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yuikomorii · 4 months ago

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AYAYUI IDOL AU: Chapter 1

// I present to you… MY FIRST EVER FANFIC! It’s inspired by these headcanons and these posts. As mentioned before, in this story, the Sakamakis are simply regular idols with a vampire-themed concept; they’re not actually vampires or related. Since I noticed how much you all enjoy this kind of content and have been so supportive, I thought you might like a fanfic based on it. ☺️

I’m by no means a professional writer, and my style leans more towards the visual novel/otome game format. Even so, I hope you’ll like it! 💕

Voice announcement: Ladies and gentlemen, we have now arrived at our destination.

Before you disembark, please take a moment to ensure you have all your personal belongings with you. For your safety, mind the gap between the train and the platform edge as you exit.

We sincerely thank you for choosing our services and travelling with us. It has been our pleasure to serve you, and we hope to welcome you aboard again soon. Take care!

Yui: ( Eh? Is this…—! )

— eyes widen —

I’m here… I’m finally here!

Yui’s Monologue

I can’t believe my dream is actually coming true! All this time, this seemed like a childish wish but right now I truly am in Tokyo…!

Uuh… I’m getting a bit emotional, but can you blame me? It simply feels… surreal.

I never thought my father would agree to let me join a work exchange program in such a massive and dynamic city.

To be honest, I was half expecting him to say no, but it seems he believes in me more than I thought.

Knowing that he trusts me this much… it really makes me want to work even harder to prove he made the right choice.

Yes, that’s so. I will try my best to make father proud!

— takes big breath —

Yui: Nice to meet you, Tokyo. Let’s make this journey one to remember.

Place: Studio

Photographer: And~… pose! Ah yes, exactly like that! Keep on, keep on!

Ayato: ( Man, this shit is so tiring at this point. )

— smiles falsely —

Photographer: W-Wonderful…! Another one, thank you!

— keeps taking pictures —

Ayato: ( Can this woman stop blinding me with that flashlight already? It’s past 11 pm… )

Photographer: Now, a profile sho——

Manager: Hold on.

Pardon my intrusion, but I believe we already have enough pictures for today. Don't you think so?

Photographer: Eh? But we just got star— Oh my, it’s almost 12 am!?

G-Geez, my apologies. I guess the saying “time flies when you’re having fun” must really apply here.

— winks at Ayato —

Ayato: ( Gross! )

Manager: If more promotional pictures are required, we can extend the photoshoot to tomorrow. Watanabe-san, would it be possible for you to arrive earlier if that is the case?

Photographer: With such eye candy around, who could resist spending more time with him~?

Fufu, just kidding. I'll contact the director and get back to you with an answer as soon as possible.

Until then, have a good night! Bye-bye~!

— leaves —

Ayato: Haa… thanks goodness! One more photo, and I might’ve completely lost it.

Manager: I understand completely. Given your schedule, it’s clear you’re quite overworked. Nevertheless, it’s impressive how you still manage to perform so well.

Ayato: Heh… thanks.

— rubs eyes —

Manager: You look a bit tired, Ayato-san. Rest assured, the limousine should be arriving soon.

Ayato: Right, the limo is on its——

( Fuck! I can’t believe I almost forgot about it! )

Wait! Now that I think about it, I’ve got something else to take care of.

So… don’t mind me! Go ahead and take the limo; I’ll call for another one later.

Manager: Haa… Ayato-san.

You're not planning to do something that could get you into trouble, are you?

Ayato: O-Of course not! It’s just… no, it’s nothing important. Just a silly little thing I remembered I had to solve.

— tries to leave —

Manager: Ayato-san!

Ayato: Huh?

Manager: Do NOT let anyone see you, understood?

— Ayato nods and leaves —

???: You’re late.

Ayato: …!

Man, you almost gave me a heart attack!

Laito: My bad~. You came prepared at least, didn’t you?

Ayato: Yeah, yeah.

— puts cap and mask on —

Laito: Nfu, let’s go, shall we?

Place: Street

Yui: Uuh… come on! Why is no taxi in sight?

( It’s been two hours and I still couldn’t find my way to the Airbnb. )

( I knew Tokyo was huge, but I wasn’t expecting the transportation system to be this complicated… )

— looks at sky —

( It’s already late, huh? )

( I wonder if it’s safe for a girl to roam on these streets at this hour. Well, at least I hope it is, otherwise… )

Place: Private Night Club

Laito: Two Cosmopolitans. One for me, and one for that very fine lady over there, nfu.

Ayato: Another glass of Tequila.

Laito: Heh, another one? Is this the fifth by chance?

Ayato: I had a busy week, okay?

Laito: Ah, of course you did. After all, our Ayato-kun is the IT boy of this generation. Always swamped with brand deals, while the rest of us barely get a crumb~.

Ayato: …Not funny.

Laito: C’mon, don’t take it too seriously.

— pats his back —

I doubt any of us could care less about brand deals anyway. The idol job already pays well enough, and with barely any time for ourselves, why would we want to give up even more of our freedom?

Ayato: ( It’s not like it’s my choice though. )

Well, I can’t deny that the love I get is cool and all, but sometimes… hmm, how do I put it? It feels like people only like me because I’m an idol, y’know?

Laito: That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Fans often form a one-sided connection with idols simply because we’re constantly visible and accessible through the media, without really knowing who we are or what we’re capable of.

On top of that, you’re the visual, the face everyone admires. Who wouldn’t be drawn to someone who's not only stunning but also famous? It’s like the perfect package for embodying every girl’s fantasy.

Ayato’s monologue

Laito… he always knows what to say.

Seriously, this guy is so aware of everything around him to the point that it’s becoming unsettling.

And the worst part? He’s not just talking—he’s right, which is why it almost hurts to hear it.

At the end of the day, we idols are just puppets, carefully crafted to feed into the fans’ delusions. They don’t see us for who we truly are, but rather as a fantasy they can cling to.

And we, caught in the spotlight, are forced to live out that role.

Before becoming an idol, I was surrounded by people who kept me around because of my looks. At first, the amount of attention felt good, but as I mature, I realize just how hollow that really is.

I can’t help but wonder… if it weren’t for my appearance or status, would anyone actually treat me nicely? Would anyone be willing to accept me, flaws and all?

Heh… now I just sound stupid. As long as I’m an idol, I doubt I’ll get my answer anytime soon.

Waitress: Here we go, gentlemen. The Cosmopolitan and the Tequila.

Laito: Hello, earth to Ayato-kun, are you still in there?

— waves in front of his eyes —

Ayato: Yeah, yeah. I was just spacing out a bit.

Laito: Nfu, cheers.

Ayato: Cheers.

— they start drinking —

Ayato: Ngh…!

( My chest… it started aching! )

Laito: Hm, you good?

Ayato: Y-Yeah… I just— Ngh!

( It’s getting worse! )

I need some fresh air, that’s all.

— quickly puts on mask and cap —

I’ll be right back.

— quickly goes outside —

( Haa… Haa… what is happening…!? )

Agh… fuck!

( It hurts…! Could this be…—— )

— eyes widen —

( No… No, don’t tell me this is a real heart attack! )

Hnn… Ngh!

( What… what should I do now!? )

???: Quick! Please, drink this!!

— hands him water —

Ayato: Huh…?

— takes it and starts drinking —

???: A-Are you feeling better? I got another bottle in case you need it too.

Ayato: Haa… Haa… It’s okay now, all good.

???: Are you sure…? You really seemed in a lot of pain.

Ayato: Yeah… no worries.

( This girl… she just saved my life, didn’t she? )

By the way, uhm… thanks for that.

???: A-Ah, it’s nothing, really.

As far as I recall from my father, drinking water after alcohol can help reduce chest pain and lessen the severity of a hangover. I’m glad to see that it actually works.

Ayato: Heck yeah, I’m glad to see that it worked too, otherwise who knows how I would have ended up.

— the girl giggles —

???: You should be more careful though. Drinking too much alcohol can be very dangerous.

Ayato: ( Okay, mom. )

Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’m not usually like that.

Moreover… why exactly did you help me?

???: Eh? What do you mean?

Ayato: ( Could it be that she actually recognized me? )

( My face is practically hidden behind the mask and cap, and we’re in the dark, so there’s no way she could have, right? But if she did… )

???: Uuh… I suppose it was out of pure instinct.

Ayato: Instinct, huh?

???: Yup. You see, I heard you struggling, so there was no way I could brush that off.

Ayato: Hmm… But wait a minute, what were you doing all alone at this hour?

( What if she’s a stalker then? )

???: Ah… uhm… T-That’s a bit embarrassing to say out loud.

Ayato: Oh, come on, you straight up saw me about to drop dead from drinking Tequila. There’s no way this could be more embarrassing than that.

???: Actually… today’s my first day in Tokyo, and I’ve been struggling for almost 3 hours just trying to get to my Airbnb.

I tried taking the subway, but there were way too many lines, and I got lost at some point.

As for taxis, every time I tried to flag one down, the driver just ignored me.

Ayato: ( Nevermind, I’m taking it back. This might truly be more embarrassing. )

Pfft, why didn’t you call for a cab then?

???: I couldn’t find any reliable number…

Ayato: Hmm… Alright then.

I just arranged one for you. You’ll just have to tell them your location and wait for them to get you there. There’s also no need for you to pay.

— lends her money —

???: E-Eh!? Thank you… thank you so much! But I’m sorry, I just can’t accept the money!

Ayato: Nah, it’s fine, seriously. After all, you’re the one who helped me first.

Just promise me you won’t tell anyone about what happened today. Understood?

— the girl nods —

Ayato: Heh, great. Well, I guess it was nice to meet you. Now it’s time for me to return.

???: W-Wait! I forgot to catch your name!

Ayato: …!

( So she really doesn’t know me? )

It’s——

( No… it’s too risky. )

Oh look, the cab arrived! You should hurry up!

???: But—

( He left…? )

Yui’s monologue

As the taxi started moving, I found myself looking back, almost subconsciously, hoping to catch one last glimpse of that boy.

Today had been exhausting, but despite the strange circumstances in which we met, those brief minutes spent with him were oddly comforting.

I wonder who he is and what his life is like. It feels a bit silly, I know, to be thinking so much about someone whose name I don’t even know.

But there was something in his presence that made me feel in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

Whatever it was, it stuck with me, lingering in my thoughts even after we parted ways.

My journey has only just begun, and yet I can’t shake the feeling that meeting him was no coincidence.

I really hope I get the chance to cross paths with him again.

#diabolik lovers #dialovers #yui komori #ayato sakamaki #ayato x yui #ayayui #my fanfic #admin

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sungbeam · 1 year ago

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𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬

nonidol!kang yeosang x f!reader

yeosang doesn't remember your name, but he remembers what kissing you tastes like and how you like your eggs in the morning. just your regular prince charming trying to find his cinderella, or in this case, his passenger princess..?

9.5k (lord.....), nc-17, s2l, frateez au, college au, mentions of alcohol, swearing, kissing, humor, fluff, minimal angst, another cinderella story au/trope(?), drama (i bring i bring all the drama-ma-ma-ma), a girl who is not a girl's girl :l, the barest of proofreading

a/n: this is for the @atzhouse you can't outrage us event! guys if the flirting is lackluster, it's cuz im running out of rizz

“I don't believe you.”

The last place you expected to end up was in the front seat of some guy's white Lexus while the party raged on inside the ATZ fraternity house just down the street. According to him, he had to run out just before the crowd rolled in, and when he got back, somebody had snatched his parking spot.

“Okay, but why don't you believe me?”

The car smelled not like fresh leather, but an enchanting mixture of something like pine and smoked wood. Bitter, yet somehow, refreshing. You bet, even as the alcohol was hitting you, that it was what he smelled like.

His name was Yeosang—the guy sitting next to you in the driver's seat, the owner of this car, and the ATZ fraternity brother you bumped into at his house's own party. That had been just about twenty minutes ago when you'd ended up isolated from your pack of friends, and Yeosang had needed a desperate breather. It seemed he'd been running from someone (question mark), so you asked if he knew where the kitchen was. Eager to get away from whoever it was, he guided you straight to the kitchen and where the secret stash of flavored sojus were.

An offhand comment about wishing you didn't have to miss this one drama episode dropping tonight led to a longer conversation about the dramas you both enjoyed, which somehow landed you in his passenger seat.

The rest was history. Or—you supposed the rest was now.

“Because,” Yeosang said in a tone that sounded a lot like he was saying 'duh’, “you don't look like a biology major.”

He was gorgeous, even if the lighting in the party and out here was jack shit. The way the shadows cut across his face made him look like a faerie torn straight out of one of your old sketchbooks. You were half certain he had pointed ears beneath the cat-eared beanie he wore, but maybe that was just the alcohol doing its thing.

You sputtered out a laugh as he knocked back another gulp of his melon soju. He was more drunk than you were, maybe not by too much because that wouldn't have been fair, but it did take him seven tries to unlock his car seven minutes ago. “What's a bio major s'posed to look like?”

“Mmm…” he hummed, lips pressed together in a line that dug into his cheeks. “Not you.”

It only made you laugh harder. It wasn't even that funny. “That doesn't even make sense!”

“Does it have to make sense?” He squawked. His face shuddered for a moment as if he just experienced a glitch. “I forgot what I was gonna say, but it's the vibe.”

“The vibe,” you parroted in mild amusement. After you swallowed down your next gulp of soju, you gestured to him with the bottle, “Okay, now what about you? Your major, go.”

“I read shit.”

“Who doesn't?”

“Jared, 19,” he replied, dead serious.

Equally serious, you asked with wide eyes, “Really?”

He gave you an emphatic nod back. Really. Now, if you were a little less tipsy, you wouldn't have taken what he said at face value, but tonight was already miles away from your regularly scheduled program.

You pondered on that—the “I read shit,” not the misfortunes of one nineteen year old named Jared. “So if you read a lot of shit, does that make you a literature major? No, wait! I got it; you look like Comparative Lit.”

“Bingo,” he cheered, raising his bottle up into the air. “Wait. What do you mean I look like a comparative lit major? What does a comp lit major even look like?”

“I dunno, but it’s you.”

