#Hidden in Plain View

[llycorys]

finally checking out another release by Hidden in Plain View!

so far it's good ^ω^

my first was their self titled ep Ɛ:

[ask-taniks-the-final-shape]

In honor of the latest post I reblogged. I want people to share any of their favorite lorebooks/tabs with this post!

[scorpiusmalfoylovesoscarwilde]

headcanon that astoria went through a rebellious phase in her teens and got a nose piercing and a tiny hidden tattoo on her hip ✨️

[mrpenguinpants]

Just the weight I needed.

— You ask to sit on his back while he does push-ups.

— Phainon, Mydei + Jing Yuan

[Masterlist]

After that monster of a Lighter fic, I just wanted to write something nice and silly. I'm serious, the next fic I write might actually be 20k words. The title is from BSD btw, love and kisses to whoever gets it.

Phainon

Realistically, if you brought the idea up to Phainon, it could go one of two ways. One possibility is that he’d be fully on board—no hesitation, no questions asked, as if he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life. He’d immediately drop to the ground in one fluid motion, presenting his back like a beautifully adorned, living throne, every muscle flexing with anticipation. His arms would be poised, elbows bent just enough to secure the perfect balance, ready to support you as he began his impromptu strength training. His determined blue eyes would gleam with unshakable resolve, like a knight pledging his undying loyalty to his sovereign. To him, carrying you wouldn’t just be an exercise—it would be a calling, an honor, a challenge to conquer.

The other possibility? A completely different reaction. Phainon, with a rare, grave expression—one that only emerged in times of true distress—would place his hands firmly on your shoulders, his grip unwavering, grounding you in place. His normally vibrant demeanor would dim, his brows drawing together in deep concern as he searched your face for any sign of distress. And then, with a devastated choke, his voice thick with unfiltered worry, he’d ask, “Are you being blackmailed?”

It's not like your request is so out there that Phainon needs to find you a scapegoat for why you're asking. This isn't even the first time he's bent far stricter rules with actual consequences slightly to fulfill your requests! The man has an impressive track record of brushing the laws of common decency and practicality under the rug when it comes to helping you out. Take that one time in the baths for instance—when you were trying to get some peace and quiet, hiding under a sea of bubbles to avoid your duties. Phainon, ever the loyal accomplice, had simply closed his eyes, zipped his mouth shut with a soft snap of his fingers, and let you lie in blissful, responsibility-free silence. No questions asked. No protest. Just remarking about how difficult it was to find you before walking away.

Or the most recent example, when you decided to spy on the newest esteemed guests. It was a delicate situation, and you knew there was no way you’d be able to sneak a peek without drawing attention. So, of course, you enlisted Phainon’s help. He positioned himself like a human shield, blocking any unwanted gazes as you peered from behind him, hidden by his imposing figure. All the while, you stayed as quiet as possible, watching the guests converse with Aglaea while Phainon pretended to be entirely uninterested, despite his complete awareness of what you were up to. The point is, this request? It’s nothing compared to the stunts he’s pulled for you in the past. It wouldn't even include anyone outside you two!

Suggestion: Inflection baby! Sound just as enthusiastic as him! (It's not like he would ever say no)

Delighted squeals and giggles echo off the marbled walls as your view of the giant sphere in the sky—situated at the center of Okhema—bobs up and down, like a real ball you used to play with as a kid. In fact, everything about this moment feels like you've been transported back in time, swept up in a childish sort of joy that you haven't felt in years. Even though it's undeniably a silly sight—you, perched sideways on Phainon's back, your toes just barely hovering above the ground—you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t at least a tiny bit fun. It took a bit of hassle to convince Phainon that no, you weren’t being blackmailed, bribed, or coerced into this request. There were no hidden motives, no dark secrets behind it—just a plain, simple, and entirely ridiculous desire to see if he could do it.

"Don't forget that you're supposed to keep count," Phainon chastises lightly, though the effect is entirely ruined by the bright, boyish grin tugging at his lips. His tone is more playful than scolding, his usual boundless energy making it impossible to take him seriously. It's weird seeing him from this angle, half of his face turned over his shoulder as your neck cranes down for once. Seriously, what were they feeding this man?

"Oops, sorry!" you manage between muffled laughter, barely able to catch your breath, "I guess I lost track... maybe we should start over?"

"If that's what Your Highness wants, then it shall be done," Phainon says as easily as breathing, bending his elbows to push up again.

Mydei

Haha. No. Just no.

First of all, you wouldn’t even be a significant weight for Mydei—he could take you on as resistance training in the same way a bodybuilder might consider lifting a single book. If anything, he’d have to stack at least five more of you just to make it remotely challenging. Secondly, why on Amphoreus would you think he’d let you sit on his back? Best-case scenario, he’d stare at you with a long, exhausted sigh before asking if you’d recently taken a tumble down the stairs and cracked your head open. It’s not like he’s even being that mean when he says it anyway. Well, for Mydei standards at least. The fact that he hasn't bashed your head into the floor is, quite frankly, a miracle. The fact he hasn't bashed your head into the concrete itself is a wild understatement that you've lowered any respect he has for you over the days you've been acquainted with him.

Your first meeting was when you had misjudged how many steps there were and slipped forward. The inviting concrete was ready with open arms to split your head open, but Mydei, ever the observant type, had caught you just in time. There you were, suspended in mid-air, not even sure how you ended up there. Your limbs flailed like a ragdoll as he pulled on the back of your shirt with one arm, effortlessly lifting you with little more than the ease of a casual stretch. You'd been too stunned to even form words at the time—only managing a stammered thank-you as he set you back down as if saving you from an embarrassing death by stairs was just another casual Tuesday for him. In retrospect, it was a miracle you hadn’t cracked your skull open on the concrete. And of course, he’d said something entirely deadpan in response, like, "Pay attention next time," before turning back to his blue-haired companion. And he wonders why you're so obsessed with wanting to sit on his back.

Mydei has a short fuse and a quick temper, and as much as you'd really like to put your hand on his chest just to see his reaction, you also enjoy breathing a little too much to risk it. Not to mention, you can’t exactly take him in a fight. If you could, staking a bet that if you won, he’d have to fulfill your request would be a piece of cake. But alas, he's built like a wall, and your ability to land a punch would probably be a joke in comparison. So instead, you're left with the very real, very sensible option of begging and wearing him down with your charm—or at least hoping he’ll eventually tire of saying no. The risk? Well, it's still there, but that’s what makes it fun, right?

Suggestion: Beggars can't be choosers and living is pretty cool. Better to ask Phainon instead.

You've barely uttered the first syllable of your question before you're unceremoniously scooped up by the back of your clothing, lifted from the ground like a disgruntled cub being dragged away by its mother. Except, in this case, it's more like being hoisted over someone's firm shoulder, your limbs dangling helplessly as you're treated like a sack of potatoes. The bewilderment on your face is a new look as Phainon's figure grows smaller and smaller in the distance, the sound of your protests muffled by the unexpected shift. Amid your confusion, you catch sight of the blue bastard waving gleefully, a cheery smile plastered across his face as if he’s just won some kind of victory.

"Um, not that I'm complaining, but... where exactly are you taking me?" you ask, your voice tentative as you try to adjust yourself on his shoulder. On one hand, you're living the dream, able to feel those muscles effortlessly hoisting you up like you're nothing more than a feather. But on the other, his shoulder is starting to dig uncomfortably into your stomach, and it's quickly turning into a rather awkward ride. You shift slightly, trying to find a less painful position, but all you accomplish is further squishing yourself against his back.

"Training room." is all Mydei says. There's no snark, no extra words, just that one brief statement that leaves you quite literally and metaphorically hanging.

"Ah. Training room, huh?" you say back lamely, even though you're internally screaming in elation, your arms up in the air as you bow toward whatever Aeon is looking out for you.

You can totally tell by the way Mydei drops you in the middle of the pathway that he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Jing Yuan

Contrary to popular belief, you aren't blind. Even if the General is a bit too old to still be in his "bachelor" years—do those even truly exist for long-life species?—Jing Yuan is... well, let’s just say he’s easy on the eyes. Super easy. A five-star resort easy on the eyes. Is this what they call a silver foxian? He was the one who off-handedly mentioned it when your traitorous eyes had decided to linger a tad bit too long on the shape of his back during a meeting. Of course, you had to act all professional about it, clearing your throat and giving him a strict reprimand about how inappropriate it was to bring such things up in a work environment. You almost nailed the tone too, until you rounded the corner and crumbled into a puddle of embarrassment. What the hell just happened? How did he do that to you with just one little comment? That was so... unfair. It didn’t help that the image of sitting on his back while he did push-ups kept playing in your mind—every chiseled angle, every movement, the way he had to flex those back muscles with each rep. Seriously, how were you supposed to function with that lingering in your thoughts?

It takes several days for neither of you to address the elephant in the room. The tension lingers in the air, thick and unspoken, but it doesn't quite impede your duties. You carry on with your work, he continues to be as "lax" as ever—his presence still an odd mix of effortless command and lazy confidence. But there's something there, a shift, subtle yet undeniable. Every time you glance at him, there's the tiniest degree of something different in his smile, a sharpness to it that grows more cat-like with each passing moment. His expression seems to hold a quiet, menacing amusement as he sits across from you, still and patient, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that feels almost predatory. He reminds you of his pet lion in those moments, the way she watches her prey with those intense, knowing eyes. Her demeanor is calm, almost gentle, until the moment she pounces, and you can’t help but imagine the way the small, frail necks of her dinner break so easily between the crushing strength of her jaws. Yet, her owner, Jing Yuan, still calls her the sweetest, most docile creature, even with blood still staining her paws. A crazy man.

Patience is a virtue, they say. And eventually, with enough time, water will wear down the hardest stone. You’ve tried to avoid it, to ignore the inevitable, but today feels different. The morning is quiet, bathed in the soft light of the rising sun—a golden hour where the world feels still as if it’s holding its breath for what’s to come. It’s just you and Jing Yuan, silently preparing for the events ahead, the hum of the day yet to begin. There are meetings lined up, one in particular that has been pushed back so many times due to Jing Yuan’s absences that it's now on the verge of becoming a disaster. The final meeting needs to happen tonight, or his white mane might end up skewered on the end of a spear. The weight of it lingers in the air, but for now, it’s just the two of you, and the calm chirping of his precious finches acts as the only soundtrack to the morning’s preparations. As you glance at him—his calm, unflappable demeanor, his steady hands—something shifts inside you. It’s not immediate, but it’s undeniable. You finally allow yourself to acknowledge what’s been sitting in the back of your mind, simmering beneath the surface: you’re no better than your General.

Suggestion: Life is too short for things like dignity and shame, go for the throat!

"General, I apologize for my lapse in judgment, but I seriously cannot do this, or I might suffer a stroke."

Your words come out in a strangled rush, your face contorting into a myriad of expressions—none of them quite fitting for the situation. You're staring down at Jing Yuan, sprawled out on his stomach, looking entirely unbothered as he waits for you to—well, do exactly what he’d asked. Sit on his back. You have to remind yourself that it was technically his suggestion, his agreement when you’d tentatively raised the question, and yet here you are, mentally spiraling into a moral crisis. Every fiber of your being screams that this is just... wrong. This can't possibly be something that should happen in a professional setting, in a place of authority, with a man who is the very definition of your superior.

But no, there’s Jing Yuan, lying there with that serene look in his eyes, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his lips as if this were just another ordinary task in his day. You swallow thickly, still battling with your internal conflict, even though the situation is slowly spinning out of your control. How did this become a thing?

"Ah, well. I will not force you to do something you're so against," Jing Yuan says with a light chuckle, standing up smoothly as if your entire dilemma was merely a fleeting thought. He pats his pants as if brushing away any invisible dust, his movements deliberate and calm. Then, with a casual grace, he crosses his arms behind his back, his posture exuding the confidence and composure only someone of his status could command. "But it is a warrior's shame to go back on their words, don't you agree?"

You blink rapidly, momentarily taken aback by his smoothness, but the weight of his words presses on you. You can almost feel the invisible pressure of your promise tightening around you. You stammer a bit, trying to regain some semblance of control, but you can only manage a meek response.

"Ah— I... yes, General."

Before you can fully process the situation, his large, warm hand lands heavily on your shoulder. It's not the usual friendly gesture, though. No, this time it feels more like a reminder—one that makes you shrink into yourself involuntarily. His hand is firm and for the briefest moment, you feel like you're pinned in place by the sheer force of his presence. You’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, but now, in the face of his unwavering authority, you can’t help but feel small.

"So, I can count on you to fill in my stead for today's meeting then?" Jing Yuan's voice is light, but there's an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. A satisfied lion getting away with murder, "Excellent, I knew I could count on you!"

[olive-main]

oooo if you’re interested would love to see your take: reader is Azriel’s mate, nobody knows. The inner circle keeps trying to set him up with females (including Elaine & Gwyn). They like reader but don’t view her as an option for being his partner. Lots of angst, she’s hurting, she overhears them saying she’s not an option for him. Up to you what happens for her and Azriel. Loved your last story, and that you wanted more angst ideas!! And if this isn’t what you’re looking for, all good!

Between Us Alone

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel’s mate overhears a conversation that shakes her confidence in their hidden bond, but he reminds her that love, even in shadows, is unbreakable.

Wc: 1.2k

A/N: Annndddd welcome back to our regularly scheduled programming. This time I come with the gift of some fluff (with angst ofc bcs duh—who do y’all think I am?) Enjoy the happy endings while they last…..evil laugh

Masterlist

——

The corridors of the House of Wind were quiet, save for the faint hum of conversation that drifted from Rhysand’s office. You’d gone looking for Azriel, hoping he might steal away from his “boys’ night” early and join you at your shared apartment.

A secret, the two of you. Hidden in plain sight. Quite fitting for Rhysand’s spymasters.

It was exhilarating at first—the quiet smiles across rooms, the fleeting brushes of hands, and the stolen glances when no one else was looking. But there were cracks now, small fissures of insecurity that made you wonder if keeping the bond private had been the right choice.

Your footsteps slowed as you neared Rhys’s office, voices clear now, though you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You were about to knock when you caught the sound of Cassian’s boisterous laughter.

“Oh, come on, Az,” Cassian said, his tone teasing. “You’ve been spending all that time with Gwyn. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Gwyn’s sweet,” Rhysand added. “And she clearly enjoys your company. You’d make a good pair.”

Your heart clenched painfully, the words hitting you like a physical blow.

Azriel’s reply was quieter, almost unreadable. “Gwyn is a friend. I’m not looking for… that.”

Cassian scoffed. “You say that now, but it’s been centuries, Az. When was the last time you even tried to let someone in? Gwyn’s perfect for you—kind, strong, clever. She gets you.”

“She’s not the only option,” Rhys said smoothly. “There are others. Nesta’s mentioned a few priestesses who would be good matches.”

Cassian nodded in agreement. “There’s also Y/N.”

You pressed your hand to the doorframe, your breaths shallow as you heard Cassian say your name.

“No, I don’t see them together. They rarely speak to each other outside of missions and a few shared words at dinners.” Rhysand says with a shake of his head as if the thought of you and Azriel together was the most unlikely thing he could think of.

You shouldn’t have stayed, shouldn’t have listened, but you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. They didn’t mean to hurt you—you knew that. You’d always been on the periphery of their circle, a friend but never a true equal in their eyes. Azriel’s shadows had been your sanctuary, his quiet love a solace you cherished.

But to hear them speak so casually, as if you weren’t even a possibility…

Azriel’s voice cut through, firm and unyielding. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker. I can handle my own life.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Cassian said, clearly amused.

“Drop it,” Azriel snapped, his tone brooking no argument.

The room fell silent after that, but the damage was done. You turned and fled, the ache in your chest twisting tighter with every step.

—

The space you shared with Azriel was small but cozy, tucked away in a quiet corner of Velaris where no one thought to look. It was your haven, the only place you could truly be yourselves without prying eyes or whispered questions.

But tonight, it felt suffocating.

You sank onto the couch, wrapping a blanket around yourself as the doubts clawed at your mind.

This charade was necessary. You both knew that. If they ever found out you and Azriel had been together for months—years, now—it would complicate everything. Not just for him, but for you.

As Azriel’s partner, you worked in the shadows as he did, your work as vital and delicate as his own. Secrecy was second nature to you both, and you’d agreed early on that revealing your bond—to anyone—was too risky.

You’d thought you could handle it. But moments like this, when they talked about Azriel’s love life like you didn’t exist, like you weren’t his, made you question how much more you could endure.

You told yourself it wasn’t Azriel’s fault. He hadn’t encouraged them. He’d even told them to stop. But the weight of their words lingered, stirring fears you’d tried so hard to bury.

What if they were right? What if Azriel deserved someone like Gwyn, someone who could stand beside him without the need for secrecy?

You didn’t hear the front door open, too lost in your thoughts to notice the familiar sound of Azriel’s footsteps until he was standing in front of you.

“Something’s wrong,” he said immediately, his hazel eyes scanning your face. His shadows swirled around him, restless and sharp. “What happened?”

You shook your head, forcing a smile. “It’s nothing. Just tired.”

His brow furrowed, and he crouched in front of you, his hands resting gently on your knees. “Don’t lie to me.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly broke you. You looked away, your throat tightening as you tried to hold back tears.

“Y/N,” he said softly, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. But you couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“I went to Rhys’s office,” you admitted quietly. “I was going to find you, but… I heard you all talking.”

Azriel stiffened, his jaw tightening. “What did you hear?” He already knew. There was only one part of the conversation that could’ve had you so distraught.

You swallowed hard. “They… they were trying to set you up with someone. Gwyn, mostly. Rhys mentioned others.” You laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “They said I wasn’t even an option.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened, his shadows curling tighter around him.

“They didn’t mean it to hurt me, I know that” you added quickly, seeing how Azriel was ready to go back and pummel his brothers. “They don’t know about us. But… it still hurt.”

He exhaled sharply, standing and pacing the room. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “They had no right—”

“They care about you,” you interrupted. “They want you to be happy. And maybe they’re right. Maybe you’d be better off with someone like Gwyn. Someone who—”

“Stop.”

The word was a command, sharp and unyielding. Azriel crossed the room in an instant, kneeling before you again. He took your hands in his, his grip firm but gentle.

“Don’t you dare doubt this,” he said fiercely. “Don’t you dare doubt us.”

Tears spilled over, and he reached up to brush them away, his touch achingly tender.

“You are my mate,” he said, his voice breaking. “You. Not Gwyn, not anyone else. You are the only one I want, the only one I will ever want.”

“But they—”

“They’re idiots,” he said flatly. “I’ll deal with them. But don’t let their ignorance make you doubt what we have.”

You searched his face, finding only unwavering certainty in his eyes.

“I love you,” he said, his voice softening. “More than I thought I was capable of. And I don’t care if they don’t see it. I see it. I feel it.”

A broken laugh escaped you, relief washing over you like a tide. “I love you too.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if he could shield you from the world.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I never wanted you to feel like this. I thought keeping the bond private would protect us, but if it’s hurting you—”

“It’s not,” you said quickly. “Not really. I just… I needed to hear this. To hear you.”

He pulled back just enough to press his forehead to yours. “You’ll never have to doubt me again.”

——

Aren’t they just so sweet *sigh*. Thank you for reading <3

Requests are still open ;)

[coracaodeleao]

How people would find out about your relationship with Viktor (gn!reader edition)

He checks you out. He does it because he can — but mostly, it's unconscious. When his mind drifts while he’s sitting at his desk, he’ll naturally turn to look at you standing by the board, writing something on it. And he just watches you. Not necessarily in a sexual way, but always in a yearning one. Though yes, he definitely enjoys the view.

He stops mentioning your name. Not because he’s thinking of you less, but because he’s thinking of you all the time — so often that he forgets to say your name out loud. He’ll be talking to someone and reference a past conversation, just casually saying something like, “Well, you know what they said,” and the person will blink at him, confused. Then he’ll just glance at them and clarify, like it's obvious, because who else could it be?

He packs twice as much lunch. Viktor seems like a “big meal once a day, snacks all day long” kind of person. Which means he always carries something — a protein bar, crackers, tea biscuits. And now that you’re in his life, he brings extras. He’ll hand them to you wordlessly once he arrives. And if anyone’s paying attention, they’ll notice: after Viktor finishes his, you’re always seen eating the exact same thing a few minutes later.

He times his leave a little after yours. The moment you leave his line of sight, he starts timing. He already knows how long it takes you to get home, what you tend to do once you’re there, how much time you usually take before starting dinner — for the two of you. After a while, he’ll get up, quietly gather his things, say goodbye, and follow the same path you took. Precisely 45 minutes later.

He keeps something of yours in his chest pocket. Always. It could be anything, as long as it’s a reference to you. A pin with your initial. A tissue in your favorite color. A pen you tend to borrow when you stop by his desk. Something quiet. Something only the two of you would recognize for what it is. Hidden in plain sight.

He always saves you the last clean tool. Whether it's a pen, a ruler, a pipette, or a spare glove — Viktor always has one perfectly clean, untouched, ready to lend. And it always ends up in your hands before anyone else can ask. People start to notice: he’s careful with his supplies, but there's always one just waiting for you.

His handwriting starts to look like yours. Not on purpose. It just happens — slowly, subtly. The curve of a letter here, the tilt of a word there. Someone might even comment on it, and Viktor would pause, blink, and then smile faintly like he just realized it himself.

He adjusts his seat to face you, even slightly. Whether you’re sitting across the room or at the same table, his chair is never fully square to his desk. There’s always a slight angle — as if part of him is always turned toward you. Open. Present.

He corrects people when they misremember something you said. Gently, never confrontational. But firm. “Actually, that’s not what they meant,” he’ll say, eyes steady. Because he remembers your words exactly, even if no one else does.

[inseobts]

Undercover Lovers

zoro x gn!reader

while waiting for luffy and the others to return from whole cake island, you and the rest of the crew are forced to go undercover in wano, where your and zoro's cover as a loving couple quickly gets complicated.

PART 2

words count: 1.2k

tags: wci and wano spoilers, fake dating, romance, soft zoro

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You and Zoro stand in the shadows of the misty Wano streets, hidden in plain sight. The night is thick with tension, and the smell of the night air is saturated with the scents of food and unfamiliar spices.

“Alright” Zoro mutters under his breath, his gaze darting around. “This mission is simple. We blend in, gather intel, and keep a low profile. No trouble.”

You glance at him skeptically “Simple? Nothing here is simple, Zoro. Especially when we have to pretend to be a couple...because I don't know if you looked at yourself”

Zoro, ever stoic, adjusts the sword at his side “It’s just an act. Play the role and we’ll be fine.”

You don't know who has this brilliant idea but you're hating them all.

You scoff “That’s what you think. I don’t think you fully understand what it means to pretend to be someone’s lover.”

He grins faintly “I think I do. You make it sound like I'll be terrible at this.”

The two of you exchange a glance, the awkwardness palpable. You had to assume this would happen, but the idea of him being your pretend lover makes your stomach flutter in a way you didn’t expect. You’re both meant to lay low while Luffy, Nami, Chopper, and Brook are rescuing Sanji on Whole Cake Island. But you and Zoro are left behind, needing to keep the rest of the Straw Hats safe while undercover.

“Now, let’s go” Zoro commands, the stoic warrior in him taking over. “Remember, just act natural.”

You and Zoro enter a local tavern in the heart of the capital. The noise from the patrons fills the room, but everything about this place feels off, like a hidden danger lies in the air. As soon as the door swings open, all eyes turn to you, and the tavern goes silent.

The bartender raises an eyebrow “What’s this? A foreign couple?”

You force a smile and link your arm with Zoro’s, making sure your posture looks casual and affectionate “Yes, we’re just here to enjoy the local food and drink” you say, your voice smooth.

Zoro stands beside you, towering and quiet, his gaze scanning the room. His posture is stiff, uncomfortable, and it’s clear that he’s not used to playing the role of someone’s lover.

“You’re an odd couple,” the bartender says, a smug smirk on his face “The woman seems more… lively. And you...” he eyes Zoro, “look like a man who could care less.”

Zoro barely glances at the bartender “I’ll take some sake.”

The bartender nods, but there’s a smirk on his face “Of course. For you two lovers, the first round’s on the house.”

You exchange a look with Zoro, both of you realizing that staying in character would be harder than it seemed. As the drinks arrive, you take one and drink it slowly, trying to hide the tension in your shoulders.

As days pass, the two of you work together to gather information, keeping up the act as a loving couple. But things become more complicated when one young local guy, Miyamoto, starts showing more interest in you than you’re comfortable with.

You’re sitting in a quiet corner of the town square, Zoro casually sitting by your side, when Miyamoto approaches with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ah, y/n” he says smoothly “I didn’t expect to see you here. Care for a walk?” His eyes flicker toward Zoro before returning to you “I can show you some of the best views in the town. Perhaps Zoro doesn’t mind… after all, I’m sure he’s busy with his… training.”

You blink, slightly taken aback by his boldness. You glance at Zoro, but to your surprise, he’s sitting there, arms crossed, his usual indifferent expression masking any emotions.

“Zoro’s fine” you say quickly, trying to shut down Miyamoto’s advances “We’re fine here. And besides, I’m not one to leave my loving companion behind.”

Miyamoto chuckles, though the sound is more mocking than playful. “Loving? You don’t have to pretend, you know. I’m sure Zoro would be fine with me taking care of you for the evening”

This is making you mad, not just his advances but also Zoro sitting them like nothing was happening, not even caring to look over you and notice the uncomfortable air around you.

You clench your fists and you're about to storm out of there until Zoro finally turns his gaze toward Miyamoto, narrowing his eyes. His usually passive attitude shifts, and there’s an unmistakable tension in the air “You’re making a mistake if you think I won’t mind and I would let you”

You watch the exchange carefully, feeling the air grow thick with unspoken words. Miyamoto takes a step back, and Zoro’s eyes briefly meet yours, the unease in his gaze not going unnoticed.

It’s late into the evening. You and Zoro are once again walking through the dimly lit streets of Wano, the mission nearing its end. The tension from Miyamoto’s advances still hangs in the air, and for the first time, Zoro seems a little different.

“You’re quiet” he remarks, glancing at you “You looks upset since that last meeting with Miyamoto, are you?”

You look at him briefly "pretty much yeah... I was feeling uncomfortable and yet you waited that long to even say something"

"I knew you could handle it alone"

"Well... I actually couldn't"

He suddenly stops walking. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he says nothing. You can feel the weight of unspoken words pressing between you.

Then, with a sigh, he finally speaks.

"For the record, I didn’t like it either" Zoro mutters, voice quieter than usual.

You blink at him, caught off guard "What?"

His gaze flickers to the side, as if reluctant to say more "That bastard...Miyamoto. The way he looked at you, the way he talked to you." His grip on his sword tightens. "It pissed me off... but if I did something we would have been in bif trouble"

After a pause he continues, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you” Zoro says, his voice unexpectedly serious.

Your heart stutters in your chest, unsure of whether you’re hearing things “What?”

Zoro glances at you, a slight frown tugging at his lips “I told you. I actually didn’t like the way he was talking to you. He was crossing the line”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest, unsure whether it’s the alcohol or something else making your heart beat faster “Zoro…” you start, but your words fail you.

“Forget it” he says gruffly, looking away as if the conversation never happened. But there’s something different in the way he speaks, something real this time.

You pause, staring at him. Could it be that… the act was becoming more than just a mission? Was Zoro feeling the same as you were?

“Zoro” you start again, but before you can say anything more, he steps forward, closing the gap between you two. His hand touches yours, almost like it’s an accident, but when he doesn’t pull it away, you realize it’s not.

The moment stretches on, and you can feel the tension dissipate into something new.

Without thinking, you lean into him “Maybe this act wasn’t so bad after all.”

Zoro stares down at you, his eyes flickering with something indecipherable “Maybe not” he replies, voice low and barely above a whisper.

He takes your hand in a better and firm way now and start walking again, hand in hand.

You smile at him, a small blush on his cheeks, trying to avoid your eyes. And for the first time, you wonder if the lines between the pretend lovers and real feelings are starting to blur.

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Heyy, I love your work, and I was wondering if you could make a seonghwa × fem!reader oneshot, where she is the 9th member of the group, and fans keep shipping both of them, something like that

Pairing: Seonghwa x 9th member fem reader

Warnings: none

Hidden in Plain Sight

You never planned for this to happen.

When KQ Entertainment announced they were adding a female trainee to their upcoming boy group—a bold move that shocked the K-pop industry—you'd been both terrified and thrilled. Years of training alongside eight boys who gradually became your brothers, your friends, your family.

And then there was Park Seonghwa.

The cameras didn't lie. Neither did the fans. And lately, neither did your heart.

---

"Y/N-ah! We need you for the final costume check!" 

You looked up from your phone to see your manager waving frantically from the doorway of the dressing room. The other ATEEZ members were already lined up, their stage outfits for the comeback perfectly coordinated—black and gold, with accents of deep crimson. Your outfit matched theirs but was tailored differently, embracing your figure while still maintaining the group's cohesive image.

As you made your way over, you caught Seonghwa's gaze in the mirror. He quickly looked away, adjusting his jacket collar unnecessarily. You pretended not to notice the flush creeping up his neck.

This dance had been going on for months now.

"The stylists need to fix something with your jacket," Hongjoong explained, always the attentive leader. "We're on in forty minutes."

"Got it." You nodded, taking your place at the end of the line beside Jongho, who gave you an encouraging smile.

The stylist fussed with your outfit, pinning something at your shoulder while you stood perfectly still. Years of practice had taught you to be patient during these last-minute adjustments.

"So," Wooyoung's voice carried down the line, mischief evident in his tone, "did you see what was trending on Twitter last night?"

Your stomach dropped. You knew exactly what he was referring to.

"Wooyoung-ah," Yunho warned quietly.

But Wooyoung, ever the troublemaker, continued: "The 'SeongN' hashtag was number one worldwide after that V Live." He chuckled. "Fans are convinced you two are secretly dating."

The stylist working on your outfit pretended not to hear, but you could see her hiding a smile. Great. Even the staff were aware of the fans' shipping.

"It's just fans being fans," you replied, keeping your voice casual despite the heat rising to your cheeks. "They ship everyone with everyone."

"Not like they ship you two," San chimed in with a smirk. "The compilation videos of your 'moments' have millions of views."

You risked a glance at Seonghwa, who was staring straight ahead, his expression carefully neutral. Only the slight tension in his jaw betrayed his discomfort.

