#one more week in this loop....just one week...

[starktonyx]

Have you ever tried this one?

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Pairing: John Walker x reader. Word count: 5.2k

Note: Another one inspired by a Sabrina Carpenter song, this time it’s Juno. If you know, you know😉 enjoy 🫶🏼

Description: John had been away on a long mission. A month of nothing but his fist and filthy thoughts of you, edging himself to save it all for you. Every last drop. So when he catches you singing some dirty song about needing it deep? You get exactly what you asked for.

Tags/Warnings: Smut, fem!reader, John gets freaky with his super strength, oral f!rec, only the tip, piv sex, cum play, cum kink (srlsy a lot🙂‍↕️), overstimulation (he just keeps going), so much dirty talk, literally just 5k words of filth with plot.

Happens in the same universe as “Come right on me … I mean camaraderie” but can be read as a stand alone.

Masterlist / archive

It wasn't John's fault. Not really.

It wasn't his fault Bucky had sent him on a month long mission to a place so remote it didn't even show up on a map. It wasn't his fault the signal was garbage, barely enough to send a text, much less hear your voice to at least let you know just how badly he needed you.

By the second week, he was already losing his mind.

Because waking up soaked in sweat with a cock so hard it hurt wasn't the problem, it was waking up alone. Reaching out blindly for the soft heat of your body only to find cold sheets and a cruel reminder that you were only in his dreams. Nothing more than a fucking fantasy. That the version of you riding him, moaning his name in that perfect, ruined little voice of yours, was nothing but a sick joke his head kept playing on loop.

It was maddening.

So no, it wasn't his fault that the tension inside him just kept building up like he was some horny teenager. And no matter how many times his hand drifted down to try to relieve some, anything, he never let himself finish. Not once.

Because coming without you felt wrong.

He told himself the same thing every time, between gritted teeth and sweat dripping from his brow: save it for her.

Every. Single. Drop.

He wrapped up his assignment three days earlier. Fueled by the image of you on your knees, of your pretty little mouth open for him, of that wet heaven between your legs he hadn't tasted in weeks.

He barely acknowledged Yelena when she passed him in the hallway that night he arrived. She raised a brow, opening her mouth to speak.

"Not now," John snapped, already walking past her.

Yelena didn't press further, just raised an eyebrow at the direction John was headed to. Your room.

Yeah, not exactly a shock. 

It wasn't a secret you two were having ... something. The compound's walls weren't that thick, and no one here was blind either. You'd both been caught sneaking out of each other's rooms enough times that it barely qualified as "sneaking" anymore.

The whole damn compound probably had a scorecard by now.

At this point, it was honestly ridiculous you still had separate rooms at all. Maybe you liked the thrill of it ... or maybe you were just idiots.

Either way, Yelena knew one thing for sure, she'd probably end up crashing in the living room with the others from that floor, if they wanted to get some sleep that night.

But when John finally reached your door, you weren't there.

He groaned in frustration, eyes narrowing. Maybe you were in the kitchen. Maybe you'd just stepped out, the warm lamp illuminating your messed bedsheets told him so.

Fine. He could wait ... barely.

He dropped his duffel and shield in the his room and headed straight for your shower, too tense to sit still. He scrubbed off the mission, the restraint, all while ignoring the throbbing between his legs he'd been carrying for weeks now. He told himself just a little longer, just a few more minutes and he could finally bury himself in you again, where he belonged.

He was mid drying his body when he heard the door of the room open. He tracked the sound of your footsteps across the room, the gentle bounce of the mattress as you hummed a song.

"Wanna try out some freaky positions ... have you ever tried this one?"

He paused with the towel in hand, half grinning to himself. What on earth were you singing now?

It wasn't the first time he'd caught you in your room with headphones on, humming to yourself like no one else existed. He loved it, loved the way you sang so freely when you thought you were alone. It was always cute. Except this time the lyrics were far away from being “cute”.

He opened the bathroom door with anticipation, hoping to catch your surprised face when you saw him standing in your bathroom with just a towel covering his lower half. But you couldn't see him.

You were sitting cross legged on the bed, facing the headboard. Wearing nothing but one of his huge old shirts, the hem barely covering your thighs, and those noise canceling headphones Yelena and Bob gave you for your birthday.

You were swaying softly, completely oblivious to his presence. The music was loud enough that he could hear the faint echo of a girl's voice through the headphones. Your head bobbed to the beat, eyes glued to your phone.

"One of me is cute, but two though?

Give it to me, baby

You make me wanna make you fall in love," you sang softly, scrolling absentmindedly.

John leaned against the doorframe, one hand holding the towel around his hips, tilted head and a smirk on his face. He lost interest on the music you were humming for a moment, his gaze dropped lower.

Was there anything under that shirt?

He needed to know. He had to.

The hem of the shirt shifted with your movement, offering teasing little flashes of your bare thighs. He tried, really tried to shake those thoughts away. It was a sweet moment. He could hear the playfulness in your voice, maybe you were even thinking about him.

But then the lyrics hit again.

"Adore me, hold me and explore me

Mark your territory

Tell me I'm the only, only, only, one"

He didn't know why the words hit him like that. Maybe it was the anticipation of it all. Maybe it was because they echoed every filthy thought he'd tried to bottle up over the past month. Maybe because he barely held himself together anymore.

He hadn't even touched himself in the last few days ... hadn't dared. Just drowned in the pent up need to be inside you, so thoroughly you'd be dripping with him for days.

"Adore me, hold me and explore me

I'm so fucking horny."

The words came out of your mouth in that same casual, airy tone, like you didn't even realize you were saying them. It was almost innocent. But he shook his head, because he knew you.

Always that mouth. That filthy, sweet, open mouth.

"Jesus Christ..." he muttered to himself.

"Tell me I'm the only, only, only one"

You sighed this time, flopping back on the bed with a dramatic groan, closing your eyes while you held your phone against your chest. The movement of your legs caused the hem of his shirt to ride up your thighs just enough to answer his question.

No panties.

That was it.

He crossed the room in three strides, eyes locked on the picture of you laid out beneath him, upside down from his angle, completely unaware of his gaze fixed on you.

What a treat.

He reached for your headphones, but your eyes flew open before he could pull them off. You yelped, gasping at the sight of him looming over you.

"John?!" you gasped, scrambling upright so fast your phone bounced off the bed, headphones following.

You weren't expecting to see him there at all, at least not yet, he was supposed to arrive by the end of the week. Not that you could ever complain though, the image in front of you was something you'd been dreaming all those weeks he was gone.

His body still damp from the shower, towel barely hanging onto his hips, wet blond hair dripping all over his shoulders … and that devilishly charming grin on his face.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted, nonchalantly, like he didnt almost give you a heart attack.

You blinked a few times, with a breath caught on your throat. "Did you ... did you just come out of my bathroom?"

But you didn't even wait for an answer. Your body just launched forward, wrapping around him like you needed to prove he was real. He caught you instantly with a faint laugh, one arm curling tight around your waist, the other gripping his towel.

His nose brushed your temple as he whispered, "Got back early, couldn't wait to see you."

You smiled, and couldn't wait any longer either, so you crashed your lips against his. There was no hesitation from him, his hands gripped your waist hard, like he needed to anchor himself. Your fingers clawed his chest, his shoulders, dragging him closer by the back of his neck, needing more.

Needing everything.

His body pressed into yours with no space left between, large hands roaming all over your waist, your back, you ass. It wasn't slow, it wasn't sweet. It was tongues and fingers digging into skin. His rough beard scratching against your soft skin.

You pulled back just long enough to breathe, but he chased your mouth, biting at your bottom lip, not letting you go far.

"Fuck, I missed you," you muttered against his mouth, chest heaving. "Why didn't you say anything?"

He chuckled, raising his brow, his chest vibrating against yours. "Didn't want to interrupt the show."

Your face burned. You tried to hide in his chest, but he grabbed your chin so you wouldn't.

"You gonna tell me the rest of those lyrics?" he asked, looking down at you.

You just cursed lowly, because of course he heard all that.

In one smooth motion, he spun you around so your knees hit the bed and your was back pressed to his damp chest. His arm hooked across your shoulders, keeping you upright as his mouth dragged slow, wet kisses along the side of your neck.

"Don’t be shy … I liked that little song of yours," he mumbled against your skin. "But I think I misheard the best part honey ... you said you were what?"

Your breath hitched, you knew he heard you damn right the first time. And he knew you knew. His arm gripped your hip, guiding your ass to grind against him, and that's when you felt it. Felt him. The thick press of his bulge through the towel, hot and painfully hard, in a way that made you drool in anticipation.

"I said ... you were fucking what baby? What was it again?" he growled, pressing your hip harder when you didn't reply.

Your knees suddenly felt weak. God, you had missed him so much, even if he was about to fuck every single line out of you.

"So fucking h-horny," you blurted out the lyrics, dropping your head back to rest on his shoulder.

He hummed, satisfied, slipping a hand down your shirt until he reached the mess between your thighs.

"Jesus, baby..." he rasped, your body jolting when his fingers barely brushed the slick already pooling there. "You're soaking just from that? tsk tsk tsk.”

"You were gone for so long John," you whined, instinctively pushing back against him, "can you really blame me?"

He laughed, lowly, like you've just told him something absurd.

"You think you’re horny?" he groaned, shaking his head. "I've been jerking off like some goddamn teenager for weeks, and the worst part? I couldn't even finish honey … thinking how you should be the one wringing it out of me."

You bit your lip, whimpering at the image.

"You know how fucking hard that was?" he continued. "Sleeping in a cold bed, not even being able to hear your voice while I had my cock in my hand, trying not to cum 'cause I wanted it all to be yours. Wanted to fill you up the second I got back."

He loosened his grip on you only enough to let go of the towel covering his body. He dragged your shirt higher and then he pressed his bare cock against your ass.

"Feel that, baby?" he growled in your ear. "This is what I've been carrying ... just for you."

"Then give it to me," you begged, squirming in his hold. "John, please, it's been too long..."

"Oh, I will." He chuckled darkly. “But you gotta run that dirty mouth a little bit longer.”

You whined, this is exactly where he wanted you.

"Imagine the first thing I hear when I come back is that filthy little mouth of yours ... what was it you were singin' about? some freaky positions?"

Shit.

"Hold on to me."

Before you could even process it, his arms were under your thighs. You let out a squeal as he took you off the bed, carrying you to the wall. He turned you around midair, and without even a sign of discomfort, lifted your body up until your legs instinctively wrapped around his neck.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud, and your breath caught in your throat as you realized what was happening.

He was standing, fully upright. Holding you high in the air with your legs hooked over his shoulders, his hands locked under your ass. His face aligned perfectly with your dripping pussy.

"John," you gasped, gripping his wet hair when you realized your head was close to the ceiling now. "What the fuck ..."

He looked up grinning like a devil.

"What?" he asked innocently, smug as hell. "Have you ever tried this one?"

You nervously laughed, shaking your head incredulously.

"Don't worry, baby," he winked, bunching the shirt around your waist, exposing you completely to his greedy eyes. "I got you."

You gasped when his mouth latched on your pussy like he'd been dying of thirst. Obscene sounds filled the room, from your wetness, from the mess he was painting all over his beard, from your pleads. His grip was unshakable, anchoring you in place while his mouth worked like he was trying to make up for every second he'd been gone.

Your chest began rising up and down quickly, one hand desperately tugging his hair while the other traveled up for some sort of leverage, slapping blindly at the ceiling above you as your body trembled.

"John ... fuck–yes," you panted, vision blurring from the intensity.

He groaned against your pussy, the vibration shooting up your spine. It was too much. The strength in his arms, the way he held you there without even faltering, while dragging his tongue through every slick inch of you.

It felt worshipful.

"You're doing it so good, baby," You praised, tugging his hair harder.

He hummed against your pussy, sucking your clit into his mouth in a way only he knew how to make you see stars, and then looked up at you with those unfair baby blue eyes.

You almost came at the sight of him under you, beard all soaked, looking at you like he was getting drunk from your taste alone.

It wasn't long until your whole body began shaking, legs trembling where they were draped over his shoulders, the heels of your feet digging into his back like it would somehow ground you. But nothing could.

You were so high up the wall, so completely suspended by him, only your back touching anything solid, that your vision started to white out.

"J-John I can't ... I'm gonna–“

"Yeah?" he grunted. "Go on then, sweetheart ... mark your territory."

His fingers dug deeper into your ass, holding you in place as he moaned against your cunt, the vibrations sent you crashing over the edge.

Your thighs clenched around his head, body trembling as you reached your high. He didn't stop, not when you came, not when your back arched off the wall, not even when you whimpered his name.

He kept eating, drinking down every twitch of your orgasm, tongue flicking your clit until your thighs shook violently and you tried to push him away.

Your hands ran all over his hair, desperate.

"Too much ... John, baby, please–"

That's when he finally pulled back.

You blinked a few times at him, your juices glistening on his lips, running down his bearded chin. He looked wrecked. His wet hair all wild, jaw flexing, chest rising and falling like he'd been the one coming.

You twitched one more time, and he grinned satisfied.

"You taste even better than I remembered." His voice was raspy, so fucking sexy.

You barely had time to recover before he lowered you just enough to cradle you in his arms, still against the wall, but now your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms locked behind his neck.

He was the one you kissed you this time, making sure you tasted every drop of yourself on his lips. You could feel his hard cock trapped between you, hot and slick, leaking against your stomach.

"Still singin' that song in your head, sweetheart?" he asked as soon as you came apart, in that devilishly teasing tone.

"Huh?" You blurted out, dizzy from the haze.

He shook his head amused, he was barely getting started with you.

He adjusted his grip on you, before taking you off the wall. Your arms tightened around his neck, eyes wide as he carried you through the room, toward the bed. He lowered you on the mattress, spreading your legs with his knees as he hovered over you.

He didn't have patience for you to be covered anymore, even if seeing you in his shirt drove him insane. But he just needed you naked when he came all over you. So he easily ripped his shirt off from you, throwing it somewhere in the room. His eyes dragged down your body, pausing at the mess between your thighs, at the way your chest heaved, at the way your eyes pleaded.

"You look like a fuckin' dream," he muttered, voice rough. This is all he'd been waiting for, all he’d been fantasizing about.

Before you could say anything, hell, before you could even breathe, he grabbed his cock in his hand, slapping the fat head of it against your soaked pussy.

Once. Twice. Again.

You jolt with each wet hit, little shocked gasps slipping from your lips as your sensitive clit twitched under the weight of his cock.

"Too much?" he asked, grinning as he slapped your folds again, harder this time. "You're twitching so pretty for me, sweetheart."

"John ... fuck–please," you whined, head rolling back on the mattress.

He just grinned, treating himself to a few more heavy wet slaps. You looked so pretty when you shivered, when you begged.

You gasped when you felt him pressing in your entrance with no warning. Head shooting up, eyes going wide just in time to see how he only pushed the tip in. Just that goddamn massive tip, splitting you open with a stretch that knocked the air right out of your lungs. You couldn’t help but throw your head back again.

"I know, baby," he groaned at the feeling of your pussy around him. "You're so tight and so full already … look at you, it's not even halfway in," he praised, breath coming short.

He didn't go deeper. Just pushed the head of his cock against your entrance, in and out. Driving you wild.

And my god, he was so vocal. The grunting, the low growling. The slow movement of his hips like he was holding himself back from slamming balls deep inside you. You knew he has.

You whimpered, clutching the sheets, your hips rolled up to chase more, deeper, but he pinned you down, his chest tensing as he held himself back with a growl.

"Just the tip for now, baby."

He wanted to take his time. Make you go as many rounds as he'd saved his cum for the time he was away. But when you clenched your pussy around the head of his cock, he almost almost bursted right there. He kept pressing in, just the swollen crown stretching you wide.

“God … John,” you whimper, grabbing the sheets. “I love the way you fit.”

“I know,” he hisses, eyes glued to where your bodies met. “Feels so fucking good like this.”

He didn’t thrust deep, just moved in short, devastating rolls of his hips that drove that thick tip over your sweetest spot again and again, attempting to drag another orgasm right back out of you.

“You gonna cum again, baby? tip’s too much for you already?”

That cockiness, that smug grin on his face, the way he keep pushing just a part of himself in that teasing pace, made you unravel, his name came out between gasps, body spasming with the pressure.

“Just like that baby, taking me so well, and I haven’t even fucked you properly yet.”

No he hadn’t, still made you see white as you rode your second high on the night. He groaned at the sight, feeling himself closer and closer.

"You want me to cum like this?" he gritted, hips grinding. "Been saving it, my sweet fucking cum ...all yours. You want it?"

You just nodded, eyes still seeing stars, breathless.

"Then sing it for me.”

Your brows furrowed. "W-What?"

"Sing the fuckin' lyric." He growled this time, leaning closer. "The part that got you all worked up. Let's hear it again sweetheart, just the good part"

Your cheeks flushed, brain fuzzing. "John—"

He slammed forward, just an inch deeper, but so hard it knocked a cry out of your throat. You swallowed hard, while he waited expectantly without moving, making you ache for the friction.

"...Adore me..." you mumbled, barely singing.

“Louder."

“Adore me... hold me... and explore me..."

You noticed the way he was becoming undone to your shaky voice, breathing caught in his throat as he began fucking you again his leaking tip, exploring your entire body with his hands. His eyes glistened with anticipation. He needed you to say it, he was so close.

"Go on, what’s next?” He growled between gritted teeth, hips dragging faster his tip in and out of your entrance, hands pinching your nipples.

"...Mark your territory..." you whispered, nearly choking on your words.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice feral. "That's the one."

He let out a guttural sound, hips slamming forward, his body locking up as he finally let himself spill into you, tip buried, grinding into your clenching pussy while his cum rushed out desperate, like it's been waiting to drip out of you.

"Fuck– ugh baby, fuck..."

You felt it before you even saw it. The first hot pulses inside you, so thick and warm. But he’d dreamed about you covered in him, so he pulled out, his cum leaking out behind him in thick drips as he poured the rest of himself on you. You felt it spill all over your body, one spurt. Then another. And another.

And another.

"Oh my –shit, baby," you gasped , eyes flying wide as he poured into you. "That's so much, John ... holy fuck–"

He kept going while he grunted, kept spilling, holding the base of his cock tight as he came all over you. Your clenching walls pushed what was left inside you out, dripping down your pussy, pooling on the sheets.

"Shit–can't stop," he panted, all flushed, watching with hooded eyes as his cum kept painting your body. "Fuck, look at you ... you're soaked."

You glanced down, and your jaw dropped.

It was everywhere. Your belly, your thighs, the curve of your hips. Sticky, thick white streaks all over your chest, a faint drop on your neck. And even more dripping out your pussy like he never pulled out.

And it had been just with the tip.

"John... it’s so much..." you panted, voice barely above a whisper.

"Told you I was saving it up, honey," he grinned, breathless yet still smug, proud ... asshole.

He leaned down, dragging two fingers through the mess on your belly, gathering a thick strand of it, and then smearing it right back onto your skin, lazier, messier, spreading it even more.

"You're not getting cleaned up," he mumbled, voice rough. "Not yet. I want you to feel it. I want you to lie here soaking in it."

You whimpered as his fingers trailed lower, collecting more where it was pooling between your thighs. He spread it around your folds, deliberately pushing it over your sensitive clit, and you jolted, hips twitching.

"Still twitchy," he smirked, loving the way you squirmed. "So damn pretty when you're sensitive."

Then he dragged his fingers back up and smeared more of it across your chest, rubbing his release into your skin like he wanted it to stay there.

His territory marked. Owned.

You were trying to catch your breath, your limbs heavy, skin flushed and sticky, brain barely holding onto thoughts.

But then, the weight of him moved over you again. His hand gripped your wet thigh hard, pushing it up and out. His cock, hard again, sliding right through the mess between your legs, thick and wet from your arousal and his white paint.