He pursed his lips into a deadpan at your callback to what he'd said before, and you merely stuck your tongue out at him like the mature adult you were. “Touché, my friend. Touché…”

Silence passed between you two for the first time since you met each other. In the distance, you could hear the muffled sounds of the party raging on. It wasn't that you didn't go to parties often; it was more so that you usually went to house parties hosted by friends or friends-of-a-friend. Making it all the way to Greek Row was not something you did every weekend, but a mutual friend—Chungha—knew the ATZ president and got you and your friends in.

Nearly finished with his third bottle (or was it his fourth?...), Yeosang knocked the remainder down his throat with a grimace. With the empty bottle, he set it at his feet on the car floor to join another—the cup holders were already occupied with yours and his second rounds. The first was abandoned on the frat house lawn somewhere.

“I think—” he slurred, blinking slowly at you like a cat, “—that you look like an artist.”

“An artist?” You parroted dumbly and felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “And why would you say that? Vibes?”

“Well, yes!”

You sputtered out a laugh at the way he said that. “Then yes, I am an artist,” you said, emphasizing the latter half of the word so it sounded like “teest” and not “tist.”

Yeosang gave a hoot. “I'm so good at this. Does that—does that mean you can paint me like one of your French girls?” He pulled his lips into an adorable, little smile, the back of his hand poised beneath his chin as he fluttered his lashes.

“I don't think I could do you justice,” you admitted. There was a rather annoying buzz at the back of your brain that was distracting you. With a shake of your head, you refocused your gaze on him. “You're too pretty.”

He preened at the compliment, unconsciously reaching up to adjust his beanie. “Like calls to like then.”

“What does that mean?” Your buzzed-out brain couldn't compute—

“It means that prettiness is attracted to prettiness, and I'm attracted to you.”

You whined, burying your face in your hands. Yeosang giggled to himself, incredibly proud at making you flustered, his knees curling upward to kick his feet in the cramped space. “I don't like you.”

“You don't?”

“No,” you raised your head up with a displeased frown, only to see that his eyes seemed to be twinkling with unrestrained happiness and something else. You weren't in the right state to hyper-analyze the way he looked at you, but it made your heart skip more than just a beat. “It's not fair that you're a literature major.”

“But I'm drunk,” he said innocently.

“That's even worse!”

He grinned boyishly at you, bashfully stretching his limbs and then cupping the back of his neck with a hand. “What if I told you I'm minoring in math?”

You deadpanned. “I don't think that makes me feel any better. You rule both the realms of words and numbers.”

“It doesn't mean I'm good at math,” he guffawed, leaning back in his seat. “It's only there 'cause my mom's a math teacher, and having a math minor makes my parents feel better.”

That sounded familiar… awfully familiar. The thought made you sober a bit, and it seemed your counterpart wasn't so wasted that he didn't notice the shift either.

“Uh oh,” he chuckled nervously, “what'd I say?”

You waved your hand around dismissively. “Oh, it's nothing. I'm kind of the opposite—my bio major is sort of to appease my parents and the fine art minor is for my sanity.”

He pressed his lips into a line, nodding in understanding. “Ah, I see,” he drawled. “So you don't… you're not happy? With what you're doing, I mean.”

Maybe it was the way he asked it, but it made the cogs in your head turn. You bit your lip. “I'm happy-ish. It's kind of a lot, but I'll survive.”

“'m sorry I upset you,” he pouted. “But,” he stammered, swallowing, “but I get it. My parents never wanna talk about my major anymore. Pretty sure they're just bitter and disappointed. I always feel like I’m walking on eggshells around them.”

You could tell that it affected him more than he wanted to admit. You wordlessly passed him your half-drunk bottle, and he gladly took a generous sip. When it was back in your hands, you guzzled down the remainder.

The buzz was getting better.

“Well, if they're not proud of you, I am,” you declared, setting the empty bottle at your feet. Your eyes blinked slowly for a moment as you got your bearings again. Maybe… maybe you should stop drinking! Yes, that would be the smart thing to do.

Yeosang hummed. “Thanks,” he said with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gazed over at you from his side of the car. “I'm proud of you, too. You'll be happy one day; it'll always turn out okay, Yn-ie.”

Something warm and fuzzy settled in your chest, like a cat had just curled up there, purring and content.

A thought suddenly popped into your head. “Yeosang, how do you like your eggs?”

He snorted and burst into laughter, coaxing a similar expression out of you. A moment later, you were trying your best to pout at him, “Hey! Don't laugh! I hear it's all the rage on the pick-up line scene.”

“You're trying to pick me up?” He giggled. All memories of the previous topic flew out the car window.

“Well, is it working?”

He licked his lips around a smile, leaning over the center console to rest his cheek against his fist. “Ask me again.”

You took another sip of your soju before returning it to its cupholder. “Okay. Yeosang, how do you like your eggs in the morning?”

“However you'd like them.”

You deadpanned, and that only made him laugh louder. His head tilted back so you caught a glimpse of his canines, before he brought himself back down to Earth. His cheeks looked as flushed as you felt—even in the dim streetlight you could make out the blooms of peony pink across his cheekbones. “Yeo.”

He reached over to pat your head a couple times, though the sloppiness of his movements made it feel closer to two affectionate smacks. “Okay okay. Sorry. How about we say it at the same time?”

“Okay.” That wasn't a bad compromise.

“Okay, one, two, three—”

“Sunny-side up,” you both said at once.

Your eyes and his eyes widened at once, gasps of delight sounding into the quiet car. Could this guy be any more perfect?

“You're not bluffing?” You asked with narrowed eyes.

Yeosang shook his head vigorously. “Mm-mm. I wouldn't lie to you, Yn-ie. Scout's honor,” he slurred, holding his hand up as if he was a boy scout.

You giggled at the gesture, and he broke form to melt into an ooey gooey puddle of liquefied butterflies. For a moment, he just stared at you with a strange look on his face, one that you couldn't quite place when you were in this inebriated state.

You chuckled, shifting your position when one leg started falling asleep. “What’s wr—?”

He leaned forward and—oh. Oh. Those were—his lips were on yours. He had leaned over the console and kissed you. He was kissing you.

And when you didn't kiss him back, he drew backwards, an embarrassed expression painted over the adorable flush on his cheeks. “That—I shouldn't have done that, should I? I'm sorry; I dunno what I was—”

You crushed your mouth against his this time, effectively stealing the apology right off his tongue. He tasted like melon soju, and his touch was gentle as he brought his hand up to cup the side of your face, cradle your jaw. He was tracing the outline of your features in the dark like he could sketch them in the lines in his mind.

He tasted like the color of amber, warm and bright, but not blindingly so. He was mellow and sweet, with the undertones of the burnt wood in his cologne.

You melded your lips against his mouth like you could engrave him into you, and you were practically half over the middle console already. Yeosang's free hand fumbled backward to find the button on the side of his chair—there. The chair began moving backward with a monotonous brrr sound, and as it moved you couldn't quite keep your lips physically attached to his.

You disconnected from him for what felt like an eternity in order to climb over—shoes knocking against empty soju bottles, ass nearly bumping the horn—and with some clumsy, awkward maneuvering, you were on him again, this time quite literally. You tumbled into his lap, his hands landing on either side of your waist and your hands bracing against the back of his chair.

He loosened a soft groan with the return of your lips to his, and he hauled you down closer to him, until your chests were pressed flush against one another and you couldn't tell which heartbeat was who's. His beanie fell off at some point, but your fingers buried themselves within the dark, silken mass of his hair, a hat in their own right.

When you both pulled away for breath, your chests heaved in tandem to catch it. You settled your cheek against his shoulder while you inhaled the smell of his cologne, much stronger now that you sat against his chest with your nose by his throat. His hand warmed the small of your back with the other cupping the back of your head in an affectionate cradle.

“I don't think I've ever kissed someone like that,” you admitted into the quiet. You suddenly couldn't hear the muffled music blasting from the party in the background anymore.

“Me neither,” he replied, voice hoarse from the kiss. “I've never met someone like you before.”

“Never in your life?”

“Never in my life.”

“So let me get this straight,” drawled Wooyoung with both hands poised at his temples, eyes screwed shut against the bright morning light coming in through the window. There were currently eight people crowded onto President Hongjoong's bed at a time that was far too early to be alive for a group of people who partied until four in the morning. “You're saying that you know this girl's family life, how she likes her eggs in the morning, and how she kisses—but you don't even know her name?”

Yeosang was propped up against the headboard, squeezed between a very unfairly serene-looking Seonghwa and a mildly hungover Hongjoong. Yeosang's bangs were flat against his forehead and he squinted his tired eyes through the strands. “No, that's not what I said. I said that I know her name… it's just not coming to me right now.”

He knew your name. Right? You told him your name, right? He addressed you by your name at least once last night, right?

(If he was being honest, as soon as Yeosang woke up this morning, he started whimsically recalling the events of last night in his head. But once he realized he neither had your number nor remembered your name, he jostled his friends up to invade the president's room for an emergency round table discussion. Who would have guessed their alarm clock would be a very panicked Maltese screaming, “I DON'T REMEMBER HER NAME!”)

“Which pretty much means you don't know her name,” Jongho piped up where he was laying against Yunho's back on the corner of the bed, his eyes closed while he attempted to squeeze in five more milliseconds of sleep.

“Well, do you know who she came with?” San asked. “She probably has at least one mutual friend or else she wouldn't have gotten in.”

Mingi furrowed his brows together. “Not necessarily. The pledges might not have been thorough when checking.”

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to be there with them at the door, Mingi.”

“Oh, was I?”

Yunho cut in before Hongjoong could tackle Mingi off the bed. He grinned to himself, “Okay, but San has a point. Usually people are only able to sneak in if they're with a group.”

“Awh,” Wooyoung cooed, reaching over to pinch at Yeosang's cheek, “Yeosangie fell in love with a stowaway—ow! Hey! He just bit me!”

“Deserved,” Seonghwa said plainly. He turned his head so as to not have to face Wooyoung's wounded puppy eyes. It was too early for this. “Do you know if she came with anyone, Yeosang-ah?”

Yeosang scrunched his nose up, disgruntled. “No. I'm pretty sure she was looking for her friends when we met… something like that. I remember some things, but not everything.” He pinched the place between his brows in an attempt to piece together his memory of last night. He could remember the way you made him feel—it was the jittery warmth that came with falling, and his heart had never grown wings before like it had around you.

After the kiss, the two of you had sunk into a comfortable, quiet conversation about anything and everything beneath the sun. For the first time in a long time, he felt comfortable and heard by someone other than his fraternity brothers. You were perfect, for lack of a better word. And he knew a lot of words.

But how could he fucking forget your name?

He was never drinking that much melon soju ever again.

“She's a biology major,” he offered with a defeated sigh, letting his hand fall into his lap.

“What does she look like?” Hongjoong asked.

Yeosang's gaze went up to the ceiling as he recalled what you looked like to his friends. It was pretty dark the entire time he was with you, but there were a few moments when the streetlights hit your face and his conscience was constantly trying to keep his drunk ass from kissing you within the first ten minutes of meeting you. He'd managed to hold it together for a little bit longer before throwing all caution to the wind.

When he was done, San said in light amusement, “I'm just surprised you kissed her first. She must be something then, huh?”

Yeosang couldn't conceal the smile that slowly crept onto his face. “Yeah, she's…” He cleared his throat. “I just don't want last night to be the first and last time I see her.” It couldn't be—just when he thought he clicked with someone, the universe couldn't possibly be so cruel as to rip you away from him, could it?

“Don't you worry!” Mingi chirped, “We'll help you find your passenger princess.”

Seonghwa snorted. “Passenger princess? What is this, Cinderella?”

“It might as well be,” San chuckled, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Operation: Passenger Princess is a go!”

Yeosang wasn't sure if recruiting his friends’ help was a good or awful decision. But because his past, drunk self hadn't done many favors for his future, sober self, he would take all the help he could get.

You knew the moment you stumbled out of your bedroom and saw your roommate that you were in trouble. It wasn't trouble in the conventional sense; considering her eyes were laughing as she watched your pitiful walk of shame from your room to the shared bathroom, you knew you were not going to hear the end of everything that happened last night ever.

“Not a word,” you said to her as you winced at the blinding bathroom lights.

Her toothbrush hung out of her mouth as she slipped in behind you to spit her toothpaste into the sink. When her mouth was rinsed and clear, she made eye contact with you in the mirror, eyebrows wagging up and down. “So you and Yeosang, huh?”

You glared at her from around your own toothbrush. You would have taken the damn thing out to defend yourself, but you were already late.

Reina took full advantage of your occupied vocal chords. “I never knew pretty frat boys were your type, Yn,” she teased, practically floating out of the bathroom to go check on the state of her espresso in the kitchen.

“Aye hae yuu,” you grumbled around your toothbrush.

“What's that?” She cackled, bringing a hand up to the shell of her ear. “I love you? I love you, too, Yn. But you know who else loves you?—”

“Dompt shae it.”

“Yeosaaaang!”

You loathed the fact that her saying such things made butterflies flap their wings and dance around in your belly. It was simply delusional to think of love when all you and Yeosang did last night was make out in his car and accompany each other in deep, provoking conversation… conversation that definitely didn't make you feel incredibly seen or anything… definitely not.

Finally, you were able to spit your toothpaste out to make your argument. “Okay, first of all, I don't even have his number. And—how could he love me?” As if possession of a phone number could even correlate to love either.

Reina paused, her expression arranging into loud incredulity. “You what? After all I went through to separate the two of you to go home, you didn't exchange numbers?”

Okay, so maybe you shouldn't have disclosed that information—now you just looked stupid.

You lathered up facial cleanser in your hands and on your face. “Look. Exchanging numbers was just the last thing on our minds—” Oh, Yn. Have you ever said something smart?

Reina snorted. “Oh, I know.”

“We didn't just make out,” you grumbled, your cheeks warming beneath your hands. You furiously splashed cool water over your skin before patting your face dry. There likely wasn't much time left before you and Reina had to run to meet your other friends at your weekly volunteering session. “We talked.”

“Uh-huh, and you know that denial is a river in Egypt, right?”

Suffice to say that Reina most definitely did not let your shenanigans from last night go. The two of you managed to reach the food bank sometime before fifteen minutes past your original start time. Everyone else was already stationed and on time, and because you and Reina were the last to arrive, you were sent straight to dishwashing.

