#and like. there's something there!! there is absolutely something there!

[sangrefae]

this is getting notes again so i want to add an addendum: in no way am i trying to say that these series are Perfect or have absolutely spotless portrayals of the minority groups they include. but the important part is that literally none of them have the same cultural clout as h*rry p*tter, and it's time to let that series go. keeping it relevant is keeping jkr relevant. yes, even through fanfiction and fanworks that do not financially support her. it's imperative to let the series die and to branch out to other media in the same niche without nearly as much power that is actively being used to harm trans women

now that we have even more confirmation than we ever needed of r*wling's dangerous bigotry, here's a non-exhaustive list of media similar to the shitty wizard franchise that DOESN'T platform transphobia:

discworld

little witch academia

percy jackson & the olympians + heroes of olympus

witch hat atelier

the books of earthsea

artemis fowl

skullduggery pleasant

witch hat atelier

legendborn

the lunar chronicles

witch hat atelier

please read witch hat atelier

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

  ꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request by @mrsmothermaximoff ;)

  ꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

  ꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

an ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

[keferon]

Are shockwave's wings made out of metal or something different like a soft material, even feathers. And what are the consequences when they get water, can he fly or maybe he'll just stand there waiting for them to dry completely ^^

I feel like wings with sturdy metal structure supporting softer membranes would sorta-kinda make sense? Basically I don’t want to make entirely metal wings because I want them to be able to ruffle funnily hehe. But also copying the entire feather concept seems unfitting for the universe of metal robots. So. Half metal and half..uh..some kind of polymer? What is the material of Predaking’s wings called?..

Oh and when it comes to weather I think Blurr is the one who has troubles flying under rain (he could. But. Ouchy) while Shockwave can easily ignore it. He would however absolutely embarrass himself while landing on a slippery wet surface ahHah but flying part would be easy~

[makeitworse]

enjoy the silence

raising the baby w junho ! ⠀⚠︎ SPOILERS BELOW

after years of tunnel vision on tracking his brother down, untangling the rotten truth that’s left him sleepless— junho expected anything but this to be inho’s final statement. a baby girl, left with nothing but a player number and the bloodstained prize money.

was this inho’s child, trusted to her uncle to raise far away from her father’s true life? or perhaps this was a stranger’s child, saved by any surviving humanity left in the pits of his older brother’s heart? this poor girl, brought into the world amidst the circles of hell itself, and junho didn’t even know how to hold her properly.

he’d called his mother in a panic, stammering with the baby wailing in the background as if the building was on fire. though it was decades ago, his mother went through this twice, so it was muscle memory helping him out.

there wasn’t an explanation he could offer her though, since he hadn’t even wrapped his head around it himself. all he could say was that she wasn’t his, and she needed to be in the care of someone who knew what they were doing— even if the weight of her cradled in his arms had his heart beating like there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

you met junho in a grocery store: poking your head around the aisle when you heard panicked whispers and a baby blabbering. junho was cradling her awkwardly, squinting at the shelves like the baby formula was written in hieroglyphics— looking like he was two seconds from bursting into tears himself. you approached him with an amused smile and soft voice, offering a helping hand that he’s been forever grateful for since.

you lulled her with gentle rocks, demonstrating it to junho and then explaining how to pick out the right food. all the while, he can’t stop gazing at you in awe like you’ve got a golden halo above your head. he could not stop thanking you for your help— and one thing after another, you’re sat at a café after he insisted on treating you to a coffee (and his girl to a babyccino, per your suggestion).

junho’s extremely transparent with you, also to his own surprise. you figured as much that he was a single father who’d been raising the baby by google searches— but you’re taken aback when he admits that the child was bestowed upon him by his brother (“long story” he’d said) and not his own.

you can tell he’s been absolutely lost, dark circles under his eyes and unkempt hair. so when you offer yourself up to helping him navigate parenthood, he looks at you like he’s fallen in love on the spot. maybe he did.

and it’s not out of pity for him. it’s because you can see the exhaustion in his eyes— how he’s putting in all the effort to something he doesn’t even understand. and how he looks at the baby, like he’s terrified to fail her.

you become a regular at his apartment complex. at first, visits were just practical— feeding tips, changing diapers, practical how-to-parent tutorials. but the rhythm becomes something more natural, something without the need for a schedule.

you don’t pry: you don’t ask where she came from or why he has her when he needs this much guidance. but junho opens up anyways— slowly, one story at a time, like each one sheds a burden off his shoulders.

he doesn’t intend to fall for you, but it’s hard not to. you make things feel normal again. you don’t press about the past. you care for this baby like she may as well be yours. and he adores that about you.

the love sneaks up on him: during quiet dinners after you helped him rock her to sleep. through the way his stare lingers at your hands when you caress her. without realising he’s suddenly saying our girl in conversation with his mother. when she asked what you are to him, that’s when his mind had a blank.

somewhere between late-night movies after putting her to bed, that’s when it happens. a kiss on the couch. junho’s hand trembling slightly against your cheek. guilt’s written across his eyes, but so is relief. and you don’t pull away from him. you leaned in. (mindful not to wake her in the other room, of course)

junho is so painfully clueless, but he's all heart. he watches youtube essays on parenting like he’s preparing for a police exam. he keeps a list of her favourite foods in the notes app. neatly folds her laundry like it’s pure silk. you tease him, but it makes your heart ache how deeply he cares.

he always insists on being the one to rock her to sleep, even when it takes an hour. claims it “helps her trust him.” but you know it’s just as much for him, too. the first time she gets a fever, he doesn’t sleep. just sits beside her crib and watches her breathe, one of her little palms wrapped around a calloused finger.

he still carries the weight of everything he’s done. still wakes up some nights soaked in sweat, heart racing. but now he’s got you next to him. you don’t ask question, just hold him. massage his scalp while he shudders in your arms.

when his girl first blabbered an “appa”, he froze. stares at her like she split the sky open. then he excused himself to cry in the bathroom. with the life he was living before he met you both, he didn’t have the time to dream of starting a family. and now that he’s got one, he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

🧸 mlist · taglist 〃 note. drinking for junhee tn

@lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @ttturnitup @rafesbunniebby @nicaeno @ferrarifinnick @loveesiren @madebybec @avsarchivez @frontwomann @szonyix6277 @namgyooner @thanosspills

[valtsv]

something i absolutely adore about spaces that allow and encourage amateur art, like fan creation (fic, art, video edits, etc.), is that they force you to develop your perspective and understanding of what makes art "good" and "worthwhile". especially if it's fanwork for less mainstream media properties that don't dominate the popular culture; by "lowering your standards" because "beggars can't be choosers" you end up noticing things that you never would have if you hadn't stepped down to give them a closer look. okay so he would not fucking say that but i'm going to be haunted by some of this prose until my dying breath. yeah this person is singing off-key and the vocal fry is distracting but these lyrics are unbelievable. these proportions don't make sense but i had no idea you could even do something like that with those colours. some of the most beautiful music in the world comes from the throats of plain dull little songbirds you wouldn't look twice at if they didn't open their beaks and sing their unremarkable looking hearts out.

[jarlskona-evilyoyo]

If I had time (I really don’t) I’d write a fic from Mira and Zoey’s point of view on how…. Weird Rumi has always been.

Because you can’t tell me that the only thing Rumi inherited from being half demon was her patterns until she broke down. Like come on.

I’m imagining that there’s always been something just the slightest bit off. Rumi moves too quickly, too gracefully, but everyone thinks it’s because she’s been training as a pop star since she could walk. Her voice is just a little too captivating but again; of course it is, that’s why she’s a pop star.

Maybe she’s always ate a lot for her size, she’s stronger than she should be, can see in the dark better than humans, can hear and smell better too. When she’s mad, a true rarity, her pupil becomes narrow— almost like slits. Can animals sense demons? Maybe animals are always defensive when she’s around.

Just enough stuff for Mira and Zoey to look back and go ‘ooooo shit there were signs of this the entire time’

And then I’d write at least two chapters where Mira and Zoey play a game where they guess if Rumi’s quirks are from being half demon or being emotionally neglected for her childhood and all the trauma from that (it’s not a fun game)

admitted to wanting to eat meat more often ; probably demon

Depression/self harm tendencies; neglect

Becoming an absolute cuddle fiend; thought to be neglect but then Rumi started purring and her patterns all lit up so, maybe a demon thing?

[kitkatlovr]

Dp x dc prompt #2

Danny and Jason are best buds when Jason goes out of commission for a few weeks (due to an injury or something; his men can manage by themselves for a little bit) and asks Danny to patrol Crime Alley in his place. The rest of the Bats have no idea he exists, and Jason has been MIA for weeks with no contact; cue Oracle hacking the one tracker he didn't find/bug on Jason's comm, tuning into banter at a thug that sounds like a Robin but sure as hell isn't Jason's Alley accent, nor any accent from new jersey. It's Danny, making fun of someone's choice of colorful socks because their shoe went flying mid-fight.

Oracle, contacting Nightwing because the puns are suspiciously like him: "Nightwing, what are you doing in Hoods area? And why haven't you said anything about hearing from him?"

Dick, hasn't been to Gotham in a while because he's pissed at something Bruce said (again): "I'm literally not? I'm in Bludhaven right now"

Then the Bats get all paranoid that someone took out Hood and replaced him in Crime Alley. Now they're trying to confront this new guy about what he did with Jason. Except Danny's really bad at explaining things (and he's also trying to sound cool in front of THE Batman) so when he says he's covering for Red Hood for a while he says it in a way that's absolutely does not clear up the misunderstanding lol.

- Also if anyone knows any fics like this I would appreciate the rec :)

[rynwrites4fun]

Across The Hall (10) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F ! Nieghbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael visits you unexpectedly after your emergency admission. Still raw from the past and weighed down by guilt, you try to push him away

Word Count: 5063

Warning: Age Gap (Mid 20s/Early 50s), Head Injury (Factured Skull)

Author Note: I’m gonna be so real...the injury in the fic is inspired by my brother, who fractured his skull. (The injury itself obviously isn’t funny, but the fact that I’m using it for this is. LOL) I was asking him questions about it (because, you know I wanted it to be accurate) but I mostly went off memory since it happened like 12 years ago and some Google research. Our friend got suspicious and was like, “Why are you asking him about his injury??” because when I asked it was so random and out of the blue. So I came clean and told them I was using it for the fic, because it’s the only major injury I could understand and write about. They were like, “Omggggg,” and then I said, “I experienced it secondhand,” which made both of them burst out laughing. They were like, “You’re acting like you went through the pain and trauma” And I was like, “Okay, but I witnessed the aftermath, so im adjacent". Lol but im glad I have a brother and friends are supportive of my hobbies. I used to be so embarrassed telling people I read (and attempted to write fics) as a teenager but I don't care anymore. It's fun. And writing fic is mostly for me like, it’s self-indulgent. I get these scenarios stuck in my head and I have to get them out before they drive me insane. Okay enough with the long authors note. Let the slow burn continue. Least Aidens out the way and we're on the right path!!! - Ryn

“I’m telling you—she’s Robby’s girlfriend,” Princess whispered to Perla, Dennis, Trinity, and Mateo as they all crowded near the nurses’ station, pretending to look busy. 

“That bet was made months ago? We’re still on about that?” Dennis muttered, sipping water like he wasn’t interested—but he was absolutely interested. He still had all their bets on his note app. 

“Are you even sure she’s Robby’s girlfriend?” Mateo asked, glancing over his shoulder toward the exam rooms. 

Princess leaned in, eyes wide with scandal. “Okay, I’m not a hundred percent sure, but she knows him. She used his first name.”

“So?” Trinity shrugged. “We all know his name.”

Princess shakes her head “Nobody calls Robby by his first name—not here. It’s Dr. Robinavitch or Robby. I think something happened. Maybe they broke up?”

Dennis snorted. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No, listen!” Princess said, her voice getting louder. “She told Jack she didn’t want Robby to know she was here.”

That shut them up for a second.

“Robby hasn’t been himself lately,” Perla added, folding her arms. “You know he’s been different…off”

“Exactly!” Princess said, her eyes wide with satisfaction. “Weird, distracted, moody—like he's haunted or something.”

“I mean…” Mateo leaned in. “It is kinda sus.”

“Suspicious?” Trinity echoed with a grin. “It’s a whole soap opera. Honestly? I respect it.”

Just then, Victoria walked up, holding a folder and raising an eyebrow at the group.

“What’s going on?” she asked, sensing the low buzz of drama instantly.

“We’re talking about Robby’s potential girlfriend,” Mateo whispered, eyes flicking toward the hallway. “Apparently, she showed up injured today”

“Ohhh,” Victoria said, eyes lighting up. “That girl in exam room 13?”

“I was shadowing him earlier, he let me take a lead on a patient” Victoria said casually, flipping the folder open like it wasn’t a big deal. “Dana pulled him outside, told him “She’s here. In Exam room 13” and he bolted. Just took off…” 

“Bolted?” Perla asked, her eyebrows raised.

“Like The Flash” Victoria confirmed. “There and just… gone.”

Everyone let that sink in.

Princess blinked, then smirked. “Okay. Now I’m one hundred percent sure.”

“Cough it up, folks. Time to settle the bet,” Princess said, smug as she pulled out her phone.

A chorus of groans erupted, quickly devolving into overlapping voices.

“Oh, come on!” Dennis protested. “We don’t even know for sure!”

A collective groan rippled through the group, followed by instant chaos.

“Yeah, it’s not confirmed!” Mateo jumped in. “We had other bets too—like whether she’s his ex or just some mystery girl—”

“Or if they even dated,” Trinity added.

“I said they hooked up. That’s different,” Perla cut in.

“I never agreed to Venmo anyone!” Dennis argued. “This wasn’t even settled!”

“You’re all just mad I was right,” Princess said with a smug shrug.

“You don’t know you were right!” Victoria said. “Where’s the actual proof?” She jumps in although she is not a part of the bets that were made. 

“And Mel and Samria were there when we made the original bet,” Mateo said, pointing around like he was assembling a case in court. “They weren’t in on it—but they heard it. They can contest if you’re twisting the terms.”

“Right! Mel literally said, ‘This is messy—I want no part of it,’ but she definitely heard what was said,” Trinity added.

“Samria too,” Perla nodded. “She rolled her eyes and walked away, but she knows.”

“And John, he’s not here, he can’t be vocal about this! They’re all even here!” Dennis said. “We can’t settle anything without them.”

“Okay, so now we need a full panel of witnesses?” Princess teased. “What is this, court TV?”

The group was descending into pure chaos—everyone talking over one another, debating technicalities, rewriting the betting rules in real time.

The group was in full disarray now—everyone talking at once, hands gesturing wildly, no one listening.

Then—

“Alright,” came a voice—dry, sharp, and unmistakably not amused.

They turned to see Jack standing a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but clearly not thrilled.

He’d been on his way to retrieve you from your CT scan when he heard your name—and Robby’s—floating around the nurses’ station like it was common gossip.

“If we’re placing bets on coworkers again, could we at least pretend to be subtle?” he said. “This is an ER, it’s busy, and this—” he gestured at their little gossip circle— “is neither the time nor the place.”

Silence.

“And more importantly,” Jack added, his tone cutting now, “whatever’s going on with Robby—it’s none of our business. Got it?”

Nods all around. No one dared say a word.

“Princess, CT scan lets go”

Princess straightened up and started moving toward radiology without another word.

He let the silence sit a beat longer, then said, “Don’t you all have patients to attend to?”

Cue instant movement. A shuffle of folders, awkward throat clears, and a whole lot of very sudden enthusiasm for documentation.

Within seconds, a chorus of awkward mumbles followed—“Right,” “Of course,” “Yep” as the group dispersed.

Jack heavily signed, shaking his head and headed to retrieve you from the CT scan. 

Jack sighed heavily, shook his head, and headed down the hallway after Princess to retrieve you from the CT scan.

—

Michael kept himself busy, moving from room to room with practiced focus, but thoughts of you lingered like static at the back of his mind—always there, just beneath the surface. He was waiting. Bracing. Every moment, he expected Jack to come find him with an update. He told himself to be patient, but the waiting felt like its own kind of ache.

He was walking down the corridor when Dana fell into step beside him.

“Hey,” she said as they neared the nurses’ station, her tone casual but her eyes sharp and watchful.

“Jack meant to come find you himself,” she continued, sliding a chart into the slot behind her. “But he got tied up. Still, he wanted me to let you know—she’s back in her room”

Michael stopped abruptly as they reached the nurses’ station, and Dana halted beside him.

She looked at him for a moment, then added, “You should go see her.”

Michael’s hands tightened slightly around the edge of the counter. “I don’t know if I should.”

The words came out quiet, but honest.

He’d calmed from the initial panic—the adrenaline rush of hearing you were here, and hurt. But now that he had a moment to breathe, all that was left was the fear.

Would you even want to see him?

After everything, after all this time—was he the last person you wanted in the room?

“Robby,” Dana said, arms crossing, “quit being ridiculous.”

He looked up. 

“You hauled ass the second I told you she was here. You didn’t even blink. Now go see that girl.”

He didn’t move.

Dana leaned in slightly. “You ran, Michael. That tells me everything I need to know.”

“You don’t run like that unless someone codes,” she said gently. “Or unless it’s someone you care about.”

She pauses

“Someone you love.”

Michael swallowed hard.

Dana gave him a small, wry smile. “That kind of panic? That kind of instinct? You only get that when your heart’s on the line.”

Michael blinked, caught off guard. He opened his mouth to argue—but couldn’t find the words.

Dana gave him a knowing look. “So stop overthinking it. Go see her.”

Then Michael nodded again, a little more firmly this time. He stepped back from the desk and turned toward the floor, his steps quiet but purposeful as he made his way to your room.

Michael opened the exam room door. You were propped up, the exam bed and a slight angle. 

The door closed softly behind him.

You were sound asleep.

He reached for the light switch, flicked off the harsh overhead lights, leaving one light on so the room was dim but not completely dark.

He made his way over to you, standing at the foot of the bed, watching your chest rise and fall with steady breaths.

From the supply rack nearby, he grabbed an extra blanket and began to unfold it slowly, the fabric rustling softly in the quiet room. He draped it gently over you, smoothing the edges with care, as if shielding you from the cold and from the world outside.

He grabbed the extra chair and pulled it closer to your bed, sitting down with a quiet sigh.

Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and took your hand in his. Your fingers were limp at first—cold and still—but then, almost imperceptibly, they curled around his.

Your eyes fluttered open, hazy and unsure, and found him there—sitting at your bedside.

He moved the moment you met his gaze, leaning in slightly, like he couldn’t help it. As if your consciousness pulled him in with the same quiet gravity that had held him in place all this time.

His eyes searched yours—steady, silent, drinking you in. He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you with a quiet intensity, like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were really here. Awake. Alive.

“Hey,” he said at last, voice soft—almost reverent.

He offered a faint smile. Not forced. Not polished. Just… fragile.

Your lips parted, barely able to form the words. “What are you doing here?”

It came out as little more than a whisper—a frayed thread of sound. You were still trying to orient yourself, to separate the remnants of the panic from reality, to believe this moment was real and not some fever dream conjured by the pain.

“I came to see you,” he said softly. “I heard you tripped. Hit your head…”

His voice wavered slightly—just enough for you to hear everything he wasn’t saying. He swallowed hard, and his gaze flicked across your face, like he was checking for further damage. “You scared me. I was so worried.”

He exhaled slowly. “It’s good to see you coherent. Alert.”

You blinked up at him, overwhelmed by the quiet sincerity in his voice, the weight of his presence beside your bed. And yet, guilt curled tight in your chest like a warning.

Michael’s brow furrowed then, confusion slowly knitting his features as he caught the flicker of something in your expression—shame, maybe. Fear.

You shifted your gaze away, unable to meet his eyes. Instead, you focused on the edge of the blanket pulled up over your stomach.

“You shouldn’t be in here with me, Michael.”

The words were soft—barely audible—but they landed like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples outward.

Michael’s head tilted slightly, his brows pulling together as confusion crept across his features. “Why?” he asked, voice cautious, quiet.

You drew in a breath, but it felt like it caught halfway down your chest. Your heart pounded, not from pain this time, but from the unbearable closeness of him—his presence, his concern, the way he looked at you like none of the in-between had happened.

“You shouldn’t,” you repeated, firmer this time, even though your throat burned. “And I mean it.”

You forced yourself to lift your gaze, to face him. The words scraped as they came out. “You’re… not supposed to be here. Not after everything.”

The air between you changed—denser, heavier. Like the room itself was holding its breath.

He didn’t move. Didn’t argue or recoil. But the flicker of hurt that crossed his face was quick and sharp, even though he tried to blink it away. His posture remained open, but his jaw tensed slightly—like he was bracing for a blow.

“I—I tried to get them to take me to Allegheny,” you blurted, too fast, like the words had been waiting to escape. Your fingers gripped the blanket now, knuckles white. “The paramedics—I told them, I asked—”

Michael’s expression changed in an instant. His brow furrowed deeper, and the concern in his eyes sharpened with sudden intensity.

“Why would you do that?”

You hesitated, your lips parting, but nothing came at first. The truth curled just behind your teeth, raw and painful.

Then, quieter: “Because you’re here.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of it pressing against your chest.

“This is your place of work,” you continued, voice trembling. “Your ER. You have a whole floor of patients who actually need you. You don’t need to be here with me” 

His eyes darkened with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Dr. Abbot said they’ll monitor me for a couple hours,” you added, your voice tapering into something almost numb. “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

The words hung between you, heavy with more meaning than you dared unpack.

You tried to believe them. Tried to convince yourself that keeping your distance was some kind of kindness. But even as you said it, something inside you recoiled—some small part that hated the idea of him walking away, even if it felt like the right thing to do.

“I'm an attending physician. This is my ER. I’m authorized to be anywhere I’m needed—and right now, that’s here. With you.”

Michael’s eyes softened. “Honestly, I’d rather have you here at PTMC than Allegheny. I want you close.”

Your breath hitched. “Michael—stop.”

He shook his head gently. His voice was low, but steady—anchored in something that had been building for far too long.

“And besides… none of them matter as much as you do to me.”

His gaze held yours, unflinching. There was no hesitation in his voice—just quiet certainty, and something raw beneath it.

“When I found out you were here, I dropped everything. I didn’t even think. I just—moved.”

His fingers tightened slightly around yours, like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Nothing else mattered. Not the shift. Not the patients. Not protocol.”

His voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper now.

“Just you.”

Your voice trembled with disbelief—not because you didn’t want to hear it, but because you couldn’t believe he still wanted you. Not after the silence. Not after the way you left things.

And yet… here he was.

“You don’t mean that,” you whispered, broken. “You can’t.” Your throat tightened painfully. “You don’t have to do this—to pretend. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me.”

Michael looked at you like you’d just said something absurd. “Is that really what you think? That I could hate you?”

You tried to hold it in, but the dam cracked. Your lips quivered, and then a raw, desperate sob slipped free.

“How couldn’t you?”

Your voice broke in the silence, raw and trembling.

“And I’m sorry—” The words spilled out in broken gasps, barely held together by your breath. “For everything. I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush in to hush your grief or offer easy reassurances.

He just stayed there. Still. Solid. A quiet presence in the storm of your unraveling.

Tears streamed down your face faster than you could wipe them away. Your shoulders shook, and you hated the way your breath hitched, the way your chest aches like something inside you had finally split open.

“I know I hurt you,” you choked out, voice hoarse. “After how I left things… how I pushed you away. So how can you even look at me?”

There was a long pause—heavy, but not cold.

Then Michael leaned forward, his hand reaching up with a gentleness that shattered you all over again. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, and then another. Slow. Unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world for your pain.

“Because I still see you,” he said softly. “Not what happened. Not the mess. Just… you.”

His eyes held yours, unflinching. There was no judgment there. Just quiet, aching sincerity.

“Sweetheart—”

Your eyes fluttered shut the moment it left his lips.

“None of that matters,” he murmured. “Not right now. Not while you’re hurting. We’ll talk—when the time's right, but not tonight.”

He stood up, leaned in, and you barely had time to brace yourself before his lips found your forehead—soft, slow, grounding.

And that—that—undid you. Not the pain. Not the panic. But his voice, full of a tenderness you hadn’t earned but were so desperate for.

You crumbled, truly this time. No more holding it together, no more pretending you were fine. The sob tore from your throat—sharp, unguarded, broken—and before you could think, you reached for him. You sat up, your arms wrapping around his neck, you clung to him. 

He held you without hesitation.

His arms closed around you instantly, instinctively. He exhaled a long, quiet breath, one that sounded almost like a sigh of relief, his chest rising and falling against yours.

God, he’d needed this. To feel you there, warm and real and alive in his arms.

His hand slid up your back, slow and steady, fingertips tracing comforting circles against the thin fabric of your gown.

“Shh,” he murmured, his breath warm against your temple. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I got you.”

His arms tightened around you, one hand moved in slow, soothing circles down your spine.

“I’m right here,” he whispered again, soft as a vow. “Not going anywhere.”

You nodded against him, your breath catching as the sobs faded into soft, shaky exhales. Slowly, your body began to settle, sinking back into the bed, heavy with exhaustion.

“You need to rest,” he said gently, easing back into the chair beside your bed. His hand found yours again, intertwining. 

Your grip tightened slightly around his. “Stay?” you murmured, your voice already thick with sleep. “Just for a little while.”

Your eyes were heavy, lashes fluttering as exhaustion began to pull you under again.

His thumb brushed softly over your knuckles, slow and steady.

“I will,” he said quietly, his gaze still on you. “I promise.”

—

Jack stepped into the room quietly. It was slightly dim—only one of the overhead lights was on, casting a soft, amber glow across the space.

He stopped when he saw you both.

Michael was slumped in a chair beside the exam bed, fast asleep, his arms folded on the mattress. One of his hands was loosely holding yours, his head resting near them, close enough that your fingers stayed tangled even in sleep. You were curled on your side, facing him, your breathing slow and steady.

Jack stood in the doorway for a moment, saying nothing—just watching.

Michael had disappeared from the floor a while ago. Though the team was holding it down, his absence hadn’t gone unnoticed—nurses exchanged glances, whispers passed between staff, a quiet question hanging in the air: where was he attending? 

But Jack hadn’t needed to guess. He already knew he was here

Jack snorted quietly, smirking to himself as he stepped into the room and moved to the foot of the bed. Pulling out his phone, he opened the camera and started snapping pictures—of Michael half-draped over the bed, of your fingers laced together, of the soft, exhausted peace on both your faces.

