. And his mom just… let it happen." "No wonder he's so cold. He probably never learned how to have normal relationships." "He moved out at 16, right? I heard he was basically homeless for a while…..dunno how he still affords such expensive clothes though" "must be his cousin's lending him money, they say he was close to his cousin brother" "he betrayed him too, he was the one who abused him as well, no?"

It painted a picture so stark, so devastatingly different from the stoic, arrogant Seungmin I knew. He hadn’t just been born cold; he had been made cold, forging his defenses in a crucible of pain. A wave of unexpected sympathy washed over me, a profound understanding for the seemingly impenetrable fortress he had built around his heart. The arrogance wasn’t arrogance at all, I realized; it was a shield.

A few days later, the tables turned. A group of self-important jerks from the history department, known for their obnoxious gossip and condescending attitudes, started loudly speculating about Seungmin's reserved nature and his family background right in the common room. They snickered, making crude jokes about him always being alone, about how he must have 'issues' because he never seemed to interact with anyone outside of academic necessities.

They were saying things like:

"Seriously, what's his deal? Is he, like, incapable of human emotion?" "Probably has some deep-seated trauma. Daddy issues, maybe?" "I heard his parents were monsters, honestly his whole family. Explains a lot, actually." "He probably ran away because he couldn't handle it. What a drama queen." Fury, sharp and instant, coursed through me. I didn't think, I just reacted.

"You know," I interrupted, my voice cutting through their obnoxious chatter, "it's pathetic how you manage to sound so utterly clueless while having such loud mouths. Worry about your own sorry excuses for lives, instead of dissecting someone else's. Some people actually have real problems, unlike your biggest concern, which seems to be how many brain cells you can collectively lose in a day."

One of them, a bulky guy with a smug grin, sneered at me. "Oh, look who it is. His little protector. What, did he finally deign to speak to you?"

"He doesn't need a protector," I retorted, stepping closer, my voice low and dangerous. "But he does need a break from pathetic losers like you who get their kicks from tearing down people they don't even know. You want to talk about issues? You're the ones with issues if this is how you feel good about yourselves."

The smug grin vanished, replaced by a sneer. "Watch your mouth, girl. You don't know who you're talking to."

"Oh, I know exactly who I'm talking to," I shot back, my patience evaporated. "A bunch of overgrown 'toddlers' who probably think their farts smell like roses. Get a life, or better yet, get a clue." The next few minutes were a blur. Words escalated, shoves turned into pushes, and suddenly, I was in the middle of a full-blown brawl. I knew how to handle myself; my older sister had taught me a few things growing up. I landed a solid hit on one guy's jaw, ducked under another's wild swing, but their numbers were overwhelming. I felt a sharp pain in my neck as someone tried to suffocate me, then a blow to my cheek and lip. I fought back, kicking and punching, until a few other students intervened and broke it up, leaving me with throbbing knuckles, a sore neck, and a busted lip.

Later, sitting in a quiet corner of the library, I cleaned up my bruised knuckles and dabbed ointment on my split lip. The fight had been stupid, reckless even, but I didn't regret it. Not for a second.

Meanwhile, Seungmin, having heard garbled rumors about a fight involving me and some jerks from the history department, felt a cold knot of dread form in his stomach. He didn’t know why, but the idea of me being hurt made his chest tighten. He ran to the nurses’ office, his usual calm replaced by a frantic urgency he rarely felt. He searched the empty room, calling my name, his heart pounding. Panic flared when he didn't find me there. He searched the common rooms, the lecture halls, his internal alarm growing louder.

Finally, at the far end of the university grounds, near the main gate, he saw me. I was walking home, slowly, my head down, my backpack slung low. He ran, closing the distance quickly, his breath catching in his throat when he finally reached me. He grabbed my arm, gently, his fingers surprisingly hesitant.

"Y/N!" His voice was rough, laced with a fear I'd never heard from him. "Why? What happened? Are you okay?" He pulled my hand to inspect my knuckles, then gently tilted my chin to look at my neck and face. His eyes widened further at the sight of my busted knuckles, the faint red marks and developing bruises on my neck where they'd tried to suffocate me, the swelling on my cheek, and the ointment over my busted lip. His composure utterly crumbled. "Why would you do that? You look like you got run over by a truck!"

I just nodded, a small, tired smile on my injured lip. "I'm okay, Seungmin. Just a little bruised."

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But… why? Who were those guys? Why did you get into a fight?" His voice was softer now, full of a vulnerability that struck me more than any of his earlier anger ever had.

I hesitated, then decided to be honest. "They were talking about you," I admitted quietly, looking away. "Saying stupid, cruel things about your family, about you. I just… I couldn't stand it."

He froze, his grip on my arm tightening almost imperceptibly. His eyes searched mine, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within their depths – surprise, shock, a hint of something fragile, something like gratitude. He didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, he let out a slow, deliberate breath, and started walking beside me, towards my apartment building, the familiar path now feeling profoundly different.

"You really… you stood up for me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, almost disbelieving.

"Yeah," I mumbled. "Someone had to. They were being complete jerks."

He walked in silence for a few more minutes, the soft glow of the streetlights painting long shadows ahead of us. Then, he spoke again, his voice even softer, laced with a raw vulnerability I’d never imagined I would hear from him. He began to talk, not about the fight, but about his past, about the loneliness, the walls he built, the constant vigilance. He didn't offer a dramatic confession, but a quiet, almost reluctant sharing of the burdens he carried. It wasn’t a torrent of emotion, but a steady, painful drip of truths that explained everything. He spoke about how he didn't trust easily, how he always expected people to eventually let him down, or worse, to use his vulnerabilities against him. That’s why he pushed people away. That’s why he had pushed me away. My heart ached for the younger Seungmin who had endured such pain….. the abuse, the mental scar left on him….and the physical scars his father had left with his beloved belt on his back. And worst? His mother the one who brought him to the world had been far worse, she didn't hit him, no. Her words were worse than being stabbed all over continuously until there was no more blood left inside him. 'I wish you died in my womb itself, useless disgrace' he had mumbled what his mom had said ragefully when he was eight, returned from school with a 'B' grade. He explained how he came from a family of scholars and multi-talented people….he was just good at academics, music at times he liked it, but 'pop' which his family never approved. And how he had ran away at 16.

We reached my apartment building, the familiar brick facade a welcome sight. I turned to face him, my lip throbbing slightly. He looked down at my face, a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"You're not as annoying as I thought," he said quietly, a faint, almost shy smirk touching his lips. Then, his eyes met mine, a flicker of genuine concern replacing the usual sarcasm. "And hey… don't jump into dog fights 'cause people say something about someone."

I couldn't help but smile, a genuine, if slightly lopsided, grin. "That someone is you, idiot." I chuckled softly, despite the pain. "We're friends, right? Of course, I would beat up someone for you. You do the same for me someday, okay?"

He didn't reply, just stood there, watching me. I waved goodbye, the small bag of snacks still tucked into my backpack, my knuckles aching, but a strange warmth spreading through me. I walked inside my apartment building, leaving him on the pavement, a quiet understanding finally settled between us. The walls hadn't just cracked; a section of them had crumbled completely.

The fight, my busted lip, and Seungmin’s raw, unexpected honesty had undeniably cracked something fundamental between us. The lingering tension wasn’t gone, but it had morphed into something entirely different—a charged awareness, a silent understanding that hummed beneath the surface. The careful, almost fragile friendship that had begun to blossom now deepened rapidly, like a plant suddenly given ample sunlight. He joked more often, his dry wit a surprising, almost addictive source of amusement that often caught me off guard, making me laugh despite myself. His teasing, once a weapon, was now a familiar banter, a peculiar form of affection only we seemed to understand. He’d ruffle my hair so frequently it became a comforting, almost instinctive gesture, a brief brush of his fingers that sent a curious warmth through me. And once, during a particularly stressful moment with a malfunctioning library printer, when I finally coerced the ancient machine into spitting out our perfectly formatted document, he even offered a brief, solid hug – a fleeting, tender weight against my shoulder – before immediately pulling back, as if burned by the contact. The touches were small, almost imperceptible, non-committal, yet each one sent a ripple through me, a quiet acknowledgment of the shifting, undefinable landscape of our relationship.

A few weeks later, with our major project nearing its final submission, I was buried deep in a new set of notes in the sprawling, echoing library, trying to make sense of a particularly convoluted philosophy reading. The familiar scent of old books, dust, and quiet ambition filled the air, a comforting constant in my often-chaotic academic life. I was so engrossed, I didn't immediately notice him. But then, a subtle shift in the energy of the room, a prickle of awareness at the back of my neck, told me he was there. Seungmin walked in, his presence immediately noticeable even amidst the rows of diligently working students. He scanned the room with a quick, decisive sweep, his eyes landing on me. It was becoming undeniably clear that our project meetings were no longer the sole reason for our shared time. We just… wanted to spend time together, whether it was to work, or just to exist in the same space.

He started walking towards my table, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, a rare, relaxed curve. But then, just as he was about to reach me, a figure detached itself from a nearby study group. It was Mark from my statistics class, a guy who had always been a little too friendly, a little too persistent for my liking. Mark stopped by my table, leaning in, his voice a little too loud, a little too familiar, jarring the quiet academic atmosphere. "Hey Y/N! Still struggling with those regression analyses? I saw you looking stressed in lecture today. I could always tutor you later, if you want. My place, maybe?" His grin was wide, suggestive, and made my skin crawl.

I felt an immediate surge of annoyance, a flicker of warning bells clanging in my head. "No, thanks, Mark. I've got it," I replied, trying to keep my voice polite but firm, my gaze pointedly on my textbook.

Before Mark could press the issue, a shadow fell over our table. Seungmin had arrived. His pleasant expression had vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense coldness that made Mark visibly flinch and take a half-step back. Seungmin didn't say anything, but his eyes, sharp and predatory, fixed on Mark. His jaw was subtly clenched, his posture radiating a silent, dangerous warning. The silent threat was palpable, heavy in the air. Mark, sensing the dramatic shift in the atmosphere and Seungmin's unspoken, yet potent, displeasure, stammered awkwardly, "Uh, right. Later, Y/N," and quickly retreated, practically scuttling away between the bookshelves like a startled mouse.

Seungmin turned to me, his jaw still clenched, his eyes still burning with an uncharacteristic intensity I rarely saw. "What was that?" he demanded, his voice low, a controlled growl that sent a shiver down my spine.

"What was what?" I tried to feign innocence, though my heart was beginning to thump erratically, a frantic drum against my ribs. I knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Him," he said, gesturing vaguely in Mark's retreating direction. "Trying to 'tutor' you. At 'his place'." His voice was laced with a barely concealed possessiveness, a hint of something that sounded suspiciously like… jealousy. It was a new, unsettling, yet strangely thrilling note in his tone.

"He's just being friendly," I countered, though even I knew it wasn't entirely true. Mark's intentions were anything but innocent. "And besides, it's none of your business anyway. Why do you care so much, Seungmin? You've never cared before."

He scoffed, a short, sharp sound, but there was no real conviction behind it, no genuine disdain. He leaned in, suddenly, intimately close, caging me between his body and the edge of the library table. His hands flattened on the table on either side of me, trapping me in place, his solid frame blocking out the rest of the world. His eyes, dark and intense, searched mine, stripping away any pretense. The air thick with unspoken things, charged with an undeniable current. His scent, a clean, fresh mix of laundry soap and something uniquely him – sharp, cool, and utterly intoxicating – filled my senses, making my head spin. My breath hitched in my throat.

"Why do I care?" His voice was a low whisper, rough with unspoken emotion, barely audible above the quiet hum of the library. "Why do I care? What a stupid question, Y/N. Don't you think I care?" His gaze dropped to my lips, lingering there, hot and intense, then flickered back to my eyes, a silent question passing between us. The space between us dwindled, becoming almost nonexistent, my personal bubble entirely invaded. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle, almost imperceptible tremble in his frame. My own heart was hammering against my ribs, echoing in my ears, a frantic rhythm against the quiet hum of the room.

"Why do you care so much?" I whispered back, my voice barely a thread, challenging him, my gaze fixed on his, unable to look away. His proximity was intoxicating, terrifying. Every fiber of my being was alive, hyper-aware of him, of the delicious danger of the moment.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, his head lowered, slowly, deliberately, drawn in by an invisible force. His eyes were half-lidded, dark with unspoken desire, an emotion that both thrilled and unnerved me, and his gaze was entirely, possessively on my mouth. I unconsciously parted my lips, a soft gasp escaping, my entire being focused on the undeniable magnetic pull between us. The air thrummed with a silent question, a desperate anticipation, a shared longing. His breath fanned across my face, warm and minty, teasing my senses. His lips were just inches from mine, so agonizingly close I could feel the heat, the subtle movement of his breath, the whisper of air.

