#it was night time and we got separated and lost

[2b4st4r]

Hi, hi! If you don’t mind, is it alright if I have the ASL with a Fem Reader who's just the most normal one out of them?

She isn't a pirate, a revolutionary, or apart of the navy. She's just kinda vibing, and the only reason they met was because she got lost in the woods in Mt. Corvo (Colubo?).

Maybe the ASL trio so happened to dock on the same island at once? Or it happens separately.

(I suppose I'm going to be a constant Anon in your request box (because I really like your writing, also, to clarify, um, hi I'm the anon that requested the ASL tall reader, I feel so patronizing referring back to that over and over again Q-Q, I'm so sorry). If that's alright with you, you can identify me as 'Spot-Anon' •^• [mostly so you can be able to prioritize on newer anon requests])

But, as always, thank you for taking your time reading this request (mostly ramble) and hopefully this will be fun to write! :3 Have a lovely day/night!

The Anchor in the Storm

ASL x reader

Words: 8,096

Warnings: lack of conflict, comfort,not fully cannon, shock.

A SIDE NOTE.

—I AM SO SORRY SPOT..THIS IS KIND OF RUSHED IM NOT GOING TO LIE BUT I HOPE YOU STILL ENJOY IT!! Can’t wait to see more of you:3

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

A Quiet Heart in a Wild World

The East Blue winds carried the scent of pine and adventure, a constant companion to your unconventional childhood. You grew up on Mount Corvo, a place where "normal" was a foreign concept, and your playmates were three boys who embodied chaos: Ace, Sabo, and Luffy. While they reveled in the dirt, the daring, and the constant threat of Dadan's wrath, you were a different breed altogether.

You were the last to arrive, a quiet addition to their boisterous trio. While they wrestled wild beasts and plotted pirating careers, you were often found tending to Dadan's garden, mending torn clothes, or, much to their exasperation, trying to mediate their endless squabbles. "Can't we just talk this out?" you'd ask, your voice a calm counterpoint to their shouts and punches. They'd just stare at you, bewildered, before resuming their fisticuffs.

Ace, with his fiery spirit, would try to coax you into their games, promising grand adventures and hidden treasures. Sabo, the thoughtful strategist, would attempt to appeal to your sense of logic, explaining the "necessity" of their wild escapades. And Luffy, bless his rubbery heart, would simply grab your hand and drag you along, convinced that sheer enthusiasm was all you needed to embrace their brand of fun.

But you rarely bit. You were polite, yes, and kind to a fault, but you possessed a quiet resolve that often baffled them. You remember the day they unveiled their makeshift Jolly Roger, a tattered flag adorned with a crudely drawn skull and crossbones. Below it, in bold, triumphant strokes, were their initials: A.S.L. "Come on, Y/N!" Luffy had cheered, thrusting a charred stick at you. "Put your initial on it too! We're brothers and sister!"

You looked at the smudged, smoky flag, then at their eager, grime-streaked faces. A small, polite smile touched your lips. "Thank you, but no," you'd said, handing back the stick. "I think it's perfect just the way it is." Ace grumbled, Sabo sighed, and Luffy, momentarily deflated, eventually shrugged and declared it was still the best Jolly Roger ever.

You were their anchor, their quiet conscience, a steady presence in a world that spun on the whims of three future pirates. And though you might not have shared their wild ambitions, a part of you, a quiet, resilient part, was undeniably shaped by the untamed spirit of Mount Corvo and the unbreakable bond you shared with Ace, Sabo, and Luffy.

The years rolled by, marked by the changing seasons on Mount Corvo and the ever-present ache of absence. Your brothers, as you'd always thought of them, had set sail, each charting a course as wild and unpredictable as the Grand Line itself. And true to your nature, you remained.

News of Portgas D. Ace traveled like wildfire across the seas. He had joined the Whitebeard Pirates, a crew legendary for its immense power and its patriarch, Edward Newgate, the "Strongest Man in the World." Ace, with his Mera Mera no Mi (Flame-Flame Fruit) powers, quickly rose through their ranks, becoming the Commander of the 2nd Division. You heard tales of his valor: clashing with pirates, defying the World Government, and always, always protecting his nakama. He was known for his polite demeanor, a stark contrast to his devastating power, and for his unwavering loyalty to Whitebeard, whom he openly called "father." You'd occasionally see his wanted posters, his smirk as familiar as the sunrise, and a pang of pride (and a touch of worry) would echo in your chest.

Sabo's reappearance in the world was a quieter, yet no less impactful, tremor. After years of believing him lost, you learned he had ascended to the position of Chief of Staff of the Revolutionary Army, second only to their enigmatic leader, Monkey D. Dragon. Sabo, the thoughtful strategist you remembered, now commanded armies dedicated to overthrowing the oppressive World Government. He moved in the shadows, orchestrating rebellions and inspiring the downtrodden. His actions were subtle yet profound, chipping away at the foundations of tyranny, always with a cool head and a burning desire for freedom. You often wondered if he still carried that pipe, a remnant of his childhood dreams of a world free from injustice.

Then there was Monkey D. Luffy, a whirlwind of rubber and reckless abandon. You'd scoffed when he declared he'd be the King of the Pirates, but then the news started pouring in. He gathered a crew of misfits as diverse and quirky as himself, each a force to be reckoned with. The Straw Hat Pirates, as they became known, embarked on an epic journey that defied all logic. You followed their exploits through the newspapers: their heroic stand against tyrannical warlords, their daring escapes from Marine strongholds, and their uncanny ability to make allies in the unlikeliest of places. Luffy, the boy who couldn't sit still for a moment, was now famous for punching celestial dragons, declaring war on the World Government, and constantly challenging the status quo. His wanted poster, with its wide, infectious grin, always brought a smile to your face. He was still the same old Luffy, just with a much higher bounty.

And you? You remained on the periphery of their grand adventures, a steady, unwavering presence in a world that spun with chaos. You lived a normal life, as normal as one could get in the East Blue. You didn't sail the seas, fight against oppressive regimes, or seek out ancient treasures. Instead, your days were filled with the quiet rhythms of community.

You became a schoolteacher in a small village, your calm demeanor and endless patience perfectly suited to guiding young minds. You taught reading and writing, basic arithmetic, and the importance of kindness – lessons that your brothers, in their own chaotic ways, had certainly missed. Your home was a cozy cottage filled with books and the scent of freshly baked bread. You spent your evenings tending to your small garden, a vibrant patch of color amidst the wildness of the mountains.

You also volunteered at the local orphanage, reading stories to the children and offering a comforting presence to those who needed it most. You were known for your gentle smile, your willingness to listen, and your ability to bring a sense of order to even the most rambunctious of children. There were no grand battles, no legendary feats, just the everyday heroism of a kind and compassionate heart.

Sometimes, a particularly large wanted poster would arrive, featuring one of your brothers, and a student would inevitably point it out, eyes wide with wonder. "Ms. Y/N," they'd ask, "do you think you could ever be like them?"

You'd simply smile, a knowing glint in your eyes. "Everyone has their own kind of strength," you'd say, "and their own way of making the world a better place."

You might not have been a pirate, or a revolutionary, but you were content. You were the quiet heart in a wild world, and in your own way, you were just as extraordinary.

The scent of salt and pine always clung to the air of your small village, a comforting blend that spoke of home. You were out that day, navigating the familiar cobblestone paths, a basket of fresh produce hooked over your arm. The sun, a warm benediction, dappled through the leaves overhead, painting shifting patterns on the ground. Life here was predictable, peaceful, a stark contrast to the grand, chaotic narratives unfolding across the seas.

You were just passing the old fishmonger's stall, haggling good-naturedly over the price of a particularly plump tuna, when you felt it—a light, almost hesitant tap on your shoulder. It was so gentle, so unlike the boisterous shoves you'd grown up with, that for a moment, you thought it might just be a low-hanging branch.

You turned, a polite smile already forming on your lips, ready to apologize for whatever minor obstruction you might have been. But the words died in your throat. Standing there, bathed in the dappled sunlight, was a figure you knew impossibly well, yet hadn't seen in over a decade.

His broad shoulders were still familiar, his unruly black hair peeking out from under a familiar orange hat. His face, weathered by sun and sea, was etched with the experience of a thousand battles, but the freckles that dusted his nose were exactly as you remembered them. And those eyes, dark and intense, held a flicker of surprise and a deep, undeniable warmth that made your heart skip a beat.

It was Ace. Portgas D. Ace. Your brother.

He hadn't changed, not really. The same confident stance, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. He was larger, more imposing than the boy who used to drag you into mud fights, but the essence of him was undeniable. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the bustling sounds of the village fading into a distant hum. The basket slipped from your grasp, its contents spilling onto the cobblestones, but you didn't notice. All you could do was stare, your mind racing to bridge the chasm of years and miles that separated the quiet schoolteacher from the legendary pirate.

The basket of spilled vegetables lay forgotten, an offering to the sudden, impossible reality of the moment. Ace's smirk softened, transforming into the familiar, easy grin you remembered from sun-drenched afternoons on Mount Corvo. He looked... different. Harder, perhaps, with the scars of a pirate's life etched onto his skin, but the essence of the boy who'd once shared your childhood remained.

"Y/N?" he finally said, his voice a low rumble, richer than you remembered, but still undeniably his. The single word, after so many years, felt like a physical embrace.

A breath hitched in your throat. "Ace," you whispered, the name a precious, fragile thing on your tongue. Tears, unbidden, welled in your eyes, blurring his image. You hadn't cried like this since… well, since they'd all left.

He took a step closer, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in the simple dress, the basket, the quiet village around you. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – surprise, perhaps, at how utterly unchanged your life seemed to be from the grand adventures he'd led. Then, in a movement that defied the years and the notorious reputation that preceded him, he reached out.

His hand, calloused and strong, settled gently on your shoulder, mirroring your own earlier tap. "You really haven't changed, have you?" he murmured, a fond amusement in his tone. "Still the same Y/N, polite and proper." He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that resonated with forgotten memories. "Still refusing to get your hands dirty, I see," he added, nodding towards the spilled produce, a teasing glint in his dark eyes.

You managed a watery laugh, swiping at your tears. "Someone has to be sensible, Ace. Unlike some people I know."

That earned you another, wider grin. "Fair enough." He removed his hand from your shoulder, only to extend it, palm up. "Mind if I help you with that, sensible person?"

Before you could respond, he was already crouching, his powerful hands, accustomed to wielding fire and fists, surprisingly gentle as he began gathering the scattered carrots and potatoes. You joined him, a strange normalcy settling over the impossible reunion. As your fingers brushed, a jolt of recognition, of shared history, passed between you.

"What are you doing here?" you finally asked, your voice still a little shaky. "No one ever visits this quiet corner of the East Blue."

Ace straightened, holding a few onions. "Had some... business in the area," he said vaguely, his eyes scanning the peaceful village. "And figured I might as well see if the infamous Ms. Y/N was still taming the wild beasts of Mount Corvo." He paused, his gaze meeting yours, and the teasing faded, replaced by something deeper. "Truth is, I was passing through, and I... I just wanted to see you."

The simple honesty of his confession hit you harder than any grand pirate tale. You saw the sincerity in his eyes, the longing that mirrored your own unspoken one. All those years, all those headlines, all those worried prayers – and here he was, just wanting to see you.

"It's been a long time, Ace," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, a shadow passing over his face. "Too long. A lot's happened." He glanced down at the basket, now mostly refilled. "Heard you became a teacher. That sounds... like you."

You smiled softly. "And you became... quite the pirate." You gestured to his arm, where the tattoo of the Whitebeard Jolly Roger peeked out from under his sleeve. "Commander of the 2nd Division, no less. I hear you're quite famous."

He shrugged, a dismissive gesture that didn't quite hide a flicker of pride. "Just doing my job. Protecting my family." His eyes, momentarily distant, seemed to see beyond the village, to the vast, dangerous seas he called home. "It's different out there, Y/N. Dangerous."

"I can imagine," you said, a familiar ache in your chest. The thought of him, out there, constantly facing peril, had been a constant companion to your quiet life.

He looked back at you, a thoughtfulness in his gaze. "But... it seems you've found your own kind of peace." He gestured vaguely at the village, the children playing in the distance, the warm sunlight. "This suits you. You always were the calm one."

You picked up the basket, now heavy and reassuringly familiar. "And you always were the one who charged headfirst into everything." You paused, a sudden wave of warmth washing over you. "I missed you, Ace."

The words hung in the air, simple, honest, and filled with the weight of years. Ace's playful expression softened completely. He took another step, closing the distance between you, and without a word, he reached out again, this time pulling you into a tight, crushing hug.

It was awkward at first, your arms full of groceries, but you dropped the basket again, wrapping your arms around his broad back. He smelled of sea salt, smoke, and something undeniably him. His hug was strong, a protective embrace that momentarily banished the years and the miles, transporting you back to the days of scraped knees and shared secrets. You buried your face against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, a comforting rhythm you hadn't realized you'd so desperately missed.

"I missed you too, Y/N," he rumbled, his voice muffled against your hair. "More than you know."

For a long moment, you simply stood there, two halves of a long-lost whole, reunited under the gentle East Blue sun. The bustling village, the spilled vegetables, the incredible, dangerous life he led – all faded away, leaving only the warmth of a brother's embrace.

The hug, a silent balm for a decade of longing, finally broke. Ace pulled back, his hands still resting on your shoulders, a soft smile lingering on his lips. "Well," he said, clearing his throat, a hint of his old awkwardness peeking through his confident pirate persona, "don't want to cause too much of a scene. The Marines tend to frown on impromptu reunions with notorious pirates in town squares." He winked, and you couldn't help but chuckle.

"Right," you agreed, bending to gather the remaining scattered vegetables. Ace, ever helpful, crouched down with you, his large hands surprisingly deft as he picked up a rolling potato. "Though I doubt anyone here would even recognize you. You're a far cry from the scruffy kid who used to steal Dadan's sake."

He let out a boisterous laugh, the sound carrying a familiar warmth through the quiet village. "Hey! I prefer 'resourceful youth,' thank you very much! And besides, I've got a much bigger bounty now. Maybe that'll jog their memory." He puffed out his chest playfully, and you rolled your eyes, a genuine smile gracing your face.

As you both straightened, baskets finally secured, Ace looked around the village, his gaze thoughtful. "So, this is where you settled down, huh? Pretty quiet."

"It suits me," you replied, beginning to walk, naturally assuming he'd follow. And he did, falling into step beside you, his long strides easily matching your more sedate pace. "It's peaceful. The children here are wonderful."

"Children, huh?" he mused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "So, you're the one teaching them all to be polite and proper?"

"Someone has to," you retorted, a playful edge to your voice. "Can't have another generation of rascals running wild like some I know." You glanced at him pointedly, and he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck.

As you walked, the villagers, initially curious about the tall, dark-haired stranger with the distinctive hat, seemed to slowly relax. Your presence beside him, your easy conversation, seemed to signal that he wasn't a threat. Some offered polite nods, others, bolder children, simply stared with wide, fascinated eyes.

"So," Ace began, his voice dropping slightly as you passed the familiar bakery, the scent of fresh bread wafting out. "What's a typical day like for you these days? Still lecturing stray dogs about proper etiquette?"

You laughed. "Something like that. I wake up early, get the house in order, then head to the schoolhouse. I teach classes until the afternoon, help out at the orphanage sometimes, and then I come home, tend to my garden, and read." You paused. "It's not very exciting compared to your life, I'm sure."

He shrugged, kicking a loose pebble with the toe of his boot. "Exciting isn't always what it's cracked up to be, Y/N. Sometimes... sometimes quiet sounds pretty good." His tone was surprisingly reflective, and you caught a glimpse of the weariness that must come with constant battle and endless travel.

You walked past the small, well-tended park, where a few mothers watched their children play. "Remember when we used to build those ridiculously elaborate traps in the forest?" you reminisced, a fond smile playing on your lips. "And then Sabo would always be the one to fall into them."

Ace let out a booming laugh. "And Luffy would just bounce right out! But you... you always managed to spot them. Or you'd lecture us about the dangers of unsupervised pit traps."

"Someone had to keep you all from breaking every bone in your bodies," you said, shaking your head. "Though I think Luffy still managed it, eventually."

"He's certainly collected his share of injuries," Ace agreed, a brotherly exasperation in his voice. "He's still the same rubbery idiot, charging into trouble headfirst. Though now, he brings his crew with him."

The conversation flowed easily, an effortless bridging of the years. You talked about trivial things, about the changing tides of the East Blue, about the village gossip you knew, and about the far-off tales of the Grand Line that Ace could only hint at. He asked about Dadan, and you told him she was still as gruff and as secretly caring as ever. He listened intently, his dark eyes fixed on you, as if trying to soak in every detail of the life he'd missed.

As you approached your cottage, nestled at the edge of the village, surrounded by a riot of colorful flowers, you felt a warmth spread through you. It was a simple home, but it was yours, a sanctuary of peace.

"Well," you said, pausing at your garden gate, "this is it. My humble abode." You turned to him, a slight flush on your cheeks. "It's not much, but... if you're not in a hurry, I could make some tea? Or maybe something stronger, knowing you." You chuckled. "It's been a long time, Ace. I'd like to hear about everything." You gestured to your small porch. "Unless you have to rush off for... pirate business."

Ace looked at your home, then back at you, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips. The hardened pirate seemed to melt away for a moment, replaced by the boy who used to share stolen meals with you under the open sky.

"No pirate business," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Not for a while, anyway. I think... I'd really like that, Y/N." He stepped through the gate, his boots crunching softly on the gravel path. "Tea sounds good. Or maybe... maybe something to eat? I hear you make the best berry pies."

You laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that echoed through the quiet afternoon. "Only if you promise not to try and set the kitchen on fire."

"Deal," he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Lead the way, Y/N. It's been too long since I had a proper home-cooked meal."

As you pushed open the front door, inviting him into your quiet, normal life, you felt a profound sense of rightness. The world might be vast and dangerous, and your paths wildly different, but for this moment, under your roof, you were simply Y/N and Ace, brother and sister, finally home.

Hours later, the sun began its slow descent, painting the cottage windows in hues of orange and gold. You and Ace had settled into a comfortable rhythm. He’d devoured two slices of your berry pie, declared it the best thing he’d ever tasted, and was now regaling you with censored tales of Grand Line adventures—leaving out the blood and the explosions, of course, but painting vivid pictures of exotic islands and strange creatures. You, in turn, had shared anecdotes from your teaching job, the simple joys and frustrations of shaping young minds. The years melted away with every shared laugh, every comfortable silence.

Then it started.

From the direction of the village square, a sudden crashing sound ripped through the peaceful twilight. It was loud, followed by a cacophony of shouts, surprised exclamations, and most distinctly, unmistakable laughter. It wasn’t the polite, quiet laughter of your villagers; this was boisterous, uninhibited, almost… rubbery.

You exchanged a look with Ace. His brow, moments ago relaxed, now furrowed with a mixture of recognition and exasperation. "That sounds awfully familiar," he muttered, pushing back from the kitchen table.

"It can't be," you whispered, though a strange premonition coiled in your stomach. It was a familiar feeling, one you hadn't experienced since childhood: the sudden, thrilling dread that accompanied the knowledge that chaos was about to erupt.

Ace was already halfway to the door. "Only one person I know makes that kind of racket without actually trying."

You followed him, your heart pounding a rhythm against your ribs. The air outside was cooler now, the sounds from the village growing louder with every step. More crashes, more startled yells, and then, above it all, a joyous, utterly unrepentant "SHISHISHI!"

When you both rounded the corner into the town square, the sight that greeted you was a perfect storm of pandemonium. The old fishmonger’s stall was indeed half-collapsed, fish scattered across the cobblestones. The baker was waving his rolling pin frantically at something unseen. And in the very center of it all, standing atop a pile of overturned barrels, was a figure in a red vest and blue shorts, a straw hat perched precariously on his head, his wide, rubbery grin stretching from ear to ear.

It was Luffy.

He was pointing at something in the distance, his arm stretched impossibly long, apparently having just swatted at something or someone with incredible force. His eyes, bright and brimming with an innocent mischief, darted around the square, taking in the chaos he’d wrought with evident satisfaction. Beside him, a long-nosed individual was frantically apologizing to an enraged shopkeeper, while a green-haired swordsman calmly cleaned his blade, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem.

Ace let out a long, slow sigh. "Of course," he murmured, running a hand through his hair. "Leave it to Luffy to announce his arrival by dismantling half the town." He looked at you, a wry, resigned smile on his face. "Looks like our quiet evening just got a lot less quiet."

Your own reaction was a mix of exasperation and an overwhelming surge of affection. He was still the same, absolutely, wonderfully, infuriatingly the same.

"What are the chances?" you muttered, more to yourself than to Ace, as you both stared at the scene unfolding in your once-peaceful village square. Luffy, still perched on his barrel-throne, was now laughing hysterically as a very angry goat chased his navigator, Nami, around a toppled fruit cart. The green-haired swordsman, who you now recognized as Roronoa Zoro, simply yawned, unimpressed.

Ace just shook his head, a mixture of brotherly exasperation and genuine fondness on his face. "With Luffy? One hundred percent. He's a magnet for trouble, and somehow, we always end up caught in his wake." He took a deep breath, letting out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of countless prior interventions. "Alright, let's go before he decides to use the mayor's house as a trampoline."

Before you could even fully process the sheer absurdity of the situation—your two notorious pirate brothers, together, in your tiny, normal village—Ace was striding forward, his presence alone causing a ripple through the chaos. Villagers, who had been panicking moments before, now paused, their eyes widening as they recognized the formidable figure of the Whitebeard Pirate's 2nd Division Commander. The goat even seemed to hesitate.

"Luffy!" Ace's voice boomed, cutting through the general din.

Luffy, still giggling, turned his head, his wide eyes landing on Ace. For a split second, his jaw dropped, his rubbery face contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated shock. "AAAACE?!" he yelled, his voice carrying across the square, making everyone jump. "What are you doing here?!"

He then spotted you, standing slightly behind Ace, a quiet observer of the unfolding spectacle. His eyes, already wide, somehow managed to stretch even further. "Y/N?! YOU'RE HERE TOO?! AHHH! ACE! Y/N! IT'S ACE AND Y/N!"

With a mighty, elastic lunge, Luffy launched himself from the barrel, flying through the air with a speed that made several villagers shriek. He landed with a thud that vibrated through the ground, right in front of Ace, pulling his older brother into a bone-crushing, rubbery hug that lifted Ace clean off his feet.

Ace grunted, caught off guard. "Alright, alright, Luffy, easy there! You're going to break my ribs!"

You couldn't help but smile, a lump forming in your throat. It was just like them. No matter how famous, how powerful, how legendary they became, they were still just Ace and Luffy, brothers.

Luffy finally released Ace, spinning on his heel and tackling you next. "Y/N! It's been so long! You're still so tiny!" he declared, wrapping his impossibly long arms around you in a surprisingly gentle embrace that still managed to lift you off the ground.

"Luffy, you're going to suffocate me!" you gasped, laughing despite yourself. You hugged him back tightly, the familiar warmth of his enthusiastic embrace a comfort you hadn't realized you desperately missed.

Once you were back on your feet, the three of you stood there in the middle of the chaotic square, a living tableau of impossible reunions. Luffy, ever the oblivious force of nature, looked from Ace to you, his grin infectious. "What are you two doing here together?! Are you joining my crew?! We're going to be King of the Pirates!"

Ace just rubbed his temples. "No, Luffy, we're not joining your crew. I was just visiting Y/N."

Luffy's eyes lit up. "Oh! So you were having a party! Why didn't you invite me?! I love parties!"

"You were busy destroying the town, it seems," you interjected, gesturing around at the overturned stalls and scattered produce.

Luffy looked around, tilting his head. "Oh! Right! Sorry, fish-guy! My bad!" he yelled towards the bewildered fishmonger, who just gaped. "We were just playing! A little bit of 'catch the goat!'"

Nami, the orange-haired navigator, finally made her way over, looking absolutely exasperated. "Luffy! You can't just wreck an entire village because you 'wanted to play!' And who are these people?!" Her eyes, sharp and calculating, landed on Ace's Whitebeard tattoo, then flicked to you, taking in your unassuming civilian attire.

Ace stepped forward, putting a hand on Luffy's head to keep him still. "This is Portgas D. Ace, Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates' 2nd Division. And this," he said, gesturing to you with a proud, albeit subtle, tilt of his head, "is our little sister, Y/N."

Nami's jaw dropped. Zoro, who had finally stopped polishing his swords, opened one eye slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. A tall, blonde man with a swirly eyebrow, who you assumed was the cook, nearly tripped over himself.

"Your sister?!" Nami exclaimed. "And you're... Ace?! The Flame-Fist Ace?!" She looked from the notorious pirate to you, the quiet, normal teacher, as if trying to reconcile the two.

You offered her a small, polite smile. "Hello. Yes, it's a bit of a surprise for everyone, I suppose."

Luffy, meanwhile, had already forgotten the chaos, his eyes now fixated on Ace and you. "Ace! Y/N! Let's go get some meat! I'm starving! And Y/N, you make the best pie!" He was already tugging on Ace's arm, completely disregarding the ongoing mayhem he'd caused.

Ace sighed again, a deeper sigh this time, but a soft smile touched his lips. He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes.

You knew what it meant. Your quiet evening was well and truly over. Your normal life had collided spectacularly with the extraordinary. But looking at your two brothers, one a living legend of the seas, the other a force of pure, untamed freedom, you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Alright, Luffy," you said, a genuine laugh escaping your lips. "But first, we're going to help clean up this mess you made."

Luffy groaned dramatically, but then his smile returned, even wider. "Okay! But then, meat and pie!"

A Grand Line Feast in the East Blue

The chaotic energy of Luffy's arrival was infectious, and despite the mess, a wave of warmth washed over the town. The villagers, initially alarmed, now watched with a mix of awe and amusement as the legendary "Flame-Fist" Ace and the infamous "Straw Hat" Luffy stood in their square, embracing their civilian sister. It was a scene ripped straight from a wild campfire story.

"Meat and pie, you say?" you chuckled, looking at Luffy's expectant face, then at Ace, who was already starting to look a little too comfortable with the idea of a free meal. "Alright, but you two are going to help clean up this disaster first."

Luffy groaned dramatically, his whole body seeming to deflate. "But Y/N! I'm starving! My stomach's going to eat itself!"

"And who's going to pay for all this?" the fishmonger grumbled, pointing at his scattered wares.

Ace, ever the pragmatist with a surprising streak of responsibility, stepped forward. "We'll handle the damages, sir. And Luffy, you're not getting a single bite until this square is spotless." He fixed his younger brother with a stern look that, surprisingly, made Luffy deflate further.

"Fine!" Luffy whined, but he immediately set to work, albeit in his own chaotic way. He stretched his arms like elastic bands, gathering fish and barrels with impossible speed, though not always with the greatest finesse. Nami, sighing, pulled out a stack of Berry notes and began to placate the shopkeepers, while Zoro, with a bored flick of his wrist, somehow managed to right a teetering fruit stand without even looking.