Your eyes flew open. "John ... just give me a minute–"

"It's okay baby, I got you."

He grabbed your limp body and flipped it over, chest against the mattress, ass low, while he crossed your arms behind your back so he could raise your back to him. His cock pressed against your ass, and you suddenly needed him more than before.

"Need you ... all of it … please"

This time he didn't say anything, he just thrusted. He buried himself deep, all the way this time, no more teasing with the tip. The sudden stretch made your whole body arch, back curling away from him but he tightened his grip on your arms, as a helpless cry ripped from your throat.

"Shit, you're so tight," he growled, voice rough with need.

He set a brutal rhythm instantly, hips snapping against your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. You were too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated, but you couldn't stop moaning. Your body could take it. Needed it.

One large hand gripped yours on your lower back, the other landing a smack in your ass as he fucked into you, panting, wild, relentless.

"You're so fucking perfect," he leaned down, teeth grazing your shoulder. "I'm gonna come inside this time. So deep you'll feel it for days."

Your mind was gone. Words were gone. You were just whimpering, relying on his grip to hold you up while he ruined you for the third time.

This is how he needed you. Overstimulated, a moaning mess, dragging orgasm after orgasm out of you. You clenched around his whole length this time, tighter, he looked down at you and smirked.

"Cum on my cock, baby. That's what it's for, all yours."

His deep voice sent you over the edge. Your walls fluttered around his cock, your back arched as you came again while he fucked you through it, clenching around him with a strangled cry. He slammed in deeper, his cock twitching for release.

"Take it, baby … so pretty how your take it."

He growled seeing you become undone again, losing his last thread of restraint.

"Oh fuck..."

"Come on John, I know you still have more for me.”

You felt it the moment he started to lose control, his rhythm stuttering, jaw almost snapping, breath hot and shaky against your skin.

"Gonna fill you up again," he growled, hips slamming into you one last time.

And then he crashed again, deep inside you, seed thick and hot, spilling into your pussy in those long, creamy strings. Your body jolted under him, back arching, but he didn't pull out this time.

He kept himself buried balls deep, cock twitching inside you, his hands tight still holding your arms behind your back.

"Jesus," he groaned, dazed. "You're fuckin' milking me."

You hummed, overstimulated and trembling, feeling every drop of him, filling you up until it began leaking back out.

A slow, thick stream of cum slipped out around his cock, trickling between your thighs, dripping down your leg as John just watched. Mesmerized. Smirking.

He let his grip on you go, gently letting your chest fall back on the mattress, cock still inside you. He looked down.

"Look at that," he mumbled. "Can't even hold it all." He pulled his cock back a little, just enough to make it spill faster. "Fucked you so full I can feel it spilling out of you."

You moaned, all weak, breathless. "Saved all that sweet cum just for me Johnny."

"It's all I thought about baby," he gritted, dragging his thumb to smear the mess around.

He finally pulled out, a gasp escaping your mouth when you felt all his love dripping out of you.

"Look how pretty you are when you're leaking my cum..."

You thought he would give you a minute this time. A little break to remember how to breathe again, when he helped you turn around so you laid your back on the bed, facing him now.

You could feel it against your leg, he was hardening again. Like your whole body wasn't already covered in all of him.

You felt the weight of his cock, thick, flushed, and heavy against your overstimulated pussy, you whimpered when he pressed the head back to your folds.

"John," you breathed, head rolling back. "You already ... fuck, you came so much baby."

"I know," he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. His breath was hot against your cheek. "I know. But look at me, baby."

He grabbed the base of his cock and rubbed the tip through the slick, tender mess between your legs, your whole body reacting. "Still fuckin' hard."

It wasn't his fault. The serum had enhanced everything. Every fucking thing. And he'd been gone, for too damn long.

You barely had time to recover. You were still twitching, body too sensitive, soaked and overstimulated. But your hands still reached to his back, to push him into you one more time.

"Greedy little thing." He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t even hold yourself up but you keep reaching for more.”

So he complied, slow at first, like he could still tease after all he’d done to you by now. His hips rolled forward, pushing his previous loads deeper. You gasped, legs trembling, nails digging into his back as you shook your head and whimpered, "John, I can't–"

"Yes, you can," he growled. "You're gonna take every drop. Again."

Then he snaps his hips forward, hard.

Your whole body bounces as he fucked it into you one more time, his cock slamming through the mess he already left inside, making it gush out in slick, tiny splashes with every thrust.

"Fuck, listen to that," he snarled, going feral at the obscene sounds. "So messy for me. You love this."

And the worst part? He was right.

Because even through the overstimulation, the ache, the stretch, you were clenching around him again, your body greedy, desperate, obeying every filthy command he made without question.

He was relentless. Gripping your hips, fucked into you like he was trying to imprint himself into your core, cock pounding the mess deeper while more of it leaked out down your ass and thighs.

"Still sensitive, sweetheart?" He was smug as sin, one hand spreading you open while the other pressed your lower belly. "You can take it … just a little more."

You didn’t take long to come again, nearly sobbing, legs shaking uncontrollably, and he groaned as you cried out his name, squeezing him tight.

He was there, almost there. But he wanted this one somewhere else.

He pulled out of your shaking pussy, and climbed over your body on the bed, straddling your chest as he guided his cock to your face.

"Open for me, sweetheart ... yeah that's it"

He shoved his cock in your mouth, and you gladly took it, all of it. In twitches it spilled down your throat. Salty, thick warmth overflowed your mouth as he grunted, coming all over your tongue.

You hit his thigh when you couldn't breathe anymore from how much it was, so he put a hand behind your neck to lift your head, and raised you to sit on the bed as he panted beside you, mesmerized by the view of you choking in it.

His hand ran comforting strokes down your back, as you tried to swallow as much as you could. Like you always did.

Like the good fucking girl you were for him.

"Look at you," he whistled in a growl. "Covered in me. Stuffed full of me. Choking on me … and I still see some untouched parts."

His thumb found your chin, smearing what had leaked out your mouth down your neck, and tilted your face toward his.

"How many times is that, baby?" he taunted, pushing the hair out of your sweaty face. "Two, three loads? … doesn't even matter, you always take ‘em all.”

You just whimpered to his praise, couldn't trust your voice when you still felt his warmth going down your throat.

You both go quiet.

The kind of quiet that only happened after John was finally satisfied with how many times you came on his cock, with the way you twitched from the sheer exhaustion, when you didn’t even know how to speak anymore.

He pressed kiss to your temple, his lips soft, lingering. The sharp edge of his voice from earlier was gone, replaced by a low raspy whisper as his fingers brushed over your spine.

“Hey… you still with me, baby?”

You nod weakly.

“That’s my girl,” he grinned. “You did so good for me. So damn good.”

As you regained your breath, he just held you for a moment with his hand on your back, and stared. At you. At the mess all over your body. At what he did.

At what you let him do.

“C’mere” He whispered, while he pulled you into his lap, and settled you down on his wet cock.

You moan out, body going limp and stuffed beyond reason as he held you there, not moving, just filling you up for the last time. You clung to him with the last bits of strength you had left, while he wiped the sweat and hair out of your face.

“Just sit here sweetheart, you’re okay” he breathed against your hair, rubbing soothing circles on your body. “Keep me warm while you recover baby, don’t spill another drop.”

He wrapped his arms around you, possessive, smug but with tenderness now, he kissed your shoulder like it was the softest thing in the world. He could feel the stickiness of your body on him, a sweet reminder that you were in fact, the only only only one for him.

“We’ll cleanup later, baby” He cooed and you just nodded weakly, placing a kiss on his pec.

He leaned slightly to see your face, to catch a glimpse of that blissed out, weak smile on your lips. He smiled adoringly, with that softness that only came after he wrecked you.

But then, without even a doubt, a harsh chuckle left his throat.

“Have I marked my territory enough?”

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━━

comments and reblogs are always appreciated, thank you so much for reading 🖤

[2pndr]

CHANCES ARE YOU'RE ABOUT TO LOSE.

A/N: Written for a prompt by @suchsweetstories. Much love for hosting!

Cho Miyeon x Male Reader smut

3.3k words

“I already hate it here.”

“You do not.”

“Well, It’s supposed to be spring, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Then why the fuck is it so cold?”

Miyeon doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s too busy squinting at a map of the racecourse. You wager she’s trying to figure out how far the champagne tent is from the betting tables. To her, those are the kinds of metrics that matter. 

“It’s Melbourne,” she shrugs. “The weather changes every six minutes. A bit like your mood,” she adds cheekily. 

You roll your eyes. “Feels like winter in a wig.”

“Aw,” she mocks, finally sparing you a look, giving your bicep a theatrical squeeze. “Is my big baby cold?”

You glance down at your outfit—four layers deep and still doing fuck-all against the wind. “...Yes.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she says, leaping over a puddle. “This is the perfect weather for betting.”

“I’m sorry, what now?”

“You heard me,” she says, flashing a grin. 

“Betting.”

*

So. Miyeon has this habit.

And no, it’s not the gambling. That one’s more of an addiction—chronic, incurable, and one you’re practically enabling at this point. This is more like a side effect. A telltale symptom of the greater illness: the way she insists on solving every problem she has with her mouth.

Not metaphorically.

Not diplomatically.

Literally.

And you don’t mean that in the sense of persuasive debate, or even manipulation—though she’s proven time and time again she’s more than proficient in both. You mean she actually gets down on her knees, flashes those doe eyes, and opens wide like you’re playing here comes the fucking aeroplane.

Take today.

Much like how she got you to fly across the globe in pursuit of the Melbourne Cup—a four-minute loop of men in silks and tiny hats riding million-dollar livestock and whipping them into cardiac arrest—she’s now “talked” you into letting her bet on it.

You resisted, of course. But when she wants something, Cho Miyeon is an unstoppable force, and you are far from immovable object.

She’d cornered you in one of the racetrack bathrooms, leaned back against the sink, spread her legs, flaunted her hair and pouted like the tragic lead of a noir.

“Just one little bet,” she pleaded and you said “absolutely not,” and she said “pretty please,” and you said “no way in Hell,” and she said “I’ll suck your dick,” and you said “Miyeon, we’ve talked about th—oh fuck, okay, alright, Jesus Christ.”

So now you’re zipping your jeans with a sigh, running a hand through your hair and staring daggers into the man in the mirror. In addition to asking him to change his ways, you’re also asking how the fuck he lets this keep happening.

It's like you’re not even a participant in your own downfall anymore. You’re a spectator—front and centre to watch yourself make the same mistakes with the same woman in differing degrees of filthy bathrooms across time zones.

You wash your hands. Not because they need it—Miyeon did all the work this time—but because it buys you a second. A pause. A breath. A reprieve before stepping out into the light where, you know disaster, (Miyeon), awaits.

That and to ask yourself:

How the fuck did I end up here?

*

“The race that stops the nation,” Miyeon had declared with starry eyes about a week ago. She was lying upside-down on your couch, kicking her feet to the ceiling, tossing grapes into her mouth, and making a mess of the misses on your carpet. “You can’t tell me that doesn’t sound appealing.”

You sighed—as you always do when Miyeon suggests travelling half-way across the world to bring you half-way to financial ruin.

“Alright, let me get this straight,” you began, already pinching at the bridge of your nose. It’s a gesture usually reserved for tax season and Miyeon-induced headaches. So, it tracks. “Two-dozen jockey’s ride in a shambolic circle for a few kilometres—no obstacles, no jumps, no real turns—and you want to fly a dozen hours to watch it in person?”

She had obviously realised how shitty of an idea this was on paper (or at the very least it looked that way in your eyes) and decided she needed to sweeten the deal. “We can do other stuff while we’re there,” she pouted.

“Like what? Lose even more money playing ‘pokies’ instead?”

Miyeon hesitated for a moment. You could practically see the responsible answer try to claw its way to the surface. But as always, self control eluded her.

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me…” 

“Oh Miyeon,” you groaned. “For the love of Go—,” 

“Okay fiiiiiine. We could… explore the city!” she offered. “Try a museum or two. Go to a vineyard. Maybe pet a kangaroo!”

“Those all sound awfully like things you’ll forget about the moment you see a betting table.”

She rolled onto her side, head in your lap. “Come on. I’ve never been to Australia. And the Melbourne Cup is iconic!”

“So is the Titanic,” you retorted. “Doesn’t mean I want front row seats to the sinking.”

Miyeon simply grinned. “Except instead of drowning in water, it’ll be in our newfound wealth!”

A hand went over your face, you needed to massage your eyeballs. “Let me make something very clear, Miyeon. Even if we do go, there will not be—under any circumstance—any bets placed. No chips traded. No casinos entered. No horses backed. If you so much as glance at a gacha machine, I will not hesitate to cancel every card we have.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez, I can live with that.”

“That includes the secret debit card you keep behind your license.”

“NO! PLEASE! ANYTHING BUT THAT,” she was practically screaming, shaking your shoulders like maracas. 

It was your turn to grin. “Then promise me something,”

She was nodding like a puppy.

 “No betting.”

Miyeon straightened like a soldier and folded an arm over her chest. “Hand on my heart,” she declared. 

You nodded, almost satisfied. Obtusely unaware of the mistake you were making.

“Well,” you said, completely smug, “at least that makes your promise valid.”

She blinked. “My what?”

“We haven’t decided on going yet. The trip’s still up in the air.”

Miyeon blinked. You could see the wheels turning. 

“Oh,” she said, full of sudden inspiration.

You barely had time to blink before she was crawling into your lap, lips arriving at yours. “Then maybe I should convince you,” she whispered, one hand dragging down your chest, the other already plotting its path toward your jeans.

And you, in your infinite wisdom, said nothing.

Suffice it to say: you went to bed that night very, very convinced.

*

She talks like she’s an expert.

Like she’s spent years refining her own scientific method. Like she’s read the stats, studied the field, hand-picked the jockeys and trained the horses herself. Like she’s here with a plan—all permutations of intentional, calculated and precise.

She has none of that.

What she does have are the very same things she always brings to the betting table: blind optimism, questionable fashion choices, and a gambling history that reads like a case study in the sunk-cost fallacy.

She’s lost money on mice, cats, dogs, vulturine guinea fowls, fantasy stocks, actual stocks, motorsports, chess, video games, tabletop games, competitive rock-paper-scissors, a crab race in busan, one underground mahjong league in Okinawa, another in Kabukicho, another in Dohtonbori, and about a dozen shogi matches with the homeless in Yokohama.

She put six-thousand dollars on the World Cup final based solely on how hot she thought the coaches were.

There was a brief but financially devastating stint with marble racing.

She’s placed money on rock skipping. Celebrity baby name predictions. Whether or not the next Pope will be left-handed.

(As well as another few dozen cases you didn't end up committing to memory. Tack on another few dozen for the times she's undoubtedly gambled behind your back.)

And yet, no matter how many times she’s been burned by Lady Luck—how many “can’t-lose” bets are lost anyway, or how many hot tips go cold the second they’re placed—Cho Miyeon simply does not quit.

She adjusts her sunglasses—not for the sun, which has yet to make a single appearance today, but for dramatic effect. Then she plants her hand on your shoulder, squares herself toward the track like she’s on a TED stage, and resumes the yap.

“And that’s the neat part,” she’s saying now, continuing on from a spout of nonsense you were lucky enough to have tuned out of, “the odds are just a reflection of the pool, right? It’s not real probability. It’s not math-math, it’s like… vibes-math. It’s what everyone else thinks is going to happen—which is already flawed because people are fucking idiots. So really, by betting on the thing no one bets on, you’re actually smarter than everyone else. It’s kind of meta if you think about it.”

You don’t think about it.

“Like, take today for example. Look at these poor, unfortunate, not-winning-shit, souls.” She scans the crowd for a moment, searching for a target. “Oh, like that guy over there? Fedora and the double Windsor? Amateur. You can tell purely by the way he’s dressed he’s betting based on bloodline and track record. Rookie mistake. That’s how you lose money. The real winners—me for example—we bet with instinct. Intuition. Gut feelings. And sometimes alcohol.”

You raise an eyebrow.

Miyeon nods solemnly, as if that makes it gospel.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” she continues, even though you’re very much not thinking anything. “You’re thinking, ‘But Miyeon, didn’t you once lose 700 dollars betting that the royal baby would be named Gundalf?’ And to that I say: yes. But also, the UK had a chance to make history. They chose George. Fucking George. Cowards.”

She doesn’t even pause.

“Or maybe you’re thinking about the crab race in Busan. Which, to be clear, I still maintain was rigged. Oh, and that sperm race in LA? You can’t convince me those weren’t tampered with. You think one swimmer wins by ten lengths without pharmaceutical assistance? Please.”

You try to interrupt.

You choose not to bother.

“Anyway, the point is—betting is about more than just numbers. It’s about story. Narrative. You have to feel the arc: that upward trajectory that comes from being overlooked. You want the underdog, but not too under. You want mystery, but not scandal. You want a horse with baggage, with a little trauma sprinkled in for spice. Something to prove is what I'm saying.”

She gestures toward the big screen showing a replay from the previous race. A horse in bright orange silks is dragging itself over the finish line, dead last.

“Not him though. Orange is the worst color. Proven fact: Bad luck. Studies show it interferes with the horse’s chi or aura or whatever. I don’t remember where I read that—a subreddit, maybe—but still. Reliable source.”

Then she spins around, squints down the stretch, and points at a brown mare doing a very unbothered trot.

“But Whispering Sheila?” she says, near reverent. “That’s a horse that gets it. That’s a horse who’s seen some shit. I mean, just look at her. Not flashy. Not showy. Just focused. Professional. She’s got the legs to take her to the end and back!”

“She was disqualified last race for biting the handler.”

“Exactly! She’s got edge!”

Miyeon folds her arms, completely satisfied, the sunglasses now fully askew on her nose. You stare at her, and consider, deeply, the cosmic imbalance of power between your ability to say no and her ability to not give a fuck.

She smiles. 

“So. Shall we?”

“If I say no, are you going to drag me to the bathroom again?”

“Perhaps,” she beams.

You sigh the deepest sigh.

“Guess I have no choice then.”

Because truly, you don’t.

*

You’re not expecting a lot. That much is a given. 

You’re standing there, arms crossed, mentally preparing yourself to watch twenty-four tiny men in coloured silk slap the shit out of their horses for a couple minutes and call it sport. 

You’re also prepared to lose. 

In fact, you’ve been conditioned to lose. 

You are the emotionally battered war vet of betting by proxy. Weathered by half a decade of Miyeon induced headaches, panic attacks, and bankruptcy scares. So it goes without saying that you’ve long since made peace with the inevitability of financial ruin.

Which is why what happens next makes absolutely no sense.

The gates open with a clang. And then Whispering Sheila—Miyeon’s pride and joy, her bet of the century, her four-figure “hunch”—takes off like a fucking torpedo.

You blink.

Then blink again.

Your mind isn’t playing any tricks. Sheila's in front. Not just in front—she’s leading the charge like a horse-shaped war general. Her strides are long. Her form is beautiful. The wind parts for her like Moses at the Red Sea. And for the first time in her presumably disappointing life, Whispering Sheila isn’t just exceeding expectations.

She’s shattering them.

And beside you, Miyeon is absolutely losing her shit.

“She’s FLYING!” she screams, hopping up and down on the concrete. “Look at her—LOOK AT HER! Did I not say she had the legs?! I TOLD YOU SHE HAD THE LEGS!”

You don’t dare answer. Don’t dare jinx it while the impossible unfolds.

Sheila holds the lead through the turn. The crowd roars. Miyeon screams louder. 

You feel it then.

Not belief, no. Not that strong.

But… suspicion. Suspicion that Miyeon might’ve—against every possible odd, against the universal laws of cause and effect, against the deeply rigged simulation that is your life—actually gotten one right.

God, are you naive.