After a few shots—clearly satisfied—he tucked his phone back into his pocket, the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Robby?” Jack whispered. 

He waited for a beat, then said louder, “Robby!”

Michael inhaled sharply, eyes snapping open. He blinked up, disoriented for a split second before his gaze landed on Jack. Realization hit—he’d fallen asleep.

“Shit,” he mumbles, sitting up, trying not to wake you. He lets go of your hand gently as you lay sleeping.

Jack raised a brow, smirking. “Spending a little too much time with one patient,” he teased.

“Shut up,” Michael muttered, his voice rough with sleep.

“Hey, your words, not mine.” Jack held up his hands in defense. “I’ve heard you say the same thing to Mohan.”

Jack chuckled under his breath. “Seriously, though—you’re lucky it was me who walked in.”

Michael was quietly grateful it had been Jack. If anyone else had walked in, it would’ve been a disaster.

He’d never fallen asleep on the job like that before. Sure, during brutal double shifts, he’d crashed in an empty exam room now and then—but not like this. Not with someone else there.

He sat up, groaning a little as he stretched.

“Her results came back,” Jack said, holding up the iPad.

Michael stood and moved to the end of the bed where Jack was. Jack turned the screen toward him, and they looked at it together.

“There,” Jack said, tapping the scan. “Fractured skull. Right side of her head. No bleeding, but…” He hesitated. “She’s got some air bubbles.”

Michael leaned in, frowning at the faint black pockets. “Pneumocephalus?”

Jack nodded. “Most likely from the impact. Neuro’s on their way to evaluate.”

“Could’ve been worse, but she’s stable,” Jack said. “Vitals are solid. But she’ll need monitoring.”

Michael sighed, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I hate to tear you away from her, but you gotta get back out there. People are talking.”

​​“Talking?” Michael asked, already dreading the answer.

Jack gave him a look. “You’ve been gone a while, man. The team’s starting to wonder where you are. Rumor mill in full swing. They’re making bets.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Bets?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Was he mad? Not really. Irritated? Sure. This was the ER—he’d taken part in plenty of gossip and side bets over the years. Hell, he’d even been the subject of a few. But this felt different.

Michael let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. This place ran on caffeine, adrenaline, and gossip—half the time, there was a pool going on over something as mundane as someone’s lunch order.

Jack winced. “Yeah. The ER’s bored. You know how it goes.”

Jack shifted, “Yeah… well. It started a while ago—look, it goes back to when you—” He waved a hand, brushing it off. “You know what? It’s not important. I’ll fill you in later.”

Michael just gave him a tired look, but said nothing.

Jack didn’t press. “I’ve got this. I’ll stay with her until Neuro gets here. You go check in with the nurses, make a loop through the trauma bays—just show your face.”

Michael glanced back toward the bed. You were still resting, your breathing steady but shallow, brow slightly furrowed even in sleep.

He didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

But Jack was right. He’d already disappeared longer than he should’ve, and the ER had a rhythm—it noticed when someone broke from it.

Michael exhaled slowly, nodding. “Alright.”

You groan and begin to stir.

“Michael?” you mumbled as you started to wake.

His attention shifted immediately from Jack to you. Without hesitation, he turned back—returning, sinking into the chair he’d only just left, pulling it in close beside your bed.

“Hey, Sweetheart” He reached for your hand, brushing his thumb gently over the back of it, his expression soft, focused entirely on you.

You blinked a few times, disoriented, the haze of sleep still thick. Everything felt slow. Heavy. Off.

“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly.

“My head really hurts,” you groaned, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I know, baby.” His voice was steady, calm. “We’ll give you something for the pain, okay?”

You nodded a little, then winced. “My results came in?”

Jack glanced at Michael, silently prompting him to explain.

Michael hesitated for a breath, then spoke gently. “You have a small fracture on the right side of your skull. There’s no bleeding, but there are a few tiny air bubbles—something called pneumocephalus. It probably happened from the impact when you fell.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Air… bubbles? In my head?”

“Yeah,” he said, tightening his hold on your hand. “It sounds scarier than it is. You’re stable. Neuro’s on their way, and we’re keeping a close eye on everything.”

Your lip trembled. “Am I going to be okay?”

Michael leaned in, eyes locked on yours. “You are. I promise. You’re going to be okay.”

You tried to believe him—but your chest was tight, your heart thudding faster.

“What if it gets worse?”

He moved his free hand to cup your cheek gently. “Then we’ll be ready. You’re not alone, okay? I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Your fingers curled around his. “I’m scared.” a tear rolled down your cheek

“I know,” he whispered, his voice catching just slightly. He brushed the tear away with his thumb, his touch soft and steady.

“But I’m going to be here, okay?”

You closed your eyes, breathing through the fear, grounding yourself in the warmth of his hand and the steady rhythm of his voice.

Just then, Jack cleared his throat softly and said, “Michael.”

Michael’s eyes flicked toward Jack, then back to you. He knew he’d been gone from the floor too long.

With a sigh and reluctant squeeze of your hand, he whispered, “I have to go do my rounds but I’ll be back as soon as I can to check up on you, okay?”

You nodded, still holding onto him.

You wanted to tell him not to go—that it felt safer with him here, that the fear wasn’t as loud when he was close. But you knew that was selfish. He had a job to do, lives to save, and you couldn’t be the reason he stayed.

Michael brought your hand to his lips and kissed the top of your knuckles gently, making you give a faint, weak smile.

He rubbed your hand one last time before standing, taking one last look at you. Then he turned toward Jack.

Jack gave him a knowing look and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve got this from here.”

Michael gave a small nod and headed toward the door, ready to face his ER.

—

You’d been at the hospital for five hours. It was around six o’clock now, and you were more than ready to go home. They’d run tests, done scans, monitored you—cleared you for discharge once someone could take you.

You’d spent the last hour going over names in your head, trying to think of someone who might help. But every name came with a built-in reason not to call. Obligations. Distance. Unspoken tension. Complicated pasts.

You found yourself making excuses for people before you even reached out—talking yourself out of asking for help, telling yourself it wasn’t fair to burden them.

And so you lay there. 

“We called your mom earlier, like you asked,” Princess said gently, pulling up a file on the computer from a previous ER visit. Her eyes scanned the screen as she looked up the emergency contact info. “She knows what’s going on. She wanted me to tell you she’s coming as soon and as fast as she can.”

Princess continued, “Is there anyone else I should call? I have one listed here... Aiden Carter.”

“Could you take him off my emergency contacts?”

Princess glanced up, her expression softening with understanding, but there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. “Okay,” she said gently. “I’ll update that for you.”

Princess nodded without hesitation and tapped the screen to update your emergency contact. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment, quiet but attentive.

“If you change your mind about calling anyone else or need anything else, just let me know,” she said softly, her voice steady and reassuring.

You gave a small, grateful nod as the Princess offered you a gentle smile and quietly stepped out of the room.

Moments later, the door creaked open again.

“Hey,” Michael said from the doorway, his voice soft—careful.

You turned slightly toward him on the bed, your body still heavy with exhaustion. “Hi.”

Michael leaned against the doorway, eyes scanning your face, searching for something—answers, reassurance, anything. His voice dropped, quiet but laced with tension.

“They haven’t been able to reach him?”

He meant Aiden.

Michael had already been thinking about it—about Aiden’s absence. The fact that he wasn’t by your side. That he hadn’t come rushing in. That he hadn’t even bothered to answer his damn phone.

Michael was angry. No—he was furious.

He’d seen all kinds of heartbreak in the ER: people forgotten, abandoned, left waiting too long by the ones who were supposed to love them. But seeing you in that position?

It twisted something sharp inside him.

You were lying in that bed—hurt, alone—and the one person who should have shown up hadn’t even answered his phone.

Michael clenched his jaw, trying to hold back the storm rising in his chest. 

He didn’t know you weren’t together anymore.

But that didn’t stop him from being furious on your behalf.

“No,” you said quietly. “Because Princess didn’t call him. She won’t—because we’re not together anymore.”

Michael froze. “Oh.” That was all he could muster—no apology, no immediate response.

The storm in his chest stilled, replaced by a sudden, hollow quiet.

Part of him was overjoyed—fucking finally, he thought. But then the questions crashed in.

How long has it been?Why didn’t you say anything?Was it recent?

His eyes flicked over your face, searching for any sign of heartbreak—anger, sadness, regret—but you looked… calm. Tired, yes. But unphased. You didn’t seem broken by it.

Still, now wasn’t the time for questions. He knew you’d talk about everything when the time was right—like he’d said.

“Is anyone coming?”

"My mom,” you murmured. “She lives out of state. It’s going to be a while.”

Right now, you need rest. Comfort. Something steady.

And he could do that. He would do that.

Michael stepped into the room, making his way towards you.

He reached out gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead. His fingers lingered for a second—light, tentative, reverent.

“We'll go home” he said, voice low but sure. “Once my shift’s up—in about an hour—I’ll get you discharged, and we’ll go. Okay?”

You blinked up at him, lips parting like you might protest—but nothing came out. You didn’t have the strength. Not to argue. Not to pretend.

“Okay,” you said, barely above a whisper.

You nodded faintly, your eyes already starting to drift shut again. The adrenaline was fading, and now the weight of everything—your body, your thoughts, your heart—was settling in.

Then, slowly, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. His lips were warm.

He straightened with a quiet exhale, his gaze still fixed on you.

Then he turned and walked to the door. He hesitated, glanced back once more, and with careful fingers, closed it quietly, gently.

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin @capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune @robbyslittlelamb @nicisthename92 @littlezee80 @lucidanne @spooky-librarian-ghost @the-salty-asian @lonelyheartsm @lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10)

[alinathinkstoomuch]

PINK MATTER

pairing: aaron hotchner x fake!fiance!reader (she's literally just a girly!fashion!reader atp & no longer the fake fiancee lol) summary: hotch comes home and finds you passed out with a vibrator and takes matters into his own hands when you tell him you didn't finish.....gags are used, based on this & this request. warnings: smut 18+ MDNI, use of sex toys, panties used as a gag, mentions of masturbation aka r making hotch tell her what he jerks off to and he somehow manages to make it romantic, aftercare, established relationship, praise kink. word count: 2.7k

✧ masterlist | ✧ alina's 1k bar

All of Aaron’s limbs felt like they’d been replaced with concrete. Or maybe with the entire weight of the jet itself, as if the thing had disintegrated the second they stepped off it and reformed inside of him. Normally, he’d head straight home after a case, especially one that dumped him back in D.C. at such an ungodly hour.

But tonight? Your place was closer. And the only thing keeping him semi-conscious through the last of the paperwork was the image of your bed, your warm bed, with you in it, and the promise of sleeping in.

And maybe… maybe he was getting slightly used to your swanky apartment building. The one that offered cooled water, had a coffee machine in the lobby, and always smelled faintly like something expensive he couldn’t name. 

The doorman gave Aaron a polite nod, they were on nodding terms now, which felt serious, but Aaron skipped the chitchat. It was the middle of the night, and unless the guy could teleport him directly into your bed, there wasn’t much to discuss.

But, as with all good things, there were downsides. The main one being your new neighbour. A woman in her late sixties who seemed lovely at first, right up until she decided to file a noise complaint after the two of you got particularly…vocal one night. 

The complaint, of course, went absolutely nowhere. You’d lived there longer than she had, sent thank-you cards to building staff, never forgot any birthdays, you were the model tenant, dare he say.  But still, the damage was done and now you both were on the receiving end of vicious glares that not even Aaron could match. 

So, he did his best to slip inside your apartment as quietly as humanly possible, hoping not to set off either of your two living alarm systems, Gus or the neighbour with a grudge and a questionable grasp of tenant law. 

The second he stepped inside, he could almost feel his stress stripping away layer by layer just by being in a place that was yours. Not to mention the way he felt something in his tummy at the thought of actually seeing you. He never thought butterflies were possible for a man his age, and yet there he was, kicking off his shoes with the urgency of a love-sick teenager.

Though once he heard the sound of paws against hardwood floor, he knew he was going to have to wait just a little longer, because he’d have to pay the inconvenience tax to your most prized possession first. (Yes, you would scold him if you heard him calling Gus anything other than your son.)

The furball plopped himself by Aaron’s go bag, knowing that when Aaron walked through the door past midnight, there was a treat–or two– in it for him. Aaron crouched down, his knees cracking in protest, and scratched Gus behind the ears. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered. “Is your mom asleep?”

He already knew the answer. 

You’d sent him a flood of pictures of your night out with a few girlfriends from work, posing with fruity cocktails in various states of full. He figured you’d be passed out by now in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of false lashes on the bedside table. He stood with a grunt to grab the treat bag from the side and handed over the expected payment which Gus took to the sofa, officially losing all interest in the spare human. 

Once his suit jacket was hung, he made his way to your bedroom, spotting the glow of your lamp through the cracked door. He nudged it open silently, fully expecting to find you tucked beneath the duvet fast asleep. But instead? You were sprawled on top of the covers, bare-legged and wearing his faded FBI shirt. One hand was flung overhead with your phone hanging in it and the other–

Oh.

Oh.

Aaron paused in the doorway, eyebrows lifting as the scene registered. Well. That explained the last ‘when r u home?? 🥲’ text you sent.

He exhaled through his nose, lips twitching in a silent laugh he didn't fully form. You were unbelievable, utterly impatient and completely endearing. He made his way over to your side, lowering himself to gently slip the phone and vibrator out of your hands, setting both down next to your earrings on the bedside table, shaking his head in amusement. 

You made an inaudible noise, your brows scrunching like your body had picked up on his presence before your brain caught on. He sat down on the edge of the bed, watching you keenly. Smiling at the way your hair was still half done from your night out, but the baby hairs had slipped free, framing your face in almost an angelic halo kind of way. 

He knew better than to disturb you while you were sleeping, never wanting to wake you if he didn’t have to. But his hand reached for your thigh, to the strip of skin exposed where his shirt had ridden up on your hip. It felt almost magnetic, the urge to touch, drawn in by the spill of stretch marks across your skin, like little moonlight streaks he just had to feel.

“Mmmn…” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. “You're home.”

He smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Yeah. I’m home.”

Your hand reached for him blindly, curling around his wrist as you opened your eyes. “Good,” you breathed. “Missed you.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing towards the vibrator he’d just retired from your grip.

“Don’t judge me. You said midnight.”

Aaron let out a quiet laugh. “You fell asleep mid-attempt.”

“I was tired,” you defended, yawning mid-sentence. “Long day.”

“Sure. Looked exhausting.”

You tugged him closer by his tie. “Didn’t even finish…”

“Would you like to?”

“You’re not tired?” you asked, seeming much more awake now.

“I’m exhausted,” he said simply. “And I still want to take care of you.”

You hummed, legs rubbing together, chasing friction you weren’t even trying to be subtle about. Aaron stopped you gently, his hands gliding down to your calves as he guided your legs apart. He lifted one over his thigh, nudging the other to the side, opening you up.

He watched the way your hips shifted, pressing into the mattress, that visceral response you always had when you were worked up and needed undoing. He saw how your eyes tracked every movement he made, already wide and glassy, how your lips parted, how your ribs expanded with every breath.

He reached for the vibrator, switching it on, the room filling with a quieted buzz. He let the toy trail slowly along the inside of your thigh as he made his way up, catching the whimper that staggered in your throat, seconds away from reaching his ears.

“Remember what we spoke about?” Aaron asked, dragging the vibrator over your clothed cunt.

You tensed immediately, a moan slipping out. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet. Promise. Wouldn’t want Greta to—ah—” 

Another sound tore from your throat as he pressed the toy higher, right over your clit, the thin cotton of your underwear doing very little to buffer the sensation.

“That’s not quiet.”

“Don’t think I can,” you managed just as your head tipped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “N-not with you watching.”

He was beginning to feel his slacks tighten almost painfully at the sight. 

Then the toy was gone. 

Your head snapped up immediately. “Aaron?” 

His hands were already at your hips, fingers sliding under your underwear. “Up.”

You lifted your hips as he tugged them down and you exhaled with relief, assuming he just wanted better access. But then his other hand was under your chin, fingers curled, holding the bunched up panties in the other. 

“Open,” he instructed, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. You did exactly that, opening your mouth and granting him access to stuff the fabric inside.

“Much better now, don’t you think?”

All you could do was nod and watch the way he reached for the toy again. He lowered it between your legs, his other hand grabbing your knee. He paused just for a second, watching the way your back arched, pleading for some sort of contact.

The moment he pressed it to you, your response was immediate, mouth falling open against the panties, the cotton soaking up what was more breath than voice and he could tell that this was exactly what you’d been waiting for. 

“You always get like this,” he whispered, adjusting the angle, “when I’m gone too long.”

You let out another muffled sound, hips twitching beneath his hand.

“Too worked up to wait. Try to do it yourself…but you never get all the way there, do you?”

You shook your head, thighs closing in on his hand. He didn’t scold you, just let out the smallest laugh, the kind that made your skin prickle in the best way as his hand moved to nudge your thighs open again. 

He began moving the toy in circles and you felt the speed pick up.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured, thumb brushing along your hip. “Breathe.”

He saw the way your stomach tightened, the shirt rumpling with the telltale sign of exactly how close you were. Your jaw flexed around the fabric in your mouth, blocking another sound before it could risk a second complaint. 

You never took long with a toy, he figured that out early on and never minded. He wasn’t the type to take it personally. If anything, he liked it. Liked knowing what worked, liked that it was his hand making it work.

“Getting there?” 

You nodded, eyes shut tight, hands fisting the sheets.

“Thought so.” He pressed it a little harder, adjusting the angle a little higher. “Go ahead, honey.”

The moment he gave you permission, your hips bucked up, the toy stuttering slightly against your skin with the movement as you squirmed, clenching around nothing. Aaron kept it pressed against your clit, despite the way you couldn't keep still, until your hands found his wrist, gently pushing it away.

He switched it off, abandoning it on the bed so his hands could return to you, one on your thigh, the other reaching up to remove the makeshift panty gag from your mouth. You watched him pull the fabric out slowly, a slick string of drool catching on your lip. Aaron wiped it away with his thumb, like it was nothing at all.

“That better?”

“Much better, thank you,” you let out a laugh, still a little breathless. “This is exactly why you can’t leave. Like, ever.”

“I’ll be sure to bring that up to Strauss the next time we have a case,” he said, lifting your thigh to kiss your knee before gently lowering it from his lap. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Mmmkay,” you yawned, letting your eyes close for a second. But when they opened you caught sight of the situation happening in his pants. Your lips curled slowly. “You sure you don’t want help with that?”

Aaron laughed, undoing his tie. “You need rest.”

“I could do it lying down,” you offered sweetly. “It’s very efficient.”

“I’m going to shower,” he repeated but you swore you could make out the flush in his cheeks.

“Ah, is that code?”

He paused, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. “Code?”

You nodded, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Code for getting off in the shower alone.”

“It’s code for needing to rinse off hours of jet sweat, and—”

“So…yes,” you cut him off with a lazy grin.

He shook his head, already heading for the bathroom.

You stretched out on the bed, far too smug for someone who’d just had her panties in her mouth and needed permission to come. “Can I watch?”

Aaron paused. Like, actually paused.

Your voice dropped, softer now, more curious. “Have you ever… touched yourself…while thinking about me?”

He turned to face you and you raised your brows. “I have,” you admitted with a shrug of your shoulders. “Did it tonight, but clearly thinking of you wasn’t enough.”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, a pleased smile tugging at the corner. “Yeah? What do you think about?”

He exhaled slowly and you could practically see the debate happening in his head. You just gave him your best lazy, post orgasm smile, like this was just casual pillow talk. 

“You really want to know?”

“I would do unspeakable things to know.”

He came back to the bed, settling beside you again. “Sometimes I think about your thighs. How they feel when you wrap them around my waist when you want me deeper, like you’re trying to keep me there forever. Or the way they twitch… not when you come, but just after.”

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“I think about your voice,” he went on, eyes fixed on your face. “Not the moaning, not what most people would imagine. I think about the way your voice trembles before you say my name, like your body’s surprised by how much it needs it.”

He paused, his eyes drifting to your hands. 

“I think about the way your fingers shake when you undo your jeans for me,” he added. “You try to hide it. You always look me dead in the eye like you're so calm… but your hands always give you away.”

You felt suddenly exposed, and yet cherished. He had been watching, really watching, like every part of you was something worth remembering.

“But there’s one thing you do and you probably don’t even realise.”

“What is it?”

“You laugh.”

“I–what?”

“After you finish, you let out this laugh. Like you’re embarrassed by how much you felt, or like it surprised you, or like it snuck up on you and now you’re overwhelmed and happy and trying not to show it.”

“I do not laugh,” you tried to argue.

He let out a breath of air, a laugh of his own. “Trust me, sweetheart, you do. Because it's exactly what I think about to finish.”

You furrowed your brows, completely taken back by his casualness. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he replied, still smiling. “You wouldn’t notice it. But I do.”

“And that’s really what you think about? Out of everything?”

He nodded, hands reaching for your ankles, pulling them back on his lap again.

“Why?”

“Because it means I gave you something.” His thumbs stroked lazily over your skin as he answered. “Something that made you feel so much it had to come out somehow.”

You didn’t know what to say, your chest felt too full and your throat too tight. So you flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic groan, grabbing the nearest pillow and pressing it over your face, mostly to muffle the ridiculous, overwhelmed noise clawing its way out of your throat. Equal parts sob, squeal, and scream.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered into the pillow. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You asked.”

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him, your face hot and burning. “Yes. Because I thought the answer would be something like my ass in denim shorts. Or when I wear that pink push-up bra.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “Those rank very high.”

“How high?”

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs “Top five.”

“Five?” you gasped. “My ass in denim shorts is five?”

“Baby,” he murmured, hands sliding higher,  “you have so many top-five moments, I had to get creative with categories.”

Before you could ask what those were, his hands reached and squeezed your bare ass, a laugh tumbling out of you without warning.

His eyes flicked up to yours instantly. “There it is.”

You froze. “No.”

He grinned. “Don’t deny it.”

“That wasn’t the laugh.”

“It was close enough,” he argued, hands wrapping around your lower back as he pulled you into his lap. You landed there with a gasp, knees straddling his thighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll get the real one out of you again soon.”

“Yeah?” you asked, hands snaking around his neck. “Think the shower needs to hear it, don't you?”

“Oh, absolutely the shower needs to hear it,” he agreed, standing with you in his arms. “So does the wall. And the mirror. And probably the floor.”

“Oof, sounds like it's going to be a long night then.”

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @keiminds @iyskgd @mystic-rox @insured-by-the-mafia @mggslover @Star-crossed-Sephie @tearykth @2dloveshp  @lovelystrawberry @imissaaronhotchner @justyourusualash @alexxavicry @storiesofsvu @ehedrick012110 @hopelessromantic727 @piatosniathenie @averyhotchner @softtdaisy @b1tchyr1ichy @wvffles @thehotchners @tinythebunni @violettablackwood @yasministration

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[flowergirl1243]

soft launch season - [part three]

SUMMARY: when Lando Norris' notorious party boy reputation may be too far out of control to save, you step in to save his image (and maybe his heart).

PAIRING: lando norris x fem!reader

part one part two part three part four part five part six

ACT 3: THE DEBUT

Liked by mclaren, ynusername and others lando for a while now 🤍

user12 EVERYONE STAY CALM

user13 this is not a drill

user14 she's so pretty i actually need to go lay down

user15 soft era unlocked

Liked by lando and others ynusername this one's alright i guess

user16 I CAN'T DO THIS TODAY

user17 oh my days they look like soulmates

user18 he's in love look at his face

Imola was beautiful in that old, solemn way that most people didn’t notice.

He did. Maybe because he wasn’t looking for speed, not right now. Not this morning.

It was quiet. Just past dawn. Pale sun bleeding into the edges of the curtains. The hotel walls were too white, too clean, the room too still. It should’ve felt calm. It didn’t.

It felt like absence.

He hadn’t heard from her in days.

No late-night voice notes. No sarcastic texts. No offhanded “don’t be a muppet today” before FP1, the phrase she'd picked up from being around him. Nothing.

And it shouldn’t have mattered. Not really. This whole thing, whatever it was, had never come with promises. No labels. No neediness. No lines drawn in sharpie. But still, he woke up thinking about her. Every damn morning.

He rolled over, reached for his phone.

Still nothing.

He stared at the screen too long, hoping a notification would bloom across it. Her name. Anything. The silence mocked him.

He thought of her in that cardigan she always wore when she was tired. Thought of the way her hair fell into her face when she was pretending not to care. Thought of how, when she laughed, really laughed, she looked at him like she didn’t know what to do with the feeling.

He’d been looking for her all weekend. Between sessions. On the fringes of the paddock. In crowds where she never said she’d be. His eyes kept catching on shadows. His heart kept pulling in the direction she wasn’t.

She wasn’t here.

And he felt it like a bruise under the skin, something deep and unhealed. He missed her in the kind of way that made his throat hurt. Not for the drama of it. But for the stupid, quiet truth:

He wanted her here.

Wanted to turn around after the briefing and see her waiting with that look, the one that said, “You’re not as untouchable as you think you are.”

Wanted her legs curled up on his hotel bed, rolling her eyes while he ranted about understeer.

Wanted her voice in his ear before the race, low and even and not impressed by podiums.

Just…wanted her.

Not in a crowd. Not on Instagram. Not beside him for a camera flash.

Just her. Alone. Real. Close enough to touch.

But Imola was still. And cold. And empty.

And she wasn’t here.

1 voicemail from lan 🤍 [0:54]

"Baby...[laughs] God, I miss you. I don't even know what I'm doing, I just... [pause] We went out after the race, and I'm like properly gone now. Probably won't remember this when I wake up. [laughs] I keep checking my phone every ten minutes and hoping it's you. [pause] It's not. [pause] I don’t care about the race. I don’t care about the noise. I just want you. I want your voice. I want your hands on my face telling me to breathe. I want you next to me. [sighs] Sorry, I just miss you."

He’s halfway through opening another drink he doesn’t need when his phone lights up.

Her name.

His heart stutters like he’s gone over a curb too hard.

He fumbles to answer.

“Hello?”

She’s quiet for a second. Then: “You called.”

“Twice,” he admits. “And I left that voicemail. Which you should, by the way, delete. Immediately.”

She breathes a small laugh, but it’s not amused. It’s soft. Careful.

“You’re drunk.”

“Absolutely,” he says, without hesitation. “Properly gone.”