You watched them, a profound sense of wonder settling over you. This was your life now, albeit for a fleeting moment: the quiet rhythms of your village punctuated by the utterly extraordinary presence of your brothers and their equally outlandish crew. You even found yourself helping to pick up a few stray oranges, a small smile playing on your lips.

Once the square was reasonably restored, a hungry procession made its way to your humble cottage. Your small home, usually a haven of peace, was suddenly bursting at the seams. Ace, with a practiced ease, commandeered the tiny kitchen, rummaging through your pantry with an almost predatory efficiency.

"You really do have the best ingredients, Y/N!" he declared, already dicing vegetables with surprising speed. "Though you could use more meat. A lot more meat."

Luffy, meanwhile, had claimed the largest cushion in your living room, his infectious laughter echoing through the small space as he excitedly recounted their latest adventures, often talking over Nami's exasperated corrections. Zoro simply found a corner, leaning against the wall, and promptly fell asleep. Sanji, the blonde cook, after an initial flurry of dramatic compliments about your "angelic beauty," quickly joined Ace in the kitchen, a competitive glint in his eye.

You found yourself in the unexpected role of hostess to a notorious pirate crew. You brewed pots of strong tea, retrieved extra chairs from your neighbors, and listened, truly listened, as your brothers, in their own unique ways, filled the quiet corners of your life with their grand, impossible tales.

Ace, while cooking, would occasionally glance at you, a soft, warm look in his eyes that spoke volumes of unspoken affection. He recounted stories of the Whitebeard family, the deep bonds he'd forged with his new father and brothers. He spoke of battles and betrayies, of loyalty and sacrifice, painting a picture of a life lived on the razor's edge, yet filled with profound meaning.

Luffy, between mouthfuls of whatever Ace and Sanji were whipping up, bounced with boundless energy. He described islands shaped like giant cakes, ancient kingdoms under the sea, and the sheer joy of sailing with his nakama. His dreams were as vast as the ocean itself, and listening to him, you couldn't help but feel a spark of that limitless hope ignite within you. He might be chaotic, but his conviction was absolute.

"And then," Luffy exclaimed, mid-chew, pointing a drumstick at Ace, "Ace saved me back at Marineford! He broke through all those Marines! He's the best!"

Ace, caught off guard, coughed into his hand, a slight blush creeping up his neck. "Luffy, you're exaggerating."

"No, I'm not!" Luffy insisted. "You were awesome, Ace! You're really strong!"

You watched them, these two brothers who had carved such different, yet equally impactful, paths through the world. Ace, the protective older brother, carrying the weight of a lineage he hadn't chosen. Luffy, the free-spirited force of nature, driven by an unwavering dream and a boundless capacity for joy. And you, the "normal" one, caught in the unexpected nexus of their extraordinary lives.

As the hours passed, the initial novelty of their presence settled into a comfortable, almost nostalgic familiarity. The Straw Hats, surprisingly, were respectful, charmed by your quiet kindness. Nami, ever practical, even offered to help with the dishes, while Sanji, ever the gentleman, insisted on preparing dessert.

Later, when the moon hung high and the village was finally quiet, Ace and Luffy were the last to linger. Luffy, now thoroughly stuffed and sleepy, was curled up on your largest rug, snoring softly. Ace sat on the porch swing, gazing out at the star-filled sky.

You joined him, a warm blanket wrapped around your shoulders. "It's good to see you both, Ace," you murmured, the words heartfelt.

He turned to you, his expression thoughtful. "It's good to see you too, Y/N. Really good." He paused, then said, almost tentatively, "You know, we... we never forget you out there. Even when things get crazy. We always talk about you. How you're the sensible one, keeping the peace."

A soft smile touched your lips. "And I always worry about you two. Reading the newspapers, seeing your bounties go up..." You shook your head gently. "It's hard, sometimes, knowing what you're up against."

Ace reached out, his hand settling over yours on the swing. His touch was warm, reassuring. "We'll be fine, Y/N. We're strong. And we have each other." He nodded towards the sleeping Luffy. "And we have you, looking after things here. Keeping a piece of home safe."

You leaned your head on his shoulder, a profound sense of peace settling over you. You weren't a pirate, or a revolutionary, or a world-saver. But you were Y/N, the steady anchor, the quiet heart, and in the grand, chaotic tapestry of the One Piece world, your normal life was, in its own way, just as essential. For tonight, at least, the impossible had happened, and your family, in all its wild, wonderful glory, was home.

The first rays of dawn painted your cottage in soft hues of rose and gold, but the silence that usually accompanied the morning was conspicuously absent. Luffy was still snoring, a surprisingly loud rumble for someone so compact. Ace, ever the early riser, was already in the kitchen, not cooking this time, but carefully, almost reverently, polishing your small collection of sea-glass.

You, meanwhile, were on the porch, a mug of steaming tea clutched in your hands, watching the village slowly awaken. The events of yesterday felt like a dream – the chaos, the laughter, the impossible reunion with Ace and Luffy. It was a beautiful, jarring intrusion into your quiet routine.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over you.

"Mind if I join you, Y/N?" a familiar voice asked, smooth and calm, yet carrying an undeniable strength.

You turned, and your breath hitched once more. Standing at your gate, a top hat perched jauntily on his head, was Sabo. His blonde hair, now longer, framed a face that held both the earnest idealism of the boy you remembered and the hardened resolve of a revolutionary. He wore a distinct blue coat, and in his hand, a familiar metal pipe.

Your mug clattered softly against the saucer as you stood, disbelief warring with overwhelming joy. "Sabo?" you whispered, the name a sacred utterance.

He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his intelligent, kind eyes. "The one and only. Though I'm pretty sure I heard a certain rubber-brained idiot causing a ruckus in town last night, and I figured where he went, his older brother wouldn't be far behind." He glanced over his shoulder, a hint of amusement in his gaze. "Looks like my instincts were right."

Before he could take another step, you were down the porch stairs and engulfing him in a fierce hug. He returned it readily, his embrace firm and protective, his hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair. You buried your face in his coat, inhaling the scent of ozone and parchment – a strange but distinctly Sabo-like aroma.

"I can't believe it," you murmured, pulling back slightly to look at him, tears stinging your eyes. "All three of you. Here. Together."

Just then, a sleepy groan came from inside the house, followed by a startled yell. "SABO?!" Luffy's voice, now wide awake, reverberated through the cottage. A moment later, a blur of red and straw hat burst onto the porch, directly colliding with Sabo in an explosion of limbs and joyous cries.

"SABO! YOU'RE HERE TOO! I MISSED YOU!" Luffy shrieked, his rubbery arms wrapping around Sabo with an unyielding grip.

Ace, drawn by the commotion, emerged from the kitchen, a piece of sea-glass still in his hand. He blinked, seeing Sabo, then slowly, a wide, incandescent grin spread across his face. "Sabo! You made it!"

The next few minutes were a whirlwind of brotherly embraces, shouts, and an overwhelming sense of impossible completeness. Ace joined the hug, creating a tangled, wholesome pile of three legendary figures and one very grateful sister. You were squeezed in the middle, laughing, crying, and feeling more cherished than you ever had in your life.

After the initial chaos, the four of you settled into a scene that felt both utterly surreal and perfectly natural. You brought out more tea, and Sabo, surprisingly, seemed to appreciate the quiet warmth of your home. Luffy, now fully awake and incredibly hyped, was practically bouncing off the walls, demanding to know everything about Sabo's adventures.

"So, you're a Revolutionary now, Sabo?!" Luffy exclaimed, his eyes wide. "That's so cool! You're gonna take down the bad guys, right?"

Sabo chuckled, a calm counterpoint to Luffy's boundless enthusiasm. "That's the plan, Luffy. We're working to free people from oppression." He then turned to Ace, a serious look on his face. "Ace, I heard about Marineford. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

Ace waved a dismissive hand, though his eyes softened. "Don't worry about it, Sabo. We all thought you were gone. And Luffy... he did fine. He always manages."

"Yeah!" Luffy piped up, oblivious to the deeper undertones. "Ace punched a bunch of Marines, and I almost got punched, but then I didn't! It was awesome!"

You just shook your head, a fond smile on your face. You turned to Sabo. "It's incredible what you've done, Sabo. You've truly changed the world."

Sabo's gaze met yours, a genuine appreciation in his eyes. "And you've held this place, Y/N. Kept it safe and peaceful. That's just as important." He looked around your cozy home, then at the sleeping Zoro and Nami who were still sprawled in the living room. "It's good to see all of you. It's been too long."

The conversation flowed, a tapestry woven from shared childhood memories and the vast, disparate experiences of their adult lives. They reminisced about Dadan, about their dreams of freedom, about the day they swore their brotherhood. Ace told stories of Whitebeard's wisdom and the camaraderie of his crew. Sabo spoke of the Revolutionary Army's clandestine operations and the quiet battles for human rights. Luffy, of course, filled in the gaps with exaggerated tales of grand adventures and endless feasts.

You listened, interjecting with your own quieter memories, correcting their wild embellishments, and offering a grounded perspective to their larger-than-life narratives. You were the bridge between their past and present, the anchor that connected their extraordinary lives to the simple truth of their shared origins.

Later, as the sun climbed higher, the three of them, for the first time in over a decade, sat together in the small clearing behind your house, the same spot where they had shared their dream of becoming pirates. Luffy was already rambling about something, Ace was listening with a fond exasperation, and Sabo sat with a quiet thoughtfulness. You watched them, a profound sense of completeness washing over you.

"Remember that time we tried to climb that giant tree?" Luffy said, suddenly pointing at a distant, towering oak. "And you, Y/N, you told us we were being reckless, but then you brought us bandages anyway when we fell!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Someone had to. You three were always getting into trouble."

Ace chuckled. "And you were always there to patch us up, Y/N."

Sabo nodded, a rare, gentle smile on his face. "Our calm in the storm. You always were."

The world outside might be a chaotic sea of pirates, revolutionaries, and Marines, but here, in this small, sun-dappled clearing, under the quiet gaze of your familiar mountains, three legends and their normal sister found a moment of perfect, wholesome peace. It was a fleeting bubble of normalcy, a precious gift of shared history and unbreakable bonds, before the Grand Line inevitably called them back to their extraordinary destinies.

The sun began its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of orange and purple, a fitting backdrop for the bittersweet finality of the day. The afternoon had been a precious gift, a stolen moment of normalcy in lives that were anything but. Ace and Sabo had even helped you mend the fishmonger's stall, their combined strength and unique abilities surprisingly effective. Luffy, after exhausting himself playing 'hide-and-seek' (which mostly involved him stretching into ridiculous shapes to fit into tiny spaces), was now fast asleep on your porch swing, his straw hat tilted over his face.

You, Ace, and Sabo sat together on the porch steps, mugs of lukewarm tea in hand, watching the stars begin to prickle the twilight sky. The comfortable silence that had fallen between you three was punctuated only by the chirping of crickets and the gentle rustle of leaves. It was a silence filled with unspoken understandings, with the weight of years, and with the poignant awareness that this moment, so impossible and perfect, was drawing to a close.

"Well," Ace finally said, his voice soft, almost reluctant, "I guess it's time for us to head out." He glanced at Sabo, who nodded in agreement.

Your heart gave a familiar pang. You knew this moment was coming, had known it from the second Ace had tapped your shoulder. Their lives were on the Grand Line, chasing dreams and fighting for ideals. Your life was here, a quiet anchor in a vast, tumultuous world.

"Already?" you asked, though you knew the answer. The world was too big, their destinies too grand, to linger in a small East Blue village for long.

Sabo reached out and gently squeezed your hand. "The Revolutionary Army doesn't stop for long, Y/N. There's always work to be done. And I'm sure Ace has his own... engagements." He gave Ace a knowing look.

Ace just grunted, then turned to you, his dark eyes filled with a warmth that contradicted his usual tough exterior. "We wish we could stay longer, Y/N. But... you know how it is."

You nodded, a small, sad smile on your face. "I do." You stood, and they followed suit. "Just... be careful, all of you. Promise me."

Ace pulled you into another tight hug, his arm strong and reassuring around your shoulders. "Always. And you stay safe here, Y/N. Don't let these rascals cause too much trouble." He gestured vaguely at the sleeping Luffy.

Sabo embraced you next, a gentler, more deliberate hug. "We'll write, Y/N. When we can. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you know where to find us. Or, at least, you know who to tell to find us."

You pulled back, looking at your brothers, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of the porch light. Ace, the fiery protector. Sabo, the thoughtful revolutionary. And inside, snoring contentedly, Luffy, the dreamer who tied them all together. They were legends to the world, but to you, they were simply your brothers, the boys you'd grown up with, the boys you loved fiercely.

"I love you both," you said, the words heartfelt and genuine.

Ace's signature smirk softened into a genuine smile. "Love you too, sis."

Sabo nodded, a quiet affirmation in his eyes. "Always."

Ace then nudged Luffy with his foot, and the rubbery captain jolted awake, blinking disoriented. "Huh? What? Meat?"

"Time to go, Luffy," Ace said, a familiar exasperation in his voice.

Luffy finally registered the scene, his eyes widening. "Already?! Aww! But I wanted more pie!" He then spotted Sabo. "SABO! You're leaving too?!"

"We have to, Luffy," Sabo explained gently. "But we'll see each other again."

Luffy groaned dramatically, but then his usual boundless optimism reasserted itself. "Okay! But next time, you both come to my ship! We'll have a giant party! And Y/N, you have to make all the pie!"

With a final wave, Ace and Sabo turned, their figures melting into the gathering shadows. They moved with the silent efficiency of seasoned veterans, heading towards wherever their respective crews awaited them. You watched them go, a lump forming in your throat, until their forms were mere blurs against the darker hues of the distant treeline.

You stood on your porch for a long time, the cool night air wrapping around you. The cottage felt impossibly quiet now, the vibrant energy they brought replaced by a profound stillness. The fishmonger's stall was mended, the spilled vegetables gone, and the Straw Hat Pirates had vanished as quickly as they appeared.

Your life, the normal, quiet life you had chosen, would resume its familiar rhythm tomorrow. You would teach your students, tend your garden, and perhaps even bake another berry pie. But it wouldn't be quite the same. The brief, impossible reunion had left an indelible mark, a warm glow in your heart that would shine brightly on even the most ordinary days. You knew they were out there, making history, shaping the world. And you, the steady heart in the East Blue, would always be here, waiting, watching, and knowing that somewhere, across the vast, chaotic seas, your extraordinary brothers were living their dreams, and carrying a piece of your quiet home with them.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Primal (Part 5)

Summary: Tim's missing, the team makes a major breakthrough in the case and more than one secret will be unraveled. Above all else though, Beau and the reader make a life changing decision in the heat of the moment...

Primal Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Beau Arlen x Omega!reader

Word Count: 7,700ish

Warnings: language, angst, violence, drugging, serial killers, death, kidnapping

A/N: Here's a big one for ya! 😉

Reader POV

“Motherfucker!” Beau shouted, followed with a a garbled string of curses. You looked up from the laptop in front of you in the conference room. Across the hall, Beau had ripped off his bulletproof vest and thrown it across his office, knocking his computer monitor off his desk. 

“They lost track of Tim, didn’t they,” you said when he slowly walked across the hall and opened the door. He nodded, closing his eyes.

“They must have found the airtag the second they left. Stuck it on a big rig. We checked with our local Marshals and they didn’t bring him in yet. Douglas Evans is a transfer. Six months ago. He’s claiming Tim escaped and he’s out looking and refuses to give his location. Y/N, I’m so-” 

“Don’t apologize.” You got up, pushing him out into the hall, pulling the door after you. He shook his head.

“Y/N. I promised-”

“Tim’s a big boy. And we know odds are Hunter, Douglas Evans, whatever the hell we’re calling him, isn’t going to kill Tim if they want to frame him for the murders.” You put your hands on his arms, closing your eyes. “It’s not good but Hunter clearly has a plan. If he wanted Tim dead, he’d have shot him in the parking lot. We have time to save him. So let’s figure out the plan. If you were going to frame someone, what would you do?”

“Hunter didn’t take him into the office yet though. That’d be his first move,” said Beau. You peeled open your eyes, sliding your hands down, Beau catching them in his own.

“Would it? Because Teddy and Hunter still want me dead and you can’t blame a serial killer, aka their fall guy Tim, for it if he’s in custody. Now, Tim either truly did escape which I’m not buying because he would have contacted me if he had or Hunter’s holding him somewhere until they can take care of me and blame it on Tim.”

“Hunter has to know that it won’t be that easy. My whole department knows-”

“Beau, It doesn’t matter what your department knows.” You pulled your hands away, staring up at him. “It’s what you can prove and if I’m dead, it’s conjecture. If they’ve got Tim’s DNA at other murder scenes, it doesn’t matter what anyone here says, including you. Beau, you have to start thinking about the fact that Tim’s not the only target as my eventual murderer. Hunter was probably at your house tonight, had access to things like your hairbrush, fingerprints.”

“So, frame me too in some way,” he said, your head nodding. He ran a hand over his face, breathing deeply. “So even if we find Hunter and Tim, your brother and I are probably still screwed.”

“Not if we can prove it’s a setup. We could catch Hunter in the act,” you said, Beau considering it. “If we did that, I can be Tim’s alibi. They won’t go digging too closely if I’m dead but I’m alive? When they really take a look at stuff, they’ll find out the timeline doesn’t work and he couldn’t have committed those other murders. Tonight was literally the first night in ten months we were separated. Tim and I have gone everywhere together. They need me dead for this to work.”

He sighed, a frown forming on his face. “I’m all for catching Hunter and you have proven yourself capable, sweetie. You have. But you’re not a cop and there’s no way in hell I’m putting you in jeopardy. Tim wouldn’t want that either.”

“I figured you’d say that,” you said with a smile, Beau raising an eyebrow. “While you were running around the past hour, I found a friend.”

“A…friend?” You smiled, poking your head into the conference room, waving to the omega with dark hair. “Uh, who the hell is that? That is not one of the officer’s Jenny picked for your protection team.”

“Trust me, I know,” you said, the officer coming outside with a nervous smile. “Beau this is Officer Lucy-”

“Wilde. I’m aware. She transferred from LA last week,” said Beau, crossing his arms. His green eyes narrowed on her, Lucy trying to maintain a relaxed face and failing horribly. “Why are you not out on street patrols with your partner as instructed Officer Wilde? You better have a damn good reason-”

“Because,” you cut in, Beau raising his eyebrows at you, “I know her.”

“You know her?” asked Beau, looking between you.

“Yes, I do,” you said, giving Lucy a reassuring smile. “We sat next to each other in biology freshman year of college. We were friends back in undergrad, fell out of touch when we graduated.”

“That’s nice and all but Officer Wilde you have to realize, I have to be leery of any new hires we’ve had in the past six months. Hunter clearly isn’t working alone and the fact you knew Y/N previously only makes me more suspicious of you, not less.”

“Tell him what you told me,” you said, Beau growing more agitated. 

“Y/N, go back in the conference room. Officer-”

“This happened in the eighties,” Lucy blurted out, Beau looking at her like she’d grown a second head. “I pulled cold case files and searched for similarities of our previous victims.”

“Excuse me? My office. Now. Y/N, back in the conference room.” He shoved open his door, Officer Wilde following after. Beau glared when you walked in. “Y/N, stay away from her. She could be dangerous.”

“Trust me. Please.” He was still, twitching his cheek for brief moment before he zeroed in on Wilde. 

“You are not a detective, Officer Wilde. You are a street cop who by all means, has disobeyed her direct orders.”

“Sir-”

“Why were you doing research on Hunter? It better be good,” growled Beau in a way that made you squeeze your legs together. He cleared his throat, glancing at you once, clearing scenting you. Lucy stepped forward, steadying herself. 

“Detective Hoyt mentioned the Hunter situation during my orientation last week and I thought it sounded vaguely familiar. So I’ve been poking around on my lunch breaks and found there was a case study we went over at the academy that had similar…circumstances.” She lifted her chin, Beau still sizing her up. “There were a string of unsolved deaths in the late eighties in LA, New York, Baltimore, Orlando and Boston. It was suspected to be a serial killer but no evidence was ever found to prove it was anything other than natural causes.”

“My father worked in all of those cities during that time, Beau.” You watched him look at you and Wilde, his finger raising. “Douglas Evans is too young to have been involved back then. I think Teddy killed those omegas.”

“There was a survivor,” said Wilde. Beau’s finger pointed at her, Lucy talking quicker “Although they labeled her as having a mental breakdown. Evidence pointed to her boyfriend attacking her, not someone else. She claimed a man abducted them both and injected them with something. She went into heat and he went…primal. The police laughed her off, said it wasn’t possible.”

“And the boyfriend? What’d he say?” Beau asked. Wilde shook her head.

“Police killed him when he ran. There was no way to verify her story and she ended up overdosing a few years later since she couldn’t cope.”

“So it’s just a story,” said Beau, dropping his hand. “Thank you for that Officer Wilde but I need facts, something provable. I already know Douglas Evans is Hunter and Teddy Y/L/N is very likely trying to murder his own daughter. Unless you can tell me something about where Tim Barclay might be held right now, get your ass back to work.”

“Beau,” you said, putting his hand to your neck. He reacted visibly, touching his own, breathing deeply, calming down slowly. “It’s important. It shows a pattern. Teddy killed omegas on his own all those years and then in Boston, he took this husband and wife and made the Alpha go primal. Now, Hunter has been killing omegas on his own and those guys with him? Maybe he turned them primal so he had more muscle. Maybe Teddy taught Hunter and he’s like a protege.”

“Yes but how does that help us find Hunter?” You looked at Officer Wilde, her back straightening. She glanced down, taking a moment to answer.

“Because logically we know based on the story, if Hunter is Teddy’s student, then Hunter most likely intends on turning Barclay primal and having him go after Y/N which will be irrefutable evidence.” You swallowed, Lucy finding your hand, giving it a squeeze. 

God, you wish you hadn’t fallen out of touch with her. Wished you were meeting up like a pair of normal people for lunch and to catch up, not talking about the fact a serial killer had your brother and was going to do something awful to him. 

“In theory, once an Alpha goes primal, they can’t go back,” she said. “Tim probably wouldn’t be able to make a legal case for himself as he’d likely admit his hatred for omegas and he’d ultimately be screwed, sir.” 

Beau nodded, giving you a forlorn look. “If Tim’s been turned primal, Y/N, it’s most likely already too late for him. He’ll probably try to mate or kill every omega he crosses paths with. They used to outright kill them back in the day for a reason.” 

“I know,” you said quietly. “So let’s draw Hunter out before that happens. Let Officer Wilde go undercover as me. Get Hunter to make a mistake and his greed to have Tim kill me be his downfall.”

All three of your heads turned when there was a flurry of footsteps down the hall, someone poking their head in. “Barclay called 911, said he got away from Hunter’s crew and is on his way here.”

A car screeched out front, your heart breathing a sigh of relief as you caught his bruised face outside Beau’s window. You rushed out of the room, jogging outside to the front of the station, a number of officers out there already. 

“Barclay?” called Beau as Tim held his side, sporting a frown. 

“You gonna stand there looking pretty or help me, Beau. Pretty sure I broke a few ribs,” he said. He smelled just like himself, only hurt if anything else. You ran over to him, Tim slumping against you. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

“Me too,” you said, giving him a gentle side hug as a sharp prickling scent filled your nose. Your eyes drifted over to where Beau’s scent was fierce, burning with worry almost. Beau’s eyes went wide, his body already moving.

“Y/N, get away him!” You went airborne, landing hard on your back, the cold pavement below knocking the wind of out you. Tim’s eyes were nearly black when you saw them staring down at you. There was the gentlest scrape against the column of your neck, the side of your neck without your gland, before his weight was gone. You rolled to your side, Beau’s arms wrapped tight around a snarling Tim, other officers rushing past in the background.

“No! Y/N!” he spat, your body jerking away when Tim reached for you. He got a hand on your ankle, Beau having to kick his hand away. “Y/N!”

“He’s primal! Everyone but Alpha’s stay back!” shouted Beau as more officers came over, Tim doing everything in his power to break free, his face contorted in hatred as he stared you down. 

“Inside,” said Jenny, pulling you up by the arm, shoving you backwards into Wilde’s chest. “Now!”

“Y/N get back here!” snarled Tim as Jenny dragged you behind her, every lurch of Tim’s body making you flinch. Your head was swimming as you were guided back inside, sitting you down on Beau’s couch after a moment. 

No. Tim hadn’t turned Primal. The man spent his entire life devoted to protecting you. There was no way he’d just…no. You hadn’t lost him. You refused to accept it.

“Lucy,” you said quietly, getting to shaky feet, flinching when you could hear Tim and Beau shouting at each other outside. She nodded, grabbing your hands. “There has to be a way to turn off the primal in him. Is there anything, anything, you found about that couple that was attacked and the Alpha that was turned primal?”

She sighed. “The only thing was he was running away from his omega when the cops showed up which seemed strange. Primal Alphas once they lock in on an omega, they always go to them. Always.”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip. “Tim said Beau out there. That’s how Beau knew Tim wasn’t himself. Tim always calls him Barlen,” you said, going over to Beau’s discarded bulletproof vest on the ground and picking it up. “He was warning us.”

“Y/N. He attacked you,” she said softly.

“No. He said Beau to warn us. He had time to bite my gland but instead he went to the wrong side of my neck to give Beau a shot. My brother’s still in there and he is fighting like hell. We aren’t giving up on him,” you said, lifting the vest over your head, pulling the sides taught. “We think Primal Alphas lock in on their chosen omega?” She nodded. “Well he can’t have me and I’m going to go prove it to him.”

“Y/N, what are you doing?” she asked when you walked out of Beau’s office, people in the bullpen standing from their desks. Jenny looked up from a computer, fury in her eyes.

“Get your ass back-” You drew the gun that was still on your hip, Jenny frowning. “You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“I wouldn’t kill you. Shoot you, now that I’d do. Now let me go save my brother.” She grumbled, letting you pass. You ran outside as fast as you could, Tim’s loud snarl reverberating down your spine when he caught your scent.

“Y/N! What the fuck are you doing! Get back inside!” Beau shouted as you ran to him and where six Alphas were working on restraining Tim.

“You want to be my damn Alpha, Barclay?” you said to Tim, his eyes wild. “Too fucking bad because I’m taken.”

You turned to Beau, grabbing him by the back of the neck, his whole body rigid.

“Y/N. You want to…” he trailed off as you nodded.

“I know you wanted to do this differently but if you claim me right now, right in front of him, and he knows he can’t have me anymore, there’s a chance it might save him. I don’t know. I don’t know Beau. It’s the only idea I have. I can’t ask you to do this for me.”