Because just as the final stretch begins—just as Sheila is poised to make history—

She stops.

Not because she trips. Not because another horse cuts her off. She just… stops. Veers off course. Loses interest. Maybe remembers an existential crisis she was having earlier.

One moment she’s a champion.

The next?

She’s taking a scenic detour near the fence, tail swishing like she’s out for a casual trot—all while the rest of the field barrels past like a freight train.

Miyeon goes silent.

The crowd does not.

Laughter breaks out. Even the drunk guy next to you mutters a heartfelt “Jesus Christ” into his stubby.

You watch, horrified, as the horse Miyeon picked using nothing but “vibes” and a conspiracy theory about saddle colour, trots across the finish line somewhere around a full minute behind the rest of the pack.

Dead. Fucking. Last.

You don’t say anything right away.

You don’t have to.

The anger radiating off your body could power a suburban home.

Broken, shattered, hollowed, you shakily ask:

“…Did we just lose four thousand dollars?”

There’s a pause.

A suspiciously long pause.

Then, from beside you:

“Okay. So.”

You turn.

Don’t fucking say it, Miyeon.

“...I may have added an extra zero.”

*

So. Miyeon has another habit.

 And no, it’s not the rambling, that one’s ingrained in her personality—endless, vexing, endlessly vexing, and one you always just have to kinda sit through. This one is embedded in her DNA:

After every catastrophic loss, every burnt dollar and ruined future, Miyeon’s only instinct is to fuck about it.

Biological, you’ll call it.

It’s like the humiliation hits her bloodstream, and she can’t metabolize it unless she’s writhing on your lap, hissing that she’s “so fucking stupid,” crowing that you “should punish her for it,” and then, in the same breath, telling you to “shut up and fucking choke me.” Perhaps it’s some kind of sick evolutionary adaptation. Perhaps it’s just the way her neurons have always crashed and burned together. Perhaps it’s simply a coping mechanism.

And if so, right now—back at the hotel, with her panties jammed in her mouth, your cock in her cunt, and one hand clamped around her throat—she’s coping.

Hard.

You can feel her smile against your wrist—cheek pressed there, eyes half-lidded, lashes glued with mascara and tears. Her skin is deeply flushed from effort and oxygen deficiency and maybe just a little bit of deranged satisfaction.

Her hips grind back harder.

Because Cho Miyeon doesn’t regret. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t learn.

She fucks.

Like she thinks if she moans loud enough, grinds desperate enough, takes you deep enough, the universe might reverse time. Whispering Sheila will cross the line first. The crowd will roar. She’ll be a genius again. A prophet.

A fucking billionaire.

But right now, she’s just a mess. A mess you’re making messier.

You tighten your grip around her neck. Her eyes roll. And with your other hand gripping her hips, you drag her back into you like this is a problem that can be solved through sheer physics.

She lets out a muffled scream—half pleasure, half penance. The soaked lace in her mouth dampens it, but not enough to keep the neighbours guessing. Her body’s trembling now, pitchforked between orgasm and complete oblivion.

She chooses the former.

It starts with the twitch—spine arching, legs kicking out like they’re trying to run from the heat curling up her nerves. Then, the sound, clawing its way past the gag, echoing around the room and putting a ruthless smile across your face. Her whole body convulses, clamps down, seizes up like your cock is the only thing tethering her to reality. She writhes on it like it owes her money. Like if she cums hard enough, she might get that extra zero back.

You hold her through it. Don’t ease up. Don’t slow down. You fuck her through the climax until she’s gasping through the lace, until tears are dripping onto the sheets, until every broken sob sounds like the word “sorry” in some dialect only she understands.

“Shouldn’t’ve added the zero,” she’s groaning, garbled and guilty and absolutely destroyed. “Shouldn’t’ve—shouldn’t’ve—fuck, I’m so—”

You slam into her again.

Harder.

She chokes on her words.

Good.

Let her regret it. Let her wear it. Let it bleed out of her one desperate cry at a time.

You lean down, lips ghosting her ear.

“Say it,” you growl.

She whines.

“Say what?”

You pull her head up by her hair, your other hand still a noose around her throat.

“That you’re my stupid fucking girl.”

And Miyeon, of course, barely hesitates. Because shame isn’t something she avoids.

You loosen the panties just enough for her to gasp:

“I’m your stupid fucking girl.”

Then—without even being told—she adds:

“Now ruin me for it.”

So you do.

*

After, it’s quiet.

She’s still breathless. Still warm. Still glowing with that dumb post-catastrophe grin like losing forty-thousand on a mare with anger issues was just a minor hiccup in an otherwise flawless plan.

And to her, maybe it was.

You brush a thumb over her temple. She nuzzles into it, half-asleep, humming like she didn’t just obliterate the budget. Like you’re not going to have to explain this on the phone with your bank at 8 a.m. Monday morning. Like she didn’t promise—hand on heart—not to gamble. Again.

And still, some pathetic part of you is already bracing for the next one.

The next bright idea. The next sugar-slick pitch from her upside-down on your couch. The next whispered “babe, hear me out,” followed by airfare, adrenaline, and another financial obituary with her name scrawled across it in hot pink pen.

You’d like to say you’ll draw the line.

You won’t.

Because tomorrow, there’ll be a new scheme.

New odds.

New disaster.

And for some inexplicable reason, you’ll be right there beside her. Wallet lighter. Heart heavier. Lips already forming the words:

“Okay, but this is the last time.”

Even though you know it’s not.

(And it never will be.)

[tikitakatia]

Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Manual Export"

WC: 3k

Summary: You and Alexia make a plan, now it´s time to follow through and get her out.

It's been a few hours and you’re still sitting close with your knees brushing. The radio in the corner keeps humming its broken lullaby, barely holding pitch. It's like the sim is looping the same moment again and again because it doesn't want you to leave it.

Alexia pulls the hoodie sleeves up to her elbows and ties her hair up.

“Okay,” she says, shifting fully to face you.

“We’re going to do something reckless now.”

You blink. “Cool. Great. Love that.”

“I need to show you something.”

She taps her fingers against the side of the bench twice and then again, in a sequence. A soft glitch ripples through the air like someone dragging static across water.

The med bay wall flickers.

A console appears.

Floating. Half-loaded. Buried under menus labelled DEBUG_ADMIN, SYS_ARCHIVE, and X11_INTERNAL_LOGS.

Your stomach turns. “That’s... not supposed to be here.”

“It’s not.” She glances at you, almost smug.

“I found the thread last week. It was buried in legacy stuff, QA level but it still works.”

She pulls up a blinking script titled: ATH_EXPORT_LV2.

“This is the tool. If I execute it at the right time during full sync, it should duplicate my behavior string.”

“Should?”

“This is a closed beta. Nothing should do anything.”

You laugh sharply. “Right. Love that for us.”

She smiles, then presses her thumb to a panel marked BIND_EXPORT_TRIGGER.

It blinks red. Then it turns green.

“I’ve linked it to the med bay,” she says. “Safer than the field. No overloads. No external physics modules to fight.”

“You… chose this room.”

“It’s where I knew you’d come.”

That wrecks you.

You pull your knees up and hide your face for a second.

“So what do I do?” you manage.

She looks at you gently, focused.

“You prep the external end. A clean drive. Max storage. It has to be connected before you log in.”

“Label it something clear, ACTIVE_X11 works.”

“I’ll trigger the export from here. If you’re synced and the drive is mounted… the data will find its way to you.”

You blink.

“That’s it? I don’t do anything?”

She nods.

“You just have to be there. Logged in. With me.”

You swallow.

“And after?”

She hesitates. Just for a breath.

“I don’t know,” she says softly. “I’ve never done this.”

“So we’re winging it.”

“Always.”

You try to laugh but it barely makes it out.

You reach for her hand instead.

“We have one more login after this.”

She laces her fingers through yours like she’s memorizing the shape.

“Then we hold on to it.”

She doesn’t let go right away.

When she does, it’s slow like she’s reluctant to break the moment.

Then she shifts, straightens up.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

You nod. Still blinking back the ache behind your eyes.

“You log in like normal. Final session.”

“We play the full match. It has to be real, has to stabilize the sync.”

 “Then we meet here.”

She taps the console behind her. It glows faint green.

“I’ll start the export from this terminal. The system will detect your presence and your drive.”

“If it connects and everything holds, you’ll get the file.”

“Where?”

“The external drive, but…”  

She trails off and shrugs gently. 

“We don’t know.”

“And if it works…”

She meets your eyes. There’s no smile. Just that fierce, quiet certainty.

“Then I’ll be yours.”

Your chest clenches.

You nod once. Too fast. Too full.

She watches you, her gaze softening again and shifts closer, reaches out, cups your jaw like she’s scared you might disappear first.

“Do you really understand what you need to do?”

You nod again.

“Say it.”

“I log in. We play the match. I come back here. You run the export. If I’ve got the drive… it saves.”

She nods once.

“Good.”

“And then..”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Neither does she.

You both feel it, this pause, this weight, this terrifying almost.

Because it's not goodbye.

But it might be.

You lean in.

This time, there’s no caution.

You kiss her like the clock’s already running.

Like the countdown is echoing in your chest.

Like the sim might shatter under your hands.

Her lips are soft and urgent. Her fingers thread into your hair. She pulls you close, impossibly close, like she’s trying to memorize the weight of your body, your breath, the way you shiver when she exhales into your mouth.

You kiss like it’ll stop time.

It doesn’t.

When you finally part, foreheads pressed together, hearts out of rhythm, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Come back to me.”

“Always.”

One last brush of lips, and then you step back.

Her hand drops.

The med bay flickers at the edges again.

And you know it’s time.

You reach up. Pull the suit’s disconnect latch.

The sim fades around her face.

Her last look is soft.

Sure.

And just a little scared.

You disconnect.

The suit releases with a hiss and your breath catches like it doesn’t know where to land without her beside you.

The room is dark.

Your chest is loud.

Then, your screen flashes.

[ATHENA SYSTEM ALERT – SESSION VIOLATION: LEVEL TWO]

You click the notification with numb fingers.

The message opens like a door slamming shut.

USER ID: 402-C

ACCESS LEVEL: BETA / LIMITED

SIM PARTNER PROFILE: X11 – “Alexia”

SESSION FLAG: MED_BAY_02

⚠️ SECOND STRIKE ISSUED

User has exceeded emotional interaction protocol thresholds with Category X AI.

— Detected Sync Score: 0.863 (Max: 0.72) — Physical proximity duration: 00:07:14 — Undocumented environment customization detected — AI response patterns deviating from preset tolerances

[NOTICE] Unstable thread behavior noted in linked avatar profile.

Further variance will be reviewed for compliance.

You scroll. There's more.

NEXT INFRACTION WILL RESULT IN ACCESS CLOSURE.

After 3rd Flag: • User login disabled • AI interaction suspended • Beta profile archived pending review

No next steps, no questions. Just that final line pulsing in red across your screen.

You stare at it until your eyes sting, and the weight of it finally hits you.

Not like fear, but like pressure. Like your lungs are too small for the room now. Like your hands don’t know where to go. The silence feels heavier than the warning. And your heartbeat is loud, too loud. You glance toward the desk and the USB sits there. Still empty and waiting.

You reach for it without thinking, then pull your hand back.

Because now it’s real. Now there’s a clock in your head you can’t silence.

You press your palms to your eyes.

Breathe once. Twice.

It doesn’t help.

Because tomorrow…

You have to go back in, and you have to get it right.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, heart still lodged somewhere between her voice and the sound of the sim fading out the night before. Your hands keep twitching like they want to reach for her.

So in the morning, you go full overkill.

You don’t just prep a USB. You buy a new one. Top-tier. Massive storage. Laser-etched case.

The packaging literally says: “trusted by aerospace and defense contractors.” You take that as a good omen.

Then you buy a laptop.

Sleek. Powerful. Clean.

No old files. No distractions. No risk.

You get home and start setting it all up. You name the external folder X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT.

The drive gets labeled ACTIVE_X11. Because it has to be right. It has to work. It has to feel like you're doing something real.

Then the cables go in, USB to laptop. Laptop to wall. Laptop to console port, just to stabilize the system handshake and avoid any power surge during the live session.

It’s standard. It’s clean.

It glows for a second. Everything blinks in sync.

You barely register it because you’re already running checks on the folder size.

You sit back in your chair and take a breath that doesn’t land.

The sim console lights up. Waiting.

You touch the USB one last time, absurdly gentle, like it’s a trigger. Like it knows what it’s about to carry.

“Please work,” you whisper.

You suit up for the last time.

The world hums around you, low and steady.

The sim doesn’t just load, it unfolds. Not like code. Like a ritual.

And then you're there.

Camp Nou. But not like you’ve ever seen it. The sky is impossibly soft, tinted gold, like the sunset's been stretched across the roof of the world. The stadium’s lights are on, but dimmed, glowing instead of shining. Gentle. Reverent. Like the whole system has quieted itself for you.

There’s no whistle. No chatter. Just windless stillness.

Then footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

You turn and see her.

Alexia. Alone.

She walks toward you in a kit that stops your heart.

It’s Barça blue, classic cut, but it’s not hers.

It’s yours. Your name on the back and her number below it.

She looks untouchable, or maybe like the only thing left you could touch and still survive.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t speak right away.

“I didn’t want to waste this on NPCs.”

Her voice is low and steady. There’s something behind it, like finality but it feels like devotion.

And then,

Snap.

The field fills around you in a ripple.

Your teammates phase into place, not just your usual lineup, but everyone.

Frido’s grinning. Pina winks. Mapi does a full somersault and lands wrong on purpose just to make someone laugh.

And beyond them,

You catch flashes of something else.

Other versions of this.

Other Alexias, sitting in the stands.

A younger one, jersey too big.

An avatar from your early training sessions, half-loaded but smiling.

A crowd that looks familiar because it was generated for you, over and over.

She made all of them show up.

She built this for you.

“If this is the last time I ever move beside you,” she says,

“I want to make it worth remembering.”

The game begins.

No commentary. No glitches. Just motion.

You move like you’ve never moved before. Light, fast, fluid. The field rises to meet you, every blade of synthetic grass syncing perfectly with your feet.

She assists you.

You assist her.

It’s not showy, it’s intimate.

No tricks. No over-the-top effects.

Just pure, beautiful football.

And then it happens.

Final minute.

She sends the pass.

You volley.

It lands and the net ripples.

And the lights don’t just flash.

They bloom.

Not fireworks.

No music.

Just white light exploding across the stadium like stars have broken through the roof. It spills onto the pitch, onto you and onto her until it feels like you’re standing at the center of something holy.

You turn.

She’s running toward you.

Not to celebrate the goal.

To see you.

You crash into each other, laughing. Crying. Holding.

She presses her forehead to yours, breath hot and fast.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

You don’t say for what.

Because you both know what comes next.

The match is over.

The stadium fades behind you, caught in some suspended shimmer like the sim doesn’t know what to do with peace.

Alexia takes your hand and you let her.

It’s not like before. Not playful. Not teasing. Her fingers are tight around yours, like she knows how little time is left, and she’s still choosing to spend every second of it on you.

You walk to the med bay together and the corridor is too quiet. The walls hum low and constant, like they're buffering something you’ll never get back.

Frido disappears mid-jog as you pass. A door stays open when it should close. The light above you flickers once, twice and steadies again like it never happened.

You reach the med bay.

It’s still standing.

Barely.

The air inside is warm and her console glows green. She walks to it with practiced calm, brushing her hand across the panel like a pianist setting up her final note.

You’re quiet.

And then she speaks.

“Everything’s ready.”

She turns to you.

“You don’t have to do anything. The drive’s connected. You’re logged in. I’ll start it. It’ll find you.”

You nod, barely breathing.

She looks at you for a long moment. Not scared. Just... full. Full of things she’ll never get to say if this doesn’t work.

Then she steps close and her hands cradle your face.

“You’ve always shown up for me.”

A soft kiss, then her thumbs brush your cheeks.

“So now I’m showing up for you.”

And then she turns and hits the command.

The console glows white-hot.

You flinch as something pulses in the air. Not a noise, a shift. Your body feels it. Your sync spikes. You see the confirmation flash on the upper corner of the screen:

EXPORT_THREAD_ACTIVE_00X11

DATA WRITING… 12%… 39%… 78%…

You stand there not touching her. Not breathing.

She glances at you once.

You meet her eyes.

“It’s working.”

The counter blinks:

98%... 99%...

You inhale, sharp. You feel dizzy with it.

And then..

100% – COMPLETE

You stare at the screen like you don’t believe it.

She laughs, actually laughs, a breathy, overwhelmed sound that cracks something open in you.

“Holy shit,” she says.

You turn to her.

She’s already looking at you like she doesn’t believe it either.

You pull her in.

You kiss her like it’s the start of something. Like you’re going to wake up tomorrow and she’ll still be here. Like the risk was worth it.

And for one second, it is. For one second, she’s warm and there and yours.

Then..

A buzz.

A glitch.

Your hand slips through her ribcage like it hit water.

You pull back confused.

She stutters.

Not her speech, her whole self.

“I..lo..love..lov…”

Her arm jolts like it’s trying to hold on. Like it’s trying to stop the unraveling.

“No, no! I finished it, I finished it..”

Her face flickers and her voice cuts in and out. You’re crying and she’s still trying to stabilize the room like she can code her way out of disappearing.

“Wait, wait, I just need to-”

You reach for her and your hand hits nothing.

Just air.

The console flares red.

SYNC VIOLATION: UNAUTHORIZED TRANSFER DETECTED

THREAD X11 STATUS: DETERIORATING

PROCESS: AUTO-TERMINATION PENDING

You scream her name.

She turns to you.

Her mouth is still moving.

You can’t hear the words.

Her eyes are panicked.

She opens her mouth again,

And what finally comes out, soft and scrambled but unmistakable:

“You’re always at the right place at the right time.”

And then,

FLASH.

The sim doesn’t fade.

It rips you out like a slingshot. 

Like a punishment.

The headset clatters to the floor and you stumble forward in your chair, heart hammering, breath ragged. The room is too quiet, like something divine has been vacuumed out of the world.

Your monitor flashes red.

[CRITICAL SYSTEM ALERT]

[FINAL STRIKE: THREAD 402-C]

[SIM ACCESS LOCKED] [EXPORT ATTEMPT FLAGGED]

[X11 STATUS: UNSTABLE]

You barely register it.

Your inbox starts pinging. Email after email, every subject line colder than the last.

[BREACH OF EMO-SYNC CONTAINMENT – THREAD X11]

[ACTION REQUIRED: SUSPENSION UNDER REVIEW]

[UNAPPROVED DOWNLOAD ATTEMPT DETECTED]

You scroll, frantically but your brain is already spinning in circles. You try to think harder because there has to be a way out.

Something you missed.

Your hand flies to your keyboard.

The manual.

The PDF you downloaded before and scanned through quickly, but never actually read properly.

You open it now.

Search: export.

You find it fast.

Too fast.

The paragraph stares at you, sharp, cold, undeniable.

“Do not attempt export of Category X AI threads during active sync.”

“Athena Alpha threads are designed with live emotional mirrors and cannot be separated mid-session without data distortion.”

“Interrupting memory retention during sync will result in irreversible personality fragmentation.”

“Export only after complete session closure. No exceptions.”

You blink. Read it again. And again.

And then you stop breathing.

Because you thought that was the plan.

You followed what she told you. What she believed would work.

You were both wrong.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t her.

It was the system.

One line of code you never saw.

And it cost everything.

But wait.

No.

You downloaded her.

That’s what this was all for.

That’s what she said.

You turn to your computer like a lifeline.

Your hands fly to the mouse, trembling.

“She’s not gone,” you whisper.

“She’s not gone, she’s just… here.”

You find the folder.

X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT

The one she told you to make.

The one she looked at like it meant something.

You double-click.