Another pause. He hears her shift. Maybe she’s lying down. Maybe her lamp’s still on. He imagines her in bed, phone tucked between her cheek and shoulder, wearing one of those big T-shirts she always steals from people and never gives back.

“You okay?” she asks, finally.

“No.”

He hears her exhale, not surprised, but something like quiet understanding.

“I miss you,” he says. Blunt. Honest. “I don’t really know what to do with that.”

She doesn’t respond right away.

“I thought we agreed this wasn’t real,” she says, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice softer now. “But then I started missing someone I was never supposed to miss.”

She’s quiet on the other end.

Not cold. Not cruel. Just…holding the silence like she doesn’t trust what might spill out if she speaks too soon.

Lando lays back, one arm over his eyes. His chest feels too tight, like there’s not enough air in the room.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to dump all this on you.”

“I know.”

And for a moment they just sit there, breathing, holding a thread neither of them knows how to untangle.

He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. “God.”

“Don’t take it back.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Don’t take it back. You meant it.”

He swallows hard. The room is spinning a little. But he knows what she just said. He knows.

“You miss me?” he asks, because he needs to hear it. Needs to know he isn’t the only one unraveling.

“Yeah,” she says. So quietly it’s almost a breath. “Too much.”

He closes his eyes. Everything inside him quiets for the first time in weeks.

“You gonna stay on the phone with me?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just for a bit.”

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

Liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and others lando back home

user19 he's in love. don't look at me

user20 i am not normal about them and i never will be

user21 she's his screensaver. i know it.

He had never been good with endings. Or beginnings, really. But standing here now, outside the small cafe nestled between sun-bleached stone buildings, the hum of Monaco fading into the background, he felt like he was staring down both.

His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, fingers curling around the worn fabric like it was the only thing grounding him. The late afternoon light cast long shadows across the narrow street, and somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounded, low and lazy.

She was already here, waiting, just like he knew she would be. He saw her before she looked up, sitting on the edge of the café’s tiny terrace, shoulders hunched slightly, hair loose and tangled from the breeze. The sight of her stopped his breath, like the world had hit pause.

Her eyes flicked up as he stepped closer, and for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid sat between them like a third presence.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter than he expected.

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched him, those eyes steady and unreadable. Then, with a tilt of her head, a small, almost fragile smile curved her lips.

“Wasn't sure if you'd show,” she said softly.

He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I could.”

“Why?” Her voice was low, but carried a softness he hadn’t heard before, like she knew exactly what was running through his head.

He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “I wasn’t sure I could face you. Not after the call. Can't hide behind my phone or the alcohol, here.”

She didn’t say anything. Just shifted a little closer on the bench, the space between them still stubbornly wide.

The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that carried all the things they hadn’t been brave enough to say.

He wanted to reach out, to close that space, but his body stayed still, frozen by everything tangled inside him.

Then, almost without thinking, his fingers brushed against hers. A light, tentative touch that felt electric and terrifying all at once.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand rest lightly against his, thumb tracing a slow, careful line over his skin.

“I missed you,” he said finally, voice breaking the quiet like a fragile thread. “More than I thought I would.”

Her gaze dropped for a second, as if she was trying to hide the way her heart might be pounding just as hard.

“Me too,” she whispered.

The confession hung between them, too fragile to hold for long.

He cleared his throat, forcing air back into his lungs. “So…what now?”

She looked up then, eyes shining with a mixture of something like hope and fear. “I don’t know.”

He let out a breath, the tension coiling tighter in his chest. “Neither do I.”

They sat side by side, fingers still lightly entwined, the golden light softening everything — the hard edges of their doubts, the sharp sting of the distance they’d carried for too long.

He wanted to say more, to promise something real, but the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he just stayed there, letting the quiet speak for them both.

Because maybe, after all the miles and all the silence, this was the start.

As promised, my loves, here is the third part of Soft Launch Season. I hope it is up to your standards so far and if you have any thoughts, you can always let me know!! My taglist is open if you'd like to join, as well!!

taglist

@sol3chu, @charlesgirl16, @motorsp0rt, @imdyinghelpplease, @vampgege

[spideyjimin]

a secret spun in silk: I | jjk

⤷ loving Jungkook was easy, he was the shy and nerdy guy no one really noticed, and that was fine for him. however, everything changed when a radioactive spider bite turned him into the city’s mysterious new hero. as a detective, you were quick to notice the shift. then, his mentor, Kang Sangmin, died in front of you. now, you’re hunting a killer and uncovering the truth about the man you thought you knew.

—  pairing: spidey!jungkook x detective!fem. reader 

—  genre: established relationship, murder au, mystery au, spiderman au, angst, fluff, and smut

— rating: 18+ 

—  words: 9,654

—  warnings: swearing, strong language, mention of death, mention of adoption, mention of infertility, lots of kissing, some teasing, humping, oral sex (m & f receiving), nipple play, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, mention of sex, dead bodies, burned body, mention of fire, mention of crying, description of death, blood, mention of murder, and crying

—  author’s note: hi guys!! The spiderkook fic is finally here & I hope you’ll enjoy it ✨ sorry it took me this long to post the first chapter, but life has been crazy again & my health is all over the place 🫠 however, i’ve written a lot lately & here you have the fic 💞 you’ll see that there is an alternation between jungkook & oc point of view throughout the chapter, i really hope you’ll enjoy it & let’s see if you’re good detectives 🕵🏻 thanks for reading & don’t hesitate to let me know what you think of this first chapter 🩵

Chapter I: the spider effect

SERIES MASTERLIST | next

Jungkook

His eyes scan the lab report one final time, the pages worn from hours of review. Fingers move with practiced precision, lifting each sample, examining it under the harsh lab light. He's exhausted, but meticulous. A single error could bring his boss's fury down like a hammer. This has to be flawless.

Jungkook could have chosen the easiest way in his professional career. He could have decided to work for his father’s company; the doors were all open for him, but Jungkook never chose the easiest way like his infamous brother, Joongi.

Managing people and businesses is definitely not for him. He’s too shy to be around people, and he’s not sure he’ll ever be good at giving orders and being respected. He largely prefers to stay hidden behind a lab and work on something that truly passions him. Studying samples makes him way happier than sitting in a cold office.

His father, Seojoon, always encouraged him to do whatever he wanted. It was absolutely fine for him if his oldest son didn’t follow in his footsteps. He already knew his second-born, Joongi, would be the one leading the family’s company. His two sons are complete opposites, and that’s why he absolutely loves them deeply.

Seojoon could count on his oldest friend, Sangmin, to help Jungkook on his scientific journey.  Kang Sangmin built from scratch a pharmaceutical company. He studied and worked hard before starting a company at 35. Today, his company is one of the biggest in South Korea. Seojoon and Sangmin were neighbors as kids, and their ambition turned them into the most influential men.  

Both of them chose different lives. While Seojoon decided to marry and have children, Sangmin preferred to remain single even though he had a son at eighteen. But Sangmin always considered Jungkook as a second son. He has always been by his side and guided him every step of the way.

Even though Jungkook had Sangmin, he decided not to work in his company. Again, choosing the easiest way has never been for him. So he’s working on a company focused on finding cures for rare diseases. And that passions him beyond comprehension.

“Doctor Jeon,” a woman says while entering the laboratory. “A woman is waiting for you at the reception.”  

Jungkook doesn’t even bother to look up at her, too scared he’ll lose track of where he is, but a smile appears on his face. He knows who’s waiting for him. You. His beloved girlfriend. The only person he truly adores. Well, he loves his family, but it’s a different kind of love. Loving you is easy. You truly look at him and see beyond his looks.

The scientist doesn’t consider himself handsome, no matter how many times you said it. He’s always tucked behind oversized glasses, his hair pushed back in a bun, but he always wears his awkwardness like a second lab coat. Bunny teeth and big, soft eyes. He looks more like a nervous intern than a brilliant scientist, but that’s exactly why you love him.

“Can you tell her that I just need to finish the report?” he replies.

The woman only nods before disappearing, leaving him alone once more. He’s the associate research scientist and takes his job very seriously. The big boss is always very harsh with him, but it’s because she knows how good he is. She pushes him to be better, and he doesn’t mind at all. He adores what he does.

Now, he rushes his final review to leave as fast as possible to go on the date you organized. You’re going to eat at that fancy restaurant that opened recently. Finding a table was hard, but for once in his life, Jungkook used the “I’m Seojoon’s son” card. He did it for you because you desperately wanted to try this new restaurant.

Beneath his white coat, he wears a classic outfit—a light blue shirt paired with dark blue trousers. He also has a coat matching his pants, but he’ll put it on once he’ll leave the lab. During lunch break, he perfectly tidied his hair, abandoning the usual messy bun for a neater look.

Unlike one might think, this isn’t an uncommon outfit for him. Actually, this is what he’s used to wearing. When he was younger, he was kind of forced to wear this type of outfit. And now, every Sunday, when he goes to his parents, he puts on his best outfit. Otherwise, at home, he prefers to wear larger clothes and only makes a small effort for work.

While checking the last samples, a tiny spider crawls across his hand. Since he’s very focused on the sample, he lets it be, but he wonders how on earth it got here. Erika, an American colleague temporarily assigned to the lab, has been studying spider species. Normally, they’re kept safely in their enclosure.

Jungkook doesn’t even know if the spider is venomous, but if he moves, he’ll risk compromising the sample. The second he places it down, the spider bites him.

“Shit,” he swears.

The man instantly takes the spider and places it back in the enclosure, then walks to the sink to clean the bite with water and soft soap. He’ll keep an eye on it in case it becomes weird, and mentally notes that he’ll need to apply a cold compress once at home. He gets back to work because he’s too eager to finish quickly.

As soon as everything is done, he sends the report to the department director, puts back the samples in that humongous fridge, and removes his white scientist coat to replace it with the dark blue one. As he puts his coat on, his eyes linger for a little while on the ring on his finger.

Ten months ago, on your first anniversary, you bought matching rings with your initials engraved on them. They don’t look like wedding rings, but they carry the same promise. A promise of eternal and unconditional love.

The man closes the lab before rushing to join you. He doesn’t want to make you wait any longer. In seconds, he’s inside an elevator, making his way to the ground floor. When he comes out and walks to the reception, he finds you sitting on a bench with your eyes looking at your polished nails. The brightest smile grows on his face when he sees you. You make him happy like nobody ever did.

You finally turn your head, and your eyes instantly meet his. Slowly, you stand up with your purse and jacket in your hands. Jungkook falls even more in love with you. You’re wearing that pale purple silk dress he offered you at the early stage of your relationship. He wanted to impress you and offer you whatever you wanted. Money was never an issue for him. He wanted to use it on you. He still does.  

“Woow,” he says when he’s standing in front of you. “You look like a fucking dream, pumpkin.”

The pumpkin nickname arrived when you confessed how much you like a good pumpkin soup. Your mom always prepares it in the winter, but now that you live with your boyfriend, you’re the one preparing it. However, your mother brings you some once in a while.

You tiptoe to kiss your boyfriend, and he gently wraps an arm around you. Being around you is his favorite place on earth. He always wonders how he got so lucky to find you, and he’ll forever be grateful that destiny placed you in his arms.

“And you always look so fine with that suit, nerdy,” you whisper on his lips.

Jungkook never liked being called ‘nerdy’; he always hated it, but you’re the only one he’ll ever let. It actually makes him happy to hear you call him by that nickname.

 “Ready to go to that fancy restaurant?” he asks while intertwining his fingers in yours.

“I’m so excited,” you giggle.

Your boyfriend can’t help but find you absolutely adorable. You both make your way out of the building, saying goodbye to the receptionist. Since the restaurant isn’t too far, you walk together in the streets. The closeness between your boyfriend’s workplace and the restaurant is the reason why you joined him. If it weren’t the case, he’d be the one waiting for you at the reception of the police station.

“How was your day, pumpkin?” he asks before placing a soft kiss on the back of your hand.

“Same as always,” you shrug. “We found a dead body and are now investigating the cause of death.”

Jungkook doesn’t understand how you can be doing this; you’re constantly meeting death and crazy killers. That simple thought sends shivers down his spine. Most of the time, he’s worried about you. Any crazy killer that you put behind bars has reasons to hate you and chase after you. He’s scared that one of them might do it.

“Not a traumatic dead body?” he asks with concern.

Sometimes, when you arrive home, you burst into tears. Some deaths are harder to deal with than others. On those days, your boyfriend makes sure to give you all the comfort you need.

“No,” you shake your head. “It was a simple shot to the heart.”

“Don’t know how you can call that ‘simple’,” he chuckles. “Nothing is simple with a dead person.”

You smile while his hand squeezes yours. For the rest of the walk, you explain to him how this death was simple, and the case might be closed very soon. The man found dead was hated by everybody, so one of those people might be responsible.

Jungkook also explains what he’s been up to for the day. He doesn’t go into much detail, as it’s confidential, and because you don’t know much about scientific stuff. Nonetheless, it warms his heart to share with you what he’s been doing.

Once you reach the restaurant, he walks in front of you, his fingers never letting go of yours. At the entrance, he informs the waitress under which name he booked a table. She guides you to a table near the window. A bright and big smile grows on your face when you notice the incredible view.

“You outdid yourself,” you tell your boyfriend as he pushes your chair.

“Couldn’t bring you here without getting the best seats,” he replies. “If I were going to pull the Seojoon’s son card, I needed to do it properly.”

“You’re not wrong,” you say, sitting down.

Your lover grew up going to prestigious restaurants. His parents would never settle for cheap ones because it was all about image. Jungkook never minded it. It was just a restaurant after all. But as he reached teenage years, he realized he was the only kid at school who never went to McDonald's or any of those fast food restaurants. He already felt like an outsider, but that made him feel even weirder compared to the others. His entire life, he was the nerdy guy nobody ever noticed or looked at. But he never cared about it. He had his friends, and that was enough.  

However, as years went by, he started to wonder if he would ever find a girl. He was nobody’s type, especially in the world he grew up in. Girls were only interested in looks and money. He had the money but not the looks. But sounds like money wasn’t enough.

And then, one day, he met the girl who brought some DNA samples. It was late, Jungkook’s company had agreed to assist the police with a case, and you showed up at his lab. It was your case. You were running after a serial killer. Since it was an emergency, the police needed the best lab.

Jungkook had only been working there for five months. You spent the entire night together. Him examining the samples and you, attentively watching him work. You’d ask him random questions because you were curious to find out more about him. He intrigued you. And by the end of it, you offered him breakfast to thank him. Yeah, it was already like 5 am when he finished.

It was the best night of your lives, and it was the beginning of something beautiful.

Jungkook fell madly in love with you. Just like you did with him.

You’ve been his first in all aspects of his romantic life, and even though that scared you at the beginning, you’ve been enjoying it a lot. Watching him discover everything with you is one of the biggest accomplishments of your life.     

“Next month, Sangmin is organizing a dinner at his place,” Jungkook begins. “He’d like to have us. Is it fine for you?”

It’s been a while since Jungkook last saw Sangmin. He’s been travelling a lot, gathering awards for his company’s accomplishments, and building a new branch in Kyoto. They’ve of course discussed a lot over the phone because Jungkook always feels the need to speak with him about scientific stuff.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” you tell him. “Also, next weekend, Jin is inviting us over to his place.”

Jin is your older brother, and Jungkook is quite close to him. They created a rather great bond, one you never expected to be formed because of Jin’s protective tendencies. But your boyfriend really adores being around him.

“No problem.”

Your brother is currently on his honeymoon with his wife, Hyorin. They got married three weeks ago, and they’ve been enjoying their little romantic escape. Even though Jungkook won’t admit it, he misses your brother. They hang out together quite often.

“He’s inviting the whole family,” you add.

Jungkook frowns. That’s weird.

“Why?” he asks.

“Don’t know, but it’s for sure something important.”

A couple of months into your relationship, Jungkook got to meet your entire family, composed of your parents and your two older brothers. Besides Jin, you have another brother, Taehyung, who’s only a year older than you. You’re very close to the two of them, and through you, Jungkook got two new brothers.

“My mom has already called me asking if I knew why,” you shake your head with a smile.

“She’s too curious,” he chuckles.

“She’s already thinking that they might announce an upcoming baby, but I strongly doubt it,” you confess. “Jin and Hyorin always said they wanted to take their time and enjoy their married life before having a baby. But you know my mom,” you smile.

Jungkook adores your mom. She welcomed him with open arms when you introduced him. He was so scared your parents might reject him, but it was actually the opposite.  

“She’s been patiently waiting for that grandchild,” he says while remembering the many conversations where she, without subtly, made you all understand that she wants to become a grandma.

Early in your relationship, you told your boyfriend that you and your brothers were adopted. Your parents had trouble conceiving, so instead of forcing and pushing their bodies to exhaustion, they decided to adopt. Jin was a year old when they brought him home, Taehyung was five months old, and you were just a month old. All three of you came from the same orphanage.

Your adoption was never a taboo subject, but Jungkook has always been very careful about how he approached the matter. He’s scared to hurt you.

 “The day one of us gets a baby, she’ll throw the biggest party ever seen,” you jokingly say.

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

When Jungkook looks at you, sometimes he wonders what you saw in him. To him, you’re the prettiest girl to ever walk the face of the earth, while he sees himself as an ugly and boring man. But he tries to brush those thoughts away because you’ve told him many times that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.

The rest of the dinner goes by quickly while you both talk about everything. Although you live together, it always feels like you constantly have so much to say. It’s like you haven’t seen each other in days, while in fact, it has only been a couple of hours.

Through it all, he felt normal, except for the itch in his hand. He kept scratching it without really noticing.

Once over, you walk back to Jungkook’s workplace because his car is parked in the underground garage. On the way home, you sing along to every song that plays out, always trying to see who can sing the loudest. Your boyfriend is kind of wild when it comes to singing.

At home, he opens the door and lets you in first. He follows right after you, closing it carefully. His hand slips into yours before gently pulling you to face him.

“You look so good in that dress,” he whispers.

His lips meet yours for a sweet and tender kiss; there’s no urgency or anything else in it. There’s only warmth. The tenderness in it makes your heart melt completely.

“Not as good as you,” you whisper against his mouth.

Your boyfriend leads you both to your shared bedroom, his touch hinting that he wants more than just kissing you. As soon as the door closes, he turns, and his lips crash on yours once again. Your hands cup his face while you kiss him passionately. He’ll never grow tired of kissing you. He’s definitely addicted to you in every possible way.

Jungkook reluctantly breaks the kiss to sit down on the edge of the bed with an unsteady breath. He also takes his glasses off, placing them on the nightstand. You quickly follow him, settling into his lap and straddling him. The way your dress rides up steals his breath all over again. Your now bare legs are pressed against him, and his hungry eyes roam up your body, drinking in the view with the most perverted smile growing on his face.  

“You look even better from this perspective, pumpkin,” he confesses, his voice low and thick with desire.

Surprisingly, he pulls his phone from his pants pocket before taking a picture.

“Seriously?” you say as you shake your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Just wanted to capture perfection,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but he notices the smile fighting its way through. That smile disarms him every time.

Once he has taken enough pictures of you, he throws his phone somewhere on the bed. His hands find their way to the sides of your waist, running up and down. He absolutely savors the way your body responds. You shiver under his touch, and the reaction sends a deep pulse straight through him.

“God,” he thinks, “how did I ever get this lucky?”

Your lips crash into his again, stealing what little composure he has left. Then, in an attempt to tease him, you slowly grind your hips against his. Heat instantly blooms low in his abdomen. A low and deep groan leaves his mouth before he can stop it, a sound that you gladly swallow.

He tries to keep his breathing steady, but it’s useless. Every roll of your hips pulls him deeper into the haze, his focus narrowing to the friction between you, your warmth, your weight, the way you know exactly what you’re doing. His hands grip your waist, trying to ground himself, but his control is slipping fast.

Then you whisper against his lips, in a very teasing tone: “I guess someone’s getting turned on.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, but the sound dies in his throat as your hips move again. He can’t hide the growing tension in his body, and the ache building beneath his pants. His heart’s pounding faster. The more you move, the more he loses himself in the moment.

Jungkook opens his eyes, staring at you with lust shining in his eyes. The effect you have on him is incredible; you have him on his knees. Speaking of knees, you get off his lap to drop down on your knees.

He instantly understands what you’re about to do, and he spreads his legs for you. Seeing you between his legs makes him grow harder. It’s such a turn-on position, especially since he knows that in a matter of seconds, your mouth will be wrapped around him. Too eager to feel you, he strips himself of his pants and underwear.

“Someone seems in a hurry,” you chuckle.

“Can’t wait to feel your mouth,” he admits.

You roll your eyes with the biggest smile on your face. He can’t help but find you even more attractive. Whenever you’re both about to go wild, he always finds you more attractive than usual.

“You’re lucky that it’s what I’m about to give you,” you say, while he throws his pants and underwear somewhere in the bedroom.

Right after, you spit on his cock before your hands touch his length. Immediately, a guttural moan escapes his soft lips. His eyes are glued on you while he runs a hand through his dark hair. Fuck, it already feels fantastic. 

Seconds later, you shove his cock down your throat, which makes him growl deeply. His eyes rolling back to his head. The feeling of your mouth wrapped around him is like heaven to him. He could die right now.

Honestly, he’s so lost in pleasure that he can’t tell when you started to suck him. All he knows is that he’s a moaning mess. His legs are shaking like crazy as he gets closer to orgasm. It’s obvious he won’t last long with the way you’re sucking him off.

Jungkook avoids looking down at you because he knows damn well that the second he lays his eyes on you he’ll come. With shaking hands, he grabs your hair to guide you but never once does he shoves your face deeper into his cock. The last thing he wants is to hurt you, although he’s completely lost in pleasure.  

“Fuck, pumpkin,” he growls. “You’re doing so well,” he praises you.  

His cock twitches inside your mouth as he gets closer to the edge. He feels you hollowing your cheeks, pushing him closer to his orgasm.

“Can I come inside?” he asks when he feels himself very close to orgasm. 

Even though you’ve been together for almost two years, he always asks for your consent when it comes to sex. In this case, he’d never want to finish in your mouth unless you truly desire it. The idea of doing anything without your full consent makes his stomach turn. Respecting your boundaries matters more to him than anything else.

His cum explodes inside your mouth while deep groans leave his lips. He delicately grinds his hips, pushing his hot seed deeper into your mouth. Your boyfriend feels your eyes on him while you take all he has to give.

When you remove your mouth from his length, he falls back onto the bed, his eyes looking up at the ceiling. How on earth can you only get better at pleasuring him? He’s sure that one day he’ll die.

“You’ll kill me one day, pumpkin,” his gaze shifts to meet yours.

“It’s not the purpose, nerdy,” you smile at him.

His lips crash against yours to fervently kiss you. His tongue doesn’t waste a second to meet yours, and he can taste himself. A little moan escapes his mouth, one that you instantly swallow.

However, you quickly break the kiss as you’re both horny as fuck and want nothing more than have sex. You rapidly undress before lying on the bed. Jungkook spreads your legs and nestles himself in between them. His favorite place on earth.  

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispers.

He then proceeds to kiss your inner thigh, and his soft lips on your skin send shivers down your spine. 

“Jungkook,” your hand flies down to grab his hair. 

His tongue swipes at your folds, his mouth wrapping perfectly around you. Moans of delight escape your lips, his favorite melody. His round nose rubs against your clit, and he does it on purpose because he knows it’s something you like.  

“You always taste so good, pumpkin,” he mumbles against your core. 

Your thighs squeeze his head, your fingers push harder on his hair, and your back arches off the bed while he delicately licks your folds. Feeling you falling apart makes him groan against you. He’ll never grow tired of it.

His tongue burrows into you, lapping at your wetness. There is nothing better than having your juices running down his throat. You heavily sigh with pleasure when he tilts his head up a little higher to lap deeper into you. When he pulls at your folds with his teeth, your back arches off the bed, your legs squeezing around his head harder, his name rolling off your tongue over and over again. 

As he licks and bites your folds, you scream louder and louder, your orgasm threatening to explode at any moment. Since you started dating, he’s been learning like a good boy how to please you, and he’s proud of how he can make you come with his mouth only.

Two years ago, he wasn’t able to do anything to give pleasure to a woman. And now, he’s an expert in eating out and making love to you. He has memorized every single detail of your steamy sessions so he can get better each time. Pleasuring you is deeply important to him.

It’s a matter of seconds before you’re completely overwhelmed by your orgasm. Jungkook never stops until you’re squirting, his face now covered in your juices. He glances up at you again, his lips shining with your arousal that he blissfully licks with his tongue. 

“You look so damn hot with my arousal all over your face,” you confess with a smirk.

Before doing anything else, he strips himself of all the remaining clothes to be fully naked. He can get quite sweaty while sharing an intimate moment with you, and having clothes on him doesn’t help at all. You take advantage of the moment to also get fully naked.  

He crawls over your body, his fingers brushing along your stomach and up to your breasts. The man leans down to kiss the space between them, your back arching at the feeling of his lips on your skin. His round nose brushes against your chest while his mouth ghosts over your breasts. His warm breath stings against your sensitive skin, teasing you. 

His hands hold your breasts tightly, and his thumbs flick over your nipples. Little moans leave your mouth. His lips kiss from the valley of your breasts up to your throat, his tongue licking all the way up.

Pulling his head back, his eyes get lost in yours before he presses his lips on yours, kissing you passionately and fervently. He’s impossibly hard, precum leaking from the head of his dick, and he wastes no time in pushing himself into you.

His cock slides in you quite easily, and you cry out as he buries himself deep into you. He knows that he’s impossibly big, that’s the first thing you told him when you saw him naked for the first time. Honestly, his chest swelled with pride that time. However, he’s also fully aware that it also stretches you a lot when he buries himself in you, and that it can be painful sometimes.   

Jungkook pulls his hips out before slamming back into you so harshly, and he swears he felt your whole body shudder. The second he’s fully buried inside you, he stops his moves, watching down at where your bodies meet. 

Slowly, he resumes thrusting back into you. The man hovering over you ensures to fill you up to the brim at a very slow pace. Your moans get louder as he rails the shit out of you.

“Faster,” you tell him.  

A smirk appears on his face before he thrusts into you at a faster pace, which has you clenching so tightly around him. The room is quickly filled with the sound of his hips slapping against yours, as well as both your moans and heavy breathing.

The two of you get completely lost in your euphoria. You squeeze your walls around him, making him groan loudly, and he quickens and deepens his pace. The intensity with which he’s pounding into you makes you moan with delight.

“Oh, Jungkook,” you mewl before you bite at his lower lip, tugging at it hard. 