“You don’t have to ask.” You were vaguely aware of the guttural scream that tore through the air as his teeth sank into your bonding gland. Flashes of heat and pain and pleasure rippled across your skin, a thudding boom echoing through your chest that seemed to last and last. You were shaking as you and Beau fell to your knees together, his teeth pulling back, replaced with a soft kitten kiss over the fresh mark in your skin. Your head turned, Beau bringing his lips up to yours, meeting them with a slow, sensual kiss that had you forgetting you were in a parking lot with about eight other people.

“Sir!” You and Beau both growled at the interruption of your bonding, the annoyance quickly washing away as you saw Tim laying on the ground breathing hard but no longer struggling.

“Tim?” His eyes were closed, a flushness leaving his skin as his scent started to calm.

“Give him every damn dose of Rutcan we have in the place,” said Beau, a spray nozzle already under Tim’s nose. He winced as he was forced to inhale it, his eyes flashing open wide. Beau kept his body in front of yours as another does was forced on Tim, your head peeking around him. “Barclay?”

Tim lazily turned his head, staring over at you both. “Did you just fucking claim my sister, Barlen? In a parking lot? The fuck kind of Alpha are you? And why the fuck am I in cuffs!” You smiled, Beau chuckling, hugging you hard.

“Your sister’s being Sarah Connor again and saving your ass. Smart, smart woman,” said Beau, kissing your temple. Tim just shook his head, his face going blank. “Barclay? You okay bud?”

“I don’t feel good,” he said, closing his eyes, the officers looking to Beau. 

“Get him to the hospital asap and do not leave him unrestrained until we get the clear. You six keep an eye on him.” 

“Y/N,” Tim groaned, your body turning towards him, still wrapped up under the warm cozy layer of Beau’s scent. “M’sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you said, wanting to go to him but Beau keeping a hold on you. “Just get better, that’s all I want right now.” 

He nodded slowly, Beau giving a few more orders before walking back into the station with you, practically slamming straight into Jenny in the foyer. 

“You!” she glowered, pointing a finger straight in your face. “I should fucking arrest you-”

“Stand down, Hoyt,” he said, interlacing your fingers. 

“She pulled a gun on me!”

“I imagine you got in her way then,” he said. Your jaw dropped, Beau leading you back to his office. He quickly shut the door and locked it, pulling the blinds down with a groan. 

“Jenny’s right you know. She was just following your orders.” You smiled when Beau shrugged. “Dude.”

“And she could have come after you if she really wanted to but she didn’t,” he said, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why the hell did you put on my bulletproof vest? You thought you didn’t look hot enough in your normal clothes?”

“You mean your jacket?” He grinned, something boyish about it that made you smirk.

“You do have a tendency to be wearing my stuff when you’re being a badass, just saying.” You punched his arm lightly, smiling up at him.

“I figured if it didn’t work, it’d piss him off and if he got free somehow, it was a tiny bit of protection. Honestly, I wasn’t really thinking. I just know he’d never give up on me and I couldn’t do nothing. I don’t even know if it worked in the long run. How do we know it’s not temporary or-” He pressed his lips to yours, capturing them in a slow, calming kiss. There was no frantic energy, no sense of an Alpha wanting his newly claimed Omega. No, this was…gentle. Sweet. His hands holding your cheeks, silently telling your body to take it easy. 

Your mouths parted slowly, Beau’s green eyes kind as you stared into them.

“We’ll get him to the hospital and keep him safe while they figure out how to make sure he’s alright for good. Don’t worry about him or Jenny or even Hunter. I got you.”

“Beau, I made you claim me to help him,” you whispered. “I shouldn't have done that. We were going to wait.”

“You didn’t make me do anything, Y/N. I made a choice. So what if we’re doing this all backwards? I’m divorced with a kid. Serial killers apparently love you. We were never traditional.” You felt yourself smile despite the worry in your gut. He kissed your temple, giving you a deep hug. “A few days from now, when this has all quieted down, I’m going to make you dinner.”

“Your house is a crime scene.”

“I will take you out to dinner then,” he corrected, tucking your hair behind your ear, tilting his head at you. “We’re going to go on a date and another one and another one and if we find out we can’t stand each other, then we’ll go through un-claiming.”

“You’ve been through it before with your ex,” you said quietly. He hummed. “Does it hurt as much as they say?”

He paused, nodding once. “It’s not fun but I’m not worried about it happening with us. You feel…different than Carla did,” he said, tracing his hand over your gently throbbing mark. You turned into the touch without meaning to, Beau smiling. “Now stop making out with the boss and go work with Officer Wilde on figuring out why Teddy wants you dead. Apparently the omegas are the only ones capable of making breaks in this case while us Alphas are walking around like a pack of idiots.”

“You’re not an idiot…” You trailed off and took a step back, looking around the room. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, following you over to where a picture of all the officers at the station hung on the wall. You pointed at it, Beau taking it off the wall, setting it atop his desk. “This is from about six months ago. Officer Wilde is our only new staff member since then. What are you thinking?”

“You just said it yourself. You and my brother are smart. Jenny’s smart. You got a whole office full of smart Alphas. So why are me and Lucy the only ones that have picked up on the link to the cold cases? Surely someone on your team would have caught that.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow beside the fact the Alphas are acting like morons,” he said, watching you tap your finger to the yellow banner at the top of the picture. “Y/N. What?”

“Helena Inter-Departmental Training Seminar. This looks like most of the office was at this thing, right?” He nodded.

“We went to a skeleton crew that day. Left some of the newer officers behind to man the ship. Most law enforcement offices around here do that.”

“Who else was at this thing? The Marshals?”

“Them, FBI, County PD, state troopers…why?” 

“Just entertain me,” you said, sliding around behind him to sit at his desk. He put in his password at the computer, leaning over the back of his chair as he told you what program to open to search the database. “Now Lucy searched Boston cold case and…no results.”

“Okay?” You spun, looking up at him with a smile. “Why are you happy about that?”

“Because Lucy didn’t work here six months ago. Because on her computer she gets results for that search.”

“Someone fucked with our computers,” he said, standing up straighter. “The day we were all out of office at training. Motherfucker, no wonder we couldn’t find shit for so long.”

He unlocked his door, popping into the cubicle next door where an admin sat. 

“Molly, when’s the last time we had IT in here? Something big, like an update all the computers big.” She raised an eyebrow as she typed on her computer, glancing down at the results after a moment. 

“Looks like March-”

“18th?” She nodded, Beau flashing his eyes wide. “Fuck. That was the day of the training. We’ve been fucked this whole time.”

“You could check security, see if you caught him on tape?” you said. Beau went off to investigate while you returned to the conference room. He took his time coming back, shaking his head when he popped his head in. 

“Good news is we know the problem,” he sighed. “Bad news, the entire department needs new computers and we don’t know which agencies we can trust to get us those. Officer Wilde’s is the only one without whatever block or virus on it in the whole station,” said Beau. She was about to relinquish it when he shook his head. “No. You’re doing good work, Wilde. You two keep researching together. The rest of us don’t need files to do a manhunt.”

“Good because we found something even weirder,” you said, hopping out of your chair, going to the white board where two officers, Travis and Viv, were finishing writing down the previous vic profiles. 

Beau took a seat, sipping on a cup of coffee while you picked up a black whiteboard marker.

“Trav, name of the earliest victim we could find with the whole suspicious natural cause death,” you said.

“Tina Paxton. ‘78. LA. Cause of death heart attack after failed attempts to contain a heat. Doctors ruled the death suspicious but no suspects were ever identified.”

“Teddy went to USC from ‘76 to ‘80. Math checks there,” you said, turning back. “Viv, earliest victim in New York. Year only.”

“‘83.”

“Teddy worked for NYPD ‘82 to ‘85,” you said, jotting it down. “Match checks again. Anybody join in. Earliest for Baltimore? Orlando?”

“‘86 and ‘89 respectively.”

You hummed, writing more. “‘85 to ‘87 Teddy worked out of the Baltimore office before transferring to a warmer climate in ‘88. And finally Boston. First victim.”

“‘90.” You spun around after writing it down, plopping the cap back on the marker.

“Correct. Teddy moved to Boston in ‘89 where he got a job at the Boston field office and has since worked to this day. Math checks again. But we’re also all wrong,” you said, the officers sharing looks. “During the summer of 1984, Teddy took a special assignment for three months in Boston in which he shadowed a Detective Brock and assisted him when his partner fell ill.”

“That’s not in the files anywhere,” said Lucy with a frown. 

“Nope,” you said, lifting your chin, dotting a line down on the board, writing more. “Because Teddy officially worked for the NYPD back then. No one would know that he was in Boston back then except for me who had to listen to his stories growing up,” you said, drawing on the board. “Now, when was Tim Barclay born?”

“Oh god, don’t tell me Teddy’s Tim’s father,” said Beau, making a face. You shook your head as she rattled off the date.

“1979,” you said, drawing a big circle around it. “Tim’s mom walked out on him when he was nearly four years old. Lucy, what’s the date listed on the missing persons report filed by her co-workers?”

Beau leaned forward in his chair. “Uh, July 14th, 1984.”

“And where did she work?” you asked, clasping your hand behind your back, Beau watching you carefully.

“A diner. Macy’s Diner?”

“Macy’s Diner,” you said, smirking at Beau, his eyebrows raising. “They serve a hell of a burger according to my father. I’ve been there myself a few times.”

Beau sighed, holding up a finger. “Y/N, I see where you’re going and that’s a leap. You think Teddy killed Tim’s mother? How do you know she didn’t actually walk out?”

“Because Tim’s biological father is a piece of human garbage and Tim never found a trace of her in the past twenty something years he’s been looking.”

“Y/N-”

“Lucy, show Beau a picture of Detective Brock.” Her eyes went wide, slowly turning the computer, the other officers and Beau’s matching.

“Detective Brock…Barclay? God, he looks just like Tim,” said Beau quietly. “Teddy worked with Tim’s father?”

You hummed, crossing your arms. “Really weird that my dad never mentioned that fact to me or Tim, isn’t it? My father, the guy who knows the movements of a suspected serial killer. My dad who’s movements match a serial killer in the eighties. I never put it together because he never mentioned a last name for the detective he worked with on special assignment but when we started digging about who Teddy worked with, well that name and the face was pretty jarring.”

“You think Teddy killed Tim’s mother?” You nodded. “It’s circumstantial.”

“But odds are Teddy did it and Brock is the one who asked him to do it to cover his ass. Who just leaves their child like that? Brock Barclay is still alive. He’s in his late seventies but he’s alive. I think we should question him.”

“You think he’d admit to having his wife killed?”

“I think Brock Barclay lives in an assisted living community in Seattle, Washington, exactly the place you have an officer you can trust right now.” Beau looked at the table, scratching his head. “Yes, it’s circumstantial. This whole damn thing is. But it’s too much of a coincidence to not mean something.”

“I’m not sending the officer I have in Seattle with Emily to do this.” You sighed, crossing your arms. “I can’t spare anyone and we don’t know how far this goes.”

“Beau-”

“Which is why you and Officer Wilde are going to Seattle to interview Brock.” You raised your eyebrows, fighting back a smile when he frowned. “I ain’t happy about it, believe me.”

“Sir, she’s not an officer,” said Lucy. Beau nodded as he stood.

“No, she is not. She’s a consultant on this case and she’ll be under your protection in the field. I won’t say no to the added benefit of getting Y/N out of town either.” You bit your bottom lip, Beau raising his chin. “I expect a confession from Brock Barclay for the murder of his wife for the amount of tax dollars we’re about to spend.”

“How are we getting there?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“And I thought my red eye from Phoenix to Philly when I was in college was bad,” you grumbled at three in the morning. You adjusted your backpack on your shoulders as you and Lucy followed a soldier down the loading door of a large military plane at some airport or base or something in Seattle. “How the hell did Beau pull this?”

“Mr. Arlen was partners in Texas with one of our commander’s old company buddies. We look out for our friends,” he said, handing a card to Lucy. “If either of you need anything while in town, please don’t hesitate to call.”

After he pointed the way towards the parking lot, you found a car waiting for you to use. You both dropped your bags in the trunk before getting inside. 

“You okay?” she asked when you checked your phone. There were a few texts from Beau. 

They’d identified the two other men with Hunter aka Douglas Evans. They’d both gone missing in town over two weeks ago from Stormy’s Bar. No luck on finding Hunter yet. Tim was at the hospital resting and recovering. Your idea about mating was old school, something done back before medicine was much of a thing but the doctors were confident it had worked and Tim was no longer Primal. To be on the safe side, they were flushing his system and keeping him restrained until he’d gone through a full cycle along with some hormone balancers. Beyond that, he had a hard time remembering anything beyond being in a warehouse.

You smiled at Beau’s very last message.

How much would I have to pay you to stay out in Seattle until this dies down? I bribe very well. Just ask Emily.

“I’m okay, Luce,” you said, shooting off a quick message that you’d landed. “Coffee and then let’s go pay this bastard a visit.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“So?” you said, Lucy rolling her eyes. “Dibs on being bad cop.”

“Big shocker there.”

Beau POV

I yawned as the sun rose outside the hospital around six or so. My head popped up from my phone when a door slammed. A very disgruntled Tim walked out in a gown and hospital socks, my eyebrows raising.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” I said, tossing a backpack at him. “Sorry about taking your clothes. Evidence.”

“Whatever,” he said, climbing into the backseat of my truck. A minute later he exited in my clothes, shrugging on a thick olive green jacket I used for yard work in the fall. “You hear anything from Y/N?”

“Not yet. Lucy texted about an hour ago they were about to head in to question the person of interest,” I said. Tim snatched my phone from my hands, crossing his arms. “Well, now I know you’re just being an ass right now because they already flushed every bit of Alpha shit out of you. Ever hear of manners?”

“Tell me who she’s talking to because fifteen minutes ago it was to question someone who might have information and now it’s a person of interest. I damn know well you wouldn’t send her to go talk to a suspect so who the hell is Y/N talking to?”

“May I have my phone back?” He grumbled but returned it. I put it in my pocket, taking a step back from him. “Brock Barclay.”

His eyebrows shot up, genuine confusion crossing his face. “My dad? Why the fuck is she out there talking to him? She’s never even…what the fuck, Barlen?”

“Y/N seems to think he has an idea of why Teddy wants her dead.”

“Why would he know that?” Fuck. There was no way to do this gently. Blunt honesty it was.

“Because your father’s worked together during the summer of ‘84. Y/N has a working theory Teddy killed your mother and Brock was aware.” Tim stared at me, shaking his head.

“No. No, my mother left because...she wasn’t…” He stared off into the distance, looking at something that wasn’t there. He kept shaking his head, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“We have no evidence but the fact Teddy never told you or Y/N that he knew your father lends a degree of credibility to the idea,” I said quietly, Tim walking away over to a tree, slipping around behind it. “Tim.”

He was silent. I frowned, walking over after a beat. He sat on the ground, head in his hands, tugging hard on his hair.

I sat next to him, gently pushing his hands away from the strands. “Hey. S’just an idea. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“She left,” he said, forcing his head up, unshed tears in his eyes. He frowned, fighting back the wobble in his chin. “My dad didn’t kill her.”

“Tim-”

“I found her,” he spit out. I froze, Tim closing his eyes. “It was about five years ago. It took a long time but I'd finally found her. She’d changed her name, changed her hair color. I set up a meet. She finally agreed after a few months. Turns out, she didn’t leave Brock because he was abusive. She left because she didn’t want me. She didn’t want to be a mother. The real kicker? Now she’s married and has two kids in their thirties she fucking adores. Even showed me pictures of her newborn grandkid.”

“Tim,” I said quietly, his head shaking. 

“My father hated me for making her leave. Only I got the shit. Only I got to know the evil side of him. He blamed me, a fucking toddler. Brock did not murder my mother.”

“Does Y/N know?” He shook his head.

“I never told her. I was ashamed what I found out,” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I could have accepted it if my mother didn’t want kids but no, she just didn’t want me. How the hell was I supposed to tell Y/N even my own mother couldn’t love me?”

I slapped my phone in his hand, Tim staring at me.

“First off, you’re an idiot. A massive, monumental idiot. I used to be an idiot too so we’re gonna work on that someday but right now you need to call Y/N and tell her all that because my gut says Brock still knows something Teddy doesn’t want us to know.”

Tim tapped on the phone, wiping his face off steadying himself. He typed in her number, his finger over the green button but paused. “Beau.”

I frowned, a pit forming in my gut. “You called me by my name, that’s not a good sign.” Tim stood up, yanking my arm. “What?”

“The blood they took from Y/N when she came in earlier tonight. Where is it kept?”

“Uh, the lab here probably. They wanted to do research-” He started to run back towards the hospital, pulling me with him. “Barclay, what do you need with her blood?”

“I’m thirteen years older than Y/N.”

“Congratufuckinglations. What does that have to do with anything?” I asked. Tim rolled his eyes, dragging me along.

“When I was twelve, my father dated a married woman. He did that a lot growing up but he dated this one particular woman while her husband was away at work conferences. Brock said he knew the man from when they worked together and that he’d kill us both if he ever found out so I better keep my mouth shut. Said he was a son of a bitch.”

“What-”

“Her husband was a damn Marshal, Beau. In Boston.” 

“Oh god,” I breathed out. “You think you and Y/N could be…actual…”

“We need to test that blood now because if I’m right…and Teddy is not her biological father and he found out-”

“No better way for the omega hating son of a bitch to punish his cheating wife than by killing Y/N.” We ran into the building, Tim on my tail as I jogged past the front desk, back towards Dr. Olson’s office.

“Is something wrong?” asked a nurse that’d been in with Tim earlier tonight. 

“Doc Olson. Now,” we both said. She rushed off the opposite direction, pulling him out of a patient room. He gave Tim a once over, his lips pursed. 

“Everything alright, Mr. Barclay?” he asked, Tim holding up a hand.

“We need you to do a blood test against me and Y/N to see if we’re related.” He seemed like he was going to make a comment but shook his head.

“I’ve seen enough shit tonight than to know better than to ask. I’m assuming you need the results as soon as possible?” We both nodded. “Stacy, take a blood sample from Mr. Barclay and get it down to the lab. Move the test to the front of the line. I want these gentlemen to have their results asap.”

“Thanks doc,” I said, Stacy leading Tim into a nearby empty room. 

“Honestly sheriff, the sooner I get y’all out of my hospital the better if you get my drift.” 

“Trust me, I’d love to get the hell out of here too.” I watched through the window as Tim had his arm tied off. I shot off a text to Y/N, getting a call back immediately. I closed my eyes, forcing a smile on my face. “Good morning, dear-”

“Put him on the phone, Arlen,” she said sharply. I quickly entered the room, handing it to Tim as Stacy stuck a bandage on his arm and carried away a few vials of blood. 

“Y/N would like to say good morning.” He glared, taking the phone, hitting it on speaker.

“Hi-”

“Timothy Andrew Barclay, why the hell didn’t you tell me about your mother! Why the fuck would you hide that from me!” 

“Are you mad about the whole us possibly being related thing too?” he asked quietly. Y/N breathed heavily, a tiny growl heard at the end. “Listen, I’m sorry for lying. I’m sorry for making you waste a trip out to Seattle. I’m sorry for attacking you earlier. I’m just…fucking sorry.”

“Are you okay?” she asked after a beat. I expected him to roll his eyes and shrug, tell her he was fine. He sat still though, fiddling with the bandage on his arm.

“I’m sorry if we are related you got stuck with me.” She sighed, Tim’s body tense. “Y/N-”

“Listen to me you gigantic moron. God, I want to strangle you right now.” Tim looked at me, my hands going up that I wasn’t getting involved. "I do not give a shit what some test says if we’re related or not. It changes nothing about you and me. You are always going to be my fucking neanderthal moronic idiot brother…and I need to know that you are okay cause last time I saw you you weren’t so talk to me.” I smiled, Tim’s gaze lowering to the ground. I kicked his foot, Tim sighing.

“I feel pretty shitty about nearly tearing your jugular out earlier and that people want you dead but besides that I’m peachy. I could go for a breakfast sandwich while we’re at it.”

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked, Tim straightening up. “Can you call up guinness world records and let them know of this momentous day where I did not have to drag an answer out of you for once in your damn life?”

He smiled shyly, chuckling to himself. “Always got to be a brat.”

“Naturally. Beau are you still there?” I hummed. “Now if we assume Brock is my father and that’s why Teddy wants me dead, what’s our next move? Should Lucy and I question him about my mom? We have to wait until the place opens in another hour.”

“We could talk to Y/N’s mother first, then see…” I trailed off, Tim shaking his head. “No go on talking to Y/N’s mom?”

“My dad said he put her into wit sec. She talked to us the day before we left Boston and said she was settling in,” said Y/N.

“And you two didn’t find that suspicious that she went in and you two didn’t?” I asked. 

“Of course we did but Y/N’s mom has a few medical conditions. She can’t be on the road and move fast like we could. It was still risky but safer than being with us when she wouldn’t have access to doctors or medicine,” said Tim. 

“Is your mother omega?” I asked. Tim frowned, Y/N pausing.

“Alpha…” Y/N responded. “Why?”

Tim cocked his head, rising to his feet as I held up my hands. “Barlen, she went into wit sec. She said so herself.”

“Do you know that for sure?” I asked. Tim muttered under his breath. “Y/N. You and Lucy question Brock about his affair back in the day. Try to sus out if it was your mom he had it with and any shit he might have on Teddy. Timothy and I need to see where the hell your mom is.”

“What about Hunter and his goons running around?” asked Tim. An idea popped into my head, Tim eyeing me wearily. “Oh god. I’m not going to like this am I.”

“What are you guys talking about?” asked Y/N. I swiped the phone, turning it off speaker. 

“Be safe, honey. Give us a call when you’re done with Brock.” We hung up, Tim following me towards the elevators, crossing his arms as we waited for it to arrive. 

“You want me to pretend to still be Primal in the hopes Hunter picks me up again. Don’t you.”

“Not just a pretty face, aren’t ya, Barclay?” I teased. “Did you know this hospital is hooked up with the university?” I asked, slipping in through the doors, Tim groaning when I hit the button to go down to the basement.

“Why do I feel like we’re going to the morgue,” he moaned. I grinned, Tim giving me his best bitch face. “We’re getting a dead body and pretending it’s Y/N, aren’t we.”

“Nope.” We exited into a quiet hallway, Tim leading the way down a long corridor. “I meant to ask, how’d you get Y/N out of here earlier tonight? With that whole morgue trick?”

“Came in a side entrance. Went to the basement. Stole scrubs from the laundry room. Found her in the ER. Tossed a sheet over her. People don’t tend to want to look at dead bodies unless it’s your annoyingly thorough officers.” 

“How opposed are you to body bags?” Tim stopped walking, making a face akin to a child eating asparagus for the first time. I only grinned and patted his cheek. “You’re too easy to fuck with, Barclay.”

“What the hell does she see in you,” he mumbled, following me down to hang out just outside the morgue where a doctor was inside with a body. “Why are we here?”

“Because you were in the morgue earlier tonight.”

“Yeah and?” Beau smirked.

“So where the hell was the coroner during that time?” Tim’s gaze flittered over to the glass, watching the coroner work on a body. “One of the men we identified as helping Hunter was Maxwell Bittel. Our very own previously missing hospital coroner over there.”

Tim grabbed my arm, dragging me around a corner, eyes wide. “I can’t go in undercover cold! I need comms, gps, a team-”

“There’s an air tag in the insole of the boots you’re wearing. I was smarter this time, I promise. There’s a brand new burner phone in the inner zip pocket of your jacket. And as far as my entire department knows, you are still Primal. The only people that know you aren’t are me, Y/N and Officer Wilde.”

“Who the hell is Officer Wilde?” I rolled my eyes.

“She moved here after the fact and Y/N knows her from college. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Couldn’t she be incredibly dangerous for Y/N then? What if Teddy recruited her?” 

“As far as we’re all aware, Teddy was a loving, if not somewhat absent father to Y/N right up until a few weeks before he told you two to skip town, right? Officer Wilde had absolutely zero contact with him or anyone from the Marshals during that time. Plus she’s omega and so far, he only goes after other Alphas to help him.”

“If she betrays Y/N-”

“You’ll kill me, I know-”

“It’ll break me if she dies and as your mate, it’ll probably break you too. We can’t let that happen, Arlen.” He zipped up his jacket, throwing up his hood. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

“I’m gonna need you to let me punch you in the face.”

__________

A/N: Read Part 6 coming soon!

[twst-kumi]

Weeping Maiden [Act II]

[ACT II] CHAPTER 6

It has been a few days since her emotional meeting with Yuu. They agreed to meet every weekend. After getting him his own phone (making it easier for them to plan), they have been meeting at a small coffee shop every Saturday at 9am. Yuu made sure Grim was awake and ready to go early and in the shop, both siblings treated him like a child. He was the unofficial little brother.

“_ I have talked to Ambrose, he said if you want he can be your legal tutor.

_Why would he do that?

_ Because he is my legal tutor. He said he didn't want to separate us and would even set up an account for you.

_That’s very generous of him but why?

_ We are minors, and if we can't go back home, we need an identity and money to live here. Yuu, since we are not from this world, we don't legally exist in this world… well you don’t… I’m legally under Ambrose’s care.”

He could tell the RSA director was much more responsible just by looking at her. Fresh clothes, clean and spotless. Unlike him who wore his uniform for three days straight. Yuu only had two sets of regular uniform for a week, one for sports and that's all. [Name]... She had five sets and it changed depending on what she wanted. Her skirt varied in length, going from maxi to the average above knees. And it was worse with the sleeve, puffed, juliet (his favorite), Bishop, petal… She didn't have to worry about not having a uniform because she forgot to hang it to dry the night before and now she had to go with the smelly one. Then your fashion oriented teacher decide to lend you a new one (oversized, of course) until the other is dry.

“_ Now that I think about it, how come the RSA has women's uniforms ?

_ Ah… It was made for me by Ambrose and Flora.

_ Flora?

_ Yes, she is a fairy and is my caregiver. I’m the only girl there so it was decided to have another woman take care of me for some very biological reason…”

SHE HAVE A CAREGIVER?? Yuu almost spitted his coffee. He was the caregiver! And the therapist… [Name] could see his turmoil.

“_ Why not joining me in RSA ?

_ It would feel like betraying the other… and…

_ I’m happy that you made friends, you were such a loner in the past.”

Yuu waited for Grim to go get another cake with his sister's money before speaking.

“_ They are not my friends, I’m just following the script.

_ Script? Yuu… that-!

_ You were never interested in sports, I asked Ruggie about how you knew each other and he said that you just met at the festival and you were a fan. So I had Riddle ask Chen’ya about you, and you arrived at RSA at the entrance ceremony.”

[Name] shuddered instinctively as Yuu cupped her face lovingly. She unconsciously shivered as he smiled down at her.

“_ You know, I don’t like it when you lie and hide things from me.

_ I… I… I’m sorry brother … I didn't mean to…

_ So? Can you tell me how?”

[Name] took a deep breath before taking a sip of her coffee.