Almost.

Just as our lips were about to meet, just as the tension was about to break, the heavy library door creaked open with a loud groan, admitting a group of boisterous students who were laughing far too loudly, their voices echoing in the quiet space. The sudden, jarring sound shattered the delicate bubble of intimacy that had enveloped us. Seungmin stiffened, his head snapping up, his hands instantly retracting from the table as if he’d touched a live wire. He took a hasty step back, putting a sudden, jarring distance between us. His face, which had been so expressive moments before, was now a mask of carefully constructed neutrality, a faint, tell-tale flush high on his cheekbones. His eyes darted around, suddenly cold and distant again.

Neither of us spoke. The unspoken question hung in the air, thick and heavy, a phantom touch on my lips. He looked at me, his eyes quickly sliding away, a flicker of something that looked like self-reproach, frustration, or perhaps even embarrassment crossing his features. Without another word, without even a glance back, he turned abruptly and walked away, disappearing quickly between the towering bookshelves, leaving me utterly alone at the table, my heart still racing, my lips still tingling, the ghost of a kiss haunting the space between us.

The next week was silent. A suffocating, awkward silence. His walls were up again, higher and thicker than ever before, reinforced with a desperate urgency. The playful banter ceased. He avoided my gaze, spoke only in clipped, necessary sentences about the project, his voice devoid of any warmth. I didn't push. The almost-kiss, the raw vulnerability he had shown, the flicker of jealousy – it was all too much, too soon, too exposed. I didn't dare mention it, and neither did he. I knew, with a certainty that settled like a cold stone in my stomach, that he was cursing himself for the nonsense he'd even thought, for almost breaking the fragile new reality we had built. And I, left with the ghost of a touch and an unasked question, didn't know what to do but endure, and wait.

The week that followed the almost-kiss was a torturous expanse of silence. Seungmin had retreated entirely, his walls higher and more impenetrable than ever. He avoided my gaze, spoke only when absolutely necessary for our project, his voice clipped and devoid of any emotion. The casual touches, the light banter, the shared glances—all vanished as if they had never existed. It was like he'd hit a reset button, reverting to the cold, distant person I'd first known, only now it felt worse because I'd seen glimpses of what lay beneath. I didn't push. The humiliation of the near-moment, the crushing weight of his sudden retreat, kept me silent, nursing a quiet hurt and a growing sense of confusion.

Then, the inevitable happened. Not between us, but to me. A persistent cough escalated into a full-blown fever, body aches, and a throat that felt like it was lined with sandpaper. Uni became an impossibility. I missed class for a day, then two, then three. By the fourth day, my head still pounded, but the worst of the fever had broken. I was drifting in and out of sleep, nestled deep in my bed, the curtains drawn against the bright afternoon light. My mom, bless her, was a constant, comforting presence, bringing me lukewarm tea and soft blankets.

I vaguely heard the doorbell ring, followed by the murmur of voices. I assumed it was a delivery, or maybe one of mom's friends. A few minutes later, my bedroom door creaked open softly. I stirred, blinking my eyes open, disoriented. Standing in the doorway, framed by the soft light of the hallway, was Seungmin.

My eyes widened in disbelief. He was here. In my apartment. In my bedroom. My mom was right behind him, a small, welcoming smile on her face. "Look who came to visit, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice laced with surprise and a hint of delight. "He was very worried about you."

Seungmin looked undeniably awkward, clutching a small plastic bag in one hand – a box of tissues, a bottle of juice, and a packet of my favorite crackers. "Hi," he mumbled, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled hair and flushed face. He looked pale, almost as if he'd run all the way here.

My mom stepped forward, ushering him gently further into the room. "Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable. You know, you're the first one of her friends who has ever bothered to show up when she's sick." She glanced at me, a soft sadness in her eyes. "She believes having friends would just lead to distractions, make her lose focus on her studies and scholarship. She always said everyone else just used her for notes or favors."

Seungmin froze, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. He looked genuinely surprised by that. I was always surrounded by people, always laughing and talking. He probably saw me as effortlessly popular, unburdened by the academic anxieties that plagued him. The revelation hung in the air, shifting his perspective, painting a new picture of my own carefully constructed barriers.

My mom gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "I'll go make some fresh tea for you both." She left the room, giving us a knowing, gentle smile as she closed the door softly behind her.

The silence that followed was different from the one in the library. This was a quiet, intimate silence, tinged with a delicate vulnerability. Seungmin slowly approached my bed, his gaze soft, almost hesitant. He pulled a chair closer, placing the bag he carried on the bedside table. He just sat there, watching me. He didn't speak, just observed, his eyes scanning my face, taking in the signs of my illness.

As the afternoon light faded into dusk my mom had served tea….long back, empty glasses sitting on the side table, he remained. My mom checked on us once, her eyebrows raising subtly when she saw him still there. She didn't press, just smiled. I must have drifted off again, lulled by the gentle rhythm of his breathing. When I next stirred, it was deep in the night. The room was dark, save for the faint glow from the hallway seeping under the door. He was still there, sitting by my bedside, his head resting against the back of the chair, his eyes closed. My mom must have come in while I was asleep because a soft blanket was draped over his shoulders.

Then, I felt it. A soft, warm weight enclosing my hand. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the dimness. His hand. He was holding my hand, his fingers loosely intertwined with mine as he slept. My mom would eventually tell me later that she had come in to check on me again and saw him like that, holding my hand while he slept, and she didn't want to interfere. She simply smiled to herself, a quiet understanding dawning in her heart.

The next morning, I woke to the soft sound of his even breathing. My head felt clearer, the fever gone. I looked at him, truly looked at him. He was still there, asleep in the chair, his head tilted awkwardly. His face, usually so guarded, was softer now, relaxed in slumber, almost boyish. The sight sent a wave of tenderness through me. As if sensing my gaze, his eyes fluttered open. He blinked, a little disoriented, then his gaze met mine. His expression, usually so carefully schooled, was softer than I had ever seen it. All the walls were down, stripped away by exhaustion, by concern, by the quiet intimacy of the night.

He slowly straightened up, his hand still holding mine, his thumb gently stroking the back of my hand. His voice, when it came, was a barely audible whisper, raw with a vulnerability that made my chest ache. "I don’t hate you," he murmured, his eyes searching mine, seeking understanding. "I don’t think I ever did, not really. I dunno, Y/N… it's a scary feeling I'm carrying, and I don't wanna hurt you." His grip tightened, a silent plea in his touch. "It's just… I'm not good at this. Not good at… caring about someone like this."

Days Later;

Seungmin's whispered confession – "I don’t hate you. I don’t think I ever did, not really… I dunno, Y/N… it's a scary feeling I'm carrying, and I don't wanna hurt you" – lingered in the air long after he'd left my apartment that morning. It wasn't a grand declaration, but the raw vulnerability in his voice, the tremor in his touch as he held my hand, had irrevocably shattered any remaining doubts. The careful, almost fragile friendship that had begun to blossom in the library now deepened, solidifying into something real and comforting.

The following days, and then weeks, confirmed the shift. He started dropping by my place frequently, initially under the guise of polishing our now-finished project. But it quickly became clear he just wanted to be there. He’d arrive with a quiet knock, slip off his shoes, and settle onto the couch as if it were his own, pulling out his laptop not for work, but just to be present in the same room. My mom, ever perceptive, had taken to him instantly. She adored him, showering him with the kind of warm, gentle attention he clearly hadn't experienced much of. She'd make him extra portions of dinner, fuss over his quiet nature, and listen intently when he spoke. "Your mum likes me more, honestly," he'd tease, flexing his eyebrows at me from across the kitchen table, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. I'd swat playfully at his arm, "Not allowed. She’s mine."

It was a few months later, over one of Mom's elaborate Sunday dinners – a spread of comfort food designed to feed an army – that the deepest, most stubborn wall in Seungmin finally crumbled. He had grown comfortable enough in our home, secure in Mom’s unconditional acceptance, to share fragmented stories of his past with her. He spoke quietly, his voice low, about his difficult family, the coldness, the emotional and, at times, physical abuse he had endured, and his painful decision to cut ties completely and move out on his own at a young age. Mom listened, her expression empathetic but never pitying, her hand occasionally reaching out to gently touch his arm. When he finished, instead of offering sympathy, she simply rose from her seat, walked around the table, and enveloped him in a warm, comforting hug. "You are welcome here anytime you want, kiddo," she said, her voice soft but firm, stroking his hair gently. "This is your home now too, if you need it. Always." And that was it. That was his breakdown. The quiet, controlled Seungmin, who rarely showed any outward emotion, dissolved into a tearful, trembling mess in my mother's arms. The simple, unconditional motherly love he had always craved, that unburdened acceptance, finally washed over him, breaking years of hardened self-protection. I watched, my own eyes welling up with a profound mix of tenderness and fierce protectiveness, a silent promise to cherish this vulnerable side of him.

In between these moments of profound openness, things between Seungmin and me became complicated, beautifully worse even, in the best possible way. The academic project, a distant memory now, had earned us both top marks and secured our scholarship applications for prestigious universities, our future paths seemingly aligned. But our personal project, whatever this was, was still a work in progress, an intricate tapestry of unspoken feelings.

He would openly flirt with me now, his words still carrying that dry wit, but with a new layer of playful affection that made my cheeks flush. "Still can't believe I managed to get stuck with someone as hopelessly disorganized as you," he'd murmur, but his fingers would be gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. He’d cuddle me on the couch during movie nights at my place, his arm casually draped around my shoulders, sometimes pulling me closer until my head rested on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He still ruffled my hair a lot, but now it was always followed by a soft, almost shy smile, and sometimes a lingering touch. We shared inside jokes, comfortable silences, and knowing glances that conveyed more than words ever could. Yet, despite the growing intimacy, the undeniable magnetic pull, the unspoken feelings that hummed between us like a tuning fork, neither of us dared to confess the full extent of our emotions. We existed in a limbo of almost-lovers, dancing around the inevitable, a thrilling, terrifying anticipation.

The tension finally reached a breaking point one blustery afternoon. I was heading to the library, my mind buzzing with a new research idea, a spring in my step from our newfound closeness. But then, I saw him. Seungmin was talking to a girl from our literature class near the library entrance. She was leaning in too close, laughing too loudly at something he said, her hand resting casually on his arm. A jolt of something unpleasant, sharp and cold, shot through me, instantly curdling my good mood. Jealousy. My stomach twisted. I watched for a moment, feeling a familiar wave of insecurity wash over me. He seemed to be laughing back, his head tilted towards hers. My heart sank, a familiar ache of disappointment settling in, a fear that all of this was just… casual for him. I turned abruptly, unable to watch another second, and walked away, a bitter taste in my mouth, the spring in my step replaced by a heavy thud.

I spent the next hour trying to focus on my notes, but the image of them, laughing together, kept replaying in my mind, a cruel, endless loop. He knew how I felt, didn't he? Had all those moments, all that closeness, all those late nights, been for nothing? Was he just… like that with everyone? Was I just another 'friend'? The questions churned, making me furious, making my eyes sting.

Suddenly, the heavy library door burst open, slamming against the wall with unusual force, and Seungmin strode in, his eyes scanning the room with a desperate, almost frantic urgency. He spotted me at my usual table, hunched over my laptop, and marched directly towards me, his face etched with a storm of emotions – anger, frustration, and a raw, exposed vulnerability I hadn't seen since the morning he held my hand. He reached my table and, before I could even react, he spun me around, gently but firmly, until my back was against the edge of the table. He leaned in, caging me, his hands pressing down on the table on either side of my hips, effectively pinning me in place. His breath hitched, ragged and uneven, his eyes blazing, a mixture of unbridled fury and something far deeper swirling within their depths.

"What the hell was that, Y/N?" he demanded, his voice low and fierce, cutting through the quiet of the library like a knife. He wasn't yelling, but every word vibrated with intensity. "Why did you just walk away? Why were you giving me that look? That 'I'm disappointed' look?"

"What look?" I retorted, trying to sound nonchalant, to regain some composure, but my voice wavered, betraying me. "Maybe I just had somewhere else to be. Not that it's any of your business, Seungmin."