His eyes are locked with yours, and right now, as he looks at you, it’s like the world around him has vanished completely. Jungkook caresses your face with a smile on his face.

“You’re so wonderful,” he says before pressing a sloppy kiss on your lips.

His pace gets relentless. The bed under you is creaking while your breasts are bouncing at the rhythm of his pace. One of his hands snails up from your waist to grab at one of your breasts, squeezing at your soft flesh before he pinches your nipples. The feeling is overwhelming you both at this stage. 

The man above you leaves wet kisses along your jawline, your neck, and your shoulder. On the other hand, your nails scratch his back, leaving red marks all over him.

“Jungkook, I’m gonna,” you whimper. “I’m gonna cum...”

Your walls are clenching extremely hard around him, your legs are shaking, and your moans are pretty much out of control. He knows now that you’re close. His hips move faster, desperate to make you come undone under him. 

“Come for me, pumpkin,” he whispers in the shell of your ear. “Make a mess all over my cock.”

The orgasm completely explodes. Your eyes close as your face contorts with pleasure, and you cry out his name over and over again. Jungkook watches with marvel the way you come under him and he enjoys the way your pussy creams his cock. 

Jungkook’s dick throbs inside you but he continues to wreck you until he’s coming inside you. He’s fully aware that he isn’t going to last much longer than you do because damn, pleasure is overwhelming him so much.  

“Fuck, I’m going to come,” he growls in your ear. “Can I come inside?” 

You nod, and instantly, he lets go of any control he has over his orgasm, releasing his hot semen inside you. His body is completely tense while he sloppily thrusts two last times to push his cum deep inside you.   

Then, he slowly collapses against your chest, his lips pressing a soft kiss against your neck as he nuzzles himself against you. Your arms wrap around him as the two of you come down from your intense orgasms. The room falls completely silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing.

“We should go take a shower,” he finally breaks the silence. “I smell like sex.”

“Don’t want to break it to you, but we just had sex,” you giggle.

“Really?” he pretends to be surprised. “I thought we were driving a spaceship.”

You shake your head while you laugh. The brightest smile grows on his face as he watches you laugh at his silly jokes. His entire life, he wondered how his mom could laugh at the stupid jokes his dad made, but now he understands. It’s love. And he also now understands how his dad feels whenever his mom laughs.  

“Well,” he gets closer, his arms wrapping around you, “maybe we could drive the spaceship once more. I’ll even let you drive this time.”

“Is this how you’re inviting me to ride you?” you raise an eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” he answers without hesitation.

And just like that, you go for round two.    

Jungkook

Jungkook slowly opens his eyes, blinking against the soft morning light. For the first time in years, he feels rested. Not just “not tired” but really rested. His head is clear, and his mind is light. He feels like he has slept for a month straight when in fact, he knows he barely slept six hours. It’s like someone pressed a reset button on his body. And God, it feels good.

He breathes in deeply, savoring the clarity until something odd cuts through the calm.

You’re in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, and he can perfectly hear you. The pouring of coffee in mugs, the water running, the way you put butter on the toast. He hears absolutely everything. It sounds like you’re standing right beside him, while those two rooms are far away from each other. His brows furrow.

“Since when can I hear that?” he mumbles to himself.

He sits up quickly, way too quickly. His body stretches like elastic, every muscle feeling sore as if he’s been hitting the gym all night long. Heat pulses across his back, his arms, and even down to his fingertips. He groans while rubbing his neck.   

“What the hell did I do last night?” he whispers.

For sure, all the sex you had last night isn’t responsible for this soreness. This was a soft night because you didn’t go for many rounds. There have been nights when there were at least three rounds, and even like that, he never felt sore. So, this isn’t related at all to sex. This is something else.

By pure reflex, his eyes look down, and they instantly widen. His chest looks different. It looks leaner and tighter. His shirt clings where it usually sags. There’s definition where there wasn’t before, like faint ridges of abs, and the beginnings of something sculpted. He stares, jaw slack.

This is more than weird. How did his body change that much overnight?

“For fuck’s sake,” he groans as he tries to stand, but his feet don’t move.

They are actually glued to the hardwood floor. He yanks harder, and panic starts building up inside him. A soft cracking noise, like something unsticking, echoes under his foot before he finally sets free.

“What’s going on?” he breathes, heart pounding.

His hands shake slightly as he steadies himself. The room looks the same, but everything feels off. Colors seem more saturated, sounds sharper, and air thicker.

This isn’t normal. This is impossible. It all feels like a dream. But the soreness is real. The sounds are real. The growing fear in his chest is real. This isn’t a dream.

He walks to the bedroom mirror as he wants to check himself out. He wants to see with his own eyes how much he has changed, but it seems like it’s easier said than done. Jungkook struggles to walk to the mirror since his feet seem to cling to the floor.  

“For fuck’s sake,” he swears. “How am I going to make it to work?”

Somehow, he manages to reach the mirror and gets absolutely stunned when he sees his reflection. The body he sees isn’t the same body he’s used to waking up in.

His chest looks firmer, defined in a way that no amount of gym sessions ever managed before. His biceps stretch the sleeves of his shirt slightly. Slowly, he lifts the sleeve of his tattooed arm to take a proper look. The sight takes his breath away. It looks a lot better now.

As he runs a hand through his hair, he notices the way his fingers move faster. Every little motion feels efficient, more controlled.

But even though this is all surprising, he only feels good. Like really good. It’s like his entire nervous system has been rewired. It’s more aware, more reactive. Even the air against his skin feels sharper somehow. 

Too caught in his discovery, he doesn’t hear you coming.

“Honey?” you say, and he instantly looks at you.

At this precise moment, he realizes that he’s seeing you perfectly like he has never seen before. His vision has always been terrible. As far as he can remember, he's always needed glasses, but now, it seems that he doesn’t.

“Yes?” he replies.

You squint your eyes, and Jungkook wonders if you’re noticing the changes.  

“Are you okay?” you tilt your head. “You seem weird.”

He definitely feels weird. Something’s off, and he can’t tell why.

“I guess I’m getting sick,” he tries to justify. “I don’t feel well.”

For a moment, you just stare at him, not saying a word. He’s getting worried, and his heart starts beating crazily.

“I prepared breakfast,” you finally break the silence. “I have to go. A new body was found.”

Jungkook nods while you step forward, pressing a goodbye kiss on his lips. He clings to the moment longer than usual, the warmth of your lips grounding him.

“Have a nice day, pumpkin,” he says, managing a smile as you disappear out the door.

The moment you’re gone, everything crashes back in. He can hear his own heartbeat, the wind brushing against the windowpane, and your footsteps as you leave the apartment. His fingers twitch, and he stares at his hands.

As he does so, an event from yesterday pops out. The spider. His eyes dart to the spot where he was bitten, but there’s nothing. No redness. No mark. It’s like it never happened. He pokes at the skin, but there’s nothing unusual. Well, at least not visibly.

He looks around the room. Every object is in sharp focus. He can count the fibers in the carpet. He sees even better now without glasses than with them.

“What the hell is happening to me?” he whispers.

He tries to move to the kitchen, but again his foot sticks. It clings to the floor, pulling with a strange suction when he lifts it. Instead of panicking again, he tries to calm himself down. As he does so, he realizes that it’s actually helping, and his feet don’t stick that much anymore.

This is without any doubt going to be a hell of a day!

You

“This doesn’t look good,” your colleague, Hyunwoo, says as you’re both looking at the dead body.

“It definitely isn’t,” you reply.

The victim is completely unidentifiable. The killer, or whoever did this, burned the victim’s car, and you’re now left with a burned body. This will take ages before you even find out who the victim is, and then, you’ll have to figure out what happened. This is going to be a long day. There’s no doubt about it.

“I’m already exhausted before we even start working,” Hyunwoo sighs.

“Me too,” you mumble.

There’s not much that you can do right now. You need to leave the forensic take pictures of the crime scene. Afterwards, you’ll be able to start looking for something around the car or inside it.

“How was your date with Jungkook?” Hyunwoo asks with a smile.

“It went well,” you smile as you remember last night’s events. “It’s a very fancy restaurant, and I’m glad we managed to go.”

Hyunwoo perfectly knows who your boyfriend is, and he’s also very much aware of how you managed to get in. He’s sometimes jealous that you found a wealthy guy. He wishes he could find one too.

It’s no secret that Hyunwoo is into guys; he doesn’t hide it. However, his parents still want to believe that maybe one day he’ll decide to settle with a woman. You’re pretty sure that this day might never come.

“That’s the perks of dating Seojoon’s son,” he says before chuckling a bit.

It’s clear that dating Jungkook opens quite some doors thanks to his father. Your boyfriend doesn’t take very much advantage of it, which isn’t the case with his brother, but that’s something you truly adore in Jungkook.

His father’s name literally gives him the world, but he doesn’t use it. He prefers to create his own path. However, it’s also related to his shyness. The man prefers to hide behind the shadows. He hates being under the spotlight. He leaves that to his little brother.

“Eeh,” you hit his arm. “He barely uses it.”

“He doesn’t need to,” he instantly replies. “He’s identical to his dad.”

That is absolutely true; he’s the spitting image of his father. It’s honestly so disturbing, but you can tell that when it comes to the outside world, it’s uncomfortable for your boyfriend. He adores his dad, but he doesn’t like that resemblance because everybody looks at him.

To most, it’s fascinating, but for Jungkook, it’s suffocating.

He adores his father, no question. But walking through life wearing Seojoon’s face comes with an unspoken burden. In public, he feels the eyes. The recognition. The expectations. People don’t just see him. They see the legacy, the name, the empire. And he hates that.

It strips him of something personal, something his own. He’s quiet about it, of course—he always is—but you can feel the weight pressing on him. Most of the time, it just breaks your heart because Jungkook is so much more than the son of Seojoon.

“I know,” you admit.

Jungkook hides a lot behind his glasses; you’ve noticed it. The glasses are what make him different from his father.

“Sometimes he wishes he wasn’t,” you add.

You’ve stopped counting the times when you held Jungkook in your arms while he was crying. People make too many comments without thinking about the consequences of their words. And Jungkook has very low self-esteem, and sometimes words hurt more than they should.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind having a powerful dad and looking like him,” Hyunwoo teases.

You roll your eyes.

“Trust me,” you reply, “it sometimes can be a curse.”

Well, you’ve only gotten to see it through Jungkook. It isn’t a curse for you. You don’t look like your father or your biological father. You’re actually a miny version of your biological mother, just like Jungkook is his father’s.

When you became a police officer, the first thing you did was find your biological parents. Not because you wanted to meet them or anything like that. But you wanted to see what they look like and what kind of person they are now. You have very loving parents, and you never felt the need to look for your birth parents.

Your birth mother was very young when she had you. She was only sixteen, and she had a shitty boyfriend. Following what you found out, he wasn’t really interested in becoming a father. So she decided to give you up for adoption. You know that she has been looking out for you, but you’ve never said anything.

Your birth mother got married years later and now has three kids, ages nine to two. She seems to be happy. At least, when you get to see her from far away, she seems to be a happy woman. And she has beautiful children. You’re sure that she wouldn’t be the woman she is if she ever kept you. Maybe you’d both be miserable.

But you’ll never know because she chose to give you a better life. And you’ll forever be grateful for that.

 “How can you know that?” he raises an eyebrow.

“You’d know it if you’d have a boyfriend crying in your arms because someone used him.”

Jungkook is the love of your life. You knew it the second you saw him for the first time, and you did everything you could to have him. It wasn’t particularly easy to convince this man that you were into him because of his lack of experience. But you slowly both fell in love with each other. He’s the best thing that has ever happened to you.

“Detective y/l/n,” one of the forensics comes to you. “We’re finished with the pictures.”

“Thanks,” you offer a small smile.

Your eyes now move to your partner.

“Now let’s work and stop talking about my amazing boyfriend.”

Jungkook

Jungkook hasn’t been feeling himself for the entire morning. His hands and feet cling to everything. If he takes a sample to examine it, it’ll stick to his hand. If he tries to stand up and walk, it’s mission impossible even if he takes deep breaths. It’s starting to be frustrating.

His glasses have been more than discarded. He doesn’t see a damn thing with them, which is more than weird. His colleagues have asked him why he doesn’t wear them anymore, and he invented the shitty excuse that he has decided to use contact lenses. If anybody knows him well enough, they’ll know that he would never do that.

He has also noticed that his new sculpted body is very strong. He has already destroyed half of the lab material because he’s unable to measure his strength. Luckily, he’s always been clumsy, and he can hide behind that excuse, but it’s not the truth.

But the most surprising thing is the webs coming from his wrists. He doesn’t know how it happened or how it works, but there are webs everywhere in his lab. He has spent the past ten minutes cleaning them. He’s sure that he looks like an absolute idiot today, but everything has changed.

He isn’t the same.

He feels it deep inside himself. It’s like his DNA was fully rewritten. He’s not human anymore. There’s something more in his blood, which makes him like he is right now.

“Jungkook?” his colleague Erika frowns. “What are you doing?”

Jungkook turns red, caught cleaning the webs in the lab.  

“There was some dirt, and it was making me nervous, so I’ve been cleaning.”

Erika just nods, half convinced.

“I’ve heard you were looking for me,” she says.

“Yep,” he nods while inviting her to come closer. “I’m curious about the type of spiders you’ve been studying here.”

She raises an eyebrow, slightly surprised by his interest, but steps closer anyway.

“Most people avoid them.”

“I’m not most people,” Jungkook replies with a small, almost forced smile.

His hand instinctively brushes the spot where he was bitten, still uncertain if it really happened or if he dreamt it. Erika nods, then leans against the edge of the lab table.

“They’re part of an experimental species—genetically altered arachnids. Originally from South America, but we’ve been enhancing them.”

“Enhancing how?” he asks, trying not to sound too eager.

She pauses, eyeing him carefully.

“Their venom glands have been modified. In short, they can choose whether or not to inject venom when they bite.”

Jungkook frowns with surprise. This definitely sounds intriguing. He was never interested in what Erika and her team were working on, but now that he was bitten by one of them, he needs to know what they’d been doing to those spiders.  

“They can choose?”

“They react based on neurological and hormonal stimuli. Think of it like instinct with a switch. In theory, if they don’t feel threatened or provoked, they don’t deliver venom. It’s a protective adaptation we were testing.”

“And what happens if they do inject it?” He swallows hard.

Her expression darkens slightly.

“Well, we haven’t fully tested it on humans. But preliminary results suggest the venom rewrites certain genetic codes temporarily. We still haven’t figured it out, but we hope this could help with aggressive diseases.”

Since Jungkook works in a pharmaceutical company specializing in rare diseases. Their purpose is to find a treatment or cure for diseases that are still very unknown to humans. They try to find a cure for what seems uncurable.

“We’re not yet confident to test it on humans. We think their venom might be too strong and might kill.”

His eyes widen, and he suddenly coughs a lot. Is he about to die? It certainly doesn’t feel like it. Outside of the sticky hands and feet, he feels great.

“We still need to study their venom more, which has many good properties for many diseases.” 

 Jungkook nods, half interested in her words.

“Why are you asking?” she narrows her eyes.

“Just curiosity,” he replies. “I was working near them yesterday, and it intrigued me.”  

“Well, I was just about to go back to the lab. If you want, you can come and I can share with you what we’ve been doing.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

They both head to the lab, and he tries to act normal, even though he still feels that odd stickiness in his feet. But unlike before, they don’t cling to the floor. It’s as if his body suddenly decides to behave.

When they reach the lab where he was working the day before, something shifts in him. His gaze is immediately drawn to the spider enclosure. He tries to ignore it, but the pull is undeniable, magnetic, almost primal.

There’s no rational explanation, yet it feels as if something inside him responds to them. His heart beats faster. His skin tingles. It’s not fear or revulsion, it’s need. As if a part of him recognizes them. Like they share something now. Blood, maybe. Or something deeper.

His feet move before his thoughts catch up, guiding him toward the glass tank without hesitation. His body wants to be close to them. He can feel it in his bones, in his nerves. He actually feels it in a place beyond reason.

Jungkook swallows hard. He’s not sure if this is curiosity or instinct. Erika speaks, but he barely listens to her. His eyes are constantly drawn to the spiders, and he can barely focus.  

“Can I touch them?” he asks.

“Please wear gl…” before Erika can even finish her sentence, Jungkook is already opening the enclosure.

To their surprise, the spiders walk on Jungkook’s hand like it’s totally normal. They don’t avoid his hand. They walk straight to it like they know he’s one of them.

“That’s new,” Erika frowns. “They are usually very avoidant. Nobody can touch them.”

“They seem to like me,” Jungkook teases.

His eyes are glued on his hand with the tiny spiders. They simply walk like it’s the most normal and natural thing in the world.

“Let’s hope that they don’t bite you,” she says.

Well, Jungkook is definitely not going to tell her about yesterday’s event. She’ll for sure start studying him, and he doesn’t want that. He’s not some kind of experience. He prefers that she focus on finding a cure for diseases. What he’s experiencing now is not going to help. At least, that’s what he believes.

None of the spiders bite him, which genuinely surprises him. Maybe the previous bite changed something in him, marked him in a way they recognize. It’s possible they sense it. He doesn’t know for sure, but the lack of aggression unsettles him almost as much as if they had.

“Well, maybe I’ll leave them alone now,” he says as he tries to remove his hands.

The spiders walk back to their enclosure as if they understand that he’s leaving them. This is all so surprising.

“You’re the first that they haven’t bitten,” Erika admits. “Usually, they bite but without venom.”

Jungkook doesn’t know why, but he feels relieved to hear her say that. However, in some sense, he hoped that somebody else was also going through what he was feeling. It seems like he’s one of a kind.

“Glad they didn’t,” he smiles at her while closing the enclosure. “I don’t want to become some lab rat,” he giggles.

Well, he’s for sure going to run some tests on himself. He needs to understand what’s going on, so he’ll be his own lab rat.

“You’re lucky,” she chuckles.

The rest of the day goes by very quickly. Jungkook took some blood to examine it, and most probably, he’ll ask Sangmin if he can use his private and personal lab. He doesn’t want to start investigating his new nature in his workplace because someone might find out and do God knows what.

Once he’s home, you’re already there, watching Ginny and Georgia, your new favorite show. Instinctively, he walks to you, lowering his head to kiss you.

“Hi, pumpkin,” he whispers on your lips.

“Hi, handsome,” you reply.

“No nerdy today?” he smiles as he falls next to you on the couch.

His head rests on your lap while your hands find their way to his hair to play with it. He absolutely adores feeling you play with strands of his hair. It’s his comforting moment after work.

“Not when you’re not wearing your glasses,” you brush his hair back to take a proper look at his cute face.

“They were hurting my nose,” he lies. “I think I have to change them.”

You fall for his lie, apparently, and he’s relieved about it. He’s not sure he could have handled explaining that something is off with him. He’s not even sure you’ll believe him. But above anything, he doesn’t want to worry you with all of this. He needs to first figure out what is going on, and then he’ll tell you everything.   

“Do you want me to massage that cute nose?” you offer.

“If my pumpkin proposes, I can’t refuse,” he offers you the biggest smile ever.

You massage his perfect nose, and his eyes get lost on his face. He’s so lucky to have you in his life. You’ve given him a purpose in life. He’s always so excited to go home, even though he adores his lab a lot. You’re the first and only person he loves more than his job.

Suddenly, there’s a faint knock at the door. You both freeze, glancing at each other, before rising to answer. Jungkook pulls the door open, and the world seems to tilt before collapsing under his feet.

Sangmin stands there, barely hunched, pale, trembling. His face is hollowed out, lips barely moving. Instinctively, you run inside to grab your phone and call emergency services.

“Jung…” he whispers, the name barely a breath.

Jungkook stumbles forward instinctively, his arms wrapping around the man who had once seemed unshakable. He feels how light he is. Fragile. A shell. Sangmin collapses into his chest, and Jungkook holds him as if trying to stop the inevitable.

“Sangmin?” Jungkook breathes, panic flaring in his voice. “What—what happened?” he stutters due to the panic taking over his body.

But Sangmin doesn’t answer. His head lolls. His eyes—the brilliant, determined eyes that once inspired Jungkook to become a scientist—are fading fast. Blank. His skin is cold. Jungkook’s own hands start to shake.

“No, no, no,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Stay with me—please—stay with me.”

His chest aches. His heartbeat is wild, like it’s trying to burst out of his ribs. This can’t be real. It can’t be happening. His mentor, the man who believed in him, who treated him like a son, is dying right here, in his arms, and Jungkook can’t do a damn thing to stop it.

Behind him, he hears you talking with a paramedic, but you’re almost screaming at the person to do as fast as possible. You’re telling the person that you’re a detective and they need to hurry. 

“Someone…” Sangmin chokes, blood staining the corner of his mouth, “is trying to kill me…”

Jungkook is sobbing now, silent and desperate, his tears falling onto Sangmin’s skin.

“Don’t talk. We’re getting help—just hold on—”

Jungkook quickly looks back at you, and he sees how angry you are. He’s never seen you like this, but he can only understand you. You want help to reach your apartment as fast as possible because you don’t want to be the one investigating Sangmin’s death.  

Sangmin is slipping. His breath is shallow. His fingers twitch weakly against Jungkook’s shirt. His heart is breaking as he sees him slowly drifting. Jungkook still holds him as tightly as possible.

“Tell yn…” he gasps, eyes flickering, “to find who… did this.”

“Yes, yes,” Jungkook frantically nods. “She’ll do it.”

A smile grows on Sangmin’s livid face.

“I…” he tries to formulate one last sentence, “love you, son.”

And then — nothing.

The weight in Jungkook’s arms suddenly feels unbearable. And as he sinks to the floor, cradling the lifeless body of the man who meant everything to him, something in him breaks.

“Sangmin,” he tries to call him, knowing perfectly he won’t answer. “Sangmin…”

The desperation in Jungkook’s voice is unlike anything you’ve ever heard. Your body instantly freezes, your breath catching. When Jungkook sinks to the floor with Sangmin, he breaks down in tears, calling him in such a heartbreaking way. Anyone passing by would understand that something tragic has just happened by the way he’s saying his mentor’s name.

Jungkook suddenly feels your body kneeling behind him, wrapping your arms around his trembling frame. You’re holding him as tightly as possible, your face resting against his back. Amidst this pain, feeling you comforts him in a way he can’t even explain. It’s like you’re holding a candle in the middle of a cave and guiding him.

Ironically, he’s holding in his arms the man he idolizes, and the woman he worships is holding him.

This day couldn’t have gone worse. He can’t say what the most tragic event of the day is. The spider effect or Sangmin’s death.

When the paramedics arrive, it’s already too late. As they examine Sangmin, you never let go of Jungkook. You maintain your body pressed against his, shielding him. When they finally lift Sangmin from his arms, the last of Jungkook’s strength crumbles. Tears fall from his face, his hands finding yours to grip them like he’s afraid he might disappear without your touch.

“I’m here,” you whisper before pressing a gentle kiss on his back. “I’ll discover who did this.”

Jungkook knows that this promise carries a heavy meaning. Tracking down murderers is your job. It’s like a second nature to you, but he knows that this time, it is different. You’re not investigating the death of a stranger. You’re going to find who killed a person who shared Jungkook’s heart with you.

This time, it’s personal.

And he knows without a doubt that nothing and nobody will be able to stop you. You’ll find the truth, and make sure justice is done.

[colorlessjay]

I woke up wonky today

Imagine an AU where Dean volunteers at a school to teach a bunch of teenagers about cars because he thought it would be funny to single out his younger brother in class and embarrass him, while simultaneously flexing how cool he is

And while in the parking lot, trying to explain the differences in cars and models and such via example, Dean sees a Pimp Mobile and proceeds to make fun of it as a joke

"now this- this is a car you get when you're having a midlife crisis after a nasty divorce to a woman who was so out of your league, you were playing two different games" and he gets a laugh out of a couple students

Then Sam starts making the wide eyed "dude shut up!" Face. Which only eggs Dean on to keep going, only the kids are laughing less and desperate him spitting absolute comedy gold right now

And Dean plays it cool "You kids ain't no fun. Bottom line is, the only person who'd willingly drive this hunk junk is someone who knows nothing about cars"

"thank you for your observations" Says Castiel, who was standing right behind Dean, next to said Pimp Mobile, having walked over to get in his car to get something

The kids all hide their laughter. Sam face palms so hard it rattles his brain, and Dean feels like the biggest asshole in existence when Castiel opens the trunk to his car and pulls out a stack of books.

Dean goes to apologize, only for Castiel to say "At least my car didn't peak in highschool" which earns more laughter from the kids as he walks away

Cue a one sided rivalry as Dean interrogates his brother about his sociology professor

[salesmancarddd]

Squid game characters x INJURED!Reader

╰┈➤ SPOILERS! some parts includes season 3

✶ Characters: Gi-hun, Nam-gyu, Cho Hyun-ju, Cho Sang-woo, Masked Officer

TW: Toxic-ish relationship (if I missed any tags remind me)

A/N: I'm genuinely speechless after watching season 3, but ngl it was so worth it Ive seen my husband holding a fish on the photo 😭💔 he absolutely looks so stupid

MASTERLIST

GI-HUN

✦ During a games he'll always make sure you're near him in case something goes wrong, he knows you can be on your own but he doesn't let it.

✦ After the failed rebellion, watching his friends die in front of him he was numbed, being chained to bed like a animal for wanting to die, the only relief he got that you're okay (it was a good call he didn't brinf you along with him, but leaving you behind was harder he didn't know if he would see you again)

✦ During a hide and seek, you got a blue team, he wanted you to switch him but you refused being stubborn, the only way he can make sure you're safe is finding you and protecting you, you were the only one he had to keep going

✦ When he wasn't able to find you he started to panic hearing all those screams reminded him of you, in panic he kept running around tyring to find you (this happens after he killed Dae-ho)

✦ In desperation he came across you but someone was attack you in that. moment he didn't even hesitate he immediately pushed him off which other dude was confused on what he was doing

✦ After what happened he realised you were badly injured there's no way for you to even get up and walk

"It's going to be okay" he said that while kept looking at the injury, your eyes were trying not to be in tears but it was hard, he knew that.

in that moment he just picked up and and kept looking for safer place for you to rest untill the game ends

"Just focus on me, alright?" He had you in bride pose while carrying you, he didn't look at you but kept looking ahead, when he found a safer place he put you on the ground, he took off his tracksuit wrapping it around your leg, during this time he didn't talk to much but inside he was panicking.