"That's enough," Hongjoong said firmly, shutting down the conversation. "We need to focus on the performance."

You shot him a grateful look. As leader, Hongjoong had always been protective of the group's dynamics, especially the unique challenges you faced as the only female member.

The stylist finished with your jacket and stepped back to assess her work. "Perfect," she declared. "You all look amazing."

As the team dispersed for final preparations, you felt a gentle touch on your elbow. Seonghwa stood beside you, his presence both comforting and nerve-wracking.

"Don't let it get to you," he said quietly. "The fans just... see something special in our friendship."

*Friendship*. The word stung more than it should have.

"I know," you replied with a forced smile. "It's fine. I'm used to it."

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment too long. "Are you? Because sometimes I wonder if—"

"Five minutes to standby!" The stage director's voice cut through the moment.

Seonghwa's hand fell away from your arm. "We should go," he said, the unfinished question hanging in the air between you.

As you followed him toward the stage, you couldn't help but wonder what he had been about to say.

---

The performance was electric. Your comeback stage for "Horizon's Edge" had the audience screaming from the first beat. The choreography—fierce and intricate—showcased the months of grueling practice you'd all endured.

During the bridge, you and Seonghwa had a duet section that the choreographer had insisted on after seeing your chemistry during rehearsals. It was barely fifteen seconds, but those moments on stage, moving in perfect synchronization with him, his hand briefly at your waist before spinning you away—they were both heaven and torture.

You could already imagine the fan edits that would flood YouTube tomorrow.

After the final bow and the adrenaline of the stage had faded, the exhaustion hit you. Back in the dressing room, you collapsed onto the couch, scrolling through the initial reactions on social media while the makeup artists helped the members remove their stage makeup.

"Y/N, you're up next for makeup removal," one of the staff called.

"In a minute," you responded, eyes fixed on your phone. The hashtag #SeongN was indeed trending again, accompanied by dozens of screenshots from the performance. Your duet with Seonghwa had not gone unnoticed.

@ateezmoon: *THE WAY SEONGHWA LOOKS AT Y/N DURING THAT SPIN?? HE'S WHIPPED* 😭❤️

@yeosangfairy: *we all know why the company added y/n to the group... the chemistry between her and seonghwa sells albums* 💯

@hongjoongace: *unpopular opinion but i hate how everyone's obsessed with seongn when y/n is such a talented performer in her own right*

You sighed, turning off your phone screen. The last comment hit a nerve—one of your biggest fears was being reduced to just "the girl in ATEEZ" or worse, "Seonghwa's rumored love interest." You'd worked too hard to be defined by either label.

"You shouldn't read those."

You looked up to find Yeosang standing over you, his makeup already removed, face glistening with post-cleanse moisturizer.

"I know," you admitted. "Bad habit."

He sat beside you, his presence calming as always. Of all the members, Yeosang was often the most perceptive, noticing things others missed.

"The fans will always create narratives," he said quietly. "It doesn't mean you have to let them affect you."

You nodded, grateful for his wisdom. "It's just... complicated."

Yeosang's eyes flickered across the room to where Seonghwa sat in the makeup chair, his gaze meeting yours in the mirror before quickly looking away.

"Yes," Yeosang agreed, following your line of sight. "I can see that."

Before you could respond, Mingi bounded over, his energy seemingly undiminished by the performance.

"Emergency snack run! Who's in?" he announced. "Manager-nim said we can go to the convenience store if we wear masks and hats."

The prospect of ramyeon and ice cream was too tempting to resist. Soon, most of the members were gathering their things, ready for a late-night food adventure.

"Y/N? Seonghwa-hyung? You coming?" Jongho asked, already pulling on his hoodie.

"I still need my makeup removed," you explained.

Seonghwa stood from the makeup chair, face now clean. "I'm a bit tired. I think I'll head back to the dorm."

"Suit yourselves," San shrugged. "We'll bring back ice cream."

As the others filed out with promises to return with snacks, the dressing room suddenly felt too quiet, too empty. Just you, Seonghwa, and a makeup artist who was now gesturing for you to take your seat in front of the mirror.

The silence stretched uncomfortably as she began removing your stage makeup with gentle cotton pads. Seonghwa busied himself organizing his belongings, though you noticed he was taking an unusually long time to pack his simple backpack.

"That choreography was intense," you said finally, unable to bear the quiet. "My legs are going to be sore tomorrow."

"You did well," he replied, his voice soft. "That spin transition was perfect."

The makeup artist dabbed cleansing oil around your eyes, removing the heavy eyeliner. "You two looked beautiful together on stage," she commented innocently. "The fans will love it."

You felt rather than saw Seonghwa stiffen at her words.

"Thank you," you managed, keeping your expression neutral despite the awkwardness.

When the makeup artist finished and stepped away to dispose of the used cotton pads, Seonghwa approached, sitting in the chair beside yours.

"Y/N..." he began, his voice lower now. "About what Wooyoung said earlier..."

Your heart raced. "It's just fan stuff. It doesn't matter."

"What if it does?" His question hung in the air, loaded with unspoken meaning.

Before you could ask him to elaborate, the makeup artist returned. Seonghwa immediately stood up, the moment broken.

"I'll wait for you outside," he said, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "We can share a car back to the dorm."

You nodded, trying to ignore the disappointment settling in your chest. Another almost-conversation, another moment lost.

---

The car ride back to the dorm was quiet, the city lights passing in a blur outside the window. You sat beside Seonghwa in the back seat, careful to maintain a proper distance despite the urge to lean into his warmth.

"You were looking at the comments, weren't you?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned to him, surprised. "How did you know?"

A small, sad smile tugged at his lips. "I know you, Y/N-ah. Better than you think."

The intimacy of his words made your breath catch. "They're just comments," you said dismissively. "Some nice, some... presumptuous."

"Do they bother you?" His question was careful, measured.

You considered lying, but something in his gaze made honesty feel necessary. "Sometimes. Not because of what they imply about us, but because..."

"Because?"

"Because sometimes I feel like that's all they see." You looked down at your hands. "Not the years of training, not the performances or the music. Just... shipping fodder."

Seonghwa was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly you almost missed it: "And what about what they imply about us? Does that bother you?"

The question made your heart stutter. You risked meeting his eyes. "Should it?"

The car slowed as it approached your dorm building, saving you from having to hear his answer. As you both climbed out and thanked the driver, the weight of unspoken words hung heavy between you.

The dorm was empty, the other members still out on their snack mission. The silence felt different here—more intimate, more dangerous.

"I'm going to shower," you announced, needing space to collect your thoughts.

Seonghwa nodded, heading toward the kitchen. "I'll make some tea."

Under the hot spray of the shower, you tried to make sense of the conversation in the car. Was Seonghwa just concerned about fan perceptions affecting the group? Or was there something more to his questions?

By the time you emerged in comfortable clothes, hair damp and face flushed from the steam, you'd convinced yourself you were reading too much into things. Your feelings for Seonghwa—feelings you'd carefully hidden for over a year now—were clouding your judgment.

You found him in the living room, two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table. He'd changed into sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, his black hair still slightly styled from the performance.

"Feel better?" he asked as you settled onto the couch, leaving a cushion of space between you.

"Much." You reached for the tea, letting the warmth seep into your hands. "Thanks for this."

He nodded, his eyes on his own mug. "Y/N, I need to tell you something."

Your pulse quickened. "Okay."

"I requested to change the choreography for the next comeback."

Of all the things you expected him to say, this wasn't one of them. "What? Why?"

He set his mug down carefully. "I asked the choreographer to give our duet section to you and Yunho instead."

The words hit like a physical blow. "But... why would you do that?"

"Because I think it's becoming a problem." His voice was strained. "The fans, the shipping, the rumors... it's not fair to you."

"Not fair to me?" You placed your own mug down, afraid your shaking hands might spill it. "Shouldn't that be my decision?"

"The company is concerned," he continued. "They think the focus on us is overshadowing the group's music. And you said it yourself—you don't want to be reduced to just shipping fodder."

Anger flared unexpectedly. "So you made this decision without even talking to me first?"

"I was trying to protect you," he insisted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "You don't see how people look at you, how they talk—"

"I'm not some fragile thing that needs protection, Seonghwa," you cut in. "I'm an idol, just like you. Just like everyone else in this group."

"It's different for you and you know it," he argued, voice rising slightly. "Being the only female member puts you under a different kind of scrutiny."

"And you think removing our choreography together will somehow fix that?" You laughed bitterly. "All it does is validate the rumors that there's something to hide."

Seonghwa stood abruptly, pacing the small living room. "Then what would you have me do? Because every time we're together on stage, every time we interact, it feeds this... this narrative."

"Why does it bother you so much?" you demanded, standing to face him. "Unless..."

The realization dawned slowly, painfully. "Unless you're uncomfortable with people thinking there's something between us. Is that it? The idea is so terrible you needed to eliminate it completely?"

The hurt must have been evident in your voice because Seonghwa stopped pacing, his expression shifting from frustration to something softer, more vulnerable.

"Y/N, no," he said quietly. "That's not it at all."

"Then what?" Your voice cracked slightly. "Why go behind my back like this?"

He took a step toward you, then hesitated. "Because every time they pair us together, every time I have to hold you on stage and then let you go, knowing it's just for show..." He closed his eyes briefly. "It's killing me."

The world seemed to stop. "What are you saying?"

Seonghwa looked at you then, really looked at you, his guard completely down. "I'm saying that pretending there's nothing between us when the whole world seems to see it—it's harder than I thought it would be."

Your heart pounded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. "Seonghwa—"

"I know it's unprofessional," he continued quickly. "I know it complicates everything. That's why I thought if we had less interaction on stage, maybe I could..."

"Could what?" you whispered.

"Stop feeling this way."

The confession hung in the air between you, changing everything and nothing all at once.

"You never asked me how I feel," you said softly.

His eyes widened slightly. "How... how do you feel?"

Instead of answering, you closed the distance between you, reaching up to touch his face gently. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, his breath catching at the contact.

"The fans see something between us because there *is* something," you admitted. "At least... on my side."

For a moment, Seonghwa remained perfectly still. Then, slowly, his hand covered yours against his cheek. "I've been trying so hard to be professional, to not let my feelings get in the way of the group."

"I know," you murmured. "Me too."

"If the company found out..."

"They don't need to know," you said. "Not yet. But I don't want to pretend there's nothing here when we both know there is."

His forehead touched yours, an intimate gesture that made your heart soar. "What are we going to do?"

Before you could answer, the sound of laughter and voices in the hallway signaled the return of the other members. You stepped back from each other quickly, the moment broken but the truth now acknowledged between you.

The door burst open, and Wooyoung led the charge, laden with plastic bags of convenience store treasures.

"We come bearing gifts!" he announced dramatically, before pausing at the obvious tension in the room. "Did we interrupt something?"

"Just discussing the choreography for the next comeback," Seonghwa replied smoothly, his composure recovered faster than yours.

Hongjoong raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced but choosing not to press. "We got ice cream. It's already melting, so we should eat it now."

As the members distributed snacks and recounted their convenience store adventure, you caught Seonghwa's eye across the room. He gave you a small, private smile that promised an unfinished conversation.

Later, as everyone settled in for a late-night movie, you found yourself on the couch with Seonghwa beside you. Under the cover of darkness and with the others distracted by the film, his pinky finger hooked around yours—a tiny gesture, hidden in plain sight.

Like so many things between you.

---

The following week was a whirlwind of music show performances, fan signs, and radio appearances. Your comeback was being well-received, with "Horizon's Edge" climbing the charts steadily.

And the #SeongN hashtag continued to trend.

During one particularly chaotic fan sign, a fan placed a photo in front of you—a screenshot from your duet with Seonghwa, the moment his hand rested at your waist.

"Are you and Seonghwa-oppa really just friends?" she asked boldly, eyes gleaming with excitement.

You maintained your professional smile. "We're groupmates and very good friends," you answered diplomatically. "ATEEZ is like family."

The fan wasn't deterred. "But you have such amazing chemistry on stage!"

From the corner of your eye, you saw Seonghwa at his seat further down the table, signing albums with practiced efficiency.

"We work hard on our performances," you said. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

As the line moved forward, you caught Mingi smirking at you from his seat. He leaned over when there was a brief gap between fans.

"'Very good friends,'" he mimicked in a whisper. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You elbowed him discreetly. "Shut up, Mingi-yah."

His laugh only confirmed your suspicion—the members were starting to notice the shift between you and Seonghwa, subtle as it was.

After the fan sign, as you all filed back into the company vans, Hongjoong pulled you aside.

"We need to talk," he said quietly. "Not now, but soon."

The seriousness in his tone made your stomach drop. "About?"

His eyes flicked to where Seonghwa was climbing into the other van. "You know what about."

You swallowed hard and nodded. As leader, Hongjoong's primary concern would always be the well-being of ATEEZ as a group. If he thought something—or someone—might jeopardize that...

The ride back to the company building was tense, your mind racing with potential outcomes of the conversation to come.

When you arrived, Hongjoong caught your eye. "Meet me in practice room three in ten minutes."

You nodded, watching as he spoke briefly to Seonghwa, who glanced at you with concern before following Hongjoong down the hallway.

Ten minutes later, you found yourself in the familiar practice room, where countless choreographies had been learned and perfected. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were already waiting, their expressions serious.

"Close the door," Hongjoong instructed.

You did as asked, heart hammering. "What's this about?"

Hongjoong sighed, looking between you and Seonghwa. "I think you both know."

Neither of you spoke, the silence confirming his suspicions.

"Look," Hongjoong continued, his tone softening. "As your leader and your friend, I need to know what's going on. Not because I want to interfere, but because whatever affects two members affects the whole group."

Seonghwa stepped forward. "Nothing has happened," he said firmly. "We've acknowledged some... feelings, but that's all."

You nodded in agreement. "We would never do anything to hurt ATEEZ."

Hongjoong studied you both carefully. "I believe you. But the company might not be so understanding if they notice what I've noticed."

"Are you going to report us?" you asked, fear creeping into your voice.

To your surprise, Hongjoong laughed. "Report you for what? Having feelings? No." His expression grew serious again. "But I do need you both to be careful. For your sakes and for the group's."

Relief washed over you. "We will be."

"The fans already suspect something," Seonghwa pointed out. "That's why I suggested changing the choreography for the next comeback."

Hongjoong shook his head. "Changing the choreography now would only fuel speculation. You need to act normal—professional on stage, friendly off stage. Nothing more, nothing less."

The reality of your situation settled heavily on your shoulders. What had momentarily felt like freedom—the acknowledgment of feelings between you and Seonghwa—was now clearly outlined as a complication that needed careful management.

"We understand," Seonghwa said quietly.

Hongjoong placed a hand on each of your shoulders. "I'm not saying this can never be. Just... not now. Not when we're still establishing ourselves."

You nodded, knowing he was right. ATEEZ was finally gaining the recognition you'd all worked so hard for. A scandal—even a minor one involving two members having feelings for each other—could derail everything.

"Thank you," you said to Hongjoong. "For not making this bigger than it needs to be."

He smiled, the tension in the room easing slightly. "That's what leaders are for. Now, let's get back before the others start gossiping even more than they already are."

As you left the practice room, Seonghwa's hand briefly brushed against yours—a fleeting touch, a silent promise. *Not now doesn't mean not ever.*

For the moment, it would have to be enough.

---

Three months passed. The comeback promotion period ended successfully, and preparations for your next album were underway. You and Seonghwa maintained the careful balance Hongjoong had suggested—professional, friendly, nothing more.

At least in public.

In private moments—late nights in the studio when everyone else had gone home, early mornings in the dorm kitchen before the others woke—you found ways to acknowledge what existed between you. Small conversations, gentle touches, shared glances that said what words couldn't.

It wasn't enough, but it was all you could have for now.

The fans, predictably, continued their theories. Each interaction between you was analyzed, each moment of distance equally scrutinized. The #SeongN hashtag had become a permanent fixture in your fandom.

During dance practice for your new title track, the choreographer announced a surprising change.

"For the bridge section, we'll have Seonghwa and Y/N center again," she explained, demonstrating the move. "The company specifically requested it after seeing the response to your last duet."

You caught Seonghwa's eye across the practice room, seeing your own surprise reflected there. Hongjoong raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Later that evening, you found yourself alone in the dorm. The others had gone out for dinner and a movie—a rare night off that everyone had been looking forward to. You'd declined, claiming exhaustion from the day's practice, though in truth, you just needed space to think.

The new choreography was weighing on you—not because it was difficult, but because of what it meant. Another duet with Seonghwa. Another round of fan theories and shipping hashtags. Another test of your resolve to keep things professional.

You were in your room, hair still damp from the shower, when you heard the front door open and close. Footsteps moved through the dorm—too quiet for the usual chaos of all seven boys returning at once.

"Hello?" you called out, opening your bedroom door. "Who's back early?"

Seonghwa stood in the hallway, looking slightly startled to see you. "Y/N. I thought you'd gone with the others."

"I could say the same about you," you replied, leaning against your doorframe. "Wasn't the movie something you wanted to see?"

He shrugged, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up in a way that made your heart skip. "I couldn't focus. My mind was elsewhere."

The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with three months of careful distance and controlled interactions.

"Do you want some tea?" you offered, desperate to break the tension. "I was about to make some."

"No." The firmness in his voice made you look up sharply. Seonghwa's eyes were darker than usual, his posture tense. "No more tea, no more excuses, no more pretending."

Your breath caught. "Seonghwa—"

"Three months," he said, taking a step toward you. "Three months of acting like there's nothing here when we both know there is."

Another step. You found yourself backing up, into your room.

"The others could come back," you warned weakly.

"They're watching the extended cut. They'll be gone for hours." His voice had dropped to a tone you'd never heard from him before—low, intense, almost dangerous.

Your back hit the wall beside your bed. Seonghwa stood before you, close enough that you could smell his cologne, but not touching you. Not yet.

"We agreed," you whispered. "For the group's sake—"

"I'm tired of putting everyone else first," he interrupted. "The group, the company, the fans. What about us? What about what we want?"

Your heart hammered against your ribs. "What do you want, Seonghwa?"

The question hung in the air for one breathless moment.

Then, with a sound that was almost a growl, Seonghwa closed the distance between you. His hands found your waist, backing you against your bedroom door as it swung shut behind you. The solid thud of your back hitting the wood was followed immediately by his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined in your quiet daydreams—it wasn't gentle or tentative. It was desperate, hungry, as if he'd been drowning and you were air. His hands moved from your waist to frame your face, fingers threading into your damp hair.

You responded with equal fervor, months of suppressed feelings unleashing all at once. Your hands clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

When you finally broke apart, both gasping for breath, Seonghwa pressed his forehead against yours. "I've wanted to do that since the first day we performed together," he confessed, voice ragged.

"Why did you wait so long?" you asked, your lips still tingling from his kiss.

His thumb traced your lower lip, eyes following the movement. "I was trying to be responsible. The perfect hyung, the perfect groupmate." A bitter laugh escaped him. "But I can't do it anymore. Not when you're right here, so close I can touch you, but always out of reach."

You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead in a tender gesture that contrasted with the intensity of moments before. "You don't have to be perfect. Not with me."

Something shifted in his expression—vulnerability giving way to desire once more. "If the others knew..."

"They don't need to," you whispered, echoing his words from months ago. "Not yet."

This time when he kissed you, it was slower but no less passionate. His hands skimmed down your sides, leaving trails of heat through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You arched into his touch, fingers threading through his hair, marveling at how right this felt despite everything that made it complicated.

Seonghwa's lips moved from yours to trace a path along your jaw, down your neck. "Tell me to stop," he murmured against your skin. "If this is too much, tell me to stop and I will."

In answer, you tugged him back up to capture his lips again. "Don't you dare," you breathed against his mouth.

A low sound rumbled in his chest as he pressed you more firmly against the door, one hand moving to your thigh, lifting it slightly to bring your bodies even closer together.

The world narrowed to just this room, just this moment—Seonghwa's hands mapping your body as if memorizing every curve, your fingers tracing the lean muscles of his back beneath his shirt, the mingled sounds of your breathing growing more ragged.

"Y/N," he whispered your name like a prayer. "I—"

The distant sound of the front door opening jolted you both back to reality. Voices and laughter filtered through the dorm—the others returning far earlier than expected.

You froze, still pinned between Seonghwa and the door, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"Y/N-ah! Seonghwa-hyung! Are you here?" Wooyoung's voice called out. "The movie projector broke so we came back early!"

Seonghwa's forehead dropped to your shoulder, a soft groan of frustration escaping him. "Of course," he muttered, the irony of the situation not lost on either of you.

You couldn't help the small laugh that bubbled up. "Hidden in plain sight," you whispered, echoing his earlier words in a different context.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, a mix of regret and promise in his gaze. "This isn't over," he said quietly, his thumb brushing your lower lip once more.

"It better not be," you replied, pressing a quick, final kiss to his lips before gently pushing him away to fix your disheveled appearance.

Seonghwa stepped back, running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to restore it to order. The flush on his cheeks and the slight swelling of his lips would be harder to explain away.

"We should..." he gestured vaguely toward the door.

You nodded, smoothing down your clothes. "Just act normal."

A laugh escaped him. "Normal. Right."

As you reached for the door handle, Seonghwa caught your wrist, turning you back to face him. "Y/N," he said softly. "No matter what happens next, know that this—us—it's real. It's not for the cameras, not for the fans. It's just us."

The sincerity in his eyes made your heart swell. "I know," you whispered.

With one last shared look—a promise of more moments like this to come—you opened the door and stepped out to face your groupmates, the heat of Seonghwa's touch still lingering on your skin.

Some things, you realized, were worth the risk. And Park Seonghwa was definitely one of them.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Favorite Guest | Yandere Twisted Wonderland

Visiting the controversial but fascinating zoo: Twisted Territories is something you finally got around to doing. Usually satisfied with the attached aquarium and petting zoo; it’s a bit of an adventure going into the very popular exhibit. 

“Here is our exhibit for our Nagas! If you don’t see them don’t feel bad they are a little shy. So if you like you may look up at the screen where we have some footage of our training with them–”

The zookeeper kept talking as the crowd made a makeshift line along the glass of the giant enclosure—moving awfully quickly because of the lack of action. Letting yourself fall into the back of the line you took your time admiring the grand enclosure. Much larger than any you’ve seen it was likely they could’ve been in plain sight camouflaging with the foliage inside it. Finally telling yourself to move on you take one last look at a specific spot in the bushes. Doing a double take you try to see if you saw the shimmer of someone’s eyes. 

“Mommy, when will I get a chance to see?”

Hearing the child’s whining you decide your time at the glass was up, writing off what you’d seen as an especially shiny plant in the exhibit. Pushing it to the back of your mind, the memory fades with the attraction of the merpeople and the wolf-hybrids who were much more present. It’s good enough to encourage you to come back, once again giving the Naga exhibit a chance. 

Spending a little while looking at the unreal nature, hoping you’ll find some hidden pattern of scales or a tiny bit of movement that reveals where the Nagas may be. It didn’t take long before your eyes were drawn to the open space right behind the glass. Only having time to look befuddled before a crowd of people started to form around you. 

“Look that snake-man came right up to the glass! Quick get your camera!”

As so many voices began to point out, a pale upper human half with a silver tail coiling behind him was right up against the glass. Hands-on the glass with his dark eyes trained on you, this Naga with a choppy bowl cut didn’t seem keen on moving. His intense eye-bags made it hard to tell if you were angering him or just entertaining him. You weren’t keen to find out. 

It took a while but you let the crowd take your place struggling to get through them to move on to the next exhibit. Taking advantage of the crowd’s excitement, when you looked back you couldn’t see the Naga which you could delude yourself into believing it was pure coincidence. Trying to enjoy the rest of your trip to the zoo, once again you tried to push your weird encounter into the back of your head. When that doesn’t work you settle for calling yourself ‘lucky.’ Who else has gotten such a close view of one of the illusive Nagas in the enclosure? 

This is why you internally scold yourself when you find a special invitation to that part of the zoo again. The email claims it's a prize for being such a frequent visitor and it makes sense that they offer a discounted price. If only to shake away the memories of the odd encounter you do again this time avoiding that exhibit for last, with plans to go at the end of your stay. You try to hurriedly rush through the path without incident.

The sound of a glass being banged and a muted hiss has you turning to look at the nagas exhibit. This time there are two–the grey one who’s tail was still on the glass and the other whose tail is a vibrant blue with hair to match. The blue one was coiled in on himself practically hiding behind the grey haired one–but he was also looking at you. Both leaning in tandem as you tested going further down the path. Once again the crowd was in an uproar surrounding the spot. You could see the blue one hurriedly retreat into the bushes of the exhibit while the grey one lingered. Through the surrounding crowd you found yourself locking eyes with dark grey ones. The glare was the same as before—a demanding sort of stare that weirdly made you feel guilty for turning away. 

Well…you were never coming to this zoo again.

__________________________________________________________

“Hi, can you please please come to the zoo again? I’m asking personally because legally that wouldn’t be right but there’s this neat grey area where I can–”

Cater couldn’t help but ramble as he spoke to the former frequent guest of the zoo. Tasked by his superiors to do whatever was needed to get the Nagas corporation. Since uniting the three specimens their murderous tendencies had increased. For a time there were vague signals of in-fighting but that quickly died down and suddenly their scientists and zookeepers were turning up dead. 

It seemed like there was no end to the carnage. 

Until (Y/n) came along.

In the zoo’s database, they were listed as a common face. An annual pass and accessories to match it was a matter of time before they visited the new mystical exhibits. What no one expected that it’d be them who got the Nagas to be active. With cameras placed on the ceiling and some trees, the scientist smart enough not to go inside could watch. But the Nagas were smart they knew precisely where they were and their intense strength didn’t help. Taking advantage of the terrain that didn’t need to be changed the Nagas made their supposed nest in a cave which meant that no scientists could see them even at rest. 

So it shocked everyone when they saw multiple dashes across the screen at the fifth big crowd of the day. Unlike some of their other creatures who had fun toying with the guests and were rewarded for it. The Naga s were never a part of this group usually ignoring guests or making themselves completely unseen on purpose. But now they were rushing to the edges of the forest without a care for the cameras or the eyes of amazed onlookers all to look at one person in particular.

“That one human. When will they be here again?”

Cater was the unlucky understudy who was finally spoken to rather than immediately suffocated for simply delivering food. He was shaking like a leaf as he promised to find out for them. It was a wonder they spoke at all let alone the biggest one of all. 

The creatures Twisted Territories had gathered were oddly enough quite close to one another. Already having split themselves into factions and hierarchies that fit with their species. But the greatest predator and the most feared was none other than the rumored dragon. Illusive and feared the only reason he hadn’t decided to end the organization was because he was looking for something specific. 

He said this after leaving nothing of an army of men and women. 

No bones. No blood. No survivors to speak of.

This is why it was a miracle that Cater was able to return to the guffawing scientists with a message at all. Bringing this up to the Superiors he was praised and tasked with making sure that their requests were fulfilled. 

Did these creatures have a type they liked to kill?

An interest in specific blood types or was it something else?

Was it a mating interest?

Competition?

The possibilities were endless and those superiors of his were hungry for answers. Granted it would come at the cost of this poor person’s life but he wasn’t in a position to argue. Not when he told the dragon he’d find you himself.

“I’m not really interested in returning anytime soon.”

That wasn’t going to work.

“I…actually would like to offer you an exclusive look at one of our exhibits. We’ll give you a free meal and some extra merch–”

“I’m sorry but I really don’t want to. Those Nagas really put me on edge.”

Cater’s heart sunk even deeper into his stomach. Letting his mind wander to the consequences of failing to get the subject to come willingly. His superiors would no doubt go to the extremes– buying the land around them, blackmailing, entrapping their family. It would be so much worse than a simple call. 

“I shouldn’t be saying this but the next time someone calls you about coming…there will be dire consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know if they’ve already heard me…just pack a bag and come, please. I don’t know what they’ll do.”

Cater hung up the call, his heart aching in his chest. Looking at his feet he was acutely aware of the shadow that stretched in the doorway near them. 

He thought he was safe.

He thought he was essential.

The first one to speak to The Dragon without being dead.

Perhaps he wouldn’t get to deliver the guest to the dragon himself. 

Maybe you’d be better off on your own.

__________________________________________________________

“Welcome (Y/n) (L/n) to your official behind-the-scenes of Twisted Terrain. Is there anything I can get you before we start?”

“The guy I was talking to…where is he?”

“.....Right this way honored guest.”

You didn’t like how they deflected but it prepared you for what you may be dealing with. Despite the media denouncing it, you’ve been looking at the forums. Written off as hurtful conspiracies to zoos they provided their speculation about the zoo’s latest additions and how far their willing to go to keep them. Sadly it aligned with everything that’s happened so far; more people with suits surrounded you as you further traversed into the maze of staff-only doors. It didn’t make you feel so bad about scheduling a post about this thing. They’d take it down eventually sure but if you were never coming back it’d be best to warn others about this wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

“So here is the private extension of the Naga exhibit, where our scientists do their best to learn while taking care of our reptile friends.”

Seeing where this part of the exhibit expanded from the one the public saw was shocking. From a previous perspective, it already looked like a small forest, this larger part just made it so much larger. You realize this makes the Naga’s interest in one specific side of the glass that much weirder.

“Now if you’ll do me a favor and step up to the glass so you can have a closer look at their habitat?”

It wasn’t really a question, the slight inching of the others in suits said so. Adjusting your hold on the strap you were holding some luggage with, you step forward. In your heart of hearts, you almost hope that nothing will happen. That this would all turn out to be some ruse that happened to be triggered by the environment or the color of the clothes you wore. 

Like the feeling of realizing something so uncomfortable, so nightmarish, happening to you, and when you blink your eyes, you are not dreaming. The whole wood seemed to rustle as a long green tail much larger than the other Nagas’ you’d seen reached for the glass between you two. Almost caressing the glass. 

“Spectacular! I would’ve never believed it if I hadn’t seen it! Alright, let’s get them in there! Get those cameras ready I don’t want to miss an angle–”

“What?! Ahhh!”