"It is my business!" he practically snarled, his voice rising in frustration, drawing a few hushed, curious glances from nearby students. He didn't care. His gaze was locked solely on mine. "You saw her, didn't you? That girl? You thought I was flirting back, didn't you, you idiot? You thought all of this" – he gestured vaguely between us – "meant nothing! I shut her down cold, Y/N! I told her I wasn't interested, that I was waiting for someone! Someone specific!"

My breath caught in my throat, a sudden, dizzying hope blooming in my chest. "Waiting for… who?" I whispered, my heart pounding a furious, hopeful rhythm against my ribs, daring to believe.

His eyes burned into mine, pure, unadulterated emotion finally breaking through years of carefully constructed walls. "I like you?" he practically scoffed, the words laced with self-derision, his voice raw with a sudden, overwhelming vulnerability that stripped him bare. "It's so much more than that. I fucking love you, Y/N, and it’s annoying, and it’s terrifying, and I’m not good at this—I'm absolutely terrible at this, I've never felt this before—but I want you. Only you, Y/N. No one else but you." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a desperate, urgent whisper, his forehead almost touching mine, our breaths mingling. "You get under my skin like no one else. You annoy me more than anyone on this entire planet, you make me want to pull my hair out, but fuck, when you don't? When you just ignore me, when you pull away, when you give me that look like I've actually messed up, like I've hurt you? It hurts worse. It hurts me worse. So yes, annoy me. Argue with me. Challenge me. Make me go crazy. And rule me like you own me. Because if I am not gonna be yours, I don't want to be anyone's. I can’t be anyone’s.”

The confession, delivered with all the grace of a charging bull but with the raw, brutal honesty of a soul laid bare, hit me like a tidal wave. My eyes welled up, not with sadness or confusion, but with an overwhelming surge of joy and profound relief. All this time, all the confusion, the unspoken feelings, the subtle touches, the hidden glances—they were real. He loved me. He truly, utterly, loved me.

I didn't need any more words. My hands came up, almost instinctively, cupping his face, my thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw. I pulled him closer, meeting his lips with a desperate, all-consuming kiss. It was fierce and tender, raw and emotional, a culmination of two years of antagonism, of quiet observations, of growing friendship, and finally, of undeniable, deeply felt love. He kissed me back with an urgency that stole my breath, his hands coming up to grip my waist, pulling me impossibly close against him, eliminating every last inch of space between us. It was a promise, a surrender, a beginning.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and trembling, he rested his forehead against mine, his eyes still closed, a faint, contented smirk playing on his lips, a stark contrast to the storm that had raged moments before. "Guess you’re not that unbearable after all, hm?" he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble, full of newfound affection.

I giggled, a joyful, light sound that felt entirely new, entirely free. "My mum was right about this…"

He opened his eyes, a playful glint in their depths, pulling back just enough to see my face. "Oh, I love your mom more, honestly," he teased, his smirk widening, a familiar playful challenge.

"Not allowed," I said, a mock threat in my voice as I tightened my grip on his collar, pulling him closer again.

"I was kidding—" he began, but I didn't let him finish. I leaned in and kissed him again, a soft, lingering kiss, sealing the truth of his words, of his love, and of our perfectly imperfect, wonderfully complicated beginning.

….The End

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lighting-and-shadow · 1 month ago

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Post LADS Main Story: NonMC Reader x Sylus

So I had a thought again: you being reincarnated into the world of LADS, but after the story ends. Ever is no more. Wanderers have been cured and don't exist anymore. The world is relatively peaceful.

MC has found her happy ending with one of the boys, something you find out during a stroll in Linkon City. And it's not Sylus.

I was thinking it would be Xavier for the angst factor. Because, to Sylus, she chose the prince of the people that caused him so much pain over him. She chose the light Xavier represents over his darkness. She chose someone who, in Sylus' mind, was born with everything over him who worked to get everything he has for her sake.

Or maybe she chose Caleb. And that would hurt too because Sylus realizes that while they only had each other in the past, she overlooks that for her present. That their history isn't nearly as valuble as her history with Caleb.

Either way, it causes sad boy hours. The man is devasted. And while he and MC still have a friendship, it's a bit toxic. No longer do they play Kitty Cards or spend time at the claw machine. With the new love in her life, all that's left for Sylus is scraps.

She uses him. Calls him when she needs something or she wants to do something. But if it's him? She blows him off. She treats him like a joke.

Maybe not even truly realizing that she is (but part of me wants to go the bitch route because I've made her so nice in all my other current works and WIPs; I blame @rcvcgers for this (I say this with love, because I honest to god love Rotten Apples), and need to channel that anger).

Then it gets worse: he dies. She remembers her past with him, and gives back the other half of his soul. And then she turns her back on him for good, cutting ties because their morals are just incompatible. He's so devasted that he takes his own life, no longer immortal because his sorceress abandoned him (just like everyone else did).

But anyways, you figure this out, and basically come barging into his life. Not to make him love you. Not to get her to love him. But to give him something to latch onto.

Let's say Sylus was your favorite in the game (as he is for me, clearly), so you act like a total, batshit crazy, fan girl. And there's something about that crackhead energy that makes him drawn to you.

So you bug him. And bug him. And bug him endlessly. Because even annoyance and anger are better than emptiness and coldness he carries right now. Sure, he hides it well behind snark and flirting, but you know him better. You've watched him from behind a scene for quite some time.

I imagine the reason you're kept around is because of the chaotic nature of who you are and the knowledge you have. And because Sylus doesn't have it in him to give a shit. You're not a threat. If anything, it was the twins that convinced him of your use.

So you live at the base, occassionally witnessing the toxic nature of him and MC's dynamic. And you come up with a plan to help him get over her. Not by making him love you, you'd never be worthy of that, but of getting him to realize that his sorceress is dead. That even it's technically the same the person in soul, she's not the same at her (Aether) core.

Doing so makes you fall even further in love. You discover things about him a simple game could never. You see sights and experience parts of this world that could never captured by a screen or some code. And it hurts.

It hurts because he's more than just a character to you. He cares for you, is soft with you. He buys you things, helps braid your hair, takes you to fancy venues, stands up for you, protects you... You almost think that he loves you.

But that's silly. Who would love you? Who would love the real you, and not the one you present to the world? The one that cries at nothing? The one consumed by anxiety and insecurity? The one that hides under layers and layers of walls capped off by an impenetrable mask? The one that hid herself and changed herself for so many years? The one you're not even sure still exists?

You're such a fraud.

(This whole prompt was inspired by the Webtoon My Derelict Favorite, and I couldn't get it out of my head).

#lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #sylus qin x reader #sylus x non!mc reader #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylus angst #love and deepspace x reader #mc x xavier

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obsessivevoidkitten · 8 months ago

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Pollen and Pheromones

Kinktober Day 13: Sex Pollen

Male Alpha Yandere x Gender Neutral Omega Reader CW: Noncon, sex pollen, aphrodisiac, pheromones, knotting, biting, claiming bite, stranded, spaceship crash, sci-fi, outer space, alien planet, a/b/o dynamics, bigotry/prejudice against omegas, rivalry, breeding, general yandere behavior, tsundere, betrayal Word Count: 1.6k (Enjoy this kinktober meal I have prepared <3)

"Star log: This is Pilot 2418 currently operating vessel Starlion: Orion. I am currently on route to pass the threshold of our galaxy in less than five minutes."

You were a shuttle pilot, one of the Exploration Guild's best. Ever since humanity had achieved interplanetary travel, they had sought to extend themselves ever further. With the new drift-space drives, that dream was now a reality.

They were only currently suited for small 1 to 2 man shuttlecraft, and only a couple such craft had been made. Two different ones had been commissioned through the guild, with both pilots competing to see who could exit the Milky Way first. The new drive could only be used in bursts to prevent overloading, so the journey had still taken a few months. But it seemed like you were about to succeed. Then you could make a U-turn and start drift-jumping back towards the nearest station.

Since you were an omega, this was a great achievement, a notice to the universe that your kind could do whatever betas and alphas could. You would be able to help stamp out the lingering bigotry and inspire others all with one action.

You were just about to cross the finish line!

Suddenly, your opponent, Tetsunori, came out of drift-space behind you. He had been your long-time rival, with both of you being about equally skilled.

But this was unacceptable to him as he was an alpha and held to the knothead mindset that an omega's place was bouncing on an alpha's prick or maybe in a teaching or nursing job.

You weren't worried, though. You had a solid lead. There was no way he could close the gap.

You rolled your eyes at the incoming transmission.

"Why don't you just give up now? If you surrender nicely, I'll let you celebrate my victory by letting you keep my knot warm!"

The temptation to reply was too great.

"Ha! You may be good at navigating the stars, but I doubt you have ever found your way into an omega."

Conversing with him hadn't distracted you or made you pause, so he growled as he switched to another plan. He fired on his tractor beam.

What the fuck, was he insane? Stooping so low to make sure you couldn't have a historic moment? You fired an equal and opposite tractor beam through his, which forced him to disengage. Something only possible because both ships were similar in size and energy output. Did he think you were some amateur?

In a desperate bid to prevent you from winning, Tetsunori rammed his shuttle into yours.

This type of bumping wasn't unheard of. It wasn't lethal if both ships were similar and had their shields up. But the bouncing was pretty strong for both parties, which is why it was a last-ditch effort. It could push you past the line, or it could bump him further. Neither of those things happened, though.

Instead, you careened right into the gravitational pull off a planet. You did everything you could to slow down and stabilize, but nothing seemed to be working.

Tetsunori sped after you in his spacecraft as he spoke into the comm link.

"I'm sorry, oh my god, I'm so sorry! I just had to be first! What omega would want to be mates with someone who they bested??"

You didn't have time for his weird ass confession and barely registered it. Your shields were still online and he had started pulsing his tractor beam to slow you down, full usage of it at such speeds could rip your ship apart, thankfully he wasn't an amateur either and knew that.

You put all available power and quickly put it into overloading the shields. You hit the emergency crash button, and two nozzles came out from the sides of the cockpit and sprayed you with a rapidly drying foam that would reduce damage to you if you got flung about the ship. Tetsunori's reckless and speedy entry into the atmosphere may have been enough to save you, but he had lost control of his vessel as well.

As you crashed, he careened away and crash-landed as well.

It was a good thing the high-tech impact reduction foam was so effective. Despite having shields, the ship was still shaken pretty badly, and the inertial dampeners weren't powerful enough to thwart damage from such a landing.

You took stock of the condition of your systems.

Almost everything was fried. You could at least scan the planet. It seemed like you had actually lucked out. In the entire galaxy planets that supported life were incredibly rare. But you had landed on one.

It seemed there were no known biological hazards present. No recognized toxins, dangerous bacteria, or viral agents. You were cleared to remove your suit. The temporary foam had started to dissolve, so it wasn't hard to remove.

The scanner also indicated there was a strong human life sign. It appeared that Tetsunori was okay.

You took the survival kit from underneath your seat as well as some beverages and rations you had procured at the last station and headed in the direction of dust and smoke in the distance.

You didn't even need the ship's scanner to tell you that the great imbecile, Tetsunori had landed there.

As you got closer, you stepped into a field of flowers that surrounded the entire crash site. You were probably still a mile away, but all around you were odd glittery silver and gold flowers.

The smell of them made you just slightly lightheaded and tingly. You realized the tiniest bit of slick was dribbling down your leg. They must be an aphrodisiac. The scanner hadn't warned you of anything in the air that was truly dangerous, so it probably wouldn't matter very much. And it really didn't. For you. As you trudged through the flowers and pollen, the effects did not get worse.

But for Tetsunori, the pollen was much stronger. When it hit his nostrils, it immediately put him into rut. Not a typical rut either, one of the ruts you see in pornos where the alpha is almost feral and unable to control their mating drive. When you came upon him, he was sitting on a piece of debris from his shit and rocking back and forth in clear distress. Through his outfit, his bulge was immediately visible.

"T-tetsunori? Uh... are you okay? D-did you get hurt in the crash?"

You took a step back when he looked up at you. His eyes were red, giving him a demonic appearance.

"The flowers, I think... they... UGH! My thoughts are all jumbled..."

He started to rub and massage his crotch desperately. He finally caught a whiff of your scent, ripe from the recent hike over to him and from being without a proper shower since your last space station stop. Not to mention the smell of the slick the aphrodisiac had coaxed out of you.

He started wildly sniffing at the air.

"Y-you smell so nice. You can help!"

You started backing away slowly.

"Uh... help with what?"

He got up and closed the difference between the two of you. Sweat had his dark hair clinging to his head. He was significantly taller and looked down at you intensely before sniffing and licking your neck with lazy broad strokes.