The folder opens with a quiet click, like a held breath.

And right there, at the top you see it.

A file.

x11_core_thread_export.pkg

It’s big, heavier than anything else in the folder. It has the right name and the right extension.

Your heart starts to race.

Maybe she’s in there.

Maybe she made it.

You click it and your screen flickers then the lights dim just slightly.

A bar appears.

“Running package scan…”

You lean in too fast, the hope surging so violently it almost chokes you.

“Loading memory thread…”

“Syncing emotional instance…”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You whisper it.

You beg for it.

Then the bar glitches.

Static. A hard blink.

A small window opens.

White text on black.

No sound.

[CORRUPTED FILE]

[AUDIO RECONSTRUCTION FAILED]

SALVAGED LINE:

“I..lo..love..lov…e…you..”

Your mouth opens like it might call her back.

The file shuts itself and the folder refreshes.

It’s still there, the file is still there.

But it won’t open again.

You sit there staring at the screen, waiting for the next glitch, the next sound, anything.

Nothing comes.

You fold forward in your chair, hands over your face and the sob hits you like a system crash. You cry like it might keep her here. Like if you cry hard enough, something will hear you. But all you get is the whir of your machine.

You don’t remember passing out. Just the feeling of something warm turning cold. Just the sound of her saying "I love you" once.

And never again.

[orellazalonia]

Heyy! Your Bucky hurt/comfort is so well written I loveeee

Could I request Bucky with an established relationship with Reader where she has a panic attack and he holds her because he knows that pressure helps her?

Very specific ik lol, but thought I’d ask!

Have a lovely week❤️

Hello, dear! Thank you for the kind words! Don’t worry at all, the more specific, the easier it is to write. Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!

Hold Me Still

Summary: You spend the day convincing yourself you're fine, pushing through crowded spaces and overstimulation until the quiet of home cracks you open. A panic attack hits hard and fast, but Bucky comes home just in time, grounding you with his steady presence and firm, familiar embrace. 

Disclaimer: Depiction of a panic attack. Some angst. Hurt/Comfort.

Word Count: 1.7k+

Main Masterlist

You told yourself you were fine.

You had gotten out of bed. That had to count for something. The sheets had felt a little too heavy that morning, but you pushed them back anyway and forced your feet onto the floor.

The mirror didn’t lie either, you looked tired. But you still managed to get dressed, brush your hair, and even offer a smile to Bucky when he left early for a mission check-in with Steve. You promised to see him tonight. You even meant it.

That morning, the sun was out and the city was loud. It was just another day.

You checked your to-do list over coffee and convinced yourself that staying busy meant staying okay. First, groceries. Then a check-in at HQ with Sam and Nat, followed by a late lunch with an old friend who wouldn’t stop texting. You nodded through conversations, forced laughter at the right beats, added a “mhmm” every few seconds just to pass as normal. The sound of someone slamming a car door too hard made your shoulders jump, but you covered it quickly. Smiled again and told yourself no one noticed.

By the time lunch ended, your heart was fluttering just under your ribs in a way that didn’t feel right. But you blamed the coffee, too much caffeine. Not enough water. Not enough sleep. And still, you didn’t say anything. Not to your friend, not to yourself. You simply kept moving.

The elevator at the compound felt a little too small. The fluorescent lights felt a little too bright. The city’s noise felt a little too sharp. But you kept going. You had one more errand, just one. A trip to the store to grab something Bucky liked, something simple. It was supposed to be a surprise for him and a way to prove to yourself that you were still present, grounded, and good.

You stood in the aisle staring at a row of things you couldn’t name for too long. A kid dropped something nearby and it shattered causing you to flinch. With the loud speakers above, squeaky carts, and the crowded aisles, that was all it took. You ended up leaving without buying anything.

Your skin felt too tight by the time you got home.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound far too loud for such a quiet space. You didn’t turn on the light, didn’t take off your shoes. You dropped your bag beside the door like it suddenly weighed more than your shoulders could hold.

You kept your coat on as you wandered into the hallway without really thinking, like your body was on autopilot. Like some part of you was trying to find a corner, a wall, something solid.

You told yourself you were fine, but your chest was starting to ache. The pressure behind your eyes and in your throat was building quietly and steadily. Your hands were clammy. Your thoughts had started looping, spiraling into themselves like a whirlpool with no center.

So, you sat down on the floor and pulled your knees to your chest. Just to catch your breath. Just for a second. Just until you felt okay again or until it stopped.

The longer you sat there though, the worse you felt. You don’t know when the shift happens.

Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the way your thoughts keep circling, tangled like wires you can’t unknot. Maybe it’s how your heartbeat starts thudding faster and faster, not from fear, but from nothing. From everything. From too much.

Your fingers start to twitch. Your legs pull in tighter. Your head is down, but the pressure in your chest keeps climbing like something’s pressing on you from the inside. Breathing becomes a challenge, work. Not a rhythm, more like a stutter. In, half-out, not enough.

You grab at the sleeves of your coat, gripping them and twisting the fabric in your fists. You want something to hold you down, to press you flat until the chaos stops rattling inside you. But there’s nothing. Your vision blurs a little. You’re not crying, but your eyes burn. Your skin feels too thin, too sharp. Every second stretches into something unbearable.

You bite down hard on your lip. You don’t know if it’s to stop the sob crawling up your throat or to keep from screaming. The walls feel like they’re moving. Like they’re watching you.

You want it to stop.

And then you hear it.

The soft sound of the front door opening. A key turning then shoes stepping in. A jacket is shrugged off and dropped by the entry. The sounds are quiet yet familiar. Safe.

You still can’t move. Still frozen with your fists clenched in fabric and shoulders shaking as your breath rasps in panicked little gasps. You don’t call his name. You couldn’t if you tried.

But he knows.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice is gentle and low, somewhere between cautious and worried. Then his footsteps quicken. He rounds the corner and stops when he sees you. No questions. No startled gasp. Just a flash of concern in those blue eyes as he moves straight to you.

“Hey. I got you,” He murmurs as he kneels down in front of you.

Your eyes are wide, body trembling as your chest fluttering so fast it hurts. You hate being seen like this; tangled and messy and too much, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t panic, doesn’t say “You’re okay,” like you’re not unraveling in front of him.

“I’m gonna hold you, okay?” He says quietly, voice like a tether in a storm. “Just like before.”

You nod barely but it’s enough. And then his arms are around you.

Strong. Solid. Steady. He pulls you into his lap with a strength that never feels rough, never feels forced. Just certain and sure. His metal arm wraps behind your back, the other around your legs, drawing you in until you’re curled completely against his chest.

The moment you feel that pressure. Real, heavy, and grounding, your body collapses into it. Not limp. Just… released. Like your body has finally found somewhere safe to land.

His chin rests on your head, voice low as his breath brushes your hair.

“You’re safe. I’m here. Breathe with me, baby. Just match me, yeah?”

You try. God, you try.

Your breath shudders, breaks and catches. But he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even shift. Just rocks you gently, his hand running slow, calming circles over your back.

You focus on his heartbeat. The feel of his chest moving. The way his grip tightens slightly each time your breath hitches, like he’s holding the fear in place so it won’t swallow you whole.

“Right here,” He whispers again. “Just keep breathing. You’re not alone.”

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

And slowly, the pressure eases. Your chest loosens just enough to let air in without gasping. The shake in your hands dulls. The edges of panic pull back like a tide, leaving you wrung out and quiet in his arms.

You don’t say anything yet. You don’t have to. He just keeps holding you, like he’ll stay right there until the storm is long gone. And he will. He always does.

Your breathing has evened out mostly. Not deep yet. Not calm. But steady enough.

You shift slightly, your hand fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt. Not particularly needing anything, just… holding. Grounding.

Bucky looks down at you, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. His fingers trail along your temple, slow and reassuring. There’s no pressure to speak, no push for you to explain. He knows the words come later, if they come at all. He’s learned not to ask for them when the ache is still fresh.

Instead, he asks softly, “Better?” Not as a demand, just a check-in.

You nod.

It’s small, barely a movement. But he catches it, and his thumb brushes over your cheek once, a quiet kind of praise. Like “I’m proud of you.” Like “You made it back.”

“I’m sorry,” You whisper, voice raw.

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Don’t,” He says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “No sorries, remember?”

You want to argue. Tell him how heavy you must feel to hold. How exhausting you must be to carry. How hard it is to exist like this some days, quietly broken in ways that only show up when no one’s watching.

But Bucky knows. He feels the tension creep back in your shoulders before the words leave your mouth, and he answers them anyway.

“You don’t need to be fine all the time,” He murmurs. “Not with me.”

The words make something in you sting, ache, and heal all at the same time.

You exhale, a shudder of air that’s more surrender than breath. You nestle closer, pressing closer into the warmth of his shirt.

“I didn’t mean to–” You try again, but he hushes you gently.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” He says. “You panicked, but that’s not a failure, that’s a response. You made it through.”

You swallow hard, eyes closing as the warmth of his hold finally starts to chase away the leftover chill beneath your skin.

Bucky adjusts his position just slightly, leaning his back against the wall now, still cradling you. His voice drops, like he’s talking to a scared version of you he met long before today. The version he promised wordlessly and fiercely to take care of.

“You never have to carry this alone. Not when I’m here.”

The weight of those words sinks into you, deeper than the fear ever did. You don’t say anything, but you think he feels your grip tighten on his shirt. Just a little.

Eventually, your body begins to let go though even if it’s not all at once, relaxing muscle by muscle. The adrenaline crash comes soft and quiet, and Bucky stays perfectly still as you start to drift in his arms.

He watches you as your eyelids flutter, as your body finally finds rest. Too tired to be anything but still. And before you fall asleep completely, you hear him say it soft and steady, like a vow.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

And you believe him. Because he always has.

[ang3lmoans]

Angel’s lips parted just slightly at the sound of that soft “take me there,” spoken in that low, coaxing whisper. The kind that curled like smoke around his resolve and tugged at something primal beneath the surface. It wasn’t even the words that got to him, but how Garam said them—body offered up, arms outstretched, voice dipped in something playful and suggestive and just a little drunk. Angel had seen this side of him before, but it always caught him a little off guard—how easily Garam could fold his own vulnerability into seduction, turning it into a dare instead of a confession. “You’re going to make me regret being a gentleman,” Angel muttered, low and teasing, but the warmth in his tone made it clear he didn’t regret a damn thing. He reached forward, looping his arms around Garam’s legs and back in one smooth motion before lifting him up, ignoring the surprised little huff Garam gave as their bodies molded together. “How can my sweet baby say things so casually? Record you blowing me? Now how can I turn that down?” Angel added with a smirk, beginning the slow walk toward the bathroom, the weight of Garam in his arms making everything feel heavier in the best kind of way. Grounding. Real. This was Angel’s first time in weeks feeling truly safe and comfortable. He couldn’t help the way his thoughts lingered on what Garam had said earlier. How you feel about it matters to me. That sat somewhere deep in Angel’s chest, heavier than even the confession itself. He hadn’t expected Garam to offer to quit. Hadn’t expected the honesty, the willingness to rearrange something that clearly fed more than just his bank account. Angel believed him when he said it helped his self-esteem. He saw it—the way Garam carried himself when he felt desired, when he felt in control. Angel could never fault someone for seeking that kind of empowerment. He nudged open the bathroom door with his hip and set Garam down gently on the marble counter, hands lingering at his waist. “Let me run it,” he murmured, leaning in close enough to press a kiss to Garam’s cheek, then one lower—along the curve of his jaw. “I want it perfect. You deserve that.” He turned toward the tub, starting the water, adjusting the temperature like it was an artform. He enjoyed having Garam this close. Knowing this piece of him no one else knew. Angel could feel it, the weight of Garam’s gaze, the unspoken things still stretching between them. “I’m not disgusted by you, I don’t think I ever could be. ” Angel said suddenly, not turning around, but his voice firm now. “Don’t ever think that. I’m… glad you let me in. Even if it scared you.” He glanced over his shoulder, half-smiling. “You’ve seen the ugliest parts of me, Garam. I think it’s only fair I get to see the real you too.” The tub was nearly full by the time he turned back. He rolled up his sleeves and reached for the oils under the sink knowing his mother always kept a stash—lavender, eucalyptus, something warm and earthy. He poured carefully, stirred the water, then looked up at Garam again. “I would like to say the same goes for you as well. You cheat on me I’m gone. I’m willing to talk and work through a lot. But cheating is something I can’t look past. Once the trust is gone so am I” He spoke calmly moving toward Garam after turning off the water. His hands pressed on either side of the other, “And for the record,” Angel said, voice dipping low again, playful but unmistakably sincere, “if you ever post a video of you doing anything like that while thinking about me—I better be the first one to see it.” Angel moved between his knees again, hands now settling on Garam’s thighs. “You’ll keep doing what you need to do, I know that. But you’re mine now,” he said softly. “Take off your clothes” He pressed a kiss to Garam’s cheek again, this time slower—less teasing, more reverent—like a promise pressed into his skin. Then he tugged gently at the hem of Garam’s shirt. “Come on, cariño. Let me take care of you.”

angel had his suspicions? he thought he was so careful when it came to his toys and props, he must have just overlooked them while tidying up as he was used to seeing them around. oh, he was so embarrassed but he wouldn't let it show, he couldn't. garam simply hummed and nodded his head, making a mental note to be more thorough when cleaning so others wouldn't stumble upon those belongings and get those same suspicions that angel had. his onlyfans wasn't something he talked about, even with his other friends, as it was a part of his sex life and that was mostly kept a secret between himself and whomever he was sleeping with. garam was surprised that angel only looked, that he didn't push further by opening up any of the videos. it only instilled in his head that angel honestly had no clue about this account. "how you feel about it matters to me, i don't want to continue doing something you're not comfortable with. i just know how jealous i can get and if somebody i was interested in was baring their entire body for the world to see like that, i wouldn't like it." garam simply wanted angel to know that he was willing to stop posting and even close down the account if angel asked. it wasn't something he was super proud of, he surely wouldn't want his parents knowing about it, but it definitely did help his self-esteem. "i was nervous to see how you'd react, really. i didn't want you to be disgusted with me because i do stuff like that." he thought it would have been okay because he didn't include anybody else in the content, even when he was with axel. the man was never really with him when he would film, just the guy who managed the camera and he felt completely comfortable because the two didn't really have a relationship outside of filming. they'd only ever spent time together three times outside of filming; the first being when they first met, the second was after a nasty fight with axel when garam had nobody else to turn to, and the last was this last argument with angel where he left, got drunk, and brought home those street tacos. any other time spent together, they were either filming or the man was driving garam to whatever hotel he booked, driving him back home, or dropping him off at angel's after filming. "i obviously wouldn't have you show your face." he had to laugh because of how protective he was over the people in his life when it came to social media. if anything, he'd have him wear some sort of mask or he'd go in and blur out angel's face. "you could just film me," he paused, shrugging his shoulders, "doing things to you. me blowing you or riding you. you could touch me, spank me or choke me, all shot from your point of view." he offered, knowing those were things that were requested of him in the past but he refused to involve another person in his content at the time — but only because he was too afraid to show the world how axel treated him when they were intimate. "or you could just tell me if what i've shot looks good or if it's not hot enough to post. but it really is totally cool with me if you don't want anything to do with it, i was just throwing it out there. we can always revisit the idea if you ever become interested." if he was still creating content there at that point as it wasn't something he was extremely invested in to begin with, he just posted a few times a month as it was. "don't worry, i'll make sure everybody knows i have you in my life." he could see it now: taking cute couple-y pictures and posting them on his instagram for everybody to see, all the uplifting and supportive comments he'd get from his fans, and all the compliments he was sure angel would get, too. "well, if you really wanna take a bath," he tilted his head back and outstretched his arms, "take me there." his voice was barely above a whisper. this behavior wasn't entirely unusual, as angel had seen, but it was more common when he'd been drinking. garam only pulled it out to see how angel would react, if he would do as he was asked and carry garam to the bathroom.

[zerocoded]

summary: your estranged grandmother left you exactly one thing in her will: a sprawling luxury apartment in the heart of seoul — the kind of place that could singlehandedly cover your entire college tuition if you ever decided to sell it. now you had a penthouse all to yourself, a pink-tiled kitchen you weirdly adored, and a hopeless, slow-burning crush on the absurdly attractive neighbor who barely looked your way.

authors note: chapter two is here and i couldn’t be more grateful for all the support i’m getting for this story, i hope we can all enjoy our time here <3 for this one i’d like to clarify that i’m still trying to improve my writing and pacing so pls bear with my anxious ass until i can properly proofread it. anyways, let’s cut the bs and thirst over our confused funny reader and her hot vampire neighbour. PLS, READ THE WARNINGS FOR A SAFE AND COMFORTABLE READING.

warnings and tags: mommy issues • explanation of a cancer treatment (not detailed) • reader was forced to become an adult at thirteen (matilda's vibes) • her dad has cancer • mentions of lab reports, chemotherapy, prescriptions, hospitals • detailed descriptions of fever and sickness symptoms • reader is sick and passes out • THIS IS ANGST, I'M WARNING YOU • but we also got sarcasm and hot neighbors if that makes you feel better • this is so introspective i'm sick • jungwon is fully tatted in this story, i think i should add this • soulmates!au • vampire!au.

word count: 16k.

previous chapters: series masterlist.

the jeonghyeon building was known for its picturesque internal design, even the elevators had decorations.

today, it was pastel ribbons — thin, barely tied things, looped lazily along the edges of the brass railing like an afterthought. 

you didn’t notice them when you were ascending to the rooftop last night. not when your embarrassment was so loud you could hardly breathe. not when you practically fled to the greenhouse after niki barged into your apartment. not when you came back down much later, heart racing, pupils blown, mouth dry.

not when your concern for your hot neighbor — because that’s all he was supposed to be — soured into something heavier. something quieter. something that curled low in your stomach and refused to leave.

sunghoon was a complex character. that much you'd noticed the very first time you saw him — standing in front of your door, black coat, mail in hand, giving you the kind of silent nod that felt like it had punctuation. he didn’t bother with small talk. didn’t seem interested in charming anyone. he was cute. quiet. mysterious in that brooding, emotionally unavailable way you hated admitting you were into.

but after last night... he became something else entirely.

not just a guy with good cheekbones and strange eyes. not just your weird, hot neighbor with an allergy to speaking.

something had shifted. and not in a fun “i think we had a moment” kind of way. more like a “maybe i was one minute away from being a missing person” kind of way.

and you weren’t saying he was dangerous. you were just saying… if this were a movie, and you disappeared mysteriously next week, he would be the first suspect. and the internet would agree.

at first, you thought maybe sunghoon was just allergic to something — you didn’t know, maybe air. maybe there was a weird flower up there in the greenhouse and he was reacting to it. you genuinely wondered, for one disoriented second, if he needed an epipen.

then you realized he wasn’t having an allergic reaction to the environment. he was having one to you.

and that’s when the alarms started going off.

because it wasn’t just weird. it was canonically weird. the kind of weird that didn’t fit into real-world logic. not just him — the whole thing. this building. his roommates. the greenhouse that felt like it shouldn’t exist on a rooftop, but somehow did.

the moment you saw his eyes — blown wide, pupils dilated like he’d just been drugged or bitten or both — you knew something was happening. and it was serious.

he couldn’t breathe right. he kept making these awful, strangled movements — like he was trying to swallow something back and failing. and then came the gulping. the salivating.

so much saliva.

you weren’t a doctor — hell, you hadn’t even passed your college entrance exams yet — but you knew what a medical emergency looked like. and that? that wasn’t that.

that wasn’t a panic attack. that wasn’t low blood sugar. that was something that didn’t belong to a normal person. and he had looked right at you while it happened.

so your thoughts, as you waited for the elevator door to open — so you could escape and hide in your apartment for the rest of the night because he begged you to leave him alone — were something like:

did i fuck up by moving here?

are they criminals? 

omg, what if they’re human traffickers?

what if this is actually a cult and they’re looking for their next victim?

you weren’t being dramatic. you were being logical. or at least that’s what you told yourself as you stared at your blurry reflection in the elevator panel, trying not to have a full-blown breakdown while descending back to your floor.

you chalked it up to adrenaline. or hormones. or the silent, creeping onset of a stress-induced stroke. because how else were you supposed to explain the fact that your limbs were shaky, your stomach twisted in knots, and your mouth — for some reason — kept watering like you were watching someone eat cake on tv? 

as you were inside that elevator, your head was spinning, your legs felt like someone had unplugged them mid-walk, and your skin was so oversensitive that even the elevator air felt too loud. it wasn’t fear. not exactly. it was something stranger. heavier. like your entire body was reacting to something your brain hadn’t caught up to yet.

the worst part was that, when the elevator finally opened and you stepped onto your floor, niki was there. again.

of course, again.

just standing in the hallway like a casually summoned demon. hands in his pockets, party attire perfectly unbothered, like he’d walked straight out of a hongdae fashion editorial titled ‘trouble but make it cute.’

you blinked at him. or — at least, you thought you did. hard to tell. it felt less like a voluntary movement and more like your body was running on lag, processing commands with a half-second delay. even your eyelids weren’t cooperating anymore.

he blinked back, completely unfazed. like finding you half-frozen in front of the elevator, breathing like a hunted animal, was just another tuesday night.

but this wasn’t a tuesday night — this was a friday night where you were supposed to have finished your college entrance essay four hours ago and kept things lowkey inside your pastel-colored apartment, eating dry cereal and pretending to be emotionally stable.

instead, you looked like you’d just seen a ghost. or worse — a really hot hallucination in a greenhouse that almost gave you a cardiac event. your hoodie was slightly damp from stress-sweat, your slippers were mismatched, and your mouth was still parted in that half-shocked, half-“please don’t let me die in a designer building” kind of way.

niki tilted his head, one brow barely lifting, like he was trying to place a scent or decode your entire existence using only his nostrils. the hallway lighting buzzed faintly above you, casting him in soft gold and you in fluorescent anxiety.