The people in suits held you tight, maneuvering to a vault-like door where they took you and your bag inside. Feeling the bruises on your skin you tried to regulate your breathing and it was proving hopeless. The gaggle of people surrounding you in lab coats with cameras and notepads, it seemed as though they truly were prepared to feed you to these Naga. The feeling really sunk in when you were slammed into the dirt watching from over your shoulder as thousands of people watched like an audience of Colosseum—practically cheering for your massacre. Breathing in and out, you tried to ignore the burning ache of cuts on your hands and knees. You squeezed the handle of your bag as you walked into the forest, a glance back showed the gaggle behind the glass groaning and whining that you didn’t stand in the clearing the gate opened up.

You thought about flipping them off but this would have to do.

The second you stepped past the forest’s edge it was that same green tail that gently wrapped around your back guiding you through the forest. It was alarming but oddly comforting that the muscles underneath those evergreen scales were somehow softer than the humans who brought you here. 

“Where are you taking me?”

You continued to follow its light pushing and support over more rocky terrain. It eventually stops at the mouth of a cave, the tail disappearing into its darkness. Popping out again to imitate a finger calling you to come in.

You patted your pockets for your phone; coming up empty they must’ve swiped it while they were manhandling you into the enclosure. Figuring you’re better off relying on another sense you let your hand drag along one side of the cave, leaning on it as the ground dipped as you got even farther. 

“I can’t believe they brought you.”

Turning to the left of you, you were sure you heard a voice there. Looking in the darkness for any kind of movement you continued along. After that, you make sure to listen for some kind of sliding equated with the sound of Naga s slithering but you hear nothing. 

“D-did they put any wires on you?”

Turning again and seeing no one you put your back to the wall. Hoping that this will eliminate the directions someone can come at you. Shimmying along the wall you debate with yourself about how to react to these voices around you, whether you’d respond or swipe if only to prove you weren’t going insane. Before you could decide you felt something swiftly pull at your clothes.

“Ah!”

“S-s-orry it’s just that they did put something on you.”

“Uh, thanks?”

Whoever was the owner of this shaky voice made a sound you’ve never heard before. It sounded close but when you dared to reach a hand out you found nothing again. Continuing on your way, you wondered how far you’d get before you reached wherever you should have gone.

A cool sensation spread across your waist, making you jump. Thinking it was water or something you sent a speculative finger down to check finding what stopped you in your tracks was a Naga tail. It pulled you from the wall into a warm and lean chest; for good measure matching pair of arms wrapped around you trapping you against what you assumed to be one of the Nagas you were meant to meet. Seeing as the coils that wrapped around you were only moderately squeezing you figured you could let your guard down. 

“To think you had to be with those nasty humans this whole time makes me sick.”

That voice was the first you heard. The voice was smooth authoritative and a little snobbish you wondered which of the Nagas you’d seen was the owner. 

“Um, can I ask some–AcK!”

“Don’t squirm, I’m checking past these infernal coverings.”

The hands inspecting you were just as chilly as his tail which was maneuvering you in all sorts of ways to help remove the ‘infernal coverings.’ Trying to push the hands away proved to be nothing but a nuisance to the Naga who casually slapped your hands away to continue trying to remove your clothes.

“Wait don’t—”

“Stop whining! I can look better if you just stop–”

“Rollo, please.”

The voice that spoke from somewhere unusually close was deep, a baritone that practically shook the air of the cave. A command that had the Naga holding you stopping their attempt at removing your clothes, letting you rest in their coils.

The light draft of the cave became more intense, wafting against your cheeks in a cold thrush. A light brush became an intense whirl, making you shut your eyes from the dark expanse of the cave. There was the sound of something cackling like a fire and then the faint wave of light reaching through the cover of your eyelids. Opening your eyes to a whole new cave, a green flame burning on a torch being the main reason.

“You must be gentle. Their eyesight is much different than ours it makes sense they’d be  disoriented.”

The owner of the deep voice was a pale man with hair as long and dark as the cave, you’d entered. With a pair of horns on his head and evergreen scales trailing from his cheeks down his unclothed chest blending with the length of his tail. His tail was hard to see for its true color with the glow of the green flame but accounting for it you recognized the scales for the evergreen ones that guided you into the cave. Looking at the now illuminated ground it was that same evergreen tail that seemed to curve and coil all around. Trying to pinpoint the end of the tail to its beginnings led you to meet its owner. Resting on one of many coils of his, with a fanged smile you could feel the heat rising from the pit of your stomach as slitted evergreen eyes looked deep into your own. 

Taking a gulp you tried to speak,” You led me here right?”

 He was still smiling at you, making you wonder if he planned to respond to you at all. Unable to hold his gaze you found yourself looking away. 

“Haha, I did!”

His laugh reverberated through the cave sending shivers up your spine. When you dared to look again he was much closer. Seconds ago he was leagues away now barely a hair from your nose, it only served to make you turn away again in embarrassment.

“I am glad you found a way in here considering how dark it is for you.”

“T-thanks.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with checking you for wounds.”

The snobbish voice of your captor reminded you that he was there, finally looking over to put a face to the voice. He was the gray-haired Naga with tired eyes that you recalled glaring at you through the glass. 

“You!?”

“Is there a reason you're pointing at me like that?”

“You were the one who was glaring at me that one time I came.”

He sighed exasperated as though it was tiresome to recount the frightening experience. He crossed his arms upturning his nose at you as he turned his head, all the while keeping those grey eyes trained on you.

“I wasn’t glaring. I was watching.”

“Why’d you slam against the glass then!?”

“You weren’t looking, it was just a light tap to get your attention.”

“And the hissing?!”

“Well, I think it was wrong of you to just ignore me like that, especially after you left last time.”

“You freaked me out! Of course, I left!”

He rolled his eyes at you, “I don’t see why this is still important.”

The one with the black hair came close again, tilting his head in your direction. 

“First impressions are very important Rollo. If you scared them you have to take responsibility.”

“Y-y-yeah!” 

The Naga with the grey hair—Rollo rolled his eyes again bringing the tip of his tail to cover the bottom half of his face. Very badly hiding the sneer on his face.

“Whatever. You’ve been dodging the topic of those injured of yours. I think whatever I’ve done in the past doesn’t quite matter now.”

You immediately wanted to protest as the green-eyed Naga beside you gently grabbed your hands and opened them to reveal scratches from bracing your fall. Trailing up your wrist and to your arm gently caressing the bruises you could feel forming. 

For the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t smiling. A neutral expression on his face but the sharp twists and twirls of his tail said otherwise. You turned to Rollo who was still holding the tip of his tail over his mouth, this time hiding a subtle act of gritted teeth. His tired eyes were also on your arms where the other Naga was still caressing. 

“Those in the coats did this to you?”

“Uh yes.”

Rollo spoke up again, his tail wrapping around you tighter, “Despicable humans! They can’t do a single thing right!”

Shooting him a look, he brought the tip of his tail down to fold his hands in front of him. 

“Don’t get me wrong. I adore you all the same. It’s just all other humans.”

As if that was any better. 

A flurry of sparkling lights flooded your vision bringing your attention to the Naga who was solemnly guiding the lights on your wounds. The dull ache coming from them began to dissipate as the open scratches closed themselves and the discoloration from the bruises faded away. 

“I think this is reason enough.” 

“I agree. I’ve been wanting to tear those humans apart the day they brought us here!”

“If I can take their tech that’s fine with me!” 

The third voice came from behind you, revealing the blue-haired Naga you saw shyly poking out that one day. Now he was smiling happily, slithering closer to the other Naga as he looked at your arms. 

“If they did that there’s no way they’ll be living another day.”

A lot of things were being said and they all pointed to an uprising against the scientists. There was just one glaring issue. 

“But why?”

It was like the scratching of a record. They all turned to look at you like you’d grown a second head. Rollo’s face looked almost offended. The blue-haired Naga’s jaw was dropped. Even the one with the horns had his green eyes widened in shock.  You feel your cheeks burn in embarrassment. Closing your eyes to block the image of their judgment being cast. 

Feeling the cool tips of fingers and elongated claws lightly caress your cheek and jaw; tilting your face upward, goading you to open your eyes. Doing so slowly you were face-to-face with the ethereal face of the Naga who healed you. Eyebrows knitted together with sorrow in his eyes, it felt wrong to look away.  

“You are our mate.”

Searching his expression, hoping he’d elaborate it didn’t look like he was going to. 

“Like imprinting?”

Rollo scooched closer to you lightly tugging you from the other Naga’s grip to put you in his own. Nuzzling his nose into your own, holding you firm when you naturally attempted to back away.

“Deeper than that. It’s destiny that you’re mine.”

“Ours.” The black-haired Naga corrected. 

Rollo huffed,” Ours.”

Coming close to him was the blue-haired Naga. Practically snuggling into Rollo’s side he let his tail coil on top of his, lightly shifting you into his hold. Bringing you close to him, he encouraged you to wrap your arms around his neck. Hugging you tightly with his arms you finally got to see his face. Framed by his wild blue tresses, golden eyes, and matching blue lips that were spread in an awkward smile.

“We were waiting for you this whole time.”

“Me? Are you sure?”

Rollo leaned into the blue-haired one this time, batting at some hair that got in his way. Turning to you with a smirk.

“We told you, didn’t we? You are ours. Guess that human side of yours has a problem with accepting the truth.”

Feeling a kiss on your neck, then a nudge of someone resting their head on your shoulder. 

Looking down the Naga’s green eyes practically glowed as he spoke, “Then we will have to fix that. Right, (Y/n)?”

__________________________________________________

“So what’s the plan?” 

After getting some much-needed introductions and a vague talk about the biological herrings of mates. You would like to be the voice of reason when it comes to this uprising they planned to do. 

Malleus took his head off your own to cutely tilt his head, “Plan? Do we need one?” 

Rollo’s claws dug into the sides of his hands which were folded on top of his coils. 

“I was going to just go for the ones that disrespected me the most.”

Idia let out that sound you equated with happiness, now that you could see his blue tail wiggle about in excitement.

“I’m so glad you asked–”

He held nothing back as he rambled on and on about the plan he had. While you were following for the first half you couldn’t keep up after he mentioned opening an interdimensional portal. Feeling the vibrations of laughter on your back you looked to Malleus who was doing just as you felt. Perching his head back on the top of yours, he squeezed you closer to his chest turning his head to whisper just above your ear.

“Can you tell now? We really do need you.”

You couldn’t help to chuckle along with him. Noticing that Idia had run out of breath and was panting over the schematics he’d drawn in the dirt. While Rollo looked disgusted that he was heaving so heavily. Clapping your hands to get their attention they turned to you. 

“Alright, so this is the plan….”

More!

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (24 - The Last Day)

Chapter Summary: “Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.1k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, smut

A/N: Infinity War > Endgame, honestly. There won't be an update next Wednesday as it's already finals week for me :) // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wakanda was a fortress. 

From where you stood, gazing at the seemingly endless plains and lush forests that cloaked the hidden nation, you could almost believe you were safe. The sight of the golden African sun spilling over the landscape had a sort of hypnotic effect—like it was trying to convince you there was no danger beyond these borders. 

Of course, you knew better. Nowhere was safe with Thanos out there, collecting the Infinity Stones one by one. 

You tore your gaze away from the sweeping view, letting out a heavy sigh before turning to Wanda. She stood beside you on the balcony, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her face etched with quiet worry as she stared into the distance. With Vision gravely wounded and the impossible task of removing the Mind Stone without ending his life looming over everyone, she’d been on edge. You didn’t blame her. Vision was her friend and she cared about him. 

You slid closer, pressing a comforting hand to her back. “You okay?”

Wanda nodded, though she didn’t take her eyes off the horizon. “I will be,” she murmured, her Sokovian accent thickening with anxiety. You didn’t even realize it was still there. “It’s just… I hate waiting like this.”

You remembered the feeling of helplessness in Scotland: Vision had been pinned down, helpless, and you and Wanda had been forced to watch as he was nearly killed for the stone in his head. You closed your eyes, shoved the memory down, deep into that place where unwelcome things go to rot. You were both seconds away from the same fate—until Steve and Natasha arrived, pulling you all back from the brink. Just in time. Always just in time.

“They’re good people here,” you assured her. “They’ll find a way.”

“I know. I just…” Wanda swallowed thickly, her words catching in the process. “I… we were naive to think this was just another assignment. We’ve lost so much already.”

She didn’t have to say who else she was referring to. You knew about her parents, her brother, everything she had endured. And now, this war was threatening to take more. You gently pulled her into a side embrace, resting your forehead against hers for a moment.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” you promised, and you meant it.

—

You left Wanda alone with her thoughts and headed to the lab. It was a pressure cooker—hissing, ready to blow—filled with people moving like they were on rails, locked into some critical task. Everyone had a job, a purpose and no task felt too small when the goal was stopping Thanos. 

You came here because you needed to know your place in all of this—what you could do, how you could help. You couldn’t stand the idea of just waiting around while everyone else carried the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Bruce Banner stood at a console, studying Vision’s neural scans. He didn’t look happy. You worried he’d start turning green from all the stress of figuring out the impossible task of separating the Mind Stone from Vision without reducing him to something less of a being and more like his former iteration. 

“How’s he doing?” you asked.

Bruce didn’t glance up. “Stable, for now,” he said. “Shuri’s stasis is the only thing keeping him that way.” He finally met your eyes. “If we remove the stone and botch it, we lose him completely. We don’t have a margin for error.”

Shuri spun around, sweeping a hologram to the side. “Banner, look here,” she said, pointing to a tangle of code. “If we sever this pathway first, we won’t risk a chain reaction in the cerebral cortex.”

Bruce studied it. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” Shuri replied, not missing a beat. “But I’ll need time to reroute all these connections.” Her face tightened. “If Thanos shows up in the middle of that, or if anyone so much as unplugs the wrong cable, Vision’s done.”

Across the lab, T’Challa and Okoye conferred with Natasha Romanoff over a holographic map showing Wakanda’s borders. Multiple defensive lines lit up around the perimeter, funneling any possible attackers into one choke point.

Okoye pointed at the display. “We force them here,” she said. “We strike from both sides, and the rest of our forces remain mobile—ready to reinforce wherever the line thins.”

Natasha didn’t look away from the map. “Works for me. If Thanos wants what’s in Vision’s head, he’ll have to go through an army of Wakandans first.”

You caught T’Challa’s eye. “Where do you need me?”

T’Challa broke away from the map and leveled his gaze on you. “I need you with Shuri,” he said, “I hear you’ve been trained by Barton and Romanoff—made a habit of picking up new skills fast. My sister needs the best at her side.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. You understood what he meant without him spelling it out. If Shuri’s lab got breached, there wouldn’t be much left to protect outside.

“Tell Wanda I want to speak with her.” T’Challa added.

It wasn’t your place to ask, but you needed to know. “Where do you need her?”

He let his gaze drift to the massive layout of Wakanda’s borders. “The front lines.”

You’d been afraid he’d say that. You knew Wanda could handle herself, but the thought of her out there—exposed to whatever Thanos threw their way—turned your blood cold. Still, there was only one answer to give.

“Understood,” you said.

—

You stepped out of the lab, feeling a strain behind your eyes you couldn’t shake. Down the hall’s half-light, you spotted Steve and Natasha talking in low voices. Whatever it was, you could tell right away it wasn’t a happy conversation—probably the number of casualties from other places, other worlds, an entire universe. 

Steve caught sight of you first. His eyes dipped to your hand. “That a ring?” he asked. Then, without waiting for your answer, he offered a soft smile. “Congratulations. And… I’m sorry.” You understood exactly what he meant—sorry that a moment like marriage had to happen with a crisis looming.

“Thanks,” you said, offering him a timid smile. “For that and for coming to help me and Wanda in Scotland. I owe you.”

Steve shook his head. “No debts among friends.”

You cleared your throat again, forcing your nerves down. “Mind if I talk to Natasha alone?”

He glanced at her, then nodded. “Sure,” he said, stepping aside. “I’ll go see how Shuri’s doing.”

With that, Steve gave you a pat on the shoulder and slipped away, leaving you alone with Nat.

Natasha folded her arms across her chest and gave you a once-over. Her eyes landed on the ring before she spoke. “So,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You got married, and I didn’t even get an invite?”

You fumbled for a response. “It wasn’t exactly a ceremony—”

She waved you off. “Relax, I know the details. Wanda and I caught up already.”

“Oh.”

Natasha’ss lips twitched into a half-smile. “So you married your assignment. I guess you really like to go above and beyond.”

A laugh escaped you, along with some relief. “We both know you only gave me that job so I’d have a valid excuse to chase after her.”

Natasha merely smiled, letting you know she was waiting for what you really came here for.

“Listen, Natasha. About the messages you sent…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Look, I’m sorry about that. Things… they got complicated, and I just—” You trailed off, not sure how to put it all into words.

Natasha gave a slight shrug, like she’d seen all this coming. “I get it now,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. If I thought we couldn’t do without you, trust me, I’d have found a way to drag you back.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t need me, then?”

“Of course we do,” she shot back, “but it also means if you’d walked away, I’d understand.”

You exhaled slowly, guilt chewing at you. “I walked out on Steve, you know.”

A corner of Natasha’s mouth tugged up. “Steve told me he couldn’t find you.”

You looked down, your foot scraping the floor. Natasha took a step closer to you, her entire posture becoming a little rigid.

“This Thanos thing isn’t just another mission. It’s everything—our lives, the lives of everyone in this universe. Mine, yours, Wanda’s. I promise I’ll fight to the end for all of us. For this team. And I hope you’ll do the same,” she said.

You felt an odd calm settle over you. “I promise. For Wanda, for you, for all of them.”

Natasha’s face softened, and she clapped you gently on the shoulder. “I’m glad to have you back, Y/N.”

—

You found her in the small quarters Wakanda had assigned the two of you, sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing pajamas you recognized from your old drawer in Scotland. The cotton was a bit wrinkled—made sense, given you’d both only had ten minutes to pack what you could before leaving the life you’d built together.

Wanda looked up when you entered, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Hey,” she said.

You set your jacket on a nearby chair, letting out a long breath. “Hey yourself.”

You crossed to the bed, and for a moment, all you wanted was to sink into her warmth, forget the day, and pretend tomorrow didn’t exist. But the world wouldn’t let you off that easily.

“Natasha filled me in,” you said. “I’ll be posted in the lab with Shuri. Make sure no one interferes with her while she works on Vision.”

Wanda’s eyes lit up in quiet relief. “I’m glad,” she whispered. “Someone has to watch out for him.” She set aside whatever she had been distracting herself with. “You’re the best person for that job.”

You blew out a breath. “Doesn’t mean I’m thrilled you’ll be out there on the front lines, Maximoff.”

Wanda giggled and tapped the spot beside her. With an exaggerated sigh, you flopped onto it, resting your head comfortably in her lap. “You worry about me?”

You closed your eyes and she started massaging your scalp, making you mewl in appreciation. “Of course, I do. I’m your wife.”

Wanda laughed. “Wife,” she repeated fondly. Then she sighed and said, “I need to be where the fight is. All this power… what good is it if I’m not going to use it to protect the people I love?”

You opened your mouth, but no argument came out. You wanted to tell her to stay safe, to keep her away from Thanos’s reach, but you knew there was no talking her out of a fight she believed in. She had never backed down.

“Just… be careful,” you whispered, voicing the same plea you’d made countless times, even though you both knew Wanda could handle herself as well as anyone.

Wanda huffed softly, her hand smoothing over your hair. “I’m always careful,” she murmured, eyes softening with concern. “But I also have to do what I can out there. You know that.”

“I do,” you admitted, shifting so you could look up at her. 

The bed dipped as she scooted beside you, the cotton of her pajamas brushing your arm. Wanda leaned down, her hand settling at the side of your face. Your hand slid around Wanda’s waist, pulling her closer until she was nearly on top of you, your lips parting against hers in a  tentative kiss.

“Wanda…” you breathed, voice catching on the edge of desperation.  You had missed her. It felt like an eternity had passed in the single day you couldn’t be alone together. She didn’t answer, only kissed you deeper, pouring a day’s worth of tension into the press of her body against yours.

You rose from your position and tugged her with you onto the bed fully, your fingers curling into her shirt. She helped you yank it off, and then she was pulling at yours, too, the scent of her hair flooding your senses. You helped each other strip away clothes that felt suddenly cumbersome, until there was nothing left but skin on skin. You found yourself pressed into the bed, Wanda’s body above yours, her hair falling like a curtain around your face.

In that moment, you could no longer stop yourself from being selfish.

“Promise me,” you murmured between kisses, your hands roaming over her bare back. “Promise me that when you’re backed into a wall, you don’t think twice. You run. Run back to me. Don’t be a hero.”

She froze, her mouth curved into that coy smile at hearing your repetitive plea. You could see the flicker of mild annoyance at your overprotectiveness—like she thought you were being adorably childish. But then you felt your throat tighten, tears suddenly burning in your eyes at the thought of losing her.

“Please,” you choked out, a tear slipping free. “Please, Wanda… I can’t—I can’t lose you.”

The teasing smile she wore vanished instantly. “Oh, love,” she whispered, pulling you into her arms. You let yourself cry silently into her shoulder for a few moments, feeling a little pathetic for breaking down like this. You knew asking Wanda to run was an absurd request, but you had to say it. Deep down, you knew it would absolutely destroy you to lose her in any way.

Wanda’s own voice cracked as she cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze back to hers. “I’ll come back to you,” she promised. “I promise—if there’s nowhere else to go, I’ll run. I’ll run straight to you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding as you let out a shaky breath. “Okay,” you whispered, brushing away your tears with the back of your hand.

Wanda kissed you again, and this time, her hands slid lower, her hips shifting against yours. You surged up to meet her, your palms sliding over her ribs as she gasped into your mouth. The slow, careful strokes turned into something more insistent: hungry, messy, a collision of lips and muffled pleas.

“Y/N, please…” Wanda mumbled almost incoherently as she moved down your jaw. The huskiness in her voice sent a thrill through you, and you pecked her inviting mouth one more time before moving behind her and circling your arm around her waist, as she braced herself on all fours. Her skin was warm under your touch, her back arching instinctively as she pressed her hips back against you.

Leaning forward, you pressed a line of kisses down her spine, your lips lingering at the base where her back dipped. She shivered, her breath hitching as your other hand trailed down her side, fingertips grazing her hip before settling between her thighs.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you murmured roughly as you watched her body respond to your touch.

Her only response was a soft moan, her hands gripping the sheets as your fingers found her wetness. You teased her entrance, sliding two fingers slowly inside, feeling her walls tighten around you as you filled her. Wanda gasped, her head dropping forward as her thighs trembled, trying to adjust to the sensation.

“God, you’re always so tight,” you groaned, curling your fingers slightly to press against her sweet spot. “And so fucking wet for me…”

She whimpered, her hips instinctively rocking back against your hand. You set a slow rhythm, pulling your fingers out before pushing them back in, deeper each time. The sound of her arousal, slick and wet, only made your hand work harder, your body pressed closer, your clit brushing against the soft curve of her buttocks. The contact sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and you couldn’t help but let out a shaky moan. You adjusted slightly, angling your hips so your clit slid more deliberately against her with each thrust of your fingers.

Wanda’s moans grew louder, and with every motion of your hand, you felt her body tense, her back arching against you. She pushed her hips back more insistently, searching for the friction she needed. “Y/N… I’m so close,” she whimpered, her thighs trembling under your hands, her walls fluttering around your fingers.

But you weren’t ready to let her go over that edge yet. You slowed your pace deliberately, still lazily pressing your clit against her slippery skin. “Not yet, baby,” you murmured, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Just hold out a little longer for me…”

A frustrated moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her hips back more aggressively, trying to coax you into giving her the release she craved. But you held your pace, savoring the way her body trembled under your control.

“I want to come,” she whimpered, her hands clutching the sheets so tightly her knuckles whitened.

“Patience, baby,” you said, dragging your fingers almost completely out of her before easing them back in, slow and deliberate.

The friction of her skin against your clit, her soft gasps, the way she was so pliant beneath you—it was all driving you dangerously close to the edge. But you held back, biting your lip as you drew out the moment, not wanting it to end too quickly.

Your free hand, which had been holding her steadily against you, slid lower, fingers brushing over her swollen clit. The second you started rubbing her there, your own body jolted with need. Your hips snapped forward, rubbing yourself against her shamelessly.

“I’m close,” you ground out, fingers working Wanda’s slick flesh at a fast, demanding pace. “C-Come with me…”

Her body tensed, her walls clenching around your fingers as a broken sob of your name fell from her lips. You didn’t stop, didn’t ease up as your own orgasm hit, your hips grinding harder against her as you rode the waves of pleasure together.

Wanda’s cries blended with your moans, the two of you lost in each other as you shuddered and gasped. Your hand stayed on her clit, guiding her through every aftershock until her body went limp beneath you, her breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to her shoulder as you both came down, your bodies still trembling. “You’re so perfect,” you murmured softly, kissing the damp skin of her neck. “So fucking perfect.”

Wanda let out a soft, tired laugh, her hand reaching back to thread through your hair. You collapsed beside your wife, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. A shaky breath left your lips as you rolled onto your back, exhaustion settling into your bones like a warm, heavy blanket.

Wanda was quick to shift position, sliding over to curl around you. She coaxed you onto your side, gathering you in her arms as though you weighed nothing. 

“Come here,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. You sighed contentedly, letting yourself sink into her embrace. It felt so safe—like no matter what happened outside this room, no matter what the world threw your way, you could face anything.

“You love me,” you murmured, already drifting toward sleep. You felt her smile against your skin—amused by this little ritual of yours, saying the other’s love out loud first.

“You love me too,” she whispered back.

Wanda’s fingers moved in slow, soothing patterns across your back—until they stopped. She let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “For making you cry earlier. For—”

You cut her off with a soft shake of your head, your arms tightening around her waist. “Just promise me,” you said.

“I promise,” she whispered, her own eyes shining. “I’ll always find my way back to you.”

—

It’s twenty-three days later, and Wanda’s promise never came true.

People wandered around in dazed confusion, half of them gone, the other half trying to make sense of what remained. You barely recognized the place. You barely recognized what was left of your team—or even yourself.

You had no idea where the motivation to wake up each morning came from. Maybe it was the faint ember of hope burning inside you, the belief that whatever the stones had done could somehow be undone. That if Thanos had caused this, he could reverse it. You just had to find him. As long as he was out there, there was a chance to bring everyone—and Wanda—back.

It tore at you to see Wanda’s location still pinned on your phone, only to realize it led to the bedroom you had shared in Wakanda. She had left it there that morning, tucked under her pillow on her side of the bed before joining Natasha on the frontlines. It killed you to know her true location was nowhere. And yet, in moments of weakness, you found yourself checking her GPS as if it would somehow change. Old habits die hard—and you couldn’t seem to escape this one no matter how much it amplified the Wanda-shaped hole in your heart. 

This morning, you found yourself at the old Avengers compound. The halls felt cavernous and too quiet. You checked in, as usual, with Natasha, Bruce, Steve—whoever was around. Most folks you ran into had that same thousand-yard stare, the same one that greeted you in the mirror every time you looked.

You spent hours in front of the massive digital map that dwarfed the main operations room, searching for any scrap that might lead you to Thanos. Where’d he gone? How had he disappeared so thoroughly? You chewed on the question day after day, ignoring exhaustion, heartbreak, and even hunger. If there was a lead, you’d chase it. If there was a whisper of information, you’d hunt it down.

Steve approached as you stood at the console, looking weary in a way you had never seen before. He was usually so determined and motivated, but now, for once, he seemed human—no longer everyone’s constant beacon of hope. He rested a hand on your shoulder, a gesture he’d been making with everyone lately. You figured it was his way of reassuring himself that you were still there, after watching the people he cared about turn to nothing but particles in the air.

“You’ve gotta give yourself a break,” he murmured. “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

You pulled away gently, shrugging him off. “I can rest after we find him,” you said, voice clipped. You tried to keep the desperation under control, and so far, it was working. 

Steve exhaled, resting his hands on his hips. “We’re working on it,” he said. “As soon as we locate Tony—”

“That’s one of my concerns, actually,” you cut him off, rounding the center table to put distance between you. “We don’t know if he’s even still alive, Steve. It’s been three weeks since—”

Steve’s posture stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. “Finding Tony is the top priority,” he said, voice low and taut, like he’d repeated it a hundred times already. “If Banner’s right—if the people we lost can be brought back somehow—anyone we lose now might be gone for good.”

You let out a scoff and almost regretted it immediately, knowing how apathetic it must have sounded. “It’s been three weeks, Steve. If he’s out there, do you honestly believe he’s got enough air, water, or food to survive? We’re gambling on a possibility that shrinks every day.”

“Those are the orders,” Steve fired back, his jaw set. “We focus on finding Tony.”

“Orders?” Your laugh came out harsh. “Whose orders, exactly?”

“Mine,” Steve said, squaring his shoulders. “And I’m not asking.”

You felt your pulse surge. “So that’s it? We chase a ghost ship with no sign of life, no backup plan—while the rest of the universe dangles by a thread?”

Steve’s hand slammed down on the table. “We don’t abandon our own!”

You closed the distance between you, anger flaring. “Don’t talk to me about abandoning anyone! I’m trying to be realistic—”

“That’s enough.” His voice was ice. “You’re out of line.”

“Am I?” You leaned in, practically nose-to-nose. “We all want Tony back, but it’s time we—”

Natasha, who had just arrived, slipped between you. She pressed a firm hand against your chest. “Both of you, stop. We don’t have time for this.”

Steve backed off first, turning away with a muttered oath. You stayed put, adrenaline coursing, hands balled into fists.

Natasha grabbed your arm and steered you out of the room. Once in the hall, she spun you around, eyes blazing. “Hit me.”

You blinked, breath catching. “What?”

She dropped into a ready stance. “I said hit me. Clearly you need to let it out.”

You didn’t move. “No.”

She shook her head. “If you don’t acknowledge what you’ve lost, it’s gonna eat you alive.”

“There’s nothing to grieve,” you said evenly, willing yourself to believe your own words with every fiber of your being.  By now, Natasha understood that no matter what she said, it wouldn’t get through to you. She knew Wanda meant the world to you, and you were driven by a personal mission. In her opinion, you were still handling it better than Clint, who had lost his entire family.

“Look, Steve needs you,” she said after a moment. “And I—”

Her sentence was cut short by a sudden commotion from outside. You both froze, exchanged a quick glance, and then ran for the exit. 

People were already gathered on the makeshift runway by the compound’s wide hangar doors. You elbowed your way through the small crowd—Bruce, Rhodey, Steve, and a handful of others—until you reached the front.

And there, at the heart of it all, Carol Danvers was bringing Tony Stark home.