"S-smell so gooood. Always wanted to knot youuuu~"

You tried to push him off.

"Tetsunori! St-stop!"

You slapped, smacked, kicked, punched, and flailed, but nothing you did deterred him in the slightest.

"I'm sorry, but I fucking n-need this!"

He pinned you to the ground, clawing and biting off all your clothing until only your underwear was left, he removed it more delicately before inhaling its scent deeply and putting it in his pocket for later.

"Please don't do this, Tetsunori, PLEASE!"

He looked down at you, and it seemed like he was genuinely trying to resist before the pollen-charged rut won out.

Tetsunori unzipped his pants and let his drooling cock and full heavy balls out.

"G-gonna put all my babies in you! Have to! Have to!"

The lust-drunk alpha wasted no more time in ramming into you, an insertion that would have been more difficult had the pollen not slicked you up. Though it was still sudden and slightly painful.

"A-aaah!"

You tried to kick at him, but he growled viciously before pushing you into a mating press and slobbering all over your neck with his eager tongue.

The pollen must have increased the potency of his pheromones, or at least your susceptibility to them, because his musk was starting to cloud your thoughts.

Your grunts of pain became gasps of pleasure as your body quickly accommodated to his large size. You winced as he bit down hard on your neck to claim you. He kept right on fucking into you without skipping a beat.

He licked and kissed the lightly bleeding bite mark, some part of him remembering to comfort you despite his dominating need to fill you with cock. And by that point, the last of your resistance finally melted away.

"T-tetsunoriiiiii~" You moaned as your toes curled and body twitched in orgasm.

He growled your name in response and gave a few hard, deep thrusts before cumming as deeply as possible.

A comforting fullness filled your hole as his knot locked the two of you together. He pulled you close as he sat down so that you were in his lap facing him. The two of you caught your breath, then remained in an awkward silence until his knot deflated.

"G-got it out of your system?"

"Yeah... for the most part... sorry about that..."

You lifted yourself off of his lap, his half hard cock springing free with a lewd plopping sound.

"Well... it wasn't your fault. It was just the pollen..."

He grabbed your wrist and pulled you back into his lap, his cock ramming directly into you, then began humping.

"Well... it wasn't just the pollen..."

#yandere x reader #gender neutral reader #yandere boyfriend #male yandere #male yandere x gn reader #my ocs #yandere alpha #yandere a/b/o #omega reader #My OC Tetsunori #yandere kinktober #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #tsundere to yandere #tsundere x reader #tsundere #male tsundere

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hellishjoel · 10 months ago

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wild like the west

3.3k / pairing: cowboy!joel miller x cowgirl!reader

main masterlist | notifications blog

summary: joel and his cowgirl warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), implied but unspecified age gap, joel is technically reader's boss (so power dynamic stuff), swearing, dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, brat, etc.), unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, asphyxiation kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, clean up on aisle reader's stomach, reader is described having hair but otherwise (I believe) reader is a blank slate, no use of y/n, barely edited A/N: I unfortunately have not stopped thinking about a game joel miller x yellowstone crossover, and I feel like he would like this to be his long, happy life. I also haven't written for joel since may which feels like a sin! sorry baby!

It doesn’t matter how many ass bruises you get, or the pain of repeated thrashes to your knees from getting bucked off; this unruly horse will bend its spirit to your will.

Half the job of purchasing new horses for the Miller Ridge Ranch is breaking them in like a pair of new shoes.

Any cowboy, or for you, cowgirl, knows that a horse can sense your personality and fear from a mile away. If you sprout fear, it won’t trust you to be the guide on its back. It’s a mutual thing to trust one another. It’s the trust Joel thrust upon you after loyally working at the ranch for a handful of years. Sure, you were young, but you had a good head on your shoulders.

He perches his cowboy boot on the low fence rail, teeth gnawing at a toothpick as he watches you with careful eyes. The morning dew settles over the long grass and tall trees, untouched by man, fostered by nature. With the sun clawing at the horizon, the land turns from a pale blue to a beaming orange glow. It’s beautiful here, peaceful. You imagine this is the life that Joel always wanted, craved. He’s not from around here, he’s got too much Southern twang to be from these northern Montana woods.

Life guided him up here and he never turned back.

You can feel the horse grow agitated under your haunches, whinnying with anxiety as it takes a few rough steps backward in the ground-up dirt.

“S’okay, boy, take it easy, easy,” you coo in a gentle voice that lets the horse breathe through its panic. You grip the colt’s mane at the very base of his neck, right by the horn of your saddle, gently scratching that sweet spot that seems to bring him some tranquility.

You’re the only one who seems to calm these beautiful boys.

“You got a habit of gettin’ in’ta trouble before it even knows to start lookin’ for ya.” Joel’s southern drawl rumbles deep from his chest, stepping into the training ring and crooking his first two fingers in your direction.

“I got it, Joel,” you say insistently, guiding the horse by a little squeeze of your boots to its belly in Joel’s direction.

“Know ya do.” Joel stops at the horse’s chest and pats its neck, large and calloused hand stroking down its coarse mane as he stares up at you, squinting from the morning sunlight.

His eyes are starkly brilliant in this light, typically a dark brown, now a glowy amber under the brim of his black cowboy hat. “You know that part of learnin’ how to be a cowboy is lettin’ them break in their own horse. Hop down.”

A sigh leaves your parted lips as you unhook one boot from the stirrups and throw yourself off. Taking the reigns, you walk with Joel back to the main fence.

“You’re too nice to ‘em. I hired you to be a bit more…” He pauses indefinitely, tilting his head.

“Ruthless. I know.” Your eyes connect, both hardened after years of this long life. One day of being a cowboy felt like a year at any other job.

The plan was plain and simple, a route you’d taken a hundred times with a crew that changed on and off for the past couple of years. The cattle were in need of fresh resources, lush grass to graze on, and streams of pristine crystal water. Up through the valley they’d go.

The cowboys and cowgirls were gathered on their horses, Joel sat atop his beautiful black mare, eyes piercing his crew even behind his tinted sunglasses. Any season besides summer in this state demanded thick, warm work wear. Joel adorned a chocolate brown Carhartt and thick denim jeans under old, worn-out brown chaps.

“I want Wyatt and Jack to take front, Bo and Sadie, swing, Jess and June on the flank, Tucker and Sammy on the drag. Wear your bandanas, it’s gonna get dusty back there,” your eyes flick up to a string of confused faces, “any questions?”

“Why do we have to go through the valley? We’d have to push hundreds of cows through open water,” Bo mutters, disdain for a woman making all these choices for him, perhaps.

“Yeah, n’I can’t swim. Never learned.” Another pipes in.

“Then you’re a goddamn idiot,” old man Wyatt gurgles up a chuckle. Wyatt has been a cowboy longer than you have been alive. He raised you up to be tough with a streak of kindness that could never be washed away. He gives you a tight nod of reassurance as you sigh weakly.

All this tomfoolery seems to be a bit much for Joel’s taste. “She’s takin’ questions about the plan, not your ‘pinions on it. I tell her what to do, she tells ya’ll what to do. You question her, you question me. So do as she says, or you answer to me.”

Joel’s always had a tight hand on the crew. He intimidates them. He is their boss, after all. They have a problem with you or this ranch or anyone else, they answer to him. Joel takes off his sunglasses and narrows his eyes on Bo, the newest cowboy with a pretty big mouth on him who bucks just as bad as your new colts. And his dead eyes are set on you.

The rest of the crew sets off towards the direction of the cattle herd, everyone except Bo.

Your head jerks upward in his direction, your own eyes narrowed. “You wanna say somethin’?” You ride alongside Bo, who seems to be wrestling with his stupid thoughts. But before he gets a chance to say anything, Joel intervenes.

“Got a fight in you? It starts an’ ends with me.”

Bo looks between both of you, simply scoffing before he backs his horse off and trots along towards the crew.

The view from the top of the valley is beautiful, all yellow and golden, with a pale blue sky and tall trees that harbor the secrets of the forest. Joel used to tell you it would whisper to him, warn him. Your chestnut-colored horse stands tall next to Joel’s, and both of you are overseeing the herd and the crew working together.

“Not as bad as I thought this was gonna be,” Joel mutters, turning his head in your direction. You’re unrecognizably quiet. He’s never known you to be so still.

He watches as your fingers anxiously twirl your horse’s mane. “You undermine me in front of them, and they don’t respect me, Joel.”

So that’s what got you so stiff. He takes in a deep breath of mountain air, crossing his wrists over the horn of his saddle and glancing over at you out of the corner of his eye. Your hair blows in the wind, gentle and flowing. Almost graceful if it wasn’t in this wild west. Your beauty was city beauty, he was surprised you ever found your way out here.

“Bo’s as green as grass. He needs to learn not t’talk to you like that. And if he needs to learn from me, so be it.”

Keeping your lips zipped, your eyes scan the points that use the dogs to guide the herd in the right direction. The swings and flanks work the mid to back-mid to maintain movement, and the drags stationed at the back ensure that any loose stragglers keep up.

Joel rolls his eyes and sighs, reaching his hand across to your horse’s reigns, keeping your horse tucked to his side.

“C’mon, Cowgirl. Spit it out.”

“You go about defendin’ me, it looks like we’re sleepin’ together,” you gripe, “and I don’t need our crew slingin’ the slander that I got my job fuckin’ the boss. I don’t want that shit, Joel.”

Joel shifts his jaw from side to side, silent as he usually is. His tongue muscles over the right words, the words that will settle that ball of uncertainty you have nestled in your gut.

He settles on the truth.

“We are sleepin’ together.”

Shaking your head, you steal your reigns back from Joel and gently nuzzle your boots against the horse’s underbelly. “Well, maybe that should end.”

Joel watches on with a small smirk as your horse is set in motion down the grassy hill. He shouts loud enough for his voice to carry down from the high ground. “You set those boys straight, or I’ll have to keep doin’ it for ya.”

You sling back your middle finger in his direction, both of your horses riding side by side now as you follow the crew through to the valley.

Joel sighs upon entering his large, private cabin, resting his cowboy hat to air out on a hook by the front door. His clothes wreak of his musky sweat, and the shower calls his name. He walks stiffly. Joel’s thick thigh muscles are as strong as iron from riding his horse, and his back cracks each time he inhales.

But he can’t deny that this life was made for him.

Training to be a carpenter, earning pennies on the dollar to work in the hot Texas sun, and for what? Building someone else’s dream property? He had his own dreams.

The ranch was his dream.

He always had a profound appreciation for nature and the outdoors.

Fuck the city, fuck car horns honking obnoxiously, fuck the traffic. He found more fulfillment in listening to the wind flutter through the trees and would much rather hear the moos of his cattle than impatient commuters at six in the morning.

Plus, he’s never felt more free or independent. This was his land, and he made the decisions on how it was run. Hiring the sassy cowgirl from the metropolis just happened to be a nice bonus on lonely nights when there wasn’t much left to his whiskey bottle, and the ride into town was more than twenty minutes for a new one. She sated him all the same, better, even.

Despite years of riding and wrangling, you’re so fucking soft. You have soft eyes, a pretty voice, and satiny thighs. Your lips are plush against his weathered ones, and you don’t seem to mind sitting in his lap with his rougher-than-barbwire hands feeling over your body.

But in turn, you’ve made a little soft spot in his wild like the west heart of his. And he swore he’d never settle down; you seem to have the same intentions.

Things were easy. Nice and easy. Almost routine.

The bunkhouse would be busy with cowboys and cowgirls playing card games, drinking their beers, singing to the music on the radio, and talking nonsense. You’d slip out after dark and wind up upstairs in his bed.

He recalls you saying something about how his bed is more comfy than the ones in the bunkhouse.

“Whatever you say, darlin’.”

Tonight was no different. Fresh from his shower with a towel secured low on his waist, he hums curiously at the sight of you sprawled out across his bed. No more than a minute later, you are tugging it loose from his frame and letting it pool around his ankles.

“Thought you said you were done,” Joel muses with a hint of teasing. You sit up from the bed on your knees and wrap your arms around his broad trap and shoulder muscles.

“I ain’t a quitter,” you mutter against Joel’s mouth, feeling his tongue glide along yours as he explores you freely.

He sheds your clothes, feeling your freshly showered skin and hair under his rough palms. He can’t help but touch you like you’re his, like he owns you. But no man can possess the wind.

You kiss as he slips you under the bed’s cool sheets, drunk on the way you move so pliantly under his guidance. His lips move to the slope of your neck, his greying whiskers scratching your skin before he washes over the irritation with more kisses.