As you and Reina pulled on your twin pairs of pink rubber gloves, your friend Mark Lee (and brother with the NCT fraternity) barrelled into the backroom with a dirty ladle in his hands. His head perked up at the sight of you both, a smile blooming on his face. “Well, good morning, Party Animals. How was the ATZ party last night?”

He deposited the ladle into the sink for you to wash while he went to go find a clean one.

“It was cool, but I think Yn would love to tell you all about her experience,” Reina teased, bumping her elbow against your side.

Mark sidled up beside the two of you and leaned in close in proper tea-spilling fashion. “Oh my gosh, did something happen?”

You scowled at Reina, then said to Mark, “Nothing catastrophic—”

“She hooked up with Yeosang!”

You cut her a hard glance. “Reina, I don't think Neptune heard you.”

Mark's eyes went comically wide, jaw slackening. “Yn and Yeosang? That's so wild. Like—like Kang Yeosang?”

“I think? We didn't exactly exchange last names, but why would it be wild? We just kissed and talked.”

“Who kissed who now?” The new voice had you all glancing back over to the kitchen door where another member of the group, Yura, walked in. Yura was Reina's cousin, and the two grew up quite close, so it was natural that they ended up in similar social circles. You and all your other friends got along pleasantly with her. She flashed you all a small smile. “From the sounds of it, I'm guessing you guys had a fun time at the party last night?”

“We did!” Reina chirped.

“Shame you couldn't come with us this time,” you said offhandedly. It wasn't like Yura to miss a party.

Reina cocked her head to the side. “I could've sworn I saw you there though—”

“Ah,” Yura waved her hand to dismiss her cousin's thought. She chuckled, “You're probably mistaking someone else as me; I had that paper I needed to work on last night, remember? But Yn, you and Yeosang?”

You groaned. “I thought we were over this.”

“Dude, we can't not get over this,” Mark quipped back. “Yeosang just doesn't do stuff like that—hook up with people, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Yura chimed in, “I've seen him at a couple other Greek parties with some of my sorority friends and he looks pretty standoffish most of the time. He's usually always with one of his brothers. He's kind of cold, really.”

Mark furrowed his brows. “I wouldn't call him cold; he's just a little shy, is all.”

“My friends told me that a lot of sorority girls chase after him,” Yura said with wide eyes. “They get, like, aggressive about him or something.”

You and Reina exchanged a look. Was that who he was running from last night? “That must be kinda stressful,” you said softly with a small frown.

“Apparently, that's why his social medias don't take DMs unless approved,” she shrugged.

Well, there went your backup plan of finding him on social media. Then again, if he recognized you or your name, would that help if you requested him? That was if you deigned to change your profile picture to yourself and not one of your silly doodles.

You couldn't help the weight that your heart seemed to gain as it sank to the pit of your stomach.

“Well, that's mildly disappointing,” Reina muttered, turning to quickly wash the ladle Mark had just dropped off.

“I just wouldn't want you to get targeted by any of those crazy sorority girls, y'know?” Yura gave a laugh that sounded almost nervous. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before snapping on a fresh pair of gloves.

You nodded, gnawing on your bottom lip. “Yeah, no, I—I get it. Thanks, Yura.”

She gave you a sympathetic look. “Of course,” she said. With a wave, she made her way back toward the kitchen door. “Mark, we better get back to work. See you guys at lunch break!”

When she was gone, Mark clapped a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Hey, listen. I don't really know the guy personally, but me and Wooyoung are pretty tight. I can get in touch with them if you want—”

Baekhyun, the section leader for your session, charged into the kitchen with his arm piled high with dirty dishes. If you didn’t fear for the safety of the porcelain bowl at the top of the stack, you might have chuckled at the scene before you. “Mark! We don't pay you to stand around.”

“Hyung,” Mark huffed exasperatedly as he rushed over to help Baekhyun before the section leader could get knocked over the head by a rogue dish assisted by gravity. “You don't pay us. We're here out of the goodness of our hearts.”

“Well, I don't get paid enough for this,” Baekhyun said once all the dishes were transferred to the sink, and you and Reina were put to work. “Now come on; lots to do!”

Just as Mark was about to follow after Baekhyun, he caught your eyes. “I'm serious about the offer, Yn.”

You smiled. “Thanks, man, but let me think about it and I'll get back to you.”

“Yeah, just lemme know!” And he was gone.

Word broke out that someone in the ATZ household was searching for a girl. Word of mouth was a method of dissemination that could spread like wildfire, leaping from one tongue to one ear to another, leaving only ash and debris behind. And around Greek Row, it became a massive game of Telephone.

But while nearly everyone in the university's fraternities and sororities knew about his strife, Yeosang’s efforts seemed to be for naught. The only thing that emerged from this were more people harping after him, claiming to be 'the one he was looking for.’ None of them were you.

Your name had manifested itself in his head about halfway into the week. He'd been toiling over the theory readings his professor assigned for Thursday's lecture when he'd underlined a word, and it came crashing down upon him with ice cold clarity.

His eyes went wide as he shot up out of his chair, nearly sending Jongho careening off his bed on the other side of the room. “What the—”

“Yn,” Yeosang said. Then he declared a little louder, a giddy smile on his face, triumphant and bright, “Her name is Yn.”

Jongho resettled himself on top of his bed. “Well that narrows things down for us,” he drawled, taking his phone out and typing something out. “I don't suppose you have her last name.”

Yeosang fwumped onto the edge of his bed with his lips pressed into a line. “Dude. I literally just thought of her first name. Do you really think I can come up with—”

“Okay, okay,” Jongho laughed, flicking his wrist at him for a moment before resuming his typing.

“Who're you texting?” Yeosang asked as curiosity drew him across the room to Jongho's side.

His friend sat up so he could peer over his shoulder at the phone screen. “I'm doing the heavy lifting,” he teased. Based on the social media handle at the top of the direct messages channel, Jongho was texting Chungha, a friend of the frat's but a closer friend of President Hongjoong's, and the recently graduated head of the Phi Omega Phi sorority. “Hongjoong hyung mentioned offhandedly that Chungha wanted to get some friends into the party on Friday, so I'm seeing if she recognizes this Yn person you're looking for.”

Yeosang’s eyebrows flicked upward as he settled into a more comfortable position on Jongho’s bed while they awaited Chungha’s response. In the meantime, he pulled out his own phone in an attempt to search for your name amongst his mutuals. He frowned at the lack of a successful search—did you use a different name or did you not have a social media account? Was that why you hadn’t attempted to contact him in the past few days?

For a moment, a shard of self-consciousness pierced through his chest at the prospect that you didn’t want to contact him. Did sobriety make you embarrassed at what happened that night? Had he made you uncomfortable with the amount of vulnerability that was in the car—no, the vulnerability was mutual… but maybe—

“Gotcha.”

Yeosang’s head whipped back over to Jongho’s screen. Having your name and major seemed to ring a bell for Chungha, and she forwarded a social media handle, along with a “tell Yeosang good luck ;)”.

“Thank you, Jongho. And bless up, Chungha,” Yeosang muttered as he swiftly input the social media handle into his search bar. There it was—a private art account with your first name in the biography line. There were only one or two people who you both shared mutuals with, which made sense.

His thumb hovered over the request button, and he bit his lip. With little else left to do and his heart banging around in his ribs from the anticipation alone, he clicked the button.

It didn’t take you incredibly long to accept his follow request and to follow him back. (Though, half an hour felt like an eternity when he was so anxious.) He made it painfully obvious that you acted in response, because Yeosang fumbled his phone between his palms like it was a hot potato, before he dropped it and stubbed his toe with it.

Jongho sent him a strange look as he handed the device back to a red-faced Yeosang, who furrowed his brows together to think of an opening direct message to you.

“It doesn't have to be perfect,” Jongho said as he peered over Yeosang's shoulder this time. He had even paused the game he was playing on his phone to stay tuned into the live entertainment.

Yeosang made a face. “Yes, it does.” It had to be the perfect mix of witty and funny and subtle and—

He figured it out.

@/yskang99: how do u like ur eggs?

Jongho released a sound of utter flabbergast, and Yeosang shushed him, both pairs of eyes pinned to the three dots that appeared on the bottom left-hand side of the screen.

@/studioyn: sunny side up

Yeosang broke into a smile, and Jongho's face contorted into pure incredulity. “What kind of security question is that?”

“Inside joke,” Yeosang replied giddily, rising from Jongho's bed to cross over to his side of the room. He collapsed into his desk chair and propped his feet up along the end of his bed.

Jongho scoffed, shifting his lounging position. He threw his friend another incredulous glance before giving up and returning to his game. He'd done his job.

@/yskang99: congrats u passed the test!

@/studioyn: ahh so that was a test? i imagined us doing a virtual handshake tbh

@/yskang99: i like that better actually

@/studioyn: also how did u find me lmao

Yeosang bit his lip through a grin. I have my ways, he typed out cryptically, cheekily.

@/studioyn: wtvr u say ig… 🤨🤨🤨

For a brief moment, Yeosang wondered if he should bring up the concern lingering in his mind—why you hadn't reached out to him. He didn't want to simply assume that he was “popular” enough that just anybody knew who he was, but he was also aware that most people were able to track him down on social media. But would that kill the vibe? He liked the energy.

@/studioyn: i can't get a read on whether or not ur any different than how u were drunk

@/yskang99: would that matter?

@/studioyn: not particularly, no, but i've met people who r

@/yskang99: no i get that, i've met my fair share too :/

He began typing out slowly: I missed you… Then he swiftly amended it to: I missed talking to you.

@/studioyn: awhh wait ik we've only technically spoken the one time, but i missed talking to u too yeo :’)

A smile split his face from ear to ear. Would you wanna hang out again? Only if you're comfortable, of course.

He watched the three dots appear, then disappear. You were thinking and his heart was sinking.

Finally, your response came in. I'd love to, but I don't wanna disappoint you with my god awful schedule this next week.

@/yskang99: what abt the weekend? something low stakes maybe?

@/yskang99: my brothers and i r going to the nct house on sat

@/studioyn: oh!! im actually close friends w mark lee :] i'll see if i can drag my friends along, and we can link up there?

The thought of seeing you again, even if it was at another dumb Greek party, made electricity zip through his veins. His stomach filled to the brim with butterflies, and he had to shift his position because of how much it tickled.

@/yskang99: yeah sounds great :D i'll look forward to seeing u

@/studioyn: same here yeo :’))

@/studioyn: how's ur week been so far?

Yeosang leaned back in his chair again, propping his elbows on the armrests to sink into a comfortable position. He had a feeling he might be here awhile, but he would sit here all night if it meant talking to you.

“Yn! We're gonna be late!”

You nearly jolted at the sound of Reina's voice carrying through the other side of your bedroom door. You dropped your phone onto your bed, racing to finish up the rest of your makeup. “You can never be late to a Greek party!” You countered, swiping your thumb over the pigment you just put on your lips.

Your bedroom door opened just as you were slipping a chain necklace around your collar. Reina poked her head in, her eyes looking you up and down. “Ooh-la-la,” she gushed with a teasing smile. “Someone's gotten all dolled up. I wonder who for…”

You rolled your eyes and ignored the obvious warmth rising to your face. “I just felt like it,” you defended weakly while spritzing a light mist of perfume over your neck and wrists. You stood up from your desk to collect your wallet, keys, and lip gloss to dump into a purse, then went over to retrieve your phone.

The screen displayed another message from Yeosang, no doubt continuing the conversation you had to abruptly pause because you would be late for the NCT party. This was going to be the second Greek party in two weeks—a record for your books. But you had a feeling it was going to be a good time like last week, you were sure of it.

As you skimmed the message Yeosang sent, you slipped out of the room to join Reina in the main living space. She casted you a pointed look with arms crossed over her chest and lips pressed together.

“What?” You blinked over at her innocently.

“You're never gonna see your boy at this rate,” she said as the two of you picked out your shoes for the night.

You sent a text answering Yeosang and letting him know you would be at the party soon. “He's not 'my boy,’” you said.

“Right. He's your man.”

You hated how hard it was to keep the giggle in your throat down. It was embarrassing how you smiled just then, too, turning your head away from a smug Reina.

God, he was just a guy; how did you get so head-over-heels after just one night? It had to be the fact that you'd been texting him nonstop over the past few days. Though you were busy and exhausted, you continued to check your phone all throughout the days and stayed up long into the nights just to talk to him. He had you hook, line, and sinker.

At some point, you'd forgotten what Yura warned you about on Saturday.

Your friends picked you and Reina up in one of their family minivans. A round of greetings went up as you clambered in behind Reina, and your friend asked where her cousin was tonight if she wasn't carpooling with the rest of you.

“She said she was at her sorority friend's house,” Sieun said offhandedly from the driver's seat. The minivan door closed on its own with a mechanical whirring sound. “She's probably at the party already.”

Some nights, parties called for a pregame session, while others (not unlike this one) was attacked raw. Sieun parked the minivan about a block outside of Greek row where there were spaces between cars along the curbs and where there was less of a chance of her accidentally running over a drunk partygoer stumbling into the street. The party was already in full swing with neon green strobe lights blazing aggressively through the front windows, and Gasolina blasting at nothing less than one hundred percent speaker volume.

You felt your phone vibrate in your hand as Reina grabbed your hand to avoid instantly losing you in the crowd.

@/yskang99: im on the second floor where there's less people 😋😋 they've got a nice balcony we can hide on!!

“Mark said they've got spiked Capri Sun somewhere in here!” Reina shouted into your ear.

You nodded your head vigorously. “Let's find it then!”

@/studioyn: gonna grab hard caprisun and then head up!! do u want some??

@/yskang99: surprise me w a flavor, pretty pls x

You grinned to yourself and slid your phone into your purse to focus on the task at hand.

The NCT fraternity house wasn't a completely unknown landscape to you and Reina. Being friends with one of its brothers and friends-by-association with all the rest, you'd popped by more than a few times. You could likely navigate this house with your eyes closed; that was what it was like weaving through the dark rooms and throngs of people squeezed together like sardines in a can, anyway.