—

It figured that the missing piece to finding Thanos was his own daughter, Nebula.  A snap-like energy signature had been detected across the galaxy just two days earlier, and with the new information she provided, Steve gave the team only a few hours to prepare before setting a course for Planet 0259-S.

If you had been a little apprehensive about the plan to find Thanos, the actual act of locating him—now the biggest hurdle solved—allowed you to fully lean into the expectation that it was only a matter of time before everyone was back, and everything returned to how it was supposed to be. The Avengers had never lost to anyone, not even gods. There was no doubt in your mind that you could all overcome a mere Titan.

So you and the remaining team boarded the modified Benatar—Nebula insisted it was the only ship fast enough to reach the planet in time. You still remembered the moment the engines roared to life, and you caught yourself thinking about Wanda. She would’ve stood at the viewport, eyes wide, taking in the stars with that sense of wonder she always had. But you also reminded yourself that you wouldn’t even be here if Wanda—and trillions of others—hadn’t vanished into dust. 

It was your first trip beyond Earth’s orbit, but it felt like mere minutes before Nebula’s voice crackled through the comms: “Entering the atmosphere now. We’ll touch down in thirty seconds.” Below stretched a battered field of half-dead crops under a sky like stale ash. You and the others fanned out once the ramp lowered—Steve, Banner, Rhodes, Thor, Carol, Natasha, Rocket, and Nebula. Even with the thinning hope in your veins, you still felt a faint thrill of certainty that you’d see that monster face to face and force him to undo this nightmare.

Thanos appeared in your line of sight, sitting on a makeshift stoop in front of a tumbledown shack, his left arm twisted and scarred from the energy of the Gauntlet. He looked worn, as if using the Stones had left him a husk of what he’d been. 

From this point on, it was an ambush—the most ruthless attack Steve had ever sanctioned for the team. You were surprised to see he had it in him. You wanted to strike Thanos yourself, but Natasha held you back, letting the superpowered members and those equipped with advanced suits handle the dirty work. Thor didn’t hesitate to hack off the Titan’s hand, and you actually smiled at Thanos’s screams as you, Natasha, and Steve closed in on the shack.

Rocket rolled over Thanos’s severed hand, the gauntlet still attached. What you all saw next pushed you further into madness:

Every single stone was missing.

Blood had rushed to your head, but you could still hear Steve very calmly inquire where the stones were, despite the ringing that had started in your ears. 

“...after that, the stones served no purpose beyond temptation…” Thanos uttered.

“Where are the stones?” Natasha repeated, her patience slipping in a rare moment of unease in front of an enemy.

“Gone,” Thanos uttered. “Reduced to atoms.”

“You used them two days ago!” Banner yelled.

“I destroyed the stones… using the stones.”

Everything turned to static the moment you heard the word destroyed. You’d pinned your hope on the Stones—on using them to bring her back. Now there was nothing. It was like the ground gave out beneath you, your entire center of gravity tilting around one brutal truth: Thanos hadn’t just wiped out half the universe—he’d taken your only way of undoing it.

The blood pounding in your ears muffled the exchanges. You saw Nebula’s lips move. You heard Thanos’ bullshit about realizing too late how he mistreated his own daughter. But it was like you were trapped in an echo chamber, drowning out the present.

Gone. Reduced to atoms.

He’d destroyed the Stones. You would never see Wanda again.

It was over.

You were quick to draw your pistols and fire a shot straight into his eye, but Thor was quicker—his axe already swinging, aimed directly for the head.

There should have been relief, or maybe some triumph in exacting revenge on the monster who’d purged half the universe. But there wasn’t. Only emptiness. The final blow had landed, and it changed nothing. Wanda was still gone, along with the rest.

A sick sense of finality wrapped around you, the suffocating knowledge that the Snap was permanent.

A few seconds later, Natasha laid a hand on your shoulder. You didn’t bother looking at her. You could feel her gaze, searching your face for any sign of composure. She’d find none. Nebula stood at a distance, staring at the father who had never been a father.

Someone—Carol maybe—muttered, “Let’s go.” And so you did. You stumbled away, feet dragging as if the scorched earth itself was holding you back.

It wasn't a victory. Not by a long shot. It was just the end of one more impossible avenue, closing shut.

The crushing grief welled up inside you, too much to contain. Finally, a scream ripped free from your throat, raw and guttural. It didn’t make you feel any better. It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

But for a fleeting moment, it was all you could do to keep from drowning.

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | HEAT WAVE

johnny mactavish x reader

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18+ | the chokepoint

The days are shorter now, slipping by in a blink, but the nights drag their heels—long, quiet things that seem to stretch on without mercy, like they’ve forgotten how to end.

December 5th. Cold enough to bite. The kind of cold that makes your breath curl in the air like smoke from a cigarette, makes your fingers numb even in fleece gloves. But it doesn’t put out the spark that’s been smoldering between you and Johnny for weeks. If anything, it stokes it, feeding the slow burn until it grows into a prairie fire—untamed and all-consuming, racing through every weed and grass blade in its path before you can even see the smoke rise to the ozone.

In the wake of the barn—of that night—you and Johnny have been nothing but ghosts in the daylight, apparitions, dust particles in the rays of sun that beam through your bedroom windows. A nod here. A shared glance there. Not a touch, not a whisper

—in front of Pa, that is. He still thinks Johnny backed off, like he told him to. Thinks his threat worked.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

What he doesn’t see is what happens the second your boots hit the back porch and Pa’s eyes are off you. You and Johnny turn feral—entirely mad—half undressed in solace you two have built for each other.

You’ve fucked deep in the woods, slammed against tree trunks and logs, hidden in shadows thick with pine and secrecy—howling the other’s name so loud that birds desert their nests in droves. He’s found you in the garage while you’re working on Pa’s truck and turned you into a whining mess in a minute or less, clothes shucked and tossed aside, hearts hammering like brass-knuckles to a cheek. 

He’s had you in your bed after the world went to sleep; while the house held its breath, you clung to each other—gulping down each other’s sounds through open-mouthed kisses, hands interlocked like the world might swallow you whole right there in that creaky bed on the second-floor—like if you ever let go, it’d tear you apart and scatter the pieces like ash in the wind. 

—in layman’s terms, you’ve been fucking like rabbits. And neither of you can get enough.

Though, out of all the places you’ve snuck off to, nothing was better than the old barn. 

You both started slipping away to the rickety thing under cover of dark—now your designated hideaway, the both of you tucked inside, a shared secret in plain view.

It became a ritual, almost holy in the way you both gravitated there—silent footsteps on dew-wet grass, fingers brushing in the shadows, hearts pounding louder than your boots on the dirt. In that quiet, forgotten place, you weren’t Pa’s daughter and he wasn’t your farmhand.

One night, Johnny showed up with an armful of old quilts and pillows he had found in the attic, smirking that devious smirk you’ve come to love as he climbed the ladder.

“Might as well make ourselves comfortable, aye?”

It took a few days, but you built yourselves a little love-nest of sorts in the loft of the barn. Spare blankets and cushions inconspicuously hauled away and relocated to be piled up, forming a mass pile of soft throws and plush pillows—a den, of sorts. You even got a few old oil lamps to work, their warm glow casting everything in a soft, amber haze. Up there, in your hidden world, it felt like time didn’t exist. Just you, him, and the sound of wind whistling through the cracks in the old wood paneling.

And when he ruins you in that loft—again and again—his touch never falters. Always sure. Always precise. Johnny’s got you mapped out by heart: every place to linger, every spot to kiss, every inch that makes you gasp, that makes your back bow like a drawn bowstring. He’s got your number, and he dials it again and again and again.

That night, after you’d clawed at each other—limbs tangled, skin slick with sweat, breath ragged in the dark—Johnny finally pulled back, his chest heaving like he’d just outrun a storm. You were bare, flushed, and breathless under him. He eased himself down beside you, settling his head against your chest like he belonged there. 

You let him, because he does.

You sweetly raked your nails through his hair, scratching rhythmically at his scalp as you let the remnants of your orgasm settle. He let out something between a sigh and a groan, eyes fluttering shut.

“Ye keep doin’ that, I’m never gettin’ up,” he had murmured, voice low and gravelly.

You smiled, pressing your lips to his head. “If only we didn’t run a farm... We still have to eat. Live—” 

“—pretend.”

He opened one eye at ‘pretend’, looking up at you as the gold of his cross glints in the light, dangling from his chest onto your own. “Mm. Suppose we can’t hide forever.”

Johnny’s chest rose and fell, his arm wrapped loosely around your waist, fingers tracing absent patterns on the soft skin of your hip, gooseflesh rising in its wake. You could feel the warmth of his body pressed against yours, the soft puffs of his breath. The faint scent of hay and wood filled the air, mingling with the earthy warmth of him beside you. The barn creaked with the slow rhythm of the night, the lamp’s light flickering like a pulse, casting a shadowed caricature of you both on the wall—the quiet hum of the world outside distant, as if it had all stopped, leaving just the two of you in this small, secret corner of it all.

“We should talk to him—” you said eventually, “Pa—about us.”

You looked down at him, fingers dancing along the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the warmth of his skin. His baby blues held yours, clouded with the same hesitation that curled in your gut—the kind that came from knowing this thing between you isn’t simple. The kind that whispered warnings about ruining a good thing, about stepping back into a world that doesn’t hold the same softness you’ve carved out here, in the quiet cradle of this rickety barn. A dusty little sanctuary that only existed when it was just the two of you.

But you’re not little kids, and real life doesn’t pause for feelings, no matter how deep they run.

Johnny didn’t speak. Didn’t move at first. Then slowly—like the weight of the moment had finally sunk its teeth into him—he nodded, his stubble grazing your palm, grounding you both in the silence.

“Yeah. I know.”

But neither of you spoke to Pa.

 Not that night. 

No, not the one after it, either.

Winter settled quickly. 

For real.

Ice on the windows, breath misting even at the “warmest” times of day—and somehow, every time you both meant to sit down and face what you had intended to just a few weeks back, you’d find yourselves back in each other’s arms—skin to skin, mouths searching, like gravity itself was pulling you together.

The barn. The garage. Hell, even behind the stables once. You lost track of how many times you’d had him, had each other, desperate and quiet (though, Johnny isn’t much of a quiet man—in that regard) and wild.

It wasn’t just lust anymore—it was safety. A secret you clung to like a lifeline. 

Love, though neither of you had dared to speak it yet.

Though, even as the guilt festered, as the weight of the looming confrontation hung over your heads like storm clouds, you kept choosing each other.

Again. And again.

And again.

It’s mid-December now, and the air is biting. The farm's rhythm has slowed on your end with no winter crops to tend to. The only things left to worry about are the onions and garlic, the mulching and soil, which doesn’t take much effort, so you find yourself with a lot of free time on your hands.

You’ve settled into the quiet of the house more than usual, your days filled with mundane tasks that seem to pass in a blur. Though, you’ve become skilled at keeping yourself busy—continuing to fix the old tractor, tinkering with Pa’s truck, even flipping through the new catalog for supplies to order for the spring: mulch, seeds, more fencing equipment, etc. 

You find yourself in the kitchen more often, too, not just at meal times. You’re trying new recipes, stirring pots of stews and baking bread, filling the house with the kind of warmth that doesn’t come from the heater. But through that, your thoughts wander—always back to Johnny. The kitchen feels different now when he’s in the house—when you both are (which isn’t nearly as often as you’d like). The little glances you steal, the way his presence fills the air, the way your hands brush as you pass him a plate. It’s like every moment is a dangerous little secret. 

Just like August

—when everything was new, delicate, trembling on unsteady legs like a fawn just finding its footing. You’ve come so far since then, grown stronger, closer, more certain… and yet, somehow, it feels like you’re right back where you started. Full circle, like the season turning back on itself. Funny how life does that—folds in on itself when you least expect it, like time’s got its own sense of humor.

Johnny’s workload is easier and overall less taxing without the oppressive summer heat, but his days are still spent feeding the cows, making sure they have enough hay and extra bedding to keep warm through the bitter nights. The sheep need the same.

There’s always something with the animals to keep him busy, especially when it comes to managing the animals and their needs through the colder months. He still doesn’t get much downtime, but he’ll sneak away in a heartbeat to see you, if even for a moment.

Or a quick fuck.

—which you’ll never shy away from.

But, with the cold weather driving everything indoors more often, it's almost unbearable to spend more than thirty minutes in the old barn. 

Or the garage. 

Or the woods. 

Or even the truck bed. 

Each place that used to offer an escape is intolerable now. The house is hard to hide in, the walls watching with every glance, every breath, until it feels like there’s nowhere left to retreat except your bedroom after dark.

To cope, you find yourselves walking past one another with the excuse of a shared chore or task. The warmth between you isn’t just the fire in the hearth; it’s the heat of a thousand small moments that no one else can see.

—or so you think.

Like fate, Pa—too discerning for his own good—starts to notice. You’ve all done this dance before, and Pa has never been a dumb man. 

At first, it's just the way Johnny comes back to the house during the work day more often than he should and lingering longer than usual, leaning against the counter as you chop vegetables or hovering while you mend a hole in your favorite Levi jeans. The shared silences on the porch as you sit near each other, the soft, familiar tension in the air. 

Pa doesn’t say anything, but his eyes narrow every time he catches you two in the same space.

You both aren’t as discreet as you think you are, but you both are none the wiser. 

It’s like everything is simmering; a slow bubble, small licks of a flame emanating from just below your feet. The proximity, the longing. Every time Pa turns his back, it’s like the air clears for just a second before it thickens again. No words are spoken, but the unsaid hangs in the room like smoke. It’s impossible not to feel it.

One evening, as Pa dozes off in his recliner—head tilted back, mouth slightly open, a low snore barely audible over the crackle of the tv—you and Johnny find yourselves alone again.

The house is quiet, save for the low hum of the wind outside rattling against the windows. The night has pulled in tight, and the cold settles in the bones of the place, but the house glows golden inside.

You both sit at the table long after Pa’s rushed through his dinner and retreated to his chair. Your plates are still half-full, your conversation nonexistent—but the silence is tranquil, not strained like it was after Pa threatened Johnny the way he did. It’s soft. Familiar. Comfortable.

You keep your eyes on your fork as you push around a piece of roasted carrot, lips tugging up in a barely-there smile as Johnny’s boot begins to brush against your calf beneath the table. A little nudge. 

Then again. 

His ankle presses into yours, and you finally glance up at him.

He’s already looking at you, that quiet little smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, eyes crinkling just slightly. Like he’s trying to hide it. You look back at him with a soft smile of your own, one that makes your chest feel too full for your ribs.

Just like August.

—when he first started looking at you like that—like you were something rare and beautiful, like he couldn’t believe he got to be near you.

Couldn’t believe you were even real.

These stolen moments, these quiet, tender flickers of intimacy when the house is still and the rest of the world falls away—feel more dangerous than anything you’ve done. 

More dangerous than growing up into some disgruntled teenager who rolled her eyes at chores and cursed the small-town sky.

Than hating the farm, hating the town, hating your parents for chaining you to a life you never asked for.

More dangerous than packing your bags with shaking hands and slamming the door behind you, leaving behind the soil and sweat and Sunday suppers for city lights and skyscrapers and something bigger.

Than chasing your dreams all the way to the big and beautiful New York City, teeth bared, chest proud—telling yourself you'd never look back.

More dangerous than coming home to a house that no longer felt like a home.

To a father who’d grown smaller somehow.

To a mother who wasn’t there—

—a mother whose last memory of you was your sharp voice echoing off the foyer walls as you spit, “I’m never coming back to this farm.”

And then you did.

But not in time.

And maybe that’s why it all feels so reckless now—why every brush of his fingers, every stolen kiss in the dark, feels more like a defiance than desire.

Because you've already learned what regret tastes like—bitter and all too permanent.

You’ve already lost too much by waiting.

So when your eyes find his, when you let yourself tumble into him again and again—you do it with full knowledge of the toll it takes. The weight it carries. The flame it fans.

It’s all laced with the knowledge that you’ll never regret, never wait again. The knowledge that if everything explodes once more, this time there might be no coming back—no merciful second chance from Pa.

But for now, it’s just the two of you. No Pa. No watchful eyes. No threats hanging over your head.

Neither of you willing to pull away.

It’s just you and Johnny, playing with fire and pretending it won’t burn you.

The days stack like firewood by the porch—gradual, careful, full of purpose—until the calendar turns to December 24, 1991.

Christmas Eve.

The farm is blanketed in a pale hush, dawn not yet broken, and everything outside the windows wears a soft coat of frost. You haven’t seen real snow down here since you were 3, but the grass glitters silver with ice in the fading moonlight of the morning, the animals are dozing, and the trees sway gently in the breeze. There's a stillness to it all, a peace that feels almost sacred.

—It’s a holy day after all.

But what’s happening inside the house is anything but.

You jolt awake with a strangled gasp, thighs trembling, spine arching off the mattress like a bowstring pulled taut. The room is dark and cold, your breath rising in visible clouds but you’re burning. Everywhere. There's heat pulsing between your legs, thick and molten, curling low in your belly, prickling like electricity across your fevered skin.

and then you feel it.

Johnny.

His mouth on you—hot, devoted. 

Wet.

His broad hands are locked around your hips, engulfing you—keeping you steady, holding you wide open for him like you’re the God he’s worshipping in the hush of morning. 

His grip is firm, grounding, thumbs sweeping lazy circles over your hips like he’s trying to calm you even as he drives you wild.

His breath ghosts over your cunt, tongue working you over with slow, sinful precision—the kind of practiced expertise that comes only from memorizing your every reaction. He knows what you like. knows how you like it. How to unravel you with nothing but his mouth and a little patience. How to take you apart piece by piece and make you beg to be rebuilt.

—though, he's a fixer. Always has been.

And God, he’s good with his hands—

But he’s better with his mouth.

Especially when it comes to eating pussy—yours, in particular. Like he was born for it.

He’s not in any rush. Not this morning. He's indulgent with it, greedy and reverent all at once, tongue tracing lazy figure-eights over your clit, dipping lower to your sodden hole only to come back again, lips slick and parted as he feasts on you like a man starved.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, knuckles white. You’re biting your lip, choking down cries that you know can’t echo off the walls. Your peak mounts fast, too fast, tension coiled like a livewire inside you, pulled hotter and tighter with every drag of his tongue.

When it finally snaps, it shatters you.

Your orgasm rips through you like lightning—white-hot, seizing every muscle in your body. your thighs snap closed around his head, legs trembling. Your back arches into his mouth and away from it all at once, breath catching in your throat as you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood, vision flashing with static. You're weightless. Gone.

Johnny groans into your folds as he swallows your release, low and wrecked like he’s the one being ruined by it. He keeps going through it all, licking you gently through the aftershocks of your orgasm, mouth moving slower now, softer. Tender, like the Johnny you’ve come to know.

Then, when your body’s finally stopped shaking and your lungs finally remember how to breathe, he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—like a promise, a thanks—and crawls up the bed.

His face is flushed, chin glistening, eyes bright with heat and admiration. He grins, cocky and annoyingly familiar, and settles beside you, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek as he pulls the blankets up and over your trembling frame.

“Mornin’, lass. Sleep well?”

His voice is low and rough-edged, like gravel and whiskey, but still thick with sleep. He’s half on top of you, shirtless and in a pair of sleep shorts, skin warm against your own, eyes half-lidded and lazy as he leans in to kiss you—slow and open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that still makes your toes curl even after all this time.

“Told you I’d wake ye at five like ye asked,” he hums, lips brushing yours, boyish smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You’re still breathless, grinning like an idiot, flushing high on your cheeks as you taste yourself on his lips. Your whole body hums with leftover pleasure, limbs boneless, thighs still buzzing.

“T-that’s not what I meant, Johnny,” you manage, voice scratchy and sleep-warm, but he just grins wider.

“Worked, didn’t it?”

You swat at his chest half-heartedly, and he catches your wrist with ease, bringing your palm to his mouth. His kiss there is softer than anything else he’s done this morning—sweet, a promise you both don’t dare say out loud yet.

Then he rolls off of you with a groan, laying on his back as he stretches his long frame, one arm flung behind his head. The gold cross at his chest catches the faint morning light as it begins to filter through the frost-laced window, casting soft shapes across his chest and the decades old quilts tangled around your legs.

He looks unfair like this—bare and flushed, muscles stretching beneath tan skin, hair tousled and haloed by the cold breath of morning. The pipes in the house groan quietly, the brisk wind whistling faintly through the trees outside, but here it’s warm, still. Yours.

You linger in bed for a moment longer, drinking him in, letting the heat between you steep before the day begins. But eventually you force yourself to move, the chill of the wooden floor biting at your feet as you rise. Your legs are jelly, hips sore in that satisfying, secret way that you’ll feel for the rest of the day. It makes you bite back a smile.

He doesn’t move much, just lays there with his arms tucked behind his head, shorts low around his hips and the glow of early light gilding his skin. He watches you with those sleepy, satisfied eyes, lids heavy as he looks at you moving about your room.

You pull your robe from the hook and drape it over your shoulders, slow and reluctant, every motion thick with the weight of wanting. Because you both know you’d rather still be in bed—tangled in sheets and each other, skin-warm and love-drunk, wrapped up in the kind of daze that only the cover of night can conjure. 

You cinch the sash at your waist, fingers lingering on the knot, and cast him a look over your shoulder—one last, lingering glance before you break the spell and step into day.

“You gonna stay here a bit longer?”

“Might,” he drawls, voice low and rough. “Sheets smell like ye.”

That earns him a soft snort, but your smile betrays you as you pad back over to the bed and lean over him, brushing your lips against his forehead. “Greedy.”

He doesn’t let you get far. Just as you’re pulling away, his hand flashes out, curling around your wrist and yanking you back down. You gasp, a laugh caught somewhere between awe and surrender in your throat—then he’s kissing you sloppy, all spit-slicked tongues and bitten lips, like your mouth is the only salvation he’s ever known .

When he finally pulls away, his voice is smug, cocky, eyes glinting with mischief. “One hell of a breakfast, if I say so myself… Think I’m still hungry though.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushed, stomach bursting with butterflies, “I have to start cooking, baby.”

He grins and lets you go, but not before swatting your ass with a firm pat as you stand. “Don’t burn anything, chef.”

You shake your head, smile lingering, “Never,” and step out of the room, heart still racing.

Downstairs, the house is beginning to stir. The soft hiss of the kettle drifts in from the kitchen, the old stove ticking as it comes to life. The familiar creak of the third step greets your heel on the way down despite the cushion the runner provides, and the scent of pine, cinnamon, and fresh coffee thickens with every step you take.

The old house is awake—sun on the horizon, wood floors cool underfoot, and the quiet hum of a holiday morning settling into your bones.

The kitchen glows with a golden haze—the oven humming low, and the old gas stovetop radiating heat that cuts through the winter chill like a balm. The air is thick with the scent of cloves, browned butter, and roasting meat. Every surface gleams with holiday cheer. Garlands draped over the cabinets, red bows fastened to drawer handles, and an old wreath hangs crookedly over the pantry door—a little lopsided, but charming, nonetheless.

The radio hums softly from its perch on the corner shelf, the signal a little fuzzy—static crackling gently between the notes as “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” plays low and sweet. It’s the kind of sound that takes you back. 

Back to when you were small, helping Ma in the kitchen, watching her time every dish just right with such ease. You’d tug at the hem of her skirt, begging and whining for “just a little taste” of her peach cobbler (one you knew the taste of all too well, already). 

She’d laugh, shake her head, then finally give in—“Can’t be a sour-puss on a jolly day, Bug! Brighten up!”—before popping a warm bite into your mouth and sending you off grinning.

Things changed after she passed. Christmas was never quite the same. Every holiday has an undercurrent of her—even in death.

You do your best to keep it alive the way she would’ve wanted. Every decoration she once loved goes up in the same spot. Every recipe of hers still gets made, just the way she wrote it down. You and Pa never really had to talk about it—you both just know. It’s about honoring her, keeping her spirit close in the one of the only ways you know how.

The house is dressed to the nines, like something out of a storybook. Stockings hang from the mantel, little paper snowflakes stuck to the windows with old bits of leftover tape. The tree in the living room twinkles softly through the open doorway, glowing with mismatched lights, hand-painted ornaments, and a crooked star you made when you were nine years old. It’s imperfect. It’s cluttered. It’s yours.

The season carries weight now. A kind of quiet, aching nostalgia—for you, and for Pa too. It’s one of the few things you have in common with the man anymore.

Most of the tethers you had to him were buried alongside Ma.

You move across the cold kitchen floor, the hem of your robe brushing your ankles. It’s your softest one—worn thin in the sleeves, the color faded from too many washes, but comforting all the same. The sleeves are rolled high, and Ma’s apron is tied snug around your waist atop the robe, cinching you in. Your hair’s twisted up into a loose, haphazard knot, strands sticking out in every direction. There’s already flour on your arms, a smudge of something sweet at the corner of your mouth, and the kind of glow in your cheeks that can only come from oven heat and genuine, bone-deep contentment.

You look a mess—flushed, flour-dusted, a little bit wild-eyed—and you feel fucking amazing.

Could it have something to do with your extra special wake-up call this morning?

Possibly.

Okay definitely.

But there’s no time to linger in the memory—in the ache between your legs. The kitchen demands your full attention.

There’s a ham to glaze, biscuits to knead, soft and golden, rising patiently beneath a worn dish towel. Pies cooling on the windowsill, their crusts puffed and caramelized, glittering with coarse sugar. A pot of collards simmers on the back burner, heavy with vinegar and spice, steam curling in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Nearby, potatoes hiss and pop in their boiling water, begging to be mashed within an inch of their lives with cream and butter.

By 11 a.m, you’re elbow-deep in the rhythm of it. Your hips sway to the music as you mindlessly sing along to carols, feet gliding across the tile in time with the soft shuffle of holiday vinyl and the crackle of the radio. You hum, half to yourself, half to the house. You taste, stir, season, adjust. Knead, rinse, repeat. The air is thick with warmth—yeast and salt and something sweeter still—and the windows have fogged to milky glass from the heat.

And you, radiant in the middle of it all, apron askew and cheeks smudged with flour, are the heartbeat of the room, just like Ma was. Every spoonful of gravy, every swipe of butter, every dusting of spice lifts something inside you. Something light. Something that feels like joy.

Out there, the wind howls over the hills, stripping the trees bare and rattling the eaves. It’s gray and bitter and biting.

But here—in this little kitchen that smells like brown sugar and rosemary and home—it’s magic.

And Johnny notices.

So does Pa.

Neither says much, not at first. But you catch it in the way Johnny leans against the doorframe occasionally, arms crossed, eyes soft. In the way Pa clears his throat and lingers by the coffee pot, nodding in approval at the bubbling pot of collards like he’s afraid to say more. They can both feel how much today means, how special you’re trying to make it.

What you’re building is more than a meal. It’s a memory in the making.

As it nears dinner, the house thrums with movement. Pa’s been out at Ma’s grave in the freezing cold for hours, Johnny is in and out, still working—boots muddy, cheeks pink from the cold—but every time he returns, he makes a point to check on you. Stealing kisses here and there. Sometimes he just grabs a knife and starts chopping beside you, no questions asked, like it’s second nature.

In hindsight, you’re endlessly thankful for the cooking lessons you gave him. 

 He wipes his hands on your apron, bumps your hip with his, murmurs little nothings to keep you grounded.

And you need it—because you’re barely holding on.

You can only “taste, stir, season, adjust” so many times before your taste buds go numb—utterly blind to balance, dulled by repetition. And poor Johnny, bless his heart, is so whipped you could slip a spoonful of straight salt past his lips and he’d take it like communion, eyes closed, mouth open, ready for more.

Any peace you found this morning has long since vanished—burned off by the trials and tribulations of wrangling a feast into existence, the hours slipping through your fingers like sifted flour, not quite enough despite how early you woke up.

There’s baking powder on your temple, gravy on the stovetop, steam rising from every pan and pot like gunsmoke. You’ve long exchanged your robe for one of Johnny’s sweatshirts and some jeans. You’re a flurry of motion: rolled up sleeves, apron damp with dishwater, sweating, hair falling out of its knot, caked in sauces and water and miscellaneous powders up to your elbows as you dart from counter to oven to sink and back again.

Because tonight isn’t just any dinner. It’s Ma’s Christmas dinner.

You’re cooking her recipes—every single one. Her honey-glazed ham. Her molasses cookies. Her greens and cornbread stuffing—and the cornbread. Her pies, her biscuits, her caramel-slick sweet potatoes, her normal baked potatoes, her mashed potatoes. 

All of it. 

The smells and tastes in each dish are close—so close—but still not quite right, and you’re driving yourself mad trying to pin it down.

It’s only the second time you’ve done this. The first was last year, Christmas after she passed, and it left you in tears halfway through. Nothing came out right because you were just too in your head—too distracted. 

This year, you swore it would be different. You promised yourself it would be perfect.

So when the ham browns too quickly, or when the pie crust bubbles unevenly, or when you forget the damn cranberry sauce in the icebox for the third time, your chest tightens. Your hands tremble a little as you stir the gravy, your eyes sting when the greens don’t taste exactly like hers. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s there in your bones—in your eyes—the fear that none of it will be good enough.

That you won’t be good enough.

Johnny knows the look on your face well by now. Every time he finds you staring off at a simmering pot like it just insulted your entire bloodline, he wraps his arms around you from behind, settles his chin on your shoulder, and says something like, “Smells damn near holy, Hen,” or “Ma’d slap me on m’hind if I said yer biscuits weren’t better’n hers.”

You chuckle as you fight tears, swatting him with a wooden spoon and threatening to cry if he doesn’t shut up. He just grins and tells you he’d kiss the tears away.

Around six, Pa comes back from Ma’s grave. He doesn’t say much—just hangs his coat with a solemn sigh, washes his hands, and starts setting the table without being asked. It’s the first time he’s done that in years. You glance at Johnny, eyes wide, and he just shrugs a little like don’t spook him, let him be.

You’re still flipping sweet potatoes into the serving dish when Johnny slips behind you again, his hands warm on your waist, his voice low in your ear.

“Yer doin’ just fine, baby. Everythin’s beautiful.”

You nod, but your fingers are clenched tight on the serving spoon.

“I just… I don’t know if it tastes the same,” you whisper.

Johnny gently pries the spoon from your grip and nudges it into the dish himself.

“Don’t have to taste the same,” he says. “It’s yers just as much as hers.”