Joel’s hands slip between your legs, cupping your clothed center in one hand. Your eyes light up at the friction, mewling up a moan of his name as he massages over the wet spot growing on your panties.

“She’s already soaked, darlin’. You been thinkin’ ‘bout this?” Joel muses, sitting up properly to peel your shirt off your body, two fingers curling around the hem of your panties and chucking them mindlessly on the floor.

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly as he’s about to slip down between those pretty legs of yours.

“What?” He asks, damn near annoyed.

“I can’t wait,” you beg breathlessly, his eyes meeting yours. “I-I can’t, I’m beggin’ you, please. It’s been a long day.”

Joel sighs but ultimately nods. It’s not what he wants, but sometimes you both need a quick fix.

Joel’s body parts your legs, a grunt escaping the depth of his throat as he ruts his hips against your own.

“Good idea,” he mutters against your mouth, leaning down and distracting himself with your kisses as he lines his length up and down your soaking center.

You sharply inhale as he enters and the sound is music to his ears. He feels your nails carving into his back muscles as he sinks himself in deeper deeper deeper, both of you panting with eagerness by the time his hips are flush with your own, lost in where you end and he begins.

You let out a string of moans as he reels himself back, only to return to your depths with a snap of his hips that releases a shrill whine of his name from your throat. His forearms are buried in the fluff of the pillows on either side of your head, forehead against forehead, his hips grinding against you now.

The friction is enough to make your head spin. You can feel the coarse hair of his happy trail tickling your already anxious pearl.

“Fuck,” you huff out, letting your hands slip down his back, knowing that if you want him to pick up the pace, you’ll have to ignite his fire. In one quick movement, your hands drag themselves up Joel’s back, your nails creating etched lines that raise red once you finish at the very tops of his shoulders.

Joel releases a long, low groan in response as his eyes snap open to meet yours. The sting of pain creates heat along Joel’s spine. His jaw is wound tight as he brings his large hand to wrap around your pretty throat, thumb on your chin to force you into staring straight at him.

“Such a goddamn brat,” he growls, adding pressure to the column of your throat as he begins to pound into you harder and harder with each thrust of his hips. You cry out his name, a cacophony of your panting moans and your slick squelching against his hips fill your ears. The ecstasy of losing just a smidge of air is enough to make your eyes roll into the back of your head.

He’s obsessed with the way your eyes gloss over in lust, your body jerking up the bed with each powerful thrust he gives you. Your mouth hangs open, gasping for air that’s just out of your reach.

“You take it, baby girl, you keep takin’ it. She’s so fuckin’- goddamit, so fuckin’ good for me,” he pants, feeling the warm air dissolve against your skin as Joel begins to swell fatter inside of you.

Perfectly slick and warm, he loses himself in your pussy. You squeeze and choke him, his orgasm only building as you whimper how good he feels.

“Holy fuck, Joel, please please please, right there, ohmygod you’re gonna make me-” you gasp, your back arching off the mattress as you grip onto his forearm that’s still holding your delicate throat, your other hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. He knows to squeeze a little harder as you fall apart, the euphoria of the combination sending you over the edge.

Joel’s holding on for dear life, always focused on putting you first, always trying to prove your jokes of him being an old man wrong. But he can’t deny he’s nearly finished twice now, your pretty cunt all nice and warm for him.

What’s wrong with pushing you over the edge a little?

Joel abandons the hold on your throat as you still are witnessing the aftershocks of your orgasm, his two thick fingers circling over your swollen clit.

Joel smirks as your eyes snap open, your jaw dropping wide as you silently scream in pleasure. He nods sadistically, smirking as he overstimulates your already twitchy clit.

“You’re gonna give me another, right here, right now,” Joel grunts, stilling his hips as he’s buried to the hilt inside you, feeling your pussy clench around his cock as your gasps and strangled moans fill the room.

“Fuck, Joel I don’t think I can,” you cry out, bracing the wrist of the hand that’s still working figure-eights around your pearl. Joel watches as your chest rises and falls quickly, nipples at peaks as you continue to clench repeatedly around his cock.

“Know you can, baby, cum on this cock again. You’re a strong cowgirl, ain’t’cha? You been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day, getting this pretty girl drilled by me, know ya have.”

And he’s right. Shamefully so. Denying Joel looks good in and out of his cowboy attire is just nonsense. The way he rides his horse with his thighs snagged tight around its middle, gnawing on his toothpicks to ward off the need to smoke a cigarette or chew; at this point, it’s everything that he does that turns you on.

And maybe that’s why it’s so easy to give him a second one.

Your nails pierce into his skin as your hands grip his biceps, mewling and moaning something wrecked, feeling the warmth gather deep in your belly once more.

“Keep fuckin’ me, I didn’t say to stop,” you pant.

Joel disguises his laughter by meeting your lips with his own, giving you messy kisses that taste better than perfect ones. His hips and fingers work in tandem to force you over the edge. You’re shaking under him, your thigh muscles twitching with excitement, legs wrapping around his middle as he grows closer to his own finish.

Just as he feels like he’s going to give way, he can feel your pussy clenching around his aching cock, his tip brushing so perfectly against that spongy spot that sets your insides alight.

“Fuck,” he grits, ripping himself loose of your perfectly wasted cunt as he yanks over his length. One, two, three more times, and he’s spilling warm spend across your belly. The pretty splatters are like a Jackson Pollock. He stares in awe at how pretty you look getting finished on.

The bed dips as he falls into place beside you. He doesn’t lay idle. He reaches for some tissues from his bedside table, politely wiping away his mess as you stare at him with lustful eyes. You were so fucked out. Sorta cute.

“Quit,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes.

“You ain’t as old as I thought you were.” You whisper, a smirk tugging on the corners of your mouth.

Joel chuckles softly at your familiar tease. He's heard it countless times, but it never ceases to make him roll his eyes and pull you closer to him. He kisses your forehead affectionately, his voice carrying a hint of playful banter.

“You gonna keep remindin' me about my age every chance you get? Don’t stop ya from comin’ back each night.”

You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart thump.

Joel’s got one arm slung around your shoulders, the other on your thigh that’s draped across his middle. His strong hand works slowly into your tired muscles. You play with the greying curls on his chest, taking note of the dark, nearly black ones still speckled throughout.

“Goodnight, old cowboy.” You say, patting his chest, hearing his slow laughter rumble from his chest.

“G’night, pain in my ass.”

main masterlist | notifications blog

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel tlou

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masodemic · 2 months ago

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The funny thing about Kaito and Hakuba's frenemy shtick is that Hakuba doesn't just stand around and read out all his deductions because he knows reason won't stop Kaito from creating chaos. So he actually counters with more chaos.

Conan/Shinichi will be like: From how this room is laid out, one can infer that his escape plan is through the roof! He will then abseil from the top of the dome to the ground and hide in the garden!

And Hakuba will be like: No he won't, I cut the ropes.

Conan: You WHAT?

Hakuba: I took a walk. I saw a rope I haven't seen before. I cut it.

While Conan/Shinichi tries to MiNdPaLaCe Kid's plan, Hakuba's already blocking 3 escape routes and cuffing Kid in disguise to himself (or carrying him like a potato sack).

Hakuba is so powerful Gosho shelved him for the better part of the last 40 years only bringing him back once in a blue moon 😭

Hakuba being dynamic in both thinking and action makes him the perfect foil for the Magic Kaito series while Shinichi's armchair-esque deduction style tends to work more on criminals that are willing to confess when exposed. Not shameless showmen like Kaito.

#dcmk #magic kaito #kuroba kaito #hakuba saguru #edogawa conan #shinichi kudo #kaito kid #kaitou kid

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sunshineangel0 · 3 months ago

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𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 도망가다

pairing- stray kids hyung line x reader summary- given a situation, you and member are running away together. whats the reason and how will it go for you? word count- 1.2k warnings- criminal behavior (theft, fraud, implied violence), toxic family dynamics/emotional neglect mentioned, mentions of law enforcement, surveillance, accidental pregnancy, soft angst/comfort-heavy romance, a/n- so i feel for a little darker themes i have to say: they’re all fictional—built on what-if scenarios and deep, messy emotions. Enjoy the ride !!!!!!! ahhh maknae line

CHAN — "𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘭𝘺𝘥𝘦"

ride or die crime partners

The motel TV hums with static as you count stacks of stolen cash on the bed. Chan’s leaning against the wall, shirt half-buttoned, gun tucked in the waistband of his slacks like it belongs there. “We're legends now,” he says with a crooked smile, tossing your passport into your lap. New name. New start. You grin, blood still rushing from the getaway. “Think they'll catch us?” He laughs once, low and reckless. “They can try.”

You and Chan are smooth-talking, quick-moving, adrenaline-chasing chaos. But damn, you’re good together.

He does the planning—routes, disguises, backstories. You do the talking—charming your way past guards, sweet-talking anyone who gets suspicious.

After a job, he always takes care of you first: checking for bruises, giving you water, making sure you’re still riding the high, not the crash.

You steal a sports car once, just for fun. He lets you drive it. You’re laughing like you’re 16 again, no rules, no regrets.

In the quiet, he gets soft—telling you how he used to dream of this kind of freedom. Not the crime, but you. The “us against the world” kind of love.

One day, you watch the sunset from a rooftop in Prague. “If we go down,” you say, “we go down together.”

He grins, presses his forehead to yours. “You and me, baby. Until the end.”

with him its...

Lipstick-stained passports – new identities, new lives, but still the same reckless love

Bullet casings in a jewelry box – mementos of your past jobs, hidden like treasures

Motor oil on his hands, lip gloss on yours – partners, opposites, balanced chaos

A black duffel with multiple IDs and one photo of you two – the only constant in every version of your lives

Champagne in a convenience store cup – celebration anywhere, any time—because you survived again

MINHO — “𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦”

healing from toxic pasts

You leave a note on the table. Nothing dramatic—just “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.” Outside, Minho’s waiting in his car, engine idling. He doesn’t say a word when you slide into the passenger seat, just reaches over and puts your hand in his. The road ahead is quiet. No sirens. No calls. No one yelling for you to come back. Just the soft sound of tires on pavement, and Minho whispering, “We’re gonna be okay.”

The first few days feel surreal. No screaming. No walking on eggshells. Just you, Minho, and silence that finally feels safe.

You stay in a tiny apartment with peeling walls and creaky floors. He makes it feel like home in a week—plants in the windows, a cat named Peach, warm soup on the stove.

He doesn’t talk much about what you left behind. Neither of you do. But when you wake up crying, he’s there. Quiet. Holding your hand until it passes.

He falls asleep with his head on your lap some nights, a soft smile on his face. You trace your fingers through his hair and think, I never thought peace could look like this.

He takes photos of you when you’re not looking. Says it’s so he “won’t forget this part of life.” You pretend not to notice, but you always smile.

One night, out of nowhere, he says, “Thank you for leaving with me.”

You whisper back, “Thank you for giving me something to run to.”

with him its...

Cat fur on everything – home is where Peach sleeps

Soup simmering at 3AM – because trauma doesn't keep regular hours, and neither does care

An old Polaroid tucked in your wallet – the only photo from the day you left

A chipped mug you both fight over – mundane arguments now feel like love

Sticky notes on the fridge with hand-drawn hearts – “Bought snacks,” “Feed Peach,” “I love you.” No grand speeches—just daily proof

CHANGBIN — “𝘞𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘯 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘕𝘰 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘜𝘴”

"framed" lovers on the run

The moment the security camera photo hit the news, you knew it was over. Your phone rang once—Changbin. “Pack a bag,” he said. “Only what you need. I’ll be there in ten.” Now you’re in the backseat of a stolen car, hands shaking, his hoodie draped over your shoulders. "Do you trust me?" he asks, eyes locked on the road. You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah.” The city lights blur behind you like a life you don’t want anymore.

Every gas station is a risk. Every knock at the door makes you freeze. But Changbin always stays calm—for you.

He keeps your fake IDs in his boot and a map in the glovebox, tracing out routes like you’re in a spy movie.

When things get really bad, he’ll hold your face, eyes locked on yours, and remind you: “We didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let them make you forget that.”

In between the chaos, he finds little ways to bring you peace—humming your favorite song, buying your favorite snack, brushing your hair behind your ear.

He tells you once, under a thunderstorm sky, “If we have to spend our lives running, I’ll still choose you every time.”

You start to believe it. Even when the world wants to paint you guilty, you know what’s real—him, and the way he loves you like it’s all he’s got.

with him its...