Along yours and Reina's trek to the kitchen, you gained a couple people in your conga line of linked hands, NCT's own Xiaojun and Jungwoo. NCT frat brothers always pregamed, so the two brothers were already tipsy and giggled about your kindergarten field trip line (with Reina being dubbed the poor kindergarten teacher tasked with keeping you together).

When you arrived at your destination, it didn't take long for you to lose both Xiaojun and Jungwoo to the game of Texas Hold 'Em being played at the breakfast table. The singular lightbulb overheard made it feel like a smoke-filled backdoor gambling den.

“Aha!” You cheered after playing a game of mystery cooler roulette, and opened the cooler lid that held the spiked Capri Sun juice pouches on ice.

“Mine!” Reina snatched up the last cherry flavored one, the shiny aluminum slippery and ice-cold as she impaled the opening with the thin, yellow straw.

You grabbed a Pacific Cooler flavored pouch for yourself, and a second for Yeosang.

“Ah, is that for the man of your dreams?” Reina said between sips, her pouch already half empty.

You sent her a look. “He has good taste, which means he'll probably appreciate Pacific Cooler as much as I do.”

“As long as it's not lemonade,” came a voice to your left. There stood a rather tall and lean man, his warm smile enunciated by the dim kitchen lighting as the green strobe lights from the living room painted across his face. “I can't deal with sour shit,” he explained, making a face.

You laughed. “That's valid. Fruit Punch is a classic though.”

“Can't argue with that,” he replied, leaning down to pick his poison for the night. He stabbed a straw into his pouch of strawberry kiwi juice, then arched an eyebrow at you. “I feel like I know you. Do I know you?”

“Hey,” Reina chimed in as she leaned over your shoulder, “you're with the ATZ frat, aren't you? I recognize you from Twister last week.”

He smiled sheepishly from around his straw. “Ah… haha, not my best moment, but yes. I'm Yunho.”

“Reina,” your friend replied.

“Yn,” you added on.

Yunho's expression jerked as if he'd just been delivered an electric shock. He waved his pointer finger at you. “Oh my god, you're Yeosang's girl!”

Your eyes shuddered in surprise. Yeosang's girl. “Sorry?” You stammered. There was an insane amount of possessive pronouns being used tonight, buy you definitely weren't complaining about it, and could he perhaps say that again—

“Yeah, he won't shut up about you.” Yunho slurped up the rest of his juice pouch, draining and flattening the life out of it in record time. “He loves Pacific Cooler, by the way.”

He took his leave then, saying nothing else to you and Reina except for shooting you a pair of finger guns like saying 'go get em, tiger!’

Reina wheezed, draping herself over you for a moment. “Oh—my god! Good thing Yeosang's just as down in the trenches as you are.”

“Don't do this to me, Reina,” you whined and dragged her along out of the kitchen toward the second floor staircase. “I don't need encouragement; the crush is enough!”

“It's never enough,” she declared with her pointer finger up in the sky. “You are gone, my friend! Gone, I say.”

You patted her head as you both began your ascent up the stairs. “Alrighty; then gone, I am. Do you remember where the balcony is on this floor?”

She hummed. “Ooh! Somewhere by Johnjae's room, abouts. I just remember because Mark told us how—”

“Right—the sophomore year Romeo and Juliet reenactment,” you snorted. You couldn't wrap your head around the batshit crazy things that occurred around these parts. “Who convinced Doyoung to play Paris anyway?”

She made a noncommittal noise. “Must've been bribed—oh, there it is, but I think there's a couple out there already…”

There was most definitely a couple on the balcony. Their outlines were silhouettes against the residual strobe lights shining up from downstairs, so it was a little too dark to make out who they were. They seemed close—the girl was all over the boy, the latter trying to hold her up by her waist. Maybe she'd had too much to drink, and for a moment, you were glad someone was taking care of her.

But when she leaned in for a kiss, green light glanced across their faces to reveal their features to you. It was only a split second, but it was all you needed.

“Reina,” you exhaled in shock, turning away from the balcony with enough speed to nearly give you whiplash.

She didn't question you, as you both careened back down the hall from where you came from, heading for one of the open bedrooms on this floor to collect yourselves. When the two of you were out of earshot of the balcony, she hissed under her breath in utter disbelief, “Yura?”

You'd seen it nearly clear as day, too. That was Yura kissing Yeosang.

Your head spun as you shouldered your way into Mark's and Haechan's room, their names plastered on the door in foam letter stickers from the craft store. As Reina closed the door and turned on the lights, you sat down in Mark's desk chair attempting to make sense of what you and Reina just witnessed.

Yeosang and Yura? But wasn't Yura the one who warned you that chasing after Yeosang was a risk because of how many others were, as well? Why would…

Oh.

Well, now you just felt stupid.

Reina dragged over Haechan's desk chair to settle in front of you, her expression less enraged than before, and more concerned over what she was reading off of your face. “Hey, don't do that. Don't think like that.”

“You don't know what I'm thinking,” you murmured, setting the untouched juice pouches on the desk.

“You're thinking that you're stupid.”

“Okay, maybe you do know what I'm thinking.” You inhaled, then exhaled slowly, leaning forward onto your knees. “I don't really know what to think or assume.”

Reina nodded, chewing on her bottom lip. “That's okay. I don't think I really understand what I saw either.”

“But that was Yura, right?”

She bobbed her head again. “That was my cousin, yeah.”

“Would it be fair to even think that she told me all that shit last week to discourage me from seeing him?” You didn't enjoy thinking that another person would have such malicious intentions without understanding their point of view, especially someone you considered yourself friends with.

“Well,” Reina drawled, “I think we both saw what we saw, and Yura was acting strangely about it on Saturday. It would be fair if you were hurt by it; I think your feelings have been clear.”

You gave a small nod. “Do you think he…?”

“I'm not sure, hon.”

You resolved to talk to him about it. If anything, you had these juice pouches left to console yourself, but you wanted to make sure you knew where his feelings laid. You would be lying if you said your heart didn't harbor even a glimmer of hope that this was all a misunderstanding, and that the kiss was an accident and didn't matter.

You and Reina left the relative safety of Mark and Haechan's bedroom to go find Yeosang. There weren't any new messages between either of you since the Capri Sun exchange, and you thought about texting him on his whereabouts.

The balcony by Johnny and Jaehyun's room was empty now, barren of any evidence somebody was there in the first place.

You and Reina wandered back down to the main floor. The party was nowhere near over; the night was still young. Hope was sinking fast in your stomach as the two of you traveled from room to room in search of him, but with no luck. Even asking around was useless.

“Text him,” Reina encouraged, as the two of you sipped on the juice pouches that were supposed to be for you and him.

She held your spiked juice while you texted him.

As time passed, and a response had yet to come through, you tossed yours and Reina's flattened Capri Sun pouches into the nearest garbage can.

If he wasn't going to answer, then maybe you would just go home for the night. You had a lot to think about.

Defeated, you let Reina sweep you under her arm and guide you to the front door. “Let's go home, hm?” She said, rubbing your shoulder.

On your way to the front door, you paused. You thought you heard someone calling your name—

You turned around to find Mark barreling toward you through the crowd with another guy at his side. “Mark?” You shouted over the music.

“Hey, we've been looking all over for you,” he said. Nodding to his friend, he told you, “This is Wooyoung, by the way, the ATZ brother I'm friends with.”

“Yeosang's been looking for you,” Wooyoung said in earnest, eyes as wide as Mark's. Had they been looking for you as much as you were looking for Yeosang?

Something like hope sparked in your chest again—you were at odds. The fight had nearly dissipated from your blood and you were ready to go home. But if he was trying to find you… it must be worth it then, right?

“Where is he?” You asked.

It was nearing midnight by the time you settled yourself on the concrete curb outside the ATZ frat house just down the block from the target being thrown at the NCT house. With everyone over there, no wonder it was quiet enough to finally hear yourself think. With the coming of deep autumn, a slight breeze wafted by that drifted over your skin and raised goosebumps on your arms.

You heard gravel crunching from behind you, coming down the ATZ driveway, and before you could turn your head to look, a warm jacket was placed over your shoulders. You held your breath, fingers finding the lapel to keep it from slipping as you glanced over at your counterpart.

Yeosang lowered himself onto the curb next to you, mimicking your position with his knees bent and arms resting upon them. “I—my phone died,” he said lowly.

“Oh.” That took care of at least two of your questions.

“Is there—” He stopped himself, amending his statement, “There's something on your mind.”

Understatement of the century. You pulled his jacket around you, the intertwining scents of alcohol and his cologne lingering on the collar. “I was going to meet you at the balcony, and I was there, but… but I saw you and Yura, and…”

It was his turn to say “oh.” He angled his body toward you now until his knees bumped against yours and he was muttering out an apology he didn't need to say. He laid his upper body over his arms that were folded onto his knees and peered up at you through lengthy lashes.

He was waiting for you to finish.

You swallowed, following his lead and turning your body toward him. “I saw her kiss you,” you said, the sound barely audible to anybody but you and him. “Reina and I went somewhere to kind of just soak in what we saw, and then we went back out to find you so I could talk to you about it, but we couldn't find you.”

“I'm sorry you had to see that,” he murmured, eyebrows furrowed together. “It—it didn't mean anything. She did try to kiss me, but I pushed her away before she could.”

You believed him. You loosened a small chuckle from your lips. “Y'know, it sounds silly to me now, but last week she told me that there were a number of girls who were pursing you and were very aggressive about it.”

He snorted. “If there were any, I only know of one.”

“She…?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, lips pursing. “I know she's liked me for a while, but I've made it clear I don't see her the same way. At last Friday's party, I was actually trying to lose her in the crowd when I found you.”

Your eyes widened. “So she was there?” Then Reina had actually seen her cousin at the party; Yura had lied about where she was.

“She told me tonight that she was scared about me liking you more than her,” Yeosang said as he lifted his body back up to rest his cheek against his fist. “She was really drunk—which was why you probably saw me trying to hold her up—and then she… tried to kiss me. I pushed her away, and one of her friends found us, so I handed her over and went to get some air.”

And that was why you couldn't find him. You released a breath you didn't realize you were holding in. “Are you—are you okay? I'm so sorry she did that to you.”

The corners of his lips tugged upward in a reassuring smile. “I'm alright, thank you. And it's not your fault.”

“I know, but still,” you insisted. “Your boundaries were violated, and it makes me feel so icky that I've called her a friend of mine, and—what?”

Your words came to a screeching halt when you realized that Yeosang was just smiling at you. Or rather, gazing at you, admiring you. It was whatever he did whenever his eyes possessed a set of twin jewels in his irises that needed no light to glitter like gold; and when his grin softened at the corners by a tenderness that knocked the wind out of you, all words and systems failed you.

You recognized this look, except this time, you weren't drunk.

“I'm really happy I met you,” he said in your silence. “And I'm happy I got to see you again.”

You nearly melted. You smiled back at him, replying quietly, “Couldn’t have said it any better. Thank you for being honest with me.”

“And thank you for believing me.” He reached for your hand, his movements slow as if giving you an opening to pull back if you wanted to. But you didn't, and you closed the remaining space to link your fingers and press your palms together.

You and Yeosang shared mutual smiles in the dim lighting outside his fraternity house. Your heart beat had quickened a considerable amount now that he was so close to you again.

You cleared your throat. "Just to be clear though—when you said she was scared about you liking me more than her—?"

His smile reached his eyes and turned them into upturned crescent moons. "I'm not scared," he said, "that I like you more than I have ever liked her." By a landslide.

Your heart gave a lurch in your chest. "Good," you smiled. "That's good, because I like you a whole lot, too."

“Do you wanna get out of here?” Yeosang inclined his chin toward where his car was parked a couple vehicles down. “Properly this time, now that we're not completely wasted?”

You laughed. “I would love nothing more.”

Pleased, he helped you to your feet. You must have stood up far too quickly though, because the blood rushed up to your head in a riptide current. You swore as the vertigo hit you, and your footing stumbled.

“Woah, careful there, pretty,” he murmured, his low voice by your ear as he steadied you with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other around your waist.

Oh, there went your heart… it flew up to halo around Yeosang's head, and it wasn't yours anymore—

“You okay?” He mused.

You cleared your throat, straightening. “Yeah, I'm great,” you said sheepishly, ducking your head toward your chest.

A warm, fond chuckle left his mouth. “Cute,” he murmured. He lifted your chin up so you would look at him, his eyes darting down toward your mouth, and yours mirroring his movements. “I was wondering…”

“You can kiss me,” you blurted out, ignoring the utter leap in your pulse and the heat crawling up the back of your neck.

You tasted his smile as he leaned over to seal his mouth over your own, a long awaited return to the place that felt just right. You breathed him in, inhaled him, devoured him whole—you wrapped your arms around his shoulders to pull him closer just as his hands pressed you flush against him.

In the distance against the heavy house music in the background, a cheer went up into the night sky.

You and Yeosang parted only to crane your heads in the direction of the noise, only to find what looked like a gathering of your friends and his friends hooting and applauding like it was New Years.

“OPERATION: PASSENGER PRINCESS WINS!” The guy from earlier, Wooyoung, practically howled up at the sky.

You pressed your face against Yeosang's shoulder as he groaned. “I am so sorry about them,” he chuckled through a grimace, lips grazing over your crown.

You laughed along with him. “My friends are also among the guilty party, Yeo.”

He kept his arm around your waist and you kept your head against his shoulder as the two of you walked away from your friends and toward his car. Contentment curled itself up over your chest again, and it nestled in deep, as if it planned to stay awhile.

“By the way,” you piped up as he unlocked his car.

“Mhm?”

You opened the passenger side door and leaned over the top of it to ask, “What the hell is Operation: Passenger Princess?”

Yeosang sputtered out a laugh and his cheekbones burned red. “How about we save that for our third date?”

You blinked, lips parting.

Yeosang grinned impishly. “Close that mouth, pretty, or I'll close it for you.”

Your jaw snapped closed, and his laugh echoed against the houses along this street. You climbed into the car after him, flustered beyond words. “I don't like you,” was all you could come up with.