“_ This world is part of a game… and I’m a tester… I reached the end of the VDC before I got into this world.

_ I see, who was the main character?

_ A genderless character who came from another world. His default name was the same as yours so… in my game it was Yuu.

_ Were you good?

_ At the start not really, I was a complete beginner. I lost a lot at the start.”

She chuckled as Yuu smiled softly. He could remember how many times he rewind time, but he did die a lot at the start. The event she talked about concorded with his experience. He died at those exact places. [Name] wasn't aware of it, but she controlled him when she played the “game”. He didn't want her to feel sad so he kept silent.

“_I see, then I'm counting on you to help me in NRC.”

[Name] nodded eagerly. They continued to chat, with her talking about the story/future happening and him listening already aware of them. They spent the whole day doing that.

***

Flora was baking a pie for [Name], the young girl seemed happier nowadays. It was thanks to her loving care… and her brother.

The fairy hummed happily as she flew around, baking and cooking with magic was so easy and fun. She was certain her sisters would have agreed. Suddenly a soft knock was heard on the door.

“_ Yes? I'm sorry but [Name] isn't home yet.”

She opened the door and met a handsome young man. He was indeed handsome with his brown hair parted in the middle, falling gracefully reaching his ears, and those honeyed hazel eyes shining with a playful charm. What a handsome boy indeed, like a prince.

But after Neige’s incident she knew better than to trust a pretty face. Flora observed him carefully.

“_ Oh, what a pity then! I will come by tomorrow then. I just wanted to bring this bouquet of roses as a thank you for taking care of one of my dorm students.

_ Your dorm?

_ Ah, sorry. I forgot to introduce myself, I'm Henry Beaumont. I'm Aurelius' Dorm leader.

_ Oh my! I hope our Aurelius doesn't cause you problem.

_ Not at all, he is very helpful.”

Henry bowed politely as he gave her a soft smile. The fairy was gushing in front of him. He was so gentle, so elegant and charming. Without thinking, she took the roses.

“_ Well, I will go. Have a good night.”

[Name] walked through the garden at the front of her dorm. She hummed softly as she walked inside Royaldawn. The young girl blinked in surprise as she was greeted with a bouquet of roses. She smiled warmly as she took the bouquet.

“_ Thank you, Flora. What's the occasion?

_Oh, no. It's not from me. It's a gift from a charming student.”

[Name] nodded not thinking much about it.

“_ One isn't fully blooming…”

She said softly as her finger delicately brushed the petal.

“_Ouch! The thorn prickled my fingers…

_ Oh my! Let me see.”

[Name] chuckled softly as she watched Flora taking care of her finger.

<previous next>

Tag :

@cocomollo @owodi @illytian @mmysticc-ev0let @oreolover1

[lachesismoonmist]

I've Been Watching You - Chp 8

So it's THAT kind of phone call

Rating: Mature. Minors dni

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook / Reader

Words: Total: 73k

Status: Complete. 8 out of 26

Story Summary: There's a hot new guy in the gym. You can't keep your eyes off him, and it seems he can't keep his off you either. What starts out as Friends-with-Benefits turns into something a lot more complicated as your past comes back to haunt you and you find out your best friend's long-kept secret.

Originally posted on AO3

MY MASTERLIST

Chapter 8: So it's THAT kind of phonecall

Chapter Summary: Jungkook is in Paris for a photoshoot. He promises to call, and he does, but is so busy he has no time to talk. Then on Day 4 of his trip, he gets some free time. Time for a VERY important phone call. Author's Note: Ok, hands up those who saw this coming a mile away the minute JK said he had to go to another country [raises hand]. Sorry to be so predictable, but I had to separate JK and the MC as they were starting to become annoyingly sweet. Haha. Plus, this was a good chance to introduce yet another type of smut. So, SMUT ALERT! This chapter is here purely for smut. You have been warned.

---------------------------

True to his word, Jungkook called me the minute he disembarked from his flight. I’d just stepped out of surgery, so we managed to speak for a few minutes as he waited for his luggage. Then he got whisked off by the magazine people.

The next few days went by in a whirlwind, as a few special cases came into the clinic. Also, Nuri got discharged so that he could be at home, as requested by the family. We all knew it just a matter of time now. Each day, I just collapsed at home after work and crashed pretty early.

Jungkook managed to videocall me on the first and second nights, just to say ‘goodnight’ and blow me a kiss. His schedule was more packed than anticipated, so he hadn’t really had any downtime, even in the evenings.

Things finally eased up on the fourth day. I went to the clinic to deal with some administrative work, then was meeting Jimin for tea at a new café in a newly opened art gallery in town. We stuffed ourselves with scones, finger sandwiches and canapes. Then Jimin had to rush off to work.

As I was leaving the gallery after tea, my phone buzzed.

[Hot Gym JK] Hey Sweetness. I finally have a break in my schedule. Call you tonight? 10pm your time?

[Sexy Vet] Sure! I’ll be home. Most likely gaming.

[Hot Gym JK] Talk to you later, baby.

I didn’t end up gaming. It was nice having some quiet time, so I curled up in bed with a novel I’d been trying to read for months. I lost track of time, until I felt my phone buzz. It was Jungkook, video calling me.

“Hey Sweetness”. I could see he was sitting on a bed, leaning against the headboard. His phone propped on some kind of stand because both his hands were free. His hair was wet, like he’d just stepped out of the shower. To my disappointment, he wasn’t shirtless.

“Hey Big Boy. How’s Paris treating you?”

“To be honest, we’ve been so busy working I haven’t really had time to do anything else. Not my first trip to Paris though, so I’d rather just chill in my room. Like now.” He sounded relieved.

“Well, I’ve not been to Paris yet, so it’s all still very romantic and mysterious to me.”

“It’s a pretty enough place, but I think the movies and books hype it up too much. Of course, it also depends on who you’re travelling with.”

“The last time I travelled for fun was… six years ago” I said, trying hard to remember my last holiday.

“Seriously? Six years of no travelling?” he exclaimed. “That sounds sad.”

“Well, I did fly to my Alternative Therapies conference.” I said defensively.

“That doesn’t count. Anywhere you don’t need a passport for doesn’t count.” He said with a serious face for all of two seconds, then we both burst out laughing. “Miss me?” he said cheekily.

“I don’t know, should I?” I answered coyly, batting my eyelids at him. “How’s the bruise?” I asked, touching myself on the chest.

“Still a little sore, but not that ugly yellow color anymore. Wanna see?” Before I could say anything, he pulled up his tee shirt. I saw the bruise, which had started turning a little purplish, but I saw a lot more than the bruise.

“Stop showing me your abs!”

“Why?” he asked, turning from side to side to give me a good view.

“Because I want to lick them” I said, salaciously licking my lips exaggeratedly.

He paused for a second, a little stunned but then a sly smile crept in. He pulled his tee shirt off the rest of the way. “Oh yeah?” He ran his fingers across his abs. “What else do you want to lick?”

So this was going to be THAT kind of phone call. “Hang on,” I said, looking for my phone stand. I set it up on my nightstand so that the whole bed could be seen. I lay back down on my front, propped my chin on my hands, looking into the screen.

“I want to lick that big, beautiful cock of yours”, eyeing him hungrily. “I want to take you in my mouth, going deeper and deeper until I’ve swallowed you up”.

He groaned “Want to see my big, beautiful cock?” he asked, hands moving toward the waistband of his sweats.

“Yes” I said, looking at him with wide eyes.

He hooked his fingers into this waistband, then pulled his sweats off in one swift move. His hard, swollen cock sprang free and bounced against his lower abdomen. He took himself in his hand, pumping slowly as his eyes blazed.

“I showed you mine. Now show me yours. Take off your nightie.” He said a low voice.

I sat up slowly, making a show of pushing my nighty up my thighs, over my hips, past the swell of my breasts, then over my head. I was bare underneath.

“Are you trying to kill me, woman? You sleep in nothing but your nightie?”

“Comfort first, Big Boy. So,….” I said as I trailed my fingers across the swell of my breasts “what would you do to me if you were here?”

“I’d take your beautiful breasts and squeeze them. Go on, squeeze your breasts.”

I moved my hands up my body, taking a breast in each hand and squeezing.

“Then I’d play with and pinch your gorgeous pink nipples”.

Without prompting, I rolled my nipples between my fingers as I gasped, throwing my head back.

“Yes, just like that baby,” Jungkook said breathily as he pumped his cock harder and a little faster. “Now, move your hand down your body slowly. Spread your legs for me. Let me see that pretty pussy.”

I ran my hands down my sides, my right hand moving down towards my core. I opened my legs wide, shifting so that Jungkook could see. I bit my lower lip as I feathered my fingers over my outer lips. My left hand joined in, and I used both hands to part my folds.

“Look at that. Already wet. So pink and pretty. Do I make you wet, baby?”

“Yessss…. I need more Jungkook.”

“Circle your clit with your fingers, that’s it. Make sure your fingers are nice and wet.”

I moaned as I my fingers massaged my clit, which felt very swollen now.

“Push in two fingers. Imagine it was my fingers entering you.” I slid two fingers into my warmth, whimpering slightly at the sensation.

“Now pump your fingers in and out, like I would. Like how I’m pumping my cock right now.”

I watched with hooded eyes as he pleasured himself. My hips starting rolling as I slid my fingers in and out.

“Think you can take more, baby? I think you can, ‘coz you can take my big, fat cock. Add a finger.”

I did as told, adding a finger. When I didn’t feel the stretch, I added one more.

“Fuck,” Jungkook groaned “that’s it, baby. Stretch yourself, like you were getting ready for my cock.”

My other hand moved up to my left breast, pinched and rolled the nipple, which sent shockwaves through my body.

“That’s it, that’s it, good girl,” Jungkook crooned. “Fuck yourself with your fingers. Make yourself cum. I want to see you squirt for me.”

I closed my eyes and added my thumb to press on my clit as my fingers continued to move in and out of me, my harsh breaths echoing in the room. I pinched my nipple harder, hard enough for it to hurt as I moved the hand on my pussy faster and faster.

My thumb pressed hard on my clit, making circular motions, and I felt my walls started to pulse. My legs started to stiffen, my toes pointing forward like a dancer's.

“J..jung… kook…. Gonna cum. I’m almost there.”

“Cum for me baby, let me see you. Cum on your fingers like you’d cum on my cock” he ground out, breathing hard.

“Koook!” I shouted as my orgasm hit. I felt a rush of warm liquid on my hand as my whole body shuddered.

“Fuck, Y/N, fuck fuck fuck….” He gasped and he came, his semen spilling onto his abdomen. He stilled his movements, then released his softening cock.

I took my fingers out of my pussy and held them up to the phone. “Look at that, what a mess you’ve made of my fingers.” I put my fingers in my mouth, licking the fingers one by one. “Hmmm… tasty.”

“You’re a bad, bad girl. You know I’m dying to taste you now, so you’re showing me what I’m missing huh?”

“I miss you,” I said sleepily. “Come back here so you can fuck me properly.”

“Oh, I wish I could, baby.” He sighed. “Just three more days.” Suddenly he looked up, as a ringing sounded the in the background. “They’re calling me for dinner, baby. Have to go.”

“M’kay. I’ll go wash up then crash.”

“Ok Sweetness. I need to wash up too, can’t go out with cum on my stomach” he said, making me giggle. “Go to sleep baby. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Big Boy”. I padded over the bathroom to clean up, then climbed back into bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Previous (Chp7)

Tags: @bhonbhon, @azurefangirl

[godmerlin]

Behold 2009 or 2010 kayla I can't remember the year

I feel bad for people who’ve never experienced a corn maze bc it’s not even fun but you just have to do it

[spookie-puppy]

What if I wanna invite my friends fron different parts if the timeline out for ice cream?? What're the time demons gonna do then?? Snatch me???

[enhaflixer]

Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

-

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

-

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

-

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

-

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

-

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

-

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

-

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

-

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

-

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

-

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

-

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

-

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

-

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

-

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

-

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

-

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

-

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

-

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

-

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

[bluebeads-art]

As the flash hits your eye, you feel something crashing into you from all directions. Below you is obvious, Bonbon situated themself to bump into you while the picture was taken. You look to your right, and Mirabelle’s cheek is pressed up to yours. On your left, Isabeau’s sheepishly hugged you to his side. There’s a hand in your hair, too, and it feels like Madame Odile. [...] “We need a souvenir of this trip,” Mirabelle adds. She rushes to the ground to pick up the picture and snort-laughs as she looks at it. “Oh no, Siffrin looks like we’re holding him hostage!” — Curtain Call, Chapter 9, by @openphrase123 (Link in the replies)

2024 October 22nd

Fanfic fanart fanfic fanart!! When I read the "hostage" line, it invoked such a clear image in my head of Siffrin tensed up like a startled prey animal that it got added to my list of things to maybe draw immediately.

Dooon't think about the words 'left' and 'right' in that quote too hard. I know how to read I prommy. :) (I did Not process those words and lost the coin flip in the composition phase...)

Close-up and ramblings about the cans of worms I unleashed upon myself under the cut

Time taken on this was [head in hands] 48 hours and 37 minutes.... That bloated number has two culprits:

1) I got a new tablet! My old one was 10 years old. Its plastic was melting and the electronics had ghosts in 'em, so it needed the sweet release of retirement. However, I had just gotten to the line art phase when the switch happened. Clumsily getting used to the new one during the most precise phase of the process did devastating things to my perfectionism.

2) I made a GRAVE mistake with how I chose to color this. I wanted to keep the grayscale layers for accuracy instead of just slapping a B&W filter over the colored version, so all the colors come from gradient maps, color balance layers, overlay layers, and raster layers clipped to other layers. Listen. I'm used to working with lots of layers. I like keeping things separate so I can edit them more easily. But this is the worst layer system I have ever created. Going from color to B&W requires toggling exactly 20 layers & folders on or off. There are 87 visible layers total. This file lags when you edit it. I've never wanted CSP v1.13 to have layer comps more in my life.

Not helping matters was Isabeau. I said he was the easiest to draw in my last post, but he took that as a challenge, apparently. It's a simple fist-on-hip pose, why was that so hard!?! His face gave me grief too.

Odile's lil' wave got added at the end of the line art phase. I've never added to a sketch that late in the game before, but I felt bad about how little screen area she got, haha. Girl, I tried, but this composition was not kind to you.

Giving Isa, Odile, and Siffrin skin colors felt cursed. Well... "color" is maybe a stretch for Sif. The pallor from being affection-jumpscared isn't helping. In the dev's nose reveal post, they said that Siffrin isn't white but is white-passing, so BOOM albinism headcanon. Like c'mon, they wear a big hat and have most of their skin covered because the sun is a deadly laser when you have little to no melanin and idk if sunblock exists in-universe. Heck, maybe most Islanders have it, their whole religion is about the night sky so maybe they're nocturnal. This makes perfect sense. :)

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

One hell of a team | In-ho x Wife!Reader |

Summary: You will follow your husband anywhere.

Warnings: S2 Spoilers - Violence - Different back story for In-ho - Blood - Death - Use of (Y/N) - Reader gets called "love" -

The Frontman, the man with the most power within the island, to who the guards obey without question.

Was currently trembling under his wife pointed look.

"You want to enter the games?" You asked him, your tone cold and almost jugdmental.

In-ho calmed himself down. It was an idea that stayed with him after the death of the Chairman and even more with how player 456 had insisted the last two years in finding them. He had played before and won, he knew how terrible others could be, he had walked out like a new man, used the money for himself and you. Never really gave much thought on how many lives were lost.

But, for some reason he wanted to go again.

"Im going with you"

His glass of wishky fell onto the floor, the loud crash did nothing to bother you while you ate.

"No, thats not happening. I need you here to control the games and guards" In-ho started trying to get a valid reason to why you defenetly should not come.

"Oh, you need me to? Well I need you here. With me. With our family. How do you think I would do seeing you there ? I still remember how you got when you came back from these the first time"

"That was different" The Frontman said taking a deep breath "I wont be just one more player, it will be like when the Chairman went in"

"That still does not ease my mind" (Y/N) responded "Till death do us a part and follow you anywhere" you recited showing him your weeding ring. "Remember?"

In-ho felt his chest got thight at the sight and the memory of the small yet full of love weeding you two had back when life was more simple.

"Alright, you can come with me. Its not like you would wait for my approval" he responded smiling at the end "But no one must know that we are married, you understand that ?" He added now serious

"Of course, its what makes more sense, we will just casually meet there and see how it plays" You nodded to him "And please, better clean up that glass before someone steps on it"

"On it, love"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

For the most part pretending not to know each other was easier than expected. While you knew the guards knew who you two were you were still a bit scared. Specially during the green and red light, since both of you had got separated and now you were froze in your spot.

"You need to move" In-ho said from behind his arm playing along "Follow me in the next sing, alright? Just take my hand"

"Im scared, im sorry" You said feeling guilty over wanting to be there with him and starting to fail on the first game no less.

"I know, I was too. But im here, just follow me"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

You had to hide your smirk when he pressed the circle to go on with the games, you knew he would do it just to piss off Player 456 and make things more cahotic.

He went with the rest and stood besides you trying himself not to smile at you.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The first approach to Gi-huns team was tense to say the least. You two had voted circle and even worse In-ho had been the vote that ended the tie.

But with his own charisma and yours you two got to be on his good side.

Till In-ho decided to talk, really you sometimes forgot who sassy he could be.

"And some picked umbrella?" He asked faking suprise when he had seen it on first hand. "Most of them died I assume"

You could see the look on player 456 and decided to be more sensitive

"Hey, dont be like that. Im sure they went in blind and did not know what it was about" You said keeping a safe distance so no one would think you two were together or knew each other before the games.

In-ho was having too much fun.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

That first night they both were in their respective beds. Still keeping their false relationship. However once (Y/N) was sure all were asleep she went towards In-ho who was awake like he knew she would be coming to him.

"Are you alright?" He asked in a whisper, worried that for her this would be too much.

"Im fine, I wanted to see if you were fine"

He nodded not saying a thing but taking her hand.

"Also, I saw you break that fight, really ? When did you even learn to do that ?" This made him smile and hold her hand thighter "Really! I only see you in your office all the time"

"You think I would come in here without knowing how to defend myself or you?"

She smiled at him, blushing in the dark. "No....I just thought all you did was be in your office and give orders"

In-ho rolled his eyes "Just wait till we are out of here, i will show you just how fit im"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The six legs game was both a chaos and funny. Honeslty you could not help yourself on hugging him and player 456 (who was slowly getting on your soft side) as you saw a team win.

However the shoots that came for these who did not survive were too much. You would swear In-ho gave the guards a cold stare because you would flinch sometimes.

"Hey, dont worry they wont shoot the ones who havent played" Player 456 reassured you with a calm tone

You nodded, knowing that even if you lost they wont shoot you or In-ho. It was still sweet to see him trying to calm you down.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"Not a word" He said during the night when you two were able to talk again.

"I was not going to say a thing, but you did in on purpose or were you really missing ?"

In-ho closed his eyes knowing you would later get the recording of him missing during the game and use it against him.

"It was all planned" he said trying to sound as convincing as he could.

"Whatever you say Honey"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The game of making pairs gave you nausea because of the carousel kept spinning around. And the rounds were stress again. The worse part was getting separated from In-ho who find you seeing how two players were dragging you so they could have the number they needed.

You havent see him get that angry in years, his protective self being on as he pulled one from the neck and punched the other one.

He kept punching almost forgetting there was a game you two were supposed to play.

"Leave him we still need two more" You urged only for a guard to shove two confused and scared players besides you and In-ho.

"We got them" He assured getting your hand and going to one room.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"In-ho!! (Y/N)!!" The worried screams of Gi-hun filled the place as he looked for both of you.

Even if he had promised to try and dont get attached to new players and survive he could not help but feel a connection with both of you.

"Gi-hun!" In-ho's voice called making him look over and see him coming towards the rest with you by hand something that made him curious but decided not to ask.

"Im glad to see you two alright" Gi-hun said seeing just a few bruises on you, and noticing blood on In-ho knuckles.

You catched his eyes and went to explain "He saved me" you told the rest looking at them then at In-ho who was looking back at you "I would have not made it otherwise"

The look of love you two shared was so genuine, some wonder if you two were together but trying to be discrete to protect yourselfs.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"They will most likely attack us tonight" Gi-hun explained as he showed the fork the guards had left when the food was given.

The idea only assented itself when the men returned from the bathroom, with blood on them. 

"And what do you propouse us to do?" In-ho asked all of the Xs were in a circle trying to listen to what Gi-hun had to say.

Gi-hun told the others his plan, honestly you thoguht it was nusts, it wont work. They were far suprassed on numbers but you had to shut yourself up.

You could tell your husband was both amazed by it and even kind of respecting it. Or at least that what he showed to him. He needed Gi-hun's trust after all.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

"Hide well" In-ho said besides you in a low tone "We can trust the guards but till they get here we cant trust the others"

You nodded knowing that very well since this was a typical phase of the game for years.

"We will be safe" You said holding his shoulder. "Do what you have to do, dont worry about me" You tried to make him feel at ease but he could not. The only thing that scared him more than anything were the other players trying to get to you.

"Just hang in there" He responded his forehead against yours.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

The fight was on its hot spot. The players were killing each other without a second thought.

Nothing like living it, even if you have seen this type of thing multiple times. Its was unnerving to see them just going at each others troath. The screams and cries were too much for a moment, the dark did nothing to help.

Thats when you felt it. Someone had dragged you out from under the bed and was now on top of you. You saw the player move their left hand ready to Strike at you. You tried to punch and defend yourself but the person on top was too strong.

A cold scream left your mouth as the fork pierced your shoulder.

You could not help it, the adrenaline and anxiety was getting on you.

"In-ho! In-ho help me please" You screamed for him, your husband the love of your life.

"Shut up, the next one will be your neck" The person said and for a moment you saw it. Dying in here and leaving In-ho.

Till you felt the person being pushed and the screams of them. You blinked trying to make sense.

It was In-ho, he had taken the fork from the player and was now piercing the neck of the player, not even leaving a chance for them to survive.

"GO HIDE NOW!!" In-ho ordered, he being scared himself and angry. He saw red when you were dragged and it was for the brutal grip Gi-hun had on his arm that he did not move faster.

You did as told getting under another bed and making sure no one could reach you.

"You fucking scum! How dare you lay hands on my wife" In-ho almost screamed too angry to see that the player was now dead. All his face and hands where covered in blood.

"Stop it!! They are dead, we need to continue the plan, the lights will be back soon" Gi-hun said taking him and pulling him away from the dead player.

"Get (Y/N), and be ready" Gi-hun told him trying to keep himself calm even when he was close to jump over and save you and In-ho. He wondered if he had hear it right, you were his wife?

In-ho did not waste time, searching for you in the dark till he noticed you. He went quick, pulling yourself out from the bed telling you its was him.

"Shh shh its me, its over dont cry Love" He said trying to make you feel better.

"In-ho?" He nodded and you cried harder "In-ho I was so scared"

"I know love I know, just a bit more alright? It will be over soon. Listen once the guards come in and we follow Gi-huns plan do not come. Someone will come and get you"

"Im going with you, im not leaving you in a bullet fight!"

"You know nothings gonna happen to me, I want you here, safe, alright?"

Finally you accepted.

"I love you In-ho"

"I love you too Love"

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆

As In-ho had said when the guards got back after the fight one took you, Player 120 tried to protest but was put back in her place by other guard.

"You are under suspect of have been part of the riot. You are now eliminated from the games"

The guard said playing his role, starting to get you out of the room while you screamed following the act.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

"Apologies Madam, orders from the Front Man" The guard said bowing once you two were outside and out of reach from the others players.

Even if you were still breathing hard you nodded. "Dont worry, just take me to him". The guard nodded.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

He knew he was needed in the control room but refused to let you alone like that. He went to your share room, his heart broke at your image, bruises and blood over you. A guard was checking your shoulder but left after he order them to.

Silence fell over both of you as he went to you and hugged you careful not to hurt your shoulder.

He removed his mask to look at you properly.

"Im sorry, I should have never let you come, I should have stopped this sooner" He said with pain in his voice

"Dont blame yourself, I told you I was going in with you. This was not your fault In-ho" You reassured him feeling sad and worried over him.

"I cant not blame myself" He gently passed his hand over your cheeck "You are the best thing in my life and I almost lost you because of my own desires, never again"

You two kissed softly grounding yourselfs. You two were safe and together nothing else matters from now. Only the love and devotion you two had for each other.

~☆~☆~☆~☆~☆~

[homeofthelonelywriter]

Poly!141 x fem!Reader

TW: sexual content ahead, choo choo

Part 1

“Wake up, love.” A groan left your lips and you flipped over, burying your face further into the fluffy pillow beneath your head. “Five more minutes.” The dark chuckle behind you betrayed that it was John who was trying to wake you up. He rounded the four-poster, and you cracked an eye open, glancing at him “Do I really have to carry you downstairs?” Your lips twitched, and John immediately knew your answer. With a slight huff, he picked you up and carried you downstairs. He plopped down on the couch with you in his lap, as you cuddled up against him, your eyes closed again.

“Look at her, I think we tired her out too much last night.” Johnny chuckled, gently scratching your scalp and running his fingers through your hair. A pleased hum left your throat as you leaned into his touch. “Yeah, you hurting, pretty?” Kyle sounded concerned and you quickly felt his body heat behind you. “’ M fine.” The Sergeant chuckled, kissing your head, before standing up and walking away.

“Okay, time for breakfast, huh?” Your eyes shot open immediately and you glared at Simon, who stood next to the gigantic Christmas tree you had forced the boys to buy and put up. “No! You promised that we would open the gifts first thing if…if…” Simon grinned, his eyebrows raised as you began to grow bashful. “If what, love?” Your lower lip jutted out as you pouted. “If I were a good girl and took a few more…orgasms.” John chuckled behind you. “Look who’s awake now. Don’t tease her, Si. Let’s open the presents.”

And with that, the present marathon began. The guys got presents for each other and opened them one by one, thanking each other. They were usual guy gifts - alcohol, cigars, socks, etc. Things the others could use, but nothing overwhelming. By the time they were done, you had finally woken up enough to point to the presents you had gotten each of them.

Johnny was the first to unwrap his. It was an expensive sketchbook and art set he had been eyeing for some time, but never decided to buy. “Aw, bonnie. Thank you, I appreciate it.” You grinned. “Open it.” With a slight frown, he did as you told him to, his eyes widening as he saw what was decorating the front page. It was a beautiful portrait of the two of you. You had gotten his favorite indie artist to draw it for you and he even signed it. “No way!” With a giant grin, he jumped to his feet. “How did ya- no, when did ya-?” He jumped over the table that was separating him from you, not waiting for an answer. “You are amazing.” Still grinning, he bent down and pressed his lips to yours, keeping it chaste for the moment.