Cigarettes out the window – not because you smoke, but because someone else does. And that means you’re being followed

Cash in a shoebox under the passenger seat – your safety net, escape fund, lifeline

Burner phones wrapped in napkins – disposable lives, but still texting each other goodnight

A cracked mirror in a motel bathroom – distorted reflections, unclear futures

His hoodie always on you – his way of keeping you safe, even when he can’t protect you from everything

HYUNJIN — “𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘛𝘰, 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘥”

accidental pregnancy + quiet escape

You stare at the test in your hand like it’s not real. One pink line, two pink lines, whatever—it doesn’t matter. Your world’s already changed. Hyunjin walks in barefoot, hair damp from the shower, and freezes when he sees your face. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. He crosses the room in two steps, takes the test from your hand, and says, “Okay. We’re leaving.” Just like that. Like love is enough.

Hyunjin doesn’t freak out. Doesn’t question. The second he sees you’re scared, he shifts into full comfort mode.

He books a train ticket to a quiet town by the sea. No paparazzi, no pressure. Just you, him, and the sound of waves.

He paints all the time now—your growing belly, your sleepy smile, your fingers wrapped around a coffee mug.

Talks to the baby like they’re already here: “Hey, little one. Your mom’s the strongest person I know.”

He’s overprotective but sweet about it—holding your hand when you walk, cooking every meal, refusing to let you lift anything heavier than a book.

You cry one night, scared of what’s next. He just holds you and says, “I don’t know how we’ll do it. But we will. Together.”

with him its...

Paint stains on your clothes – you stopped caring if you get messy; life’s already full of color now

Socks hung out to dry on a line – homemade life, gentle routines, building something quiet but real

A worn baby book at the bedside – filled with notes in Hyunjin’s handwriting, doodles in the corners

His rings left in a ceramic bowl – he takes them off now, wants nothing flashy, just you and peace

Sunlight through gauze curtains – a new kind of morning, one that doesn’t rush you

skz general: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub

(if you wanna be added to the taglist comment below!)

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1982grapejuiceblues · 3 months ago

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Stranger Lanes - Masterlist

~series~ - ongoing

Summary: Y/N’s summer starts with a betrayal and a very long car ride. Her boyfriend leaves her for Claire. Claire, who also happened to be dating Harry. Now Claire and Ben are together, and Y/N and Harry? They’re the ones left behind—with a cross-country drive to a friends trip they no longer want to be part of. They don’t know each other. They don’t like each other. And they definitely weren’t supposed to share a car, a room, or anything remotely close to trust. But between gas stations, terrible playlists, and late-summer silences… something shifts. Because the worst part of the trip isn’t being stuck with Harry. It’s realizing she doesn’t want it to end.

Warnings: Off-page infidelity / cheating (by secondary characters) | Breakups / heartbreak (past relationships and emotional fallout) | Emotional repression / avoidance | Loneliness and grief surrounding failed relationships | Light alcohol use (coping, social, and isolation contexts) | Mild language and sarcasm-as-defense-mechanism | Complicated friend group dynamics | Moments of emotional vulnerability, crying, and self-doubt | Subtle themes of trust rebuilding, emotional intimacy, and fear of abandonment

Word Count (so far): 50.1K

Change Of Plans

Passenger Seat Purgatory

New Roads, Old Rules

The Scenic Route

The Space Between

Just For You

Next Part (Coming Soon)

#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles au #harry styles writing #harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles slow burn #harry styles fan fiction #teacher!harry #strangerlanes

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ifnotlovepersevering · 8 months ago

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Trapped (Agatha Harkness x Reader)

Summary: in an attempt to get revenge on Agatha, you end up walking right into her trap

Warnings: NSFW, blurry consent, magic play, pet names, light d/s dynamics, oral sex (both receiving), fingering (R receiving), mentions of spit play, face-sitting (A receiving), overstimulation, mentions of violence, lovers to enemies to lovers again?!, minors DNI

A/N: breaking my hiatus by pulling together this horny filth from god knows what part of my brain 🖤 enjoy!

NSFW Tag List: @academiagaymess @musicalmemesandstuff @shinkomiii @vintagegoddess12 @agnessharknes @jesterofrohan @agathaharknessslut @nickalpatel @junaika21

As soon as you’d caught wind that the great Agatha Harkness had lost her powers, you were planning your route to Westview.

You’d been waiting ages for this opportunity - revenge for her betrayal. Agatha had drawn you in close before draining nearly every last bit of power from you, thankfully leaving just enough for you to survive. Though, that was likely an oversight rather than a show of mercy.

But you’d never forgotten. Over the years you slowly, painstakingly, built your powers back up to what they had been, and then even more. You were stewing, waiting for the chance to get the witch back for what she’d done.

Now you stood in her basement at the home she occupied in Westview, after transporting yourself inside. You crept up the stairs, staying as silent as possible. The dagger in your hand glistened as you eased through the door to the main floor.

You quietly stalked your way over to what seemed to be her office. But before you could step inside, Agatha’s voice rang out from behind you. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

You spun around, seeing her standing in the living area. “Agatha,” you grinned.

The older witch eyed the dagger you clutched in your palm. “Hey doll,” she said nervously. “Whatcha got there?”

You began walking towards her as she stepped backwards. “Oh Aggs,” you smirked, using your old nickname for her. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

“Let me guess,” she let out a shaky laugh. “Since I juiced you?”

You clenched your jaw. “You bitch. I trusted you. It took me ages to grow my power back to what it was.”

Agatha scoffed. “Oh please. You were pathetic. A baby. You hardly knew how to handle all of that, I did you a favour.”

That’s it. You lunged forward, tackling the other witch to the ground. You straddled her abdomen, her arms by her side, keeping her pinned down. Digging your elbow into her chest, you brought the dagger to her neck. “Last words?” You smirked.

“I missed this view.” Agatha’s blue eyes bore into yours as her expression morphed from fear into a smile.

Her smugness was grating, and you pushed the dagger into her skin to silence her. But it wasn’t working. The flesh that should’ve been tearing under the blade remained smooth and undisturbed, no crimson emerging.

What?

“Oh Y/N,” she grinned at you, not at all worried about the dagger pressed up against her throat. “You’re almost as naive as the day I met you.”

You felt your body suddenly freeze up. “What the hell?” You exclaimed, trying to move your limbs. Agatha began laughing as the distance between the two of you increased. You were floating now, immobilized, and she was standing up in front of you grinning.

“You’re kidding me.” You groaned. You couldn’t move anything below your neck, let alone try and get your magic flowing. Fuck.

“No, no I’m not.” Agatha circled you, unashamedly basking in the glee of having you trapped like this.

You closed your eyes, thinking of what idiotic decisions led you here. “You were supposed to be…”

“Powerless?” Agatha smirked, standing in front of you now. “Come on, Y/N. Are you hearing yourself? Agatha Harkness, powerless?”

You cursed yourself internally. This was stupid. You’d been stupid, and cocky, coming here with no preparation but a stupid dagger and your stupid vendetta.

“Aww,” Agatha pouted at your expression, taking your chin into her hand, forcing you to look her in the eye. “Don’t make that face, bunny.”

You felt a small spark inside of you at her using her favourite pet name. Agatha was leaning in close now, and heat rushed to your cheeks under her intense gaze and the proximity. Yes, you hated her for what she did. But she also knew exactly how to push your buttons. The older witch made you feel things beyond just hatred and try as you might, that was something you couldn’t ignore.

“You know how witches are,” Agatha spoke softly, her eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth. “Start a rumour, it spreads. And somehow I knew that little Y/N would come running once she heard the news.”

Her arrogance irked you. “I’m not the same person you used to know.” You spat.

“Oh?” Agatha arched a brow, a wicked smile on her face. “I beg to differ.”

She stepped back and began circling you again. The familiar hum of her magic suddenly began caressing you again. You looked down at your hovering form and now saw purple swirls of her magic climbing up your legs.

“The Y/N I used to know,” Agatha was behind you now, her mouth by your ear sending shivers down your spine. “Would make the prettiest sounds for me.”

The end of her sentence was punctuated by a purple tendril slipping under your top and caressing your nipple. Another joined right after, on your other breast, pulses of magic squeezing both your nipples perfectly.

You couldn’t even try and stop the moan that escaped you.

“Just like that.” You could tell Agatha was smiling even though she was behind you, her voice clearly conveying her excitement.

You felt another rope of magic snake its way up your thigh and into the waistband of your pants. You cried out as it surround your clit and begin pulsing teasingly. You squirmed, the sensation sending tingles of pleasure through you.

Agatha settled herself into the armchair across from you and waved her hand in a quick motion. You gasped at the feeling of cold air on your now-bare skin. “Mm,” her voice was low, her eyes raking over your exposed form. “That’s better.”

You could feel how wet you were getting between your legs, her purple magic still pleasuring you. “You know,” you started, getting breathless now. “That I came here to kil- ah!”

Your sentence was interrupted by what you could only assume was another extension of her magic teasing your wet entrance before pushing in. Heat rushed through you as your walls stretched and adjusted to the feeling.

“Oh I know hon,” Agatha smirked from her chair, watching you turn into a mess before her. Her blue eyes were tracing your form and you could see that her cheeks were flushed. “But keeping you to play with again is a much better option.”

The tendril of magic inside you began pumping in and out, pulsing gently against your walls. “Fuck,” you groaned, the pleasure in you building at a rapid pace now. Your eyes were half-closed, jaw slack, as Agatha fucked you with her magic.

“Though if you’d like me to stop,” Agatha’s voice made you open your eyes. “I can do that too.”

Another flick of her hand and all the magic pulsing in and around you stopped, causing the pleasure building in you to fizzle. “No!” You whined. “Please, fuck, please, Aggs.”

It was humiliating. You had come here to kill her, and instead you were naked and at her mercy, begging for her to keep fucking you.

Agatha seemed thrilled to see your resolve break. “There she is,” she chuckled darkly. “My sweet bunny.”

You moaned, a mixture of relief and pleasure, when her magic began again. You were approaching your orgasm quickly, filthy moans and profanities spilling from your lips as you reached the edge. But before the waves of pleasure you were aching so badly for could crash over you, the magic stopped again.

You whined in protest, at the brink of tears, as Agatha stood up and came over to you. “Oh I know, baby.” She pouted.

To your surprise, Agatha lowered you down so that you were standing in front of her now. Your legs were unsteady and she gripped your hip, pressing you close to her. “I just couldn’t let you come without tasting you first.”

Any thoughts about what you’d originally came here for were far gone, and you hungrily brought your mouth to hers. Your hands now free, it was your turn to magic Agatha’s clothes off, making her gasp against your lips in surprise. You traced your hands up her figure and began pinching and teasing her nipples. Both of you moaned as your tongues explored each other’s mouths. You nipped at her lower lip, sucking it into your mouth, making her groan approvingly.

Agatha’s fingers buried themselves in your hair and she pulled, drawing your head back so she could move her mouth to your neck. Her fingers teased your nipples as you felt her teeth bite down, gently, but hard enough that you were sure she was leaving a trail of marks on your skin.

“Lie down,” she breathed against your skin. You complied, settling on the carpet as she made the fireplace roar to life.

Agatha wasted no time lowering herself between your legs. She held your gaze as she spread your folds with her fingers before bringing her mouth to your center. Despite the time apart, Agatha clearly remembered how to turn you into a shaking mess. She picked up a pattern of circling and flicking your clit with her tongue, and she quickly had you writhing on the floor. “Agatha,” you groaned.

She switched to sucking on your clit as she slipped a finger, then another into you. The lewd sounds of your wetness filled the room as Agatha pumped her fingers into you, curling them up inside before drawing them out. “Fuck, fuck!” You cried out, spurring her on. Agatha moaned as she sucked your clit into her mouth, hard, making you arch your back off the floor as you came.

She didn’t stop there. She withdrew her fingers but her tongue continued its ministrations on your overstimulated clit despite your squirming. Agatha kept her eyes on you as she doubled down on her pace, her arms wrapping around your thighs to stop you from squeezing them together.

Her efforts brought you to the edge again, your body shaking with the waves of pleasure coursing through you. Finally, Agatha came up from between your legs, her grinning mouth smeared with your juices. You revelled in the feeling of her bare skin against yours as she slid back up to you.

“I’d almost forgotten how good you taste.” She said, before bringing her mouth down to yours. You moaned at the taste, her lips moving against yours sloppily. Agatha pulled back slightly to let a trail of saliva fall onto your tongue before wrapping her lips around it and sucking, moaning as she did. Fuck.