“I'm sure you don't.”

a/n: pls remember to reblog + comment if you enjoyed! also, the plan is to try and write another wooyo frat au as well, so pray for me...

atz m.list

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @luumiinaa @tinkerbell460 @meosjinn @hyunjaespresent-deobi @stayarmytinyzenmoa-l @floatingpluto @gyulfriend @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @soonyoungblr @justanotherkpopstanlol @kangfication @pxppxrminty @fluorescentloves @haechansbbg @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @mars101 @synthwxve @empire-x @kflixnet @atzhouse @cromernet

#atzhouse #cromernet #kflixnet #ateez x reader #kang yeosang x reader #yeosang x reader #ateez oneshot #ateez drabbles #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #yeosang fluff #yeosang imagines #yeosang oneshot #yeosang drabbles #yeosang scenarios #rager: you can't out rage us

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temis-de-leon · 1 year ago

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Shy gn!reader confesses to the Dateables

Characters: Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon and Simeon (x reader, separately)

Masterlist

Part 1 , Part 3 , Part 4 , Demon brothers version

Anon request: Could I request headcanons for Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon, and Simeon react to shy gn crush confessing to him nervously?

A/N: I made this so the Dateables were already crushing on the reader for a while, but it's the reader who confesses. Once again, Simeon gave me no inspiration and yet his section was the one I enjoyed the most

Diavolo

He’s used to loneliness and sacrifices, dedicating his limited free time to a small inner circle that he’s unable to expand. The rest of his devotions goes to his dreams and his duties, and that includes, above many other things, the student exchange program.

The only human he personally knows is Solomon and everybody is aware of the sorcerer’s peculiar personality, so he’s quick to accept that you’re going to be different from everything he’s ever known.

He just didn’t know how much.

You build a friendship with him, treating him without inhibitions while still respecting him. You accept and join his childish whims, ask for his advice in more serious matters and speak your mind without fear.

You make him feel normal, helping his love for you grow slow but steady over a strong foundation.

But then your behaviour around him changes and he feels completely lost. There’s a sort of restraint he’s never seen in you, your recent silence and your avoidance to look at him in the eye making him wonder in hurt if you finally know enough about him to be afraid.

Diavolo feels his heart sink when you ask to speak to him in private and he’s willing to accept he has lost you.

How wrong he is.

Your confession leaves him speechless, but the more you talk with a stammer while twisting your fingers, the more he feels his cheeks blush.

He doesn’t confess back. He directly asks you out on a date.

Barbatos

His duty to the Young Master doesn’t feel like a sacrifice to him. It’s an honour he’s glad to act in, so, although he likes to keep some free time for his private life, Barbatos is more than happy to set Lord Diavolo above everything else.

He doesn’t pay you much attention at first, given that there’s little to no connexion between you two. In fact, the first few times you hang out together outside official matters it’s always organized by someone else, mainly Luke.

The young angel enjoys baking and even his prejudices decrease upon the demon’s talents in the kitchen.

He also enjoys spending time with you.

So he combines both of those things. That’s how Barbatos gets to know you better.

He revels in the discovery of your resilience and your kindness despite what surrounds you. Your smile while measuring ingredients with Luke, your attentiveness at his teaching.

He knows Lord Diavolo appreciates him and thanks his presence, but you’re the first one to treat him so… highly? You admire him, you hear him, you seek him.

His busy mind and busy schedule give him almost no time to ruminate his feelings, but he can’t run away for much longer.

It’s around the same time he finally accepts his need to be with you that you start to fidget around him. He sees you looking at him under your lashes, timidly smiling and looking at him when you think he isn’t paying attention.

Your feelings are obvious to him, but he lets himself enjoy the situation for as long as possible. It’s too adorable to let go.

When you finally gather the courage you need to confess and it’s his turn to be sincere, his words are worth more than a hundred romance books.

Solomon

At the beginning, his interest in you is entirely academic. A regular human living amongst the most powerful demons of the Devildom? Now, that is something worth his while!

Witnessing first-hand how your humanity is put to the test on the daily is fun at first, but then again… You still have humanity. Once lost, it wouldn’t come back.

He ultimately decides to side with you. It makes him feel a little better too.

Although you both have a cordial relationship, barely a friendship, he isn’t your priority. To be fair, you aren’t his either, so he can’t complain.

But then time passes and his infatuation starts to grow.

You remind him of better things. Those he lost long time ago and those he knows he’s incapable of reaching. You make him want to be better, to try and to be someone that you could be prouder of.

He uses his vast knowledge to compete for your attention. His stories and his studies, his vulnerability slowly showing to you. It’s difficult, but you’re worth it.

He knows it’s working when you go out of your way to spend time with him, a difficult task when half of your roommates, if not all of them, don’t trust him at all. That makes him elated, but insecure at the same time.

He doesn’t know how to move things forward without spoiling them, so he waits until you make the first move. When the moment comes, he forces himself to memorize every second of it.

Solomon doesn’t want to forget your timid expression or the way you can’t decide what to say to put your feelings on display. He doesn’t want to forget the wide smile you show when he reciprocates your affections.

Simeon

He cares for you since the beginning, even before forming a friendship. It’s in his nature to be kind and caring and he can’t help but to act on it with you.

Your personality immediately draws him closer. How positive you are despite your situation as well as your determination to keep going forward, proving the demons wrong.

Simeon feels a strange satisfaction whenever Lucifer’s brow twitches at your misdeeds.

It’s thanks to Luke, who wants to keep two of his favourite people close, that he gets the chance to know you better.

He enjoys every occasion you visit Purgatory Hall. Sometimes you’re invited by Luke to help him cook, study or even make puzzles; and other times is Simeon himself who asks you to spend time with them.

The evenings you manage to have dinner with them are the most fulfilling for him.

He’s never felt a love so strong before, but he’s a world renounced writer and a romantic at heart, so the only thing he’s capable of doing in this situation is to pour his affections and hope for you to accept his heart.

The conclusion reaches an end when he manages to reset his DDD yet again.

Luke, although irritated at him, manages to call you before going to the castle to hung out with Barbatos, but Simeon doesn’t mind. More than that, he prefers it.

The sole idea of being alone with you brings warmth to his heart, after all.

He knows you feel the same too. Seeing the light in your eyes, the curve of your smile and the tenderness in your shy-filled whispers is enough for him to know.

You don’t even have time to confess on your own.

Simeon asks with a sweet voice if his interpretations of your feelings are correct. If they are, bless his heart, he feels the very same.

#obey me #obey me! shall we date?#om! shall we date #om! swd #obey me diavolo #obey me diavolo x reader #obey me barbatos #obey me barbatos x reader #obey me solomon #obey me solomon x reader #obey me simeon #obey me simeon x reader #obey me x reader #obey me x gn!reader #obey me fluff #obey me headcanons #obey me requests

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puddingandp1 · 6 months ago

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welp now that the spooky season is over it's back to your regular scheduled vaporwave programming!

made a new icon accordingly, might make a new banner too at some point

#digital art #tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc oc #fan character #profile pic art #artists on tumblr #pi doodles

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abbysimsfun · 6 months ago

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 85 (Searching for Rafa Bonilla)

cw: mentions underage trafficking, drug smuggling

Conrad looked for Rafa Bonilla between his regular cases at the precinct, following clues and booking suspects to keep his captain satisfied. A few months into his search he finally located one of Rafa's known associates, according to police reports.

He called Heather, tapping his fingers against the desk. "Hey, you've reached Heather's phone. It's either the middle of the night or I'm with a patient, so leave a message and I'll call you back."

"Hey, it's me. I was hoping to talk to you, but I've got to work a little late tonight. I'll make it up to you. I'm sorry. I love you."

He drove outside Brindleton Bay to greet the man who thought he had everyone fooled with his chess mentorship program. It would be less than thirty minutes before his students - mostly children - started showing up for their scheduled lesson in the park, so Conrad knew he had to work fast. He shuddered as he got closer to him, and not just because it was freezing outside.

"Jimmy Stefano," he said, dropping his voice an octave to sound serious.

"Not lately," mused the man with a laugh. "Who's asking?" He turned to face the voice who knew his old identity. "You? They said you were a cop now. No surprise they never let you work our cases."

Conrad knew they had no time for small talk and he whipped out his cuffs. "You're under arrest for aiding and abetting a known fugitive."

"You can't be serious! Who?"

"Rafael Bonilla."

Jimmy's face went white, but he stopped resisting. As Conrad cuffed him, he asked, "Are you taking me in to help San Myshuno PD, or did she call you?"

Conrad scoffed. "She who?"

Jimmy laughed. "She told both of us sweet nothings, old friend. You were just dumb enough to believe them."

"Shut up and get in the cruiser."

Back at the station, Jimmy looked around the interrogation room in his orange jumpsuit once Conrad booked him. "Aren't you going to need the cameras on to record your attempt at my confession?"

"I want you to speak freely, Stefano. Tell me everything you know."

Jimmy eyed him suspiciously. "You're not working with San Myshuno PD at all, are you."

"I didn't stage an elaborate arrest just to scare you. I still plan to file a report after you and I catch up. Just talk."

"She really did get to you. Are you trying to let her ruin your life again?"

"Where the hell is Rafa?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him in two years, when the last job we did together went bad. I assumed his sister told him to run since the charges he's facing are so serious."

"She doesn't know where he is."

"I'm sure she told you that. Did she tell you she was done with Los Tigres, too?"

Conrad flinched, and Jimmy raised an eyebrow.

"I'm happy with my chess students, but I can't get out now. When you walked, I should've joined you, but I didn't have your father's connections at the police station to keep me out of jail."

"I wasn't even there that night, but you gave them my name."

"Yeah, I did, because you walked before you even got started. Los Tigres only let you live because you became a cop and they didn't need the heat. I don't know what she told you, but if you think Ximena's turned over a new leaf and is done smuggling for the cartel, you're an idiot. She just uses new aliases these days."

Conrad breathed in through his nose. "If I turn the cameras on, will you avoid mentioning our history while you tell me what Ximena's still doing with the cartel?"

"What's in it for me, Sargent?"

"If it comes to it and you're telling the truth, I only want Ximena. As long as Los Tigres doesn't get caught up in anything at the Brindleton docks, I've got no reason to open up a window to the past. You should think about moving on, too. Turn that chess mentorship program into more than just a front."

Jimmy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Some of us are lifers, you know."

Conrad hit record while Jimmy told him everything he knew about Ximena's past - how she escaped being trafficked in her teens by offering to run drugs for Los Tigres de Selva, working her way up to running an entire operation moving drugs from Selvadorada to San Myshuno, through Britechester, and back again. Her associates called her The Chameleon because of how often she changed her hair.

She'd been arrested but never did hard time, with those who worked under her often taking the fall, instead - like Jimmy Stefano. Twice. Ximena kept herself just clean enough to avoid prison, and dragged her brother into the same life. "Rafa and I used to pose as Simlandian military to run product for his sister, but he never got caught for that," Jimmy said.

"When was the last time you worked for her?"

"Four months ago."

Conrad led him through several questions, showing copies of Ximena's old police reports. When they'd finished, he released Jimmy Stefano. It didn't satisfy him to send a known smuggler back to the streets, but he'd gained some incriminating evidence against Ximena, at the very least. He was beginning to think he might need it, eventually.

He headed home in darkness, and his mind raced with possibilities. Could Ximena's activities have led directly to her brother's disappearance? Who were her enemies these days?

He tried to call her, against his better judgment, but she didn't pick up her phone. He hung up before the voicemail kicked in.

When he walked in the door, he found six-year-old Ash on the floor, working on a castle diorama for extra credit at school. He knelt down to help him without even changing out of his work clothes. "Can you help me with the small pieces? Mommy won't let me use better scissors, but my kid scissors barely cut anything!"

He grinned. Grateful for the distraction, Conrad pulled out an instruction booklet tucked under the edge of the box. "Of course. What did you need me to cut?"

"Just these windows," he said. "They're too small. And can you measure to make sure my towers are big enough? I want the biggest towers of the whole class! Like the Spire Tower!"

"Tallest towers, can do. Hey, did you want to use this lump of clay for anything?" (Finally, the clay comes out at a sensible moment!!)

"Yeah! Moat mud! And we could use real water!"

"Your mom won't be very happy if we make real mud in the house, buddy."

Heather walked into the room then, kneeling down next to them to play with Gord. "Please don't make real mud. Why don't you use the clay to mould a base for the castle?"

"Good idea, Mommy! Can we have pancakes for dinner tomorrow night? I've been thinking about pancakes all day!"

"I can make you pancakes for dinner, but your mom and I won't be here to eat them with you," said Conrad. "Tomorrow night, I'm taking your mom on a date."

"What's a date?"

"It's when people who like each other hang out," Heather said.

Ash's eyes grew wide. "Is there kissing?"

Conrad grinned. "There might be. What do you know about kissing?"

He paused. "Nothing, I guess. Scotti Holiday says it's like eating faces, but why would people who like each other eat their faces?"

Heather laughed. "Don't worry, Conrad's not going to eat my face. Are you almost finished with your diorama for the night? It's getting late and you should get to bed soon."

"Just a little while longer, Mommy. Please! I'm not tired and I'm almost done!"

When he and Conrad had finished, they displayed the excellent diorama on a kitchen countertop until Ash could take it to school in the morning. Before he went to bed, Conrad went upstairs to check on his sleeping baby girl.

Intuitive to his human's growing stress level, no matter how well he hid it from everyone else, Gord followed him. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay

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defectivevillain · 5 months ago

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this winding labyrinth, chapter 13

chapter thirteen: confrontation

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 13, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-12, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

author's notes: this is a bit of a shorter chapter (more dialogue heavy) but i still think you’ll enjoy 😏

A few notes before that, though. First, we’re nearing the end! Woop woop! I plan to write a few more chapters (2+) and two endings. Second, on that note, a friendly reminder that this story will not have nsfw. I think I put that in the notes of this fic over on AO3, but not over here... Oops.

Anyways, on to our regularly scheduled programming! Typical warnings apply.