✦ He definitely felt guilty for not finding you sooner and finding you in this state, you could've died there if he didn't come across you

NAM-GYU

✦ He genuinely didn't care at first when Thanos was alive, you were just fun to them like any person was, having you in group which lead to be made fun mosly Nam-gyu did that.

✦ During a mingle game the team needed to be in two Thanos picked someone else, Nam-gyu just stood there not knowing who to pick, neither did you you accepted your fate, in brief moment he just picked you and dragged you in the room closing the door behind

"What the fuck were you standing there for?" he said in angry tone while trying to mock her, she didn't speak to him back instead she looked a tthe ground.

"Now what are you gonna cry because I yelled?" there was a silence between them before he spoke up again

"Cat got your tongue?" He tilted his head to the side with a smirk on his lips. "Or maybe you're just used to being treated like a doormat." another silence

"Shit you aren't fun" he laughed.

✦ After the game was over he kept he's eyes on you, you didn't even eat when food was given you kept staring it like a doll, your eyes were dollish to him

He couldn't help but smirk at your blank expression. Seeing you like this somehow made him feel in control, like he could do whatever he wanted with you and you won't fight back.

✦ During a hide and seek game he kept looking for you hoping he'll come across you, nobody couldn't kill you untill he decide to

But once he noticed you were wounded and bleeding, he felt a satisfaction but also some type of consern. Of course, he wasn't too sure why he was feeling this way, but that didn't stop him from kneeling in front of you and taking a look at your wounds.

"Found you." He said, his voice a low, menacing tone. He walked towards you slowly, his knife gleaming in the dim lighting. "You didn't think you could hide from me, did you?"

"Nam-gyu.. please.." she spoke Nam-gyu's smirk faded for a moment as he saw the pleading look in your eyes. He stopped in his tracks, his gaze locking with yours.

"Please what?" He asked, his grip on his knife loosening slightly. even in drug influence he stopped and listening just by hearing her say his name, the only person who said his name right.

"Please..please don't.. kill me" her voice sounded so destroyed, tears in her eyes.

Nam-gyu's expression softened ever so slightly, though his gaze remained intense. He took a few breaths before he spoke again. "And why shouldn't I?" He asked, his voice almost a whisper.

"I-.." She was speechless looking at him, fear in her eyes Nam-gyu's eyes narrowed as he watched you struggle to find the words. He could sense the fear in your voice and the way your body was trembling.

He took a step closer to you, his knife still in hand, but his grip on it loosened even more. "Come on, dollface. Say something." He said, his voice taking a slightly more gentle tone but also mockery way.

"please.. help me.." there was a long pause, before she spoke up again "Please Nam-gyu.." Nam-gyu knelt down in front of her, his gaze moving over your body. He noticed the way you were holding yourself, obviously in pain.

He gently reached out, his hand touching your arm. "shit show me where you're hurt, hurry up" he didn't even countine killing other people instead he stayed there and tried to help her.

✦ After that game he started to lose control without drug he couldn't focus or do anything, you tried keeping him calm and speaking to him, which on some part it helped

CHO HYUN-JU

✦ The first time she met you was during red light, green light, when she seen you struggling to stay calm.

✦ After the game was over she she couldn't help but notice you sitting alone, struggling to keep your composure she slowly approaches, her footsteps silent as she takes a seat beside you. For a moment, she simply gazes at you.

"You're quite shaken up."

Her voice is low, but surprisingly soft. She takes in your distressed state, the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands tremble ever so slightly.

"I guess so" she spoke up, Hyun-ju lets the silence linger for a moment before speaking again, her tone even and cautious.

"It's normal to feel on edge after that game. Everyone's just... trying to survive."

✦ After a small talk between you two, you became closer to her, you weren't sure if she even wanted you to be with her, the conversation were awkward.

✦ The spinning platform slowly begins to move, the lights and sounds around them a dizzying blur. The robotic voice announces, "Three."

Hyun-ju's grip on your arm tightens just a fraction, her eyes darting around the room, assessing the other players. When she was able to find one more player to join in that's when she lost you in crowd in panic she kept calling out your name while there was a countdown.

✦ When she found you, your arm was injured apparently someone grabbed your arm while you weren't looking and dragged you

✦ Her protective instincts kick in, and her mind zeroes in on you

Ignoring the ongoing countdown, she quickly rushes to your side, her face etched with concern. "Are you okay?"

She gently tries to move your arm, testing the range of motion.

"The countdown" You spoke up Hyun-ju's head snaps up as the robotic voice announces the countdown, reminding them that the time to reach safety is running out.

Hyun-ju: "Damnit..." in brief moment she picked you up and carried you to safer room

✦ After the game was over she checked your injury trying to help

CHO SANG-WOO

✦ You two didn't talk at all the first time you two met, the only reason you tow know each other existence is because of Gihun

✦ Over time, you and Sangwoo grew distant from each other, but you still occasionally talked. Sangwoo mostly agreed with what you said, as he often shared the same views.

✦ During a glass bridge game he seen you being more nervous it's like you were afraid of the height or dying either way he didn't pay attention to it to much, but he still kept he's eyes on you.

He could tell you were getting nervous even without looking at how your hand was tightly gripping on your shirt, how you were shaking ever so slightly. He sighed quietly, not turning around but talking behind.

"The more you look down, the more your mind spirals in panic." he said in gentle voice

"I'm trying" the panic in her tone

"Take deep breaths. Inhale, hold, and exhale. Focus on my voice, nothing else." he said while jumping on the glass

✦ Time was running out, the countdown nearing the zero mark and Sang-Woo watched as you hastily moved forward. Time seemed to slow down, his eyes locked with yours.

✦ Next, glass was shattered and pieces were flying through the air. Sang-Woo's eyes widened in alarm as a piece of glass made huge scar on your cheek

He approached you hastily, his hand gently hovering over the injure

"Let me see," He said, a bit demanding. His fingers lightly grabbed your chin and turned your head to get a better look at the cut.

"It okay it's not that big deal" she tried to crack a joke with it Sang Woo scoffed

"Not that big of a deal?" He repeated, his grip on your chin slightly tightening. "It's bleeding."

"It's just a little cut, cmon on let's go" Sang-Woo rolled his eyes, irritation starting to brew at your stubborn attitude but let it go

✦ Over some time he seemed to be more over sligly protective over you, he still didn't speak with you that much but he kept he's eyes on you

MASKED OFFICER

✦ When you first time joined it was all eyes on you but not in good way, since you were younger the rest of them you were fully a target to anyone

✦ Masked Officer kept a good eye on you seeing you different then others, you weren't following his rules always which lead to many calls into office giving her warning for her behavior, it was something he got used to it

✦ During the rebellion, you were sent along with other guards to shoot the rioters. In a brief moment, as you were firing, a bullet struck your arm, causing a loud gasp that made you fall to the ground.

✦ As the masked officer watched the cameras on the TV screen, he realized you were likely there as well. In a moment of urgency, he grabbed a Walkie-talkie and called out to you, but there was no response. He then began contacting other nearby guards to assess the situation.

✦ When the guard mentioned how many guards were injured, he paused and then said, "Guard 020." He continued listening intently. In a cold tone, he ordered any guard to bring her to his office. Hesitant, the guard obeyed his order, escorting her there bleeding from her arm, half passed out, half awake. The other gaurd left them alone leaving the room.

"Why the hell were you there!?" he asked, a hint of irritation and concern barely masking his tone. "I told you to stay where you were, and you can't even follow that." He took a sip of whiskey, glancing at you on the ground, then let out a long sigh.

"What am I supposed to do with you?" he said as he approached, kneeling down to her level. His voice was a mix of gentleness and anger. "Let me see your arm." You didn’t speak the entire time, only kept looking at him.

[ilovejb]

hi! I absolutely loved ur hurt/comfort for lewis!! I was wondering if you could write a fluffy hurt/comfort about him and the reader meeting on the set of top gun maverick? I found it so cute!!

| Altitude |

Pairing : Lewis Pullman x Actress!Reader

Summary: While filming Top Gun: Maverick, the stress of your first big role threatens to pull you under—until Lewis Pullman quietly becomes your anchor.

Warnings: Fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, kissing

Authors note : I need Lewis so bad I physically ache

The sun had just started rising over the San Diego base, spilling soft orange light over the tarmac. Fighter jets stood quiet and still, engines silent for now, as the film crew scurried into place like a hive waking up.

You sat on a folding chair near base camp, still dressed in your green flight suit, fingers nervously twisting the zipper up and down.

You were supposed to shoot a reaction scene today—just a couple of close-up shots, nothing huge—but the pressure was already curling inside your chest like smoke.

A few weeks into filming Top Gun: Maverick, and you were already losing sleep.

Everyone else seemed so chill. So confident. You were the new one. The last-minute addition to round out the squadron, an actress with a couple indie films under her belt, now surrounded by established names and Navy advisors barking out commands like you were actually on deployment.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Hey.”

The voice came gently, like a soft knock on the door to your panic.

You looked up and blinked.

Lewis Pullman stood beside you, holding two coffee cups in one hand and a granola bar in the other. His hair was a mess of curls under a backward cap, and he looked like he hadn’t quite woken up yet.

“You okay?” he asked, offering one of the coffees.

You hesitated, then took it with a murmured “thanks.”

He sat beside you without waiting for an invitation, resting the granola bar on the arm of your chair.

“You looked like you might be spiraling,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m a bit of a spiraler myself.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to another anxious person.”

You stared out at the runway, sipping the coffee. Silence stretched between you—comfortable, not awkward.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna be the weak link,” you admitted, voice low. “Like they’ll realize I’m not actually cut out for this.”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, letting the morning breeze ruffle his jacket.

“Wanna hear something crazy?” he said.

You nodded.

“I almost threw up before my first scene,” he confessed. “Full body nausea. Like, was sure I’d mess up and disappoint everyone.”

Your brows lifted. “You? But you seem so—”

“Put together?” he offered with a crooked smile. “That’s the trick. I act like I am until I believe it.”

You blinked at him, then looked down at the cup in your hands. His words sank in slowly.

He didn’t ask you to smile or tell you to ‘shake it off.’ He just let the feeling exist in the open. Like it didn’t make you weak. Like it was allowed.

That morning, Lewis stayed beside you until you were called to set. And when the cameras rolled and the director called “Action,” you caught a glimpse of him just off-frame, watching you.

Steady. Quiet. Soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Filming dragged on for weeks after that morning.

Between long days on the tarmac and evening flight training, everyone was running on caffeine and exhaustion. But something had shifted quietly for you.

Because every time you felt overwhelmed, you’d find Lewis nearby—offering a protein bar, a joke, or a quiet moment where you could just be without the cameras, the pressure, the pretend bravery.

And somehow, you started doing the same for him.

You learned he hated big crowds, got overstimulated by noise, and sometimes disappeared on lunch breaks just to sit in his car with music playing low. You started bringing him iced tea instead of coffee because he liked how “unserious” it felt. You teased him, gently, and he teased you right back—but it was always kind. Always safe.

And now, it was near the end of shooting.

The hotel where the cast stayed was unusually quiet—most people had flown home for a long weekend, but you and Lewis had opted to stay. Whether that was coincidence or intentional, neither of you said.

You were watching an old movie on his laptop, curled up at the foot of his bed in your hoodie and sweats, sharing popcorn with Lewis, who was half-propped against the headboard, socks mismatched and hair damp from a shower.

You had barely touched your popcorn, too distracted by the warmth in your chest every time he laughed at the screen.

When the movie ended, neither of you moved.

The only light in the room came from the streetlamp outside, casting faint gold patterns through the blinds. The silence that settled wasn’t awkward. Just… heavy. Expectant.

Lewis shifted, pulling the blanket over both your legs.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

You glanced at him. “Of course.”

“What happens when this ends? Like—this movie. This bubble. Do we just… go back to real life like nothing happened?”

Your chest tightened.

“Is that what you want?” you asked.

He shook his head, slowly. “No. Not even close.”

You sat up straighter, your legs brushing his under the blanket.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had something like this,” you whispered. “Not just the movie, but… you. Us.”

He looked at you like he’d been waiting his whole life for those words.

“You make me feel like I’m not broken,” he said. “Like I don’t have to keep pretending to be confident all the time. Like I can just… exist. And you won’t leave.”

Your breath caught.

You reached up, hesitantly, and brushed your fingers through the curls above his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch like it physically calmed him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He opened his eyes again, gaze burning now. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

And the second his lips met yours, the world went quiet.

It wasn’t rushed or needy. It was anchored. Like his hands had finally found the thing they were meant to hold. One slid behind your neck, the other gripping your thigh under the blanket as you leaned into him, mouths moving in slow, tender sync.

You felt his sigh as your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more—not in a lustful way, but like you were starving for connection.

His kiss deepened, lips parting as his tongue gently grazed yours, and you whimpered against him without meaning to. That sound made him pull you into his lap in one smooth movement, hands warm under your hoodie now, not groping—just touching, grounding you both.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, your foreheads stayed pressed together.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Lewis said first, voice raw and almost shy.

Your heart flipped.

“I know I’m in love with you,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, pulling you in again, this time to press kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“God, I was so scared,” he murmured. “Scared I’d lose you the second we left set.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not ever.”

You spent the rest of the night in his arms, whispering about your fears, your hopes, your dreams for life after the movie—like building a future wasn’t terrifying anymore, now that it included each other.

And when the sun came up over the Pacific, painting the room in soft morning light, Lewis was still holding you.

And you were still smiling.

[em1i2a3]

Under Cover of Darkness

Pairing: Soft!Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Mutant!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You are facing an array of questions about what happened between you and The Void from the rest of the team. (Continuation of The Darkside (PT1), Only Human (PT2) )

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Fluff, Smut, Reminder Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, Supernatural Elements (of course cause The Void being in love is in here lol),

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all I’m not the sex police or anything but…wrap it up lol), The Void is still super clingy and touch starved in this, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Sensual Touching/Intimacy, Praising/Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: I loved writing this final part so much, so scandalous lol. Absolutely adored writing Soft!Void it’s always interesting to make a character like him gentle and stuff. Fanfiction is just where it’s at for that lol. Anyways! I hope y’all enjoyed <3 It’s a Void type of update weekend to be honest.

Word Count: 7,265

You stirred slowly to the feeling of something cold and icy tracing circles across your lower back. At first, it felt like the brush of a breeze–barely-there, ghosting over your skin in lazy spirals that kissed your bare skin. But then you felt the weight beneath it: a hand, steady and firm, fingers moving like they were gliding across water. Then the tendrils followed, licking up your spine in short sweeps, mapping the beat of your pulse wherever they went. Soft and measured, mirroring the gentleness they had last night when they wrapped around you and pulled you in close. It was a devotion born from silence,

Your eyes slowly blinked open, lashes brushing against warmth, as the blurriness in your vision slowly disappeared, and everything came into focus.

The first thing you saw was him…The Void. Pressed flush to your side, his arm wrapped around you, his face nuzzled into the space between your collarbone and shoulder like he had claimed the spot, like he owned it–like he had always belonged there. He wasn’t asleep–you could tell by the way he was shifting slightly, by the rhythm of his fingers trailing up and down your skin, by the tilt of his head as if he were listening closely to something–but his eyes were closed to really sharpen his focus on your heartbeat.

His breath fanned against your skin in slow waves, cool but not biting in anyway. He was still made of darkness of course–obsidian, vantablack and impossibly formless around the edges–but his body was more grounded to the room now. Less smoke, and a bit more shape. A man molded from shadows rather than an all consuming void that ate away at it.

You couldn’t help but smile at the image in front of you, the domesticity of it, the beauty of the moment that meant everything encompassed in one small action of being held by something that was seen as violence incarnate.

“You’re still here?” You murmured. Immediately you felt his body tense up a little at your voice, before he nodded.

”Of course.” He replied, his voice rumbling softly against your skin. He lifted his head then, his white eyes gleaming faintly in the golden wash of morning light that poured through the half-open curtains of Bob’s bedroom. He was still all darkness–still a silhouette made of starlit ink–but the freckles were still there. The tiny white constellations you had left all over his face.

They glittered like frost in the sunlight. A map of where you had kissed him, the little markings of you that he now permanently held and displayed to the world. They trailed over his cheeks, his temple, his lips–especially his lips–and over his shoulders like scars, but they were things of beauty.

You could see the shape of his smile forming under your gaze. Not fully though, but the curve of his mouth was barely visible to you, like moonlight grazing soft charcoal. It was a smile made more of intention than form.

“I didn’t think it would be the best idea to have Bob waking up to you looking so…” He paused, searching for the word as he stared at you, “Wrecked.” A laugh caught in your throat, kissed with a hint of tiredness that plagued your mind.

“You’re not wrong…You made a very good choice.” You whispered.

You reached up and touched his cheek–your thumb dragging slowly across the edge of one of the pale little stars that clung to the darkness of his skin. His form remained cool under your fingers, but it wasn’t as frigid as the night before. It had seemed like the mingling of your body heat had softened him in some way, providing a sort of blatant contrast between temperatures. He leaned into your hand with a sigh, lashes lowering and fluttering closed.

”You look so…Beautiful in the sun.” You commented softly, which earned a soft hum from him.

”Could never look as good as Sentry,” He said, almost teasing, “But…I’m glad you look at me that way.” You traced your fingertips over his mouth, feeling the way his lips curved under your touch–still unfamiliar with the softness of your little ministrations, but wholly aware of how much he needed it. He pressed a kiss to them, quietly displaying his devotion to you. Then he sighed.

”When do you want me to…Go?” He asked softly, like the question physically hurt him to say. His hands continued to move–one still stroking slowly up your spine, the trandrils tracing your ribs like music notes on a staff. But now everything paused, unsure. Bracing for an answer. You could feel your lips slowly tilt down at the way he sounded, but you let your touch trail back to his cheek again, brushing his silky skin, feeling him chase your warmth.

”Let’s just relax together for a few more minutes,” You whispered, “Then we can make those decisions…Cause I’m the one that’s going to need to explain this, remember?” You gave him a wry smile, “So I need some peace before the chaos.” He nodded against your palm.

”Okay.” He replied, focusing on the way your thumb traced a slow arc that followed the glowing little novas scattered along his cheek.

Maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was something deeper, something boundless–but he shifted up then, just a little, until he was face to face with you. His arm tightening around you to pull you closer towards him, your bare skin pressing against his. You could feel his breath brushing against your lips, almost like he was waiting for you to close the space between the both of you, and you instantly took the hint.

You leaned forward and gave him a soft, warm, and quiet kiss, drowning in the stillness of the morning. He let out a loud breath–less of a moan and more of a huff of disbelief, like your affection was still catching him off guard. He pulled back just enough to murmur.

”You’re radiant in the morning, by the way…” Your cheeks warmed at the comment, attempting to fight off your smile from growing wider as he reached up, his cool fingers grazing your jaw, while his thumb swept across the heat that radiated off your cheekbone.

“I understand why Bob dreams of you like this,” He continued quietly, “Why he looks at you all the time when you’re in the sunlight. Why he checks on you at night when he wakes up and you’ve accidentally fallen asleep, even when you’re the one keeping watch over him…It all makes sense…” You let out a small laugh.

”Remind me never to tell you any of my secrets…” His head tilted slightly in amusement, like he didn’t quite understand what you meant, “Because all you’re going to do is blurt them out to everyone.” You continued, teasing now. He chuckled lowly–just a breath of a sound–and leaned to the side, his mouth finding the love bite that he left on you the night before, pressing a gentle kiss on top of it, feeling a snip of pain inch to the surface. His breath chilled the soreness, and it made you inhale through your teeth–but not from pain, just from the memory that it stirred up inside of you.

”I’m allowed to speak the truth,” He claimed, “I am part of Bob, and he is part of me. Technically, his secrets are my secrets too.” You snorted at his words.

”Great. So you’re double snooping.” He kissed the bruise again at the comment. Slower this time, with the kind of deliberate gentleness that made your breath hitch. Then, with no real warning except the cool sweep of air that gusted over your collarbone, he trailed down, nipping at the soft flesh there–just once–before murmuring.

”I promise I’ll keep your secrets…I don’t have many people to tell them to anyways.” You laughed, quiet and fond of the unexpected kisses and nips he began to place on your skin. You pulled back slightly with a grin tugging at your lips, but the shift of your hips brought a dull ache between your legs that hadn’t quite registered until just then. The soreness bloomed like heat, reminding you of just how intense last night had been.

You winced, and immediately he stilled.

“Are you okay?” His voice dropped, no longer teasing–just concerned, genuinely, and deeply, which was something you had never heard from him before to this degree. His tendrils froze mid-air, and his hands pulled away from your skin almost like he thought he had done something to you unknowingly. You nodded quickly, cupping his face as if to reassure him physically.

”Just a bit sore from last night. Moved a bit too fast, that’s all. Don’t worry about it.” You explained. He gulped, letting out a small hum, like he was processing your answer carefully, scanning your face to see if he could tell if you were lying or not. You reached down to his arm and moved it back to your skin, to tell him to resume touching you, feeling his hand returning to the warmth of your back.

“Maybe I can help a bit.” You raised an eyebrow, suspicious of how his voice sounded like he was planning something.

“Yeah? And how are you planning to do that?” He leaned forward and kissed you softly, earning another glowing freckle that bloomed on his bottom lip, warm and silver-white. He held the kiss for a second longer than necessary, then pulled back, his voice dipping into a tone that could’ve passed for flirtation if it wasn’t so soft and slightly hesitant.

“I could…Go down and check if everything’s okay?” You stared at him for a beat, then you snorted, laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth with your hand to keep it from echoing off the bedroom walls. You could see the way his eyes widened at you and your reaction that he wanted to probably crawl into himself.

”Oh my god,” You wheezed behind your palm, “If you’re asking to go down on me Void…Just say it. You make it sound like I’m at the doctor’s office.” His head tilted to the side at first, not really understanding what you meant at first, then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks. If he could blush in those moments, he probably would’ve combusted.

”I…I was trying to be polite,” He muttered, his voice carrying a hint of flustered warmth, a rare crack in his otherwise measured cadence. You grinned, completely endeared and enamoured by his demeanour.

He cleared his throat, then tried again–more deliberately this time, “Alright…Can I go down on you to ease the soreness?” You bit your bottom lip, the heat in your stomach that had been cooled down from last night warming up again, almost in anticipation.

“Only if you want,” You whispered, hand brushing through the shadows of his hair–silky and cool, like clouded moonlight.

”I want to try you,” He replied quietly. His voice dropped into something heavier, something nearly holy in tone, “So yes. I want to.” His hand traced down from your back to your side, his fingers skating lightly over your hipbone, as if memorizing the way you fit under his touch.

”I want to know the shape of your pleasure,” He continued softly, shifting forward a bit, “How it tastes. How it lingers.” You shivered at the words, feeling his lips press against your jaw, then to the hollow just beneath your ear.

”I want you etched on my tongue,” He whispered, his breath fanning over your skin, bringing up little goosebumps across it, “So I’ll still remember you even in the parts of me that forget time…Or self.” You could feel your heart pounding in your chest now, as you swallowed hard, your throat tightening slightly.

“I want the first thing I learn fully to be you,” He added, voice barely more than a breath now, “And the last thing I taste, when I disappear again…” Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for him, tracing the glowing freckles on his shoulder, the star map of your tether to him, “Did that convince you enough?” He asked, a bit breathless already, you didn’t know if it was due to nerves or excitement, but you nodded.

”Yes…” His lips pressed to your neck again–barely there–as his body began to shift, the cool weight of him moving with deliberate grace. His hands mapped a slow, unspoken permission along your sides before guiding you gently onto your back. The mattress dipped with the motion, and you allowed him to move you, your body yielding beneath the soft pull of his hands, your legs parting just enough to cradle him between them.

He settled there, cushioned between your thighs, one arm wrapped loosely around your hip while the other steadied himself just above your ribs. You could feel his breath hitch slightly–like even now, even after last night, the intimacy of this moment made him pause, made him take it in and drink up every minute.

Then he dipped down again.

Gentle, deliberate kisses began at your collarbone. Then lower. The swell of your breast, the hollow of your sternum, the curve of your belly. Each kiss was slow, placed like a blessing, like each patch of skin he touched was a line from a sacred text that he was committing to himself and to memory. You felt like a holy scripture beneath him, a verse he didn’t want to misquote. A prophecy he’d been waiting to fulfill.

Your hands rubbed up and down the slope of his shoulders, grounding yourself with the feeling of his form–cool, strong, fluid under your fingers. His hair was slightly disheveled from the night before, strands standing on end and hanging forward over his face, and you swept them back gently, revealing the shine of stardust freckles dusted across his cheekbones and temple. He looked…Peaceful. No less inhuman, but deeply softened by presence. By purpose.

And just as he reached the point where he wanted to be–where he could feel the heat of you pressed close and trembling–your fingers pushed the comforter down to your waist. You wanted to see him. To see all of him in the light.

Golden sunlight spilled across the room, painting your skin in warmth and his in faint glitter. It caught on the sharp edges of his face, on the fainter points of his silhouette. And when he glanced up and saw the way you’d pulled the covers away, his lips parted into a small smile. It was shy, almost boyish–if shadows could ever look innocent–and you swore his teeth caught the light like diamonds for the briefest moment.

He kissed your thighs, both of them. Once. Then again. Then a third time. Nuzzling his cheek against the soft flesh there like it soothed him just as much as it did you. You could feel his fingers adjusting your legs, repositioning them until you were fully open to him–utterly exposed and glistening beneath the morning sun.

It was vulnerable in a way that startled you. Not from fear, but from awareness. Awareness of how raw and real and unhidden it all was. There was no hiding in candlelight here. No veil of night to protect your insecurities. Just you. Bare, radiant, and shaking slightly under the watchful eyes of something born from eternity.

He noticed it immediately. The way your breath caught. The subtle tension in your thighs. His head lifted just enough so that he could meet your gaze again, the glowing galaxies in his eyes suddenly soft.

“You okay?” He asked gently, voice low, as if trying not to break the quiet intimacy that had settled around the two of you like a fog.

You let out a short breath, heart hammering just slightly harder now. “Yeah…Yeah, you’re just…Staring.”

His lips curved as he leaned in and kissed the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

“I’m staring because you’re beautiful,” He said plainly. “Not for any other reason.” You swallowed hard at that. The words were so honest, so direct, that they unraveled some small knot inside your chest. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t objectifying. He was simply… Beholding. His eyes never left yours, even as his lips brushed the inside of your thigh again–lower this time, closer. You could feel the cool, steady warmth of his breath fan against the slick heat of you, and your hips twitched instinctively, a small motion that didn’t escape him.