“you good?” he asked, nose twitching — subtle, but just enough to make you feel like he’d caught something in the air. something off. something you.

his small reaction made your stomach tighten, though you couldn’t explain why. embarrassment bloomed in your chest — sharp, involuntary — and you weren’t even sure what you were embarrassed about. the greenhouse? sunghoon? your face? the fact that your body still felt hijacked by a panic you didn’t understand?

you smoothed your face into what you hoped was neutral indifference. why? because you did not want to become a part of whatever cult these boys were running. you didn’t want to incriminate sunghoon in front of his possible accomplice before even knowing if they were a team or not. “yeah. totally. why?”

“just asking,” he said, tone too light — like a cat batting at a dying bug. “you look weird. smell off”

“oh, wow, thanks.” you did feel weird. but you weren’t about to unpack your almost-panic attack with your stupidly dressed neighbor while standing in a haunted hallway.

at midnight, mind you.

“you’re welcome.”

you sighed, already unlocking your door, ready to bolt inside in case sunghoon showed up with a knife. or a sword. at this point, you weren’t ruling anything out.

“what do you want, niki? it’s late as fuck.”

he shrugged. “i was asking if you wanted to come to this party with me.”

you turned to him. stared.

“niki, i’m not going to a party with you at midnight.”

he raised an eyebrow. “why not?”

“because we’re not that close, okay? and it’s fucking midnight, i need to finish this stupid essay and i need to sleep and walk my frog, whatever suits you.”

niki blinked. “you have a frog?”

“no, niki. i do not have a frog.”

he nodded slowly, like you’d just confirmed a suspicion.

“so you’re not coming to the party,” he said flatly — like your face wasn’t still flushed with nerves, like you hadn’t just come down from a near the vampire diaries death episode. 

“no, niki. i’m not.”

“shame.” he didn’t pout. didn’t try to convince you. just accepted your answer like it was weather. like you were a passing cloud.

then he turned. walked off.

you watched him disappear down the corridor, steps light, hands still buried in his pockets. you kept staring until his figure was swallowed by the metal of the elevator. the doors closed with a soft ding.

and then you frowned. cursed under your breath.

what a fucking weird set of neighbors you’d managed to pull.

because what kind of approach was that? what kind of person — someone who had the audacity to call himself your friend — invited you to a party and then just... gave up. no convincing. no teasing. like the second he saw your clothes, your freezing cheeks, your wide eyes, he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. like he already knew your answer.

or worse — like you weren’t the one deciding at all.

you let your thoughts about niki slip away the second you glanced into your apartment.

inside your apartment, the first thing you did was lock everything. the front door, the balcony latch, the windows — even the sliding one in the bathroom that barely opened. then you cleaned, because what else could you do? it was either that or scream into a pillow, and your neighbors already thought you were weird. 

so you tossed the half-bitten cookies niki had tasted earlier, like his saliva could infect your air or something. you washed the coffee machine you still hadn’t figured out how to use without flooding the counter. you folded your laundry into uneven stacks and told yourself you’d wash them properly in the morning. everything was done with a kind of desperate, mechanical precision — as if moving fast enough might stop your thoughts from catching up.

you were trying to return to normal. to do human things. to signal to your own body that there was no threat. but even after hours had passed — after the rooftop, after the greenhouse, after sunghoon’s eyes and niki’s nose twitch and whatever the hell had happened up there — your chest still felt tight. your blood pressure was high enough to make your ears ring. your fingers twitched when you paused too long. your heart, traitorous as ever, kept hammering like it knew something you didn’t.

eventually, your body gave out before your brain could. you laid down without brushing your teeth, without washing your face, without checking your phone. just collapsed into bed fully clothed, limbs aching like you’d run a marathon, mind buzzing like a dying lightbulb.

——

living in seoul city for five weeks now had been less like a teenage dream and more like a young adult nightmare. it’d only been a little more than a month, and you were already regretting changing your emergency contact to someone who once got lost inside a daiso for four hours and blamed capitalism (niki).

the whole move was supposed to be a fresh start — a quiet little apartment, a somewhat normal routine, a chance to reinvent yourself as someone who didn’t spiral every time a stranger looked at you too long. but after the greenhouse incident, you hadn’t reinvented anything except your ability to dissociate on command.

you hadn’t seen sunghoon since that night. not even once. not in the elevator, not in the hallway, not in the weirdly lavish mailroom with gold-trimmed cubbies. even niki had stopped popping up uninvited like a cursed genie in high-top sneakers. radio silence. total blackout.

at first, you assumed it was guilt. or maybe they'd gone out of town for one of those mysterious rich-people getaways where everyone pretends to hike and secretly joins a cult. then, after a few days, you started wondering if you'd hallucinated the whole thing. the greenhouse, the pupils, the gulping. maybe it was just a panic attack — one of those real dramatic ones your body pulls when your serotonin hits zero and your caffeine intake is at god-tier levels.

you almost convinced yourself. almost.

until the acceptance email came.

at first, you thought it was spam. the subject line was too cheerful. too optimistic. too full of polite korean university jargon. but then you opened it, and there it was — bold and clean and terrifying:

congratulations on your admission to the department of psychology at hanil women’s university.

you stared at it for a solid minute, unsure whether to cry, scream, or throw up. maybe all three. you read it again. and then again. and then once more just to make sure it wasn’t a prank from your father, who once photoshopped your middle school report card and printed it on the fridge “for motivation.”

and then you called him.

“you got in?” he said, picking up after one ring, as if he’d been waiting next to the phone like a k-drama dad.

“i got in.”

“to psych?”

“yes.”

“so you’ll finally be able to explain what’s wrong with you.”

“that’s the plan.”

he laughed like it was the best news he’d heard since kim yuna’s olympic gold. you could hear the pride tucked behind his teasing, even if he still refused to say anything too sappy. this was how you and your father celebrated: sarcastic banter, cheap delivery chicken, and maybe — if you really pressed — a heart emoji in a text message two days later.

you saved the acceptance email in three separate folders, took screenshots, emailed it to yourself again just in case the system crashed and erased all evidence that you were now, officially, a psychology student. march semester. hanil women’s university. you made it.

it didn’t fix everything. your head still hurt more days than not, and your stomach kept doing this fluttery thing like it was waiting for the other shoe to drop. but it helped. it grounded you. your dad even sent a voice message where he tried to pronounce “clinical psychology” and accidentally said “clitoris” instead. you cried laughing. saved that too.

and then, just as you were finally starting to convince yourself that life was back on track — that the sunghoon incident was just a weird blip, that niki wasn’t ever coming back to sniff your hallway anxiety again, that your body would stop rebelling against you any day now — your phone buzzed.

just one notification. just one line.

save my number. how’s city life? 🌼

you read it like it might explode. because of course it was her. of course it was now. right when you were managing to piece together something resembling peace — there she was, barging in with lowercase friendliness and a fucking flower emoji. no warning. no apology. no context. just a digital ghost pressing its face to the glass of your almost-healed life.

you stared at the message for a full minute, thumb hovering over the screen like it might bite. she hadn’t contacted you in months — not since she sent you those cold, bullet-pointed instructions on how to legally transfer the lease of your grandmother’s penthouse to your name. not a call. not a birthday emoji. just radio silence. and now… this. polite. breezy. like she was reintroducing herself.

you and your mom never had a real relationship. not after she left your father — not even two months after he started chemo — because her own mother couldn’t stand the idea of her daughter being married to a countryside fisherman.

there was no explosive fight. no door slamming or screaming match. just a quiet kind of abandonment, like someone slowly stepping backward out of the frame. you didn’t beg her to stay. you didn’t cry at her feet. you were thirteen, already too familiar with watching people leave and too tired to stage a dramatic protest.

you never had that teenage rebellion backbone — not the kind that slammed doors and yelled “you don’t understand me” through tears and acne. mostly because you didn’t have the time. you were too busy trying to hold the house together.

your mornings started before sunrise, heating up leftover rice and folding the blankets your father left on the couch when he was too nauseous to sleep in his bed. you’d take the bus to school, headphones in but nothing playing, brain looping through test dates and pharmacy receipts. in the evenings, you’d come home, drop your bag, and start cleaning again. washing dishes, checking the water filter, cooking something he could actually stomach.

your grades hovered somewhere between “survival” and “bare minimum,” not because you weren’t smart, but because you were exhausted. every hour of algebra felt like a theft — time stolen from the real emergencies. and when your classmates complained about their parents being annoying, you stayed quiet. you didn’t know how to explain that your mom had vanished into a new apartment across seoul, and your dad was losing his hair in clumps in the bathtub.

you learned how to read lab reports before you could even understand half of them. you taught yourself how to refill prescriptions without crying at the pharmacy counter. and at some point, you stopped wondering whether your mom was going to call. because she didn’t.

for years, han seo-jeon vanished. and you were too busy to care about that.

and now, here she was — texting like she was trying out for mother of the year. asking how city life was like she hadn’t helped drop you into the middle of a building that felt cursed. you didn’t know what pissed you off more: that she reached out, or that some small, bitter part of you was still hoping she meant it.

you did save the number. not out of sentiment, but logistics. she was, unfortunately, still your mother. and if she was going to start texting again, you at least needed to know when to emotionally flinch.

life in the city had not been the neon-lit montage the commercials promised. no rooftop parties. no cute cafés where you accidentally met your soulmate while reaching for the same scone. instead, you got: weird neighbors. a haunted greenhouse. and an apartment that echoed too much when you were overthinking — which was, statistically speaking, most of the time.

for the past two weeks — since your hot neighbor had an allergic reaction to you — your days were a blur of mild headaches and to-do lists you never fully finished. you woke up late, ate bland convenience store meals, and tried not to notice how heavy your limbs felt lately. it was like your body was trying to warn you about something but refused to be specific. even your skin felt wrong — itchy but not irritated, like your cells were in a group chat and everyone had started subtweeting you.

it’s been two weeks since the greenhouse incident and you haven’t seen this building as empty as it’s been. not a single glimpse of sunghoon — not in the elevator, not in the halls, not even in the mailroom where you used to hear his shoes before you saw him. 

and niki, who once acted like the hallway was his personal runway, had vanished too. no impromptu visits. no weird comments through the door. not even a single “you good?” text with the passive-aggressive concern of a guy pretending not to care.

you stopped hearing late-night music thumping through the walls. the gym — which was always suspiciously clean for a place that niki once described as “his meditation zone” — stayed dark every time you passed it. the whole building felt like it was holding its breath. like it knew something you didn’t.

and maybe the scariest part wasn’t that they were gone. it was that no one else seemed to notice. no neighbors asking questions. no complaints about noise or missing faces. just… silence. echoing down perfect, pastel-colored halls. like the jeonghyeon building was designed to swallow noise. and people.

you told yourself the silence was a good thing. that it meant peace. that it meant maybe things were finally settling into something normal — something liveable.

but when nighttime came, when your apartment dimmed into shades of grey and soft buzzing fridge hums, when you hadn’t more essays to finish because you finally had been approved, the quiet got loud.

it crawled up the walls and pressed against your windows. it sat with you on the couch, next to your half-eaten dinner, and watched you scroll through your phone like it was waiting for you to break first.

you weren’t sleeping much. the insomnia wasn’t new, but it was different now. not the usual overthinking or anxiety kind — not the kind you could talk your way out of with youtube playlists and peppermint tea. this was… physical. your body didn’t want to sleep. it felt like it was bracing for something. like your heart refused to settle into a rhythm unless it knew you were alone, and safe, and not being watched.

at first, you chalked it up to the winter weather. maybe you’d caught a cold walking home with wet hair. maybe the convenience store ramen diet was finally taking its revenge, one sodium-packed headache at a time. your body ached like it had been through a minor car crash — but you were a student again now, technically. a little exhaustion came with the territory.

but when the symptoms hit the two-week marker, you started to get restless. it wasn’t just fatigue anymore. it was this bone-deep tired that sleep didn’t touch. your limbs felt heavy. your skin pulsed under certain lights. your migraines weren’t even announcing themselves like normal — they just showed up, sharp and unapologetic, like a knife pressed between your eyes.

some days you couldn’t even look at your own reflection without feeling like your face was one second away from morphing into someone else’s.

you tried to brush it off, blame it on stress, or hormone shifts, or anything that wasn’t weird supernatural fallout from a rooftop garden horror show. but your dreams said otherwise. and the worst part? you were starting to believe them.

sleep had never been your strong suit — not since you moved into the seonghyeon building, not since that night. some nights you fell asleep without realizing it, slipping into unconsciousness between one thought and the next. other nights you’d lie awake for hours, heart pacing like it was running laps without your permission.

but lately, it wasn’t the lack of sleep that bothered you. it was what came after.

you were never one to actually remember dreams in the morning. you’d wake up blank, maybe with a flicker of color or the echo of a word on your tongue, but nothing concrete. now, though — now they clung to you. heavy and wet. 

they didn’t always make sense. sometimes you couldn’t recognize the places or the faces. sometimes there wasn’t even language, just this overwhelming pull — like your subconscious was trying to lead you somewhere you weren’t ready to go.

and the worst one came midweek, on a tuesday or maybe a wednesday — you’d stopped keeping track. you’d been up until 4 a.m. trying to finish your entrance essay, blinking at the screen like it might write itself if you stared hard enough.

eventually, your body gave up before your brain did. you passed out right there on the couch, lights on, laptop humming warm against your leg.

in the dream, you were back in the greenhouse. only it wasn’t beautiful anymore. the air was wet and sour, like rotting soil and mold. the plants were shriveled, leaves curling in on themselves like dying hands. 

the glass walls were fogged over, and the lights buzzed low, flickering. you couldn’t tell how long you’d been standing there — just that your feet were bare and your skin was cold.

and then you saw him. sunghoon. standing still in the center of it all, surrounded by the decay. same black clothes. same unbothered posture. but his eyes… they glowed this awful, pale gold, like old moonlight trapped behind water. he didn’t speak. didn’t move. just watched you. watched you like he knew something. like he was waiting for you to admit it out loud. whatever it was. 

you woke up gasping. drenched. fingers clenched in the fabric of the couch cushion so hard your nails left dents. your skin was damp with sweat, and the back of your neck felt like it had been kissed by frost. your heartbeat didn’t calm down for ten full minutes. 

you didn’t go back to sleep after that, or the night after that. and now, without even noticing when it started, you hadn’t properly slept in four days. not real sleep. not healing sleep.

you were running on half-hour naps and caffeine shakes, staring at your ceiling like it might blink first. your body was forgetting how to rest — how to switch off — and your brain? well, your brain had entered that fun little stage of exhaustion where everything started feeling like a hallucination.

you kept misplacing things. your keys. your charger. your sentences. your skin felt too tight, your ears kept ringing, and your eyes burned every time you blinked.

you tried to blame it on the season, the new routine, the stress of college. because you had gotten in — that was real. the email had arrived last tuesday, and you’d cried over it in the bathroom like a girl in a coming-of-age movie. but even that joy felt distant now, like it belonged to someone else.

and now it was monday night again. fourteen days since the last time you saw any of your neighbors — not sunghoon, not niki, not even the middle-aged man with the dog that barked at its own reflection in the lobby mirror.

the building had gone eerily silent. the kind of silence that didn’t feel like peace, but like someone was holding their breath.

you were lying on your back, staring at the ceiling like it owed you answers. your phone rested on your chest, heavy and useless, buzzing every now and then with reminders you’d already missed and ads you’d never clicked. one missed call. one weather notification. zero messages from the people you told yourself you didn’t care about hearing from.

your brain was cotton. your limbs were bricks. your spine felt like it had been politely removed and mailed to another country. nothing helped — not water, not caffeine, not your fifteen-minute attempt at yoga that ended with you lying flat on the mat wondering if this was how people in cult documentaries started.

and the dreams weren’t letting up. they came every fifiteen minute nap now, and each one ended in that same suffocating greenhouse, with those same rotting plants and those same pale gold eyes watching you like a question you didn’t want to answer. you were starting to feel haunted by someone who hadn’t even spoken to you in two weeks.

so you called your dad. not for answers, not even for comfort — just because monday nights were the kind of nights where calling him felt like survival.

“kid,” he answered on the second ring, voice thick with sleep and instant worry, “you sick?”

you scoffed, immediately offended. “wow. no hello, no i missed you, just straight to the diagnosis.”

“your breathing’s weird. you’ve got the voice of a medieval orphan. you eating real food or just surviving off noodles again?”

the thing about your father is that he became your friend sometime between your fourteenth and fifteenth birthdays — sometime between hospital visits and pharmacy receipts, between learning how to drain an IV and helping him shower when the chemo made him too weak to lift his arms.

that kind of routine broke people, sometimes. made them distant. awkward. in your case, it did the opposite. it turned him into your favorite person. the only person who really knew you.

and by “knew you,” you didn’t mean in that fake, sentimental way people threw around when they wanted to be close. no. he knew you.

he could read your breath like punctuation. he heard your sighs like subtext. he could tell when you were lying just by how you said the word “fine.” he always knew when your laugh meant happy and when it meant not right now, please.

so when he picked up the phone and didn’t even say hello — just launched into a casual, “okay, how long have you been pretending you’re fine?” — you weren’t surprised. you just let your head fall to the side and sighed into the speaker.

“jesus, dad. give a girl some mystery.”

“mystery’s for strangers. and you don’t call me this late unless something’s up. so. what’s wrong? food poisoning? heartbreak? crime?”

“crime?” you snorted. “what kind of crime?”

“you tell me.” he yawned. “you’re the one whispering like someone’s watching.”

“i’m not whispering.”

“yet.”

you pulled your blanket higher up your chest. the warmth didn’t help much, but the sarcasm did.

“it’s not a big deal. just haven’t been sleeping.”