After Johnny pulled back, Simon reached for his present and ripped the wrapping paper off. He eyed the box for a few seconds, suspicious of its content, but finally opened it once you insisted that it was fine. To his surprise, he pulled out an old-looking camera, his eyes immediately jumping to yours the moment he realized what he was holding. “Where did you find this?” You shrugged, still wrapped in John’s arms. “Did some research. Is it the right one?” Still looking dumbfounded, he nodded. “Y-Yeah. It’s uhm…it’s the right one. Thank you.” You smiled at him, thinking back to when he opened up to you about his hobby when he was a child, how his mother had bought him a second-hand camera just so he could find some joy in life. You spent months trying to find the same model and make, and when you did find it, you knew it was the perfect present. You were so lost in thought that you didn’t realize Simon was standing right in front of you until you felt his lips against your forehead. “Thank you, love.” A smile formed on your lips as you gazed up at him. “Of course, Si.”

Kyle was next and he made quick work of the wrapping paper, just like Simon. He grinned the moment he realized what it was and skipped over, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. “Thank you, sweets.” It was a quiet mumble against your lips before he kissed you again and pulled away. Johnny immediately grew curious, trying to see what you had gifted to Kyle, but the Seargent quickly pulled away, hiding the present. You giggled as you watched Johnny chase Kyle around until the left the living room, both of them yelling at each other. Simon glanced at you, a slight frown on his face. “Do we want to know?” Still giggling, you shook your head, thinking about the different colored yarn balls and crocheting needles. He had confided in you not too long ago that he wanted to try it, but was too shy around the others. You just hoped that he would see the encouragement and take it up.

“What about me?” John gently squeezed the fat on your hips, gathering your attention. “Oh.” You pointed at a small, beautifully wrapped box and Simon handed it to you. With his free hand, he took it, turning it over as if trying to guess what it was. “Just open it.” With a dark chuckle, he did, quickly shredding the paper and frowning as he saw that it was a watch box. But when he opened it, the frown disappeared and his eyes widened. “Where did you find this?”

A few months ago, during an op, his watch broke. Usually, that wouldn’t be all too bad, better the watch, that can be replaced, than his hand or wrist. But the watch was ancient, vintage as he called it and it meant a lot to him. He didn’t act like it, but it broke his heart whenever he looked at it, hidden away in the top drawer of his desk. And it broke your heart. So, together with Simon, you scoured all different kinds of jewelry stores and online until you found the exact same model, working and in good condition.

John closed the lid of the box and pulled you even closer against himself. "Thank you." His voice was barely above a whisper as he pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was gentle at first, his lips moving slowly against yours as his hand came up to cup your cheek. You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as the kiss deepened. But before it could go too far, Johnny and Kyle came barreling back into the room. “I want a hat.” The Scot was grinning at the other male. “I’m not making you a hat.” Kyle shook his head, but the grin on his face betrayed him. You and John pulled apart, him looking annoyed while you just chuckled at the familiar antics.

“Oh? You guys done?” Simon nodded as Johnny and Kyle sat down again, a smirk growing on their lips. “So, now it’s time for her presents?” And oh, there were presents. From lingerie and jewelry to plane tickets for your dream vacation. By the time you had unwrapped and opened all of them, Simon and Johnny had disappeared into the kitchen to make breakfast. “You guys are crazy. That’s way too much!” John shook his head, squeezing you tighter against him. “Nonsense. You deserve so much more.” Kyle interrupted the Captain. “And some of this may be compensation for having to put up with Johnny.” Immediately, Scottish curses sounded from the kitchen, making you chuckle.

“Thank you, guys. I love you. All of you.” John pressed a kiss to your cheeks, Kyle matching it on the other side, before both of them pulled away, making eye contact. “There is actually one more gift, wait here.” Price shifted you from his lap and sat you down on the couch, before he and Kyle disappeared, closely followed by Simon and Johnny who left the kitchen and followed the other two soldiers. You were curious but decided to be a good girl and wait patiently. While doing so, you glanced over all of your presents again, a font smile tugging on your lips. You really loved these idiots.

Someone clearing their throat pulled you out of your thoughts and you looked up, finding the four soldiers standing in front of you, naked, safe for a pretty bow wrapped around each of their cocks. “Ready for your final present, love?” They all grinned at you and you couldn’t help but grin back. Hell yes, you were ready!

A/N: If you're seeing this, it means I can finally upload again! Yay! Idk why but Tumblr wouldn't let me upload the last few days, no matter what I tried it didn't work. But whenever this goes up, I hope I can go back to my normal schedule! Love you guys!

[dksfml]

off my face - yjw

pairing: jungwon x reader genre: soulmate au, mega FLUFF word count: 6.6k summary: in a world where each person has a soulmate mark indicating where they will be touched by their soulmate for the first time, there’s jungwon—the soccer team captain you’d like to be ruined by forever—who has no soulmate mark at all. what does that make you, someone whose mark has changed color because of him? author's note: finally!! here's your most awaited blond jungwon fic that i skipped sleep for<3333 inspired by this amazing prompt my friend sent me.

One touch and you got me stoned. Higher than I've ever known. You call the shots and I follow. Sunrise, but the night still young. No words, but we speak in tongues. If you let me, I might say too much.

You sat near the front row, posture perfect, eyes narrowed as Professor Min’s lecture on ancient mythology took a surprising turn. Today’s topic wasn’t just history—it was soulmate lore, the mysterious marks everyone was born with, and the myths that surrounded them. The professor’s calm, seasoned voice filled the room, but the air buzzed with barely contained excitement. Everyone was alert, even the usual back-row whisperers, captivated by the promise of something rare: a sanctioned discussion about their most private marks.

“These soulmate marks,” Professor Min began, his gaze sweeping the room with a faint smile, “are said to be the final traces of a bond forged in a past life. Legends tell us that in each lifetime, we may be separated from our soulmates, lost to distance or circumstance. But the marks,” he gestured to his own faintly darkened palm, “are said to be the soul’s way of leaving a trail—a reminder.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Everyone had a mark, a small patch of inky darkness, as distinct as fingerprints, mapped out on their bodies. Some had them on their palms or fingertips, waiting for the day a handshake or brush of fingers would light up that mark with color. Others had them in more curious places, whispering of fated touches in the most unlikely moments.

"The legend says," Professor Min continued, "that these marks were painted by one’s soulmate in a past life, a vow made in hopes to meet again, to find each other across time."

You clenched your pen a little tighter, the faint tickle of wonder battling the urge to keep your expression blank and unfeeling. You’d always kept your interest in soulmate marks private. They seemed so full of mystery, and the idea of your soulmate waiting for you somewhere was oddly… reassuring. You glanced down, conscious of the mark behind your knee, hidden like a strange secret that even you could barely understand. What kind of first touch would even reach there? The thought was both amusing and baffling, and you stifled a wry smile.

Around you, other students leaned in to chat, loud enough that their conversations blended into a steady hum. Your classmate Arin nudged her friend, laughing as she displayed the faint mark on her palm. “I’ve been dying to know who’ll shake my hand one day,” she whispered excitedly, her eyes glimmering with hope.

But your gaze drifted just beyond Arin, landing instead on a familiar figure lounging in the middle row with his legs stretched out, looking every bit like he was born to disrupt things without lifting a finger. Jungwon. Handsome in a way that seemed almost unfair, with striking, dark eyes framed by lashes that cast subtle shadows on his cheeks, and hair the color of midnight that fell in soft, tousled waves. He had this effortless, magnetic presence that drew people toward him, like he knew he didn’t need to try.

As captain of the soccer team and one of the most well-known faces on campus, Jungwon somehow managed to look both sharp and relaxed, as if the attention his looks or reputation brought him meant nothing. You’d been crushing on him since last year, an avid fan always present at his games, cheering him on like a lovesick fool. Whenever he scored a goal, you felt your heart leap, and you couldn’t help but unleash your inner fangirl, your excitement spilling over as you screamed his name. Right now, he seemed half-listening to his friends, a hint of a lazy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leaned back, eyes drifting up to the ceiling before refocusing on his friends. It was that easygoing confidence that made him impossible not to notice—and, for you, impossible not to think about.

It was a boy from his friend group, Jay, who interrupted the class chatter by slapping a hand down on the table and teasing, “Come on, Won. You don’t have a soulmate mark, my foot. No one gets off that easy.” The comment was light-hearted but loaded, and more than a few students turned to look.

To your surprise, Jungwon didn’t react with one of his usual witty comebacks or careless shrugs. Instead, he just rubbed the back of his neck, a hint of something almost vulnerable flashing across his face. “No, really,” he insisted, almost apologetically. “I don’t have one. I checked a million times as a kid.”

Your pen paused mid-note, and a slight, irrational disappointment prickled in your chest. It was hard to believe, especially about someone like Jungwon, whose very presence seemed destined to leave a mark on others. Soulmate marks might be rare, but someone like him not having one? It felt impossible, like a missing piece that no one noticed until it was too late.

For a fleeting moment, you wondered if maybe he just hadn’t found it yet. After all, some people only discovered their mark when it finally turned to color. Sometimes it wasn’t a visible spot on the skin but something far subtler—a shadow in the hue of their lips that would only brighten after a first kiss, or a darkness lingering in an eye, invisible until the gentle touch of someone wiping away their tears brought it to life. The thought sent a strange warmth to your cheeks as you glanced back toward him, wondering if Jungwon’s missing mark was just waiting for the right person to unlock it.

Still, he looked surprisingly honest, a faint hint of sadness clouding his otherwise bright gaze. For someone so magnetic, it was as if he was caught drifting in space, without any tether connecting him to anyone at all.

“Alright, alright,” Jay relented, raising his hands in surrender but laughing all the same. “Guess someone’s too cool to be fated to anyone, huh?”

The professor’s voice cut back in, and you forced yourself to refocus, though your mind lingered on Jungwon’s quiet expression and the flicker of something in his eyes, something both resigned and deeply private. Could he really be alone in a world where everyone else was bound to someone?

“Imagine having your mark on your knuckles,” Arin whispered beside you with a grin, oblivious to the moment that had just passed. “You’d probably knock your soulmate out before you even realized they were ‘the one’!”

Another round of laughter scattered through the room, like a shared inside joke. The air felt charged, as if everyone were suddenly curious about each other’s marks, glancing around with new eyes. You let out a small sigh, tapping your pen against your notebook with a faint smile. As much as you tried to keep up the class president, model-student act, the idea of soulmates fascinated you in a way you’d never quite admit.

When the bell finally rang, the room filled with that familiar end-of-class chaos. You started packing up, keeping your head down—until you noticed Jungwon slinging his bag over his shoulder, looking effortlessly put-together, as usual. He laughed at something his friend said, his expression relaxed, his dark eyes flickering with amusement. But you couldn’t help catching the faintest flicker of something else in his gaze as he glanced at his friends—like a momentary, unguarded look that felt… wistful?

Okay, maybe that was just you being overly imaginative.

You let out a little huff as you slung your own bag over your shoulder, shaking off the strange pity you’d felt moments before. So what if Jungwon didn’t have a mark? You barely even knew him. Well, you kind of knew him, but from a distance—and with way more daydreams than you’d like to admit. Still, it was silly to wonder about him, right? With your head full of these thoughts, you walked out into the hallway, lost in a world where maybe, just maybe, he was wondering about you, too.

And as you brushed past a group of friends, laughing and shoving each other, your hand slipped over the back of your knee, where your own mark was hidden—quiet, waiting, and as mysterious as ever.

The sky was an endless blue, stretching wide over the school field as your class spilled out onto the grass for PE. With the teacher conveniently on vacation, today’s instructions were simple: enjoy the free time. Most of your classmates took to the field, breaking off into little clusters for a lazy game of soccer, light stretches, or simple gossip sessions by the bleachers.

As class president, you took it upon yourself to ensure no one went too far or caused trouble. Your duty, as you saw it, was to survey your classmates from a slight distance, keeping an eye out with the calm, serious gaze you’d carefully perfected. Yet even from the sidelines, your eyes found themselves drifting toward a familiar figure on the field, drawn to him like magnets.

Jungwon was at the center of the field with his friends, casual and relaxed, but his every move carried an elegance that made your pulse skip. He was laughing at something his friend said, his eyes crinkling as he kicked the soccer ball back and forth, the glint of a confident smirk tugging at his lips. His ease on the field was mesmerizing, a mixture of strength and grace that made it hard to look away.

You reminded yourself to focus, scanning the field to check on the other groups. But before you could pull your attention back entirely, a voice called out, and you saw Jungwon pivot to chase the soccer ball—only for it to ricochet off his foot, headed directly toward you with alarming speed.

In the split second it took you to react, you felt a sharp thud against the back of your knees. The impact sent you stumbling forward, knees buckling beneath you as you tumbled to the ground. Pain flared up where the ball had struck, but it was drowned out by the shock of it all.

“Oh no—are you okay?” Jungwon’s voice was breathless with concern, his steps hurried as he reached you. You barely had a chance to process his arrival before he knelt beside you, face flushed and clearly panicked. His hand hovered awkwardly as if afraid to touch you, his usual calm replaced with something far more vulnerable.

“I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to— Are you hurt?” he stammered, his voice unusually soft. He reached out gently, his hands carefully brushing against your arm as he tried to help you up. “Can you stand?”

Your mind struggled to catch up to the moment, and it took everything you had to keep your stoic demeanor intact. Jungwon was close, closer than he’d ever been, and the intensity of his worried gaze was unexpectedly disarming. Even as pain pulsed through your knee, you couldn’t help but stare, captivated by how intensely he focused on you, as if everything else in the world had fallen away.

“I’m fine, really,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. But as soon as you tried to stand, pain shot up your leg.

Jungwon’s expression shifted to one of determination, and before you could protest, he slid one arm under your knees and lifted you up, his other arm around your shoulders. The world tilted as he held you in a firm, steady grip, his face barely inches from yours. “We’re getting you to the nurse. No arguments.”

You blinked, momentarily stunned by his closeness, by the warmth radiating from him. “Oh—okay.” The words left your mouth almost on instinct, your brain still catching up with the fact that Jungwon was carrying you, his focus set entirely on you. His hands brushed your arm as he adjusted his grip, and you felt a strange warmth bloom under your skin, something unfamiliar and electric.

The walk to the nurse’s office was quiet, but you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze flickered to you, the gentleness in his expression as he murmured, “Sorry again. I’d never forgive myself if I hurt the class president.”

Your lips parted, searching for something to say, but the way he looked at you—soft, maybe even a bit shy—left you wordless. All you could do was nod, your heart pounding louder with each step as you held onto the feeling of his arms around you, wondering if he could hear it too.

It wasn’t until you glanced down that you noticed it—a faint shift of color beneath your knee where the ball had struck. The mark, once hidden and dark, now radiated a subtle but unmistakable bright yellow hue, soft and warm against your skin.

You froze, eyes wide, as the realization settled in. Jungwon was still mumbling apologies, unaware of the discovery you’d just made. Only he could have caused the mark to change; he was the only one who had touched that spot. The idea left you breathless, your mind scrambling to make sense of it all.

In the clinic, the nurse examined your knee with a quick, professional assessment. “You’ll be fine,” she declared, sending you off with an ice pack and a faint smile. But your thoughts were still racing, tangled up in the startling realization that Jungwon might actually be your soulmate.

The whole walk back to class, you replayed the moment in your mind, trying to make sense of it. Maybe it was a coincidence. Perhaps someone had brushed the back of your knee at some other time, and you simply hadn’t noticed. But deep down, you knew the truth—the mark had only changed when Jungwon touched you.

And when you returned to class, he was there, hovering near the door with a worried frown. He looked up as you approached, eyes bright with relief.

“Are you okay?” he asked, a slight smile breaking through the concern etched into his features. “I was worried about you.”

Your heart skipped as you nodded, doing your best to keep your voice steady. “I’m fine. Just… a bit shaken up, that’s all.” You felt the weight of the new secret pressing down on you, but you forced yourself to smile.

Jungwon’s shoulders relaxed, and he chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in that effortlessly charming way of his. “I’m glad. I’ll be more careful with my aim next time.”

You smiled back, feeling the weight of the mark’s new color, of the quiet truth only you knew. As Jungwon returned to his seat, your gaze drifted to the back of your knee, where the mark lay hidden under the fabric of your clothes, now touched by color—by him.

In the days following the incident on the field, the world seemed to shift around you, humming with an energy you couldn’t quite shake. The back of your knee, where Jungwon’s touch had changed your soulmate mark to a soft, distinct yellow color, was a constant reminder of the possibility that your crush—Jungwon, the ever-handsome and kind soccer captain—might be something even more significant than you’d ever dared to imagine.

“How’s your knee?” he asked, his voice warm and tinged with that familiar gentleness that made your heart stutter.

“Oh, it’s fine, really!” You waved it off, attempting to tuck your leg further under your desk, hoping he wouldn’t notice the faint new color to the mark that still lingered behind your knee.

Jungwon didn’t seem to buy it. “Are you sure?” he asked, his brows furrowing as he leaned down, intent on seeing for himself. Before he could get a closer look, you tugged your skirt down a little farther, hiding the mark as best as you could.

“I’m sure, really,” you insisted, trying to keep your tone casual. “It’s just a little sore, nothing to worry about.”

For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze lingering on you, unreadable. Then he nodded, standing up with a quiet, sheepish smile. “Alright. I’ll trust you, but only if you promise to let me know if it starts hurting again.”

You managed a nod, clutching your books a little tighter to keep your hands steady. “I promise,” you said, hoping he didn’t notice the flicker of nerves in your eyes.

Your third shared class of the week was English, and just as the teacher assigned the day’s group work, the class began to shift into pairs. Coincidentally (or so you told yourself), the seating arrangement placed Jungwon near you that day.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft as he approached. He offered you one of his signature, heart-stopping smiles. “Mind if we pair up? I mean…if you’re okay with it.”

With an effort to keep your expression neutral, you nodded. “Sure,” you replied, your voice steady even though your heart was anything but.

Settling at a table near the window, you both pulled out your notebooks. The task was straightforward—analyzing a poem about soulmates. You caught a breath at the irony, and Jungwon, seemingly unfazed, began reading the passage aloud. His voice, low and calm, wove through the words as you listened, though your mind kept wandering to his every movement, the way his eyes flickered thoughtfully over the page, how his fingers held the pencil lightly but with intention.

“What do you think?” he asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You cleared your throat, willing your focus back to the assignment. “I think…well, it’s romantic. But it’s also kind of tragic, right? There’s always this sense of waiting—like, what if they don’t meet?”

Jungwon’s gaze flickered up, lingering on your face a little longer than necessary. “Yeah, that’s true,” he agreed, his voice thoughtful. “The idea that you’re waiting your whole life for just one person…it’s a lot of pressure.”

He paused, eyes settling on you, as if searching for something beneath the calm exterior you held so tightly. “Do you… believe in it? Soulmates, I mean?”

Caught off guard, you looked down, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on the edge of your notebook. You thought of your parents, of their own lovely story about finding each other through their marks, and how you’d grown up with those tales of destiny. And now, here you were, sitting with the very boy who might be your own fated match.

“I think,” you began slowly, “that I want to believe in it. My parents…they have one of those classic stories. It’s hard not to believe in soulmates when you’ve heard stories like that all your life.”

He nodded, listening intently. “I get that. I guess…sometimes I wonder what it would be like. But it’s hard to picture when you don’t…you know, have any marks yourself.”

The quiet sadness in his tone took you by surprise. You’d never considered what it might be like to go through life without a soulmate mark, to feel like something intrinsic was missing, a feeling that destiny had passed you by. Suddenly, your thoughts flickered back to the legends the elders told—how markless people were said to carry the weight of unrequited love from a past life, doomed to wander without a soulmate to mark them in this one. The idea hung heavy in the air, mingling with your sympathy for him.

“Maybe it doesn’t matter, then,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Maybe people without marks find their person too, in other ways.” You couldn’t help but think that perhaps Jungwon was one of those souls, burdened by a love that never came to fruition.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. Jungwon seemed lost in thought, his gaze drifting out the window as he considered your words. And just then, a strange sense of comfort washed over you, knowing that even if he was unaware of it, you shared a connection that went beyond what either of you could see.

“Maybe,” he said finally, and then he flashed you a lopsided grin. “Well, even if soulmates are real, maybe it’s a good thing I’m mark-free. I don’t think I’d want someone to find out I was their soulmate because I hit them with a soccer ball.”

His laughter rang out, and you couldn’t help but join him, but beneath the mirth, your heart clenched. You wanted to tell him everything—to reveal the secret that could bridge the chasm between you. But as the words formed on your lips, fear gripped you. What if you were wrong? What if he truly didn’t have a soulmate mark, and this moment of connection was just a fleeting illusion?

So you swallowed hard, plastering a smile on your face that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well, let’s just keep that between us, then,” you replied, hoping to mask the anxiety swirling inside you.

Inside, the truth weighed heavy, a secret that felt more like a burden than a bond. Keeping it hidden seemed safer, easier—even if it left you feeling like a ghost, drifting alongside him but never truly reaching out. The thought of him being one of those markless souls—the ones who carried the pain of a love never realized—made you ache. You didn’t want him to feel that emptiness, and yet, here you were, hiding a truth that might shatter the fragile connection you shared.

Perhaps it was better this way. Better to hold onto your heartache in silence than risk shattering the bond you had built, no matter how tenuous it felt. As you returned to the assignment, the bittersweet taste of longing lingered on your tongue, mixing with the thrill of possibility, leaving you torn between the hope of what could be and the fear of what might never come to pass.

Finally, during your biology class, your teacher assigned a laboratory cleaning rotation. By the luck of the draw—or maybe a twist of fate—you found yourself paired with Jungwon. It was supposed to be a simple task, but as the two of you gathered supplies and began tidying up the classroom after hours, you felt the weight of every quiet moment.

Jungwon appeared beside you as you straightened a stack of textbooks, arms full of markers and erasers. His casual, laid-back attitude only heightened the quiet thrill that being near him sparked in you. As he handed you an eraser, your fingers brushed slightly, and you pulled back quickly, heart racing.

"Are you always this… serious?" Jungwon teased, his lips curving into a half-smile. "I mean, you don’t have to look like we’re cleaning the whole school."

You rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile. “It’s just how I work. I take tasks seriously.”

He nodded, still smiling. “You’re impressive, you know. It’s like…you’re always so composed, like nothing rattles you.”

Caught off guard by his observation, you froze momentarily, not sure how to respond. Behind your serious exterior, you were anything but composed—especially around him. Before you could answer, he turned away to tidy the bookshelves, leaving you wondering if he’d picked up on the effect he had on you.

After a while, Jungwon returned to the task at hand, dusting off a few of the windowsills. It was quiet for a few minutes, the sounds of your combined effort filling the room. You both worked in sync, a silent rhythm that had developed without either of you realizing it. And then, with an abruptness that caught you off guard, he spoke again.

“Hey,” he said, hesitating. “I know this might be a weird question, but… where’s your soulmate mark?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications you weren’t ready to unravel. Your heart thudded as you carefully set down the books you’d been holding, gathering your thoughts.

You felt a flush creep up your cheeks. "Um, it's… it's on my knee," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The intimacy of the moment made you shy, and you instinctively shifted your weight, the hem of your skirt falling to cover your knee even more.

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. “Oh? Is it… already in color?”

You hesitated for a brief moment, weighing your words. “Uh, yeah,” you replied, biting your lip. “It changed a while ago. But it’s not a big deal.” You left out the part about him possibly being your soulmate, feeling the weight of that truth settle heavily in the air between you.

His expression shifted slightly, disappointment flashing across his features before he masked it with a casual smile. “That’s cool,” he said, his voice a bit quieter now. “I guess… it must be nice to have that certainty.”

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep the mood light despite the sudden heaviness in your chest. “I mean, it’s comforting, I suppose.”

But beneath your words, a sense of longing stirred. You noticed how his gaze faltered for a moment, and it struck you then how much he had hoped for something different. He had seemed eager, maybe even hopeful, and the realization stung a little.

Jungwon cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over you both. “So, um… did you see the last soccer game?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I think we really need to work on our defense.”

His attempt at lightheartedness felt slightly forced, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. Still, it was nice to see him trying to shake off the heaviness from moments before.

“Yeah, I caught a bit of it,” you replied, grateful for the shift in focus. “You guys played well, though a couple of those goals were pretty close calls.”

He chuckled, the tension easing just a little. “Yeah, I think I almost gave our coach a heart attack with that last-minute save,” he said, grinning. It was an infectious smile, and you found yourself smiling back despite the weight still resting in the back of your mind.

The annual school festival arrived faster than expected, and the campus buzzed with activity and excitement. Classrooms were transformed into themed booths, hallways were draped with handmade decorations, and students wore colorful festival shirts and badges, their faces bright with paint and laughter. You found yourself stationed at the face-painting booth, brush in hand, ready to tackle the endless line of eager students.

You’d always enjoyed events like these—participating in the festival offered you a rare chance to relax and feel connected to your classmates outside of the usual seriousness you maintained as class president. Here, you were just another student, painting stars, hearts, and stripes on familiar faces.

“Hey, what’s up? Need a painter?” your friend Taeyoung called out to the next group approaching your booth. You followed his gaze and felt your heart skip when you recognized Jungwon and his friends heading your way, laughing and jostling each other. He wore a loose festival shirt with sleeves rolled up, a casual look that somehow made him even more handsome. You quickly glanced down, suddenly hyper-aware of your paintbrushes and the paper towels you clutched a little too tightly.

The booth was busy, and with most of your fellow painters occupied, it didn’t take long for Taeyoung to pair Jungwon with you. “Hey, Y/N, looks like you’ve got a VIP customer! Captain Jungwon wants to be a canvas today,” he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he nudged Jungwon playfully.

Jungwon chuckled, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—an eagerness mixed with a hint of shyness. “Yeah, I guess I’m in your hands now,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “No pressure, right?”

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure as your heart raced. “Uh, right! No pressure at all,” you replied, your voice a little too bright. “What do you have in mind?”

You forced yourself to meet Jungwon’s eyes, fighting back the nervous excitement bubbling in your chest. “So… what would you like?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jungwon’s usual confident smile softened a little, and he seemed slightly hesitant, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that made your stomach flutter. “Maybe a couple of stars on my cheeks? And… maybe a small cat on my forehead?”

You stifled a laugh at his request, realizing that behind his composed demeanor, he had a playful side you hadn’t seen before. “A star and a cat. Got it,” you whispered, dipping your brush into white paint. You reached out carefully to steady his face, tilting it slightly toward the light. Your fingers lightly touched his cheek, and you couldn’t ignore the spark that jolted through you at the contact.

Jungwon closed his eyes briefly, letting out a small breath. You tried to ignore the slight flush you felt creeping up your neck, focusing on drawing a perfect star on his left cheek. You painted in silence, but every so often, he’d open his eyes and glance at you, making your heart race each time.

With one cheek finished, you moved to the other side. He leaned in closer, giving you the perfect angle. The space between you seemed to shrink with every second, the sounds of the bustling festival fading into a distant hum. You were hyper-aware of everything—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth radiating from him, and how your fingers gently brushed his skin. When you finished with the stars, you pulled back slightly to look at your work, meeting his gaze as you did.