“Can I continue?” He asked, voice low and velvet-smooth, like he needed you to invite him in.

You nodded–slow, breathless, a tremble in your jaw. “Yes… please.”

His hands found your stomach, large and careful, palms splayed flat against your skin like he was grounding you and himself at once. You watched the way his fingers settled just beneath your ribs, thumbs tucked softly along the dip of your waist as his shoulders nudged higher, easing between your thighs. The backs of them pressed firm and steady to your skin, anchoring you in place as he lowered himself with slow precision.

He kissed right beside your core–just to the side of where you ached for him most–and you felt the low, deep thrum of desire pulse in your belly, blooming warm and eager. The anticipation alone made your thighs tense slightly, your breath catching at the way he paused there, lips pressed to the delicate skin like it was a vow. A beginning.

Then his tongue met you.

Slow. Careful. Reverent.

He licked through your folds with a gentleness that stole the air from your lungs, tasting the way your body still held the remnants of him from the night before. You heard the breath leave his throat–not a groan, not a growl–just a sigh. Pure and content, like he’d been craving this for centuries and had finally been allowed to have it.

His eyes fluttered up to you, heavy-lidded, already looking intoxicated by the taste of you, and his mouth curved against your flesh.

“You taste like every galaxy encompassed into one…I could live forever between these thighs of yours.” Your grip tightened on his thumbs where his hands still rested on your stomach. You didn’t even realize you’d been holding them so delicately until your fingers curled tighter, the pressure grounding you as his mouth returned to you–licking you slowly, firmly, with long, languid strokes that made your spine arch without thinking. His eyes fluttered shut like he was savoring a wine that had aged since the birth of time. He moved like he meant it, every lap of his tongue drawn out with divine patience, the kind that could make someone lose their mind.

You let out a few breathy gasps, soft and trembling, and you felt him hum against you like he could taste the way his pace unraveled you.

His tendrils–cool and alive–began to lift off his back and curl underneath you, sliding beneath the arch of your spine, gently coiling to support you. They helped you lift just enough into him, so that his mouth could stay exactly where he wanted it, where you needed him. Your back arched higher, involuntary, chest rising with each panting breath, and you could feel his rhythm settling into you, molding to the way your body pulsed and moved.

“Fuck…” You whispered, barely audible as your head tipped back. “Void…Oh god…”

It was so quiet–barely more than a moan-shaped breath–but it made him groan low against your core, and that vibration made your hips jerk in surprise. He adjusted to it, licking deeper, more intent now. Your fingers released one of his hands to grab at the edge of a pillow, tugging it toward you and shoving the corner into your mouth just in time to muffle the noise threatening to tear from your throat. Your body shook with the effort of holding it in.

His body shifted more heavily into the mattress, weight sinking with purpose between your thighs as he buried his face deeper into you. You felt it instantly–the change, the surrender of his control. It amazed you that this cosmic force of destruction and shadow, was beginning to unravel just from the way your body responded to him. From your taste. Your breath. The sacred warmth he had found between your legs.

And he moaned again.

It wasn’t measured or calculated this time–it tore from him unbidden, low and needy and aching with reverence. The vibration of it rippled through you, seizing something deep in your belly. His lips were wet and swollen now, his jaw flexing as he sucked your clit gently into his mouth and circled it with the tip of his tongue. Soft at first. Then firmer. Then faster.

You gasped around the pillow, fingers twisting in the sheets as your thighs trembled around his head. His tendrils moved in tandem with your mounting pleasure, curling up your arms, sliding around your shoulders, cradling you in places his hands couldn’t reach in that moment. They felt like silk and shadow, kissing your skin like they were worshipping every inch of you they could find. As though your body was a temple and they had come to pray, and worship.

Your eyes welled with tears.

You hadn’t even realized how close you were–how overwhelmed you felt–until your throat tightened with the emotion of it. His hands had left your stomach, now gripping your hips, rubbing slow, grounding circles into the flesh there, steadying you, encouraging you. His mouth stayed fixed to you, tongue swirling faster now, messier, wetter, more desperate.

He wanted this.

He wanted you like this.

His tongue flattened and dragged across your clit in firm, deliberate strokes, then flicked in quick succession, a pattern that had your entire body jerking with each pass. You let out another muffled moan into the pillow, your hips bucking against his face as his moans deepened, louder now, uninhibited. He was losing himself, humming like he could barely breathe from how much he was consuming you, how badly he wanted all of it.

And then–you felt it.

The final shift.

The tendrils coiled tighter behind your back. His grip on your hips firmed just a little more. And his mouth latched onto you, driven by a divine hunger that only he could hold, sucking your clit between his lips while his tongue fluttered and lapped with devastating speed.

Your back arched even more.

“J-Jesus Christ–Void–Oh my god–” You whimpered, voice shaking, the pillow slipping from your mouth as your cries escaped unfiltered now. He groaned against you again, as if your voice alone could make him come undone.

Your orgasm crashed into you like a breaking wave–sharp and all-consuming, stealing the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hands flying to his hair, gripping tight as you sobbed his name. Your body pulsed against his mouth, twitching with every aftershock as he licked you through it, devouring everything you gave him, like he needed to make sure you finished completely.

You felt how wet his face and lips were as he pressed himself into you more, moaning like it was a blessing. Like he had waited an eternity to be marked by your pleasure and was finally baptized in it.

Your body quivered violently, overstimulated but still desperate for every lingering touch, every flick of his tongue as he slowed his pace, now pressing languid, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen clit–soothing, and full of longing. His tendrils unwound slightly, loosening their grip like they sensed you were drifting down from the heavens again.

He didn’t move immediately. Didn’t speak. He just held you there, mouth resting gently between your thighs, hands stroking your sides, eyes closed as he breathed you in.

And for a moment…There was only silence.

Silence and the echo of your heartbeat ringing in your ears, pounding out a rhythm only he seemed to know. Your chest rose and fell in sharp little waves, like you couldn’t quite catch your breath, body still trembling in the aftermath. You reached up, blinking hard, and swiped your fingers under your eyes–wet. You let out a shaky, stunned little laugh that broke the silence like sunlight through a stormcloud.

That laugh caught his attention instantly.

The Void’s eyes fluttered open–those soft, shimmering galaxies blinking up at you from between your legs. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, and his voice came out low, gentle, like it didn’t want to disturb the fragile peace that had settled between you.

“…Are you okay? You’re crying.”

You let out a long, breathy sigh, chest still fluttering from the aftershocks, and reached down, fingers brushing into his hair–those strands of living darkness softening under your touch.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m okay,” you whispered, your voice hoarse with emotion, “That was just…Wow.” He let out a quiet huff of a laugh through his nose, the sound warm and disbelieving.

“That good?”

You nodded, hand trailing from his scalp to his cheek, feeling the dampness there–your own slick and sweat from him and tears from your fingers mixed on his skin, and he leaned into it, kissing your palm once like it was a thank-you.

Then he pressed a few more kisses to your inner thigh–slower, softer now, like he couldn’t help himself–before finally shifting up your body. He crawled up with measured grace, his body blanketing yours as he braced himself with one hand and cupped your face with the other.

“No more soreness?” He murmured, eyes scanning you carefully. His thumb brushed across your cheek like he was checking your temperature, memorizing the softness of your skin. You shifted your hips slightly beneath him, stretching your legs out and curling them back again, testing. There was still a little warmth there, but no pain. No sharpness. You shook your head slowly.

“No… I don’t feel anything…But…” You paused. Just long enough for him to notice.

“But?” He asked, tilting his head, his voice laced with quiet teasing. “You want to ruin my work that quickly?” You rolled your eyes at him and reached down, brushing your thigh deliberately against the firm, unmistakable weight pressed against you.

“I can literally feel you Void.” He grinned faintly–barely there, but enough to show in the dim curve of his mouth. Then he leaned forward and kissed the point of your chin.

“It seems like you’re stalling the return of Bob.” His voice softened a little more, brushing against your ear like a confession. “Nervous to talk to him?” You shook your head.

“I just want to feel you one more time before you go.”

He froze for a second. Then his shoulders rose and fell with a breath–steady, quiet, like he was gathering himself–and he nodded slowly.

“Okay…” He whispered. “Okay.”

He shifted again, his lower body sinking more heavily between your legs, and you felt one of his hands slide down, fingers curling around himself. He kept his eyes on you the entire time–those white-gold pupils glowing faintly in the light–as he guided his length down, dragging it slowly through your slick, your body already wet and open for him.

You both gasped–him with a trembling exhale, and you with a sharp breath that hitched in your throat. It wasn’t just physical–it was something more. A moan shaped like a prayer. A breath that came from somewhere deeper than lungs. Like relief, and awe, and surrender all at once.

And then he started to push in.

The stretch made your thighs twitch, your hands flying back up to his shoulders–scratching, clinging, needing something to hold onto as he began to fill you with aching slowness. His jaw clenched with restraint, eyes flickering down to where your bodies met, then back up to your face like he couldn’t choose which sight he wanted more.

Your hips lifted slightly, just enough to welcome him in deeper, and you leaned up to kiss him—hungry, desperate, breathless. Your lips met his like you were sealing something sacred, your moan swallowed into the heat of his mouth as he sank in further.

He pulled back slightly, only to rock into you again–slow, deliberate, the kind of thrust that made your whole body jolt in place from how precise it was. You both let out those quiet, breathy gasps–small and intimate, the kind of sounds no one else was ever meant to hear. The kind that felt like you were in a confessional booth whispering your sins to one another.

And then–

SLAM.

The door cracked open fast. Too fast. A voice, loud and sharp and absolutely not part of your dreamlike haze, tore through the room like a bullet through glass.

“Hey I was just coming to ch–OH MY GOD–“

Void’s head whipped towards the door, your legs instinctively snapping together against his waist before raising your hand and pushing Walker out of the doorway and slamming it shut, locking it this time.

”Fuck.” You whispered, your hand slowly dragged up your face in sheer horror. The Void turned his head back to you.

”…I better bring Bob back…Right?” And you nod instantly.

——————————

The tension in the kitchen was like static–thick, buzzing, just waiting for something to spark.

You and Bob stood beside each other, not quite touching but not apart either, like the gravity between you hadn’t quite settled yet. You had thrown on a random bathrobe that you had found in Bob’s closet, and you were clutching the edge of it. Bob was in a plain t-shirt and shorts, his hair still a little messy, a faint pink hue still riding high on his cheeks. His fingers tapped nervously, rhythmically, against the surface of the granite countertop, like the movement alone could save him from combusting under the weight of what just happened.

Across from you, the rest of the Thunderbolts sat in stunned silence, coffee mugs and half-eaten protein bars abandoned. Yelena leaned forward slowly, her elbow on the counter and her chin resting in her hand, her eyes locked unapologetically on the dark bruise on your neck. She didn’t even try to hide her smirk. Walker looked like death. Pale. Jaw tight. His hands clenched like he was ready to punch a wall or rip out his own eyeballs. Bucky leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, a single eyebrow raised like he was already halfway through processing the absurdity of it all.

And then Bob spoke.

“I th–thought I was having…A sex dr–dream.”

The silence broke like glass.

Your head whipped toward him. His voice was so tentative, so innocent in comparison to the gravity of what had gone down, that it nearly made you choke. He looked…Genuinely hopeful. Like maybe��just maybe–that tiny piece of honesty would land gently enough to break the tension. As if opening with awkward vulnerability might pad the inevitable crash.

It didn’t.

Walker let out a noise somewhere between a gag and a full-body shudder.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “That wasn’t a dream, man. I saw it. I walked in on it. You –he was–you were both–” His voice cracked and broke off entirely, like just recounting it would put him into cardiac arrest.

You sighed, loud and heavy, and braced both palms on the counter. Your whole body sagged a little, the exhaustion from both pleasure and stress catching up all at once

“Listen,” You started, voice hard, addressing the entire group, “What Walker saw…Was something he shouldn’t have seen at all.” You glanced up at the table, jaw tight. Walker’s eyes snapped to you, wild with disbelief.

“It shouldn’t even have been happening in the first place, what the hell are you thinking, Y/N?!” You flinched–not from shame, but frustration boiling to the surface like steam from a cracked pipe.

“Can you just hear me out for once, Walker? Instead of listening to your own fucking voice on repeat?”

All eyes were on you.

The weight of it burned against your skin–Bucky’s steady gaze, Ava’s calculating silence, Yelena’s amusement now tempered with curiosity, Alexei’s raised brows, Walker’s barely-restrained rage. And Bob. Bob stood beside you like a shadow trying to turn into something solid. Nervous, but holding.

Then Bucky broke the silence.

“Well…” He said, slowly, voice even, “Can you at least explain yourself? Because from what Walker is telling us…” He flicked a glance toward Walker without finishing the sentence. “It sounds like you were having sex with The Void.”

Bob shifted beside you. Visibly uncomfortable now. His lips parted slightly like he wanted to step in–to protect you, defend you, say anything that might ease the blow–but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet. His presence, though, was enough. The concern in his eyes was carved into every inch of his face–etched into the tightness of his jaw, the dip of his brow, the way his shoulder leaned just slightly toward yours, like he wanted to shield you from the weight of every stare.

You glanced at him–at the man you had grown such love for, and the power that haunted him–and then back at the team.

“Yes,” You replied clearly, firmly, like you weren’t ashamed, “Yes, I was having sex with The Void.”

Walker sucked in a breath like he was about to explode again–but you raised a hand to cut him off, voice unwavering.

“But it wasn’t the one you’ve encountered. He wasn’t out of control. He wasn’t monstrous. He was…” Your voice faltered only slightly as you looked back at Bob, your hand reaching to gently gesture toward him. “He was like him. Just with Void powers. That’s literally it. He wasn’t hurting me. I promise you–he was soft. He was careful. He wasn’t the threat you all think he is.” The group went quiet again, the air so thick it was hard to breathe. Bob had inched closer to you–so close now that his shoulder brushed yours–and for the first time since you walked into the kitchen, you saw him stand a little straighter. Not out of confidence, but out of instinct. Like if anyone moved toward you too fast, he’d put himself in the middle.

Walker, of course, didn’t back down.

“And how do we know that he isn’t going to turn and void us into our shame rooms again?” His voice sharpened, stabbing through the tension like a blade. “You’re playing a sick, twisted game, Y/N. And one day it’s going to get someone hurt.” There was a pause so long it felt like the Earth stopped rotating. Then–

“Walker,” Bucky said flatly, eyes narrowing, “shut the hell up for a minute.”

Walker’s jaw clicked shut.

Yelena, ever the disruptor, swiveled her stool slightly. “Well…If you have control over him,” she said, tapping her fingernail against the counter, “if you’re really able to coax him out like you say…Then do it right now.”

You blinked at her. “Right now?”

She shrugged, smirking a little. “I’m curious. I want to see what version of The Void you’re describing. Let’s meet your…Other boyfriend.” Alexei snorted into his coffee. Ava muttered something that you didn’t quite catch, though she didn’t look away. Everyone’s eyes were glued to you.

You turned to Bob.

He was already looking at you. Nervous. But not scared. Not of you, at least.

“I–If it’ll help you explain,” He murmured, voice a bit hoarse, “I–I can try to have him come out…”

You reached for his hand without hesitation. The contact was grounding. Solid. Your thumb rubbed slowly over the top of his knuckles, skin soft against the calluses there.

“If you can…” You said gently, “That would be good. Please.” You squeezed his hand, your voice low and quiet just for him. “I’ll explain everything afterward. Okay?”

Bob nodded once.

There was a moment of stillness as Bob closed his eyes.

He didn’t move at first–just stood there, your hand still clasped in his. His breaths were deep and even, like he was meditating. Preparing. Then, slowly, the light in the room seemed to shift. Darker–not in color, but in sensation. Like the gravity had shifted an inch to the left and no one could quite stand the same way anymore.

It started at his fingers. Shadows creeping up his wrists like ink spilled into water, rising with a slow, elegant hunger. You felt the air cool between your bodies as the blackness licked up his forearms and bled into his neck, coating his skin in smooth, gleaming obsidian. His muscles tensed slightly beneath your fingers, but he didn’t let go. The sparkles appeared then–soft glimmers, starbursts of light blooming along his throat and cheeks and jawline. They shimmered over his skin like constellations mapped across a dark sky, forming in the exact places your lips had touched him.

You felt the moment shift behind you. The scraping of a stool. The subtle click of someone’s finger grazing a weapon.

They were readying themselves.

You didn’t let go of his hand.

Within minutes, he was fully transformed. Where Bob had stood moments ago, now stood something else–taller somehow, darker, and dripping with restrained power. The Void.

He let out a slow sigh, the breath cool and steady. His white-gold eyes blinked open–and immediately found you.

“I’m back alrea–”

He cut himself off, mid-word, when he realized it wasn’t just you standing there anymore. His head tilted slightly, eyes sweeping the group. You could still see the flicker of surprise cross his eyes, but it was dulled–tempered by your presence, your touch grounding him like an anchor.

“…Is this show and tell?” He asked, looking back at you with the faintest smirk, the little glimmer of teeth catching your gaze. His voice had that unmistakable timbre to it–low, deep, impossibly smooth.

You rolled your eyes and gave him a small, playful push. “Look at them and introduce yourself, please, before they open fire at you.” He blinked. Then gulped. You could almost laugh at how human the gesture was–how unsure he suddenly seemed with all those eyes on him. He turned slowly, facing the kitchen island, where the rest of the Thunderbolts were staring at him like they’d just seen a ghost…And then watched that ghost crack a shy smile.

“Hey…Everyone,” He said, raising a hand and giving them a slow, uncertain wave. “Uh… Good morning.”

There was dead silence for a beat, then all heads swiveled toward you.

“What’s wrong with his face?” Ava asked, her brows furrowing.

You frowned a little, confused. “What?”

She motioned to his cheeks and lips, squinting. “Does he have…Stars on him?” The Void glanced sideways at you, like he didn’t quite know how to answer that himself.

You looked at her and nodded. “Yeah, they’re…From me,” You added after a pause. “It’s everywhere I kissed him.” That seemed to only further stun the group. The Void cleared his throat, taking a tentative step forward–just enough to stand at your side again.

“I am not the same thing you faced in New York,” He said softly, his voice carrying with unnatural ease across the kitchen. “I’m changed. I’m–”

“Rehabilitated?” Yelena cut in, her voice dry.

The Void hesitated. Then let out a breath of something that might’ve been a laugh. “Not exactly. But…I’m different, I know it may not seem like it, but truly…You guys just haven’t given me a chance.” Bucky’s arms were still folded, his posture tense and unreadable—but his eyes were locked on The Void with the kind of hardened suspicion that only came from seeing too much.

“And how can we trust,” He said coolly, “that you’re not just trying to get in good with her so she lets her guard down–and you take advantage of the situation?”

The words landed like a slap.

The Void didn’t flinch, but he did sigh–long and slow, like he’d expected it, like he didn’t even blame Bucky for asking.

“I’m not going to do that to her,” He whispered, quieter now. “She’s… She’s my–”

He stopped.

The word sat there in the back of his throat, heavy, unspoken. Everyone seemed to hold their breath.

His jaw tensed, eyes flickering shut for just a second like the confession pained him somehow–too large to say out loud, too raw to release fully. And then he exhaled and muttered, almost like he hated how serious it made him sound:

“She’s my soulmate.” The silence was deafening. All oxygen in the room seemed to vanish for a moment. “I won’t harm her,” He added, more firmly now. “And I’m not going to hurt any of you–because you’re her friends. And also…” He glanced down slightly, like he was still trying to wrap his head around the feelings threading through him, “Because Bob cares about you guys. So I… I have to care too, and I’ve been trying my best to care.” His glowing eyes scanned them again, this time slower. Less wary. More human.

“Can you guys just…Trust me? Please.” There was another pause.

A long one.

And then, finally–

“You two are soulmates?” Alexei asked, like he had misheard what was said. You sighed, dragging a hand down your face.

“It’s very confusing, I know. Just…Don’t overthink it. Please. For your own sake.” There was a beat of silence where no one moved–until Bucky finally turned to you, one brow still raised in that infuriatingly calm, world-weary way of his.

“So basically,” he said slowly, “we need to get used to seeing this guy around more often, then?”

You shook your head quickly, hands lifting in a light defensive gesture. “No. No, it’s not like that–at least, not yet. You’ll probably just…See him about as often as Bob. I guess.” You glanced up at the Void, whose glowing eyes were still quietly watching the team like he hadn’t blinked once. “I really don’t know for sure because this literally just happened. We’re figuring it out too.”

There was a pause as the team looked at each other–some with uncertainty, others with resigned confusion. Yelena leaned toward Ava and whispered something that made her snort. Alexei just kept blinking like someone was going to eventually shout gotcha! and reset the universe.

Then Walker finally muttered, “We don’t really have a choice, do we?” He motioned toward the Void, his face still pale. “He’s staring us down.”

“I’m just looking, and judging very very quietly on how I can get out of this a little less embarrassed.” Yelena smirked.

”I could get used to him actually.” She muttered, motioning to him, causing everyone to collectively groan.

[iamactuallysocute]

I absolutely LOVED your Saja boys x assistant for your writing is honestly amazing 🙏

Sooo I wanted to know if I can ask for another one 🙏

If you don't mind can you do a scenario or story (not actually sure what it's called) for kpop demon hunters, the Saja boys when your secretly dating one of their members like Abby or Romance or baby (you can pick, or do 2 or both of them) and your apart of Huntrix and they find out and their reaction isn't good.

THANK YOU 🤍💜

HUNTR/X FINDING OUT YOU’RE DATING A SAJA BOY

cw: mentions of sex and rewinds of sex so we can technically say nsfw, secret relationships, arguments, cursing—and tell me if I missed something

PLOT: Three hunters? History says four! At least in this universe it sure does, because you’re a member of HUNTR/X, a beautiful sweetheart, the dream girl actually. That’s the exact reason a Saja Boy had interest in you. And that Saja Boy is…

JINU

It started like a joke. Like the dumb kind of thing you whisper to yourself when you’re three drinks deep after a long night of demon slaying, bruised, blood-splattered, and sore in all the wrong places, “Wouldn’t it be so stupid if I let that cocky little shit Jinu kiss me?”

Except you did. And you let him do a lot more than that.

You know damn well this is wrong.

You’re supposed to hate the Saja Boys.

But then there’s Jinu.

Oh, Jinu.

You know better. You do. But you also know how he kissed you the first time, like he was starving for it, like he’d been thinking about it for weeks, that you’ve been driving him crazy.

Every time you sneak off, telling Mira you’ve got to “clear your head”, lying to Zoey about meeting friends, making up some bullshit mission Rumi would definitely sniff out if she wasn’t so busy being ten times the badass you pretend to be, you end up in Jinu’s room. Usually on his lap. Sometimes against a wall. Once in the backseat of a staff car, which, honestly, was way too cramped for the kind of shit he wanted to try. (But did you complain? No. You just bit his shoulder to muffle the sounds.)

You keep saying it’ll be the last time. Every single time, you tell yourself:

This is it. I’m cutting it off. I shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a demon. I’ll kill him when we’re done.

And every single time, you end up under him again, hips rolling, nails dragging down his back while he whispers filth.

You shouldn’t be doing this. Every second with him is a risk. If Zoey finds out? She’ll be furious. If Rumi finds out? You’re dead. If Mira finds out? You might wish you were.

But fuck… it feels good to be wanted like that.

So no. You’re not telling the girls. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Because that boy is a demon, still.

You can see it in the yellow flickers in his eyes when too much happens to his body. The way his voice changes when he’s angry, the shadow under his skin when his temper spikes, like there’s something inside him, snarling.

Because there is. Gwi-Ma.

You hate that freak. You really, truly do.

He’s not always loud, but when he is, you feel so bad for Jinu.

Sometimes, you’ll catch Jinu zoning out—just for a second—and when he blinks back into himself, there’s this… weight. A bitter taste in the air. You know it’s Gwi-Ma.

You’ll be tangled in Jinu’s sheets, your mouth on his throat, your nails digging into his ribs while he gasps, and then suddenly he’ll choke out a laugh. You’ll ask, “What?” thinking you did something good, and he’ll groan, cover his face and mutter, “Ignore him.”

Like??? Fuck off, Gwi-Ma. (He also once called you “delicious,” which Jinu immediately apologized for by dropping to his knees and staying there for a long time. It helped.)

There was also that one time you were straddling Jinu on the couch in his dressing room, and he went real still, eyes distant, and then just groaned, “Shut the fuck up.” into your neck.

But here’s the thing. Gwi-Ma’s always there—always. Jinu can’t shake him, can’t silence him, not completely. And yet… you don’t feel the urge to pull a blade on him. Not like you would with anything else that dark and dangerous.

You should. You know that. Every instinct in your hunter-trained, scar-hardened body should scream put it down before it turns on you.

But you don’t.

Because the truth is? The demon’s a parasite. But Jinu? Jinu’s not the demon. He’s the boy fighting it. Every single day. You see it when his eyes flash for just a second and he has to swallow it down. You see it in the way he looks at you, like he’s scared you’ll see it, too. The rot inside. The crack in the mirror.

But you already do.

And you love him anyway.

No, wait, you didn’t mean to say that. Not even in your own head. But it’s out here now.

You love him.

He hasn’t said it. Not out loud. But you know. You know by the way he touches you when he thinks you’re asleep. Soft fingertips, trailing your spine, memorizing the shape of you. You know by how he always lets you go first when you argue, even if he hates it. By the way he flinches when you joke about your death like it’s just another occupational hazard.

And sometimes? When you least expect it, he says shit that almost counts.

Like, “I’d burn the world down if anything happened to you.”

Or, “I like who I am when I’m around you. I don’t hear him as much when you’re close.”

And maybe that’s what really fucks you up.

You thought you were just in it for the heat. For the adrenaline. For the sex and the secrecy and the thrill of knowing you were doing something very bad with someone very pretty.

But now? You’re in deeper.

Worse, so is he.

You’re full on dating. Dating dating.

You should be enemies.

Instead, you’re in his bed.

Heart beating fast.

Shirt already half-off.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the last light he can still see in the dark.

You don’t trust this.

You don’t trust yourself.

But when he kisses you, slow and scared and wanting, the demon in him quiet for just a second?

You let him have you.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You also like the tiger. Or cat. Or tiger-cat. Whatever. You still don’t even know what to call it.

You remember the first time you saw it, you thought it was some kind of hellbeast and went for your blade, and Jinu was like, “Waitwaitwait, he’s chill.”