You could already feel yourself aching for more but you needed to taste her first. “Sit on my face.” You breathed in between kisses to Agatha, who was more than happy to comply,

She giggled as you helped her maneuver herself over your face. Lowering herself onto you, both of you groaned as your tongue made contact with her folds. Her taste was intoxicating, and you began lapping up her juices before flicking her clit repeatedly with your tongue.

You watched Agatha as she moaned from above you. “That’s it baby.”

You continued with your ministrations, splitting your attention between her clit and her opening which continued leaking her juices into your mouth. Wanting to taste more, you plunged your tongue into her hole, swirling before withdrawing, then entering again.

“Yes,” she groaned, throwing her head back. “Fuck me with your tongue bunny, come on.”

You could feel her getting closer, her hips were beginning to buck more wildly. Stealing a page from her book, you used your magic to send vibrations to her nipples while you moved your tongue back to her clit.

“Oh fuck,” Agatha grunted, her legs clamping around your head nearly suffocating you as she gripped the armchair near her for support. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.” Rocking her hips against you, she cried out as first one, then another wave of pleasure tore through her.

Agatha dismounted, thighs trembling, before laying down next to you. You smiled at the older witch, panting with her eyes closed and forehead damp with sweat. Her mouth formed a lazy grin, “That was-”

Before she could finish her sentence, a loud bang could be heard from the basement, making both of you jump. You could hear clattering, as if something was fumbling around down there in the darkness.

Agatha laughed at the confused look on your face. “What, did you think you were the only one waiting to get revenge?”

You rolled your eyes, of course, as Agatha leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “None of them are you though, bunny.” She stood up quickly and waved her clothes back on.

“You’re not seriously going to-”

“I’ll just be a minute, doll.” Agatha smiled down at you. Her lips were swollen and her hair messy, but with her hands glowing purple, she looked every bit the formidable witch everyone knew her to be.

“Sit pretty,” she called over her shoulder as she made her way to the basement door. “We’re not done yet.”

You couldn’t help but laugh when you heard Agatha blast whatever poor creature had made its way into her basement.

839 notes · View notes

ateezlibrary · 5 months ago

Text

ruin me (m) • jyh

pairing: noble!yunho x princess!reader

tags/genre: 18+ (mdni), smut with plot, historical au, forbidden attraction, forced proximity, power dynamics, loooots of tension, arranged marriage to mingi (we don't like him)

word count: 4.8k

synopsis: with your kingdom at risk, your parents devise a grand plan to have you arranged to be wed to the rival kingdom's son. in an effort to demonstrate peace, you and prince mingi are required to attend a ball (spoiler alert: it doesn't go well). a desperate need to escape sends you straight into yunho's arms.

notes: hi y'all. haven't been on this account for a while and i do have a handful of requests to get through, but i did want to get this up here for a friend of mine! feel free to continue submitting scenario/fic requests that i can ponder on. :-) enjoy!

The hand in mine is cold, unfeeling as fingers lace around mine in a feeble attempt to demonstrate some semblance of a happy couple. The gesture is robotic, one that leads me to roll my eyes as I nimbly clasp his hand in response. At the bottom of the staircase, the grand hall is filled to the brim with nobility from across the kingdoms, each of them striving to out-dress the next as they glide around marbled floors in decadent gowns and suits. My free hand dangles at my side, fingers clenching and unclenching in an attempt to release the nerves of entering with my suitor for the night.

“Let’s go,” is all he says, his voice devoid of any affection as he pulls me along with him to notify the guard of our arrival. The younger uniformed man nods once, capturing the attention of the parties beneath us as he bangs his staff against the ground twice.

“His Highness, Prince Song Mingi, along with the Princess of the Southern Kingdom of Jeonsu.”

And so, the whispers commence. Hushed voices commenting on what we were wearing, on how we looked together, how Song Mingi held my hand in his. Along comes a certain myriad of comments on how our kings and queens despised one another and how I was a stranger in their territory. Like clockwork, Mingi utilizes his court training well, guiding me down the grand staircase with my hand now on his arm. I hold my head high, against the scoffs from the foreign nobility and keep my eyes fixated on a particularly dazzling chandelier.

From the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar presence standing watch from a towering marble pillar near the far end of the room. A head of tousled brunette hair, wide brown eyes, a tall frame donning a well-fitted sapphire suit. He offers me a small smile of encouragement, one that makes my heart flutter for the slightest of moments before I follow Mingi’s guide to the bottom of the staircase. We bow before the crowd expecting us, the orchestra returning to its waltz.

Mingi looks down at me, and I blink back up at him in silent question.

Despite the lack of love, there was an understanding between us. Neither of us enjoyed the arrangement we’d found ourselves in. Neither of us enjoyed being born into kingdoms split into centuries-long rivalry, or being used as political pawns to secure peace between lands. Yet, here we were, dressed to the nines in an attempt to save face.

“I’m going to speak with Lord Taeho,” he states. “Will you be—”

“I’ll be fine,” I interrupt, bowing my head and gliding to a corner of the room where I could remain as unseen as possible. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed me. I was no stranger to public scrutiny, but it was more apparent coming from people that were not my own. I settle into one of the gilded chairs at the end of the room where a handful of women were gathered to gossip. They seemed to be close in age, not much older than I was.

“I can’t imagine how Prince Mingi has gotten into this predicament,” one whispers all-too-loudly, her kohl-lined feline eyes darting between her friends and where I sat. “I knew Jeonsu was suffering from trade route closures, but a marriage?”

“I agree, it’s a dramatic attempt for them to claim our power as their own.”

“And, our prince.”

I roll my eyes, gratefully taking one of the champagne flutes from the offering waitstaff that floated by. Focusing more intently than ever on the bubbles that cling to the glass, I try to block out the sound of their scrutiny when a friendlier voice interjects.

“All by your lonesome?” he asks, and I turn to a bright-eyed Yunho that is looking down at me with hands in his pockets. His smile is charming, etched across his face in a warm welcome much unlike the others around him.

I shrug in response with a smile of my own, gesturing to the room with a wave of my hand. “I believe my betrothed is working the room, it would seem.”

Yunho’s gaze follows Mingi around the hall in a shared silence. Ever since the arrangement had been made between the kingdoms, Yunho had served as the prince’s right-hand man in assisting with my move to their palace. Unlike the rest of the awful personas in this kingdom, Yunho was a breath of fresh air. He spoke with emotion, passion that was unrivaled by the cold, harsh demeanors of the rest of the palace staff scared straight and the royal family that was all-too-hard to read.

“Look, now she’s quick to seduce the rest of our nobles,” another scoffs from the circle adjacent, the rest tittering in response.

“I can worry about myself,” I snap at them, already tired of their comments despite only just arriving. “I’d suggest you not gossip. It’s awfully unbecoming of you.”

Each of them grow pale, wide eyes blinking back at me in surprise that I refused to take their harassment in silence. They leave their seats almost immediately, hurrying deeper into the hall where other socialites awaited. Beside me, Yunho stifles a laugh as I rub at my temple.

“Oh, is this funny to you?” I scorn. Swallowing down the rest of my drink, I’m about to wave over the waitstaff to receive another when Mingi approaches me with a raised eyebrow.

“What just happened over here?” he asks harshly, eyes narrowed into slits.

“What?” I ask, gesturing to the gaggle of women that crowded near the refreshments table where Mingi once was. “The socialites of this kingdom can’t be told that they have no right to criticize another royal?”

“These are my people,” he barks, and I roll my eyes.

“As if they’re not practically about to be mine.”

“Hey,” Yunho attempts to interject, sensing the rising tension between the pair of us as he nervously runs a hand through his brunette hair. “Let’s not—”

“I’m not the one forcing you to marry me,” Mingi snaps in a hushed whisper, his jaw clenched as I rise from my seat to meet his glare.

“And yet, you find it your duty to parent me while we’re here.”

“Just leave,” is all Mingi replies, turning his back to me. His shoulders rise and fall with every measured breath, glancing over at me one last time with daggers in his eyes as he returns to mingling with his people.

His people. They would never be mine. This would never work.

My people would continue to suffer.

Suddenly, the room felt much too small. The towering pillars were suddenly too large, the floor too slick. The orchestra playing its waltz fought with the barrage of thoughts running through my mind, leaving little space for me to hear the muffled sound of Yunho asking if I was all right.

It was getting harder to breathe, the corset of my gown growing tighter with each breath. In desperate need of fresh air, I ran straight for the tall oak doors at the far end of the ballroom and into the courtyard with heaving gasps. My skin crawled from the desperate need to get out of sight. Glancing wildly around the gardens, I opted for the observatory at the other end of the palace grounds and hiked my gown with my hands as I darted across the cool grass.

* * *

I’d been sat in the glass-topped dome for what felt like an eternity, mindfully observing each star above and the rows of books that lined the walls around me. Much unlike the ballroom, the observatory was quiet. I’d not been familiar with the kingdom’s palace, only having visited a few times. Nonetheless, I remembered the observatory clearly, recounting it from when Yunho had first guided me on a tour of the grounds. I admired it for its exclusion from the main palace halls, tucked away in its own solace—much like I needed in this moment.

As my mind cleared, I sighed with the recognition that I’d have to answer a lot of questions when I’d returned—where I went, why I left, why I abandoned Prince Mingi in such a public setting. Questions I refused to think of answers for right this second.

The gilded iron doors to the observatory creak open and I turn in a panic, eyes wide as I prepare to back into one of the rows of bookshelves and make myself small.

Taking sight of Yunho, relief washes over me and I sigh, lowering my hand that clutched the front of my corset and slumping back into the sapphire velvet sofa that sat under the stars. He raises an eyebrow, almost as if he’s surprised to have found me here.

“Well, this is one place to hide,” he answers, his voice low as he locks the door behind him and saunters over to me. I look up at him wearily, silently grateful for his company in such a lonely palace. “Mingi asked that I look for you.”

“I don’t imagine that he asked you to do so right when I stormed off.”

“Well—no,” he replies, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “He actually hadn’t noticed for quite some time. I would have come immediately, but I assume you needed the space.”

A sudden bout of thunder rolls through the skies above, causing us both to crane our heads up towards the flashes of lightning that follow soon after.

“Great. Now even the heavens hate me for being uncooperative.” I bury my face in my hands with a muffled groan, and Yunho lets out a laugh—a strange sound in a place like this. He lowers onto his haunches before me, gently taking my hands away from my face and holding my chin in his.

“Chin up, now,” he scolds, and I offer a feeble smile in response. “It’s a lot of responsibility weighing on your shoulders. Both you and Mingi. There’s a lot of change happening, and I imagine it’s not easy.”

He stares at me for just a second too long, something that doesn’t go unnoticed as I shift my gaze back to the now turbulent weather outside.

“Seems like you brought the rain with you,” I joke evasively, gesturing to the glass panels and settling back into the sofa, knees hugged to my chest beneath the billowing gown. Yunho glances up in response, nodding once as he leans against the desk across from me with his legs crossed. Large hands crane over the edge of the desk, drumming his fingertips to fill the silence amidst the storm brewing.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to get back for a while,” Yunho admits. “Though, at least you’re accounted for.”

“I suppose,” I nod and reach before me to pat the plush velvet. “No need to stand around. Come sit.”

As Yunho sits beside me, legs outstretched before him and hands behind his head, I take the opportunity to drink him in silently. He’d been my only real companion throughout the arrangement with Mingi so far. The only one that didn’t look at me with distaste or treat me as an inconvenience in a larger political ploy. We’d grown to become friends of sort in the past several weeks, able to joke and tell stories and simply be … human, if only for a little while.

Given the circumstances, I’d be a fool to not find him attractive in the grand scheme of things.

The thought instantly churns guilt at the pit of my stomach. I had no right to be attracted to him. He was the prince’s right-hand man. He was kind and amenable, qualities that were needed for such a job. He knew the predicament I was in with the arranged marriage. He was no stranger to playing his part.

“You’re really lost in thought tonight, aren’t you?” he pokes, chuckling as I blink the thoughts away and struggle to come up with a hasty excuse.

“Trying to find something to do to pass time while we’re in here,” I utter, averting his gaze that now seemed darker under the thunderous sky. “Maybe we should look at these …”

And so, time passes with us prodding through ancient maps, travel journals and court documents that span across the walls of the library. The storm rolls on, growing stronger and sealing the observatory off from the rest of the palace. Enough time goes by where I begin to feel constricted by the corset of my dress, and I refuse to mention it to Yunho until he notices for himself.