It’s a miracle you survived the Red Dragon. At least, that’s what everyone’s saying. There are nearly countless theories going around the FBI now, ranging from you simply being lucky to the killer second-guessing himself. As time passes, the rumors only grow more ludicrous—and you’re almost happy when you can finally return to work and dispel them once and for all. You return to holding occasional guest lectures in recruit classrooms (in the advent of your frequent fieldwork, you had fallen away from regular instruction). Things slowly return back to normal, to your relief.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take Jack Crawford long to find you upon your return. The two of you had kept somewhat regular communication throughout your hospitalization, with Jack calling you from Quantico. It’s nice to see him in-person again. He looks composed and professional as always, wearing his typical suit and a focused expression on his face as he stands in the doorway of your office. “Agent,” he nods, moving to take a seat across from you. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thanks,” you say, a tired smile rising on your lips. “It’s good to be back.”

Jack nods in acknowledgement, before continuing to speak. The two of you have never been much for pleasantries, so it’s no surprise that he is eager to move things along. “Now, on to business…” he trails off. Then an interesting, uncharacteristic expression falls onto his face. It’s hesitation, you realize.

“What is it?” you hear yourself ask. Jack rarely ever hesitates. Apprehension is not in his vocabulary.

He takes a slow breath. “Since your hospitalization, Hannibal has reportedly been acting a bit… difficult,” Jack says carefully. There’s something he’s not telling you. He’s not giving you all the details. But why? Jack and you have always been honest with one another, even when (especially when) it concerns your work. It’s strange, and a bit unsettling, to see your boss being so cautious with his words.

“Difficult?” you question, after a tense silence descends across your office. You cross one leg over the other and tap your fingers against the arm of your chair, feeling restless all of a sudden.

A pause. “He has been asking for you,” Jack then confesses. Something lurches in your stomach. “I refused to pass along information, which supposedly distressed him.” That doesn’t seem right. Hannibal isn’t distressed by anything—least of all your momentary absence.

Your thoughts must show on your face, because Jack nods. “You know I’m not fond of this arrangement with Lecter,” he sighs. Yet he continues. “But it may benefit us.” His ambiguity isn’t giving you any confidence.

“What are you suggesting?” you ask. You fear you already know the answer.

“I’m suggesting we visit him,” Jack answers, confirming your suspicions. “Wear something that conceals those bruises on your neck. It may do us well for him to see you in good health,” he advises, a brief flicker of frustration passing across his face as he glances at the marks the killer left behind. You self-consciously grab at your collar, despite knowing it’s a futile effort.

“We should tell him about the interaction between you and the Dragon,” Jack muses. “Lecter values knowledge above little else. It is quite likely that he has been unsettled by your unexplained absence.”

You mull over that statement for longer than you should. “Hannibal doesn’t get unsettled,” you then frown.

“Perhaps not in front of you,” Jack says, an echo of a wry smile on his lips. There’s that feeling again—the sense that he knows something you don't. “But I’ve been told his behavior was rather ‘uncharacteristic.’”

“I will be accompanying you, of course,” Jack continues, after you can’t seem to find the words to say. “The doctors would not be happy with me, if I were to let you strain your voice too much. All I ask is that you remain at my side. I can handle the talking.” You blink at him in surprise, before a strange sense of gratitude washes over him. He’s not sending you by yourself. You will not have to face him alone.

There’s a question that’s been lingering on your tongue for minutes now. Jack looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to voice your concerns. “Do you think he knows anything else?” you ask halfheartedly. You suspect Hannibal may grow uncooperative soon, if he hasn’t already. Besides, there’s a limit to his knowledge—what with his confinement.

“Hannibal may very well be reaching the end of his utility,” Jack admits. You nod, trying to fight off the stewing feeling in your chest that’s been accumulating since the beginning of the conversation. “We will have to see.” He leaves you with that ominous remark, promising to return soon upon securing visiting hours.

The drive to Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane is far quicker than you’d like it to be. 90 minutes pass in what feels like a blink of an eye. And of course, the sight of the building is enough to bring back all the negative thoughts you’ve been suppressing. In light of Frederick Chilton’s death, the building has fallen under new administration. The security detail has grown a bit lax, which you pretend not to notice to save yourself stress. Even the building itself looks a bit… grimier than normal. Jack and you don’t end up meeting the person who took on Chilton’s role, instead being swiped in at the security desk and then taken through the halls immediately.

Jack leads the way and you follow after him like a shadow. You’d like to think that you can go relatively unnoticed, but the thought is exceedingly unrealistic. You can only hope Hannibal has miraculously lost interest. Upon entering the space, you find the killer in question sitting at his writing desk, reading a book. Jack closes the door after you enter, impatiently staring at the man until he decides to break the silence. “Hannibal.”

Hannibal blinks and looks up, seeming surprised. “Ah, Jack,” he says. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting you. It’s been some time.” He places his book down and gets to his feet, standing across from Jack.

“I suppose it has been,” Jack responds amicably. In a less stressful situation, you’d be amused at how unenthusiastic he sounds. But you can’t quite get yourself to forget your anxiety. It’s not just your imagination: the air is incredibly tense, almost charged.

It is only inevitable that Hannibal’s gaze drifts to you. You’ve shoved your hands in your pockets, a false notion of security beneath these blinding fluorescent lights. You’re not sure how long you stand there, a mere subject to Hannibal’s fervent attention, before he finally speaks. “It is nice to see you.” Hannibal is looking at you when he speaks. You get the inexplicable urge to smoke again, despite quitting months ago. It must be the uneasiness brewing in your chest.

“You too.” You can’t summon more than a tired quirk to the edge of your lips and a brief nod.

He regards you for a moment, a thin but knowing smile on his face. “You are unusually quiet today.” How he’s able to conclude that based on one sentence is beyond you.

“Apologies,” you murmur. The sentiment feels slimy and wrong on your lips. Your voice is audibly raspy and you can virtually see Hannibal digesting that information, puzzling it out in his mind. He needs more.

You helplessly glance at Jack, who sighs. “Yes, well,” Jack breaks off, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “There was an unforeseen complication.”

“Oh?” Despite his attentive response, Hannibal’s eyes still haven’t left your face. From there, Jack recounts your conversation to him. Hannibal nods along during the appropriate moments, but it almost seems as if he isn’t paying attention. He’s practically tearing you apart with his eyes—his gaze extremely scrutinizing. You just barely manage to keep still, instead of fidgeting restlessly. “We decided it would be worthwhile to see the painting in-person—to meet with someone and discern its significance,” Jack finishes.

“The Brooklyn Museum,” Hannibal recalls. Jack nods, not appearing surprised that Hannibal knew where the painting was being kept. Then his gaze slides to you. “What delayed your return?”

“We encountered some unexpected opposition,” Jack answers. It’s vague, but it answers the question nonetheless.

“We?” Hannibal hums lightly. “Forgive the discourtesy, but you seem unscathed, Jack.”

A tick in Jack’s jaw is the only visible sign of his irritation. Hannibal should know that Jack’s position requires him to be at headquarters virtually every day. It is exceedingly rare for him to leave the office, since he supervises the entire Behavioral Analysis Unit in addition to many other recruits. You struggle to fight off a frown at Hannibal’s unusually acerbic remark. He almost seems angry. The source of that anger is exceedingly unclear.

You’re ready to diffuse the tension by giving him an explanation, until you find Jack firmly shaking his head at you. You frown. Wasn’t that the entire point of this excursion—to taunt Hannibal with the information you gained and see if he revealed anything else in its wake? Why is Jack changing his mind now?

Hannibal does look rather impatient and irritated. This may be the first time you’ve seen his emotions written so plainly across his face. He’s staring at you hard enough to melt your skin off.

“If you wish to waste time, I can make an educated guess,” Hannibal offers. His eyes are dark, his smile is overwhelmingly fake, and there’s a noticeable venom to his voice. Jack stiffens at your side, before taking a slow breath. It’s clear he’s accepted the futility of the situation. You can’t waltz into a lions’ den with fresh prey, only to deny them the meal.

“Very well,” Jack says. He turns to look at you; you’re not sure what your expression is, but it must betray some of your confusion, because Jack’s lips only fall into a tighter line. Is there something he’s not telling you, here? “We—or, more accurately, my agent here—came across the killer.”

Hannibal is silent. He’s waiting for more detail. Jack won’t give it to him. You stifle a sigh. “He consumed the painting, like you said he would,” you add.

“Ah,” Hannibal says. He doesn’t seem particularly surprised, nor does he seem satisfied by your answer. “I’m afraid that doesn’t explain your silence, dear.” The pet name is an unwelcome jolt in your chest, even when used sarcastically. Jack’s expression darkens as he glares at Hannibal. Hannibal doesn’t care to notice. It’s as if the two of you are the only ones in the room.

“And I can’t help but notice you’ve fastened the top button of your shirt today,” Hannibal continues. It’s a casual comment, nothing more than a harmless observation. Or, at least, it would be—if you weren’t hiding your wounds from the Red Dragon. “A rather uncharacteristic choice for you. I’m curious as to why you would make that decision.”

You want to keep quiet, knowing anything you say will betray you. But Hannibal’s gaze is insistent and expectant. There’s an ugly feeling rolling through your body. Every fiber of your being is telling you to run, to escape this trap he’s sprung.

“Agent—” Jack warns you, suddenly breaking his static posture and turning to look at you. There’s a wary expression on his face and it’s clear he doesn’t want you to reveal anything more. But it’s too late. As if possessed by a foreign urge, your hand has already met the edge of your collar. You’re forced to watch as you pull the material down from your neck, wincing as the effort drags the fabric along your still-healing wound. If Hannibal’s attention was intense before, it’s utterly ravenous now. You’re not sure why you’re so compelled to tell him the truth. All you know is the rapid drumming of your heart in your chest, pushing you to take action.

You’re sure the achingly bright fluorescent lighting does nothing to aid the yellow-brown bruises scattered across your throat. Hannibal’s eyes trace the marks with clinical scrutiny; your heart steadily pounds in your chest as he resumes his silent investigation. For a while, there is only quiet as he examines you. The glass wall between you is rendered obsolete. You can feel the weight of his gaze over the dull headache you’ve been sporting; in the goosebumps along your skin; and across your shoulders.

When Hannibal finally tears his eyes away, you’re fooled into thinking his inspection is over. But somehow, he seems to know you hid the bite mark from him. “There is more,” he states with deceptive composure. There is nothing composed about the look in his eyes or the tension firmly pulling his shoulders. Hannibal is standing closer now, steadily approaching and rendering the barrier between you entirely inconsequential. “At the edge of your neck.”

Jack seems to feel just as overwhelmed and helpless as you do. Because although he looks at you and fiercely shakes his head, there’s a perplexed fear glimmering in his eyes. Both of you are unsure about this course of action—and about Hannibal’s uncharacteristic mood swing.

“Show me,” Hannibal demands. There is no politeness in his voice. There is no pretense written across his face. This is not a request—this is a demand, an order.

You obey and tug the material over with a shaking hand, revealing the base of your neck and the edge of your shoulder. His eyes leave no stone unturned, as he follows the teeth marks scattered across your collarbone and crawling up your shoulder. Otherwise, Hannibal doesn’t verbally react: he is frighteningly silent. You can’t even hear him breathe. He never displays his emotions—you know that. And yet, there is no sign of his characteristic restraint now. There is only violence in the lines of his clenched fists; anger in the firm pull of his lips; tension in the furrow of his brows; and something far darker glittering in his eyes.

You lock eyes with Hannibal Lecter and, for the first time in several months, you remember to be afraid of him. His sudden presence at the very edge of the glass is all you need to take a cautious step backwards and enforce the distance between the two of you. And he latches onto that fear with frightening speed. It almost feels as if the walls around you are caving in; in the blink of an eye, you can see Hannibal swiftly stepping out of his transparent prison and reaching out towards you—

Jack’s hand on your shoulder brings you back to reality. You just vaguely hear him say something to Hannibal, before whispering to you as he leads you out of the space. He’s speaking, but you haven’t the faintest idea what he’s saying. You don’t have the energy or wherewithal to resist, instead remaining pliant in his grip as he ushers you through the hall. You expect Hannibal’s voice to travel across the hall, but he remains silent. And your heart begins to calm, with the distance you gain on him.

A stiff breeze greets you upon exiting the building. Jack takes you to the car, and the two of you drive back to headquarters in complete silence. It isn’t until you arrive at the headquarters parking lot under the cover of night that Jack sighs, before rounding the car and coming to a stop near you. You can hardly understand what’s happening, forced to watch in confusion as he brings a hand to rest on your uninjured shoulder. There’s a quiet fury in his eyes—not unlike Hannibal’s rage. You feel slightly sickened and ashamed that you’re the cause of this emotion, that your weakness is provoking such a reaction from those around you.

Jack seems about ready to pull you into a reassuring hug, but he stops himself. You’re both brutally aware of your roles as employer and employee, mentor and mentee. Jack looks torn, his eyes searching your face as if waiting for you to give him a clue as to how you’re feeling. His right hand falls to his pocket, a restless tell that you almost never see from him.

“This won’t happen again.” The stormy expression on his face suggests that Jack will ensure it. Maybe the sincerity in his eyes should alarm you… but you only feel grateful. You nod jerkily, pushing your tears back and swallowing past the burning feeling in your throat. It’s the best the two of you can do. Neither of you can promise a happy ending, but you can strive to do better in the future.

Then Jack nods and the moment is mercifully terminated. He glances up at the flickering streetlight across the lot and seems to come to a decision. “I’ll take you home,” he says. You try to object, but your protests fall on unwilling ears. You soon find yourself in Jack’s car once more, relegated to that tense silence once more. You’ll leave him with a word of gratitude as you exit the car, before heading up to your front door as your fingers restlessly trace the outline of your key. You’ll spend the rest of the night subconsciously tracing the marks along your throat, remembering how they provoked such a visceral reaction in Hannibal. It will be hard to sleep that night, as you toss and turn under the covers with an unfounded conviction that you’re being stifled and subdued.

Meanwhile, Jack will remain parked in your driveway until he’s certain you’ve gotten inside safely. Then he’ll wait until he’s down the street to clench the steering wheel in a tight-knuckled grip that betrays his frustration.

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lilahlovesjjk · 26 days ago

Text

🇼🇭🇪🇳 🇮 🇬🇷🇴🇼 🇺🇵

Chapter 5

synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo used to be inseparable—the kind of childhood best friends that promised to get married, rule the world, and never leave each other’s side.

Then life happened.