Your throat thickens. You blink up at him and manage a breathless little smile—grateful, nervous, loved.

And outside, the sun dips low beyond the frostbitten trees. Christmas lights flicker on the porch. The clock ticks toward seven.

You put the final touches on dinner with shaking hands and a full heart. The ham is crisped and glistening, the greens are tender, the biscuits golden. It doesn’t taste exactly like Ma’s—you know that. But it’s close. And Johnny was right, it’s yours now, just as much as hers. 

A little sweeter in some places, a little spicier in others. The way she’d make it if she had your hands.

Johnny helps you bring everything to the table, both of you moving in a quiet rhythm, no more rush, no more panic. Just the quiet hum of satisfaction. Of tired pride.

The table is a feast, every dish a testament to your labor, and the house smells like heaven,like rosemary and butter, sugar and smoked meat, like memory itself come home to roost.

Every inch of it is filled—ham, greens, stuffing, candied yams, two kinds of pie, cornbread, gravy in a chipped porcelain boat, the three kinds of potatoes, and somehow more. Steam curls like smoke from a hearth. Little candles flicker soft and golden. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, bathed in sparkling lights and old glass ornaments.

It’s almost enough to make you cry.

You all take your places around the table. Pa at the head, just like always. You settle to his left, Johnny across from you.

For a second, it’s quiet—not tense, not stiff, just… still. The kind of still that feels sacred.

Then Pa clears his throat.

“Alright,” he mutters. “Let’s say grace.”

You all bow your heads.

Pa reaches for your hand with his left and Johnny with his right—his hand is calloused, warm, heavy with time. You offer it, gentle, grounding yourself in the weight of it.

Then you feel Johnny’s fingers slide into your left hand. They’re rougher, warmer, a little clumsy with affection. He gives your hand the most miniscule squeeze, and your eyes flick up just for a moment.

He’s already peeking at you from where his head is bowed.

And for a second, the world shrinks to that small moment—the warm light, the smell of cinnamon and roast, the three of you sitting around this table like the Last Supper.

Pa begins to speak

“Lord, we thank You for this meal, for the roof over our heads, and the hands that made it. For the year that tested us, the ones we’ve lost, and the ones we still hold close. We thank You most of all for the gift of Your Son, born into the world to show us love and grace. For His light that still guides us, even in the darkest of days—” 

“—Amen.”

“Amen,” you and Johnny echo in tandem

You look around the table, at all the food you made, at Johnny’s faint smile, at the way Pa’s face relaxes as he carves the ham.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe months—the silence around this table doesn’t feel heavy.

Dinner goes… surprisingly well.

The table is full—everything smells like comfort, like memory. Like the holidays used to, back when Ma was still around to hum carols under her breath and sneak you food while the kitchen clock ticked steadily on.

Pa eats like a man who’s been waiting for this all year. Maybe he has. He doesn’t say much—just digs in, his knife and fork clinking against the plate and he goes in for more without waiting for the offer. His usual sternness softens in the glow of candlelight and nutmeg, the quiet hum of the radio in the background crooning “Christmas, Baby Please Come Home”.

Your eyes occasionally flicker to Pa, observing his reactions to the food.

Finally, after scraping up the last bit of sweet potato with his fork, Pa leans back with a long, contented sigh. He pats his belly, tongue running across his teeth, and glances your way.

You blink. Look up at him.

“Just like your mother’s, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and rough with emotion he won’t name.

You damn near melt into your seat. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he adds, glancing down at his plate again. “She’d’ve been real proud of you tonight.”

Your chest folds in on itself and you can’t fight your smile. “Thank you, Pa.”

Across from you, Johnny glances up from his fork. Gives you a quiet little smile. One only you catch.

It’s small and secretive, barely there—but it damn near breaks the spell.

You sit up a little straighter. Fold your hands in your lap.

The conversation drifts. Safe topics. Soft ones.

“Cows’ve been putting on more weight than I expected this year,” Pa says, breaking apart a biscuit with his hands.

Johnny hums. “Good feed’ll do that. An’ they’re eatin’ more now that it’s cold. Need the energy.”

“Been thinkin’ about ordering early come spring,” Pa adds. “Seed catalogue’s already half marked up.”

“I was looking at it the other day,” you chime in, grateful for the change of subject. “Saw a new onion variety—yellow granex. Might try it.”

Pa grunts his approval.

No brushing knees under the table. No lingering glances.

You don’t laugh too long when Johnny makes one of his low, dry little jokes about the horses getting too spoiled.

And Johnny doesn’t look at you like he’s memorizing the exact curve of your mouth when you smile.

You’re both trying. God, you’re trying.

But even this quiet, careful choreography can’t hide the fact that something’s changed.

Pa’s watching. More than you think.

And he’s still not as tired as he looks. His eyes flick between you like darts, like a man playing a game of chess with pieces that don’t know they’re on the board. He notices the way your shoulders shift when Johnny speaks. The slight lean in your body that makes you seem closer than you are. 

And then there are the silences.

It’s in the way Johnny’s jaw ticks when your laugh slips out too free, too fond. There’s barely any stolen glances, no secret touches. You barely breathe when he speaks and he’s all yes sir and pass the salt, sitting straight and respectful—utterly overcompensating—like he hasn’t fucked you senseless in the barn and across the property a hundred times over. The way his thumb taps against the table like he’s itching to reach across it and touch you. 

Pa may not say much, but he’s not blind. He’s seen a thousand tiny tells in men trying to keep something hidden. A thousand more in girls when they see something they like.

So when he finally speaks again, the quiet’s been stretched tight as a fishing line between you all.

And it snaps.

Not kind. Not forgiving. Not soft like the smile he gave you ten minutes ago.

And you know the moment it happens—that moment something shifts.

He sets his fork down. Wipes his mouth. Folds the napkin despite his food being half-eaten, before tossing it onto the plate like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold.

Then he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and eyes the both of you with that quiet, storm-brewing stillness that always comes before a blow.

“You two think you’re slick, huh?” he says, eerily low, not nearly as biting in tone as he is in word.

The sound of cutlery scraping and chewing pauses, save for the faint buzzing of the light fixture above your heads and the soft carolling from the radio.

“Sittin’ there tryin’ to play house like I don’t see what’s goin’ on. Like I’m some kinda idiot— after I said to cut that shit out.”

Your blood runs cold. You don’t move. 

Across the table, Johnny stiffens. His jaw ticks.

“Pa,” you try, soft but warning.

“You think I forgot what I told him?” he growls, jutting his chin toward Johnny. “Think I didn’t notice him sniffin’ ‘round again, all hangdig ‘n sorry-faced like a hound caught pissin’ on the porch?”

Pa leans forward, voice dropping even lower.

“You know your mother used to say the Lord forgives all things,” he asks, gaze locked on Johnny now. “That no matter how far a man strays, he can always find his way back to the light.”

A pause that feels like eons..

Then—

“Well. The Lord may be forgivin’—but I sure as hell ain’t.”

“Dad— don’t do this,” you plead, voice catching. “Please, not today—”

But it’s too late. The air’s already changed—sharp and dangerous, like metal before a storm.

He chuckles sardonically. “No, go ahead. Keep makin’ eyes at him like your Mama ain’t six feet under. Like I didn’t tell him what’d happen if he didn’t leave you alone.”

Johnny shifts beside you, mouth parting like he wants to say something, but you shoot him a look—tight and desperate. He stays still.

“Maybe you oughta be reminded of what happened to her,” Pa mutters. “What happens when you put your heart where it don’t belong, when you make the wrong choices.”

Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you stand up, jamming a finger in his face, voice raised before you can stop it.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare bring her into this!”

“What happens when you say things you shouldn’t—”

“Fucking stop! I said not to bring her into this—”

Pa stands too, rising to meet you. “I will, if it means knockin’ some damn sense into you!”

“I have sense!” you yell, eyes burning. “I do everything around here! I cook, I clean, I fix your goddamn truck, I work this land, I bleed for it—and for what?  So you can sit on your ass and tell me who I’m allowed to be with!?”

Johnny finally stands, voice quiet but firm, trying to cool the heat.

“Hey,” he says gently. “It’s alright, let’s just calm down, aye? Let’s all just—”

“Stay out of it!” you and Pa shout at the same time.

Johnny stiffens. His eyes find yours, flicker to Pa, then back. He just nods—swallows hard—and steps back from the table.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly, and walks out the front door, the screen creaking shut behind him.

The silence he leaves behind is thick and suffocating—clinging to the walls like humidity before a storm, curling in your throat like smoke. The heat in the room builds, slow and insidious, rising to a fever pitch. It presses in on your skin, coils in your gut, turns the warmth of the dinner table into something volatile and sharp.

It’s a boiling point.

You can feel it beneath the surface, pulsing like blood in your ears, like the twitch of a trigger finger. A single breath too loud, a glance too long, and it’ll all come spilling over—scalding and irreversible.

The floorboards groan when you shift. The clock ticks too loud. And neither of you move, don’t blink—frozen at the edge of eruption.

It’s not just what Pa said. It’s what it means. It’s what it confirms. 

That you hurt her, and it stayed that way until her last breath—until it was utterly irreversible.

You don’t even feel the tears when they come—just the warmth of them cutting silent tracks down your cheeks. Your shoulders tremble, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven pulls. You’re crying now.

But it’s not grief that grips you.

It’s fury.

Hot and electric, pulsing just beneath your skin like a live wire. It surges through you, clenches your fists, sets your jaw. 

“Fuck this— this isn’t even about Johnny anymore,” you spit. “This is about you.”

Pa narrows his eyes.

You let it all come crashing down. Let it rupture. Let it detonate and scatter like shrapnel—hot, sharp, and unstoppable—landing in the middle of Ma’s Christmas dinner like a tornado ripping through a church. The air in the room shifts, dense with heat and heartbreak.

Your eyebrows knit, your voice cracking open and spilling out louder than you ever thought it could.

“You don’t care about what’s best for me—” Each word slams into the table like a fist. “You care about control. About keeping me here. Keeping everything just the way you want it—tight, tidy, fucking trapped!”

Your chest heaves with the weight of it. The truth of it. And now that it’s out, there’s no stuffing it back in.

He scoffs, loud and bitter, like the sound’s been clawing up his throat. He shoves his chair back with a screech of wood on wood, the legs dragging harsh against the floor.

“You got no clue what I care about!” he snaps, jabbing a finger at you, his face flushed deep with heat—whether it’s rage or shame, you can’t tell. His chest rises and falls beneath his flannel, the veins in his neck standing out like cords.

“You think this is about control? ‘Bout keepin’ things tidy!?” He paces once, twice, then stops short like his boots are glued to the floor. “You don’t know a goddamn thing!”

“I do!” you shout, your voice cracking like a whip through the air. Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms, your body tense, every muscle wrung tight, ready to snap. “I’ve always known! Ever since Ma died, you’ve checked out. You don’t help with anything. You just sit there—drinking, sulking, acting like the world owes you something—” You inhale, gasping for breath—it floods in, sharp like bile—but with every exhale, more words spill out. Tumbling, relentless, like water breaching a dam. You can’t stop them. They’re crashing through, wild and scalding on your tongue, “— it sure as shit doesn’t.”

He paces in short, jagged steps, the tension in his body snapping with each movement. His hand tightens into a fist at his side, knuckles going white as he strikes the dining table with a bang. His shoulders jerk with each breath, chest rising and falling like he's struggling to keep himself in check. His gaze locks on you with a ferocity that could burn through steel.

The words leave him in a low growl, venom coating each syllable. “You think you’re so grown—”

“What’s your job, Pa?” you cut him off, screaming, voice cracking, utterly exasperated. “Tell me. What the fuck do you even do around here? Besides sit on your ass while I break my back trying to keep this place afloat?!”

His face is dark now. Shadowed, rigid. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares.

And then, you let go.

“She’d fucking hate the man you’ve become.”

Silence detonates in the room like a bomb.

The kind that doesn’t make a sound at first—just swallows everything.

Time hiccups. The walls themselves seem to brace. The heat of the moment curdles into something far colder. Something final.

Your breath hitches. His fists tighten.

And for a second, the only thing that moves is the steam rising from the half-carved ham on the table.

You don’t take it back. You don’t flinch.

Because you mean it.

And he knows you do.

The words hang in the air like gunfire, shells still clattering against the floor, even after everything’s gone.

You watch him deflate in real time—right before your eyes.

No anger. No defense. No fire left to throw.

Just… silence.

A still, bone-deep kind of quiet.

Like something cracked and gave away inside him.

You blink, the heat of your own words catching up to you, stunned by what you said.

What you meant.

Your heart’s pounding, loud in your ears and you don’t even realize you’re shaking until you do.

Pa just sits down again like the wind’s been knocked clean out of him, like whatever was holding him up just… gave out. He sinks into the chair like it’s the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

And he says nothing.

A silence so thick it feels like the whole world is holding its breath—you can hardly hear your own beneath the sound of your heart thumping ferociously in your ears; if it wasn’t for that, you’d be convinced that you had stopped breathing entirely

You drop into your chair like your legs have given out. The edges of your vision blur, chest tight, throat burning. Across from you, Pa’s just still. Still and quiet.

His hands are folded together on the table, knuckles white. When he speaks, it’s low and rough, like gravel in his throat.

“You’re right.”

Your head snaps to him and it hits the room like a thunderclap, even though he barely speaks above a whisper.

“I’ve been sittin’ on my ass,” he says. “Been sittin’ in the ruins of this house—of what was—since your Ma died. Let everythin’ around me rot—the fields, this table, you. I thought I was holdin’ on. Thought if I just kept everythin’ exactly the way she left it, maybe it’d be like she was still here.”

He finally looks up at you. His eyes are bloodshot, wet like you’ve never seen.

“But she’s not. She’s gone. And I buried her… And I buried the best parts of myself right alongside her.”

You cover your mouth, eyes burning. He keeps going.

“And you—Jesus, sweetheart—you look so much like her, it hurts sometimes. Every time you walk through the kitchen or laugh when you’re bakin’—you sound like her. You move like her. Some days I could swear I see her standin’ where you stand.”

His voice starts to tremble, cracking on the words.

“And I—I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t know how to carry that kinda love ‘n  grief at the same time. So I tried to trap you here. I told myself it was about protectin’ you, but it wasn’t—”

His breath falters when the first tear rolls down his cheek, “—it was about protectin’ me."

A pause. His eyes drift to the tabletop, ashamed as he looks at the feast before him.

“I thought if I could just keep you close, I’d never really lose her. But all I did was push you away. Hurt you. Treated you like you didn’t know what you were doin’, when you’ve been holdin’ this place together better’n I ever did.”

You’re crying now—silent and shaking, the tears spilling fast and hot. Your fists are clenched tight in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. Each breath shudders through you, chest rising in uneven bursts as the weight of it all settles heavy in your bones.

He reaches across the table with one trembling hand, palm up, waiting.

“I forgot you weren’t my little girl anymore,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “You’re a woman now. And— And not just that—you’re her daughter, too—”

“—Brave. Brilliant. Stubborn as hell. And… I— I’m proud of you—”

“—And so was your mother, until her last breath.”

You choke out a sob, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as if you could somehow shove it all back down. But the dam’s burst. The tears come hard and fast now, flooding your cheeks, dripping from your chin. Your shoulders curl inward as the weight of it all crashes over you, grief and guilt and love and everything in between pouring out in a tidal wave you can’t stop.

You finally take his outstretched hand. You don’t think—don’t hesitate. Just reach for him, like you did when you were small. Like somewhere deep down, part of you still believes he’ll make it all okay if he just holds on tight enough.

He squeezes it gently. There’s another silence. Then:

“When you love someone,” he says, voice thick, “you’d do anything for ‘em. Kill for ‘em. Change the world if you have to. I see what that boy’s done for you—he’s changed you.”

“He’s changed your world, hasn’t he?”

“Yes” your voice lodged somewhere deep in your throat—thick with everything you can’t say, everything he might already know.

He gives a slow, paternal, knowing look. “You love that boy?”

You nod as you process the question. Your voice stays trapped behind your ribs, thick and trembling, too heavy to lift past your tongue as you realize it for the first time.

He closes his eyes like the word settles something deep in his chest. He nods.

Then, after a beat, he looks at you again—really looks—and smiles, small and tearful.

“You look just like your mother,” he says. 

“Beautiful.”

He rises slowly, places a weathered, shaking hand on the back of your head. Brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb. Presses a kiss to your forehead so tender it shatters you all over again.

Then he straightens.

And without another word, he turns and climbs the stairs—his footsteps slow, the old wood groaning under each step—until his bedroom door clicks softly shut behind him.

You sit there for a bit.

Eyes still bleary, lashes clumped from crying, face warm from the aftershock of everything that just passed.

The explosion.

The apology you never thought you'd hear.

The clarity you never believed would come.

You feel hollow and full all at once, like your soul’s been rung out and laid bare across the dinner table. Shell-shocked. Utterly in awe.

The house is so still now. No footsteps overhead. No wind outside. Just you and the soft creak of wood settling into silence.

You sniffle, pulling yourself upright, trying to find the edges of your body again. Your breath still shakes in your chest as you wipe your cheeks with the sleeve of your robe and glance over the spread still sitting between your elbows.

A comically large feast. Glazed ham, mashed potatoes, gravy gone gelatinous in the chill, greens wilting in the pot. A perfectly browned pie that no one even cut. It all sits cold now, untouched since the shouting started.

Still—

Somehow, it’s beautiful.

A testament to the day.

To your effort.

To Ma.

To everything that just cracked open and tried to mend itself again.

You sit with it. Just for a moment longer.

Then, your heart tugs toward the front porch.

Toward the man who walked out into the cold for your sake.

You take slow, shallow steps toward the front door, your body still heavy with the weight of everything that just transpired inside. Your hands tremble as you push the screen door open, and the cold air rushes to meet you like a quiet embrace. The night is crisp, and the world is still around you.

Sitting on the top step of the porch, boots planted, elbows resting on his knees, a cigarette pinched between two fingers. The amber tip glows dimly in the dark, illuminating the worn lines of his face. He’s staring out at the field, blank-eyed and faraway, but the moment he hears the door creak open, he turns. Stands. Flicks the cigarette away with a sharp little snap.

His gaze lands on you—and softens immediately. He sees the dried tears streaked across your cheeks, the exhaustion, the rawness, the war you just walked away from. And it shatters him.

Without a word, he stands and takes a step toward you. His arms open before you even know what you're doing, and you rush into him. He pulls you in tight, firm, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold you right. His body heat mingles with the cold, the contrast perfect in a way that only you and him could understand.

“C’mere,” he hums, his voice thick with care.

You inhale deeply, trying to steady yourself. “Johnny, I’m sorr—”

He cuts you off, a gentle but firm hand at the back of your head. "None of that, sweet girl. None of that," he says, his voice almost a whisper, the words soft but laden with something unshakable.

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, and for a moment, the world stops spinning. The weight of everything falls away, like a slow exhale you didn’t know you were holding in. His hands find the small of your back and the base of your neck, clutching you tight, like he’s trying to squeeze all the ache right out of you. The warmth of him is grounding, steady, and for the first time today, you feel safe.

The wind picks up, ruffling your hair as you both stand there, and the windchimes on the porch sing a soft melody in the background. From where your head is resting on Johnny's shoulder, you see them: small, delicate white flakes of snow beginning to fall from the sky. They twirl and drift down, landing on the ground and in the grass.

The first snow in twenty years. 

[luveline]

Derek and shy!reader maybe? Meeting the team for the first time and none of them are expecting Derek's partner to be standing half-hidden behind him, shyly waving at them instead of saying anything

thank you for ur request! fem!reader

"So what's the deal?" Emily asks Penelope, licking the stem of her paper umbrella dry before dropping it onto a napkin. "He's suddenly going steady?" 

"Can you call five months sudden?" Rossi asks. 

Hotch nudges him. 

"What?" Rossi asks. "Can you? Five months is a long time." 

"And that's why you had to send Christmas cards to three different divorce lawyers this year," Emily says. 

Emily has a penchant for saying the occasional brazen comment, but JJ confiscates her friend's margarita anyways, before the booze loosens her lips and she says something worse. It's a small jet. 

"It's not like Morgan," Spencer agrees, standing at Rossi's other side, looking less out of place than usual. 

"It's totally like him," Penelope says.

Hotch's smile is hard to read, which is a spectacle considering current company. "I agree." 

"Here he is now," Penelope says excitedly, clapping her hands in front of her chest. 

Derek strides into the bar and past its patrons without a care in the world. He looks happy, content, and the team doesn't need to see you to know you're with him. He smiles at his phone at work exactly as he smiles now, with his arm stretched backwards to tether you along. 

You come into view as the crowd thins. You're not what anyone's expecting, certainly not plain but nor are you dressed up. Emily, in her tipsiness, declares that you look adorable, and receives a reproachful look from Hotch in reward. 

"Hey Derek!" JJ calls as soon as he's near enough. 

"Hey, guys. Mama, you remember what we talked about?" Derek asks Penelope. 

She nods sagely. "Restraint. I'm restraining myself. Oh my god you're so cute, I'm Penelope! I'm so happy to meet you." 

"Hi," you say. 

No less than five pairs of eyes fall to your hand as you twist your fingers into Derek's sleeve. He doesn't bat an eye, taking a half step in front of you, a picture of casualness as he introduces you to each of them in turn. 

"It's nice to meet you," Hotch says, seemingly speaking for the whole group. 

You raise your hand and give a stilted wave. Your eyes look sad and stressed at once, but you don't sound either, softly saying, "You too." 

Derek wraps a muscled arm behind your neck, grinning while he meets Penelope's eyes. "What are we drinking tonight?"

Your eyebrows pinch up at the starts. You smile at them all despite your obvious nervousness, and it's enough for each of them to reach the same conclusion simultaneously. You're shy, but you're good. A broad sweep yet easy to make. It's obvious how much you care for Derek if you'd been willing to meet them like this when you clearly don't feel comfortable.

Luckily for you, Penelope is excellent as making people feel welcome. "We're drinking Y/N's choice. What do you like? Sugar shots? Mojitos?" 

Your lips part, unprepared for a direct question so soon. 

Derek turns his head to yours, giving you what Emily deems the most ridiculous puppy dog eyed smile anyone has ever given, and what Rossi knows is a ring waiting to happen. He should know. 

"Let's go figure it out. Another round, from me?" he offers. 

He's quick to steer you away, but not too quick to miss Rossi's, "Something strong if you want us old timers to stay!" 

They wait for you to be safely out of earshot before they condense, bad gossips and worse actors off the job. "Who would've thought?" Emily asks. 

"She's not what I was expecting," JJ says. 

"Are we that intimidating?" Rossi asks, raising his eyebrows. The answer being yes, of course, though none of them are aware of just how scary they can be. You'd felt like you were standing in front of a pack of wolves. 

"She seemed nice," Spencer says. Trust him to say something sweet. Trust the rest of Derek's friends to agree, the group nodding and humming at various pitches.

"She seemed silent," Emily jokes. 

Penelope crosses her fingers and closes her eyes, earrings swinging against the blond tresses of her curled hair as she drops her head. "God, my muffin deserves nice. Please let this work out, she looks so sweet. I just wanna pinch her cheeks." 

"It's gonna work out," Hotch says surely. 

If Derek could hear him, he'd agree on the spot, but he's too busy praising you halfway across the room for such a stellar introduction. 

[thecheshireprincess]

Hidden in Plain Sight

Shuntarō Chishiya x F!Reader

Summary: Chishiya takes you on the roof of the hotel; will any of the partying Beach citizens notice?

Content Warning: NSFW (18+); porn WITHOUT plot, smutty smut, just smut fr, breeding kink (bc i can't fucking stop), sex in public, curse words, Chishiya is possessive and a little bit OOC (but who cares bc it's literally porn, anyone can be whatever in porn!)

I won't tell anyone what or what not to do, but please interact responsibly ✨️

AO3 Link Here

A/N: Oops, I slipped and I posted this

This might be a two parter? When you get to the end, let me know if you're thinking what I'm thinking 😜

"Chishiya!" you cry out with a whine, the man's long fingers easily finding your clit as he bends you over the sun warmed concrete ledge in front of you. Your mind is hazy with your desire for the blonde, the obscene sounds of his cock driving in and out of your soaked pussy only serving to spur you on. The man moans in earnest, his left hand moving from pinching one of your peaked nipples to splay itself across your soft belly. He had been thinking things recently, and imagining your belly rounded with his seed right now was going to make him explode.

You both had an excellent view of the players gathered around the pool below you, their laughter and the clinking of beer bottles merging effortlessly with the bass of the upbeat music they were swaying to. Each and every one of them none-the-wiser to you getting railed in plain sight above them. For now.

"I've never felt you drip for me like this, angel. Thought you said you weren't into public sex?" he challenges with an arched brow as he continues rutting into you at a leisurely tempo, his long cock imprinting itself deliciously on your cervix as your ass jiggles from the force.

Breathlessly, you whimper not so convincingly, "I'm n-not. And nearly all of The Beach is down there - what if they s-see us?" The Cheshire man grins wickedly at this, "Then you'd better keep quiet if you don't want them to look up and see you getting fucked dumb."

Chishiya had you pinned against the ledge of the roof, your body humming with the electric current of your arousal. You had to hand it to him, you had been violently opposed to getting fucked where other people could see you when he'd suggested it, but honestly you are enjoying the thrill of potentially being caught underneath the blonde man.

Chishiya forces your nearly bare skin to dig into the concrete, the material biting into your senses as his chest presses against your back. The man runs his warm tongue against the column of your throat, sucking and nipping his mark into the sensitive skin. He works his way down your shoulders and ribcage, heat spreading like wildfire throughout you. A tiny, sweet moan escapes you at the thought of his marks littering your body.

He didn't care if you were caught by the entire Beach, in fact, he welcomed it. At least then all those idiots would know you belong to him. They all would soon, anyway, he hoped. A low moan escapes him at the thought, fucking into you with a particularly rough thrust against the spongey spot inside you, both of your heads quickly growing foggy with lust.

You whimper pathetically, eyes rolling back in your head and legs beginning to shake from the position he had you pressed in. Leaning your weight forward onto the concrete in front of you, you sink your teeth into your forearm to prevent your sounds from alerting the public to your position. That will not do, Chishiya decides, pressing one hand into your lower back, and wrapping your hair around the other to lift your torso towards him. "Let them hear how good I make you feel, baby."

Both of you groan in harmony at the new angle the arch in your back provides, the bulbous head of his cock reaching new depths of your wet heat, making tears spring to the corners of your eyes. Your pussy flutters around him, making him suck in a sharp breath.

Without missing a single stroke, Chishiya lifts your body and flips you over, laying your back flat on the wall with one hand protecting your head. His soft hands trail down to grip your waist, stroking up your ribcage and taking one breast in each hand, thumbs finding your nipples and pinching them as he continues his thrusts. "Shiya . . ." You whine, feeling the familiar coil start to tighten in your belly.

The man growls, digging his nails into your hips and fucking into you with abandon, his pelvis providing friction against your sensitive bud. Your legs wrap tight around Chishiya's waist, hands coming to grasp his surprisingly muscular biceps through his white jacket for support. You allow your head to fall back against the concrete, staring up at the gorgeous man above you, the sun glinting off his blonde hair giving him a halo.

A goddess. Chishiya loves the way he splits you open on his cock, every inch of him stretching your tight little pussy. Your eyes half-lidded and mouth hanging open, you're nearly drooling on yourself. Fuck, you're going to kill him. Beads of sweat begin to form against both of you, dripping down and mixing with your other fluids.

You don't technically belong to Chishiya, but damn if he doesn't want you to. You with your gorgeous eyes, your perfect mouth, and fuck this tight pussy. His perfect idea of heaven would be stuck between your legs for all time.

Under him, you begin to babble and whine. Your pretty little moans go straight to the man's cock, and he knows he is going to cum if he doesn't slow things down.

Chishiya grabs tightly onto your thighs, fingers marking the plush skin as he pulls out of you quickly, dropping to his knees between your legs. You're just about to complain about the loss when he suctions his lips around your swollen clit, stuffing two fingers inside your tight, fluttering core. A surprised squeal escapes your throat and you instantly clap a palm over your mouth in embarrassment. Shit.

"Tastes so good for me, baby. So sweet," he praises, the vibrations from his mouth moving like shockwaves through you. Pathetic whimpers leave you as you watch Chishiya move between your legs through thick eyelashes. When his dexterous fingers curl against your spongey spot, you squeal again involuntarily. The man looks up at you with wide, mischieveous eyes - he wants the players to look up and see you.

What a treat it would be for them to get to see you look like this, a goddess that they'll never get to touch. Not as long as he's around to fill you. Not if he can help it.

Your body wriggles adorably against him, whether you want more friction or less, Chishiya can't tell. Your moans have morphed to weakened pants, your entire body wrought with tension as he laps his tongue erotically against your swollen bud.

"Shiya! P-please," you gasp out, hands gripping hard into his blonde locks. He raises an eyebrow up at you from where he's positioned on his knees for you. "Please what, angel?" he questions, fingers still scissoring in and out of your squelching wet pussy.

"I wanna cum on your cock!" you wail in admission, still desperate to be filled but not by his fingers. With one final obscene slurp of your arousal, the man stands up and in one swift motion has your pussy stretched around his cock once more.

Your legs come to wrap tightly around his waist, the man leaning his weight down onto you as he ruts into you. You can feel the way his abs tighten a little bit, Chishiya is close too. The flames of your impending orgasm lick up your abdomen from your core, extending into your ribcage.

"Shiya! Gonna c-cum!" you wail, clearly having abandoned the concern about being fucked just feet above the rest of The Beach partaking in their pool party. You just want to feel good.

"Fuuck, angel. I'm close too, cum for me baby," he nearly begs, reaching between your bodies to rub tight circles on your soaked clit. The extra stimulation and Chishiya's dirty words do it for you, you see stars with one final thrust and your entire body is flooded euphorically with your high. You know you cry out loudly, but the blood rushing in your hears prevents you from hearing, caring.

The way your entire body shudders underneath him is stunning, your tight pussy clamping down on Chishiya's cock and inspiring his own orgasm. Thick ropes of white coat your womb, the man moaning your name as he fills you with his warmth so well.

His sweaty forehead comes to rest on yours as you both pant desperately for air. Chishiya presses his soft lips against yours, gentle but filled with tenderness. When he pulls away to look at you, body limp, pretty polka dot bikini skewed, and eyes shining up at him as though he gave you the world - holy shit. What is this feeling?