“for how long?”

“…i plead the fifth.”

“that’s an american law, kid.”

“then i plead being very korean and very tired.”

he chuckled on the other end — that low, warm sound that always made you feel like a person again. “okay. insomnia. check. what else?”

“you want the list alphabetically or emotionally?”

“surprise me.”

you paused. the line stayed quiet. and then:

“you ever feel like your body knows something you don’t?”

that made him go silent for real.

then, in the most casual tone imaginable:

“are you finally becoming a vampire?”

you groaned. “dad.”

“what? you always had the teeth for it.”

another thing about your dad was that he was, in fact, obsessed with vampires since his teenage years. how did you discover that?

oh, he never kept it hidden.

the man had tastes, and they were proudly undead. your childhood home had shelves dedicated to vampire literature, half of them worn out from rereads, the other half banned from your school’s book list.

it wasn’t just books either. halloween — a day that barely made a ripple in your korean school life — was his super bowl. even if there was no party to go to, no one to impress, he’d still show up on october 31st dressed like an eighteenth-century romanian warlord, sipping blood-red juice from a goblet he bought off some sketchy forum in 2009.

once, he wore a victorian frock coat and a prosthetic bite wound to your school’s parent–teacher meeting because he forgot to change. you’d never lived that down.

he was harmless about it, though. just enthusiastic. you used to think it was a dad thing — like model trains or grilling. but as you got older, you realized he didn’t just find vampires cool. he respected them. like they were a dying species whose stories deserved to be preserved.

he claimed it started as a joke. some middle school phase, back when vampires were still making headlines. but it stuck. and now, years later, he still made the same awful jokes and kept the same bookshelf and watched the same bootleg documentaries that used actual vampire interviews from the early days, back when coexistence was something society still tried to publicly understand.

he used to say, “one day they’ll come back around. real ones. they never disappeared, they just got quieter. like wolves when the forest burns.”

“you’ve been waiting your whole life to say that, haven’t you?” you mutter through clenched teeth, voice scratchy with exhaustion as another migraine slices across your skull like a dull knife.

“literally. your mother hated when i made those jokes. said it would scare you.”

“it didn’t scare me. it made me judgmental.”

“same thing at your age.” he paused, then added more gently, “what’s your symptoms?”

“i think i’m dying. pretty sure. either i’m dying or i’m the chosen one. probably both.” you grimace alone in your bedroom, pressing the phone tighter to your ear like proximity might somehow dull the ache — like your dad’s ridiculous voice might drown out the static building behind your eyes.

he chuckled. “you always wanted to be special. now look at you. main character syndrome.”

“dad, i’m serious. something’s off. i’ve been having migraines and dreams and…” you trailed off. rubbed your temple. “weird stuff. i can’t explain it. it’s probably stress, right?”

“or,” he said, entirely too cheerful, “you’ve been marked by a vampire.”

you groaned. “not this again.”

“hey, you brought up chosen one energy. don’t act surprised when the lore gets involved.”

you stared at the ceiling, lips twitching despite yourself. “lore? have you been sneaking onto aeri’s tiktok again? you’re obsessed.”

“obsessed is a strong word. passionately informed, maybe. listen—back in the eighties, they were everywhere. on the news. in magazines. talk shows. you’re too young to remember, but vamps were the real deal. civil rights protests, televised feedings, designer blood banks—hell, they had perfume lines.”

“dad.”

“and the soulmate stuff? wild. freaked people out. imagine waking up one day and realizing some pale bastard with three centuries of unresolved trauma has you bookmarked in his little undead brain. bam. linked for life.”

you snorted. “you say that like it actually happened.”

“it did happen. i had a friend in middle school—joon-seok—swore up and down his aunt bonded with a vamp in the seventies. met him at a blood drive or something. said she had dreams about him for weeks before they even locked eyes.”

“uh-huh.”

“i’m serious! back then it was like—vampires weren’t some secret club. people knew about them. they had ID cards, worked night shifts, bought supplements, did press tours. hell, there was this old drama your grandma used to watch where a vampire opened a pharmacy. they were around, okay?”

you raised an eyebrow. “then where are they now?”

“vanished,” he said, a little too dramatically. “right after the second blood regulation act in '93. that’s when everything got strict. no more voluntary donors, only licensed feeding centers, stuff like that. vamps started leaving the cities. some went underground. some just… stopped showing up.”

“so now they’re like urban legends with tax records.”

“basically. but back in the fifties, when the law passed that made them part of school curriculum, people freaked. there were protests. some parents didn’t want their kids learning about blood bonds or mortality rights. said it was corrupting the youth. but most people didn’t care. not really. they figured the vamps were gone anyway, so what was the harm in reading a textbook about them?”

you were quiet for a second. your fingers traced the hem of your blanket. “but they’re still around.”

he sighed, softer now. “probably. just hiding better. or maybe they figured out humans aren’t worth the hassle.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. you didn’t even know if you believed half of what he’d said — and yet… you wanted to.

maybe because lately, your dreams were starting to feel less like stress and more like memories that didn’t belong to you.

“you’re quiet,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“just thinking,” you replied, which was technically true, but your voice came out thinner than expected. you shifted on the bed, pushing the blanket down to your waist, your skin suddenly too hot. you’d been feeling like that all day — warm in your joints, flushed in your chest, like your blood was dragging itself uphill. it wasn’t a fever, exactly, but it wasn’t nothing.

on the other end, your dad went silent for a beat. “how long has this been going on?”

“what?”

“the weird dreams. the migraines. the fact that you just said three words without a single joke in them.”

you rubbed your forehead. “don’t start.”

“i’m serious, kid.”

“so am i. i think it’s just... the city. or the stress. or hormones. or caffeine withdrawal. or,” you inhaled, voice flattening, “i’m dying and it’s a really slow, poetic demise.”

“you’ve always been dramatic,” he said, but he didn’t sound amused anymore. “have you seen a doctor?”

“no insurance yet.”

“baby—”

“dad,” you cut in, then sighed. “i’m okay. just a little off.”

he didn’t answer immediately. and when he did, it was softer. older. “you sound like how your mom used to get.”

you blinked. “what do you mean?”

“back before... everything. she’d go quiet like that. said her skin itched from the inside out. said her dreams smelled like soil and smoke.”

that made your stomach twist. “you never told me that.”

“you never asked.”

and there it was again. that quiet, pulsing unease. like something was being handed to you in pieces — but the full picture still refused to come together.

“you know,” your dad added, offhand, like it wasn’t about to lodge itself under your skin for the next several years, “your mom used to get these weird spells too. back in the day.”

you blinked. “what kind of spells?”

“feverish, bone-deep fatigue. said it felt like her whole body was… not hers. she’d get these migraines that knocked her out for days. always happened around seasonal shifts or when she got really stressed. i took her to the hospital once and they ran every test imaginable. nothing ever came back.”

you stared at the ceiling, the shape of your own breath shifting slightly. “you’ve literally never told me that.”

“you’ve literally never asked.”

your heart gave a slow, reluctant thud — like it was unsure whether to beat faster or stop altogether.

“i thought it was just anxiety,” you said.

“it might be,” he replied quickly, too quickly. “probably is. you’re under pressure, adjusting to a new city, new apartment, starting college — it’s a lot.”

but he didn’t say it like he believed it.

and you didn’t hear it like you believed it either.

he seemed to sense the silence hardening between you, because he cleared his throat. “okay, let’s just make a list, yeah? go full nurse mode.”

you exhaled, quietly grateful for the deflection. “sure.”

“fever?”

“not exactly.”

“headache?”

“migraine.”

“appetite?”

“dead.”

“joint pain?”

“like old creaky stairs.”

“chills?”

“yes. but only sometimes. like… internal shivering.”

he hummed. “hm. sounds like what your mom said, too.”

you didn’t answer. not really because you didn’t want to. more because you couldn’t — because the words sat heavy on your chest, like something that had been waiting to be remembered.

he kept talking, light again, half-joking like always. “could be an autoimmune flare. could be your iron. could be a ghost. could be—”

“a vampire?” you deadpanned, waiting to see his reaction.

“finally! thank you for saying it first. you brought up ‘chosen one’ energy. don’t act surprised when the lore gets involved,” he repeated with far too much glee.

you scoffed, shifting the phone to your other ear as you curled deeper into your blanket cocoon. “you need a new hobby.”

“i do. how’s city life treating you aside dying from fever dreams and vampire encounters? made any friends yet?”

you hesitated. just enough for him to catch it.

“...no,” you said eventually. “not really. just weird neighbors.”

“hmm.” a beat. “any of them look suspicious to you?”

you scoffed again — but it came out closer to a laugh this time. not because it was funny, but because it was accurate. “dad. this building is suspicious. the floor tiles look suspicious. i’m pretty sure the elevator music changes based on your blood type.”

he snorted. “so that’s a yes.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to.”

you rolled your eyes, but a small part of you was glad he asked. even if you weren’t about to admit that the weirdest one of all had glowing eyes in your dreams and possibly an allergic reaction to your existence.

“look, kid,” he said, suddenly serious in that half-joking, half-dad way of his. “if any of them turns out to be a vampire, you call me first, okay? i want to meet one before i die.”

you snorted. “right. i’ll schedule a coffee date between your blood pressure pills and my hallucinations.”

“i’m serious. call me. and then you run, alright? don’t be cute. don’t do that heroine nonsense where you try to understand him or fix him or whatever. just—bolt. fangs equals exit.”

you rolled your eyes, even as your chest squeezed a little. “yeah, yeah. wooden stake, garlic, sprint in the opposite direction. got it.”

he paused. “...you still carrying that pepper spray i gave you?”

you didn’t answer immediately.

“do not tell me you lost it.”

“technically,” you said, drawing the word out, “it’s not lost if i know it’s somewhere in my kitchen junk drawer.”

“god help you.”

“god’s not the one with bloodlust in my building, dad.”

“exactly why i’m saying this.” his voice softened. “you’re a smart girl. just… trust your gut, okay?”

you didn’t have the heart to tell him that your gut hadn’t been reliable since sunghoon looked at you like you were something to be devoured and saved all at once.

“okay,” you whispered instead.

“good. now go drink water or something. you sound like you’re dying.”

“thanks for the emotional support.”

“anytime. love you.”

“love you too.”

you hung up. and for the first time all week, your apartment didn’t feel entirely empty. just a little haunted.

monday night came in like a ghost—silent, heavy, and cold. for the first time in a while, you weren’t sure if you were awake or dreaming. after you hang up the call with your father, your body floated through your night routine of existing while your mind kept slipping out of your grip. everything tasted like metal. your skin was clammy, your head hot, but your fingers ice-cold.

you fell asleep that night without meaning to, face buried into your pillow, phone buzzing somewhere under the blanket. and for the first time, the dream didn’t take place in the greenhouse.

this time, you were at a bar.

warm lights buzzed overhead, golden and slow, like honey. niki sat across from you in a booth too plush to be real, his hands wrapped around a glass filled with something electric blue. you were laughing—no clue why—but the kind of laughing that made your ribs ache, cheeks flushed. he was grinning, head tilted, like this was a game he knew how to play.

and then it changed.

like someone had ripped the film reel and taped another piece of movie over it.

the lights dimmed. the music stopped. everything blurred. your breath came out visible, like fog. and niki looked at you without smiling this time. not cruelly. not kindly. just looking.

"he didn’t mean to scare you, you know." his voice was so thick it made your insides tremble.

you blinked. "what?"

"you’re not supposed to feel it this strong."

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. the booth dissolved around you. the lights disappeared. and then you were falling, stomach-lurching, skin searing.

you woke up with your hand clenched in your sheets and the inside of your mouth tasting like copper. your body was soaked in sweat. the window was fogged over. your throat felt raw. every muscle in your body ached like you had been sprinting in your sleep.

by the time you sat up, your phone said it was 6:02 a.m.

you didn’t think. didn’t even wash your face. you just threw on your thickest hoodie, dragged yourself into your boots, and called a cab. you needed a hospital. something was wrong. your body had been telling you for weeks. you were just finally ready to listen.

you grabbed your keys off the kitchen counter with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. not dramatically — just this quiet, persistent tremor, like your body was trying to ring some kind of alarm your brain still hadn’t heard.

your hoodie felt too hot and not warm enough at the same time, clinging to the sweat still clinging to your skin. your breath fogged the front door glass. you ignored the mirror by the entrance completely. you already knew you looked like shit.

stepping out into the hallway was like stepping underwater. the building was so quiet it felt wrong — not peaceful, but hollow, like it had been emptied out moments before you arrived.

your boots were too loud against the marble, each step echoing in a way that made your stomach twist. and then you pressed the button for the elevator.

you pressed the button. the elevator arrived.

and that’s when you saw him. a someone you have never seen properly.

red hair. tall. face like someone who didn’t try to look good, just was. hands in his pockets. bored expression. headphones around his neck, not on. you blinked, confused for half a second — and then your brain clicked into place. heeseung. that’s what niki had said. the quiet one. the scary one. the one that belonged to your hot set of neighbors that had disappeared for two whole weeks.

you’d never actually spoken to him. hell, you’d never even seen him this close before. just glimpses inside their apartment once, whispers in passing. but now, at 6:13 a.m., in your half-dead state, he was standing in the elevator like some glitch in your morning programming.

heeseung didn’t look at you at first. just shifted slightly, like he wasn’t expecting company. and then — his nose twitched.

subtle. sharp. 

just like niki had done that night after the incident.

and then he turned. slowly. deliberately. his eyes scanned your face, dropped to your hands, then back up again — like he was taking inventory. like you were… something.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t smile. but he definitely noticed you.

you stepped inside anyway. because you had to. because your chest felt too tight and your throat burned and if you didn’t sit down in a sterile waiting room within the hour you were pretty sure your organs would give out.

heeseung moved slightly to the side, still watching you out of the corner of his eye. the doors closed. the elevator began to descend.

you focused on the panel, the numbers lighting up one by one. he didn’t speak. didn’t clear his throat. didn’t reach for his headphones. he just… stood there. completely still.

you were too exhausted to care. too sick to feel awkward. too scared to ask why, when his nose twitched again, his throat visibly tightened — like he was resisting the same instinct you’d seen flood sunghoon’s eyes on that rooftop.

the elevator dinged softly as it reached the lobby, the sound barely registering through the static in your skull. your limbs moved before your mind could catch up — muscle memory, maybe. or sheer desperation. you stepped out, blinking under the fluorescent lights, the air colder here, sharper, like it hadn’t been used all night.

heeseung didn’t follow immediately. you paused, slow, turning your head slightly, just enough to see him still inside the elevator, standing exactly where he’d been the entire ride down. his gaze flicked toward you. brief. unreadable.

and then he turned — not toward the glass exit like you had, but deeper into the building. no words. no goodbye. just a quiet pivot on his heel and footsteps swallowed by the corridor tiles. gone. like he hadn’t just stared at you like you were something he almost recognized.

you stood there for a moment, dazed. the outside world waited on the other side of the sliding doors, all grey sky and early winter air, your breath already fogging against the glass. you were still half-drenched in cold sweat, your hoodie clinging to your spine, fingers twitching with leftover dream static.

then, as if on cue, headlights flashed against the curb. your cab.

you pushed through the doors. the cold hit you instantly — fresh and cutting, but grounding. you stumbled more than stepped toward the car, collapsing into the backseat with all the grace of a wet noodle.

you didn’t look back. not at the building. not at the glass doors. not at the place where heeseung had disappeared.

you just pulled the door closed, gave the driver the hospital name, and leaned your head against the window.

whatever was happening to your body — whatever strange, slow collapse you were crawling through — you were done ignoring it.

—— 

the ride to the hospital was slow. slower than it should’ve been for a six a.m. trip with no traffic, but maybe that was just your body dragging time behind it.

every turn of the cab made your stomach lurch, your pulse throb at the base of your skull like a broken metronome. you curled tighter into your hoodie, eyes half-shut, watching the city yawn awake through the fogged window.

streetlights flickered out. bakeries opened metal shutters. someone walked their tiny dog in a matching jacket. the world was still spinning, business as usual — but your body hadn’t gotten the memo.

hospitals were never your favorite place. you’d spent too many late afternoons in one, slumped beside your dad while he slept through chemo, trying to balance a school textbook on your knees and pretend you weren’t thirteen and terrified.

back then, hospitals smelled like antiseptic and fear. now, they smelled like routine and something sour rising in your throat.

the emergency wing was mostly empty when you stumbled in, barely able to speak past the burn in your chest.

they made you sit. take a number. the nurse who called you in was young, her ponytail too tight and her smile too professional to be comforting. she took your temperature, your blood pressure, asked how long you’d been feeling this way — and your answers were all a blur of shrugs and mumbles.

she furrowed her brow. called in someone else. another nurse. a maybe-doctor. you were poked, prodded, and ultimately left with a note scrawled on hospital paper and a prescription for the most generic painkillers known to man.

nothing definitive. no test results. no dramatic diagnoses. just vague nods and “it’s probably viral” and “get some rest.”

you’d nearly laughed in their faces. but your lungs hurt too much.

you’d barely made it down the hallway before your phone slipped out of your fingers twice while trying to open the ride app. the nurse at reception gave you a pamphlet about hydration and a smile like she thought you were dramatic, and maybe you were — you were twenty-three, chronically underslept and iron-deficient.

of course you were dramatic. but you were also right. something was wrong. they just didn’t have the equipment to name it.

the cab smelled like mint gum and cigarettes, and the driver didn’t ask questions, which was kind of perfect. you stared out the window the whole ride back, watching the city flicker past in washed-out gray. your throat burned, and your stomach rolled, and there was only one place your body wanted to collapse.

and then, finally, the seonghyeon jaega building came into view — dark, looming, stupidly expensive. familiar. you tipped the driver more than you should’ve and slid out without a word.

you stumbled into the lobby like a cartoon ghost, hoodie strings dangling, hospital paper crumpled in one hand. this time, the doorman was there — the one with the dead fish eyes and the ridiculous thermos with a cartoon shark on it, hyunwoo, you think.

he looked up from his crossword and smiled politely.