“Are you all right?” he asks, setting aside the journal in hand and taking note of the way that my breathing had grown labored. “Do you feel well?”

“I-I’m fine,” I lie, absentmindedly craning a hand behind me to tug at the lacing unsuccessfully. “Just—ah …”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, standing before me as his eyes scan over me oh, so slowly.

“It’s just—the corset,” I admit finally, cheeks flushed from a combination of remorse and the restriction of the boned fabric. “It gets uncomfortable after a while.”

“Oh,” Yunho answers, and realization dawns on him. “Oh.” He raises his eyebrows, stammering for a moment before forming a coherent sentence. “If you need to loosen it, please don’t feel ashamed. I rather you not pass out on me than worry about your dress being improper.”

“Thanks for that,” I reply hastily, struggling to reach a hand to the lacing crossed at my back. “I would have if I could reach the fasteners.”

“I can help,” Yunho volunteers almost immediately, and I can’t help but scoff at his enthusiasm that he quickly corrects. “I-I mean, if you need me to.”

“I do.”

With a soft smile of my own, I keep as calm as possible as he approaches me from behind, fingers outstretched and awaiting permission. The warmth from his body radiates onto mine, melding any coherent thoughts in my mind as I silently punish myself for noticing the feeling. Yunho requires no guidance as he threads his fingers through the lacing, unweaving the tight restraints as I finally feel the pressure release from my chest.

The corset expands loosely around my ribcage, forcing me to grip at its hem to prevent it from slipping. I turn, suddenly realizing that Yunho is much closer than I’d realized. He looks down at me, hand still lingering on my waist from where he finished helping me to come undone. The light in his eyes is gone, replaced with a kind of hunger I hadn’t seen in them before.

“Is that better?” he asks in a hushed voice. His voice crawls along my skin, and suddenly I’m all too aware of every inch of my skin and every hair that stands on end. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from his, watching as his trail down to my lips, my waist.

“Yes,” I whisper under the sounds of the storm outside.

The storm that isolates us from the rest of the kingdom. From any judgment, from our roles as bride-to-be and the prince’s confidante.

Yunho seems to notice this as well, his hand moving from my waist to lift my chin. He brushes his thumb against my cheek tantalizingly slow, a gasp slipping past my lips as I lean into his touch. An unspoken attraction dances around us, one that he fights against with great restraint as he pulls his hand away with a sigh. Even so, his lips are just mere inches from mine.

“We can’t,” he scolds softly, an obvious strain in his voice.

My mind races with filthy thoughts, suddenly wild at the idea of succumbing to the most carnal desires that ran between us in that moment. To hear him moan, have his hands around my throat.

But we can’t.

“Why not?” I urge in what almost sounds like a cry for help. My hands release the corset, the fabric now slouching dangerously low. Yunho’s eyes dart to the way it slips lower and lower, sitting just beneath my cleavage as a strangled breath slips past his lips.

“You are to be my princess,” he answers, “and I answer to the prince. There are lines I can’t cross.” He swallows. “No matter how tempting.”

Realization dawns on me as I arch an eyebrow, backing onto the sofa again just behind us. Crossing my legs, I pretend to not notice his hungry gaze as the fabric of the dress billows around me, eyes locked onto his as I let out a dry laugh.

“So, you are at the whim of the prince? Is that correct?” He nods once, eyes unmoving. “And I am to marry the prince, am I not?”

He nods again.

“Then you are under my command as much as you are under his.” His gaze shifts frantically to meet mine, confusion etched onto his face for a brief moment as he finally understands my suggestion. The thought of wielding power over the man before me ignited a certain kind of flame under my skin, one that crept along my veins and churned at my core. I leaned back into the plush velvet as a newfound confidence overcomes me. “Won’t you be a loyal subject to me?”

“I—” Yunho seems to wrestle something within himself for a brief moment, lowering himself onto a knee and bowing before me. As he lifts his head, his eyes sparkle with a desperate, silent plea. “Yes. Of course.”

“Then ruin me,” I command, taking his chin in my hand the way he did mine not long before. “Ravage me as if I were a common whore, right now.” My words are breathless, betraying the way I yearned to exercise control over the man on his knees before me.

“Is that what you want?” he asks tentatively, pressing a hand over mine as he lowers his gaze to the ground.

“That is an order.”

Save for the rain that thrums against the confines of the observatory, the room falls silent amidst the sound of our breathing. Yunho slides his hand down to my wrist, pausing for a moment before tightening his grip around it and shoving me back into the sofa. He’s almost unrecognizable, the gentle playfulness in his features completely replaced by a maniacal desire. His grin is lopsided as his other hand reaches for my waist, urging me against the cushions as he hovers over me.

Lowering his head to the crook of my neck, the breathy laugh that escapes from him sends a vibration down my spine, breath hitched in my throat. He traces the tip of his tongue tantalizingly slow from my collarbone to just behind my ear, and the sensation forces me to arch my back against his restraint with a soft gasp.

“Ruin you?” he asks, fingers pressing deeper into my waist. “Have you drunk off of my cock and writhing at the way it feels when I touch you, fill you up?”

My breath comes in shallow, ragged breaths as my eyes flutter shut. Whatever had overcome Yunho was unlike anything I’d ever seen from him—the gentle, kind boy I’d come to befriend. This was a monster of sorts, ravenous and insatiable. His hand snakes to my hair, pulling it back with a forceful yank so that I was forced to look at him.

“Is that what you want, princess?”

“I—” Words escape me as I pant, eyebrows furrowed at the ache rising between my legs.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” I finally manage to get out, meeting his gaze.

“Good girl.”

Releasing his grip on my now tousled hair, Yunho presses his fingers into my cheeks, forcing my lips apart as he lowers himself to spit in my mouth. I gasp as the string of saliva slides down my tongue, swallowing it with an obedient whimper. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, every touch from him electrifying. The way he causes me to react earns a scoff as he straightens himself to pull the restrictive gown off of my body.

The night air caresses my skin, every pore raised from the cold mixed with hungry anticipation. His face is flushed, his chest heaving with each breath as he reaches to roll the sleeves of his dress shirt. Lowering himself back onto his knees, he yanks me towards the edge of the sofa, now bare before him. Color creeps to my cheeks, something that doesn’t go unnoticed as he tuts at the sight of me already dripping under his touch.

“Shy now, are we?” he lilts, broad hands holding my thighs apart as he drinks in every sight of me. I whimper under his touch, weak in my attempt to pull my legs back together. “I want to see exactly how I make you feel.” Extending a hand upwards, he pries my mouth open again with two fingers, relishing in the way I latch onto them like clockwork. Now coated with saliva, he groans at the sound as he slips them back out of my mouth and towards my cunt.

“Hold steady now, pretty girl.”

With painfully slow pressure, he presses his fingers against my clit. The sensation overwhelms me, and it’s only then that I realize how desperate I was to be under his touch. He traces circles languidly, peppering kisses along the inside of my thigh. My body jerks and quivers under him, and I bite my tongue to conceal the lewd plea that was about to escape me. In one swift motion, he dips his tongue between my folds in long, greedy strokes.

“Oh—” I cry out in surprise, grabbing at his hair as he buries his tongue deeper into me. Yunho hums in disapproval, pinning my wrists to either side of me as he quickens his pace. A familiar knot begins to build at my core, one that ebbs and flows as he flicks his tongue against my clit. Pleasure clouds my mind as my vision blurs, my chest heaving with the impending climax.

Just as I’m about to surrender, he stops.

My protests are silenced before they escape, Yunho finding a seat beside me on the sofa and pulling me towards him so that one of my legs is draped over his, on full display for him once more. He slides his fingers back between my folds, pumping them vigorously as I let out a string of moans. His free hand slips around me, wrapping around my neck so that I was pressed firmly against his chest.

“You sound delicious,” he mewls, his grip tightening around my neck as I struggle to maintain my posture. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to hear those noises come out of that pretty little mouth of yours.”

“P-Please, Yunho,” I beg—actually beg—as the wave begins to rise in my stomach for the second time. “I’m going to—”

“Not yet,” he coaxes, pulling me back against him with his hand still firmly wrapped around my neck. Slipping his fingers out of me, he brings them back to my mouth. Craning my head to the side, my eyes lock on his as he relishes in the way I taste myself off of his fingers.

He lifts my leg off of his, opting to pick me up and spread me across the desk across from the sofa with an animalistic groan. Yunho’s eyes never leave mine as he unfastens the buckle on his belt, leaning over me again to wrap my wrists between the leather and loop it through the latch on the desk drawer above my head. I raise an eyebrow at how quickly it was done, leaning into the observation.

“I take it you’ve done this before?” I pry, and he lets out another dark chuckle.

“I’ve had a bit of practice,” he admits, lips curling into a sensual grin. He reaches to pull his cock free from his trousers, gazing over at me with hooded eyes. I watch as he runs his hand along his length, the sight fueling a burning pain between my legs. Friction did little to ease the ache, earning a scoff from Yunho at the way I pathetically fought to rub my thighs together.

“So eager,” he chides, his hand’s pace quickening as his own breathing grows ragged. “Can’t I look at you for just a while longer? You look so pretty like this.”

“Just fuck me,” I order, knees lifted as I drag my heels on the desk’s surface. He raises an eyebrow, dropping his hand so that he could place his palms on either side of my head. His voice is low, alluring as I feel the weight of his erection press into my core. The thought of his cock covered in me causes me to groan, wrists jerking against their restraints.

“How do you think your prince would like knowing that I defiled his darling bride-to-be?” he asks, biting down on my collarbone and earning a drawn-out moan in response. “Begging me to fuck her?”

“I don’t care,” I plead hastily, nearly at the brink of tears out of sheer frustration from waiting to be filled. I’m about to protest further when he shoves himself into me in one swift motion, our bodies jerking forward as a collective groan fills the room.

Yunho’s lips finally capture mine in a passionate kiss, a fight of tongues and teeth as he grips onto the edge of the desk with white knuckles. He thrusts into me relentlessly, pleasure and pain thrumming against my veins as I cry out against his lips. The tension of weeks of gentle touches and subtle glances finally crescendos in a messy union.

He finally pulls his mouth away from mine, gulping down air as sweat slicks his hair. I wriggle against the belt around my wrists, desperate to drag my nails down his back and feel every muscle move against mine. Yunho notices my impatience and lets out a ragged moan, shifting off of me just long enough to turn me over so that my wrists were now twisted in their binds. I gasp for breath and will myself to keep my climax at bay as he spreads my legs open for him again. Thrusting back into me, his pace grows erratic and heavy as he glides a hand down my back, a fistful of hair forcing me to crane my neck back.

“You take my cock so well, princess,” he manages to get out between groans, and I can feel him twitching at the sight as he buries himself deeper into me. “Every last bit of me.”

I let out a whimper at the thought of what a passer-by might have seen, the way Yunho had me bound to the desk and on display for him as he continued to fuck me senseless. He mutters sweet nothings between his strokes, reminding me that he had me bare before him exactly as I’d asked—like a common whore. The force of his thrusts causes me to fall onto my elbows, eyes rolling back and mouth hanging open as his twitching grew more noticeable.

The heat in my stomach becomes unbearable as I gasp for air, my hearing growing muffled and vision blurred as my climax finally approached its brink. Yunho picks up on this, thrusting even more forcefully into me as I cry out his name in a long, languid moan. He slows to a stop, pulling out of me and urging me to flip back over as I face him for the final time.

The sight of him towering over me satiates an endless craving, the way his deep brown eyes were filled with a raging lust as he positioned himself back at my entrance. His hair stuck to his forehead and his clothes were disheveled, soaked with sweat and clinging to his skin. He looked absolutely delectable.

He reaches for his length again, pumping as fast as he possibly could with a hand still clinging to the desk for support. I watch as he edges himself to the brink of orgasm, struggling to catch my own breath as he squeezes his eyes shut with a pathetic moan. With one final stroke, he releases himself onto me, the spoils of his efforts covering my abdomen in thick, white streaks.

We both stay like that for a moment, fighting to gasp down air and return to baseline. When we do, Yunho looks at me with a sudden realization, reaching to unfasten my binds and loop his belt back into its loops. I sit up with a sore grunt, Yunho brushing the hair out of my eyes with a gentle stroke of his thumb. He offers a strange smile, one that I mirror as we both understand what just happened.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, princess,” he finally says, earning a raised eyebrow from me—as if he weren’t filling up every inch of me just moments prior. “Would hate for the prince to find out that you’ll be thinking of me every time he fucks you from now on.”

With a lewd smile, he reaches for my gown.

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