He gently adjusts the top of your bikini first, hands trailing along your sides in his ministrations as goosebumps erupt across your skin. He finally pulls his softening cock out of you, tongue clicking at the gorgeous sight of his cum leaking out of you. The man kneels between your legs again, trailing his fingers up through your puffy folds to push his cum back inside you. Your body shivers at the sensation and the erotic implication of the gesture. He straightens your bikini bottoms too, looking up at you with a darkened look on his face. You swallow thickly as he runs a warm hand over your lower belly, a flicker of something appearing behind his eyes.

"Keep my cum inside you, angel. I'll have to fill you again and keep you in bed for days if you don't," he commands, tone serious. Your eyes widen but lustful heat burns in your belly once more. You wouldn't mind being stuck in bed with Chishiya for days, nor would you mind being filled with his cum over and over.

As you come back down from your high, your body feels like putty. It takes nearly all of your strength to roll over and look out at the party down below. The people of The Beach are still splashing and gyrating below you, not a single one of them looking in your direction. Just as you grin, thinking you might have gotten away with it, you feel a burning gaze lingering on your absolutely wrecked body.

Niragi's lustful gaze stares up at you from his place on a daybed, twirling his rifle between his hands. Chishiya notices too, smirking and giving the man a smug and nonchalant wave.

The absolute audacity.

♤ ♡ ◇ ♧

Everything Tag List: @potato-vagina

Please don't hesitate to let me know if you want to be added to (or removed from) any of my tag lists! You can specify if there's a character you like or if you want to see everything. Also, my asks and messages are open, PLEASE reach out, I would literally die to interact with you; ily guys endlessly 💕✨️

[stormyfog]

in plain sight 🫀

murderer heeseung x journalist fem!reader

content: yandere behavior, stalking, obsession, kidnapping, smut later on

chapter 1

the air was thick with the acrid scent of blood, a stark contrast to the evening’s chill as police lights flickered against the shadows of the small town. the crowd had gathered like vultures, murmuring among themselves, their eyes wide with fear and curiosity. in the center of it all, a body lay sprawled in the alley, barely covered by a thin sheet, a stark reminder of the violence that had gripped this quiet town. y/n pushed through the mass of onlookers, notebook in hand, her instincts as a journalist kicking in. this was her job—find the truth, even if it meant uncovering the darkest corners of human nature. as she scanned the crowd, her eyes landed on him—a man standing just on the edge of the gathering, his expression unreadable, eyes glinting in the dim light. he blended in perfectly, like any other face in the crowd, yet something about him made her hesitate. he was smiling to himself, just enough for her to notice.

i took a step closer, my gaze lingering on the man longer than i intended. he didn’t seem to notice, his attention fixed on the scene before us. i shook it off and moved toward the group of bystanders nearest to the alley, but as i stepped forward, i realized he was now standing right behind me. “excuse me,” i asked, turning toward him. “did you see anything unusual tonight?” i hesitated, then added, “what’s your name?” he smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “heeseung,” he replied, his voice soft, almost too calm for the circumstances. “but i think you’re looking in the wrong place.” his gaze flickered from the body back to me, as if he knew exactly what i was thinking. a chill ran down my spine, but i forced myself to stay professional. he was just another face in the crowd, after all.

i couldn’t shake the feeling that something about him wasn’t right. there was a coolness in his eyes that didn’t match the situation. everyone else was tense, their voices sharp with fear or shock, but not him. he looked almost... amused. i forced myself to focus, nodding as i scribbled down a few notes, trying to brush off the unease his presence stirred in me. but as i turned back to the crime scene, i noticed he was still watching me, not making any effort to hide it. it felt as if he was waiting for me to figure something out, some hidden message he was offering without saying a word. i swallowed hard and glanced away, hoping i hadn’t imagined the intensity of his stare. but when i glanced back a moment later, he was gone—slipping back into the crowd as quietly as he had appeared.

i was about to leave the scene, my mind already racing through the details i’d gathered, when something caught my eye—a small, folded piece of paper near the edge of the crime scene tape. it was tucked just beneath a trash can, almost hidden from view. my heart skipped a beat as i reached for it, careful not to disturb anything else. as i unfolded it, i noticed it wasn’t an ordinary piece of paper; it was a torn scrap from one of my own articles. the edges were frayed, but there, scrawled in dark ink across the page, was a single line: “some things are closer than you think.” my breath caught in my throat. the handwriting was unfamiliar, but the message? it sent a cold shiver down my spine. heeseung. had he done this? i looked around the scene one last time, but he was nowhere to be found.

i couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me as i walked home, the streets eerily quiet beneath the dim glow of the streetlights. the paper in my pocket felt heavier with every step, like a secret i wasn’t ready to confront. i tried to focus on the facts, telling myself it was just paranoia, but every time i glanced over my shoulder, i saw nothing but the empty road. it wasn’t until i turned the corner near my apartment building that i caught a glimpse of him—heeseung. he was standing in the shadows, barely visible, but i knew it was him. my heart thudded in my chest as i quickened my pace, trying to convince myself i was imagining it. but when i reached my door and turned the key, i caught the faintest glimpse of him moving in the distance, just out of reach, as if he was waiting for me to notice.

inside, i slammed the door behind me and locked it, my hands trembling as i pulled out the torn article. i stared at the cryptic message, my mind racing. was he trying to get my attention? or was this just some twisted game? i quickly fired up my laptop, searching for anything that could connect heeseung to the murders—or to me. but all i found were news stories, police reports, and unsettling gaps in the timeline. my fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure where to start. the more i searched, the more questions piled up. and somewhere in the back of my mind, a single, chilling thought lingered: what if i was already part of the story?

i sat back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. maybe i was being paranoid. it could’ve been anyone following me—someone else just out for a late walk, or maybe a neighbor on their way home. i was starting to overthink things. the city was quiet at night, and it had been a long day. i let out a shaky breath and stood up to stretch, pushing the creeping unease to the back of my mind. but as i glanced at the torn scrap of paper again, my stomach churned. i had to stay focused. heeseung was just a name in a sea of suspects, nothing more. i closed my laptop and tried to shake off the lingering feeling of his gaze, but it clung to me like a shadow. i wasn’t going to let this get to me.

i made myself some tea, trying to clear my mind, and sat by the window, watching the streets below. the familiar sights of the town, the calm of the empty streets, should’ve been comforting. but all i could think about was the smile he’d given me earlier, the way it seemed like he knew something i didn’t. i tried to focus on the sound of my tea kettle, anything to distract myself. but every time i closed my eyes, all i saw was his face.

chapter 2

the shrill sound of sirens cut through the quiet morning, signaling the discovery of another body. the scene was eerily similar to the one from the previous week—another alley, another lifeless victim. the small town, once so peaceful, was becoming a graveyard of secrets. as i stood at the edge of the crowd, my notebook clutched tightly in my hands, i felt a familiar weight pressing against my chest. this wasn’t just another story. it couldn’t be. there was something darker at play, something i still couldn’t fully understand. the police were already cordoning off the area, their faces grim as they went over the details, but i knew they didn’t have any more answers than they did the last time. the same questions loomed—why these victims? why now? i stepped forward, taking a deep breath, and moved through the gathering crowd. there was something i had to find—something that would connect these killings and, maybe, bring me closer to the one person who seemed to know more than he should: heeseung.

as i pushed through the crowd, i couldn’t shake the feeling that i was being watched again. the sense of unease from last night crept back, and my eyes darted around the gathered onlookers, trying to pinpoint the source. and there he was—standing just at the edge of the crime scene, casually leaning against the brick wall like he belonged there. heeseung. my stomach twisted. it wasn’t the first time i’d seen him at a murder scene, but this time felt different. he was watching me with that same unsettling, almost amused smile from before, as though he were aware of every thought running through my mind. the same quiet confidence. the same eerie calm in the midst of chaos. it was almost as if he wanted me to notice him. i fought the urge to approach him, but something about the way he looked at me, like he was daring me to speak to him, made me take a hesitant step forward.

i took a deep breath, walking toward heeseung, my heart racing. he stood a good few inches taller than most, his 5'11" frame towering over me as i approached. i tried to steady myself, but i couldn't shake the feeling of being small next to him. “another victim,” i said, keeping my voice neutral. “any thoughts on this one?” heeseung tilted his head, his smile curling at the corners of his lips. “another one, yes,” he replied, his tone playful. “but i think you're looking in the wrong place. maybe you're asking the wrong questions.” a chill ran down my spine. his words hit too close to home, as if he knew what i was missing. before i could respond, he turned away, his tall figure slipping back into the crowd, leaving me with nothing but more questions.

as i watched heeseung disappear into the crowd, something caught my eye. it was small, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a scrap of paper tucked into the corner of the police barrier, just a few feet from where heeseung had been standing. my pulse quickened as i walked over and carefully picked it up. it was another torn piece of my own article, the edges jagged and worn. i unfolded it, my breath catching as i read the words scrawled in the same dark ink: “you’re getting closer, but not close enough.” my hands trembled as i held it, the eerie familiarity of the message making my stomach churn. heeseung had left this. there was no doubt. i glanced around, but the crowd had already thickened, and he was nowhere to be seen. the unsettling feeling that he was always one step ahead of me grew stronger.

i couldn’t shake the feeling that heeseung was always one step ahead of me. when i got home, i immediately locked the door behind me and sat down at my desk, eager to dig deeper. i typed his name into my search engine, but all i found was a void—no criminal record, no arrest history, no ties to anything remotely sinister. heeseung was a nobody, just another face in the crowd. but i couldn’t let go of the feeling that there was something more to him. i kept searching, running his name through different forums and news sites, until one particular result caught my eye. it was a mention on a dark web message board, buried deep within a thread i would’ve never found without looking carefully. my heart skipped a beat as i clicked the link, a sense of dread creeping up my spine. it was the only lead i had—if i could dig deeper into this obscure corner of the web, maybe i’d finally find something that connected him to the murders.

my hands trembled as i navigated deeper into the dark web, scrolling through countless threads that made my skin crawl. then, i found it—an account with the username 'wolf_of_hearts.' the profile was minimal, no bio, just a collection of images that made my stomach turn. each photo showed the same chilling thing: the hearts of the recent victims, sealed in glass jars, perfectly preserved. my breath caught in my throat as a cold realization hit me. the victims... all of them had missing hearts. i had seen the bodies up close, but i had been so focused on the wounds that i hadn’t put the pieces together. the missing hearts were a signature, a gruesome pattern that tied everything together. and now, someone—he—was showing them off like trophies. my mind raced, the weight of the discovery sinking in. i needed to find out who was behind this account before it was too late.

just as i was about to close the page, a new notification popped up—direct message. my heart hammered in my chest as i clicked it open, the words on the screen sending a chill down my spine: “i know you’re watching me :)” the smiley face at the end made my stomach twist in a way i couldn’t quite explain. how could they know? how could he know? my mind raced, trying to process it. the account had been silent until now, but this—this felt like a warning. a taunt. the way the words were written felt so personal, like the sender was watching me in real time. the weight of the message settled in, and i realized with a sickening twist that i wasn’t just investigating the murders anymore. i was being watched. and he was letting me know he was always one step ahead.

chapter 3

the morning air felt heavier than usual, thick with the weight of something looming just out of sight. i had barely managed to get a few hours of sleep when the call came. another victim. another life taken. the police had found the body in a nearby alley, and the scene was already swarming with officers and bystanders. i couldn’t ignore the sickening sense of déjà vu as i pushed my way through the crowd, the usual mix of shock and curiosity hanging in the air like a dense fog. another soul claimed by the killer. another thread in the web that was tightening around this town, pulling us all closer to something dark and inescapable.

as i surveyed the scene, my eyes inevitably landed on him. heeseung. standing at the edge of the crowd, his gaze focused on me, as always. but this time, something was different. instead of me walking up to him like before, he moved toward me—quietly, effortlessly blending into the chaos. i barely had time to react before he was beside me, close enough for only me to notice. his fingers brushed against my coat pocket, slipping something inside before he stepped back, a faint smile curling at the corner of his lips. i froze, my breath catching in my throat as he casually walked away, disappearing into the crowd. my hand instinctively reached for the note, the paper feeling cold and heavy against my fingers. what was he playing at now?

i couldn’t bring myself to unfold the note right away, my fingers trembling as i slipped it from my pocket. but when i finally opened it, the words were simple, written in that same dark ink: "there’s a surprise waiting for you at home." my heart skipped a beat. the message was chillingly casual, like a game to him—like he already knew what i was thinking, what i would do next. it was a warning, or maybe a dare. the unsettling thought gnawed at me as i stared at the note, the weight of his words sinking in. he wasn’t just taunting me anymore. he was leading me somewhere, and i had no choice but to follow.

when i got home, my heart was still racing from the encounter with heeseung. but as soon as i walked through the door, another notification popped up on my laptop—another dm from 'wolf_of_hearts.' i hesitated for a moment before opening it, and when i did, the words hit me like a punch to the gut. the message contained everything—my personal information. my address. my phone number. details i had never shared with anyone. and then, at the end of the message, the chilling warning: “if you don’t follow my orders, you’re next on my list.” i stared at the screen, my hands shaking. how had he gotten all of this? how much did he really know about me? my mind raced, the reality of the situation sinking in. he wasn’t just watching me. he was in control now. and if i didn’t do exactly what he wanted, i would become the next victim.

“what do you want from me?” i typed, my fingers trembling as i hit send. the question hung in the air, but i knew it was futile—asking him for answers would only fuel his twisted game. my laptop pinged almost immediately, and i braced myself for whatever came next. the response was short, almost mocking: “you’ll find out soon enough. just do as i say, and you’ll stay safe.” safe. the word made my blood run cold. i wasn’t safe. not with him knowing everything about me, not with him having control over every step i took. a dark realization settled in: there was no way out. heeseung—or whoever this was—had already won. the only choice i had now was whether to play along or risk becoming the next piece in his twisted puzzle.

another message appeared on the screen, and my heart pounded as i read it. “for now, i won’t do anything. but i’ll be keeping a close eye on you.” the words seemed to seep into my mind, winding around every thought, every instinct i had to break free from his grip. there was a sick satisfaction in his tone, a promise of control that he intended to keep. it was as if he wanted me to feel his presence even when he wasn’t there, lurking in every shadow, watching my every move.

i closed my laptop, shutting out the disturbing messages, and headed to the bathroom. the hot water poured over me, washing away the tension that had settled into every part of my body. i tried to push heeseung’s words from my mind, hoping the warmth would melt away the unease, if only for a moment. after drying off, i changed into something comfortable and was finally ready to crawl into bed when a sudden notification lit up my phone screen. my heart skipped a beat, dread prickling along my spine as i reached for it, half-expecting to see another message from him.

my breath caught as i opened the message, and my stomach twisted with dread. heeseung had texted me. i shouldn’t have been surprised—he had access to everything about me, after all—but seeing his name on my screen sent a new wave of fear through me. i tapped the message, and my heart stopped. attached were photos of me in my apartment, taken from just outside my window. one showed me at my desk, another catching me as i moved around the room. the realization hit hard: he wasn’t just watching. he was here, close enough to reach me whenever he wanted.

i bolted to the window, heart racing, and pulled back the curtain. there, standing on the street below, was heeseung. he looked up, meeting my gaze with that same unnerving smile, his hand raised in a slow, deliberate wave. the streetlight cast a shadow over his face, but his eyes glinted, catching the faint glow. he knew exactly what he was doing, savoring the effect he had on me. i stepped back, my pulse pounding in my ears. he was toying with me, and no matter how much distance i put between us, it was clear he would always be closer than i ever wanted.

a part of me couldn’t deny it—this twisted game of cat and mouse had a strange thrill to it. it was wrong, so deeply wrong, to feel anything other than fear. yet, there was something about heeseung, something darkly alluring in his careful words, his cryptic messages, the way he knew exactly how to keep me on edge. i hated that i felt this way. i should be running, finding a way to get him out of my life for good. but every time he appeared, every time he left another clue, i found myself drawn in, the danger only making his pull stronger.

chapter 4 (heeseung’s p.o.v.)

i watched her from a distance, hidden in the shadows, savoring every flicker of fear, every hint of curiosity that crossed her face. she didn’t know it yet, but she was playing her role perfectly—drawn in, inch by inch, exactly as i wanted. the thrill of watching her unravel, of seeing her look over her shoulder, searching for me, was intoxicating. she didn’t understand that this was more than a game to me. i’d waited so long, watched her every move, learned every detail. and now, seeing her wrestle with herself, knowing she couldn’t pull away—that was the real victory.

satisfied, i turned away from her window, a smirk lingering on my lips as i slipped back into the shadows. the night was quiet, and i welcomed the chill as i flagged down a cab at the end of her street. the driver barely glanced my way as i gave directions, my mind already on the place i called my own—a cabin tucked far away in the woods, beyond the reach of prying eyes. it was a place where silence reigned, where every plan i’d carefully crafted could unfold without interruption.

as the taxi driver neared the house, i could feel the familiar sense of control settling in. without a word, i reached into my jacket and pulled out a thin wire, slipping it around the back of the seat. in one swift motion, i yanked it tight, pressing it against the driver’s throat. his gasps for air were brief, weak, and soon enough, his body went limp, slumping forward as he lost consciousness. i eased the wire away, watching as the man fell into a heap against the wheel. there was no need for him anymore. i stepped out of the cab, leaving the driver unconscious and the night still wrapped in its heavy silence. it would be some time before anyone even noticed he was missing.

i dragged the driver’s body out of the cab and into the shadows, my boots crunching on the gravel beneath me. the shed stood just behind the cabin, isolated and hidden from sight, the perfect place for what i needed to do. with practiced ease, i hoisted the unconscious man’s limp form over my shoulder and carried him inside. the dim light from the hanging bulb barely illuminated the tools i’d arranged earlier, each one sharp and waiting. my hands moved with precision, preparing for the familiar ritual. the driver wouldn’t be missed, not out here, not when his heart would soon join the others—each piece of the collection a testament to my affection, my obsession, and my devotion.

i paused for a moment, feeling a hint of laziness creeping in. the body could wait—there was no rush. instead, i decided to clean up. i washed my hands, wiping away the remnants of the night’s work, the routine that had become almost second nature to me. once i was done, i walked through the small cabin and into my room, a room i’d carefully curated. the walls were lined with photographs of her, the ones i’d taken from the shadows, when she hadn’t known i was watching. articles she’d written were scattered across the room, pinned up with a kind of reverence. each page was a piece of her—her words, her thoughts, her passions. it was an obsession, yes, but one that felt strangely comforting, as if i were the only one who truly understood her.

i lay back on the bed, a sense of satisfaction washing over me as i pulled out my phone. with a few taps, i uploaded the photo of the driver’s heart to my dark web account, the image serving as another grisly trophy for those who followed my work. as the post went live, afterwards, i switched to another album on my phone, one filled with pictures of her—i scrolled through each photo slowly, savoring the way her face looked when she was unaware, captured in moments where she was simply being herself. there were shots from a distance, others from close-up, each one a reminder of my proximity to her. these weren’t just images—they were my connection to her, the proof that i was always watching, always waiting for the next step in our game.

as i scrolled through the pictures, each one pulling me deeper into a dark yearning, my mind became consumed by thoughts of her. the more i saw her—her expressions, her every move—the stronger the desire grew. i couldn’t fight it anymore, not when the connection i felt with her seemed so undeniable, so real in my mind. every photo, every moment captured, felt like she was right there with me, even if she didn’t know it yet. i closed my eyes, my breath coming in shallow bursts, unable to control the pull that was getting harder to resist.

i couldn’t control myself, giving in the pleasure that aroused in me. i slowly unzipped my pants and lowered by boxers, setting my member free. slowly, but steadily, i started to stroke myself while looking at the photos of her. i couldn’t get enough, i wanted to be inside of her, but i knew i had to be patient, patient enough to let her fall in my trap. i was grunting at the thought, coming all over my shirt in the process. i got up, changed my shirt, and slept, waiting for tomorrow’s arrival.

the morning light broke through the blinds, but i had already woken, eager for what the day would bring. after a quick breakfast, i headed out to the shed, where the taxi driver’s body lay. dragging him into the back of my car, i made sure no one was watching as i drove him into town. the place i’d chosen was perfect—an alleyway just on the outskirts of the busy district, where it wouldn’t take long for the cops to find him. i placed the body carefully, making sure it was positioned in a way that would lead them straight to me. as i stepped back, i smiled, knowing the chaos and fear that would follow. the game was far from over.

chapter 5

another body was discovered that morning, the familiar grim details making their rounds through the news outlets. the police quickly released a statement, urging the public to avoid walking alone at night, the warning hanging heavy in the air. as the crowd gathered around the crime scene, i couldn’t help but notice him again—heeseung, blending in like a shadow, watching from a distance. my heart raced. i couldn’t go near the police, couldn’t risk speaking to them. the thought of what he might do if i drew attention to myself made my skin crawl. i could feel his eyes on me, a silent threat in the air, and i knew—without a doubt—that he was always watching.

as the crowd slowly dispersed, i stood there, my mind racing, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling. that’s when i felt him—heeseung—his presence creeping up behind me like a whisper in the wind. he leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear, and i froze. "you're a good girl," he murmured, the words sending a chill down my spine. "you didn’t tell the cops about me." his voice was smooth, almost affectionate, as if he were praising a child for following instructions. i clenched my fists at my sides, but i couldn’t bring myself to move. his words were a reminder of just how much power he had over me.

a blush crept up my neck at the pet name, my face burning with embarrassment. i didn’t know why it affected me so much, but heeseung noticed immediately. he chuckled softly, a dark glint in his eyes, enjoying the reaction he’d caused. just as i tried to regain my composure, a cop approached us, eyeing heeseung with a knowing look. “you should be with your girl all the time, alright?” the officer said gruffly, giving heeseung a pointed look. “don’t want another mess to deal with.” as the cop turned to walk away, i opened my mouth to protest, but my voice caught in my throat. “i’m not his—” i began, but it was too late. the cop was already walking off, leaving me speechless, the tension between heeseung and me thickening with each passing second.

heeseung’s lips curled into a teasing smile as he watched my reaction. “you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he murmured, his voice low and mocking. i tried to ignore him, but his presence made it impossible. he sobered quickly, his expression turning serious as he leaned in closer. “don’t think i’ve lost sight of you,” he said quietly, his eyes locking with mine, the intensity of his gaze making my heart race. then, as if flipping a switch, his smile returned, but there was something dark behind it. “how about we meet at that little restaurant downtown?” he suggested, his tone still playful but carrying an edge. “i think we should have a proper ‘date.’” the way he said it, with such casual assurance, made it feel less like an invitation and more like a demand.

i quickly nodded, not wanting to provoke him further, afraid of what might happen if i refused. later that evening, i received a message from heeseung—just the address of the restaurant, crossroads café. my heart skipped a beat, a mix of anticipation and dread swirling inside me. i couldn’t help but wonder what kind of game he was playing, but there was no backing out now. i decided to dress up, wanting to look nice for once. it had been a while since i’d done anything like this, since i’d last headed somewhere that required a little effort. standing in front of the mirror, i adjusted my outfit, my nerves rising as i thought about the night ahead. what was heeseung planning? and more importantly, what was i walking into?

as i walked into the restaurant, my eyes immediately found him—heeseung, sitting at a table near the window, looking dashing in a sleek suit that made him seem even more dangerous. his dark gaze met mine, a smile spreading across his lips, but there was something unsettling behind it, a quiet intensity i couldn’t quite place. as i approached, he stood up and pulled out my chair for me, the smoothness of his actions almost making me forget how unsettling everything about him was. “you look beautiful,” he said, his voice laced with genuine admiration, though i could tell it was more than that. the compliment caught me off guard, making my face flush with an unfamiliar warmth. it was the kind of thing i wasn’t used to hearing, and it left me feeling flustered, a knot of confusion twisting in my stomach.

heeseung seemed to enjoy my reaction, his smile widening as he settled into his seat across from me. “nervous?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. i tried to shake my head, forcing myself to keep calm, but he saw right through me. “don’t worry,” he continued smoothly, his tone both comforting and unnerving. “i don’t bite… unless you want me to.” his gaze lingered on me, and i felt a shiver run down my spine. despite every instinct telling me to leave, i found myself rooted to the spot, held by the magnetism he exuded, even when i knew it was dangerous.

heeseung’s eyes never left mine as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his voice soft but pointed. “you know, i’ve been watching you for a long time,” he admitted, his words sending a chill through me. “following your work, keeping an eye on your every move.” his fingers traced the edge of his glass absentmindedly, his gaze dark and unwavering. “it’s fascinating, really,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “how close we’ve gotten without you even knowing.” i swallowed, my heart pounding as his words settled in. the casual way he spoke of his obsession was both terrifying and strangely captivating, drawing me deeper into a web i knew i should escape but couldn’t.

i swallowed hard, my voice barely steady as i forced out the words. “what do you mean...?” my question hung in the air, and heeseung’s smile only widened, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. he leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “exactly what it sounds like,” he replied smoothly, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “i know things about you most people don’t. i know your routines, your favorite places, the things that make you smile... and the things that make you afraid.” he paused, watching my reaction, a hint of satisfaction in his expression as he took in the shock i couldn’t fully hide.

my eyes widened in shock as heeseung casually pulled out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe and opening a hidden photo album. my breath hitched when i saw the images—dozens of pictures of me, taken from a distance, capturing moments i thought were private. me at the coffee shop, me on my walk home, even me through my apartment window. heeseung glanced up, his expression a mix of admiration and something far darker. “i’ve been in love with you for months,” he confessed, his voice soft but unwavering. “your articles... every word you write. i feel like i know you, like you were meant to be mine.” his eyes searched mine for a reaction, but all i felt was a cold, sinking feeling as i processed the depth of his obsession.

chapter 6

“i… i need to go,” i mumbled, pushing myself up from the table, heart racing as i turned toward the exit. my steps were hurried, but before i could reach the door, i felt a sudden pressure against my back—a pocket knife, pressed just below my ribs. i froze, my breath hitching. heeseung’s voice was low, dripping with calm control. “you’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, his words chillingly close to my ear. the restaurant, once bustling and loud, faded around me as i realized there was no escaping him—not now.

heeseung’s grip on my arm was firm as he walked me toward his car, his expression unreadable in the dim light outside the restaurant. i wanted to scream, to push him away, but fear held me captive. as he slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, he glanced over, a smirk playing on his lips. “you should’ve listened to me,” he said, his tone almost mocking, as if this was all a game i’d already lost. the silence stretched between us as he drove, the city lights fading behind us, replaced by the dark, twisting roads leading toward his cabin in the woods.

heeseung’s grip never loosened as he led me up the creaking steps of the cabin, the wood groaning beneath our feet in the dead silence of the night. once inside, he turned to me, his eyes glinting with a twisted excitement. “how about i give you a little house tour?” he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction. “now that you’ll be staying with me… forever.” the final word hung ominously in the air, each syllable sinking in like a heavy weight. i swallowed hard, glancing around the dimly lit cabin, wondering what horrors lay hidden within these walls.

heeseung’s grip remained firm as he guided me deeper into the cabin, each step echoing through the hollow structure. the air smelled faintly of cedarwood, though it did little to mask the metallic tang that lingered just beneath it. “this is the living room,” he began casually, as if we were ordinary strangers exchanging pleasantries. a small, battered couch sat against the wall, its cushions stained and torn. on the coffee table lay an assortment of knives—some polished to a gleaming shine, others crusted with dried, rust-colored streaks. “i like to keep my tools close,” he said with a smirk, noticing the way my eyes lingered on them.

he led me further down a narrow hallway, the dim lighting casting long, distorted shadows on the peeling walls. “and here,” he said, stopping in front of a door, “is where the magic happens.” he pushed it open with a flourish, revealing what could only be described as a shrine to his obsessions. photographs covered the walls—some of his victims, their faces frozen in fear, and others… of me. I felt my stomach twist as I recognized a photo I’d taken weeks ago, sitting at my desk, completely unaware.

“this is my favorite room,” heeseung whispered, stepping closer to me. “every detail, every moment, carefully preserved. just like i’ll preserve you, y/n. you’re different… special.” his voice was soft, but his words carried a chilling promise that left my hands trembling. as my eyes darted over the photographs, i realized something far more disturbing. the people staring back from the walls weren’t random faces—they were people who had crossed paths with me, people who had messed with me in some way. each one had a story, a connection to my life, and now they were gone, their final moments immortalized by heeseung’s twisted obsession.

heeseung’s grin widened as he noticed my hesitation, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. without a word, he led me out the back door and down a narrow, overgrown path to a weathered shed at the edge of the yard. the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something more pungent, a sharpness that stung my nostrils. "this is where the real work happens," he murmured, unlocking the door with a casual twist of his wrist. the door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior, the walls lined with shelves of preserved jars, each one containing a grotesque, macabre prize—hearts, blood-stained and floating in a thick, viscous liquid.

heeseung stepped inside, gesturing to the jars like a proud collector. "each heart tells a story," he said, his voice eerily calm. "these ones... well, they didn’t appreciate your worth, y/n. so i made sure to keep a little piece of them for you." my gaze flicked to the closest jar, where a heart floated, barely recognizable, but the color of the blood still sent a shiver down my spine. heeseung didn’t notice my panic, his attention elsewhere as he studied the rows of jars. "i like to think of it as... a keepsake. something to remember them by."

“no!” i screamed, twisting free from his grasp with a surge of adrenaline. i bolted for the door, desperation fueling each step. but heeseung was faster, stronger; within seconds, he’d caught up, his arms wrapping around me with an iron grip. he tackled me to the ground, pressing me down as my breath came in panicked gasps. before i could struggle, he had my wrists pinned above my head, his face hovering inches from mine, his expression filled with a disturbing mix of amusement and possession.

heeseung’s grip tightened around my wrists, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered, “you’ve seen enough for tonight...” his voice dropped lower, a dark edge creeping into his words. “i’ll teach you a lesson.” my heart pounded in my chest, the terror rising as his meaning became clear. i struggled beneath him, but his weight held me down effortlessly, and all i could do was stare up at him, my mind racing, desperately trying to find a way out. heeseung’s eyes gleamed with something far more sinister, and i knew—there was no escape from him now.