And now? You’ll be at Jinu’s place, half-naked, trying to sneak in a post-mission quickie, and suddenly there’s a 600-pound animal flopping on your legs like it’s a house cat.

Like, sir. Please.

Your vibe is adorable but your mass is inconvenient.

It loves to curl around the both of you like some kind of living, purring barrier. It’d be cozy if it didn’t also come with the crushing weight of “You move, you die.”

And then there’s the crow that hates everyone. Except Jinu. And sometimes, very begrudgingly, you. But only if you bring food. Or if you’re crying, which you hate that he knows. The crow is weirdly intelligent like that.

Sometimes he lands on your shoulder and just sits there while you and Jinu are talking. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t squawk. Just watches. It’s unsettling, but Jinu swears it’s a sign of affection. (You’re not totally convinced it’s not reconnaissance.)

Then, you got caught, babe.

Now, you’re wearing a little shirt that barely reaches your navel and a little black thong. You’re barefoot on your balcony, one hand resting on the railing, the other clutching a soda you don’t even really want. Your legs are sore, your back hurts, your lip’s still split from earlier, and the last thing you need is—

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You jolt. Turn.

“What the fuck, Jinu?” you hiss, slamming your soda down and rushing to him. “What are you—how did you even get up here?!”

He’s grinning. Soft, smug, absolutely useless in his very kissable way.

“Teleported.” he says. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Jinu. They’re home.”

“And?”

He says it so easy. So breezy. Like your heart isn’t trying to hammer through your ribs. You grab him by the arm and drag him fully onto the balcony, pressing him into the wall so he’s out of sight from the windows. Your face is close to his now, too close.

His eyes flick down your body, lazy but appreciative. “You’re not exactly dressed for company.”

You slap his chest. “Don’t make me push you off this building.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to die.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move away. Your hand’s still on his chest, and he’s warm under your palm. Steady. Calm. Like nothing can touch him, not even the hurricane that’s about to slam into your life when this secret finally gets out.

“You’re insane for coming here.” you murmur, quieter now. “What if they see you?”

“I missed you.”

That’s it. No drama. No poetic nonsense. Just those three words, spoken so plainly you feel the ground shift under you.

You swallow. Your throat’s dry. Your hand drifts up, fingers brushing the curve of his jaw. “You couldn’t just text? Send a letter with your cat?”

“I needed to see you.”

He leans in, just a little, and you follow because of course you do. His lips brush yours once, just a ghost of a kiss, and it’s enough to turn your knees to—

Gasp.

You freeze.

The sound comes from inside the room.

Both of you turn your heads just in time to see the door swing open, Zoey standing there, eyes wide, mouth fully agape.

“…oh my god.” she breathes.

Then the door slams shut again.

“Oh my god.” you echo, gripping the balcony railing like it’s going to save your soul. “Oh my god. Jinu. She saw you. She saw us.”

“She didn’t knock.” Jinu says, baffled.

“WHY WOULD SHE KNOCK? IT’S MY ROOM.”

You whirl on him, panic spiking like adrenaline in your veins. Your whole face is on fire. Your body’s moving already, ushering him toward the edge of the balcony, trying to think, to fix, to stop the bleeding of this moment from leaking into the rest of your life.

“She’s going to tell Rumi. Mira. Bobby. She’s going to tell everyone. Oh my god.”

“Okay.” Jinu says, still infuriatingly relaxed. “And?”

“And?!”

He’s smiling again, like this is funny, like you’re just being dramatic. He has no idea how bad this is. You shove him toward the railing with a hand to the back of his head, not hard, just enough to make him stumble.

“Go.” you hiss. “Go, now. I’ll fix it.”

“You’re gonna ‘fix’ getting caught half naked with me on your balcony?” he laughs, holding the ledge like he’s deciding whether to leap or wait for you to calm down.

You swat the back of his head again.

He laughs harder.

And somehow… somehow, that helps.

Because he’s not scared. He’s not shaking like you are, imagining Rumi’s furious stare or Mira’s disappointment or Zoey’s lethal level gossip abilities. He’s just… there. Present. Unbothered.

You exhale hard. Press your forehead to his chest for just a second. He lets you. His hands come up, hold your waist gently, swaying with you.

“Go.” you whisper again. “Please.”

He nods. Serious now. The playfulness fades, just a little. He cups your cheek, presses one last kiss to your lips, then steps back over the balcony’s edge.

And disappears.

You’re left standing there. Heart racing. Lips tingling. Whole body humming like you’ve been plugged into an outlet.

Inside, you hear footsteps.

Voices.

Loud ones.

Zoey’s already telling them.

“Shit.” you breathe, dragging a hand through your hair. “Shit shit shit.”

But even with the panic creeping up again, you can’t stop the small, ridiculous smile that curls onto your face.

Because that dumb, beautiful demon boy came here just to see you.

You don’t even bother throwing on shorts. Just storm out of your room in the tiny shirt and thong you were already wearing, not because you’re trying to prove a point, but because fuck it, the point already proved itself.

You race down the hallway, barefoot, still breathless from the sheer velocity of your panic. The walls feel like they’re closing in with every step. And as you reach the living room, it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Zoey’s perched on the arm of the couch. Her popcorn is real. You knew she’d have popcorn.

Mira’s sitting, arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed. Her expression isn’t angry. Not yet. Worse, it’s disappointed.

Rumi’s standing. Her arms are crossed too, and her face is blank in that terrifying way that says: I haven’t decided whether to scream or murder someone.

You stop cold in the doorway.

“…hi.”

No one answers.

You laugh. Short. Nervous. “Okay. So. Surprise?”

Zoey makes a sound, somewhere between a gasp and a cackle. “Surprise? GIRL.”

Rumi’s voice cuts through, quiet and sharp. “Sit down.”

You glance around. “I’m, uh, I’m not really dressed for a—”

“SIT.”

You sit.

“Zoey saw Jinu.” Mira says, voice like ice water down your back. “On your balcony. With you. And not in a friendly way.”

“Wasn’t a kiss on the cheek, hun.” Zoey adds, tossing popcorn in her mouth.

“Zoey.” Rumi scolds gently.

Zoey zips it. Barely. She’s vibrating with drama high. Her foot’s tapping. She’s dying to see how this plays out.

Mira leans forward. “How long.”

You blink. “What?”

Mira’s eyes are lasers. “How. Long. Has this been going on.”

You swallow. “…A while.”

“A while?” Rumi explodes, stepping forward. “Define ‘a while,’ because ‘a while’ sounds like weeks, and if this has been going on while we were out risking our asses, while we were fighting off demons and you were texting your little boyfriend under the table, I need to know that before I go to prison for launching a sword through the next Saja concert.”

You flinch. “Okay, whoa, let’s not—”

“WAS HE AT THE CEMETERY FIGHT?” Zoey blurts, her eyes wide. “Because you said you were on break that day and he was also conveniently there! Oh my god—were you hooking up behind the mausoleum while I was getting bit by that demon?”

“That was one time.” you snap.

“You just admitted it!” Zoey screams, victorious.

“Okay, enough.” Rumi says, holding up a hand. She turns back to you. “Is it serious?”

And you freeze.

Because there’s the real question.

They’re not just mad about the secret. They’re mad because they know what this means. You don’t sneak around for fun. You lie to protect. So if you were protecting him…

Then you weren’t protecting them.

“I care about him.” you say softly. “It wasn’t just sex. It isn’t. He’s not—”

“He’s a demon.” Mira says, flat. Cold. “End of sentence.”

“He’s not—” you start, then stop. Because okay. Yes. He is. But not the way they mean. “There’s something inside him, yes. Gwi-Ma. But Jinu’s fighting it. Every day. He’s—he’s not evil. He’s not one of the monsters we hunt.”

“And what if he loses that fight?” Rumi asks, quiet again. “What if the thing inside him gets stronger? What if you become the liability?”

Your throat closes. Because that’s the worst part, you’ve already thought about all of that. And it still wasn’t enough to stop you.

“I know what I’m doing.” you whisper. “I know.”

“Do you?” Rumi growls. “Because it looks like you’re playing house with a demon.”

“Rumi, stop—”

“No. You lied to us.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You chose him.”

Yeah. You did. Over and over again. Every night you crept out, every time you let him touch you, every second you looked at his face and thought, maybe this could last, you were choosing him.

Even if it meant eventually losing them.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” you say, finally.

“Too late.” Mira mutters.

“Wait.” Zoey says. “Did you say Gwi-Ma? Like the actual Gwi-Ma?”

“Yeah.” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “Lives in his head. Won’t shut up. Kind of an asshole.”

Everyone’s silent again.

And then, Zoey: “…Does he also do the tongue thing when he kisses you? Like he looks like he does the tongue thing.”

You close your eyes. “Zoey.”

Rumi sighs. Mira pinches the bridge of her nose. And slowly, slowly, the tension in the room starts to loosen. Not dissolve. Not disappear. But… loosen. There’s still tension in the air. Still betrayal.

“You know we’re supposed to kill them. Right?” Rumi says, loud and clear so you hear it.

You have heard it. You’ve heard it a hundred times. In debriefs, in Zoey’s snide jokes, in the way Mira files her knives after watching Saja Boys interviews with a dead stare. You’ve said it yourself. Weeks ago.

You knew what they were. You knew they weren’t human. And your girls have been tracking, prepping, moving toward this for weeks.

And meanwhile?

You’ve been sleeping with the mark.

“I know.” you say, barely above a whisper.

“You knew.” Mira corrects, her voice a blade.

“I know.” you repeat, louder now. “And I didn’t—I didn’t plan for this. It wasn’t some operation gone rogue. It wasn’t a trick. It just—”

“You tripped and fell onto his dick, huh?” Zoey says, sharp and bitter.

You shut your eyes. “Zoey, not now.”

“No, I really wanna know.” she goes on. “Did you just accidentally fall in love with a guy who’s literally got a demon whispering murder in his ear while we’ve been training to put his head on a spike? Because that’s wild.”

“What was your plan?” Rumi asks, not looking at you. “What was the endgame here? That we’d kill his bandmates but leave him alone because you like his face?”

“No.” you snap, the sharpness surprising even you. “God, no. You think I don’t know how this looks? You think I haven’t been ripping myself apart every night over this? I know what we’re doing. I know what he is. But you don’t know him. Not like I do.”

“Enlighten us.” Mira says, icily. “Please.”

You blink fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes. You weren’t gonna cry, you swore you wouldn’t, but the pressure’s building.

Silence.

Rumi closes her eyes like she’s trying not to hit something. Mira sits back. Her face has gone to that scary-silent-assassin look that means her brain is moving three steps ahead of everyone else. Finally, she says: “So when it’s time to take them out… what happens then?”

You stare at her. You hate how cold she sounds. You hate how reasonable it is.

Because that is the question, isn’t it?

What do you do when it’s your sword, and his neck, and no one else to make the call but you?

“I don’t know.” you admit, soft. “I don’t know yet.”

“That’s not good enough.” Rumi says, voice rising. “You’re not just putting yourself at risk. You’re putting us at risk. What if he turns on us mid-mission? What if he uses you to get ahead of us? What if this whole time—”

“He wouldn’t.” you say quickly. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t hurt any of you.”

“You can’t know that.” Mira says.

“I do.”

And you do. Deep down. Where all the fear and doubt and guilt live, even under all of that, you know.

He wouldn’t let them touch you.

And he wouldn’t touch them.

Not unless they tried to kill him.

Which they… will.

Soon.

Zoey stands again and walks across the room, pacing now. “So what, we’re just supposed to ignore this? Let you keep cuddling up with your demon boyfriend while we finish the job?”

“No.” you say. “I get it. I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m not even asking you to like me right now. I just… I just need you to understand. I’m not choosing sides. I’m choosing truth. Jinu’s not a monster. Not yet. And I don’t think he ever will be.”

There’s a pause. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Then, softly, Mira asks: “But what if you’re wrong?”

You look at her. Look at all of them.

And you don’t have an answer.

ABBY

Look. You’re supposed to kill him. Let’s be very clear about that. The Saja Boys are your target. You’ve watched them on stage, off-stage.

The first time you saw him, shirtless and grinning, was some training clip Rumi pulled up on the mission table, purely for recon (allegedly), and even then, you felt your spine short-circuit.

He looked like a human weapon.

Except he wasn’t human.

And you weren’t supposed to want the weapon.

But, you know. Whoops.

He’s huge (like, throw-you-around-the-room, bench-press-you-during-foreplay huge). Arms like steel, voice like “what’s up, babe?” and a smile so cocky it should be registered as an actual threat.

You hated him at first.

You hated him… until you didn’t.

Until one night after a bad mission, your ribs aching, pride worse, your blood still up and nothing in the world feeling good. And then you saw him. Leaning against a wall, flexing like he didn’t know he was doing it and voice dropping into that stupid low register like, “Hey. You okay?”

Game over.

Brain fried.

Panties? Gone.

And then, somehow, you were... kissing. In a stairwell. Covered in blood. Your blood. His blood. Something's blood. Messy. Wrong. And absolutely addictive.

Now it’s… a thing. A secret thing.

Because Abby? He makes you laugh, first of all. He says dumb shit in bed. He says dumb shit all the time. And he’s so proud of it.

And yeah. He’s a demon. You see it. He doesn’t even hide it.

There’s something in him that pulses dark. Wild. Primal. The heat in his body burns wrong sometimes. The shadows cling to him longer than they should. And there are moments, fleeting but undeniable, where he looks at you like he wants to eat you.

Not in the fun way. (Though, to be clear, he definitely wants that too.)

But in the demonic, soul-thirsty kind of way.

And yet. Somehow. You’re not afraid of it. You should be. You’re trained to be. You’ve put down lesser demons without blinking. You know what he is. But something in you doesn’t flinch.

Because under all of that darkness… you know he likes you.

He really, actually likes you. In his dumbass, show-off way.

The first time he said it, he was inside you—of course he was—panting, all flushed and cocky, and he muttered, “shit, I like you too much.” Then he tried to play it off with a kiss to your neck, followed by something heinous you don’t even remember, too busy feeling all of him.

You laughed. And then whispered, “me too.”

He knows you’re a hunter. He knows who you are, what you do. But he keeps showing up anyway. Still winks. Still pulls you into dark corners and picks you up like you weigh nothing. Still teases you like none of this is real.

He trusts you. And that terrifies you more than anything.

Because when the time comes…

When the blades are drawn…

He’s not going to fight you.

And you don’t know what you’re going to do when that moment comes.

But for now? You let him pin you to the wall and mutter, “what, you gonna slay me, hunter?” against your jaw.

Because the worst part isn’t that you’re supposed to kill him.

It’s that a small, aching part of you knows you won’t.

He does shit like carrying your bag when it’s heavy, but doesn’t make it weird. He just grabs it and then slings it over those stupid big shoulders like it weighs nothing. Flexes a little, maybe, but you let him. You even look on purpose. He likes it.

He memorizes what you order from that little noodle shop you go to after late-night sweeps. The first time he brought it to you unasked, still hot, you didn’t even know what to say. He just handed it over with a lopsided grin and went, “See? I got a brain in here.” and then tapped his temple with the chopsticks he’d stolen from the shop.

He warms his hands before touching your face. Doesn’t even think about it. Just always runs them over his neck or into his sleeves first, and then cups your cheeks.

And then there's how he watches you. Not like prey. Not like the demon in him is looking for an opening. But like... you're the funniest, hottest, most precious thing in his world and he can't believe you're even talking to him, let alone letting him see you naked on the regular.

And oh my god, he tied your shoe once. One time. You’re mid-arguing, mid-huffing about something completely irrelevant, and this man bends down, wraps those huge hands around your ankle, ties your shoe with all the careful attention of someone untangling a bomb, then slaps your thigh and stands up.

You were silent for, like, ten minutes.

You hate how much you like it. Hate it. Hate it.

But not enough to stop.

Not when he’s currently got you pressed up against cold tile, his breath warm against your throat, your thigh hiked high around his hip in the almost empty bathhouse the three of you ducked into after a hunt.

You don’t even know how it happened.

One minute, you were soaking in the women’s bathhouse while Mira and Zoey argued over whose blade got the final hit, and the next, you were in the showers and Abby was there. Shirtless. He must’ve snuck in through the back.

You didn’t even try to stop him. You should’ve.

But he’d walked up to you, dripping from a quick rinse-off, and grinned. “Damn. You clean up nice.”

And that was it. That was the moment your common sense packed her bags and left.

Now? Now you’re sandwiched between Abby and the cold wall of the bathhouse’s back corridor. Your towel’s half off, your thigh’s fully up, and Abby’s mouthing your neck like this isn’t a public facility.

“Abby.” you whisper, half-laughing, half-moaning, trying to push him back even though you’re very much not trying that hard. “They’re still here. They could come back any second.”

He just kisses lower. “Then we better make it fast, huh?”

“You’re the one taking your damn time.” you snap, trying not to laugh, and he grins against your skin.

“What can I say?” he murmurs. “My girl’s distracting.”

You shove his chest. It’s like trying to move a wall of warm concrete. “I swear, if they catch us—”

Footsteps.

Voices.

You both freeze.

You don’t see them at first. But you hear them. Zoey’s laughing about something and Mira’s voice is lower, casual, annoyed maybe, like she’s mid-eye roll. They’re just coming back from the sauna. They’ll be rounding this corridor in seconds.

You shove at Abby, harder. “Go. Go now.”

But he’s LAUGHING. The fuckass is laughing, muffling it behind that dumb smug smirk like this is the funniest shit ever.

You smack the back of his head, panicked. “Are you trying to get me killed?!”

He grins harder. “If we die like this, honestly? Worth it.”

“Abby!”

Zoey’s voice: “Wait… why’s the floor wet back here? Was someone—”

She turns the corner.

She sees you.

Sees him.

Sees you, basically naked, thigh still up, Abby shirtless and pressed into you, steam rising off both of you.

Zoey screams.

Mira slams in behind her a half-second later, silent, deadly, her eyes going wide.

Abby, still shirtless, just waves. “Hey.”

You are going to die.

“YOU.” Zoey shrieks, pointing. “ARE YOU INSANE?!”

Mira? Mira’s face is stone. Pissed. Her arms are folded. Her jaw is clenched. And she’s staring directly at Abby’s glistening chest.

You, meanwhile, are red. Not pink. Not flushed. Red. Half-wrapped in a towel. Half-tangled in him. All of you exposed, literally and emotionally, in the worst way possible. You’ve barely had time to stumble back and yank your towel up around your chest when he decides to speak.

“Yo.” Abby says with the most unbothered, dumbass charm in the world. “Heeeeeeey girls.”

He actually lifts a hand. Like he didn’t just get caught shoving his demon tongue down your throat in a public women’s bathhouse.

Zoey looks like she’s about to scream a second time. Possibly kill you. Possibly him first.

And what does this stupid man say next?

“You know what,” he continues, glancing between them and then at you. “I feel like… you guys got some things to work out. Real important girl talk. Imma… just.” He gestures vaguely toward the exit, completely unapologetic. “Slide out. Give you all some space. Respectfully.”

You gape. “Abby—”

He turns, halfway out the door, then glances back at you, slow, like he’s throwing a whole-ass grenade at your friendship. And then, he calls:

“Catch you later, babe.”

Babe.

In front of them.

AND THEN THE BASTARD WINKS.

Winks, flexes without flexing, and vanishes.

You are.

So.

Fucked.

You’re clutching your towel to your chest, dripping water, heart hammering so loud it might as well be a war drum. Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words. Just a stupid, guilty sound like, “Uh—”

“How long.” Mira says, deadly quiet,

You blink. “I—”

“HOW LONG?!” Zoey practically screams, her arms thrown up like she might start flinging bath sandals at you. “You’ve been sneaking off to tongue wrestle with a Saja Boy?!”

“It’s not like that—”

“Oh, it’s not?” she snaps. “Because from where I was standing? It looked exactly like that. Unless ‘chest licking in a sacred women’s bathhouse’ means something different in demon-speak.”

“Zoey.” Mira says again, voice low. “Let her talk.”

“Why?! So she can lie again?”

You feel it. The shame. The guilt. The sting of it.

Because you didn’t tell them. Not when you should’ve. Not when it started. Not after the first time. Not after the sixth. Not even after you knew it was something real, something that wasn’t going to just go away if you pretended hard enough. You stayed quiet. Let them think you were just normal. Still loyal. Still on-mission.

But you weren’t. You’d fallen into bed with the enemy, and now it’s your best friends staring at you like you’re the monster.

“Okay.” you say, quietly. “Okay. Look.” You take a breath. It comes out shaky. “Yes. It’s been going on. And yes. I know how it looks.”

“You lied to us.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“Bullshit.” Zoey hisses. “You snuck around behind our backs with the very thing we’ve sworn to eliminate. You let one of them turn you into his little secret side piece—”

“Stop.” you snap, louder than you meant to. “Don’t talk about me like that.”

Silence again.

“I’m not a side piece.” you say, quieter. “And he’s not just… whatever you think he is.”

Zoey’s expression warps into something like heartbreak. “You’re in love with him.”

You look away.

“Oh my god.” She covers her face.

“I didn’t plan for this.” you try, pleading now. “It just—it happened. And I know it’s wrong. I know what he is. But I also know what he’s not. He’s not—” You gesture weakly toward the steam he vanished into. “He’s not hurting people. Not the way we thought.”

Mira steps forward, eyes sharp. “And what happens when he does? When we take him out? What then?”

You swallow. You don’t answer. Because you don’t know. And they see that.

After the bathhouse blowout, the tension clung to your skin worse than the towel.

Mira and Zoey walked ahead of you the whole way home, Mira silent, Zoey muttering to herself in rage, still trying to process the abomination of seeing you with Abby’s abs all up in your personal space. You trailed behind, wrapped in shame, hair dripping, stomach doing flips that had nothing to do with guilt and everything to do with impending doom.

“Let me tell her.” you said, the second the elevator doors opened to the penthouse. “Let me tell Rumi myself.”

Mira turned to you, her jaw clenched. “You sure?”

“No.” you said. “But I’m going to.”

They just exchanged a look, silent agreement, and then headed to the kitchen like they weren’t absolutely going to lurk by the hallway to hear every single word.

You find Rumi in her room. She’s standing by the window. You almost leave. Almost. But then she turns. “You need something?”

Your throat closes.

Yeah. Just your life exploding.

“Can I talk to you?” you ask, voice trembling. “It’s… personal.”

She gestures toward the chair. You don’t sit. You can’t. You’re vibrating with nerves, practically bouncing out of your skin. You pace instead, like if you move enough, the words will come easier. They don’t.

“Okay, so—so.” you start, hands waving like you’re trying to draw the sentence into existence. “So, you’re gonna be mad. Just—please, can you let me finish first before you say anything? Just let me get it out all at once, because if I stop, I won’t say it, and I have to say it because it’s already—happened, and Zoey and Mira know, and you’re going to find out anyway, and I need it to come from me.”

Rumi’s arms cross slowly. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m dating Abby.” you blurt.

Silence.

You say it again, just to fill the space. “I’m dating Abby. From Saja. The one with the abs and the arms and the—yeah. Him.”

Still no reaction.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen. It wasn’t, like, some weird betrayal thing. I didn’t go into this planning to screw around with the enemy, I swear. It just—he was there, and he’s funny, and stupid, and sweet, and he’s not like what we thought. And yeah, I know it’s a conflict of interest. I know it’s dangerous, and I know we’re supposed to be hunting them, and it’s all wrong, but it doesn’t feel wrong when I’m with him. It just feels like… mine. Like something I chose. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

You finally stop.

You wait.

“…You’re joking.”

Your heart drops. “I’m not.”

You’ve never seen Rumi this mad without even raising her voice.

“You’re sleeping with a demon.” she says, cold. “A Saja Boy. One of the five. Our primary targets.”

You flinch. “It’s not like that—”

“Did he charm you? Manipulate you? Feed off you?”

“No! Rumi, he hasn’t even—he hasn’t taken anything from me.”

“Oh, but he took you, huh?” Her voice cuts like glass. “He gets the girl, the inside scoop, the trust, and we get what? A betrayal?”

You step forward. “I didn’t betray you.”

“You didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret. You let this go on while we’ve been risking our lives—my life—hunting down his kind. You don’t think that’s betrayal?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Because you did. You did lie. Maybe not in words, but in silence.

“You’ve compromised our entire mission.” she hisses, turning her back on you. “You think this is just about sex or feelings or whatever he gave you to keep you quiet? It’s bigger than that. He’s dangerous. And you let him in.”

“I didn’t let him in.” you snap, suddenly defensive. “He got in because he wanted me. Because he likes me. Because I like him.”

“And when the time comes,” she says, turning back around, eyes locked on yours. “and you have to choose between us and him, what’s your play?”

You’re shaking.

You can’t answer.

And Rumi sees it.

“…Get out.”

“Rumi—”

“Get. Out. Before I say something we both regret.”

You stagger back. One step. Then another.

And as you open the door—Zoey and Mira. Absolutely planted on the other side. Zoey straightens so fast she almost falls into a lamp. Mira just steps back, arms crossed, deadpan. Neither of them says a word.

You don’t say anything either.

You just walk away.

ROMANCE

Ohhh baby. You’ve just opened Pandora’s box with Romance.

The first time you and Romance crossed paths just the two of you, it was bloody. And violent. And frankly, stupid hot in hindsight.

You were rooftop hunting, your blade humming with enchanted energy, adrenaline in your teeth. The Saja Boys were slippery—always were—but he showed up like he’d been waiting for you.

You fought.

He was strong, too strong. Slippery. Every move came with a smirk, a breathy compliment, some infuriating “ooh, I like it when you’re rough.” You were sweating, pissed, cornered on the edge of a skylight.

But you didn’t back down.

You clocked him, hard, elbow to the jaw, leg sweep, blade to his throat, and he went down. Fell like a sack of demons with a ridiculous grunt and a flutter of his pretty shirt.

You stood there panting, blade raised.

Victory. Yours.

You even kicked him, toe of your boot to his ribs. “Dead?” you muttered.

He grabbed your ankle, fast as lightning, yanked, and dragged you straight to the ground with him. The breath left your lungs. Your body slammed to his. And suddenly? You were chest-to-chest with him, both breathing hard. His smile was bloody and filthy.

“Now this,” he purred. “is foreplay.”

You tied him up after that. You had to. Found rope in the storage unit of the building, tied his wrists behind his back, looped around the support beam. He didn’t fight it, no, of course not. He just watched you. Smirked. Made comments.

“That grip.” he said. “Ever thought of moonlighting in bondage? You’ve got talent.”