Now, years later, you’re both enrolled in the same elite psychology graduate program—only this time, you’re rivals. Gojo’s loud, flirty, obnoxiously charming, and infuriatingly good at everything. You're focused, sharp, constantly proving yourself—and desperate not to let the past (or him) throw you off course.

warnings: angst, slowburn (kinda), swearing, eventual nsfw, (i'll add to the list if I think of any more as the story progresses)

The campus was buzzing with its usual late-morning hum—students lounging on benches with half-zipped backpacks, others rushing by with headphones in and coffee cups clutched like lifelines. You stood in the short line at the campus coffee cart, toeing the ground with your shoe and watching the barista prep a drink with far too much whipped cream.

You were surviving on minimal sleep and residual embarrassment. Ever since your he dropped you off at your place a few nights ago, you’d been carefully orchestrating your schedule to avoid Gojo. Limited eye contact. Short replies. Strategic bathroom breaks. It was almost working.

Almost.

Because then you heard it—that unmistakable voice sliding in behind you like it was born to ruin your peace.

“Don’t tell me you’re here for my order,” Gojo said, leaning in just enough to make you flinch. “Sorry, angel. I only share fries. Not caffeine.”

You sighed. “Go away, Gojo.”

“Oh, come on,” he grinned, stepping closer until he was directly behind you in line, sunglasses perched like a crown on his snowy head. “You miss me.”

You turned just enough to arch a brow at him. “I’ve actually had three very peaceful days without you. You should try it.”

“But who would lovingly critique your fashion choices and hoard all your highlighters?”

“Literally anyone else.”

Gojo gave a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his chest. “Oof. Wounded. Guess I’ll just be emotionally devastated while I order my—” He glanced at the menu. “—iced matcha latte with oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla, and the sweet, sweet taste of my enemies’ tears.”

You blinked. “You realize you sound like a drama student with a food allergy?”

“I’m an experience, not a diagnosis.”

You rolled your eyes and stepped forward to place your order. Gojo did the same after you, flashing a peace sign at the barista like he was a regular. He probably was.

You stepped to the side, waiting for your drinks, trying very hard to ignore the way he subtly shifted his stance to face you directly.

“You know,” he started casually, “Dr. Yuki’s doing check-ins on our projects tomorrow.”

You perked up. “What?”

“Yeah. Just a quick review of what we’ve done so far. She mentioned it after class yesterday.” He smirked. “Guess who skipped that part?”

You scowled. “I had criminology. I left early.”

“Which means,” he continued, sipping from an imaginary teacup, “we’re gonna need to make it look like we’re not totally behind. You still have your notes, right?”

You gave a reluctant nod.

“Then we should meet up again. Tonight,” he said, too casually. “My place.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Your place? What happened to the library?”

“It’s always freezing in there,” he said, scrunching his nose. “Besides, Geto’s out with some girl and won’t be back till late. Perfect quiet study vibes. Just you, me, and the emotional baggage of early childhood trauma.”

Your coffee was called, and you reached for it, needing the cup to ground you. “Fine. But this is about the project, not—whatever it is you think this is.”

He raised a brow. “What do I think this is?”

“I don’t know. One of your weird games.”

Gojo leaned in slightly, tone softening just enough to make your stomach flip. “Maybe I just like hanging out with you.”

You paused. And for a second, you didn’t know what to say. But then he grinned again, all teasing and light, and the moment snapped back to its usual rhythm.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, turning to leave.

“I’ve been called worse!” he called after you. “Don’t be late! And no stripping this time unless you want another round of my unmatched chivalry.”

You didn’t turn around, didn't even acknowledge him as you walked away with a smile on your face.

Satoru Gojo had never deep-cleaned anything in his life. And yet, here he was—shirt half-tucked, hair damp from a frantic shower, standing in the middle of the apartment living room with a half-empty bottle of Febreze in one hand and a throw blanket clutched in the other like a life vest.

“I swear to god, Geto,” he hissed, looking around wildly, “why didn’t you tell me the living room looked like a frat house exploded?!”

“Because it always looks like that?” Geto replied from the kitchen, entirely unfazed as he leaned against the counter and watched the chaos unfold, sipping a matcha latte with the calm detachment of someone who had absolutely no skin in the game. “Also, your idea of decorating is putting a Supreme sticker on the microwave.”

Gojo glared at him. “This is not the time for jokes.”

“Are you... folding the throw blanket?”

“I’m staging ambiance,” Gojo said with all the seriousness of someone preparing a defense for court. He stepped back to observe the artful placement of the blanket draped over the couch. “She’s never been here before.”

“And?”

“And,” Gojo snapped, running a hand through his still-damp hair, “she’s gonna be sitting there, in that exact spot, for hours. Probably with her stupid little color-coded notes and that perfume that smells like peach tea and heartbreak.”

“You’ve memorized her scent?” Geto raised a brow.

“I have a nose.”

“You have a crush.”

Gojo’s face twisted. “Shut up.”

“Just admit it, man.”

“It’s not a crush.” Gojo looked around in alarm. “Is it hot in here? Why is it hot in here?”

“It’s called nerves.”

Gojo groaned. “She’s going to think I’m a mess, shes probably gonna think I only invited her here to hook-up or something."

“She already knows you’re a mess, and yeah that could be what she is thinking but if she shows up that is a good sign.” Geto grinned, grabbing his keys. “Good luck, lover boy. I’m gonna go before you start sweating through your shirt.”

He left just as Gojo let out an actual, audible whimper.

He stared at the couch again. Then at the snacks on the coffee table. Then at the project notes he’d half-assed for the past two days and tried to make look academic. He adjusted the blinds, lit a candle he found in the cabinet, then immediately blew it out because the scent was “Midnight Rain” and that felt too emotionally vulnerable.

When the knock finally came, his soul evacuated his body for a full second.

He opened the door.

And there you were—shoulders tucked into a light hoodie, hair a little windblown from the walk over, one strap of your backpack slipping off your shoulder. You smelled like peach tea. And, yes, heartbreak.

“Hey,” you said.

Gojo leaned in the doorway, as coolly as someone with a minor cardiac event could manage. “Hey yourself. Welcome to the chaos palace.”

You stepped in slowly, taking in the surprisingly clean apartment. “This is... less disgusting than I expected.”

“High praise,” he said, shutting the door behind you. “We had the maid in this morning. Her name’s Satoru. He cried twice and threatened to set the couch on fire.”

You gave a small laugh, and he felt it echo in his ribs. God, he was doomed.

You made your way to the couch and sat, pulling out a folder already bristling with colored tabs and printed journal articles. “Okay, so. I’ve been compiling sources for our breakdown of Bowlby’s four attachment styles, but I thought we could frame it through a developmental lens instead of just listing them—like, how they manifest at different stages of childhood and then in adult relationships.”

He blinked. “That’s actually... smart.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“No, I mean. I was planning on showing up with a bag of candy and pretending to be charming, so you’ve officially outdone me.”

You tilted your head. “Did you at least bring candy?”

He grinned, pulling out a bag of sour gummies from behind a pillow. “Got the essentials."

You smacked his arm as he dropped down next to you, a little too close. The space between you buzzed. Gojo had to bite down on his instinct to shift even closer.

Your notes were spread across the table, along with your laptop. “Okay,” you said, clicking open a document. “We should divide the work. Maybe I’ll handle secure and anxious-ambivalent, and you do avoidant and disorganized?”

Gojo squinted. “Avoidant. Like you?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He lounged back with a smirk. “You’re clearly avoidant. Explain why you won’t text anyone back until they’re emotionally broken.”

“Oh, says the guy who jokes his way out of any serious feeling.”

“Touche.” He popped a gummy into his mouth. “Fine, I’ll take disorganized. Makes sense.”

“Why?”

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and his grin faltered. “Because it’s complicated,” he said quietly, but not without a hint of humor. “You know. Unpredictable caregiving. Mixed signals. Safety and fear all wrapped in the same person. It... hits close to home, I guess.”

Your fingers paused on the edge of your laptop. But just as the weight of his words started to settle, Gojo clapped his hands suddenly and said, “Anyway! Back to avoidant-you. Let’s dive into how you would rather walk into oncoming traffic than ask for emotional reassurance.”

You rolled your eyes, but your gaze lingered on him a second longer than usual.

He kept laughing, but his heart thudded in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was from the confession he’d almost made or the way you’d looked at him just then, like you’d caught something cracking through the perfect surface.

You both turned back to your notes, your arms brushing now and then as you worked. Gojo tried not to visibly flinch every time it happened.

Thirty minutes later, you stretched your arms over your head with a groan. “We still have so much to do.”

Gojo swallowed hard. Your hoodie had ridden up just slightly. He looked away fast.

“We should eat,” he said, voice a little higher than usual. “You want food?”

“Sure,” you said. “As long as it’s not instant ramen.”

He jumped up. “Amazing. I’ll go order something. You keep being... scholarly and intimidating.”

Before you could respond, he darted into the hallway, phone already at his ear.

“Dude,” he hissed when Geto picked up. “She’s here.”

“Obviously. Is she murdering you yet?”

“No. But her leg touched mine and I nearly died.”

Geto’s laugh was a full cackle.

“I don’t think I can survive this study session,” Gojo whispered. “She’s got these little paperclips that match her highlighter colors. It’s deranged. It’s perfect.”

“Wow. You’re down bad.”

Gojo sighed dramatically, head falling against the wall. “I’m so screwed.”

From the living room, he heard your voice: “Everything okay?”

He cleared his throat. “Peachy! Just—uh—ordering food. Back in a sec!”

And with that, he dialed the number of a restaurant that delivers and ordered food before he stepped away from the wall, squared his shoulders, and marched back in.

Fake it till you make it he thought or until she figures out you’re in love with her and flees the country.

Whichever came first.

The apartment falls into a thick, wordless hush. There’s no music, no murmured jokes, no teasing remarks or commentary from Gojo to break it. Just the occasional scratch of pencil against paper and the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen. The only thing louder than the silence is the way Gojo’s mind refuses to shut the hell up.

He’s supposed to be reading over a journal article on Bowlby’s attachment theory—something about disorganized patterns and parental responsiveness—but all his focus is drawn to the girl sitting on the other half of the couch.

You.

You're cross-legged, hunched slightly forward over your notebook, brows furrowed as your pen races along the page. The soft, steady swish of your handwriting has a rhythm to it that should be mundane, boring even—but for some reason, it sounds almost hypnotic. Like a metronome he’s synced to without realizing it.

Your perfume—some light, sweet thing he can’t stop thinking of—is making it really hard to breathe like a normal person. And every time you shift, every time your knee bumps into his, even just slightly, it feels like a tiny static shock right to his ribs.

You’re wearing that fuzzy sweater again. The one he already knows is softer than it looks, because he accidentally brushed against your arm earlier when reaching for a highlighter. He still hasn’t recovered.

God, he’s pathetic.

His eyes drift from the pages in front of him to the curve of your cheek, to the soft line of your jaw, to the way you chew lightly on the end of your pen when you’re thinking. He could sketch you from memory at this point.

“Do you think we should include something about internal working models?” you ask suddenly, not looking up.

Gojo blinks. “Huh?”

You turn your head just slightly, not enough to notice the way he was staring—but enough that he has to scramble to recover.

“Internal working models,” you repeat, gesturing toward your notes. “Bowlby says they form based on early attachment experiences, right? So even in adulthood, people use those mental models to predict how relationships are supposed to work.”

He nods, grateful to latch onto something academic. “Yeah—like, if you grow up with unreliable caregivers, your brain just assumes that’s the blueprint for all future relationships.”

“Exactly,” you say, scribbling something down. “It’s not just about how you relate to other people, it’s how you perceive your own value too. Your self-worth.”

Gojo nods slowly. “Makes sense why people with avoidant attachment act like feelings are nuclear waste, then.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re describing yourself.”

He grins, deflecting instantly. “I’m just projecting. You’re the emotionally avoidant one, remember?”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch like you’re holding back a smile. “Says the guy who panicked over a phone call and ran to the other room.”

“Hey, I was ordering food,” he says defensively. “We both need fuel to survive your study tyranny.”

You arch a brow. “Right. Survival snacks. And yelling at Geto on speakerphone was part of the nutritional pyramid?”

He narrows his eyes playfully. “Okay, first of all—”

A knock at the door cuts him off.

Gojo practically leaps to his feet, both to escape your pointed stare and because he’s genuinely relieved for the distraction. He grabs the food bag from the delivery guy, thanks him quickly, and heads back into the living room.

“Behold,” he declares, dropping the bag on the table with unnecessary flair. “Dinner of champions.”

You scoot over and start unpacking the food. It’s a messy spread: dumplings, noodles, egg rolls, some sort of meat you can't name, and a bag of pretzels.

“Classy,” you remark, holding up the pretzels. “Is this your idea of a five-star meal?”

“With the right company?” he says, grinning as he flops down beside you again. “Absolutely.”

You roll your eyes again, but he catches the faint pink tint at the tips of your ears.

The notebooks and pens are pushed aside, replaced with chopsticks and crumpled napkins. The conversation shifts, the tone lighter now. You talk about everything and nothing—your weird TA from Criminology class, how Geto once accidentally lit a microwave on fire, the way freshman dorms smell suspiciously like corn chips no matter what floor you’re on.

“I can’t believe you guys survived your first month in that hellhole,” you say through a mouthful of noodles.

Gojo leans back on his elbows, grinning lazily. “Geto almost gave up. He tried to convince me to move into a van and become psychology nomads.”

You laugh, a soft, genuine sound that does something wild to his chest.

God, he missed this. Missed you. Not that he’ll admit it out loud—not when it’s so easy to tease you instead.

You wipe your fingers on a napkin and sigh. “This is nice.”

He glances over, surprised by the honesty in your voice.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “It is.”

For a moment, there’s quiet again—but not the tense, academic silence from earlier. This is different. Thicker. Charged.

You’re both still on the couch, close. Closer than before. Gojo’s knee brushes against yours again, but neither of you pulls away this time.

Your head turns slightly, and he mirrors the motion.

There’s that look in your eyes—curious, searching. Your lips are parted, breath shallow. He notices everything about you, from the curve of your mouth to the way your lashes flutter when you blink. He doesn’t think. He just leans in.

And for a second, it feels like it’s finally going to happen.

You lean in too, eyes flicking down to his mouth.