“They look good,” he murmured, his voice softer than usual.

You swallowed, breaking eye contact to reach for a new brush and dip it in black paint. “Now for the cat,” you said, trying to stay calm. “Hold still.”

You carefully moved to part his hair at the center of his forehead. As your fingers brushed through his bangs, you froze, your eyes widening as you saw something strange—a small patch of his dark hair was shifting, lightening to a soft honey-blonde under your touch.

“Um… Jungwon,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath as you stared at the transformed lock of hair falling against his forehead. “Your hair…”

“What about it?” He turned to you with a hint of confusion, glancing up as if trying to catch a glimpse of the change. “Did I mess it up?”

You shook your head, the words tangling in your throat as disbelief washed over you. “It’s… it’s changing color.”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard, then brushed his fingers through the area you’d touched. His movements stilled, the warmth in his expression fading, replaced by something deeper—something unreadable. The air thickened around you, a heavy silence filled with unspoken questions.

“Are you sure?” he asked quietly, his gaze searching yours as if trying to decode the truth hidden beneath your surprise.

You nodded slowly, your heart racing. “Yeah, I… I thought it was just the paint at first, but… it’s definitely not.”

The realization hung in the air, electric and palpable, igniting a spark of tension that sent shivers down your spine. Jungwon’s fingers gently traced the newly lightened strands of hair, his expression a mix of wonder and trepidation. You could feel your pulse quicken, an exhilarating rush flooding through you as you grasped the meaning behind this strange phenomenon.

Time seemed to stretch in that moment, each heartbeat echoing like a drum in your chest. Here he was, the boy you’d admired from afar, unexpectedly transformed before your eyes. Jungwon—the one who had unwittingly painted your world in vibrant colors, now literally changing right in front of you.

Suddenly, self-consciousness washed over you like a cold wave. You averted your gaze, stepping back instinctively. “I—I should go finish with the others. They’re probably waiting for me…” Your voice wavered, betraying the rush of emotions threatening to spill over.

Before you could dwell on it, a paint container wobbled on the edge of the table, knocking into your elbow. In your panic, you stumbled, sending brushes and colors sprawling over yourself. “Oh no!” you yelped, scrambling to clean up the mess.

“Y/N, wait!” Jungwon exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise. He stepped closer, his hand closing around yours, halting your frantic movements. “Stop. Just breathe.”

His grip was steadying, grounding you amidst the chaos of your racing thoughts. “Let’s find somewhere quiet, okay? You need to clean up.” His voice held a calmness that contrasted sharply with the storm inside you.

You felt a rush of warmth at his concern, but your mind spun with confusion. “But… the booth—”

“Trust me,” he said, his gaze unwavering, a silent promise passing between you. “Just for a moment. Let’s talk.”

With a nod, you allowed him to guide you away from the festival’s noise, your heart racing not just from the moment, but from the undeniable connection building between you. The thrill of discovery was tempered by the anxiety of what it all meant, and yet, in Jungwon’s presence, you felt something shift—something new and exciting, just waiting to be explored.

He led you through a quieter section of the campus, where the walls were lined with colorful murals painted by students, the air filled with the faint scent of paint and creativity. The laughter and chatter from the festival faded into the background, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves overhead and the distant sound of music drifting from the booths.

As you turned a corner, Jungwon paused, the air around you suddenly thick with anticipation. He glanced around, ensuring you were alone, then leaned against the cool brick wall, his posture relaxed yet focused. His gaze locked onto yours, intensity radiating from him. “My hair… it’s slowly turning blond. Isn’t this what soulmate marks are supposed to be like?”

His words hung in the air, electrifying the space between you. You felt the weight of the moment press down, your heart racing like a wild drum in your chest. “Right… your soulmate mark,” you stammered, the tremor in your voice betraying the chaos inside. “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought it might just be a coincidence, but now… it's all starting to make sense.”

Jungwon stepped closer, the seriousness in his expression deepening. “You mean you knew?” His voice was low, the edge of urgency evident. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The air crackled with tension, and you felt your pulse quicken. “I didn’t know it was you! I thought—” you cut yourself off, frustration bubbling within you. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship or make things awkward. You’ve been my crush longer than you’ve been a friend. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep things from being awkward with you, especially when my mark changed?”

Jungwon’s expression shifted, vulnerability breaking through his confidence. “Your mark... is it.… when did it change? Am I—was it before… or after we met?” His voice was tight, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.

You took a deep breath, feeling the memories rush back. “The day you carried me to the nurse’s office, you idiot.”

He blinked, taken aback by your response. “Wait… that day? But I thought...”

His expression softened slightly, the intensity in his eyes shifting as he took a step closer. You held your breath as he knelt down, his fingers hovering over your soulmate mark. The moment felt electric, a mix of vulnerability and anticipation coursing through you.

“Can I…?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, giving him permission to touch it. As his fingers brushed against your skin, a shiver ran down your spine. Jungwon chuckled softly, the sound breaking some of the tension between you. “Can you believe this? It feels just like yesterday when I accidentally hit my crush with a soccer ball at her knees,” he said, shaking his head with a bemused smile. “The same crush I’ve wanted to approach since 10th grade but was always too afraid to mess up, especially with how she glares at boys.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the image of a younger Jungwon fumbling with his words as he tried to impress you suddenly vivid in your mind. “I didn’t mean to scare you off,” you admitted, your heart swelling with warmth. “I thought you were just… confident, you know?”

He shrugged, a hint of shyness creeping back into his demeanor. “I try to be. But it’s hard when you’re crushing on someone who’s out of your league.”

“Out of my league?” you repeated, incredulous. “Jungwon, you’re the captain of the soccer team! Everyone looks up to you.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous around you,” he replied, his gaze locking onto yours, sincerity pouring from his words. “It’s different with you. You make me want to be better.”

The air between you thickened with unspoken emotions, each heartbeat echoing the connection that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. You both stood on the edge of something monumental, the laughter of the festival fading away, leaving only the two of you and the promise of what lay ahead.

The next day, Jungwon strolled confidently down the hallway, his head of hair transformed into a stunning honeyed blonde that turned heads with every step. The shift was striking—bold, noticeable, and oddly fitting—making it seem as though he had always intended to embrace this change. Whispers and awestruck glances followed him like a gentle wave, yet beneath that cool exterior, you could see the spark of mischief in his eyes, especially when they met yours.

“Wow, he really went all out,” Arin murmured beside you, her voice a mix of surprise and admiration. “He must’ve bleached the whole thing. I didn’t think Jungwon had that in him.”

You nodded, trying to maintain your composure while your heart raced. “Yeah… surprising, isn’t it?” you replied, though a smile betrayed your nonchalance as you watched him navigate the crowd like he owned the place.

Unaware of the true significance of his transformation, your classmates continued their commentary. “Looks good on him, though,” one girl remarked, her tone infused with genuine admiration. “Like he was meant to have it all along.”

Jungwon seemed completely unfazed by the attention, wearing his new look with a blend of pride and ease, as if his blonde hair was a badge of honor that only you understood. It was a mark that connected the two of you in ways that no one else could fathom—an intimate secret wrapped in boldness.

As the hallway thinned out, he lingered by his locker, his casual demeanor slipping just a bit as he caught your gaze from across the hall. He lifted a hand, brushing back his hair with an effortless charm that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach—a subtle nod to the secret you shared.

You walked over, your heart pounding just a little faster than usual. “It suits you,” you said, keeping your voice low, the air between you thick with unspoken words.

His eyes softened, gratitude shimmering in their depths. “Good to know,” he murmured, his tone low but filled with warmth. “After all, it’s your fault it looks this good.”

A faint blush crept up your cheeks at his words, and before you could respond, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice even more as he added, “And don’t worry. The secret’s safe.”

In that crowded hallway, with laughter and footsteps echoing around you, it felt like you and Jungwon were enveloped in your own little world. His blonde hair, like a silent vow, was a reminder of what only the two of you understood: a hidden connection, pulsing with promise and anticipation, waiting to be explored.

[vaginalvr]

Okokokokok so I’ve been thinking for a while about this idea but reader and Spencer are like hook up buddies or in a relationship in secret. During sex reader leaves a ton of scratches on Spencer and the team finds out about them via those scratches. Can be as filthy or clean as you would like

Mwah 💋

if you insist 😋😋😋

a/n got a little carried away and didn’t do my hw but worth it!!

cw: Secret relationship, unprotected sex (fictional), rough/possessive sex, scratching, dirty talk, mild public embarrassment, team teasing, aftercare

You were so wrong.

The first time it happened—an accidental blur of passion in a hotel room two cases ago—you told yourself it’d be just the once. A stress release. A moment of weakness. But now, three months in, you’re tangled in his sheets again, nails digging into his back as he fucks into you with such intense purpose that your voice is barely working.

“Spence—fuck—harder,” you gasp, legs locked around his waist.

He obliges with a low grunt, the sound rough and possessive, driving his hips deeper until the headboard slams the wall. His hands grip your hips, fingers bruising your skin as he fucks you like he owns you.

“You like this?” he pants, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You like when I make you scream my name?”

“Yes—god, yes—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he drags your hips up just enough to hit that devastating angle, and you keen so loud he has to kiss you to muffle the sound. Your nails scrape down his back in sheer reflex, leaving raised red trails in their wake. He hisses into your mouth but keeps going, chasing your high with relentless determination.

“You’re gonna make me come,” you cry out, one hand fisting in his hair, the other clawing at his shoulder. “Fuck—Spencer—”

“Let go for me, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Want to feel you come all over me.”

The orgasm rips through you, a blinding shockwave that has your body arching and trembling under his. You moan his name, over and over, nails digging deeper as if anchoring yourself to him. Spencer groans, losing his rhythm just enough for you to feel him start to unravel.

“God, I’m gonna—shit—” His hips stutter. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

He spills inside you with a shudder, gripping your waist like he’ll never let go.

⸻

The room is quiet now, save for your breathing.

You lie tangled in Spencer’s sheets, skin still prickling from the aftershocks. He rests his forehead against your shoulder, breath hot, damp curls clinging to his forehead.

“I think I actually blacked out for a second,” you mumble, making him laugh quietly against your skin.

“I noticed,” he murmurs. “You left…a lot of evidence.”

You glance at his back. Red lines. Welts. Some might turn into bruises.

“Oh, shit.”

Spencer looks far too pleased. “Don’t apologize. I liked it.”

You sigh and flop back onto the bed. “Yeah, but… we work with profilers. How are we supposed to hide that?”

“We’ll be careful,” he says, nuzzling your neck. “We always are.”

⸻

You are not, in fact, careful.

The next morning is a disaster waiting to happen.

You’d barely finished dressing in Spencer’s guest bathroom when you noticed the time. You hadn’t planned to spend the night, but the sex was too good—and now you’re both late.

The plan: Arrive separately. Pretend everything’s normal. Keep your hands to yourselves. Easy.

The reality: You both show up at the same time, with suspiciously matching yawns and Spencer looking like he lost a fight with a cat in the dark.

“Morning,” Morgan says, sipping his coffee. “Rough night, Pretty Boy?”

Spencer blinks. “Uh. What?”

JJ, walking in, freezes mid-step. “Oh my God.”

You turn, panic prickling under your skin.

“What?” Spencer says, confused—until JJ points to his neck.

“Spencer,” she says slowly, clearly trying not to laugh, “you have scratches. A lot of them.”

Morgan leans closer, raising an eyebrow. “Damn, someone got wild. Who knew the genius had it in him?”

Rossi walks in, glances at Spencer’s neck, and just smirks. “Looks like someone had a good night.”

You want to melt into the floor.

Spencer, poor thing, goes beet red. “I—it’s not—They’re not—It’s—”

Emily strolls by, pausing long enough to inspect his collarbone. “Jesus, Reid. Was this a date or an exorcism?”

“Okay,” you blurt out, desperate to redirect, “can we maybe not turn this into an interrogation?”

“Ohhh.” Emily turns to you, grinning wickedly. “Getting defensive, are we?”

You open your mouth—then promptly close it.

Silence.

Morgan’s eyes narrow as he looks between the two of you. “Wait a minute…”

“Don’t,” Spencer warns.

“You two?” JJ says, wide-eyed. “No. No way.”

“Way,” Emily says, delighted. “That makes so much sense.”

Morgan lets out a loud laugh. “Reid! You dog! And here I thought you were all about statistics and chess nights.”

“He is,” you mutter, cheeks burning. “He just also happens to be really fucking good in bed.”

The room explodes.

JJ gasps. Rossi chuckles into his coffee. Garcia, walking in late, hears that last part and squeals loud enough to make Hotch look up from his office.

And then, of course, he walks out.

You both freeze.

Hotch surveys the scene with the quiet menace of a man used to chaos. “Is there a reason everyone’s yelling about Spencer’s sex life?”

Your heart drops into your shoes.

Rossi, ever the chaos instigator, shrugs. “It’s come to our attention that Dr. Reid has a secret admirer. Or maybe not so secret, considering the claw marks.”

Spencer groans. You cover your face.

Hotch raises a brow and looks at Spencer, then you.

“You’re both adults,” he says flatly. “Just… try to be discreet. And if either of you show up covered in hickeys again, I’m filing a wellness report.”

He turns and walks back into his office like he didn’t just casually approve your sex life.

⸻

The teasing doesn’t stop for a week.

Spencer can’t so much as yawn without someone winking at him. You can’t drink from a water bottle without Morgan muttering, “Gotta stay hydrated after all that cardio, huh?”

But despite the embarrassment, you can’t stop thinking about that night. Or the way Spencer looked afterward—flushed, breathless, marked.

Yours.

So the next time you end up in bed together, you don’t hold back.

You kiss him hard, fingers raking down his chest. He pulls you close, and his voice is rough in your ear.

“Go ahead,” he whispers. “Mark me again.”

And you do.

Because the secret’s out—and he’s yours.

[dark-fanfics-moon]

THE PET Remmick X Reader

WARNING: POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOUR AND DEATH OF MINOR CHARACTERS IN THIS CHAPTER ! BLOOD ! NOT FOR MINORS OR SENSITIVE SOULS ! Synopsis: You let him in ? Now, face the consequences.

(This is my first Sinners fanfic. I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also, you have French ancestry here.)

The scent of roasted meat and sweet cinnamon filled the air, wrapping itself around laughter and the lively sound of fiddles. The neighboring village’s festival was in full swing, spilling over with cheer. String lights crisscrossed above, glowing amber against the twilight sky. People danced in pairs, whirling and stomping to the beat, while children darted between tables with sticky fingers and half-eaten pies.

You were seated on a bench near the firepit, a flaky pastry cradled in your hand. It was warm and sweet, filled with something jammy that stuck to your lips. You had just taken a bite when the knock came.

Knock-knock.

You blinked, brushing crumbs from your mouth as you rose. You made your way towards the wooden gate that separated the garden from the winding road, the music slightly muffled behind you.

When you opened it, you saw him.

A man with bright eyes and windswept dark hair grinned at you. A banjo was strapped across his back, and his shirt was rolled to the elbows, streaked faintly with road dust. He stood with the ease of someone who traveled often, who’d seen a dozen roads and made friends in every town he passed. Behind him stood two others—one, a quiet woman with dark hair, a blue dress and a tambourine at her hip, the other a man holding a lantern and wearing a wary sort of smile.

“Hey there !” the first man greeted, his voice thick with a warm Irish lilt. “Me name is Remmick. These two next to me are called Bert and Joan. And me friends and I are travelin’ musicians. We heard music and thought we could maybe join ye happy bunch ?”

His smile was so bright, so full of good cheer, you couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Where are you all from, friends ?” you asked, tilting your head.

Remmick chuckled, eyes dancing. “Ah, here and there. Wherever the music leads, really. But most recently ? A little place past the Ridgefolk Hills—though I reckon that name means nothin’ unless you’ve lost a boot in its bog.”

You laughed softly.

The woman beside him added, “We’ve played in towns where the lanterns don’t go out ‘til dawn. Thought we’d see if this one keeps the same rhythm.”

Remmick tilted his head, still grinning. “Ah, we’re from all over, really. Bits o’ the Isles, some time in the south…but right now ?” He winked at you. “We’re from wherever the road takes us—and tonight, I’m hopin’ that’s here.”

You glanced back at the flickering lights, the sounds of joy and clinking glasses behind you, and then to the trio at your gate.

“Well,” you said, stepping aside with a smile, “no reason to keep music waiting. Come on in.”

Remmick’s grin stretched even wider—wolfish and warm all at once—as he tipped an invisible hat. “Much obliged.”

The woman beside him gave you a grateful nod, her long fingers tightening on the neck of her instrument. She had sharp eyes that missed nothing, and you got the sense she was the one who made sure the group didn’t starve or freeze when the road got cruel. The tall man murmured a thank you under his breath as he stepped inside, looking a little like he’d never seen so many lights in one place.

The moment their boots hit the flagstone courtyard, the party seemed to notice them—people turned, curious, expectant, drawn by the presence of strangers like moths to a new flame. A hush fell, not of suspicion, but of curiosity. Somewhere, the fiddle player slowed, notes trailing into the night like a question waiting to be answered.

Remmick cleared his throat, lifting a banjo hidden behind his back. “Evenin’ folks,” he called out cheerfully, “I hope ye don’t mind us joinin’. We come bearing songs and no shortage of cheer.”

Someone—probably Maris, already flushed with too much elderflower wine—clapped and shouted, “Only if ya play somethin’ worth dancin’ to !”

That seemed to relax the atmosphere as some people started laughing around the garden.

Remmick gave a mock bow. “Challenge accepted, milady.”

Then the music began—low and playful at first, the woman’s strange instrument thrumming like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Remmick’s banjo played wonderfully, light and bright, and the tall man took out a pair of small drums, tapping out a rhythm that felt like feet hitting the road.

It was a sound that didn’t ask to be heard—it insisted.

And just like that, the courtyard was alight again, laughter rising like sparks from a fire, the party folding them into its rhythm as though they’d always been meant to arrive at your little party tonight.

And you—well, you stood at the edge, pastry forgotten, watching Remmick play and sing, wondering just how far these travelers had come from and how long they were planning to stay. His eyes met yours at times and you couldn’t deny that his smile did make your heart skip a beat. He seemed to be around your age. Perhaps a few years older—but attractive nonetheless.

As the final twang of Remmick’s banjo danced into the air, the crowd erupted into cheers and clapping, the kind that rattled tankards and lifted spirits higher than the smoke curling into the stars. You found yourself smiling without even meaning to, hands coming together in a steady, appreciative rhythm.

Remmick caught your eye once more and gave you a sly wink, still catching his breath, curls damp at the edges from the firelight’s heat. You were about to turn and fetch him something to drink when your father’s booming voice cut through the air like a blade through butter.

“Well now,” he said, too loudly and a little too proud. “That was fine, lad, real fine—but it’s my daughter who’s got the voice that’ll stop a room dead.”

Your heart stopped right along with the hum of the party.

“Pa,” you hissed under your breath, stepping towards him with your cheeks burning. “Manners. They’re guests.”

But he was already clapping a firm hand on Remmick’s shoulder, all hearty laughter and puffed-up pride. “You wouldn’t believe the songs she can sing. Clear as a bell, that one. Got it from her mother. Girl’s too shy to show off, but get her goin’ and you’ll swear the gods themselves hush just to listen.”

Remmick turned to you slowly, that grin of his curling again—but now with something softer at the edges. “Is that so, lassie ? Ye can sing ?”

You blinked, trying not to glare at your father, who now looked immensely pleased with himself and entirely unaware of the way your stomach had dropped.

“Well, sometimes,” you murmured, suddenly very interested in your shoes.

But Remmick only stepped forward, banjo cradled in one arm like a sleeping child. “Well, if ya ever feel like sharin’, I’d count meself lucky to hear it,” he encouraged you gently. “But only if it’s your idea, not yer Pa’s. I wouldn’t want to sound too pushy now…a’right ?”

He glanced at your father with a crooked grin. “Though I do appreciate a proud father. That’s a rare sort of music, too.”

The party had fallen into a hush again, but this time it was not out of curiosity—it was anticipation. You hadn’t stood in the middle of a crowd like this in years, not since you were a child humming lullabies in your mother’s sun-drenched kitchen, her flour-dusted hands clapping quietly along. But now, under the heavy dusk sky and the golden festival lights strung like constellations, you took a breath and let it catch deep in your chest.

Then you began to sing.

Soft at first, almost trembling, the words laced in French. But as the melody poured out—dark, rich, and aching with something deeper than memory—your voice steadied, growing bolder.

“J’avais un amant

Depuis quelques mois

Je l’aimais de toute mon âme

Mais il m'a quitté

Sans savoir pourquoi Il a brisé mon cœur de femme…”

People began to stop where they stood. The clinking of mugs faded, the footsteps slowed. Even the children paused their games. The music of the words—foreign to many—was understood nonetheless. A woman scorned. Champagne-laced laughter masking the ache of a broken heart. Madness blooming like roses from betrayal.

“Et moi sur la table, j’ai pris un couteau

Et ma vengeance fut cruelle…”

Your voice rose, fearless now, resonating with the power of grief turned to fury, sweetness turned to steel. Some stared. Others closed their eyes, swaying. Your father had gone still, his pride now touched with something more reverent.

Remmick didn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. A smile graced his features as he heard your voice and his eyes glistening slightly. You thought it was because the song was rather melancholic, but his smile made you understand that he was admiring you and it made your heart race in your chest. Your voice became louder and trembling slightly under such a heavy look. It made your cheeks burn with heat—not only because of the effort.

“Oui, j'étais grise

J'ai fais une bêtise

J'ai tué mon gigolo !”

When you reached the final note, your voice trembling on the edge of that last, heart-wrenched word—

“Mon amant d’coeur

M’a rendu folle…”

—there was a moment of utter stillness following your performance.

Then came the applause.

It started slow, as if people were unsure if they’d been witness to art or a confession. But then it built, wave upon wave of clapping, cheering, even whistling from the back of the courtyard. People stomped their feet, raised their drinks, and called your name with giddy disbelief.

Remmick stepped forward, banjo hanging forgotten at his side. He looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes. His unmistakable smile making your brain forget all caution as he bowed slightly.

“Christ above,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. “And here I thought I knew how to tell a story. Your Pa was right. Such a beautiful voice is meant to be heard.”

You looked at him and smiled, breath still coming in soft waves from the song, your voice quiet but steady.

“You are just as impressive, sir.”

Remmick blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Then that boyish grin returned—slower this time, softer around the edges.

“Careful,” he murmured, with a playful tilt of his head. “Flatterin’ a musician’s a dangerous game. We’re known t’follow compliments like hounds on a scent.”

He stepped a little closer, not enough to make it obvious, but just enough that you could smell the road-dust and campfire smoke clinging to his shirt. “But I mean it, lass,” he added, voice lowering a touch. “That wasn’t just singin’. That was…somethin’ else. Like ya sang straight through the air and stitched it shut behind ye.”

Before you could answer, a loud cheer broke out to your left.

“Oi !” shouted Maris again, already climbing up onto a barrel. “Someone get this lass a drink—and this poor fella too, he looks like he’s been struck dumb !”

More laughter followed. You felt so embarrassed at Maris’ words, the moment scattering like sparks in the wind.

Remmick chuckled, shaking his head. “Your people are wild.”

You raised a brow, lifting your skirt slightly in mock formality. “You’re not goin’ to run away now, are you sir ?”

“Not a chance.” He offered you his arm like a gentleman—albeit one with dusty sleeves and banjo-calloused fingers. “Now come on. I believe we’ve both earned a drink. And maybe, if I’m lucky, another song ?”

You stepped away with the Irish musician and smiled at your father who gave you a supportive thumbs up. He still hoped for grandchildren and he wouldn’t get mad if you married as soon as possible. You had tried to approach men before, but it was the first time you had felt such a connection with one of them. You liked him and he seemed to like you.

Once far away enough, Remmick stepped a little closer, still giving you that look—not of a man who saw a pretty girl, but of someone who had just stumbled across a secret, a buried treasure sung into the open. “That song…I’ve never heard anything like it. Who taught you that ?”

You glanced toward the edge of the festival, where the shadows had softened into the dark, and the music had shifted to something lighter now—something meant for dancing again. “My mother,” you admitted softly. “She used to sing it when she’d had a little too much wine. Always said French songs were the best for heartbreak. And she had had her fair share before meeting my father.”

Remmick nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth still curved. “Then I owe her a great deal…for passin’ that down.”

You smiled before you heard your father shout from behind you: “Young lad ! How about you invite my daughter for a dance before you both take roots, yeah ?!"

You shot a warning glance at your father who seemed unable to hold his tongue after the number of shots in his bloodstream.

Remmick chuckled awkwardly and hesitated, then offered his hand, with that charming, exaggerated flourish of a troubadour in a tale. “Would the lady do me the honor of a dance ?”

You looked at him for a moment—really looked.

In the golden spill of lantern-light, Remmick didn’t seem like the sort of man who belonged to one place. He looked like the wind—here for a moment, then off to some far corner of the world where the roads were still dirt and the stars still sang. And yet, right now, he stood still. Waiting. Just for you.

With a smile you couldn’t quite hide, you slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“I suppose the lady would.”

His grin could’ve lit the road back to the mountains. “Careful,” he said, leading you gently back toward the music. “You keep sayin’ yes to me, and I’ll start thinkin’ I’ve got a chance with such a sweet girl.”

You laughed, low and warm. “I think you already do.”

He seemed surprised for a moment before smiling brightly at you. The music picked up—fiddles and tambourines and clapping hands—and the people had started to twirl again, skirts brushing the cobblestones, boots thudding to the beat. No one stared now; the spotlight had moved, the night embracing you like just another part of the song.

Remmick took your hand, one at your waist, light as a secret.

“A’right now,” he murmured, his Irish lilt softening with the moment, “don’t worry if you’re not good at dancin’. Just follow me.”

You did. And the night carried on—spinning, laughing, warm as firelight on your skin—and for just a little while, you forgot the difference between music and magic. The world around you blurred into rhythm and laughter—faces twirling, skirts flaring, the scent of honeyed pastries and woodsmoke curling through the air. Remmick guided you gently, never pulling, just offering. His hand was secure at your waist, fingers light on your skin, like he’d learned to hold fragile things without breaking them.

…You should have probably seen that something was not exactly normal with that man at that moment. But you were dancing and having fun. He was charming and you had had quite the exciting night. So you didn’t notice anything wrong with your dancing companion.

As the music slowed—just a little, just enough to let hearts breathe—he leaned in close, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“I always wanted to dance with a pretty lady under the moonlight,” he whispered.

The words weren’t rehearsed. They didn’t tumble out with the smoothness of a practiced charmer. No, they were quiet, like something he’d kept tucked deep in his chest for a long, long time. You turned your face just slightly, close enough to catch the earnest gleam in his eyes—lit not by the lanterns but by the silver light drifting down from the night sky.