“please,” i gasped, my voice shaky with fear. “let me go. i won’t tell anyone, i swear.” my words tumbled out in a frantic plea, desperate to make him see reason, to somehow convince him that i wasn’t a threat to his twisted world. “i’ll keep quiet, i’ll stay out of your way—just let me go.” my eyes searched his face for any sign of compassion, but all i saw was cold determination. heeseung’s smile only widened, a cruel satisfaction lighting up his features as he leaned in closer. “oh, you’ll learn,” he whispered. “you’ll learn exactly what happens when you don’t listen.”

without warning, heeseung hauled me to my feet, dragging me into the dimly lit cabin and toward a narrow staircase leading down into the basement. i struggled, my breath ragged, but he was too strong, too determined. once we reached the bottom, he shoved me onto the cold concrete floor. my heart raced as i looked around the dimly lit space, the walls lined with chains and shadows. heeseung’s twisted grin never left his face as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a shock collar, its cold metal gleaming in the low light. “this is where you’ll learn,” he murmured, slipping the collar around my neck and tightening it with a sickening click. he pulled out a small remote, its buttons small and ominous. “you’re mine now,” he said softly, pressing a button. the electric shock that shot through me was immediate, making my body tense in agony as i gasped for air.

“please, stop!” i gasped, the pain still coursing through my body as i writhed on the cold floor. tears blurred my vision, and my chest heaved with each breath. “i’ll do anything, just please…” my voice trembled with desperation, the weight of my helplessness sinking in. “please, just don’t do that again. i’ll do whatever you want, i’ll—” the words barely left my lips before heeseung’s cold, calculating gaze locked onto mine, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. it was as if my pleas meant nothing to him, just another part of his game. “anything, huh?” he murmured, the corner of his mouth curling into a slow, mocking smile. “we’ll see about that.”

heeseung leaned down, his breath warm against my ear as he spoke in a low, menacing tone. “since you’ll do anything, i’ve shown you how much i love you... now it’s time for you to return the favor.” his words sent a shiver down my spine, every ounce of fear and confusion i felt flooding me once again. heeseung’s hand moved to the remote, and i could see the twisted excitement in his eyes. “you’ve had your chance to beg, but now, it’s my turn.” the collar around my neck felt heavier with every passing second, my pulse pounding in my ears as i realized that there was no escaping this nightmare. my body froze, unsure of what he truly meant by that, but i knew one thing for certain—whatever he wanted, it was far worse than anything i could imagine.

chapter 7 (smut)

i didn’t know what to do, panic clouding my thoughts. desperation surged within me, and in a moment of sheer instinct, i leaned forward, pressing my lips against his, hoping—no, praying—that it would be enough to calm the storm in his eyes. for a moment, it felt like time stopped. heeseung was still, his breath ragged against my lips, as if he hadn’t expected me to act this way. then, slowly, his grip on me softened, his body relaxing into the kiss. but even as he melted into it, i could feel the twisted love and obsession that drove him, a dark, suffocating need that had nothing to do with tenderness.

i quickly pulled away, my heart pounding in my chest as i gasped for air, my mind reeling. what did i just do? i couldn’t even begin to process the whirlwind of emotions that had overtaken me. but when i looked at heeseung, there was no trace of hesitation on his face—only satisfaction. his lips curved into a smug smile, his eyes gleaming with dark pleasure as he watched me struggle. “see?” he murmured, voice low and almost teasing. “it’s not so bad, is it now?” he stepped closer, as if savoring every moment of my discomfort, his words lingering in the air like a cruel reminder of how deep i was tangled in his web.

i backed up, my heart racing as i felt the cold, unforgiving wall press against my back. my hands were shaking, the panic rising in my chest, but there was nowhere to run. heeseung closed the distance between us with slow, deliberate steps, his presence overwhelming, as he stopped just inches from me. his breath was warm against my face, and i could feel his gaze burning into me, a mixture of possessiveness and twisted affection in his eyes. “nu-uh,” he said softly, his voice almost a purr, as if savoring my fear. “you said you’d do anything.”

tears streamed down my face, each one feeling heavier than the last as i begged him again, my voice breaking with desperation. "please, heeseung... don't do this..." i pleaded, but his expression remained unreadable, his gaze unwavering. gently, almost too tenderly, he reached up and wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumb, as if he were comforting me. it made my chest tighten even more, the contrast between his gentle touch and the violence that followed unsettling. without a word, he pulled the remote from his pocket, his fingers brushing over the buttons with a cold precision. a flick of his thumb, and i felt a sudden, searing jolt of pain course through my neck, the shock collar sending an electric surge that left me gasping in agony. heeseung’s face remained calm, his eyes cold as he watched me struggle.

heeseung’s voice was low and steady, his words laced with a hint of disappointment. “i thought you were learning, doll,” he said, his gaze sharp and calculating. “but i guess i was wrong.” he stepped back slightly, watching me writhe from the pain, his expression one of cruel amusement. “you’re still not understanding what it means to truly obey. don’t worry,” he added, his smile returning, though it was anything but reassuring. “i’ll teach you... eventually.”

before i could even react, heeseung's grip tightened around me, and in an instant, he tackled me to the ground. his body weight pinned me down, and i could feel the coldness in his touch, the raw, unrelenting force behind his movements. the playful façade was gone now, replaced by something far darker. his eyes, once filled with affection, now glinted with something more dangerous—his killer instinct fully on display. "you think you can just play with me?" he murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "you’re mine now, whether you like it or not."

heeseung's lips pressed against my skin with an urgency that left me breathless, and before i could react, his teeth sank into the side of my neck. a sharp pain shot through me as he bit down, his grip on my body tightening even more. his teeth scraped across my skin, leaving a trail of bruises, marking me as his in a way i couldn’t escape. each bite felt like a warning, a claim on my very soul, as if he were carving his name into my flesh. i gasped, the fear and thrill mingling within me, but there was no escaping the darkness in his eyes.

a rush of conflicting emotions flooded me, and i felt something i shouldn't feel—an undeniable pull, an unsettling desire that twisted inside me. despite every logical thought screaming that this was wrong, that i should resist, a part of me wanted to be ravished by a murderer. the contradiction gnawed at me; i knew it was dark, dangerous, and twisted, but i couldn’t stop the flood of desire that surged through me. my heart pounded, each beat betraying the part of me that craved the very thing i feared. i tried to fight it, to push him away, but the magnetism of his touch, his dominance, was suffocating, and i couldn’t help myself.

without warning, heeseung's lips crashed down on mine, his kiss forceful, demanding, as if he were marking me, claiming me entirely as his own. i gasped against his mouth, the taste of him overwhelming my senses as he pushed deeper, his hands still gripping me tightly. the struggle was futile; i whimpered, my body trembling beneath him, caught between the resistance in my mind and the twisted pull of my own desire. he could feel my hesitation, but it didn’t matter—he was determined, insistent, and there was no escaping him now. his kiss grew harsher, like a punishment for my defiance, and yet i couldn’t help but melt into it, my body betraying me in ways i hadn’t anticipated.

heeseung’s grip tightened around my waist, and in a swift, forceful motion, he ripped my clothes off, the fabric tearing easily beneath his hands. my breath caught in my throat, the cool air hitting my exposed skin, making me acutely aware of how vulnerable i was beneath him. his eyes darkened with hunger, and for a moment, i was nothing but his prey. i felt the heat of his body pressing closer, his breath hot against my skin as he continued to strip me of my dignity, his actions relentless and without mercy. my heart raced, fear and desire intertwining as i lay there, unable to escape the storm he had unleashed.

heeseung’s body shifted against mine, the pressure of his form intensifying as he grinded himself against me with a slow, deliberate motion. the sensation was overwhelming, sending a jolt of heat through my body that i couldn’t ignore, no matter how much i tried to suppress it. his lips moved to my neck again, trailing kisses and bites that set my skin on fire, while his hips pressed insistently, a rhythm i had no control over. i could feel the heat building between us, and despite myself, a part of me responded, betraying every ounce of logic and reason that screamed for me to stop. but in that moment, all i could focus on was the tension, the connection, and the dark desire that swirled dangerously between us.

his breath came quicker, a low, almost imperceptible groan escaping his lips as his hands moved to unzip his pants, each motion deliberate, almost torturous. i felt the room closing in around us, the sound of the zipper louder than anything else in the silence, and my heart raced in response—whether from fear or something darker, i couldn't tell. his eyes never left mine, filled with an insatiable hunger as he stepped even closer, his body pressing into mine in a way that left no room for escape. the power he held over me, the way he made me feel both terrified and alive, tangled my thoughts and emotions into a knot i couldn’t untangle. heeseung’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers, his gaze never wavering as he slowly lowered them, revealing more of his member with each inch of fabric that slipped down. the room seemed to grow even warmer, the air thick with a charged silence that made it impossible to breathe, let alone think. my body betrayed me again, a mixture of fear, curiosity, and something far more dangerous swirling inside me. i wanted to look away, to push him off, but i couldn't bring myself to move—trapped between the desire to flee and the magnetism pulling me closer.

heeseung was so big, the thought of him pushing deeper into me made my mind race, doubt swirling in my chest. the idea of him fitting inside me seemed impossible, almost terrifying. my breath hitched as i instinctively shifted, trying to create some space between us, but he moved with such precision, closing the gap once again. i couldn’t stop the way my body reacted, betraying the flood of emotions—fear, desire, and a twisted curiosity all mixing together in a way i couldn’t control.

heeseung’s movements were slow, controlled, as he slowly entered, and my body couldn’t help but betray me, a soft whimper escaping my lips before i could stop it. the pain was sharp, but it was quickly overshadowed by the overwhelming sensation of being filled, of him pushing deeper with each agonizing inch. my hands clenched the fabric of his shirt, my body trembling as i tried to hold onto any shred of control. the whimpering sounds that slipped from my lips only seemed to fuel him, his smirk growing wider, savoring every moment as he made me into a mess of conflicting desires and fears.

heeseung's pace quickened, each thrust sending waves of sensation coursing through my body, making me moan louder than i could control. his words slipped from his lips, dark and possessive. "you're such a good doll, taking it so well for me," he murmured, his voice low and taunting as if he reveled in the way my body responded, no matter how much i fought it. his hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer to him with each movement, pushing me further into a spiral i couldn’t escape. a part of me hated the way i was responding, but another part, the one i couldn’t deny, craved it, needing more, even as it terrified me.

the pressure inside me built with every thrust, my body trembling as the heat coiled tighter. i gasped for air, barely able to focus on anything other than the mounting sensation. "heeseung, i-i'm close," i whispered, my voice shaky, a mix of desperation and surrender in my words. the admission felt like a betrayal to every part of me that still wanted to resist, but i couldn’t stop it. heeseung’s smirk deepened, and his grip on me tightened as if he was determined to make me reach that breaking point, savoring every second of my vulnerability.

heeseung didn’t slow down, his pace only growing faster, harder, until the pressure inside me finally snapped. a gasp tore from my lips as i came, my body shuddering uncontrollably, the pleasure washing over me in waves that left me breathless. my hands gripped his shoulders for support, every inch of me aching with the intensity of the moment. i was disoriented, struggling to catch my breath, as the reality of what was happening hit me in a way that was both overwhelming and terrifying. despite everything, i couldn’t stop the rush of sensations that consumed me.

heeseung's grip tightened on me as he kept going, his movements frantic, his breath ragged against my skin. i could feel the way his body stiffened, the tension building in him as he got closer. "i’m close," he muttered, his voice low and strained. with one final thrust, his body tensed, and i felt him spill inside me, his release following right after mine. the sound of his breath, heavy and uneven, echoed in my ears as he held me tightly, both of us caught in the aftermath of a moment neither of us could fully grasp. i felt a strange mix of satisfaction and emptiness, a hollow echo of what we’d just shared, the room falling into an eerie silence.

heeseung leaned down, his lips brushing my forehead in a strangely tender gesture, as if the brutality of the moment had never happened. "have you learned your lesson now, doll?" his voice was soft, almost coaxing, but there was a coldness behind the words that sent a shiver down my spine. he pulled me into his arms, guiding me toward his room, and i felt my heart race with every step. i see the pictures of myself again, articles with my name printed in bold letters, all pinned up like trophies. his obsession was laid bare in front of me, a chilling display of how thoroughly he'd been watching, tracking every move i made. heeseung wasn’t just interested in me—he was consumed by me, and now, there was no way out.

this was the unmistakable sense that i was no longer just a person to him but a possession. he stepped behind me, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered, "you're mine now, doll. there's no escaping me." his fingers tilted my chin, forcing me to meet his dark, possessive gaze. "you’ve always been the one. i just had to make you understand." and as the door clicked shut behind me, the suffocating truth settled in: i was trapped in his world, and the darkness i had tried to avoid was now the only reality i had left.

[sorcerersseestars]

love sweet, taste bitter

Gojo Satoru x gn!reader

To you, Gojo Satoru is your silly, loving boyfriend. But Gojo Satoru is also the strongest sorcerer in the world, and that comes with its risks—for both you and him. When his Infinity fails to activate, your mission takes a turn for the worse.

Aka one of you gets hurt, and the other has to bear it.

Warnings: injuries and violence, a gun is used, blood loss, hidden inventory arc spoilers, fight btwn Gojo and reader, reader implied to be shorter/smaller than Gojo, slightly suggestive (not rlly), lowkey a lot of kissing tho??, bad communication skills, emotional whiplash bc gojo doesn't know what to do w his feelings

Word count: 9.2k

*Gojo and reader are in their early 20s

"Cursed technique reversal: red,” Gojo calls out casually, lazily flicking his right index finger at his target.

The curse—hardly an intelligent one, far from being special-grade—stares at the brilliant light with bulging eyes. It's a deer in the headlights, transfixed by Gojo’s power and paralyzed with fear. You can only imagine how that would feel.

You tear your eyes away from the sight of the curse disintegrating into nothing. It's not as gruesome as most curse exorcisms, considering the potency of Gojo’s attacks, but the curse’s expression fading into nothingness still makes your skin crawl. You almost pity the horrible creature.

In comparison to the macabre scene you just witnessed, Gojo's enthusiastic noise of approval nearly gives you whiplash.

"Another job well done by yours truly!" Gojo grins, giving you two thumbs up. "Now let's hurry before that new boba place closes. You said you really wanted to try it, right?"

It takes you a moment to respond, your mind still processing how insanely fast your boyfriend was able to eradicate a threat that would have taken you both a good strategy and a fair bit of time to exorcise. It took practically no effort for Gojo to eliminate, and you know that he fears no curse. For you, fear grips you each time you face off with a curse, no matter how big or small. It doesn't feel fair.

Your fingers curl into a fist as you struggle with your emotions, frustrated with yourself. When you look to him, beyond his shades and into his powerful eyes, something akin to envy pulls at your gut. It makes you feel sick—you're viewing him in the way everybody else sees him. But when he walks toward you, smiling so wide that he looks goofy, your thoughts of his abilities melt away and are replaced by an affection so strong that your chest hurts.

His eyes are so beautiful, their perpetual sparkle even visible from under the dark film of his shades. His cheeks are tinged pink from your constant gaze on him, and it still amazes you that you have the ability to make him fluster at all. His lips are stretched into a toothy grin, his eyes crinkling along in genuine happiness. Your stunning boyfriend that you still can't believe ever gained an interest in plain old you.

That's right. To you, he's not the Honored One, he's not Gojo Satoru. He's just your boyfriend, just your Satoru. Just your boyfriend who is obsessed with anything sweet.

You roll your eyes lightly, a small chuckle bubbling up in your throat, “You mean, the place you've been begging to go to all week?"

He walks to your side, sighing loudly as he approaches. His deft fingers subtly adjust his sunglasses, pulling them down in an attempt to garner your sympathy. The expression on his face is priceless—the strongest sorcerer in the world is pouting because you insinuated you might not want milk tea.

"Don't be so mean, sweets!” He whines. "You said you wanted to try it out, too.”

“Hm, did I now?” You say with a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I don’t recall.”

He steps closer, towering over your smaller form. When you dwell on that thought, you suppose you should be scared. You see him brutally destroy curses, leaving no trace of their existence behind. He could do that to you, if you wanted to.

Even knowing that, you aren’t scared.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You can feel his strength through the solid grip he has on you—his arms lovingly cage you in.

Even though he’s done this many times before, your breath still catches in your throat, and your heart races at the proximity.

“C'mon, l know you've been craving brown sugar boba all week... And they even have that tiramisu flavor you go crazy for…”

He nuzzles in close to your neck, warm breath fanning down your nape. When he's this close, you can't resist anything—and he knows it, too.

You sigh as if he's ruffled your feathers, but you can't help but let the chuckle you’ve been holding in escape past your upturned lips.

“Do they have cheese foam?" You hum.

You yelp as his fingers dig into your side—and then your entire body is wracked with heaving, boisterous laughter.

"What a silly question. Of course they do! Only the amateurs lack the essential toppings,” He shakes his head playfully. “Any more funny business out of you, and you'll get punished again."

You twist around in his grasp to face him. Your hand reaches up to ease his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, putting his vibrant blue eyes and pale lashes on display.

“You're so pretty it's unfair,” You pout. "Leave some for the rest of us."

"And yet everyone's always trying to steal you away from me," He counters.

"Says the head-turner," You say with a smile full of your adoration for him. “Haven't you noticed that the rest of the population—myself included—never has all eyes on them when entering a room?"

He shrugs, “How would I know? You think my eyes are on anyone else once I see you?"

The insinuation has heat and electricity coursing through your entire body. He wears a smirk as if he can feel the flames licking your skin. You lower your gaze, suddenly shy.

A warm hand cups your check, gently nudging your face close to his. Your eyes instinctively flit up to his, drinking him in.

His eyes are bright behind his shades. You laugh softly when his shades fully slide down to the edge of his nose as he lowers his head to yours.

“Makin’ fun of me, babycakes?” He pretends to pout, but his tone is playful and warm.

“Maybe,” You tease. “I mean, you are freakishly tall and have glow in the dark eyes. And you call me all sorts of weird names.”

“You–!” He gasps. “You are such a rascal, y’know that? A fiend, even!”

“Mmm,” You hum, humoring him. “Well, would such a fiend as myself do…this?”

You lean in, savoring the warmth of his hands on you. His skin, smooth from its lack of wear due to his Infinity, skates across your skin effortlessly. Your lips are about to touch his, only inches away from bliss, when you both are caught off guard.

There’s a loud bang. So loud, in fact, that your ears ring as soon as the sound waves hit your eardrums. You stagger back from Gojo, crouching down and immediately covering your ears with your hands. You look up at your boyfriend, expecting to exchange confused glances, and are not prepared in the slightest for the scene in front of you.

His eyes are blown wide, shades now missing. Beads of sweat begin to form on his forehead and all color has drained from his face. His expression quickly crumples, lips parting and yet no sound escapes him.

A shudder runs through you—something is very wrong.

Then his shaky hands begin to move, and he quickly clutches his side. Right under his ribs, a stream of blood begins to run down his body, escaping between his fingers. You watch in horror as it pours down at an alarming rate, and you begin to put the pieces together.

Satoru has been shot.

His name leaves your mouth in a panicked howl and then you can't speak anymore, as if all the air has escaped from your lungs. Your mind is ripped back to when Toji Fushiguro sliced Gojo to shreds in front of you. His blood splattering everywhere while you watched on in horror, immobilized and completely useless, not able to do anything but watch the terrors unfold. Not again, not again, it can’t happen again, is what replays through your mind.

You have no more time to linger on that chilling memory. More pops sound through the air, deafening you and spiking fear in the blood that rushes through your veins. It can't happen again. You can't see him like that again.

You immediately throw yourself at your boyfriend, desperately trying to shield him with your body, even though it’s nearly impossible with how tall he is. You shove him down, attempting to cut down his frame to meet yours so that you can cover him, and notice something odd. You can still feel his warmth—your skin brushes against his, when it shouldn’t. Not right now, it shouldn’t.

You move to the side with quick steps and try to pull him along with you, but are unable to. Your heart sinks. He’s completely dead weight. You’re strong in your own regard, but there’s no way you can pick him up and take off with him.

"Satoru, please! C'mon, we have to go, we need to. Please," You plead with him, gripping him so tightly that your hands ache. When he doesn't respond, you start to shake him, trying to get any reaction out of him, but to no avail.

He’s in shock. It’s obvious with his lack of reaction, with how he lets himself be man handled under your body. He prides himself in his ability to protect those around him—he wouldn’t just let you put yourself in the line of fire if he was in his right mind. You know fully well that Gojo could eliminate the shooter in mere moments if he assumed his normal calm and nonchalance—but, unfortunately, his mind is in a freeze state. The bare skin under your fingertips is evidence of this, which only exacerbates your rising panic.

“Your Infinity!” You shout, your voice raw from panic. “Satoru, your Infinity! You need to turn it on! Now!”

Still grasping Satoru tightly, you endure the next round that is emptied into the space next to you—a bullet whistles by your ear, too close for comfort. Gojo’s breathing is ragged, his eyes staring into nothing and appearing so far away at the same time.

You duck down to his eye level and grab his chin, forcing him to look into your eyes. “Satoru, please! Snap out of it! Please!”

For a few seconds, his gaze locks with yours. His eyes, usually such a vivid blue, are darkened by how large his pupils are. You plead with him, unable to keep your terrified tears at bay.

Then you’re slightly bumped back, now pressing against what feels like a wall, and your body becomes weak with relief. He finally activated his Infinity.

But you're not out of danger yet. Your brain scrambles as you try to figure out how to get out of this while your boyfriend is evidently in shock.

You dare a glance back, eyes scouring the landscape, and immediately curse. As you suspected, you are most definitely being sniped. The enemy has the advantage of higher ground and generous foliage for coverage, while you and Satoru are exposed out in the open clearing below. If you had more time and brain power, you could triangulate their location, but that's just not possible right now.

Even if you were able to surmise their location, you don't even think you can fight back right now, not with how exposed your position is and with how vulnerable Gojo is in this state. And if you can't fight, then you have to flee.

Projectile weapons are ineffective against a moving target—this simple knowledge is what sways your decision. Even though it didn’t work before, you grab Satoru, still trying to keep him low, and begin to run. You breathe a little easier when he moves along with you.

More shots whizz past you, but you keep going, pumping your legs as fast as you can while making sure to be the rear guard. It’s obvious that they’re targeting Gojo—if they hit you, it would merely be collateral damage. The bullseye is on Gojo’s back, not yours.

You don’t stop running until you hit the tree line, and even then you hurriedly usher Gojo behind a stocky trunk many meters back. Before you can catch your breath, you're ripping off your jacket with haste. Quickly realizing that the material is not ideal for the job you intend it for, you quickly tear your shirt from your body. It’s sweaty from all your activity, but it’ll have to do.

You brush away Gojo’s hands, firmly pressing the cloth to his wound. You practically collapse onto your boyfriend as you apply firm pressure, your forehead dipping down to rest on his shoulder. You're wracking your brain for what to do next when Gojo gently pushes you back, places his hands on yours, and shakes his head.

You can't help but think the worst. What does that mean? Is it like that time? Am I too late again?

“I'm sorry, I know it hurts, but y-you're bleeding so much that I have to. Fuck, I’m really sorry for making you run, I’m sure that made it worse, but we just had to get away from whoever was shooting, oh god, how badly did they get you, fuck, this is my fault–”

You don’t realize you’re rambling until he cuts you off. You don't realize you're crying until he brushes the tears away.

“Hey. Stop, sweets. I’m fine, it already stopped bleeding.”

“What? But that can’t be, you were literally shot–”

He raises his shirt, revealing a pink layer of new skin.

He offers you a weak smile, but something is off about it. “Reverse cursed technique, remember? Nobody’s gonna take me down that easily.”

You release a big breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The weight on your shoulders finally eases as you look over his new layer of skin.

“Oh fuck, I’m so glad you’re okay,” You sniffle, leaning in quickly for a hug. “I–mmph!”

You stumble back a step, blinking in surprise. This has never happened before—you hit his invisible barrier.

His eyes widen. “Fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to–“

“No, no, it’s okay!” You wave your hands, trying to dispel his apology. You feel flustered and stiff, awkwardness seeping into your mannerisms. “It’s good that it’s on now.”

It’s then that the disturbing thought hits you. Maybe he should always have his Infinity on. Maybe you’re endangering him.

Gojo holds out his arms for you, now inviting you in. You pause, your thoughts echoing through your head. You take a beat too long—you know he senses your momentary hesitation, and how slowly and gingerly you come into his arms doesn't feel right.

“You okay? Did you get hit?” He asks, squeezing you tightly in his arms. “Fuck, please tell me you didn’t.”

With your head pressed to his chest, you can hear how rapidly his heart beats. He’s scared. He’s scared for you, even though he was the one who got hurt.

His hands run over you, checking for any injuries. You pull yourself out of his embrace gently to still his hands.

You shake your head, “No, I’m fine. But you…you got hurt, Satoru. They shot you.”

And it’s absolutely your fault. If you hadn’t been touching him, this never would have happened. He let his guard down because of you.

“I’m alright now, sweets,” He reassures you, but his tone is again tinged with a strange emotion you can’t put your finger on. “Promise.”

“But–!” You exclaim, about to spill out all of your guilty feelings. The words don’t come, though, stopped by another fear. Will he also realize it’s your fault and get rid of you? Will he realize he doesn’t need you?

“Here,” He says, unballing your shirt and placing it in your hands. “This is proof that I’m fine. Your shirt’s..."

He inspects it funnily, scrunching up his eyebrows and staring at it intently, making a show of it to make you laugh. "...pretty clean and ready to be worn again. Well, unless you don’t want to…can’t say I wouldn’t mind you not putting it back on…there is a little speck of blood on it, after all...”

He smiles at you, a true grin that manages to lift up your weary heart. You burst out laughing, and swat his arm before you hurriedly take it from his hands.

“Satoru! We almost just died and you—” You still can’t contain your laughter, but it stops abruptly once you feel a large wet patch on your shirt. When you pull your hand back, your fingers are stained red with a surprising amount of blood.

“I swear it closed up before you…” He frowns, trailing off. His face turns serious for a moment, but then you touch his cheek with your clean hand and give him a quick peck.

You shrug, “It’s okay. No biggie.”

Face still close to yours, he chases your lips as you pull away from the peck. He kisses you deeply, catching you by surprise and forcing you to hold onto him for support.

"Satoru! I'm gonna get you all bloody with this hand..." You softly protest.

"Don't care," He murmurs quickly, leaning in again and kissing like you don't need to breathe. "It's mine anyway. Just like you."

"Mmph—Satoru—but you need to get looked at properly," You manage to say. "We have to go."

He reluctantly lets you slip out of his arms, sighing as he straightens to his full height.

He groans loudly, frowning at you, "Party pooper!"

"Yeah, yeah, get yourself ready," You fold your arms, acting like you didn't just immensely enjoy that.

He raises an eyebrow at you and smirks as his eyes scan your body.

"What?" You ask petulantly.

He sounds more excited than you’d like, “So…no more shirt?”

You sigh, exasperated, and quickly smooth the shirt back over your body. He laughs and wraps himself around your smaller form, squishing you back against his chest. You relax against him, digging your nose into him, taking in his comforting scent. You both are silent for a few moments, soaking up each other's presence.

“That was scary,” You whisper.

Gojo sighs, “It was pathetic, that’s what it was.”

You snap your head up to look at him. “Hey. What are you saying?”

He shakes his head, looking frustrated. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just…let’s just head back.”

“Satoru…” You start with a warning tone.

“Don’t wanna talk about it right now,” He says flatly. “Besides, we should go back and see Shoko just in case. I want you to get looked over, too."

You want to question him further, but hold your tongue. You know better than to press him when he’s like this.

“Huh? Why’s that?” You simply ask instead, genuinely confused.

He frowns as he looks at your head, scrutinizing it as if something was wrong. Before you can question him, he forms a fist and–

Knock, knock.

“You think it’s in there?” He asks seriously. “Sounds pretty hollow.”

Your jaw drops in disbelief at the absolute disrespect. There’s no way he just knocked on your skull to check if your brain is still in your head.

“GOJO SATORU! Are you- are you implying I don’t have a BRAIN?!” You screech, taking hold of his sorcerer jacket to jostle him around. “Do you have a death wish?!”

He laughs, then uses the same fist to roughly rub your scalp. He even gave you a fucking noogie!!

“That’s it! Take me to Shoko.” You pout, crossing your arms and turning around so your back faces Gojo.

“Aww, sweets, you want a second opinion?” He coos, moving forward to wrap his arms around you from behind. “I’m sure she’ll be able to confirm it…”

“Ugh!”

"...with how willingly you throw yourself into danger."

You stop smiling. "What?"

He's not smiling either, and its absence looks strange on his face. His gaze is almost cold. "Don't do that again."

There are no words that come to your mind, but you wish you could protest and justify your actions and convince him that it was necessary. Instead, you stand there dumbly, transfixed by his cold aura.

Then he smiles sweetly again, as if that hadn't just happened. "Let's go, shall we?"

Shoko sighs loudly at your arrival. "What was it this time?"

"Actually, we're not sure," You admit, looking to Gojo to see if he has any possible answers. When he says nothing, you continue, "We didn't see what—or rather who–it was. 'Must have been a cursed user."

"Even Mr. Six Eyes didn't see them?" Shoko asks, raising an eyebrow. "That's hard to believe. And here I was always thinking he should leave some eyes for the rest of us."

She looks to Gojo teasingly, but he doesn't take the bait. Shoko looks to you with a questioning gaze that says something like—what's up with him?

"It's complicated..." You supply vaguely.

"Well, whoever it was must be bad news," She says. "How did they get Gojo if you couldn't see them?"

"They had guns," You explain. "It was a sniper...or a few snipers, I'm not sure if it was just one or if there was another one too. Their aim wasn't the best, but they got Satoru one time...they shot a few rounds at us, but I guess they got lucky with that shot."

You can't look at him. If you look at him, you'll see his skin pale and washed out from the blood dripping down his abdomen. You'll see his body lacerated and unrecognizable from Toji's ruthless assault. You are always useless, hopelessly useless.

You look at your feet instead and ignore the sour taste of bile in your mouth.

Gojo's cocky snicker brings you back to attention, "They were pretty terrible. They only got one hit, but they should have known better. As if that loser shit would work against me."

Shoko's eyes are on you again, and you know why. Gojo doesn't normally get injured. And by someone with nothing more than a gun? How could he even get hit with Infinity?