But just before your lips meet—

BRRRRT. BRRRRT.

Gojo’s phone buzzes violently against the table, making both of you jump.

You pull back instantly, blinking like you’re just waking up.

He fumbles to grab the phone, heart hammering in his chest. It’s Geto.

He doesn’t answer.

When he glances at you again, the spell is broken. You’re already reaching for your notebook, avoiding his gaze like it never happened.

Gojo clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “That was… probably just Geto. Again.”

“Mm.” You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “We should probably get through the rest of these notes.”

“Yeah.” He grabs his pencil, but he doesn’t write anything.

The tension is still there—muted now, buried under half-eaten food and unspoken things.

Eventually, the mood settles. You both get back to work, making slow progress on the outline. The almost-kiss doesn’t come up again, but it hangs there anyway, an invisible thread between you.

You pack up your things half an hour later, and Gojo walks you to the door.

“You sure you’re okay getting home?” he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

You glance up at him. “I’ve done it a hundred times.”

He opens the door but lingers. “Still.”

You step into the hallway, then pause and look back. “Thanks for dinner. And… for the study session.”

His smile is softer now. “Anytime.”

You disappear down the hall, and he stands in the doorway long after you’re gone, wondering if you felt that too.

The next day the classroom felt somehow colder than usual. Maybe it was the air conditioning. Maybe it was the way your stomach was turning.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about last night.

You’d gone to Gojo’s apartment fully prepared to focus on Bowlby and academic rigor—and instead, you’d nearly kissed him over dumplings and color-coded notes.

Now you sat at your usual desk in Dr. Yuki’s Developmental Psych seminar, your leg bouncing under the table as you stared down at your neatly written outline. You’d barely said two words to Gojo since you arrived, too preoccupied with pretending like nothing had happened.

He looked entirely unbothered. Slouched back in his seat, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, twirling a pen between his fingers with casual ease. You hated how normal he seemed. How unaffected. You hated even more that you noticed how nice his hair looked today.

“Alright,” Dr. Yuki said as she strode to the front of the class. “Let’s take today to do some informal check-ins. Nothing terrifying—I just want to hear how your projects are coming along.”

There was a wave of low murmuring across the room, a few groans, a few panicked glances at laptops.

“Each pair will have about three minutes,” she added. “No slides necessary. Just talk me through where you’re at, what your focus is, and where you’re headed next.”

You felt your pulse quicken.

Gojo leaned closer to you, his voice low. “You nervous?”

You didn’t look at him. “No.”

“Liar.”

You shot him a sharp glance, but his grin only widened.

A few groups went before you. Most stumbled their way through the updates, either still in the research phase or floundering with a partner who clearly didn’t pull their weight.

When Dr. Yuki finally waved the two of you down.

“Wish me luck,” he whispered, then headed to the front.

You followed a beat behind, heart hammering, palms cold.

Gojo did exactly what Gojo always did—he opened with a joke. “So, uh, we’re diving deep into childhood trauma. Real uplifting stuff.”

There were a few laughs.

Dr. Yuki smiled politely. “And your actual focus?”

He shifted gears smoothly, gesturing toward you. “We’re looking at Bowlby’s theory of attachment, specifically how early caregiver relationships can shape adult emotional behavior. You know—like why some people can’t commit and others text back too fast.”

More laughter.

Gojo had always been good at winning a room. But what surprised you—maybe even impressed you—was that he didn’t try to do the whole thing himself. After the first few lines, he turned to you.

You stepped forward, the words coming more easily than you expected.

“We’ve been studying secure versus insecure attachment patterns and how those predict interpersonal responses later in life,” you said, glancing at the professor. “We’re using a few real-world case studies—some clinical, some anecdotal—to analyze behavior through Bowlby’s framework. There’s more to attachment than just the childhood origin, though. We’re also looking into how adaptability plays a role in adulthood.”

Dr. Yuki leaned forward slightly, interest clearly piqued. “Can you give an example?”

You nodded. “Sure. For instance, we’re exploring how someone with an avoidant style might appear independent or emotionally closed off, but in reality, that behavior’s rooted in a learned response to unreliability in early caregiving. That same person could develop secure traits over time if they’re exposed to consistent, supportive relationships.”

Beside you, Gojo shot you a little side-smile. Proud. And, you realized with a flutter of panic, fond.

When you finally wrapped up, Dr. Yuki crossed her arms, thoughtful.

“I’ll admit,” she said slowly, “when I first paired you two up, I wasn’t sure how it would work out. But now I see that it is working.”

She looked between you. “You balance each other out. You keep things grounded,” she said, nodding to you. “And you…” she turned to Gojo, “…keep it interesting.”

Gojo beamed. “That’s my entire brand, Professor.”

Dr. Yuki chuckled. “Well, I’m looking forward to your final submission.”

You both returned to your seats, and as soon as you sat down, you turned slightly away from him, staring very intently at your notebook, like it held all the answers to your spiraling thoughts.

“Hey,” Gojo whispered, nudging your elbow. “You crushed that. Seriously.”

You didn’t look at him. “Thanks.”

“You okay?” he asked, voice a little softer now.

“Fine,” you said a little too quickly. “Just tired.”

“Right,” he said. “Must be that emotional avoidance again.”

You shot him a glare, and he grinned, unfazed.

Class ended ten minutes later, and as you were gathering your things, a girl from the row behind you leaned over toward Gojo.

“Hey, that was a great presentation,” she said, twirling a pen between her fingers. “You’re hilarious.”

Gojo smiled, that casual, charming grin he used like a weapon. “Thanks. I try.”

The girl tucked her hair behind her ear. “If you ever want someone to study with, I’m usually in the library on Tuesdays.”

You zipped your bag a little too forcefully.

“Good to know,” Gojo replied smoothly.

You didn’t wait to hear the rest.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder and slipped out the side door before he could catch up. Your pulse was spiking, your stomach a mess of knots.

You weren’t jealous.

You weren’t.

You were just… annoyed. Because flirting during study check-ins was unnecessary. Because Gojo was your partner and he was supposed to be taking this seriously. Because he looked at other girls the same way he looked at you sometimes, and that shouldn’t have mattered but it did.

You shoved your headphones in and headed toward the quad, determined to pretend like none of it bothered you at all.

“You’ve been so boring lately,” Shoko called from the bathroom, her voice muffled over the hum of the hairdryer. “You’re literally glowing with repressed sexual tension. Let’s fix that.”

You groaned from where you sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a battlefield of half-folded outfits, a curling iron, and the faint scent of dry shampoo.

“Thank you for that diagnosis, Doctor,” you muttered, reaching for your mascara. “Very professional.”

“I aim to heal,” she quipped, stepping out with a cigarette tucked behind one ear and glitter eyeliner winged like she’d walked out of a runway show and into your shared apartment. She gave you a once-over. “You’re wearing that?”

You looked down at your oversized hoodie and gym shorts. “Obviously not.”

“Then pick something that says 'I’m fun and mysterious and maybe you’ll kiss me under fairy lights’ and not ‘I gave up on life in sophomore year.’”

You threw a pillow at her. She dodged it effortlessly.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you grumbled, standing up and eyeing yourself in the mirror.

It had been a long week. Between classes, the project with Gojo, and the unexpected near-kiss that had haunted your every thought since it happened, you hadn’t had time to go out. Let alone try and flirt or be flirted with.

Honestly? You weren’t even in the mood for a party.

But Shoko had cornered you after class, flicked the side of your head, and said, “I’m dragging you out tonight, and you’re going to like it. Wear something slutty.”

That’s how you ended up here, digging through your closet while she sat on your bed cross-legged, sipping wine out of a mug with the words “World’s Okayest Student” printed on it.

“Okay, what about this?” you held up a dress—a short silky slip number that usually stayed buried in the back of your drawer for special occasions or confidence spikes.

Shoko raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. Very ‘Oops, did I just ruin your life?’ energy.”

You rolled your eyes but held it against yourself in the mirror anyway. Not bad.

As you shimmied out of your hoodie, Shoko suddenly asked, “So. Have you told him yet?”

You froze. “Told who what?”

She sipped her wine like this was an interrogation and she had all the cards. “Don’t play dumb. Gojo.”

Your blush gave you away before your mouth even opened. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Uh-huh. So the way you were staring at him during class yesterday was just… what? Scientific curiosity?”

You scowled. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m right,” she singsonged. “Look, I get it. The history. The drama. The fact that he looks like a literal supermodel. But you’re clearly into him.”

“I’m not into him,” you argued, pulling the dress over your head. “I’m… aware that he’s attractive. Objectively.”

“Oh please,” she said, hopping off the bed and tugging the hem of your dress into place with precision. “You talk about him in your sleep.”

Your eyes widened. “I do not.”

She just grinned. “Only once. It was very scandalous. You said, ‘Satoru, no, not the whipped cream.’”

You smacked her arm, mortified. “Liar!”

“Okay, fine, you just mumbled his name, but let me have the whipped cream thing. It’s funnier.”

You tried not to laugh, smoothing your hands over your hips and checking the mirror again. The dress actually looked… good. Better than you remembered. And Shoko wasn’t lying—there was a warm sort of glow under your skin lately, and no amount of denial could explain it away completely.

Gojo had been taking up space in your thoughts for days. Weeks, if you were being honest. Ever since he reappeared in your life like a storm and crashed straight through your emotional equilibrium.

And last night—his place, the way he looked at you, that moment where the world went silent right before his phone rang…

Yeah. You were in trouble.

“You ready?” Shoko asked, grabbing her bag from the hook by the door.

You hesitated, casting one last glance in the mirror. “You think this is a good idea?”

She looked you dead in the eyes. “I think not going is a bad idea.”

You sighed. “That doesn’t actually answer the question.”

Shoko rolled her eyes and looped her arm through yours. “Come on. We’re going to drink cheap vodka, pretend to like the music, and you’re going to flirt with someone other than Gojo for once in your life. Sound good?”

You laughed, letting her drag you toward the door. “Sounds terrifying.”

“Perfect.”

The two of you stepped into the night, heels clicking on the pavement, the buzz of campus parties already starting to echo faintly from blocks away. You tried to shake the nerves, the lingering image of white hair and a lazy grin and the way he always smelled like sugar and mint.

Maybe tonight would help. Maybe you’d drink something pink and fizzy and kiss someone you didn’t have a years-long pining complex over.

And maybe, just maybe, you'd finally get Gojo Satoru out of your head.

The music hit first—low and pulsing through the hallway like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite catch. The kind of bass that made your teeth buzz a little as you stepped inside the off-campus house someone’s cousin’s roommate’s friend rented for the semester. Shoko was already ahead of you, shouldering through the crowd like a girl on a mission, hair shiny under the colored lights, a mischievous little smirk tugging at her glossed lips.

Now, weaving through bodies and red solo cups and the distinct smell of weed and cologne, you were starting to wonder if she was right. Your skin buzzed. The dress you’d spent thirty minutes debating was starting to feel a little too tight in all the places Gojo Satoru might actually look.

Not that you knew if he’d be here.

Not that you cared.

Okay—you cared. A little.

You scanned the living room, heart thudding.

And there he was.

Leaning against a doorway like a damn poster boy for bad decisions—white shirt rolled to his elbows, hair still an absolute mess and somehow pulling it off. He was mid-convo with a few people, laughing at something a girl said, flashing that stupid smile. His entire aura screamed effortlessly hot.

You forced yourself to look away before you stared too long. Grabbed a drink from the makeshift bar, something sickly sweet and glowing neon. Sipped. Winced. Made your way to the back patio for air.

You were halfway into a casual chat with a guy from your Criminology seminar—cute, genuinely nice—when you felt it. That sudden weight of a stare. The hair prickling at the back of your neck.

You didn’t have to turn to know.

He was watching you.

And when you finally did glance over your shoulder, Gojo didn’t look away. Didn’t even try to hide it. His mouth was a little parted, eyes dark under the lights, the muscle in his jaw tight.

He wasn’t smiling.

Oh.

Oh, this night was going to unravel.

You lost track of time after that.

There was music. Dancing. More drinks—two, maybe three. The patio guy had moved on to someone else, and you’d drifted through the party in that floaty way that always came with a decent buzz and the itch of knowing Gojo was somewhere close.

And then he was right there.

“You know,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “if you’re gonna flirt with someone else, at least pick a guy who’s not terrified of eye contact.”

You raised a brow. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not jealous. Just disappointed in your taste.”

“Right,” you said, sipping your drink. “Because a guy who thinks Sour Patch Kids and chips are valid brain food is obviously the gold standard.”

Gojo stepped closer. Too close. His breath was warm when he leaned down to murmur, “You look so hot right now.”

It was the kind of line that should’ve felt sleazy. Except his voice dipped at the edges, almost reverent. And it made your whole body seize up with heat.

“W-what?” you managed, blinking.

He smirked. “You heard me.”

You stared at him for half a second too long. And then you were pushing him, just lightly, back against the nearest wall, dropping your cup without a second thought. His back hit the plaster with a dull thud, and he didn’t even flinch—just looked shocked, a little breathless, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

And then you kissed him.

God, it was everything you’d been trying so hard not to think about. Soft lips and heat and the way his hands flew to your waist like he’d been dying to touch you all night. You felt the press of his fingers at your sides, one of them sliding up, up, brushing the curve of your thigh just beneath the hem of your dress.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt. His teeth grazed your bottom lip.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t sweet. It was hungry and desperate and so full of tension it might’ve torn a hole in the air around you.

Gojo’s voice rumbled against your mouth, a low groan escaping. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You barely heard it.

Barely registered anything except him.

His scent. His hands. The way he kissed like he’d been thinking about it for a long, long time.

Until—

“THERE you are!” Shoko’s voice cracked through the haze like a damn fire alarm, and you jolted back so fast your shoulder hit the wall.

Gojo blinked, clearly dazed.

Shoko stumbled forward, eyes glassy, her laugh too loud. “I was looking everywhere for you. C’mon, I need your help finding the bathroom.”

You swallowed hard. “I—uh—yeah. Okay.”

You barely glanced back as you let her drag you down the hallway, but when you did, Gojo was still watching you, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His lips were pink, his hair mussed, eyes locked on yours with a mix of disbelief and frustration.

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