“And now ?” you asked, voice soft as lace.

He smiled, a little crooked, a little shy.

“Now I don’t know if I’m dreamin’…or just lucky as sin.”

The last note of the dance faded, swallowed into the soft hum of crickets and the murmur of full-bellied laughter. As people began to break off in pairs and groups, drifting back towards food and drinks, your father clapped his hands together with a booming cheer.

“Well now ! No one’s travelin’ tonight, that’s certain !” he declared, lifting a mug high. “We’ve got room in the village—and hearts enough to share it. These fine travelers stay the night, aye ?”

A chorus of agreement answered him. A few of the younger villagers, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked from drink and music, eagerly stepped forward.

“They can stay at mine !”

“No, no—my place, I’ve got room by the fire !”

Remmick chuckled beside you, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flattered but looking a little overwhelmed. “Saints, you lot are generous.”

Before any more offers could pile on, you moved without thinking—wrapping your arm around his. You felt him go still, just for a moment. His arm, solid beneath yours, warmed under your touch.

“Father,” you said, your voice clear, though not loud. “Would it be alright if Remmick stayed at our home tonight ?”

The words fell like a stone into the center of the crowd. Your father blinked, brows lifting high. Then slowly—so slowly—you saw the corner of his mouth tug upward.

“Is that so ?” he asked you, eyeing the two of you with the careful amusement only a father could muster. “Well, if that’s what you want, daughter.”

He glanced at Remmick, narrowing his eyes just slightly. “You’re under my roof, boy. Not just hers. You understand ?”

Remmick, to his credit, nodded solemnly—even as his eyes danced with that same crooked smile. “Aye, sir. Wouldn’t dream of disrespectin’ your hospitality.”

Your father huffed and turned away, but not before you saw the rare ghost of a grin flicker beneath his mustache. Still holding Remmick’s arm, you felt him lean a little closer, his voice warm by your ear.

“Didn’t realize I’d wandered into heaven,” he murmured and lifted a hand above his heart with a smile. “And right into an angel’s kind arms…I am deeply grateful.”

You tried not to smile too wide. It was foolish to feel so warm so quickly—but god, it was hard not to.

That night:

The table was lit by the soft golden glow of oil lamps, flickering shadows dancing across the worn wood and the carved plates. Your father ate with gusto, exchanging the occasional gruff comment with Remmick, while your younger cousin babbled sleepily about his favorite song of the night.

You had spent the better part of an hour preparing the meal—stew with root vegetables, herb butter on dark bread, and a honey pastry just like the ones your mother used to make. A small way to say thank you, maybe. Or maybe just a quiet offering, hoping he’d stay longer than a single night.

But now…Now your eyes flicked to the spot in front of Remmick. The food sat there, barely touched. His spoon stirred idly, but never lifted. The bread remained untouched on the edge of the plate. He’d taken one bite, maybe two—and then nothing.

A pang bloomed in your chest.

You looked away quickly, busying your hands with clearing crumbs, adjusting a napkin that didn’t need fixing. Maybe it wasn’t to his taste. Maybe travelers had finer food on the road. Or maybe…maybe you’d tried too hard. You bit your lip, forcing a smile when your father laughed at something Remmick said.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you saw him glance down at the untouched food again—then at you.

His smile faltered. And he leaned in, voice pitched low enough only for you to hear.

“Lass,” he whispered softly, “I need you to know… your cookin’ smells like a blessing. Truly.”

You blinked, surprised.

He gave a sheepish, almost guilty smile. “It’s not the food. It’s…me. I get…nervous, when I’m somewhere new. Stomach tightens up like a drumskin.” He looked away for a beat. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want ye to think I didn’t notice the care ye put in. Or that I am bein’ rude on purpose.”

He looked at you again, earnest and apologetic.

“Wouldn’t trade this meal for all the gold in the west.”

You smiled and nodded.

“Of course. No worries.”

Later, when the dishes were washed and the house had fallen quiet—save for the distant murmur of your father’s voice in the next room—you picked up the lantern and motioned for Remmick to follow.

“This way,” you said gently, your voice softer now in the hush of the hour.

He walked behind you through the narrow hallway, his boots light on the old wooden floor. You paused at a small door near the end, nudging it open. The room inside was simple—just a bed with a woolen blanket, a small washbasin, and a shuttered window that let in a sliver of moonlight.

“I hope it’s alright,” you said, setting the lantern down. “This was my brother’s room before he married and moved out. It’s not much, but it’s warm. And quiet.”

Remmick stepped in slowly, his eyes scanning the space, taking in the old books still stacked on the shelf, the carved initials in the wooden bedframe, the lopsided rug by the hearth. He smiled.

“It’s perfect,” he assured you, with that same soft sincerity he’d spoken with at dinner. “Better than a hundred inns with feather beds.”

You nodded, lingering for a moment, unsure whether to say goodnight or just walk away. There was something weighty in the stillness—like the hush after a song, when no one quite knew if it was truly over.

Remmick looked at you, one hand still resting lightly on the doorframe.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Fer the song. Fer the food. Fer…all o’ this.”

You looked down, trying to keep your excuses from showing too obviously, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“I should thank you,” you replied, fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. “For sharing your music…and your charming company.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, one hand settling on the back of his neck as though unsure what to do with such a compliment. “Ah, now you’ve gone and made me blush,” he murmured, and his voice had that low, rough Irish accent that wrapped around the quiet like a blanket. “That’s not fair.”

You met his eyes again, and something warm passed between you—unspoken, still new, still fragile.

“I’ll let you rest,” you announced, stepping back just slightly. “It’s been a long day.”

Remmick nodded, though he didn’t move to close the door right away. “Sleep well, lass.”

And just before the door shut, barely a breath between it and the frame, he added, soft as a hum: “I hope I get to see you in my dreams tonight.”

You smiled happily at his words. You looked at Remmick as he stood there, the door now half-closed between you. But something caught your eye—something small, a glimmer in the soft light of the room. A simple band around his ring finger. Silver, unadorned, but it was enough to make your smile falter just slightly, just for a moment.

Your heart skipped. A wedding ring. Of course. You hadn’t thought about it before. You hadn’t even considered it. A band on his finger. A reminder that, despite the charm in his words and the way his laughter made the air around you feel lighter, he belonged to someone else.

“R-Right,” you stammered, feeling a strange warmth in your chest, trying to swallow the feeling that seemed to come from nowhere. “Goodnight then.”

Your voice wasn’t as steady as it had been moments before. You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes, not now. And before he could notice the flicker of hesitation, you stepped back, retreating into the hallway.

The door of your bedroom clicked softly behind you, and you leaned against the cool wall of the corridor, taking a breath that didn’t quite settle.

…Right. He was too good to be true anyway.

You went to bed.

A few hours later:

The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows on the floor as you awoke in the dead silence of the night. The weight of sleep still clung to your eyelids, but a dry thirst tugged at your throat, urging you out of bed. You moved quietly, the cool wooden floor creaking underfoot as you tiptoed to the door. The house was still—too still. You padded softly down the dark hall, a faint shiver crawling up your spine as you neared the kitchen. Perhaps it was nothing. Just the wind, or the house settling. But when you reached the door, something—a noise—caught your attention. It was faint at first, like the scuff of shoes against the floor, and then a low, disturbing sound.

Curiosity got the better of you, and with a deep breath, you slowly opened the door.

What you saw made your breath catch, your heart slamming against your ribcage in a panic-stricken beat.

There, in the dim light of the kitchen, Remmick was hovering over your father. His hands were pressing down on your father’s shoulders with unnatural force, his face—his eyes—were different. Yellow. Glowing with an eerie, otherworldly hue. His chin was smeared in blood, and your father’s body lay limp beneath him, lifeless or unconscious—there was no telling which.

A guttural sound escaped your father’s throat, a noise that wasn’t quite a scream, but something worse, something terrible. You couldn’t even move. The sight of him like this—of Remmick—made your blood freeze in your veins.

Then, just as quickly as the horror settled in, a scream echoed from a neighboring house. It was loud, panicked, and unmistakably human. Remmick looked up sharply, his eyes flashing toward the source of the noise. The blood on his chin gleamed in the dim light, and he screeched.

In that instant, you locked eyes with him. And what you saw in his gaze was nothing short of predatory, feral even. His smile twisted, a dark amusement in the curve of his lips, and he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, as if it were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

Tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t stop them. You didn’t understand—how could you understand ? Remmick wasn’t who he had seemed. He wasn’t the charming troubadour or the gentleman who had danced with you in the moonlight. He was something else entirely.

With your heart pounding in your throat, you turned and ran. You didn’t think—just instinct. You bolted back to your room, the door slamming behind you as you locked it, every nerve on edge. You sank against the door, gasping for air, tears streaming down your face. What was happening ? What was Remmick ? Who was he really ?

You had seen the horror with your own eyes, but it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t.

The sound of the knock at your bedroom door sliced through the heavy silence that had enveloped you. Your pulse raced in your ears, your breath shallow and panicked. You pressed your back against the door, as though trying to melt into the wood, to make yourself invisible to whatever nightmare lurked outside.

Then, the voice. A soft chuckle, too familiar, too unsettling.

“Lil’ lassie. Open this door. I promise not to hurt ye.”

Remmick. The warmth, the charm, the music—it all felt like a lie now. His voice, once smooth and comforting, now held a twisted edge, like the calm before a storm. His words were like honey, but they dripped with something darker beneath. Your fingers trembled on the edge of the door, heart pounding in your chest as your thoughts spiraled. What was he ? What had happened to him ? What had you just witnessed ?

You wanted to scream, to yell at him to leave, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you held your breath, hoping the silence would swallow his presence whole. You locked the door and took a few steps back. However, the sound of the door splintering under the force of Remmick’s strength made your heart stop. You barely had time to react before he was in the room, his smirk dark and unnerving, like a predator who had caught sight of its prey.

“Dolly now…Don’t worry. Me thinks your voice’s simply beautiful. So, no harm will come to ye.”

His words dripped with a twisted calmness, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. He wasn’t here to comfort or protect; he was here to toy with you, to watch as you squirmed under his gaze.

Before you could even think to protest, Remmick casually walked over to one of your chairs, picked up one of your old teddy bears, and held it in his hands with an eerie fondness. He chuckled lowly, his eyes glowing a dark red, and you felt the hairs on your neck stand up in terror.

“He’s a cutie. Just like his missy…”

His gaze lingered on you, a cold smile spreading across his face, and you felt the overwhelming weight of his presence in the room. The teddy bear seemed so out of place in his hands, the innocence of it clashing with the dark intensity of his eyes and the blood still on his chin.

Tears stung the back of your throat, but you forced yourself to stay still. Fear gnawed at you, but you refused to show it. Not now. Not to him.

“Wh-What are you ?” you managed, voice trembling despite yourself.

He leaned back in the chair, his smile widening as he casually twirled the bear in his fingers, almost as if he were savoring your terror.

“Ahh, the questions you’re askin’,” he mused, his voice still that smooth Irish drawl. “I’m just a man, dolly. But sometimes…a man needs to be more than that, don’t ye think ?”

His words hung in the air like a promise—or a threat. You didn’t know which was worse.

Your voice cracked as you spoke, barely above a whisper, and yet it carried through the heavy silence of the room like thunder.

“My father…Is he dead ?”

Remmick’s fingers paused their idle play with the teddy bear. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His red eyes studied you, as if weighing the cost of a truth—or the benefit of a lie. The smile faded from his face, replaced with something else…something that almost resembled regret.

He leaned forward slightly in the chair, elbows on his knees, his voice softer now.

“He…put up a good fight. Brave man. Loved his little girl sooo fiercely—he truly did. I did like him—a lot. But…the hunger was just too strong. Haven’t eaten in quite some time…It was almost a miracle me and me friends found yer village when we did—or else we would have starved to death.”

That was all he said.

But he didn’t need to say more.

Your breath hitched, your knees buckling slightly beneath the weight of his answer. You brought a hand to your mouth again, as though you could push back the sob clawing its way up your throat.

“I’m sorry, lassie,” he said quietly, but it didn’t sound quite like he meant it.

Your sobs broke free, trembling and quiet at first, then louder—like something in you had finally cracked. The room spun with the weight of it all: the music, the dancing, the charm in his voice, your father’s proud smile just hours ago. Gone. All gone.

Remmick giggled softly. That same sweet, lyrical sound he’d given you at the door, when he was just a traveling musician with a banjo and a charming grin.

But now—now it sent chills down your spine.

He leaned forward, still cradling the teddy bear with gentle care, and slowly reached towards you. With a strange, almost playful tenderness, he brought the soft arm of the bear to your cheek and dabbed away a few tears with the fabric.

“Now now, shhh…Dolly. No cryin’. Please. I didn’t mean to,” he murmured, almost singsong, like a lullaby meant to soothe a child. Then his gaze sharpened. His eyes glowed again—deep, hellish red—and the corner of his mouth twitched as he tilted his head slightly.

“But remember…” he whispered, voice curling into your ear like smoke, “you invited me in.”

The truth of it made your stomach twist. You had. You’d opened the door with a smile and let the devil step through.

And now ?

Now the devil was in your room…your home.

Your tears burned hot as they rolled down your cheeks, but you didn’t let them fall quietly anymore. You locked eyes with him—those glowing, inhuman eyes—and your trembling hand balled into a fist at your side.

You glared, voice tight and low, laced with grief and fury.

“Demon.”

The word hung in the air like smoke after a fire, and for a moment, Remmick said nothing. His smirk faded.

Then—he laughed.

Not loud. Not mad. Just a quiet, knowing chuckle, like you’d finally solved the riddle he’d been waiting for.

“Aye,” he said, setting the bear gently down on your bed. “That’s one word for it.”

He rose to his feet slowly, every movement deliberate, graceful—inhuman. His eyes never left yours. “But I’ve been called many things over the centuries, dolly. Demon’s just…one of the more honest ones.”

He took a step forward. Then another.

“But you—ah, you,” he said with a curl of his tongue, “you called me in with a smile. Sang your pain like a siren. And god forgive me—I listened.”

You stood your ground, though your legs trembled and your breath shook. Gritting your teeth, you summoned every last thread of strength left in your aching chest and hissed:

“Get out of my house, demon.”

Remmick stilled. The playful glint in his eye dulled. The smile slipped from his face, replaced with something cold—ancient. His head tilted back slightly, as if tasting your defiance in the air. The room felt colder now. As though your words had summoned something deeper from within him.

He stepped closer—just once. Just enough for his shadow to brush your feet. Then, in a voice far older than his grin, far darker than his song, he murmured,

“This house…was so full of light. Music, love, laughter. But now it’s soaked in blood.” He leaned in just slightly, eyes burning into yours. “You made it mine the moment you let me cross your threshold.”

And then—he stepped back. Just a bit.

His smirk returned, gentler this time, but mocking all the same.

“But if the lady insists…” he said with a low bow, like a twisted gentleman from a ballroom long buried. “I’ll go. For now.”

He turned toward the shattered door.

“But don’t forget, dolly…” he called to you, glancing back over his shoulder with one last flicker of red, “…I never leave without takin’ something with me. And if ye find yerself in trouble ? Call me.”

And with that—he disappeared into the dark.

With shaky legs, you stood up and ran into your cousin’s room and let out a sigh of relief as you found his asleep in his bed. You stepped closer and held him in your arms. He woke up and blinked several times before looking up at you with curiosity.

“Y/N ? Why are you crying ?”

You didn’t answer. You just held him closer and kissed his forehead.

“Nothing, little one. Just…return to sleep. I will be bringing you to the train station tomorrow to return to your Ma and Pa, okay ?”

He frowned in confusion. “What ?! No ! But I just arrived ! I don’t wanna go !”

He then stood up and ran. You ran after him. “No ! Come back !”

He went into the kitchen and slipped on something warm and liquid. He lifted a trembling hand and stared at the red substance and his eyes glassed over.

“W-What ?”

Suddenly, he heard a low growl and slowly turned around to find your father standing there. You stopped dead in your tracks and as your father lunged at the boy, you had no other choice but to grab your father’s pistol and shoot your own father in the head. Your little cousin was frozen in shock and fear and you quickly grabbed him before running outside to the shelter. You held the child against your bosom all night as you heard your own father growl and call for you outside. But you knew. This wasn’t your father anymore. He clawed and roared as you started praying and rocking your cousin back and forth to soothe him as he burst into tears.

The sun barely broke through the clouds the next morning, casting a dim, pale light over the village that your father started screeching in pain. You took a look outside and saw him burst into flames. He tried to get back in the house, but wasn’t fast enough. He dropped to the ground in a pile of rotten flesh and bones. You stayed immobile for a moment before slowly and carefully stepping out. You then gestured for your cousin to follow. He took your hand and once you were sure that danger had passed, you ran to the car and drove away.

You stopped at the train station and took two tickets. You gave one to your little cousin and he quickly got onboard…but you hesitated. You hadn’t buried your father, and who would protect the village once that your father was gone ? Your little cousin begged you to stay with him, but you only kissed his forehead and promised you would take the next one. The train left and you took a few steps back from the window. You followed the train with your eyes until it was out of sight and returned home.

…

The scent of damp earth filled the air as you stood alone, the weight of the shovel in your hand a stark reminder of the hollow emptiness that now defined your life.

Your father’s body lay beneath the earth, buried with the dignity he had deserved. But the ground felt so much heavier than it had the night before. You could still hear the faint echo of your father’s voice, feel his arms around you, the comfort of home—now shattered beyond repair.

But as you buried him, the village began to notice the emptiness of the houses nearby. The once-lively homes that had welcomed the travelers—now cold and silent. A dark curiosity swept through the air, a sick sense of unease that soon turned to whispers. It didn’t take long for those whispers to swell into something darker.

They came for you, as expected.

Whispers of witches and curses circled the village like a ravenous flock. Those who had once welcomed you with smiles now looked upon you with suspicion, their eyes narrowed, as if the very air you breathed was tainted. A man from the town square approached, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Demon’s daughter,” he muttered under his breath. “Witch…”

The rumors spread quickly. It wasn’t long before you heard them say you had brought this horror upon them, that your strange songs and otherworldly visitors were the cause of the deaths. They even claimed you had some unholy connection to the darkness that had claimed the others.

You tried to explain—tried to tell them that it wasn’t you, that it was him. But they didn’t believe you. To them, your grief, your silence, your sorrow—it all seemed like a cover. They looked at you like you had something to hide, like your very existence was cursed.

A few of the braver villagers called for you to be driven out. Others, more cautious, said you should be locked away. The older women whispered in hushed tones about curses passed down through bloodlines.

And through it all, you heard nothing but the distant, haunting echo of Remmick’s words:

“I never leave without takin’ something with me.”

And as much as you wanted to scream, to deny it, a part of you knew. You weren’t just a survivor. You were a target. Your father was dead and no doubt he had been meant to survive and join his legion of doom. But you had killed him…Remmick would come back to collect his due.

You were alone in the world now. Even your own people had turned against you.

The village had descended into madness. Your name, once uttered with kindness, had become a curse on their lips. You no longer had any allies—just a sea of fearful faces staring at you from every corner. Every day had been a battle to keep the worst of it at bay. But tonight…tonight it seemed as if the shadows had finally caught up with you.

The air outside was thick with the weight of impending violence, and you could feel it. It had started with murmurs at the market, then stares of contempt as you walked past the villagers. Now, as the moon rose high in the sky, the line between the world you knew and the nightmare you had tried to escape had blurred completely.

The door to your house—once a place of warmth—was torn open, splintering as angry hands and vengeful fists battered it down. Your heart raced as you stumbled backward, desperate, trembling. They were coming for you. The weight of their fear, their hatred, the burning need for retribution pressed in from all sides.

With nowhere else to turn, panic rose in your chest, squeezing the breath from your lungs. You ran to the small room that had once been a place of comfort. The walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating you. You were cornered. There was no escape.

And then, through the fog of terror, one name surged: Remmick. You didn’t think. You didn’t question. You just needed to survive.

You sank to your knees, the cold stone of the floor pressing into your palms as you whispered the words that had haunted you for so long—words of desperation, words you never thought you would say.

“Remmick…please…help me.”

A chill filled the air, so intense that it felt as though the very bones of your house had frozen over. The shadows in the room deepened, stretching unnaturally as the sound of the world outside—the pounding at the door, the shouts of the villagers—faded into a muted silence.

And then, with a slow, deliberate step, he appeared.

Remmick.

His presence flooded the room like a storm as he strutted in with a happy grin. His red eyes glowed in the darkness, his smile stretched wide across his face, sharp and knowing.

“Well, dolly…” His voice was a low, dark purr, full of amusement. “Seems ye’ve finally decided to call me.”

His eyes flicked toward the door, which rattled under the force of the villagers’ assault, then back to you.

“They’ll be at yer door any minute now… Would ye like me to let them in first, or shall I deal with ‘em right away ?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you looked at him. Your heart ached—not just from fear, but from the twisted mix of relief and terror that filled you. You had no choice. You had summoned him.

“Please…just stop them,” you whispered, barely able to breathe, still kneeling before him.

Remmick chuckled, the sound like the crackling of fire, dark and dangerous. “Stop them ? Oh, me dolly…” He crouched down to your level, his fingers brushing against your cheek with unsettling tenderness. “You called me, didn’t ye ? And I’m always here when someone needs me. Don’t ye worry. Nothin’ will happen to yer pretty face.”

He stood, moving to the door. With a flick of his wrist, the wood splintered. The villagers froze, their eyes wide with terror as they looked into the room.

“Now,” Remmick said with a grin, “Who dares to harm me sweet lil’ doll ?”

The room darkened further as he stepped into the doorway, his presence swallowing up the light. A low, guttural growl escaped him, vibrating the very air. The villagers stammered, fear clawing at their throats.

“W-Who…are you ?” one of them stuttered, backing away.

Remmick laughed darkly, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m the one who’ll be leaving with what’s mine…and trust me, nothing is more mine than this one right there.” He pointed a finger at you.

A wave of energy rippled outward from him, and you felt it wash over you—cold, powerful, as though his very presence was reshaping the room, reshaping the world. The villagers were frozen, paralyzed by fear, unable to move.

“Now,” Remmick said, his tone suddenly cold but his smile was still on his face, “Who’s gonna be first ? And please. Make it interestin’.”

The villagers stood frozen, terror paralyzing them as Remmick’s grin spread wider. The air was thick with the stench of fear, the kind that clung to the skin and made the heart race with helplessness. But a few of them, their desperation pushing them beyond reason, tried to fight. They lunged forward, weapons in hand—wooden clubs, pitchforks, anything they could grab in their panic.

One man, his face twisted with rage, swung a rusty iron rod at Remmick’s head. But the moment the rod touched the air near him, it was as if the world itself slowed down. Remmick didn’t even flinch. His eyes, glowing bright like two burning embers in the night, never left the man.

“Is that all ye’ve got, lad ?” Remmick purred, his voice dripping with amusement. Before the man could take another swing, Remmick moved, faster than a blink. With a sharp crack, he twisted the man’s arm, pulling him in close until their faces were mere inches apart. The man’s breath hitched in terror, and the scent of his sweat and panic flooded the room.

“Ye should’ve stayed away, boy,” Remmick whispered, his voice sweet like poison. His smile widened even further, his teeth glinting in the dim light. Then, with a swift motion, he wrenched the man’s arm completely from its socket, the sound of bone snapping echoing through the air like thunder.

The man screamed, a blood-curdling shriek that sent a jolt through the others, but Remmick didn’t let him suffer long. With a cruel laugh, he plunged his other hand deep into the man’s chest, tearing through skin, flesh, and bone as though it were paper. The villagers watched in stunned silence, unable to comprehend the brutality of it. The man’s blood sprayed out, staining the floor and walls as Remmick threw his lifeless body aside like a ragdoll. The body hit the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around it.

“Who’s next ?” Remmick’s voice was low, dark, and thick with pleasure, like a predator toying with its prey. He wiped his hand on the man’s clothing, dragging the blood over his fingers with a languid motion. “Come on then, let’s see who’s brave enough to join him.”

The villagers recoiled, their faces a mixture of disbelief, horror, and abject terror. But one woman, a brave fool, stepped forward. Her hands trembled, her voice cracked as she shouted, “Die ! Demon !”

Remmick turned his gaze toward her, his eyes gleaming. “Is that so ?”

Before she could even react, he was upon her.

With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the ground with one hand. She kicked and struggled, her legs flailing uselessly as she gasped for air, but it was no use. His grip was unyielding, cold as ice, and she couldn’t escape.

The other villagers screamed in terror, trying to run, but they were trapped. The door had been shattered, and the windows were too far away to escape through. It was too late.

Remmick slowly squeezed the woman’s throat, his grin widening with sadistic glee. Her eyes bulged, desperate for air, and her hands clawed at his wrist, but he didn’t let go. His eyes never left hers, savoring every moment of her struggle. With one final, brutal motion, he snapped her neck, the sickening crack of bone filling the room. Her body went limp, and he let her fall, her blood splattering on the floor with a wet thud.

“Not much of a challenge, were they ?” Remmick chuckled darkly, before licking and drinking from the blood that had escaped from the broken woman’s neck on his arm. He then took a slow, deliberate step forward, eyes never leaving the remaining villagers. The fear in their eyes was palpable, suffocating, and he reveled in it.

One by one, they tried to flee, but Remmick was faster, always faster. A man attempted to run for the door, but Remmick grabbed him by the back of the neck, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man’s spine cracked, his body going limp as he slid to the floor, a pool of blood quickly spreading around him. Once he was dead, Remmick drank straight from his shattered neck.

Another villager tried to tackle him, but Remmick effortlessly sidestepped the attack, kicking the man in the chest so hard that the air whooshed out of his lungs. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping, unable to breathe as Remmick loomed over him.

“Is this all ye’ve got, then ? A few desperate fools ?” Remmick purred, clearly enjoying the terror in their eyes. “Pathetic.”

The remaining villagers were paralyzed with fear, unable to make a sound. They had seen what he could do, and there was nothing left for them but to wait for their inevitable end.

“Now,” Remmick said, his tone casual as he wiped his hands on his bloody clothes. “Ye’ve all had a front-row seat. Time to meet yer maker.”

Without warning, he moved again, faster than the eye could follow. His hands flashed out, and the final villagers were torn apart in a flurry of blood and gore, their bodies falling to the floor in lifeless heaps.

…

The room was silent now, save for the heavy, uneven breathing of the demon. The stench of blood and death hung thick in the air, and the once-strong walls now felt like a tomb, closing in with the weight of what had just transpired.

Remmick turned to you, his red eyes gleaming in the dark. His smile was wide, almost too wide, as if the act of violence had only made him hungrier.

“Well,” he finally said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “That was fun, wasn’t it ?”

You could barely move, the shock of the scene still coursing through your veins. Your body trembled, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear or something else—something darker that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You stood, staring at Remmick, your body trembling, heart still racing.