You should’ve killed him. Should’ve. He was just lying there, helpless, caked in blood.

But something in you faltered.

So you left him. Said it was a warning.

Before you left, he looked at you with those bedroom eyes and said, “Next time, bring better rope. You’ll be the one staying.”

And you did.

You came back. In the dead of night, alone.

And he wasn’t tied up anymore.

No, that time you were the one in knots.

Literal ones. Spread out, mouth covered in tape, eyes wide while he knelt between your legs, chin lifted and so fucking pleased with himself.

He whispered things you still feel heat up your spine when you’re alone in the shower.

That was the real beginning.

You’re not blameless. You like it. You like the chase, the secrets, the tension in every stolen second.

Romance doesn’t ask. He offers. He tempts. He brushes his fingers along your collarbone in passing, whispers filth into your ear just to see you shiver. He invites you to meet with him night after night. You go. Every time.

You’d call him a slut, except he only ever wants you.

He’s also attentive. Not the good boy kind, no. He’s too much of a tease for that. But he knows when you’re stressed, when you’re insecure, when you need to be fucked out of your head or just held while he brushes your hair. Super senses like he has do wonders in him getting your little feelings. Romance also has a memory like a thief. Remembers everything you say, down to the way you phrased it.

He’s obsessed with you. Openly.

But he also won’t stop flirting with other people in front of you just to rile you up.

(You’ve slapped him for it. He moaned. It didn’t help.)

He knows exactly what you are. A killer. A blade. Something sacred and trained and dangerous.

And he adores it.

“God, baby,” he’ll murmur while trailing his mouth down your thigh. “do you know how hot it is that you could murder me and choose not to?”

You don’t tell the girls. Obviously. They’d lose their minds.

Because you’re supposed to be on a mission to exorcise his ass from the planet—not get your back blown out on rooftops between hunts.

For an example, you let him tie you up again last night. He read you poetry while he did it. From memory. Filthy, ancient verses in a demon tongue you didn’t know—but understood perfectly from his eyes alone.

And when he made you scream his name, you think the whole street heard it.

Even when he’s being a tease—pulling your panties to the side in an alley or teasing you with promises he has no intention of letting you walk away from—his hands are always reverent. Worshipful.

He runs his fingers down your back when you’re not even paying attention. Laces your fingers together when you’re not touching him.

Then, it started with a bra strap.

Well, a glimpse of it, really, something delicate, lacy, red, peeking just above your sports tank when you bent down to pick up your dagger from the training mat. You didn’t even notice. But Zoey did. She always does.

Zoey squinted. “Since when do you wear matching sets for patrol?”

Mira glanced up from her weights, brow cocked.

You just shrugged. Played it off. “Self-care.”

They didn’t buy it.

And then it happened again.

The next night. And the next.

A different set this time, satin, black, barely-there. They weren’t judging you for it. Please. You’re hot, you’re allowed to feel yourself. But there was a pattern emerging, and it had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with how you were always glowing when you came back from “walks.”

Your cheeks flushed. Your lips bitten. The scent of perfume that wasn’t yours clinging to your jacket.

And the final straw? Rumi walked into your room to grab something and saw an empty condom wrapper on your nightstand. You weren’t even home.

That night, the three of them made a decision.

They were going to follow you.

It’s late.

You thought you were slick—slipping out the back stairwell in your “casual clothes” (which just so happen to include a barely-buttoned blouse and lace-trimmed thigh harness under a trench coat). Hair glossy. Lip gloss glossier.

You head toward a park a few blocks away. A little bench nestled between two massive trees. Always quiet. Always shadowed.

And sitting there, legs crossed, coat open over a shirt unbuttoned just enough is Romance.

He looks up, sees you, and grins. That slow, wolfish, I’m-gonna-undress-you-without-touching-you kind of smile.

“You’re late.” he says.

“You’re early.”

“I’m always early. It gives me more time to think about you.” He says it like a whisper. You bite back a smile, step closer, the night air curling around your ankles like it knows this is wrong and wants in.

He reaches for your hand, brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Doesn’t even glance at your dagger strapped to your thigh.

You lean in, eyes half-lidded. “What if I was here to kill you this time?”

“Then tie me up first. You know how I like it.”

You laugh. It’s soft. Intimate. Familiar.

That’s the sound that does it.

Zoey’s voice, “Whaaaaaaaat.”

You whirl around.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. Standing just behind the tree line, like they’d been parked there for ten whole minutes, watching your little forbidden lovers’ reunion.

Your blood goes cold.

Romance just sits back, arm along the bench like this is hilarious.

Zoey’s eyes are bulging. “Are you seriously making out with Romance?! As in Saja Boy, Romance?! Mister demon dick himself?!”

Mira’s arms are crossed, her voice dry. “So that’s what all the lace was about.”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Romance, unbothered, lifts two fingers in a lazy salute. “Ladies.”

“Don’t you ladies me.” Zoey snaps, stomping forward. “What the fuck, Y/N?!”

You stumble over your words. “I—I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like—okay, not like this. I wasn’t using him or betraying anyone or—”

“Oh my god, are you in love with him?!” Zoey howls.

Romance leans closer to you, whispers, “Say yes.”

You elbow him in the ribs so hard he wheezes. But he’s laughing. This fucker is laughing. And that laugh? It seals your fate.

Rumi steps forward, voice cold as glass. “Go home. Now.”

You look at Romance. He gives you a wink. A wink. He’s enjoying this. He is.

You turn to leave.

And you know they’re right behind you. Their silence is heavier than their words. Zoey’s arms are flailing in disbelief. Mira’s jaw is tight. Rumi says nothing, but you can feel her disappointment.

Back at the penthouse, everything feels louder. The walls feel tighter. Every footstep echoes like judgment.

You try not to flinch as the elevator closes behind you, sealing you inside with three of the people you love the most, and who now all look at you like you’re a stranger.

No one speaks.

You want to say something, break the silence, offer an explanation, but your throat’s tight, heart hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to escape before Rumi cuts it out herself.

When the elevator dings open at your floor, it’s Zoey who moves first. Quiet. Shoulders tense. Mira walks out after her. Rumi walks last, slow and composed, her silence ten times more dangerous than if she’d yelled.

You don’t even make it to the living room before Mira turns on you. “What the actual fuck, Y/N?”

You swallow. “I was going to tell you—”

“When?!” Mira snaps. “After you fucked all of them? Or just after the Saja Boys rip our hearts out?! Which was it?!”

“I didn’t—” You exhale, hands up, trying to keep your voice steady. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to fall into something with him.” You’ve gone over it a thousand times in your head. Every rule you broke. Every kill order you ignored. Every night you slipped away when your best friends were asleep, trusting you to be one of them, not one of the fucking enemy’s bedwarmers. “I know what I did.” you say, quieter. “I know it’s wrong.”

Zoey finally speaks, voice soft. “Then why did you keep doing it?”

You look at her. And she looks like she’s not angry like Mira, not composed like Rumi. Just… hurt. Her arms are folded across her chest.

“I don’t know.” you admit. “He’s a demon. He’s everything we’re trained to kill. But—”

“But you let him charm his way between your legs and now suddenly that makes it okay?” Mira’s voice is sharp. “You endangered us. All of us.”

“No.” you snap, louder now. “I would never let anything happen to you. I’m not stupid. I’m not just lying there letting him feed off my soul—he hasn’t even touched that part of me. I wouldn’t let him. I’m not a liability, Mira.”

“You are.” Mira spits.

Silence again.

You feel it in your stomach, a cold pit of shame. But beneath it, there’s something else. Something like defiance. Because yes, maybe you’re making a mistake. Maybe you crossed every line. Maybe you’re betraying the oath, the cause, the sisterhood.

But it wasn’t just sex. Not with Romance.

He sees you. Wants you. Not your blade, not your strength, not your usefulness to the mission.

Just… you.

“He cares about me.” you say, quietly.

“That doesn’t matter.” Rumi says. Her voice is so soft. “You’re a hunter. You don’t get to fall for the monsters. You kill them. Or you compromise everything we’ve built.”

Oh Rumi, we know why you think that.

Zoey bites her lip, voice shaking. “Are you in love with him?”

You hesitate.

And that’s the answer.

Mira throws up her hands. “Un-fucking-believable.”

Rumi looks at you like she’s assessing whether or not to kick you off the team. “We’re here to stop them, Y/N. All of them. We don’t get to make exceptions because they kiss nice or talk pretty.”

You nod slowly. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Rumi steps closer. “Because the second he snaps his fingers, and decides he’s hungry, you’re the first soul he’s going to devour.”

Do you really think that Rumi, or you’re just making shit up to stop your beloved Y/N from making the same mistake your mother did?

You want to scream that it’s not like that. That Romance—for all his bullshit, his flirting, his filthy mouth—has never once made you feel prey. You’ve never seen him lose control. Never once doubted he would stop if you told him to.

But even you know that doesn’t make it safe.

You glance between them, the three people you’ve fought with, bled with, survived with, and it feels like you’re in the wrong. You are.

Zoey steps forward finally, hand brushing yours. “If you really love him… then please be careful. Don’t make us bury you because you thought he was different.”

Her voice breaks at the end.

And Mira won’t even look at you.

Rumi just turns and walks toward her room. Before she disappears down the hall, she says one last thing:

“You have one chance to fix this. Or next time, it’s me that puts a blade in his chest.”

The door slams.

Your pretty underwear under your clothes feels stupid now.

But even through all that, you know, deep down?

You’re not going to stop seeing him.

And that’s the problem.

BABY

Oh, Baby.

You hate(d) his name.

Baby.

You don’t even know when it started.

Just that one second you were fighting, and the next?

You were… not.

It was supposed to be a quick hunt. You’d gotten separated from the girls for like five minutes—five whole damn minutes—and then bam. He was there.

Backstage, right behind the curtains at some underground venue, blinking at you like you were the surprise, not him.

Did he say anything?

No.

Just smirked.

And you knew it was a smirk, even if his mouth barely moved. Something about the way his eyes narrowed, chin tilted. The unbothered little lean against the wall, arms crossed. Hair too shiny. Mouth too glossy. Pretty in a way that made you want to scratch it up.

So you drew your blade.

He didn’t move. Just blinked again. Like you were the one being ridiculous. Then you lunged. He blocked you, lazy, like your movements were predictable. A joke. Your blade barely missed his throat, and he laughed. Not even like a proper laugh. Just this airy “heh” with his head tilted like, Is that all?

And you? Furious. Mortified. Already picturing the way Mira would roast you for getting played by the baby demon.

So you kicked his leg out from under him. Hard.

The fight got into close combat from there, your blade dropped to the floor. And the two of you just… went at it. Not even fighting anymore, just grappling, rolling across concrete with all the force and heat of a catfight.

His fingers in your hair. Your hand around his throat. Neither of you speaking, just panting, growling, gritting teeth. And his face?

Still blank. Still bratty. Still beautiful.

Until your knee landed in a very strategic place and he grunted—actually made a sound—and somehow that flipped a switch.

Next thing you knew?

You were on your back, shirt pushed up, his mouth on your tits, sharp little teeth teasing your skin as you hissed at him to fucking go.

“The girls are almost on. I have to go.” You hissed.

His response? A slow blink. Like you’re so loud and he was busy. Then he kissed a bite-mark over your nipple like it was his fucking signature and pulled back, shirt half untucked, his lips all red, and not a care in the world.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t wink. Didn’t flirt. Just looked at you like he expected you to come back later. Like he knew you would.

You did.

Because Baby is… different.

He doesn’t do the “Oh, I want you so bad” stuff. That’s Romance’s thing. Doesn’t do the “I’ll protect you, angel” softness. That’s Jinu. Doesn’t even do the “Come here, babe, sit on my lap” gym rat boyfriend vibes. That’s Abby. Doesn’t let you control him like Mystery does.

Baby ignores your ass half the time.

You text him that you’re downstairs? He doesn’t even buzz you up. You have to break in. You say something flirty and he shrugs. You try to make plans and he answers with a yawn.

But when you’re alone? When you’re in the dark corners of club basements or dressing rooms or the stairwell no one uses between the 6th and 7th floors of the broadcast building?

He’s all teeth and tongue and whispers against your throat. Biting. Mouthing. Slouching against you like he doesn’t care but always pulling you closer.

He talks more with his mouth on your body than he ever does out loud.

His affection comes in weird little ways. Like slipping your favorite drink into your bag without saying anything, which he clearly stole from someone. Like swiping the exact eyeshadow palette you complimented on a make up staff member.

Like blowing off fan meetings just to sit in the dark and watch you stretch, head tilted.

And every time you call him out on it?

He gaslights you. Fully.

“What palette?”

“You bought it, didn’t you?”

“You said I could come in.”

“You didn’t say stop.”

Smug. Rude. Hot as fuck.

And for all his demon blood and dead-eyed stares, there are moments—tiny, barely-there glimpses—where you think he might actually care about you. Like really care.

He is the worst, but underneath that generally insufferable personality, he actually kinda likes you.

He still ignores the fuck out of you.

Deadass. You’ll walk into a room and Baby won’t even glance up. You’ll say hi and he won’t say anything back. Doesn’t even nod. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him to move. He never moves. Just slowly looks at you like you’re interrupting.

But the second you’re smiling on your phone, texting?

Laughing too hard?

Not paying attention to him?

He’s right there. Doesn’t say a word. Just drapes himself over you like a cat and sighs against your neck like this is what I had to resort to?—then nips at your collarbone.

You tell him to go away. He doesn’t.

You shove at him. He goes heavier.

You call him annoying.

His answer:

“Mhm.”

You’ll be pouring tea, being the sweet, functional human being you are, and he’ll just… slide his mug over. No eye contact. No “please.” Not even a “yo.” He just tugs on your sleeve once and you already know.

You always say the same thing: “I’m not your maid.”

To which he always responds by… waiting.

Not moving.

Just standing there like …so?

So you pour the tea.

Every. Damn. Time.

(And then he takes a tiny sip and says, “Too hot.” And you fantasize about kicking him in the shins.)

He has the nerve to walk around with that adorable, sweet little face. Wide eyes. Lashes for days. Little nose. Pink lips. He blinks at people and they melt.

“Oh my god, is he shy?”

“He’s so precious!”

“Aww, he’s like a little bunny!”

LIES.

Baby is a demon.

A predator.

A horrible little shit who absolutely uses his face as a weapon.

Don’t even get me STARTED on his voice. It does not match him. At all. It’s low and slow and filthy, like it’s meant for whispering horrible things directly into your ear. And he knows it. He uses it. He’ll say your name in that voice, right behind you, when he wants something. And every time it works, you hate yourself a little more.

You hate him.

You want to climb him like a tree.

You’re the problem.

He likes you though. He really does.

He doesn’t say it. Obviously. But you know.

He shows up at your window at 2 a.m. and does not leave you alone, that’s his love language. You wonder what Gwi-Ma thinks about that. Does he insult the poor boy in his head? Leaves the topic alone? A wonder, really.

He doesn’t care about people. Not really. Not like you do.

He’s selfish. Bratty. Condescending.

He never says “I love you.” Never writes sweet notes. Never says “I miss you” or calls you beautiful.

But he stays. He lingers. He lets you run your fingers through his hair when he’s tired. He lets you sleep on his chest when you both sneak off after dark. He lets you see the version of him no one else gets to.

You’re not sure if this is love, or madness, or both. But you keep crawling back. Keep letting him tug you close. Keep pretending it’s not dangerous, even though it’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done.

Yeah.

He’s terrible.

But you like him that way.

Anyways, your room is big. Like, stupidly big. The girls fought tooth and nail for this penthouse, and somehow, you ended up with the one room that had its own damn sitting area, fireplace, and balcony. Probably because you “never bring people over.”

Ha.

Right now, you’re sitting on your bed, one leg bent, your hair damp from a shower, some oversized shirt slipping off your shoulder. You’re glowing, content, the kind of comfort that only comes when your secret demon boyfriend is stretched out across your silk sheets.

Baby, flat on his back, hoodie pushed up just enough to expose his stomach. He’s got one arm under his head, and the other lazily dragging over your thigh.

And you’re telling him a story. Some stupid one from earlier. About Zoey trying to cook eggs and somehow setting off the fire suppression system, and Mira slipping in the foam and cussing in three different languages, and Rumi trying to keep everyone calm.

He doesn’t say much—he never does—but every once in a while, he makes this little “hn” sound that means he’s listening. His eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing his cheeks, and you gently run your fingers across the curve of his bare stomach as you speak.

Just light touches. Lazy, mindless. Your thumb sweeping around his navel. Tracing the faint v-line that disappears under his waistband. And he just takes it. Like he deserves to be pet.

His hips shift just slightly, subtle little rolls into your hand. His lips twitch. He hums.

“You’re distracting.” you mutter, dragging your fingers down his side.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just tugs on the hem of your shirt like he wants it off but can’t be bothered to do it himself.

You laugh a little and lean over him, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. He lets you. He always does. Touchy and spoiled and acting like he’s the one doing you a favor by being here.

His fingers brush the back of your knee. Slide higher. God, he is so touchy. Not in a Romance kind of way, not in a flirty, dirty whisper way. Just clingy. Needy in a wordless, bratty little way. Always tugging at you. Always reaching. Not because he wanted attention, but because he expected it.

You’re just about to crawl into his lap when he suddenly opens his eyes—not startled, not alarmed, just blank. “Behind you.”

You blink. “What?”

“Door.”

You frown, confused. Turn to look, and your soul leaves your body.

Zoey. Mira. Rumi. Peeking through your bedroom door, all crammed into the tiny sliver they must’ve pushed open while you were distracted. All of them with their mouths slightly open. Eyes wide.

They must’ve been watching you for minutes.

Baby waves to them lazily.

The second your eyes meet theirs, they jerk back like they’d been slapped and slam the door shut.

SLAM.

Silence.

You stare at the door.

Baby stretches behind you, unfazed.

“You forgot to lock it.” he says, yawning like this is the most boring turn of events that’s ever happened to him.

“You watched them watch us!” you hiss, slapping his chest.

He shrugs. “You looked cute. Figured they’d agree.”

You launch a pillow at his face. He lets it hit him and doesn’t even blink.

You shoot to your feet like you’ve been lit on fire. You’re not even fully dressed, just the shirt, some thin little shorts, no bra, and your heart is thrashing in your chest because oh my god they saw. They saw everything. “You couldn’t have warned me earlier?!”

He gives a lazy shrug. “Didn’t think they’d stay.”

You smack him in the chest, hard.

“OW—what?!” he complains, still not even bothering to sit up. “You were telling a story.”

“Get out.” you whisper-yell, frantically waving your hands. “Go, go, GO!”

He groans dramatically, sitting up like it physically pains him. “You’re so loud.” he mutters.

But he stands anyway, tugging his hoodie down and making zero effort to look guilty. His hair’s a little messy, lips pink, eyes smug. He’s glowing like a man who’s very satisfied with his life choices. He is casually stretching his arms over his head. Right before he leaves, he pauses, looks at you, and then? Then he raises his voice just enough for the hallway to hear: “BYE GIIIIIRLS.”

He snorts to himself, satisfied with how he fucked up this for you even more, and leaves you there. Alone. Staring at the spot he just vanished from.

Okay, yeah, alright. You take a deep deep breath and walk over to your door to open it.

Rumi. Zoey. Mira. All standing in the hallway, backlit by the soft pendant lights. Their expressions? Zoey looks like she’s on the verge of tears but holding it together with sheer willpower. Mira’s pacing, fists clenched so hard her knuckles are white. Rumi is just staring at you, arms crossed, completely still. That’s the scariest part.

“Okay,” you say, voice cracking like the ice you’re walking on. “that was—”

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.” Mira explodes. Her hands fling up like she’s physically restraining herself from throwing them at you. “You had him in your room?! While we were home?!”

“It’s not like I—”

“Don’t.” Rumi says. Soft. Controlled. Dangerous. “Don’t say it’s not what it looked like.”

It was what it looked like.

Zoey finally speaks. Her voice is so small it hurts. “You… you’re with him?”

“I didn’t—” you start, stepping forward instinctively, “I wasn’t gonna— I mean, I was, I just—” You sigh and rake both hands through your hair. “Yeah. I’m with him.”

Silence.

Rumi’s brows lift slightly. “For how long?”

You look at the ceiling. “A while.”

“Did he brainwash you?” Mira snaps. “Are you cursed? Are you fucking STUPID—”

“Mira.” Rumi’s voice cuts like a blade.

“No, I wanna hear her say it.” Mira hisses, rounding on you. “Do you even care that he’s a demon? That he’s probably feeding off you? That he’s probably laughing with the rest of those Saja freaks about how easy it was to get a Hunter to spread her legs—”

“Shut the fuck up, Mira.” Your voice isn’t loud, but it lands.

Mira steps back.

“…I know what he is.”you say softly. “I know what we are. I’m not confused. I’m not cursed. I’m not being controlled. I know what I’m doing.”

Zoey’s lip trembles. “Then why?”

You glance away. Chew your lip. Feel your chest ache. “Because he’s not what I thought demons were. Not all the time. Not with me.”

Mira scoffs. “Oh, my God.”

Rumi stares at you, then she says, “Go to your room.”

“I—what?”

“Go. To your room. Now.”

You pause for half a second, wanting to argue. Wanting to stand your ground. But you’ve already shredded the ground beneath your feet. So you do as you’re told. You walk back in. Close the door. Sit down on the bed.

The sheets still smell like Baby.

MYSTERY

You like him. God help you, you really do.

It started during one of their meet-and-greets. A crowd full of obsessed fans screaming over them, while you stood in line like a regular human, hair tucked under a cap and sunglasses on your face, just scoping the scene.

That’s when you noticed him in the back. Standing off to the side like he wasn’t even part of the group. His mic wasn’t on. He wasn’t smiling. Just kind of… existing.

You don’t know what possessed you, maybe it was the odd way his hands were twitching around the prop mic, or the slight crease in his brows as he watched the crowd, but you stepped toward him. Just a little. Close enough that he looked up. Or at least, lifted his chin.

He was holding a lightstick upside down.

And god, something about that made your heart ache. Because he looked so confused. So detached. So alien in that moment. Like he didn’t get what any of this was for.

So you’d whispered, “Turn it around. Other way.”

He blinked. Glanced at it. Turned it slowly, obediently.

You reached out and twisted his fingers to hold it right. “There. Like that.”

He didn’t speak. Not yet. But he watched you. All of you. Your hands, your mouth, your face.

And when you turned to go?

“…Thanks.” he said. So small. So low. Barely audible.

After that, he kept noticing you. You’d catch him watching from across rooftops during a hunt, or from the shadows of backstage areas. Silent. Unmoving. A presence. He never approached you directly—you had to do that—but he let you. Which, coming from him, was kind of massive.

You started sneaking around. Sitting next to him when you knew the other Saja boys wouldn’t be around. Leaving stupid little notes for him where you knew he’d find them. One time you brought him a chocolate bar and he ate it. Quietly. Slowly. Then murmured, “Too sweet.” and handed the wrapper back.

You’ve learned to read his silences. Every little shrug or pause or twitch is a language now. One you understand. But he also talks, like:

“You smell good.”

“Don’t go yet.”

“You looked sad today.”

He didn’t have to be sweet with you. Or quiet. Or gentle.

He just chose to be.

Once you were in the alley behind a club where both your crews had performed. The others were still inside fighting. But he had slipped out. And so had you. Not nice, you know, but it felt right.

He had his back against the wall, shoulders relaxed.

You had asked him, “Why are you always so quiet?”

He shrugged. “Nothing to say.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s always something to say.” And then you turned toward him, shoulder brushing his, and whispered, “Like… if you wanted to kiss me.”

His breath stilled.

You watched his lashes lower behind his heavy hair. You could barely see his eyes, but you could feel them.

And then, softly:

“…Can I?”

You nodded.

He kissed you. No tongue, no hands, no hunger—not at first. Just lips.

Then you leaned in harder. Slid your hand up his chest.

Then he moved.

And after that? It was on.

It was a relationship—even if the word felt too loud, too bright, too human. You didn’t label it. You didn’t talk about it. But you felt it every time he waited for you. Every time he slipped into your space. Every time he murmured your name.

Don’t even get me started on the patterns on his dick. It’s weirdly attractive.

WHO SAID THAT?!

And then you got caught.

It had been weeks. The girls were suspicious, but they hadn’t figured him out yet. The others? Sure. But Mystery? Who could tell what he was even thinking, let alone who he was touching?

So that night, you got bold.

It was late. Everyone else was asleep. You were in the upstairs sunroom, one of your favorite places because it overlooked the whole city. Mystery was curled up with you on the wide window ledge.

Your hand was in his hair. His breath was on your neck. You had just whispered something—you don’t even remember what. Something dumb and soft and sweet.

He turns his face to you and said, “I like it when you talk.”

You blink. Smile. “That so?”

He nods once. “Your voice is warm.”

And you arw about to say something else when Zoey’s voice rang out behind you:

“…You’re kidding me.”

Your whole body jerks.

You turn so fast you almost knock Mystery out the window.

Zoey stands in the doorway, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw slack. Mira right behind her, looking like she was about to throw up. And Rumi is staring at Mystery.

And he—fucking audacious—is just sitting there. Calm. Not moving. One arm still around you.

He’s kinda evil so he’s definitely doing that on purpose.

“Okay—okay, listen—”

But Mira is already marching forward, murder in her eyes. “You’re sleeping with him?!”

“He’s not what you think—!”

“He’s a DEMON!”

Zoey looks betrayed. Like it physically hurts her to see you like this.

Rumi just says: “Leave. Both of you.”

Mystery doesn’t move until you move first. He stands slowly, brushing off his shirt. Then he reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear, and whispers: “I’ll wait.”

Then he vanishes.

You walk back into your room, listening to Rumi. Like your best friends didn’t just see you wrapped up in one of the five you’ve all sworn—sworn—to destroy.

You don’t cry. You don’t know if you can. It’s just this huge, pulsing silence in your chest, like someone rang a bell inside you and then walked away.

To Rumi, this was personal.

We know why.

And she just saw you—her best friend—wrapped up in the arms of something she sees as rot.

Of him.

It’s not even about him being a Saja Boy. Not completely. It’s the idea that you’re letting something like that close to your heart. That you’re flirting with what her bloodline forced on her.

And she’s scared.

You sit there for what feels like forever.

Mystery’s scent still clings to your collar. You wonder if he’s out there waiting like he said. You wonder if the girls will ever look at you the same again.

You wonder if you even deserve it.