Even if you were speaking, you're not sure you would have the strength to tell her. It's my fault he didn't have his Infinity on, is the answer that resonates painfully in your chest. The guilt threatens to consume you whole, but you push it down.

"Everything is 'loser shit' to you with RCT," Shoko decides on. "But I have to say I'm just a little surprised you got hit."

"Yeah, yeah, but I'm all good now," Gojo says dismissively.

"Let me see at least," Shoko rolls her eyes. "Aren't you here to see me for my medical expertise or what?"

"What, we can't see our dear friend otherwise?" You tease with a pout. "You wound me, Shoko."

"That wouldn't be ethical of me,” Shoko plays along, then turns back to doctor mode once she starts getting her supplies ready. "Did you get hurt too?"

“No, just Satoru,” You say with a shake of your head. “You don’t have to check me over.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “I’ll come back to you.”

“Huh? But Shoko…” You trail off, seeing she has already begun inspecting Gojo.

“I’m all good,” Gojo rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t have quite the usual touch of playfulness it usually does. “C’mon, Shoko, don’t waste your time on this. We both know I can’t really get hurt.”

He winks at you, and you smile in return. That almost makes you feel better—he’s being more like himself.

“Uh-huh, but they certainly won’t let me rest until I do a proper check-up,” Shoko says. “You’ve got a persistent one, did ya know?”

He only chuckles at that, giving her some peace to look him over and prod him here or there.

“Well, you’re all good, as expected. It doesn’t seem like there’s any soreness, which is a good sign.”

“My RCT isn’t just for show!” Gojo says proudly. “Works just as good as yours, Shoko.”

She rolls her eyes, “Uh huh. Now, let’s get on to your ‘sweets’.”

You stick your tongue out at her, blushing, “Shoko, I have a name!”

“Not in these parts,” She teases easily, waggling her eyebrows at you. “Alright, just sit up straight for me now. Just gonna prod you a bit, okay?”

You nod, unworried as you let her hands inspect you. You relax and are about to crack a joke about getting a free massage from bestie Shoko, but you find yourself writhing in pain instead. You definitely didn’t expect yourself to wince—and yet you find yourself doing so, hissing out in pain as a stinging suddenly surfaces on your back.

Gojo sits up in alarm at your reaction and quickly jumps up from his cot, making his way over to you and Shoko. “What’s wrong?”

He’s practically hovering over you before Shoko shoos him away with a wave of her hand, motioning for him to let her do her job. He keeps away, but his gaze is trained on the spot her hand is touching.

She lifts your shirt fully, carefully inspecting the wound. It’s bleeding steadily, yet neither of you even noticed it before this moment.

“You got hit?” Gojo practically mewls. He’s never sounded this small and weak before. “But you were—I thought you were fine..."

Now it makes sense why your hand was tinged red when you pulled your hand back from the shirt earlier. It wasn't from Satoru's wound at all—it's your blood.

When you turn to Satoru, you look into a mirror. You know that's how you must have looked earlier when you looked at his bullet wound in horror.

“You probably didn’t feel it because of the adrenaline," You hear Shoko telling you. "It appears to be a graze, but it got you pretty good. There’s no bullet or shrapnel, which might be why you didn’t feel it in the moment.”

You feel embarrassed for some reason. “I seriously didn’t feel anything…it’s fine, then, right?”

Satoru is pale again. Emotions swirl in his agitated eyes—you can’t quite decipher them, since they cycle so fast, but he looks…haunted.

But he shouldn't, not when everything boils down to being your fault.

You immediately turn your attention to Satoru, becoming apprehensive about the look in his eyes. You smile at him softly, eyes crinkling along with your lips, trying to signal that you’re really okay, that there’s nothing to worry about.

But you don’t see the pool of blood steadily growing behind you, Satoru does.

“I’m okay, Satoru,” You smile, but it falters when Shoko presses gauze against your wound.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Shoko sighs. “Lay on your stomach and try not to move too much. I'm going to wrap you, okay? I need to grab some things, but I’ll be right back.”

"Okay..." You accept softly, still surprised by this turn of events.

You obey Shoko's orders and begin to lower yourself onto the hospital bed. You grit your teeth when the skin on your back stretches, irritating your newly discovered wound. You blink once and suddenly he's by your side, holding you steady and angling you so your back doesn't have movement while he gently lays you down.

"Thanks," You say. "I'm fine though, Satoru, really..."

“You don’t see yourself,” He speaks lowly, quietly. “Worry about yourself some.”

You’re left reeling at his words—more so by how he says them. His voice is so weak, uncharacteristically soft and completely candid.

“I’m fine,” You insist, shaking your head. “I didn’t even feel it. It can’t be so bad then, can it?”

You don’t miss the way Gojo’s jaw sets. He didn’t like that response. You see something you don't understand in his eyes, a flash of a strong emotion you didn’t anticipate. You avert your gaze, but it’s burned into the back of your eyes.

The click of Shoko’s heels alerts you of her return. Gojo watches his old friend carefully, taking in her furrowed brow and the way her eyes jump between your wound and her supplies, analyzing. She seems confused, as if she underestimated the severity of your wound. His hands curls into fists, watching your blood drip over the edge of the bed and dropping messily onto the ground below.

Shoko pulls her gloves on swiftly, grabbing a bottle of antiseptic and preparing it for application.

“Sit tight, my friend,” Shoko tells you with a deep exhale. “I gotta get started on this. First I’m going to sterilize it, then you’re going to need stitches. I’m sorry to say we won’t have the luxury of time to sedate you for that.”

You gulp. Your pain tolerance is okay, but you really hate the feeling of anticipating pain. Knowing something will hurt is infinitely more scary to you than getting injured in battle, when your adrenaline is high and it just happens without warning.

You reach your hand out hesitantly, feeling silly for needing comfort just for a few stitches, and are surprised by the immediate grasp on your hand. It’s tight but not uncomfortable; it’s warm and it grounds you.

You grit your teeth and try to limit your whimpers of pain as she treats your wound. You can’t stop yourself from squirming when the needles pulls at your skin again and again, even when she places a heavy hand on your back to hold you in place. All throughout, Gojo’s hand squeezes yours, carrying you through this uncomfortable ordeal.

When it’s finally over, you feel exhausted.

“You did great,” Shoko praises you. “Your wound should be all good for now.”

You let out a small chuckle of relief, almost giddy to be done with the dreaded stitches. You sit up and slide off the bed, wanting to get back on your feet to feel some normalcy, to convince yourself you’re fine.

You truly felt nothing before, but it must be catching up to you now. Your knees threaten to buckle under you as dizziness overtakes you—you wobble on your two feet.

Both Shoko and Gojo rush to you, each taking a side to support you.

“You lost a considerable amount of blood,” Shoko warns in her doctorly tone. “Slow down and take it easy from now on.”

You laugh sheepishly, rubbing the back of your head, “I’m good! Just stood up a bit too fast.”

Shoko releases your arm, but Gojo doesn’t let go. He holds you steady, even pulling you toward him, supporting the majority of your weight.

“I can stand, y’know…” You laugh softly, finding his overprotective actions a bit amusing. But all the humor drains from the situation when you meet his gaze.

You see it in his eyes again, a dark flicker that almost makes you nervous. Before you can muster the courage to question him about it, Shoko interrupts your silent musings.

“Listen closely. I know you like to be up and about, as you just demonstrated, but I want you to limit your movement as to not disturb your stitches. A little walking should be fine, but do not exert yourself. No exercising or training for the next few days. Come see me in three days so I can clear you—if it’s looking good—for activity.”

You resist a sigh, settling on a playful roll of your eyes. “Yes, mom.”

She smirks, “Good. Now get out of here, you two, before I get your couples cooties.”

“Har, har, har,” You pretend to laugh, before sticking your tongue out at her. “Very funny, Shoko.”

It strikes you that Gojo has been unusually quiet, not joining in on your mutual jokes. When you spare a glance, you observe that his facial expression is neutral, if a bit strained. No smile, no cocky smirk. That’s uncommon.

You look at Shoko, exchanging more unspoken words with a few blinks. That confirms it—he’s acting strange.

You want to ask him what’s wrong, but he know he won’t tell you here.

“Ready to go?” You ask instead.

“Ready as ever,” He tries a half smile. It’s not very convincing.

You nod and lean into him, angling your head to smile up at him. Your smile is innocent and sweet. His chest squeezes at the sight, full of a jumble of emotions. He doesn’t reveal any of them; he absently plays with a strand of your hair instead.

As you look up at him, closely examining his soulful eyes for any traces of the emotion from earlier, to see if it still lingered. But the intense emotion is gone, replaced by an even and controlled gaze, leaving you to only wonder at the clear flash of anger you saw earlier in his bright eyes.

When you come back home, Gojo is unusually quiet. He mumbles something about taking a shower when you get back, leaving your side as soon as he gets the chance. You really wouldn't mind, but he seems rather... avoidant, especially with his ensuing actions.

You plop yourself down on your couch, trying to get comfy while keeping your back straight, a nearly impossible feat. Feeling restless, you tap your foot while you watch condensation from a glass on the coffee table in front of you drip down the sides. With each drop that falls, your heart beats a little faster.

You prepared a cool glass of water and a bowl of Satoru’s favorite sweets for when he's done, anticipating a binge of a show you both recently discovered. But, instead of an evening full of your usual snuggles on the couch, him getting handsy while you ‘protest’ about missing the show, you are woken up to a different reality.

When you hear the click of the bathroom door, you straighten in your seat, excited to be close to him again. But before you can even call him over to the couch, Gojo heads straight to your bedroom. You wait a few minutes, assuming he's just changing, but you grow uneasy as the time ticks by.

Maybe he just wants space. Well, how long should you give him? Should you ask him if he wants space? But what if he's waiting for you? Does he just want to be in bed instead?

You wait and wait, tapping your foot anxiously on the floor and checking your phone every few minutes. When the supposed appropriate amount of time has passed, you hesitantly approach the bedroom.

You find yourself knocking on the door before you enter, even though you've never done that to your shared door before.

"Hey, Satoru?" You call out tentatively.

You stand in the doorway, scared to cross an invisible boundary. A sheepish smile is on your face, even though you try to get your lips to stretch normally.

He's on his phone, just scrolling. Oh, maybe he just got distracted by TikTok or something.

"Hm?" He barely responds, not even looking up.

“Is something bothering you?” You ask, worried. “Is it your side?”

“Why would it be my side?” Gojo asks flatly.

Your brow creases in confusion, but you try to keep a light tone. “Oh. Uh, what’s wrong, then?”

"Nothing, why would anything be wrong?" He gives you a tight-lipped smile. His tone is so strange—bordering on sarcastic—and you don’t know what to make of it. As he stands up and passes you, slipping out of the room hastily like you are what’s bothering him. The thought turns your stomach.

You pause for a beat, frozen in the doorway as you process what just happened. Then you turn around, eyes following his form as he enters the living room and unceremoniously sprawls across the couch. He crunches on some candy you brought in the bowl.

Okay. Maybe you should be more direct.

You walk over to him, cautious but trying not to appear nervous, “Satoru, can we talk?”

“We are talking,” He smiles oddly.

“You know what I mean…” You say with a note of annoyance coming through in your tone, then it turns softer. “Is something wrong? Did I do something?”

“Yes.”

You blink rapidly, surprised by his blunt answer. You take a seat next to him.

“Okay…could you tell me what I did?”

“…”

He’s not faking a smile anymore, which is a start. His lips are set in a firm, flat line, instead. His jaw is clenched and his neck muscles are emphasized due to how taut they are; you have rarely seen him tense like this. Your chest aches—what did you do?

“Please, Satoru, what’s wrong?” You ask again, each word filled with care and concern. And somehow, it seems to kill him.

“What’s wrong?” He echoes back loudly. “What’s wrong is that you stood in front of me while there was incoming fire! You can’t just do that.”

That’s not what you expected.

“What do you mean?” You frown.

“I just– fuck, why would you think to do that?” He stresses, pulling at his hair. “You took too much risk—you can’t use RCT!”

“Yeah, me and like ninety-nine percent of all sorcerers. Like it matters. You think I thought of that?” You huff.

“‘Like it matters?’ Are you hearing yourself right now?” He scoffs. “It matters a lot, and you know it does. It’s reckless.”

“When it comes to you, it doesn’t.” You say hotly, unwavering.

“It does matter. You got hurt when you shouldn’t have. When you didn’t need to!”

You’re surprised by his outburst. “I–I was only thinking about protecting you, okay? I wasn’t…I wasn’t thinking about that! Caring about getting hurt? That was the last thing on my mind.”

“Yeah, it’s obvious you weren’t thinking,” He sneers. “There’s no need to risk your life like that. Absolutely no need.”

Your jaw drops in shock, and you try not to feel hurt. “You can’t be serious right now, Gojo. You were in no state to protect yourself. I was…doing my best, I just wanted to keep you safe.”

“I still got shot,” He argues back immediately, painfully reminding you.

A small, pained gasp escapes you. You spin around as fast as you can—tears are freely falling without your permission.

You want to tell him that’s not fair, but you don’t trust your vocal cords right now. Not with how tight your throat is from trying to hold back sobs that would surely wrack your body if you let them.

The guilt that has been trailing you all day now collects at the pit of your stomach, practically eating you alive. You feel physically sick. He’s right. He did get shot. He was vulnerable, his Infinity lowered because of you. If…if the bullet had gone through his head, what could you have done then?

You stand up as steadily as you can. You don’t spare him a single glance; you can’t, not with your face crumpling as you try your hardest not to cry. You exit the living room swiftly, holding it all in, all of your emotional pain but also your physical pain. Your wound is throbbing and it even feels hard to stay standing right now.

You finally round the corner into the hallway. Now out of view, you let yourself stagger down the hallway, succumbing to your dizziness. It’s your fault, your fault, only your fault. You can’t handle this right now.

You walk aimlessly down the hall, just wanting to get away from him right now. You wind up in the bathroom and lock the door behind you. You stand in front of the mirror, looking for something redeeming within yourself, but all you can see are your pathetic tears and guilt swimming in your eyes.

You grip the edge of the counter, so tightly that it begins to hurt and your fingers tremble at the effort. You feel unsteady, like the brain Gojo teased you don’t have is lacking oxygen. Maybe you really lack one if you think you could possibly be the right match for the strongest.

You sink to the ground, finally releasing heaving sobs that have been trying to claw themselves out of you. They’re muffled by your hands, which you press firmly against your mouth in an effort to contain your noises, but some of the sound leaks between your fingers. You stuff some of your shirt into your mouth to bite down on, trying to hold it all in, trying to hold yourself together.

Your breath hitches at a throb of pain from deep within your back. It hurts so much, even with the pain reliever Shoko gave you to take. It hurts more than when she was threading the needle between your folds of skin; it’s deeper than that, sharp and intense and robbing you of a normal breathing pattern.

Despite your efforts to keep quiet, pained whimpers start to leave you. And worse—panic floods you, taking advantage of your poor state of mind. All you can focus on is the stabbing pain that refuses to dull.

You rip off the gauze with shaking hands, terrified to see its state. But confusion fills you when there's only dried smears on it—that must be from earlier. If your wound is still closed, then why does it hurt so much?

You shift on the floor, limbs giving out. You contort in pain, which only makes things worse, pulling the stitches to their limits. They stay intact, but the tension brings waves of pain to your back. A yelp is ripped from your throat at a particularly painful pulse.

The thunder of incoming footsteps gives you both fear and a sense of relief. On one hand, you didn’t want him to hear; on another hand, right now all you crave is your boyfriend’s comfort.

“Hey, what was that?” He asks from behind the door, sounding on edge.

“Satoru…” You mewl out in pain.

He calls out your name, voice now urgent. You cringe at the resistance of the lock against his attempt at opening the door.

“M’sorry, I locked it,” You sniffle. “Stupid of me.”

But he still appears in front of you, a locked door holding nothing to his defiance of space and time. He takes one glance at your crumpled form on the floor and curses. All of the tension from earlier melts away, replaced by genuine worry and need.

“What happened? You okay? Did you fall?” He asks as he hurriedly crouches next to you. His hands reach out to you, gently pulling you into his lap. You wince as your back bends, aggravating your wound.

You shake your head. “No, it’s just—agh, fuck—just my back, it suddenly hurts so bad.”

He grimaces. “Can…can I take a look?”

You give your consent and he quickly peels your shirt up. His fingers shake as he does so, even though he doesn’t mind the sight of injuries or blood. Or, at least, when it’s not yours.

He slowly pulls your shirt up just enough to reveal your wound, fearing the worst. You shiver when the fabric chafes against your graze, and he murmurs an apology upon seeing your discomfort. One of his hands rubs soothing circles on your waist.

When he inspects your injury, he’s met with red, puffy skin—the area around your stitches is clearly inflamed, but not unsually so. He breathes a low sigh of relief.

“It looks a bit swollen,” He determines before pulling your shirt back down, careful not to let it touch your wound this time. “But not too bad.”

“It feels bad,” You whine.

"I know," He says gently. “I’ll call Shoko in a second to make sure it's alright. Do you want to head to the bed first?"

“Yes, please,” You request softly.

He hooks an arm under your knees, the other cradling your back. “Alright, sweets. Up we go."

He handles your weight like it’s nothing, and easily unlocks the door you stupidly locked on the way out.

Unshed tears prick your eyes. You couldn’t carry him earlier, even after he had been shot and couldn’t move. You are incapable, unable to handle what he can on a daily basis. Can your relationship really be mutual if he always has to act as the strongest? You could barely protect him earlier.

"It hurts that badly?" He references your teary eyes without mockery, only softness.

If only your tears were from that pain.

"It could be worse, I guess," is what you settle on, neither a lie nor the full truth.

"Could I make it better, maybe?" He asks with a suspicious smile. Before you can answer, he swings you around a few times like he normally would when he carries you, which draws a genuine laugh out of you.

"You're gonna make me dizzy!" You complain, but your smile is so pure and wide, something Gojo doesn't miss.

"You're so beautiful, sweets," He says, affectionately rubbing his nose against yours. You feel warm from the closeness.

You look away shyly, "Yeah, right."

"You don't believe me?" He asks huskily, placing a kiss on your cheek.

"Ugh! Put me down and call Shoko already! It stills hurts," You pout.

"If you say so," He says, but his little smirk is still planted on his face. He lays you down carefully, gently releasing you onto the pile of blankets.

He then turns around and dials the doctor in question, "Yo, Shoko."

You close your eyes, trying to ward off the radiating pain with deep breaths. Gojo's phone call turns to background noise, the words indecipherable.

You tune back into the world at the end of his conversation.

"Okay, thank you so much Ieiri."

You faintly hear Shoko's disgust on the other end of the line, "What's going on with you?? Please never thank me like that again, yuck!"

You can't hold back the giggle that bubbles up at Shoko's reaction. Gojo blows a raspberry into the speaker and promptly hangs up on her.

"What's the verdict?" You ask.

"Well, sweets," Gojo sing-songs. "Did you forget to do something?"

You look up in thought, your brows furrowing, "I don't think so..."

"Really?" He says, then produces a familiar orange pill container. You're forced to stare at it as he shakes it in front of your face. "What about this, hm?"

"What? I already took one," You say, a little indignantly. "When we first got home. It was so horrible tasting and was a giant horse pill, too...Ugh, get that bottle away from me, might as well throw it out. I don't want to take anymore later."

He cracks the bottle open, pouring one into his palm. You narrow your eyes at him. Before you can ask what he intends to do with it, that same pill is shoved into your mouth followed by an amount of water so large that you almost begin to choke.

You cough on the water, and he pats your back accordingly, as if he expected this.

"What-?! Are you trying to waterboard me? I said I already took one, and-" You cough again. "God, where did you even get that water from anyway?"

"Mm. But you didn't notice the pill this time, right?" He looks satisfied with himself.

You deadpan. "No, but-"

"Besides, you were spacing out before we left the infirmary. Shoko specifically said to take two pills when you came home, or else the pain might get bad."

Your face feels hot, "Oh, did she now? Hah hah...I must have misheard her..."

He sighs, and it's only now you notice how tired he looks. There's a lull in your conversation, and you use this time to truly observe him. Dark circles are prominent under his eyes—how come you never noticed that?—and his eyes hold a look of defeat.

He breaks the silence, speaking softly, "You worry me, y'know? When I came in and you were convulsing on the floor...I don't want to see you like that again."

You stay silent, not willing to risk jeopardizing this rare moment of complete and utter vulnerability from Gojo.

"And when Shoko lifted your shirt and there was so much blood pouring out of your back..." He closes his eyes, screwing them shut. "I didn't know what would happen. That really scared me. Even when Shoko said you'd be fine, I didn't believe her until it stopped. And even then, you looked so weak...you still do, and it kills me."

He looks down at the ground, between his hands that are interlocked so tightly that it looks like it would hurt.

"It fucking kills me inside that you got hurt protecting me, and you didn't even notice. If that bullet had come any closer, you-"

He stops abruptly, voice breaking. You reach forward, taking his large hands in yours.

"But it didn't. Look at me, Satoru. I'm fine, I really am. I promise."

He shakes his head vehemently, and you're shocked to see liquid trickle down his face. You almost startle when he embraces you so tightly that you can barely breathe, as if you could disappear at any moment. His head rests on your shoulder, effectively hiding his expression from view.

He whispers by your ear, "What's the use in being the strongest when I freeze up like that? I put you in so much fucking danger."

"Satoru, look at me," You ask again, but his head stays tucked in the crevice between your shoulder and collarbone. "Please."

He slowly raises his head, revealing the expression he tried to conceal. His eyes are glassy and his cheeks are tinged pink; it makes your heart hurt.

"You're not the strongest to me," You say. "You're not even Gojo Satoru. To me, you're Satoru. Just Satoru. You're human and have emotions and memories and trauma, just like everyone else."

You steel yourself for your next words, the ones that have been haunting your thoughts since he got shot.

"I know that what happened reminded you of that...that time with Toji. I-it felt the same for me, and this time...this time I couldn't stand to watch idly. I would rather die than watch that happen to you again. Especially since, this time, it was definitely my fault."

"Your fault?" He laughs dryly.

"Yes!" You instantly cry out, causing his eyes to widen.

"Haven't you realized by now?" You practically sob. "None of this would have happened if I hadn't been touching you. Because your Infinity lowered for me—fuck, it makes me sick saying this out loud—they were able to really hurt you. I'm the one endangering you, and i-if this keeps up then..."

He says nothing. Now that you admitted it, there's no taking it back. And there's no way that he can or should accept this. There's no way he should accept you, you who are so useless and weak and stubborn. And yet...

"That's all?" He says seriously. You're struck with a flash of frustration and anger at his dismissal, but the hard look in his eyes tells you he is just as frustrated and will not budge on this point.

"We'll be more careful. It's a lesson learned for sure, but I'm not giving you up anytime soon. That's what you wanted me to say, isn't it? That I was going to let you go."

You look down shamefully, "W-well..."

He barks out a sharp laugh, "That's not happening. Do you know why?"

You avoid his gaze, and your voice comes out small. "You pity me?"

"I love you." His voice is firm and so sure; it leaves no room for doubt.

Your eyes snap back to his. There’s no bandages or glasses in the way to obscure the emotion shimmering in them—an endless sea of affection and intensity and something else that you couldn’t capture in words even if you tried. Love.

He loves you.

“I love you, so you can’t be reckless. You just can’t, okay? I’ve been going crazy knowing you got hurt, but I couldn’t handle it if…” He takes a sharp breath. “It’s selfish of me, but I don’t fucking care. Nothing can happen to you. I’ll take all of your hits and all of your missions if it means you’ll be safe. You’re the one person I can’t handle losing.”

“Then you’ll understand I feel the same way,” You say with a determined look on your face. “It’s not like I planned to do what I did. It was all instinct. I didn’t care what would happen to me.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” He admits, voice raw and so unlike his usual self-assured tone. “You don’t value yourself enough. You matter so much, sweets, more than I could ever say in words. I’d do anything for you, to keep you safe.”

You counter, “And I would die for you, Satoru, because I love you. And I wouldn’t ever regret it.”

Your determined admission renders him silent.

Then he chuckles, “You’re stubborn, aren’t you, sweets? Of course you sound all cute and mad the first time you tell me you love me.”

Your eye twitches, but you exhale into a smile. “Maybe. But so are you!”

“How about this?” He proposes. “How about we both stay alive, live happily ever after, and drink boba and eat kikufuku for the rest of our days?”

“I think I know where this is going,” You say, suspicion clear in your voice. But you can’t stop the way your heart jumps at his words, the insinuation of spending the rest of your days with Satoru making you weak inside.

“Well, sweets, I have an idea,” He says softly, but his words are filled with excitement.

“Hmm?” You muse, playing along. “What is it?”

“I think we need a sweet treat to make us feel better. Don’t you think so? Maybe we could…check out that boba place I talked about earlier?”

“The one ‘I’ said I wanted to go to?” You ask, using air quotes and shaking your head in amusement.

“That’s the one!” He grins, throwing himself around your form. He squeezes you tightly, nuzzling into your neck. “I love you so much that I’ll treat you, seeing as you want to go so badly. Not that I really wanted to go or anything…”

“You’re such a bad liar!” You laugh, pinching his cheek. “But, Satoru…I meant what I said.”

You look at him seriously, not willing to let this slide. You don’t expect him to match your intense energy, but he does.

“So did I. You don’t have to worry about that anymore, because I’ll never let that happen again. I’ll always be here for you, sweets. I’ll always protect you. You can try, but I’ll never make that mistake again. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you because of me, so I won’t let it. I love you too much to let it happen.”

Your heart feels like it could burst. You sniffle, not able to hold the tears back.

“Aw, is my baby crying?” He teases, gently thumbing the tears away from your cheeks. “You okay?”

“Mhm, just happy,” You nod and let out a watery laugh. “Hey, Satoru.”

“Yeah?” He hums.

“Do you love me enough to give me the last kikufuku later?”

You expect him to joke along with you, but he’s perfectly serious in his words back. Only you seem to have that effect on him.

“Even that,” He chuckles along with you, unbridled warmth and affection swimming in his baby blues as he gazes at you, eyes never leaving your form. “Even that, sweets.”

gojo masterlist <3

A/N: I don’t feel like this is the highest quality writing, but I felt really compelled to write this for some reason, so…oh well! <3 I hope it still turned out okay.

Also Satoru definitely should have apologized but I feel like he’s stubborn and hates apologizing so I left that out <3

I think this is the first time I've managed to not use (Y/N) HAHA, sometimes I see comments on other posts about how much it disturbs their immersive experience, so I'm going to try to limit my usage of it from now on...personally, I've seen and used it for so long that it's just part of my x reader vocabulary, but I understand why people don't like it lol.

Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you had a great day today !! <333

[lily-wisp]

Look Outside Unimplemented Interactions

I was poking around the game files and stumbled upon some cut/unimplemented interactions between some characters. Keep in mind none of this is canon unless at some point it is implemented (which might never happen!). I just thought they were cute and wanted to share!

(If you would like to look at these yourself, you can open up the game in RPG Maker MZ. They are in Common Event#0096.)

In the game files it is implied that Lyle was at one point able to join you in your apartment, potentially as a party member? The only interaction I was able to find with him though was a few short ones with the rat baby, who I named Sam Jr in my playthrough so whenever the script would use the baby's name I will just put Junior. Lyle/Rat Baby Interaction 1

Lyle cautiously approaches Junior and takes a picture.

Lyle: "I'll develop this tonight!"

Lyle Rat Baby Interaction 2

Lyle gives Junior a little photo album with only one picture inside, on the first page.

Lyle: "Here you go, the start of some precious memories!"

Lyle/Rat Baby Interaction 3

Lyle brings Junior more pictures of things he photographed nearby and begins a little show-and-tell with the child.

It also seems like Aster was intended to be in your apartment at one time. Same as Lyle the only interactions I was able to find were with the rat baby, although Aster's are more developed.

Aster/Rat Baby Interaction 1

Aster tries to approach the child, but loses his nerve and walks away. He holds some kind of image that he wants to show it.

You can tell he feels bad for losing his nerve. He avoids your gaze for a little while.

Aster/Rat Baby Interaction 2

Aster finally summons the courage to approach the kid. He clutches an image of the solar system in front of himself... mostly to keep the child from view.

Aster: "Y-you see this? L-look."

Junior grasps the image with a tentacle and yanks it from him.

Aster is visibly startled and seems like he might flee again, but manages to keep his composure this time.

Aster: "That's the sky. You see it? L-look at the stars..."

Taking a deep breath, he sits down near the child.

He almost goes on autopilot as he blathers about the solar system and its planets. His comfort zone.

(if Joel is recruited) Joel sits cross-legged and listens in on Aster's little astronomy lecture.

(if Sophie is recruited) Sophie adds helpful trivia for each planet. Venus has giant worms on it, she says. BIG worms the size of a BUS. She seems very knowledgeable. Aster makes no effort to correct her.

The child calmy sits through the whole thing, occasionally tugging at Aster's robe. The astronomer flinches every time, but he is obviously making an effort.

When Aster is done, he looks down to see Junior has fallen asleep, swaddled in his robes and clutching his leg.

He carefully lifts it off the ground, holding the little abomination in his arms for a few moments.

Aster/Rat Baby Interaction 3

Aster approaches the kid again, this time with a little astronomy picture book.

He seems to have mostly gotten over his fear, though he still winces when Junior climbs onto his lap.

if the rat baby can talk: The child manages to stay awake for the full lecture. Aster teaches it new words, helping with pronounciation.

if the rat baby CAN'T talk, instead: The child manages to stay awake for the full lecture. It laughs and points at various images in the picture book, which Aster patiently explains in plain words.

At the end of the lecture, you notice Aster doesn't wince at all when the child gives him a little hug.

there is a lot of interesting stuff in the game files. At one point it looks like there was a whole mechanic around raising the rat baby in different ways which would influence which KIND of rat baby you'd get, similar to like. Pip from Chrono Cross? Different interactions raise different hidden attributes for the rat and depending on which ones you get it had different forms? Or presumably different combat stats and skills. Instead the rat baby we get has a single skill which is from the Baby Teeth enemy for some reason that only does anything worthwhile if the user is Teething... which the rat baby can't do. And they only get half the attack from melee weapons! I obviously still love my child and would make the sacrifice for them every single time, but I do wish Junior was a bit more interesting as a party member. Maybe something more will be implemented in the future!

anyway I've hardly used tumblr but I love this game and want to see more fanart and discussions about it thank you all byyyyye