“You saved me,” you whispered, the words barely leaving your mouth.

Remmick chuckled.

“I always keep my promises, dolly,” he said softly, his voice smooth as velvet, but laced with something darker. “But remember…” He leaned in close, his breath warm on your skin, “I always get meself somethin’ fer everythin’ I do. And the cost fer yer life will be mighty expensive.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

His eyes lit up in the dark.

“Now, c’mere.” He swept you up in one smooth motion, arms like iron under your back and knees, and before you could even gasp, you felt the world tilt beneath you. His grin was wide, predatory—and for a breathless moment you wondered if you’d fallen into some nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

“Let’s fly, lassie,” he murmured, voice low and daydream-soft, though every word tasted like brimstone.

You felt the cool night air rush in as he burst through the window and out into the courtyard. One powerful leap, and the ground fell away beneath you both. Your heart slammed against your ribs as the wind tore at your hair and clothes; moonlight skittered across Remmick’s twisted smile, his eyes shining like polished amber.

Below, the village was a scattering of torches and panicked figures—tiny, scrambling things you could barely make out. Their screams rose to you in a distant chorus, but the air around you was so thin, so cold, that it almost felt peaceful.

Remmick’s grip never wavered. You pressed yourself against him, trying to anchor yourself to something real. Was he though ? You weren’t sure anymore…

Higher and higher you flew, the thatch-roofed houses shrinking, the forests beyond the fields dark and endless. He flew with a grace that mocked gravity itself, as though the stars were his to command. Every so often he glanced back at you, that same chilling smirk on his lips.

“Quite the view, innit lassie ?” he asked with a smirk on his face that made you want to fall and hopefully—the fall would be lethal. Yet even as your mind screamed to fight, a strange awe filled your chest: this creature had saved you and now carried you beyond the only home you’d ever known.

Soon, you reached a clearing, and what you saw made your breath catch in your throat. A ring of carriages stood like silent sentinels around a roaring bonfire that reached toward the sky, flickering with eerie red and gold flames. Figures danced in the firelight—figures who moved with an unsettling grace, their eyes glowing with hunger, their movements fluid and predatory. Vampires.

They twirled and spun in the heat of the blaze, their laughter high-pitched, echoing through the woods like the sound of birds in an endless night. The fire crackled and popped, sending embers spiraling into the dark sky, where the moon was nothing but a distant, cold witness to this dance of the damned.

Remmick led you into the center, where the vampires paused their dancing and turned their predatory eyes on you. Their gazes flickered between curiosity and hunger, but Remmick raised his hand, his grin wide and confident.

“Lads and lasses,” he called, his voice booming in the night, “this here’s our newest lil’ treasure. Meet her properly, eh ?”

A low murmur spread through the group, and several of them stepped closer, their eyes scanning you with hunger and amusement. They weren’t human, not by a long shot. But they looked…beautiful, in an eerie, dangerous way. Their skin shimmered under the firelight, and their lips curled into smiles that promised either death or delight—depending on their whims.

You felt a cold shiver run down your spine as their gazes focused on you, but Remmick’s hand was still firm on yours. You didn’t know what this place was, or what they expected of you, but you felt an undeniable pull to the night, to the fire, to Remmick. He chuckled and rested both hands on your shoulders and nuzzled the back of your ear playfully.

“Aww…see ? Ye already adopted. I was sure they’d love ye,” he whispered with that same wicked grin. “Welcome to yer new home, me pet.”

You closed your eyes as one of his hands wrapped itself around your throat from behind and you felt his already long fingers stretch into sharp claws.

…Christ. What had you done ?

[writeriguess]

I want you to write me a fic where Katsuki and the reader are married. I don’t care what the plot is.

author's note: I would appreciate a less commanding tone in the future, thank you :)

Still Yours

It was a quiet kind of storm.

Not the kind that rattled windows or cracked open skies. It was the kind that crept in through the corners of your home, the corners of your heart. That slow-building pressure, low and relentless. The kind of storm that made you hold your breath for no reason at all.

The clock on the microwave blinked 9:17 PM in sullen red digits. You sat at the kitchen table, nursing a half-cold cup of tea, listening to the wind spit rain against the glass. Katsuki had said he’d be home by eight. And sure, he was never great with clocks. But lately, the gaps had stretched. Later patrols. Later excuses. More bruises. Less talking.

The door finally opened at 9:31.

Boots kicked off with a thud. The soft shuffle of fabric. A sigh, low and tired.

You stayed seated, arms crossed, your eyes tracking him as he stepped into the hallway light. Katsuki Bakugou—Pro Hero Dynamight, known for his power, his fire, his fury—looked… worn. Not broken. Never broken. But the sharp edges were dulled tonight, his usual swagger lost somewhere between the cold rain and the weight he carried on his shoulders.

He glanced at you. “You’re still up.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the red welt peeking above his collarbone. He caught your gaze and tugged his shirt higher.

“Don’t,” you said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t hide it. I saw.”

He exhaled slowly and looked away. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that either.”

A silence stretched between you. Then, finally, he walked into the kitchen, stood by the sink, and leaned against the counter like he needed it to hold him up. You could see the tension in his back, the way his fists curled loosely at his sides.

“You want the truth?” he asked, not looking at you.

“I married you for it.”

That got his attention. He turned, a flicker of something crossing his face—guilt, maybe. Shame.

“Guy tried to take a hostage during patrol. I stopped him. Took a hit. Didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want it turning into a damn news story. And I didn’t tell you because—”

“Because you think protecting me means lying to me.”

That shut him up. Not because it wasn’t true—because it was.

“You think I’m fragile?” you continued. “That I can’t handle the reality of what you do every night? Katsuki, I knew who I was marrying. You don’t need to protect me from the life we built together.”

His jaw tensed. He looked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t find the right thread to pull. So instead, he said:

“I hate seeing that look on your face.”

You blinked. “What look?”

“That one. Right now. Like you’re scared I won’t come back.”

You stood up, stepped toward him until only a few inches separated you. “I am scared sometimes. Because I love you. Because you matter. But bottling it up, walking around like the world’s on your shoulders alone? That’s not love, Katsuki. That’s isolation.”

His breath hitched—not loud, but you caught it. He blinked, once. Twice. His armor cracked just enough to let the truth show.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted, voice low and rough. “The hero stuff, yeah. I’ve got that. But this? You and me? Marriage? No one taught me how to be good at it.”

You reached up, fingertips grazing his jaw. “No one gets taught. We figure it out. Together.”

He looked down at you, eyes burning. And for the first time in weeks, the wall dropped completely. He leaned his forehead against yours, voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

And then, finally, finally, he wrapped his arms around you like the world could fall apart and this was the only thing keeping it together. You stayed there, in the hush of the storm, your hands sliding up his back as he buried his face in your neck.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you. Then, without another word, he kissed you. Not the hungry, heat-of-the-moment kind he was known for. This was slower. Deeper. Like he was anchoring himself in the shape of your mouth. Like he needed to be reminded of where home was.

Later, you made him sit on the couch while you cleaned his wounds. He hissed every time the antiseptic touched skin, muttered curses under his breath, but didn’t stop you. You talked while you worked—nothing heavy. You asked about his patrol partner. He asked about your day. Slowly, the storm between you broke apart, leaving only warmth in its wake.

And when you crawled into bed that night, tangled in his arms beneath soft blankets, he whispered against your shoulder:

“I’m still yours.”

You smiled.

“You always were.”

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

TIMELESS

summary: what if neglected character was well-loved in our universe despite being so hated in her own?

(spin-off neglected reader x batfam)

DC readers were eating up the comic run, but it really got a big hit when Batman, on one of his infamous runs, met this homeless family , neglected character's family, and offered to raise the neglected character till they were 18 out of false pity.

So this HC is essentially us , the readers; the 4th wall is essentially reading comics , specifically those about the Batfamily.

So the Batfamily comics are released by this huge company called DC , where a man named Bruce Wayne tragically lost his family one night and, filled with rage and vengeance, became Batman.

The comic's continued run continues on, and we, the readers, read how he met every Robin and learn about their pasts ,growths, etc, from Dick's tragic start to Jason's demise. Tim's rather conflicting start and Damian's controversial add-in.

The company hadn't expected so many readers (us) to like this seemingly normal person. I mean, come on, the neglected character can barely tie her own shoelaces properly and is literally so socially awkward.

This, of course, backfires immensely since a lot of DC readers really like neglected character because of how easily relatable they are to the big audience .

Neglected character was originally added to the family as, like, a punchline and for filler purposes, especially for Damian and Jason to appear more vibrant and more in touch with the audience and since they were running out of ideas and thought batman saving neglected character could be a moment.

There was also a whole separate run for Bruce and Tim with neglected character—they were talking about some complex time travel whatnots to explain a sudden time jump in the comics, and poor neglected reader was just there as a punchline because she was too 'dumb' to understand what they weee talking about .This backfired on them, of course—it turned into a massive meme about how 'shit is so confusing even our goat (neglected character) can't understand this shii.

At this point in the actual comics, things were getting frisky in the family. The Batfam literally starts despising neglected character so much. She's literally a nobody who doesn't even try to do anything like saving gotham like them, and they're so much better than her, so why is she getting all the love ?

Like, seriously, why would anyone want to like some lowlife who can't solve cold cases in two days, do crazy backflips, and knows ancient martial arts techniques and ancient languages? Oh! Did they forget to mention they can do anything? Side note: they can !

DC really tried to push the Batfam propaganda for a while, trying to manipulate us readers into liking them, but it's so hard too when we as the general audience can't even relate to them.

Thus, neglected character's fanbase grew exponentially—literally to the point where DC had to make their own solo because of the high demand .

Neglected character whose whole solo run was just them trying to find themselves and distance themselves from how hateful and harmful the Batfam are—especially Jason and Damian. Literally, their run was just them helping people, like a close friend getting over a bad ex, to helping this one grandma open a bottle of ketchup.

Their run made a big hit—loads of readers loved how normal and relatable the neglected character is! Especially how she grows to love herself for being normal and just living for herself, which touched a lot of readers' hearts.

Due to the neglected character's striking popularity , the company literally had to somehow mention her name or her existence everywhere in every run they make in order for it to be successful .

Oh, Tim Drake is getting a solo run? Let's put the neglected character in the background of the cover so people can pick it up to read. Oh, Damian and Batman are going on a duo adventure? Let's add a scene in the trailer where they mention the character's name once so people can flock to theaters to actually watch their movie.

Jason and Nightwing are getting their own animated series? Let's have a short ten-second clip of them discussing a plan and name-walking in the background so people can actually care about the series .

Literally the entire Batfam's popularity and relevancy are dependent on neglected character because whenever DC tries not to mention or include them, readers and viewers, respectively, don't engage with it, and it turns into a huge flop.

There are literally a hundred videos on YouTube where they all discuss who the strongest/best hero in the Batfam is, and the neglected character always wins , despite not even being a vigilante, because 'the goat (neglected character) just needs a bad day and a reason to crash out, and ain't no one in the Batfam can stop them' , ' Give my Goat (neglected character) a bat and a reason to crashout and she'd no-diff the entire villains cast in Gotham' , ' Personally if neglected reader was there , this situation would of never happened ' ,' TRUST NEGLECTED CHARACTER IS GONNA SHOW UP AND COOK JUST WAIT ' , ' NEGLECTED CHARACTER PLEASE SAVE US FROM WHATEVER THIS IS '.

Like, the Batfam is really starting to despise neglected character even more because, seriously, what does she have that they don't? And the neglected character couldn't give a damn because they are on their 20th comic issue where they are going to Spain with their classmates and they somehow save their airplane from crashing by accidentally falling into the cockpit and somehow hitting a random button that stabilizes the plane.

Safe to say DC readers and neglected reader fans are eating this shit up while Batfam seethes.

DC might have accidentally fucked up by making a run where Batfam gets so jealous they go out of their way to hunt neglected character and kill them, but due to leakers leaking the run and fans literally rioting, boycotting, and slandering the company, the company literally had to discard the whole issue and release an apology statement .

People took to the net by storm, even those who never read the comics in their life were leaving comments such as 'Ain't no way they tried killing my goat (neglected character),' Ayo bro, what is this ??,' 'LEAVE NEGLECTED CHARACTER ALONE,' and 'Tis pmo, man.'

It's safe to say DC indirectly created a literal icon of a character, and they can't kill them off or make any drastic changes to her character, or her fans will cook them alive.

Batfam slowly starts realizing their mistake in hating the neglected character and begins obsessing with her , trying to earn her favor, while the neglected character is just genuinely confused because since when do they check up on her?

ty for reading , pls comment , like and share !!

Taglist : @1abi

[nina-ya]

OK we've seen a lotta romantic stuff BUT... what about something more casual? Got any fwb/fuckbuddies hcs for any of Luffy/Law/Kid/Zoro?

Friends With Benefits Headcanons with Luffy, Zoro, Law and Kid

Synopsis: just like the title says! Pairing: Luffy x reader, Zoro x reader, Law x reader, Kid x reader (separately) CW: NSFW MINORS DNI, vague mention of feelings in laws, besides that just fwb stuffs

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started with Luffy being as blunt as ever, dropping his casual indifference about sex into a conversation that left you floored. “It’s not that different, right? Just feels like using your hand,” he said with a shrug as if the entire concept was nothing more than a passing thought. You couldn’t stop the sigh that left your lips. “Oh, you have no idea,” you murmured, already scheming. 

The first encounter happened late at night in the empty kitchen when you finally decided to prove your point. His curiosity got the better of him as you knelt between his legs, tugging down his shorts slowly. “Just let me show you,” you murmured, your voice full of promise. The moment your fingers wrapped around his cock, his entire body tensed, a sharp intake of breath the only sound before his lips parted in an unrestrained groan. “Shit,” he hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily as you began to stroke him.

And when your mouth replaced your hand, the realization hit him like a freight train. The wet heat of your tongue gliding along his shaft, the way your lips sealed around him, sucking with the right amount of pressure- it had his head tipped back, his eyes squeezing shut, and a growl ripping from his throat. “What the hell– oh fuck, that’s–” Words failed him, his hands flying to your hair, gripping tight as he lost himself in the sensation. The sheer desperation in his moans was intoxicating, loud and shameless as if he didn’t care if he woke up the entire crew. 

By the time you let him fuck you for the first time, Luffy was insatiable. He’d been begging for it for days, his cock hard and throbbing in his shorts every time he so much as looked at you. “Come on, please,” he panted, his hands already slipping under your shirt, grabbing greedily at your skin. “I wanna know what it feels like. I need to.” His voice was raw and desperate, as if his entire world hinged on you giving in

The moment he pushed inside you, an almost feral sound tore from his throat. “So warm, so wet, so…” he groaned, his hips snapping forward instinctively as he buried himself to the hilt. He didn’t even try to take it slow; he couldn’t if he wanted to. The way your hole clenched around him, wet and hot and perfect, drove him absolutely wild. His pace was frantic and erratic, every thrust hitting deep as his moans grew louder, filthier, until you had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep the entire ship from hearing. He didn’t care, though. If anything, it spurred him on, his teeth grazing your palm as he muffled a growled, “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

After that, Luffy was a man obsessed. He wanted to fuck you every chance we got– in the kitchen, in the crows' nest, on the head of the Sunny, wherever he could get you alone for more than five seconds. Subtlety wasn’t his strong suit, and he didn’t even bother trying to hide it. His neck was littered with your bite marks, his chest and back decorated with scratches that he proudly showed off, oblivious to the crew's exasperated stares. 

With every encounter, his insatiable curiosity drove him to try anything and everything. “Can we do it upside down?” he once asked, completely serious, his head tilted as he waited for an answer. He wanted to explore every inch of you, every reaction he could wring out of you, and he was shameless about it. The moment he found something that made you moan even just a little louder, shudder harder, he’d latch onto it, repeating until you were trembling, begging for more.

It didn’t take long for this fuck buddy relationship to leave him with an insatiable appetite. He grew bold enough to grab you whenever and wherever the urge struck. Leaning over the railing, half-asleep in a hammock, hell, he once tried in the kitchen while Sanji’s back was turned. 

It didn’t matter if the crew gave him shit for the marks littering his skin or the way he’d disappear with you for hours at a time. Luffy wasn’t one to hide what he wanted, and what he wanted was sex with you, and you wouldn’t trade this for anything else. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The crow’s nest was where it all began. You were silently watching Zoro work out until just watching wasn’t enough. “C’mon, how hard could it be?” you quipped, laughing at the way his muscles trained as he hefted one of his absurdly heavy weights. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” he challenged, dragging you into his workout routine with a predatory glint in his eye. 

You took the challenge, standing beside him as you began mimicking his movements, your body quickly heating up under the strain. What you didn’t notice was how Zoro’s gaze raked over the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your chest rose and fell, and the soft, involuntary noises you made when you pushed yourself a little too hard. 

He didn’t even realize he was staring until you caught him, your breathless laugh snapping him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “What? Didn’t think I had it in me?” you asked, voice light and playful. Zoro didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the distance between you in a few quick strides, his hands grabbing your waist as his mouth crashed into yours with a force that stole your breath. 

It was raw, messy, and absolutely unplanned. He had you bent over one of the training benches, your hands braced against it as he pounded into you from behind, his low grunts and the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the small space. 

Afterward, Zoro was uncharacteristically quiet. He avoided your gaze as you got dressed, his confidence replaced with a rare hint of awkwardness. You both figured that was the end of it, a one-time lapse in judgment. 

But then it happened again. And again. 

The second time, he didn’t even try to play coy. The moment you walked into the crow's nest, he had you against the wall, his mouth on yours, and his hands already slipping beneath your shirt. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he would admit gruffly, lips brushing against your ear before dragging you to the floor. 

It became your thing– a dirty, addictive routine that neither of you bothered to question. Zoro would have you on your knees, your mouth working over him as he cursed and growled, his finger tangling into your hair as he fucked into your throat. Or he’d have you bent over various equipment, his pace merciless, leaving you shaking and spent while he smirked down at you like the smug bastard he is. 

By the time you’d found yourself tangled in Zoro’s limbs for the fifth or sixth time– not that you were counting– you’d all but accepted that no one else would compare. He was a man of focus and discipline in every aspect of life, and that extended to the way he fucked. There was no half-measure, no hesitation. Every thrust, every touch, every kiss was designed to leave you breathless, shaking, and so completely ruined that the mere idea of someone else trying felt laughable. 

Zoro was a fast learner. What started off as clumsy, heated desperation quickly evolved into him paying attention to everything. When your body tensed, the sounds you made, the way you trembled under his touch. He made sure to take mental note of that for the next time you were with him. 

The man had stamina for days, and his endurance translated perfectly into this. It was never just a one-and-done for him- both of you came undone over and over again until you were overstimulated, tears pricking your eyes as you gasped for breath. “Come on,” he’d taunt as his fingers delved between your legs, spreading you open for him again. “You can take it. Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Cleanup was an afterthought at best. Zoro never stuck around to cuddle or chat, he wasn't the biggest fan of pillow talk. He’d pull his pants back on, toss a towel at you, and call it a day as he resumed his previous activities. 

It wasn’t romantic, but it was addictively good. The way he fills you, the way he growls your name, the way he pushes you to your limits and beyond until your body nearly gives out. Zoro wasn’t the type to hold back, and you weren’t about to complain, not when he left you a shaking, satisfied mess every single time.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It started off innocently enough– or at least that's the lie you tell yourself every time you feel Law's hands on your body, coaxing sounds from you that would make the devil blush. It had been late at night, the two of you in his quarters with the moonlight streaming in through the window. He was hunched over his desk looking over case studies, his jaw tight with sections, dark circles just a bit more prominent than usual.

You murmured a simple, “You should take a break,” as you watched him rub an exhausted hand over his face. Of course, he snorted in response, lips pulled into a thin, humorless line as he muttered something about not needing a break.

You don’t quite remember how it escalated, but one moment you were standing there, and the next, his fingers were curling around your wrist, pulling you to him. His lips crashed against yours with an intense hunger, teeth scraping your bottom lip as his hands roamed, tugging at your clothes. Fabrics hit the floor in a frenzied blur, and before you could process the shift, the air was filled with your moans and the sinful sound of skin against skin.

Law treats the whole thing like an arrangement, nothing more than a mutual understanding- a transactional escape from the grind of life as a pirate. There’s no romance, no sweet nothings whispered in the dark. Just the bruising press of his body against yours, the deep growl of his voice commanding you to spread your legs wider or hold still while he takes what he needs.

His kisses are demanding– teeth biting at your lips, tongue delving into your mouth, and leaving you gasping for air. His inked fingertips from whatever part of you they can reach– your thighs, your neck, the curve of your waist– digging into you and leaving their mark behind.

Law pays attention to every gasp, every shiver, every time your voice cracks when you beg him for more. He files it all away, exploiting your weaknesses until you’re writing beneath him, your nails clawing streaks of red down his back as you bite your lip hard enough to taste blood, desperate not to let anyone hear the depravity unfolding behind doors.

The infirmary quickly became your playground. It was practical, as no one thought twice about seeing you leave together– a crew member seeking the doctor out for medical attention, they’d assume. But the truth was far filthier. 

Late nights became your undoing, the two of you barely remembering to lock the door before he had you pinned to the nearest surface. The cold metal of an examination table was a constant companion, pressing into your bare skin as he shoved your panties down your legs and into his pocket. He’d spread you open slowly, inked fingers teasing over slick folds before his mouth descended, devouring you like a man starved, as if your pleasure was the only thing that could satisfy him in that moment.

“Stay quiet,” he’d growl against your ear, the head of his cock dragging against your entrance before slamming into you, stealing whatever defiance you might’ve had. His voice was a hypnotic blend of filth and control, whispering all the things he was going to do to you, each word leaving your head spinning and your body arching against him as he fucks you toward your first orgasm of the night. 

You’d always leave the infirmary looking wrecked– hair tousled, lips swollen, legs wobbly as you tried, and failed, to regain some semblance of composure. Law, of course, looked immaculate; no one could even tell that he was balls deep inside of you just moments prior, though that smugness in his expression is always there to remind you just how thoroughly he’d ruined you.

And if you looked closely, you’d start to notice the subtle cracks in the walls he’d built around himself. Moments where this simple exchange of pleasure felt like something more. Like the time his breath hitched, and his voice came low and rough as he murmured, “You’re too good at this.” His forehead pressed against yours, honeyed eyes boring into yours in a way that made your stomach flip, as he continued with, “Too good at making me forget everything else.” 

You could pretend it didn’t matter, that it was just an offhand comment in the heat of the moment. But other signs were there if you dared to look. The way his hands lingered, mapping your body like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. The way his fingers didn’t just grip but caressed, a softness in his touch that hadn’t been there before. The way he held you close afterward, his chest rising and falling against yours as if he was reluctant to let go.

You could tell yourself not to overthink it. You could pretend the shift in him didn’t make your chest ache with confusion. But how could you ignore the way he slowed down, how he rolled his hips into you in a way that wasn’t just about chasing release, but about making you feel every damn inch of him? His forehead pressed into yours, his lips brushing over your jaw, and there it was– your name, murmured like a prayer on the edge of a moan.

His kisses grew less frantic, less possessive- more lingering, savoring, as if he were trying to communicate something he couldn’t quite put into words. His voice softened when he guided you through the pleasure, no longer barking commands at you, but soothing encouragements, spoken with a tenderness that left you reeling. He wasn’t just fucking you anymore. He was making love to you in every way but name, the shift so slow and gradual that it felt like you’d accidentally stumbled into it. 

You could ignore the way he was treating you, the way his actions betrayed the very ideal of casual detachment. You could let yourself believe this was just temporary, destined to burn out the way all things do.

And you had a choice to make. You could stay on this path, let him end it when the time came, and pick up the pieces of yourself when it was over. Or you could give in– to him, to this- and let it all become something far messier, far scarier, but infinitely more real. You could let the walls come crashing down and see where it led, knowing full well there might be no going back.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

One too many drinks at a rowdy tavern in some seedy little port town started this relationship. It was the kind of place that smelled of spilled ale and bad decisions. You and Kid were seated side by side, tipsy from cheap booze and a long week that had worn down the two of you. Half-hearted threats and teasing insults transitioned into touches that lingered way too long. 

When his large hand landed on your thigh under the table, squeezing firmly with no shame, no subtly, you leaned into it, your fingers trailing up his arm as you met his challenge with one of your own. “You talk a big game,” you murmured, your voice low and taunting. “Think you can back it up?”

And then came the bathroom. Not the most romantic spot for a first time, the broken blinking lights and the smell of piss certainly added to the ambiance, but neither of you gave a damn. He locked the door with a click, spun you around, and had your face pressed against the cold wall in an instant. 

Clothes barely came off; his hands were too impatient for that. He yanked your pants down just enough to get where he needed, his fingers rough and greedy as they spread you open. The stretch when he finally shoved inside was brutal, the angle unforgiving, and he groaned like a man who’d just found his favorite kind of trouble as he shoved you harder against the wall with every thrust.

By the time he was done, your legs felt like jelly, and the mirrors were fogged up from the heat of it all. Kid looked at you like he wanted to go another round right there, a cocky grin plastered on his face as he zipped up his pants. “You clean up nice,” he said with a smirk, slapping your ass as he turned to leave. 

That set the tone for every time after. No strings attached, no romance, just raw, shameless fucking whenever the need hit. It was about the release, about indulging in the kind of pleasure that left bruises and scratch marks behind.

One of his favorite things was seeing you struggle to keep quiet when he was fucking you in the dead of the night, in a place where anyone could walk in. The way your body would tense, trying to hold in your noises, but failing miserably as his cock hit that one spot inside of you that had you wailing out. He’d of course, laugh at you, a taunting sound that made your stomach flip. “Do you want everyone to hear us?” as for him, he didn’t particularly care if the whole damn world heard.

The best part was that there was no pressure. You could still flirt, still enjoy the random hookups with others on the ship or wherever you went. There was freedom in it. But more often than not, you found yourself seeking him out. He was convenient. He knew exactly what to do to make you feel good, how to touch you without overdoing it. And honestly, his body was just the right fit for yours every damn time. 

You swear that filthy mouth of his could single-handedly unravel you. He’d growl obvious comments like “Fuck, you’re so wet for me,” as he dragged his thick fingers through your slick before shoving them into you saying some shit like, “You like being use like this, dont you? You’re made for this.” 

The crew knew; of course, they did. It was impossible not to, with how loud you sometimes would get or the way you left his quarters a stumbling mess with marks blooming across your skin. If anyone dared to stare too long or judge, he would bark at them to mind their own business.

This arrangement works because neither of you tried to make it more than just sex. There was never any pressure, no awkward conversations after he had just busted inside of you, just a shared understanding that you would be there to scratch each other's itch without hesitation. You could, of course, try to make it into something more if you so desired, but you don’t ever have to if you don’t want to, which is such a beautiful thing in all honesty. What you have with him is chaotic, messy, and thrilling, and that was more than enough for both of you.