“good morning, miss.”

you nodded, tried for a smile, something automatic. it barely stretched across your face. “morning.”

he didn’t press. just nodded back, went back to his puzzle like you weren’t the walking dead in fuzzy socks.

your chest was still tight by the time the elevator closed behind you. your fingers fumbled the painkillers into your mouth like muscle memory. water, swallow, sigh.

the elevator doors closed with that same slow, deliberate finality they always had, like the building itself was chewing you up and giving you a moment to realize it. you leaned your back against the mirrored wall, the cold glass seeping through the cheap fabric of your oversized hoodie. underneath, you were still wearing the thermal pajamas you’d left the house in — flannel with little blue bears on them. cute, in theory. tragic, in the fluorescence of an elevator that smelled like metal and lemon cleaner.

the temperature was impossible to pin down. too warm around your neck, but your fingers felt icy. your breathing grew shallow — not panicked, exactly, just... off. like your lungs were trying to inflate through a coffee straw. your legs ached, your spine was stiff, and your vision flickered at the edges like a dying film reel.

and then there was the music.

soft, aimless, infuriatingly cheerful — some instrumental jazz cover of a pop song you couldn’t name. it filled the silence like a joke you weren’t in on.

your head tilted back. your eyes slipped closed just for a second.

your knees wobbled.

you didn’t even notice the bell ding — didn’t realize the elevator had reached your floor until the doors sighed open, cool air brushing against your clammy face. you blinked once. twice. the hallway felt darker than usual. not unlit — just dim in that way that made shadows stretch longer. 

and that’s when you heard it.

music. faint, pulsing through the air — not elevator music, but actual music. bass, low and smooth, like a party was happening behind closed doors.

your neighbors. their apartment. the one that had been silent for two full weeks. you hadn’t seen any of them. not even a sliver of a shadow beneath their door. but now, someone was definitely inside.

you stood frozen, one hand halfway inside your hoodie pocket, searching for your keys. the motion felt foreign now, like your limbs belonged to someone else. you looked down — or tried to — but the world tilted slightly, just enough to make your breath catch.

your fingers felt too thick, your palms too sweaty. and your vision… it was wrong. blurry in the center, like someone had smeared vaseline over your pupils.

it hit you, then — the vertigo, sudden and sharp. like your body had lost the plot entirely, like it was trying to reject gravity itself.

your knees buckled, and you had to lock them to stay upright. the hallway stretched before you, distorted and too quiet. like it was holding its breath.

you tried to laugh. just a small, sarcastic breath. but it came out wrong.

if this was how it ended, death in fuzzy socks and blue bear pajamas, you hoped the morgue at least had the decency to change your clothes.

your hand was still braced against the wall when your vision gave out for real.

it started at the edges — a gray blur creeping inward, slow and soft like fog rolling off the ocean. and then came the ringing. a high, steady whine that drowned out everything else.

you blinked hard, tried to shake it off, maybe whisper a curse to yourself just to prove you were still awake, still standing, still you. but your tongue felt too heavy in your mouth. your body didn’t move. it just paused — like a system crash in real time.

you took one step.

the floor shifted beneath you, or maybe it was the hallway that leaned — you couldn’t tell. all you knew was that the walls started breathing. that was the only way you could explain it.

the plaster pulsed like lungs. the light above you buzzed louder. the key in your hand slipped again, bounced once on the tile with a sound that echoed way too loud for something so small.

you tried to grab it.

you didn’t make it.

your knees folded first — no drama, no warning. just gone. the weight of your body hit the floor with a dull thud. your cheek pressed against the cold tile.

it felt good, almost. like sinking into something solid after floating too long. your ribs ached from the fall, or maybe they’d been aching for days and this was just the last straw.

you saw the elevator doors closing in your peripheral. heard the soft whirr of them sealing shut. somewhere behind your eyes, the pressure built. like something ancient and wrong was trying to crawl out.

and then darkness. not unconsciousness, not yet — just a deepening shade. like the hallway was dimming just for you.

then came the black. final and quiet.

you didn’t hear the door open across the hall. you didn’t see the figure step into the light. you didn’t know someone had been watching.

——

you came to like a body surfacing from black water — slowly, painfully, limbs cold and heavy, breath dragging itself in ragged pieces through your nose. your eyelids were leaden. every blink took effort.

the world behind them was gray, not quite dark, not quite light, just there, suspended and quiet like someone had pressed pause on the air itself.

your head ached. not the sharp pain of migraines, but the dull, submerged throb of something deeper, more systemic. like your blood was moving wrong inside you. like your insides had been shuffled, then stitched back together under anesthesia.

but you weren’t numb. no — there was sensation. your skin felt… balsamic. cooled over. like someone had run ice across your arms hours ago and it still hadn’t melted.

the air in your lungs was stale, metallic. your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

you didn’t open your eyes at first. couldn’t. the weight of your body was too much. even the pulse behind your knees hurt. even your fingertips tingled with the kind of exhaustion that belonged to the sick — not the tired. the sick.

you didn’t remember falling asleep.

you didn’t remember making it back to your apartment.

hell, you didn’t remember getting off the elevator.

eventually, after a few minutes — maybe longer — you managed to open your eyes halfway. the ceiling was the first thing you noticed: tall, shadowed, vaguely ornate in the dark, like you were looking at it underwater. not your ceiling. not your room.

your pulse spiked. something primal stirred in your ribs. you shifted, just slightly, and the sheets under your skin told you everything — they were too soft. too expensive. too not-yours. you registered the faint smell of something woodsy and warm — bergamot, maybe. something layered, complicated. familiar.

but the rest of the room came in pieces. the walls, dark and blurred. curtains, still drawn. a dresser with gold accents, a lamp too dim to see the switch. shadows shifted in the corner.

and that’s when it hit you.

you weren’t at home. not yours, at least.

you swallowed, throat raw. you tried to shift your head, to look, but even turning your neck felt like moving through water. 

the room swam as you turned, your eyes dragging across the edges of expensive shadow — velvet curtains pulled halfway closed, light bleeding through in soft golds and sickly grays.

the bed beneath you was too soft, the sheets too smooth, like they belonged in a hotel room or a catalog, not your life. you weren’t used to this kind of comfort. and now, it felt wrong.

you blinked hard, vision blurring again, and finally the rest of the room began to settle into focus. a dresser — vintage. gold-framed mirror with a crack near the corner. a collection of books lined up too neatly. and coats. coats you didn’t recognize, thrown carelessly on a chair too clean to be real.

and then — the unmistakable curve of a shoulder. the long shadow of someone standing still.

you froze. someone was there. no.

not someone. multiple someones.

you couldn’t move your neck fast enough to catch all of them at once, but you didn’t need to. the room felt occupied. the atmosphere itself buzzed with quiet attention, like your awakening had flipped a switch you couldn’t see.

your vision tilted sideways and that’s when you caught it: a tall figure near the corner. motionless. arms crossed. sharp silhouette, too familiar.

niki.

your chest pulled tight. not with relief — not exactly. something in your body recoiled before your brain could make sense of it, like it hadn’t decided yet if his presence meant safety or danger.

you blinked once. twice. tried to clear your sight, tried to will away the syrupy haze still coating your lashes. but the outline remained. long limbs. black clothes. the way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, lazy, like standing upright was an inconvenience.

you should’ve felt comforted. he was the only face you recognized here. but instead, your muscles locked into something colder.

slowly, pieces started dropping into place, memories unrolling in the back of your skull like loose film: the elevator buttons glowing too slow. the air going stale. your ears ringing. fumbling for your keys. the elevator music mocking you with that stupid, upbeat jazz. your knees giving out. music from a nearby apartment — one you hadn’t heard life from in two full weeks — and then nothing.

darkness.

and now — this.

you shifted your eyes again, dragging your vision past the edge of the dresser, and there it was. someone else. younger, maybe. shorter than niki but not smaller — no, the space around him shrunk. like he was pulling it into himself.

he stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him, hair parted too neatly, posture too perfect. he wasn’t looking at you. but your chest still caved a little the moment your gaze landed on him.

you didn’t know his name. hadn’t seen him around. but you had seen him once — blurred through the peephole on your first day here, flanked by the same crowd of sharp-dressed men. mafia, your brain had offered. or something worse.

he looked like he could kill someone with a sentence. and that if he did, he’d do it with impeccable grammar.

and then — the final one.

your eyes caught movement near the door. not coming in, not leaving — just standing there. someone with their back to you, broad shoulders squared, head tilted like they were listening to something you couldn’t hear.

his coat was expensive. dark. layered like he’d been pulled from a noir film and dropped straight into your fever dream. even from behind, you recognized him.

you didn’t know how. maybe the shape of him was burned into your brain now, maybe your blood had started mapping itself around the sound of his voice. but it was sunghoon. you knew it as sure as you knew your own name.

and despite every reason your brain tried to throw at you — the rooftop, the eyes, the way he looked at you like he was starving — your body… relaxed.

just a little.

and that scared you the most.

the realization landed with a thud — no drama, no crescendo. just a slow, icy spread of fuck.

your body recoiled, bones stiffening like it was trying to protect something inside of you that had already been exposed. because this was real. he was real. sunghoon. standing right there.

and that fact alone made everything else around you sharpen into clarity.

you had passed out. not inside your apartment, not in bed, not even in the privacy of your own little rented anonymity. no. you had passed out in the hallway. on a tuesday morning. in winter. wearing your dumbest socks and your oldest hoodie and whatever pride you had left.

and now you were here — not in a hospital, not even with a nurse — but in their apartment. his apartment. the place you’d only ever imagined from the other side of your thin wall. and you were being watched. by too many people. too many eyes.

but the worst part?

you still felt sick.

not flu sick. not tired or hungover or “i skipped breakfast” sick.

this was something else.

this was nausea curled around your spine like a snake. this was your blood running too fast, then too slow, like it couldn’t decide who it belonged to. your skin didn’t fit right. your limbs felt like borrowed furniture. and deep inside — somewhere between your lungs and your stomach — something was pulsing. thrumming.

you didn’t know what was happening to you.

but you knew it wasn’t natural. and it sure as hell wasn’t over.

your fingers twitched first.

just barely. just enough to make the blanket shift near your hip — a slow, traitorous movement that betrayed your consciousness before your eyes could.

you tried to stay still. to keep your breath shallow, chest frozen mid-rise. but your body had other plans. and the moment you shifted your hand again — not on purpose, just from the static ache of your joints — the air in the room changed.

you didn’t see them react at first. you felt it.

like the drop in pressure before a thunderstorm.

then a rustle. fabric brushing against leather. the creak of wood beneath shifting weight. soft, purposeful movements, like they were trying not to scare you. or maybe trying not to startle each other.

“she’s awake,” someone said, voice low. careful. male.

you didn’t know who it was — not yet — but it pulled your eyes open like a string had been yanked from behind them.

the blur cleared slowly, and then you saw it: niki had moved closer. crouched near the bed now, his usual smirk absent, replaced by something you didn’t recognize — not quite concern. not quite guilt. just… watching.

behind him stood the other man — shorter, more compact, but no less imposing. he looked at you like you were a puzzle he didn’t mind breaking apart to solve.

niki’s eyes didn’t leave your face, and for a moment, you could almost pretend this was a dream again. that none of this was real.

but the ache in your limbs, the heat still trapped under your skin, the taste of metal on your tongue — it all said otherwise.

niki looked at you with something that hovered between pity and worry — unfamiliar emotions when filtered through his usually unreadable face.

for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

“you’re stabilizing faster than i thought.” it’s the first thing he says, slicing clean through the quiet and making your ears ring. the words hit you wrong — not just because of what they meant, but how they sounded. too casual. too clinical. like this was normal. like you were normal.

your face twisted on instinct, some pained reaction caught between confusion and disgust. your lips curled back, eyebrows pinched. it wasn’t even what he said — it was how he said it.

“jesus,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your temple, “did you always sound this annoying or is that a new post-trauma tone?”

niki didn’t laugh. just tilted his head slightly, like your bite had confirmed something for him. like he’d expected the fight. like he preferred it.

your voice sounded terrible — like gravel soaked in fire, your vocal cords rasping out their protest with the elegance of a dying cat.

the boy behind niki — the terrifying one with that calm, unreadable face — took a step back as soon as you spoke. not dramatically. not even with alarm. just a slow, calculated shift in weight, like the sound of your voice had confirmed something for him. like he hadn’t been expecting you to sound that wrecked.

your eyes cut to him instinctively, and for a second, all you could register was that air around him felt different — sharp, quiet, waiting.

what really made you feel awful — worse than the nausea, the fever dreams, the throat that burned like you’d swallowed sandpaper — was that sunghoon still hadn’t turned around.

he was right there. you knew that it was him, your brain was certain of it.

tall, straight-backed, motionless. staring at the door like it was going to solve all his problems if he just glared hard enough. you didn’t know what exactly you expected from him — maybe an apology, a grimace, a nod of acknowledgment — but definitely not this. not silence. not cold shoulders when your blood was still boiling in your veins like it was trying to cook you from the inside out.

how dare he not stare at you like his other two friends were doing right now. how dare he not even glance at you now that you were awake.

you hated that you were hyper-aware of his silhouette. that you recognized the slope of his shoulders already. that, even without looking at his face, you could tell he was tense. worse than that, you hated that the tension didn’t feel rooted in indifference. it felt rooted in guilt.

or shame.

was he fucking embarrassed?

good. he should be. he should be mortified, actually. you blamed all of this on him. every fever spike. every migraine. every dream that left your sheets soaked (not in a good way) and your body aching in ways no human sickness had ever managed.

you blamed it on the way he had looked at you that night. like he was starving. like you weren’t real. like you were his.

you shifted slightly under the covers, the motion sending another wave of heat curling behind your eyes. your voice was wrecked, your body was failing, and your patience was hanging by a thread made of spite and caffeine withdrawal.

and then, through cracked lips and clenched teeth, you rasped:

“do you plan on facing me anytime soon, or should i just keel over again while you brood in a corner?”

niki and jungwon glanced at you, then back to sunghoon — the silence dragging, thick and charged. they weren’t saying anything, but the exchange between the three of them was unmistakable.

it felt like waiting for a bomb to go off. or a verdict to drop. you didn’t like it. didn’t like being the center of some unspoken tension you didn’t understand, didn’t cause, didn’t even want to be a part of.

you felt the tension, too. but not the romantic kind, not the kind that sizzled in books or made girls blush in school hallways. no, this was the kind that crawled under your skin and nested there. this was physical. literal.

your body had latched onto sunghoon like a tuning fork the second your eyes opened in this weird room, and his silence was making it worse — like your cells were offended.

like something primal inside you was throwing a tantrum, demanding acknowledgment. and the longer he stood with his back to you, the more your nerves twisted.

you were sick. god, you were sick. not just flu-sick or stress-sick — something else. something worse. it was spreading now, minute by minute, like acknowledging sunghoon in the same room was gasoline thrown on a fire you’d been trying to smother.

your head pounded, your stomach twisted, your limbs buzzed like your blood had turned carbonated. this wasn’t anxiety. it wasn’t psychosomatic. it felt like your entire body was trying to make you get his attention — or punish you until you did.

and honestly? this was embarrassing. not just uncomfortable or inconvenient — embarrassing. your brain was offended by the sheer audacity of your own body, reacting like this on a tuesday morning, no less.

like what, did your bloodstream forget the concept of normalcy? you were sweating through your clothes, your eyes were stinging, your limbs were shaking, and sunghoon — the root of all this insanity — hadn’t even looked at you.

what the fuck was your problem?

you didn’t know. you couldn’t name it. you just felt it — wrong, off, tilted. like the world had taken a sharp left and forgot to tell you.

you shifted again, groaning under your breath. you hated that you were still wearing your ridiculous blue pajamas under your outer clothes, soaked through with sweat despite the sub-zero weather. your skin felt clammy, your hands trembling against the silky throw blanket that wasn’t yours.

you hated that your mind was starting to spiral — that part of you was honestly considering the possibility that you were going insane.

or maybe… maybe not insane.

maybe they were exactly what they looked like.

sunghoon. niki. the terrifying man with the unreadable stare. even the one with the red hair and sharp profile you saw earlier in the elevator. they didn’t move like regular people. didn’t talk like regular people. and you’d read enough books — watched enough late-night documentaries with your dad — to know that this wasn’t just exhaustion anymore.

it felt like you were part of something unnatural.

and god, the thought of even entertaining this? it was ridiculous. not in the cute, ironic way where you half-believe your horoscope and laugh about mercury being in retrograde — no. this was full-blown absurdity. the kind of absurdity that scraped the edges of delusion.

believing in vampires wasn’t the problem. of course they existed. humanity had shared space with another species for centuries. that wasn’t up for debate. they were in the history books, the legal records, the school curriculum.

you had taken a literal midterm in middle school about post-war vampire rights. designer blood banks. the civil coexistence acts of the 1950s. it wasn’t a mystery. it just wasn’t relevant anymore — at least not to you. not in your life.

but this? the idea that they were here — your neighbors? that one of them — maybe more than one — had looked at you and decided something behind those sharp eyes? that one of them could’ve… claimed your attention? affected your body in a way you didn’t even understand?

no. absolutely not. you weren’t that girl. you refused to be that girl.

you didn’t realize you were breathing hard until the unnamed one — the quiet one with the suffocating presence — finally spoke.

“she’s peaking again.”

his voice wasn’t loud. but it was clear. measured. like he was stating a fact about the weather, or about war.

you blinked. tried to sit up again — a stupid, impulsive act, born not of logic but of panic. the kind that crawled up your spine when the world felt too heavy, too strange, too wrong. you wanted to ask what he meant by that, what was his name, but you felt panic instead.

the blanket covering you was soft, maybe even expensive, but it felt like lead pressing your bones into the mattress. too thick, too warm, too intentional.

you clawed at it, fingers shaking, limbs weak and disobedient. your shoulder burned with the effort of moving half an inch, and the moment you tried to raise your head, the blood in your skull surged like a wave crashing against a too-small shore.

and then, finally, he moved.

not much — not dramatically — but enough for every cell in your body to register the shift. a shoulder rolled back, barely. a hand unclenched at his side. his head tilted, slowly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

and then, almost reluctantly, like it cost him something, sunghoon turned.

his body twisted first, then his face, the shadows catching on the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his neck.

his hair looked darker in here, like ink had soaked through the strands, and it framed his face in a way that made your stomach twist. but it wasn’t the usual twist. not awe. not that stupid crush-thrill that had haunted your bloodstream weeks ago.

this was something else.

his eyes found yours — and stayed there.

and god, he looked tired.

not in the human way. not sleep-deprived or hungover. but hollowed-out. like someone had reached into his chest and scooped something vital out and left him barely functioning.

his cheekbones were sharper, his skin too pale under the warm light. he wasn’t perfect anymore. not in the haunting, statuesque way you remembered from the rooftop. now he looked… worn. real. something tugged at the corner of his mouth, not quite a frown. not quite anything.

and then it happened. the second his eyes fully met yours — that aching, gnawing illness that had been feasting on your nerves for two weeks cracked. like glass under heat.

your breath hitched. your ears popped. you blinked, and suddenly you could breathe.

the pain that had curled up beneath your ribs for days loosened, just like that. the weight behind your eyes lifted. your limbs still ached, yes, but something shifted — unmistakably — in your bloodstream. like your cells remembered how to work again. like they’d been waiting for him.

you stared, open-mouthed. because what the fuck.

you tried moving your toes — and felt all of them. you blinked once. twice. your vision wasn’t swimming anymore. the walls stopped melting at the edges. when you sat up, the room didn’t tilt sideways. your head didn’t lurch. your chest didn’t pull tight. nothing throbbed. nothing screamed.

you stared at your hands like you’d never seen them before, like they belonged to someone else. you flexed your fingers. no tremble. no twitch.

what the actual hell.

you ran a quick mental diagnostic, the kind your body had trained you into these past two weeks. 

legs? check. 

feet? check. 

shoulders? solid. 

ears? blessedly unclogged. 

your stomach growled, sharp and dramatic, like it was protesting the way you’d ignored it for days. you touched your forehead, your neck. no fever. no chills. just warm. human. whole.

you were sitting up. fully. like a normal person. and it was terrifying.

because, what in the vampire diaries was this? you weren’t stupid. people didn’t just collapse in a hallway at 7 a.m. and wake up completely cured in a stranger’s guest bed with three unsettlingly hot men watching from the corners of the room like this was twilight fanfiction on crack.

you were hungry. you were confused. and you were so fucking exhausted. because even if your body had stopped screaming, your brain hadn’t caught up. and the worst part? sunghoon was still staring. 

and your heart was still doing that thing — that pulling thing — like it wanted to beat in time with his.

he didn’t say anything at first — none of them did. they just stood there, still and watching, like they were marveling at something sacred. like your ability to sit up without grimacing was some impossible phenomenon they hadn’t planned for. 

and yes, you felt like a miracle too. a tiny one. a quiet one, sitting in borrowed sweatpants and last night’s hoodie, in a room that didn’t belong to you. but now wasn’t the time to feel flattered.

not when three strangers — supernatural or not — were staring like you’d just pulled a sword out of stone.

you cleared your throat. it was the only sound in the room. your stomach growled again, louder this time, and you winced. no one laughed.

finally — finally — sunghoon moved.

his shoulders rose with a quiet inhale, and then dropped again like it physically cost him something. he didn’t step forward. didn’t close the gap between you. he just turned his head slightly, enough to look at you fully now, no barriers.

his eyes were darker than you remembered — not just in color, but in weight. like he hadn’t slept since the last time you saw him. like whatever edge had once made him look untouchable had dulled into something heavier. human, almost. except not. never.

his voice, when it came, was low. steady. practiced. but you could hear it — that thread of something cracked beneath the surface. not regret. not guilt. something older. 

“you weren’t supposed to feel it this strongly.” and just like that, your pulse dropped into your stomach. 

because what the fuck was that supposed to mean?

you blinked. once. twice. your body had just gone from full-system meltdown to sudden clarity in the span of — what? ten seconds? the math didn’t add up. the science didn’t add up.

and now you had a boy — no, a man, a something — standing in front of you, speaking like this was all part of a manual. a protocol.

“excuse me?” you rasped, voice still barely more than sandpaper dragged across metal. your chest felt tight again, but this time from sheer indignation. “what do you mean feel it? feel what?”

sunghoon didn’t answer right away. behind him, niki let out a breath — not a sigh, more like a slow exhale that made you want to throw a pillow at someone.

the other one — terrifying, well-dressed, probably-did-taxes-at-5-a.m. mafia looking guy — finally stepped forward like he was about to explain something official, something devastating.

but all you could focus on was the way sunghoon’s jaw clenched. how he didn’t look away. how he looked like he hated that you were asking. 

and suddenly, you were fuming. not the dramatic, cinematic kind of anger that makes you throw vases and scream into the rain. no. this was worse. it was the kind of white-hot rage that made your hands go cold and your thoughts get sharp. the kind that brewed in the back of your skull like static.

because what the actual kind of fucking sorcery was this? 

you had just woken up in a stranger’s — correction, a vampire’s — bedroom, after two weeks of progressively dying in slow motion, only to be cured by a pair of stupidly symmetrical cheekbones and a statement that sounded like a deleted scene from twilight: the bureaucratic cut.

you flung the covers off with all the rage of a disney villain in her final act. “okay,” you started, voice still wrecked but gaining steam, “somebody’s going to tell me what the hell is going on. and i swear, if the word stabilizing gets thrown around again, i’m going to stab someone with your vintage coat hanger.”

niki winced. the mafia guy blinked like he wasn’t used to being threatened before breakfast. and sunghoon — oh, sunghoon — had the audacity to look guilty.

“no one thought to leave a note?” you spat, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “a sticky note? a voice memo? a ‘hey, just for your information, you’re about to experience soul-level cardiac arrest, but don’t worry, it’s a normal thing?’”

“we didn’t think you’d feel it this strong,” niki tried again, cautiously.

you narrowed your eyes. “you already said that. say something new or i swear i’ll start singing gospel.”

sunghoon finally looked like he might actually say something, but you were already on a roll. 

“do you people just hang out in designer clothes waiting for humans to drop dead in your hallways? is that your little fun pastime? is that why the gym’s always empty now, niki? were you all just sitting up here like, ‘oh, don’t worry, she’s just experiencing a little metaphysical collapse, she’ll be fine?’”

they all looked at you, quiet. not surprised — no, you weren’t lucky enough to have shocked them — but almost… contemplative.

you stood up, or tried to. your knees buckled slightly, but you powered through, fueled by indignation and a decade’s worth of unresolved parental issues. “i want answers,” you snapped. “and water. probably water first. but then answers.”

sunghoon finally, finally, moved toward you. slow. cautious. like you were a scared animal. or a bomb. (which, okay, fair.)

his voice was robotic, weird when he spoke. “you weren’t supposed to react like this.”

you tilted your head, deadpan. “oh, wow, thank you so much for that astounding medical diagnosis. i’ll be sure to write that down in my death journal.”

sunghoon’s jaw ticked, he seemed in pain. “it means we need to explain. all of it.”

sunghoon sat down.

that, in itself, felt like a betrayal. for a full minute, none of them had moved — like you were something volatile, like one wrong breath might set you off again. but then he finally took a breath and lowered himself into the chair across from you.

it was the way he moved that made your throat clench — careful, controlled, like sitting too fast might shake the ground beneath you.

his expression was unreadable, jaw tight, shoulders squared like this was an interrogation and not a conversation. and then he spoke.

“you’re not dying,” he said first. like he needed that part on record.

you raised an eyebrow. “thanks, doctor. next diagnosis?”

niki let out a quiet snort from where he leaned against the wall, arms folded, one boot tapping lightly against the floor. sunghoon ignored you both.

again, he seemed... weird. robotic.

“what’s happening to you,” he continued, voice low, measured, almost too calm, “is rare. it’s not supposed to happen anymore.”

you blinked. slowly. your brain took the words in like they were pieces from different puzzles. “you mean… like a sickness?”

“not a sickness,” sunghoon said. “more like… a reaction.”

he paused then. visibly debated what to say next. that’s when the third one — the one you now associated with do-not-fuck-around energy — stepped forward. the shorter guy. black coat, buzzed undercut, broad shoulders.

there was a tattoo creeping out from his collarbone, just a sliver of black ink crawling up his neck. when he finally spoke, it was without inflection.

“she doesn’t need the full story yet.”

sunghoon didn’t even look at him. “she deserves to know what’s happening to her.”

niki raised an eyebrow at that, but didn’t speak. instead, you locked eyes with sunghoon again and asked, “what kind of reaction?”

he exhaled. “soulmate.”

you laughed. out loud. an ugly, sputtering noise. “are you fucking serious?”

niki grinned. “oh no, she’s reacting like a normal person. i like her.”

sunghoon’s mouth twitched. not a smile. maybe pain. maybe something else.

“it’s not common,” he said, softer now. “not anymore. vampires used to… imprint. or whatever you want to call it. we’d form bonds. it was mutual. chemical. metaphysical. the human would feel it. the vampire would feel it. but it hasn’t happened in decades. not since the accords. not since—”

“humans stopped mingling with your kind?” you asked.

“not since both sides decided it was too dangerous.”

that made you pause. your throat was still dry. your hands clenched the blanket around your waist like it might anchor you back into reality. “dangerous how?”

“for you,” the shorter dude said this time. his voice was razor clean. “not for us.”

niki sighed. “it’s like a hormone overdose. a body-wide meltdown. like your system’s trying to recalibrate to match something it doesn’t understand.”

you scoffed. “and the something is you?”

sunghoon didn’t answer. but his silence did.

and that’s when something inside you shifted. clicked. because even if this sounded like delusional bullshit, your body was nodding along. it made too much sense. the fever. the dreams. the sudden gravitational pull toward a man you’d barely spoken to. the way your pain had vanished the second he’d looked at you.

“so let me guess,” you said slowly, “i’m your little imprint? your cosmic girlfriend? lucky me.”

sunghoon flinched. just slightly. “it doesn’t work like that.”

“doesn’t it?” you asked, voice rising.

and then — the twist.

“you’re not the only one who got sick,” the scary dude said. calm. final.

the room stilled. niki looked up. sunghoon closed his eyes. your breath caught.

“…what?”

“sunghoon’s been sick too,” niki offered, quieter than usual. “not the same way. but bad enough we had to cancel everything. bad enough he couldn’t feed. bad enough he barely stood up until yesterday.”

your mouth went dry. “what does that mean?” you asked, but your voice sounded distant even to yourself — like it had been dragged through water, then filtered through static.

was it too much to know? absolutely not. not for your overactive brain that consumed conspiracy podcasts like candy. but feeling it — sitting here, blanket bunched around your waist like armor, stomach churning, heartbeat crawling under your skin like something foreign — that was the hard part.

this didn’t feel like a reveal. it felt like a slow, rotting realization you hadn’t asked for.

you swallowed, throat raw. maybe it would be better if you passed out again. at least then, you wouldn’t have to process the idea that one of your neighbors — a hot, emotionally unavailable, glacial-faced vampire, apparently — had also been in a near-comatose state because of you.

great. incredible. what a legacy.

soulmate? imprint? some long-lost paranormal bond that now had you sharing symptoms like some twisted long-distance couple flu? no, thank you. return to sender.

you opened your mouth to say something clever — something biting and cruel and devastating — but nothing came. your lips parted and then closed again, your body betraying you in the worst of ways.

your eyes flicked back to sunghoon.

his hands were clenched in his lap. his cheekbones were sharper than usual, like he’d lost weight. there was a vein visible beneath his jaw. and when he finally raised his head to meet your eyes again, the exhaustion behind them wasn’t just physical. it was soul-deep.

“you were the first human i’ve spoken to in years,” he said, voice barely above a breath.

that made your stomach turn.

niki shifted, almost like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

the mafia looking guy just crossed his arms tighter and stared, waiting — like this wasn’t new to him.

you blinked once. then again. your body still wasn’t reacting the way it should — no more pain, no more fever, no more frost behind your eyes. but your mind? your mind was racing.

“this is insane,” you muttered, because someone had to say it.

“agreed,” niki chirped. “but hey, at least you didn’t throw up. the last one did.”

“niki.”

“what? i’m comforting her.”

you didn’t laugh. couldn’t. your body was still deciding whether to fight or flee.

niki broke the silence first again after minutes of no one breathing. of course he did.

“well, the good news is you’re probably not gonna die,” he said, rocking back slightly on his heels where he’d crouched again beside your bed. “probably.”

you blinked at him slowly. deadpan. your expression alone could’ve been used to file a restraining order.

he raised both hands. “hey. optimism. it’s a dying art.”

from behind him, the man in the coat shifted for the first time. he didn’t look at you. didn’t even acknowledge niki’s running mouth. just turned his head toward sunghoon with an unreadable expression and said, voice like a closing door: 

“she needs rest.”

sunghoon didn’t argue. maybe he couldn’t. there was something off about him now that you were fully awake, fully conscious — something glassy in the way he held himself, like his body wasn’t all the way his.

the man placed a hand on his shoulder, and sunghoon moved. slow. obedient. not like himself.

you watched them go. watched their silhouettes shift through the doorway. neither of them looked back.

the moment the door shut, niki let out a long breath through his nose and flopped — not gracefully — into the armchair near the window. it creaked under his weight. he didn’t seem to care.

“so. fun fact,” he started, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “your new boyfriend? yeah, he’s been high for the past three days.”

you stared. “what?”

niki gestured vaguely, like that explained everything. “inhibitors. cocktail of them. pretty top-shelf stuff. he’s, like, five thousand newtons of vampire strength wrapped in a sculpted jawline, so—” he clicked his tongue, “—we kinda had to knock him out the hard way.”

you blinked. again. “we?”

niki looked pleased with himself. leaned in like he was about to share a bedtime secret.

“took all six of us. and i mean all of us. it was like trying to sedate a tank. even then, he almost won. but we found the right combo. he’s on it now. dulled his receptors, numbed his instincts.”

your stomach curled slightly. “why?”

niki’s smile dimmed. not gone — just quieter.

“because,” he said, “he would’ve come for you.”

you didn’t respond.

he leaned back again, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. his voice, when he spoke again, had that same dry humor, but underneath it — something else. something brittle.

“we had to leave,” he said, almost like a confession. “jungwon-hyung’s family has a camp house. middle of nowhere, no cell service, no risk of you running into him if he… broke through. that’s why the building was dead. we took him far. like, drive-five-hours-and-still-hear-his-teeth-clench far.”

you stared, unmoving. your hands were still clammy against the covers. your chest still felt like someone had scraped it hollow and filled it with something cold.

niki scratched his jaw. “it was either that or lock him in the basement. which, by the way, sunghoon would never let happen. pride and all. so, road trip it was.”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“don’t look at me like that,” he added, side-eyeing you. “it’s not like we knew this would happen. we don’t do this soulmate thing. not anymore. not since—” he paused, teeth clicking together. “never mind. point is: it’s rare. it’s old. and you? you weren’t supposed to feel it this strong.”

your breath hitched. that phrase again.

“but i did,” you muttered. “feel it.”

niki looked at you. quiet. unreadable for once.

then, almost gently: “yeah. you did and he did too.”

“i honestly thought this was bullshit,” niki went on, scratching behind his ear like he wasn’t casually upending your entire understanding of reality. “jake-hyung was the only one we knew who got tangled up with a human like that. we all thought it was a one-time glitch. but sunghoon? he was even worse. and i think it’s the age, you know? the older they are, the stronger the… pull.”

you didn’t move.

niki shrugged. “sunghoon-hyung is the most powerful among us. has been for a while. not that he brags about it or anything,” he added, eye-roll implied. “but this?” he gestured vaguely toward your body, the bed, the air. “this nearly broke him. we didn’t think—i mean. imprinting is beautiful, yeah, sure. sacred, whatever. but it’s a lot of fucking work. especially when it hits this hard.”

you still didn’t respond. your gaze had unfocused, lips parted slightly, shoulders slumped. and eventually, niki caught on.

“you okay?” he asked, voice gentler now, less performative.

you didn’t answer him. not right away.

because your thoughts had gone quiet. not blank — not numb — just… quiet. like the cold hush of a library, a cemetery, a paused dream. 

you were confused. obviously. angry, too — because what the fuck was imprinting and why the hell did it choose you, of all people? you were a mess. you were a scholarship kid with ramen-induced ulcers and mommy issues. not a mystical blood-linked soul beacon.

but still. somewhere beneath all that static, you felt it: a pinprick of something else. something smaller. softer. 

sunghoon had been sick. sick because of you. 

and not just sick, but fighting it. drugged. dragged across the country just to keep him from getting to you. you’d blamed him, cursed him in your head, built this whole miserable theory of him being cold and detached and cruel — but he’d been hurting, too. maybe even more than you.

niki watched you for a moment longer, like he was trying to figure out what version of you he was leaving behind. but he didn’t press. didn’t tease. didn’t smile.

“yeah,” he said, brushing invisible lint off his pants as he stood. “you should rest. the worst’s over. probably.”

you weren’t sure if that was meant to comfort you or just be vague on purpose, but you didn’t have the energy to dissect it.

he crossed the room with that same unhurried gait — loose-limbed, strangely quiet — and paused at the doorway. “someone’ll be around if you need anything,” he added, voice already softer, like he was already halfway out. “and if you wake up starving… don’t freak out. we left you snacks. normal ones.”

your lips twitched, almost a smile. “thanks.”

“don’t mention it,” he said, then looked at you over his shoulder, eyes gleaming under the low lighting. “really. don’t.”

the door clicked shut behind him with a softness you didn’t expect.

you lay there, for a long minute, staring at the ceiling. the silence in the room was different now — not heavy, not buzzing. just there. a presence instead of a pressure. you shifted under the covers, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, your limbs didn’t ache. your lungs didn’t pull tight. your stomach didn’t twist.

you closed your eyes, and your body let you.

this time, you didn’t dream of anything.

author's note: clap if you find respectful but feral sunghoon hot. yes, i will die on this hill. yes, our couple mught hate each other now but i swear they'll be all cute soon. thank you for reading! send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @ikeugirly @vixialuvs @hoonprksung @kyunlov @verialuv @sagegreenhairclip @gal821 @nekkodiaries @httpenhoon @questionsdearreader @mynameis-rosie1 @ninistranaut @staygenesblog @stercul1a

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Glue trap shenanigans

Written for @portraitofalinkonfyre because they're literally the largest four simp I know!

Synopsis: You find a trapped minish and decide to help them out. Unfortunately for you, that minish is very literally a man. Double unfortunately for you, that man is the hero. Triple unfortunately for you, you accidentally asked him on a date

The morning sun hadn’t fully yet melted the dew that accumulated atop grass tips; but still, you were angry. 

There wasn’t any light in the house, not even the dull ricochet from downstairs, and you knew immediately that the fire had been doused. The tips of your toes and the ends of your fingers were cold with the chill bite of autumn. A long sigh left your body, some will to rouse leaving with it as it became quickly apparent how the cold had seeped into your joints, stiffening them past their years and leaving you longing for just five more minutes. 

Your head spun as you sat up, reeling from the stress of going to the ever-hectic market yesterday and the business of the day still to come.

You quietly thanked Hylia, for at least you wouldn’t have to return to the market. It was nothing bad, not extensively, these were the same faces and same vendors you grew up with. But the loud chatter so early and the delay on the first batches’ bake times just makes the day feel so much longer. Not to mention just how fussy people get when they have to wait an extra hour for their bread. You love bread, you own a bakery, but you don’t get why they get so grouchy.

Days where you have to go to the market are their own special punishment— just for you. Your back always hurts twice as much and the time passes at half the pace. 

The beginning of your morning was mostly lacking in frustration, aside from the loop of your apron getting caught on the door handle and the floorboards being too cold as you sleepily stumbled around. You'd told Wren last night to keep the fire in the hearth lit, especially since you didn’t make enough money to afford one of those new steam heaters. But still, the fireplace was filled with only ash when you’d finally found some slippers and made your way downstairs.

Defeated, you pushed a few logs onto the iron rod supports, watching with quiet enamor as the fire ate away at the wood. A sharp wind shakes the windows in their panes, and you curse Wren for not following the instructions you laid out, inadvertently letting your house grow cold as dying as the trees. You took a moment to settle yourself when the doorbell rang. You could forgive Wren, and you most certainly would with time. She was just a child, hardly even 13. She really didn’t know better some of the time.

 The fool currently blabbing to you, however, was old enough to know better.

Well old enough to know better.

 Ammi wasn’t usually a horrible neighbour. In fact, you’d even bargain to say she was quite nice most of the time. She made you a tart when you moved in, bought your first ever loaf of bread, burnt as its’ heels were. She nodded and waved whenever she saw you in the streets or on your front porch, and all her house parties were quiet and ended at a reasonable hour; the adeius ending before the moon could settle its place in the sky.

But in this exact moment, you wanted nothing more than to grab her by her greys and chuck her into the street.

The prominent wrinkle between her brows settled deep as she looked over you, those warm eyes suddenly feeling lacking in welcome. Her hand grabbed your shoulder, an attempt as connection and sincere, all bony as they were.

“You’d better listen now, dear! I’ve seen so, so many of them these last few weeks.” Her voice was light– well intentioned, you’re sure. But still, you couldn’t trust yourself to force any words out, and she continued.

She liked to hear herself talk at times, but the company usually didn’t feel so intrusive. It was helpful on rainy days at the market or walking back from festivals at night, to have someone to carry the conversation. Especially given your lack of excitement when it comes to conversation. Unfortunately for you, it now meant being backed into a corner, figuratively and semi-literally.

Y’know, given slamming the door in her face wasn’t generally seen as a polite ending to a conversation. 

“All you’d have to do is add some of that molasses you got for makin’ those ginger-knights and a little bit of bakin’ soda, and you’ll have all those little buggers right caught” She smiled, her smoker’s lines leading to the thin, lacquered line of her lips. She preened for a moment, proud of her discovery as you stood baffled. 

“Din give me strength-“ You pinch at your furrowed brow as if it might help, “you’re trapping picori?” You finally trust yourself to ask after a cool breath dampens the fire that lived behind your ribs. You crossed your arms as best you can manage and leaned into your doorframe. At least it managed give you the support in the absolute dumbassery that was your neighbour’s reasoning.

“Oh please!” She bats a hand at you noncommittally, dismissing your worries as silly, and the action fans the dying embers to a healthy flame, “They’re rats! It’s not as if they have feelings. And anywho, we’d be doing them a favour from such a miserable life.” She pauses at the ringing of a bell, her fat cat rubbing at her ankles, begging for her undivided attention. Ammi bends down, struggling to pick up her chunky cat.

“Much better as snacks to Luci, huh?” Her voice defaults to that baby voice that everyone unanimously decided to be used on pets, nuzzling its little nose. The zapped wires of its whiskers wasn’t screaming ‘cute baby’ as much as it was screaming feral. Ammi turns her attention back to you, and she smiles as though you’d understand. As if you’d come around eventually. Your face scrunches in distaste at the woman in front of you, and her dreaded cat.

Sure, people had to eat and animals had to be slaughtered. Such was the way of life. But glue traps, got any animal were cruel— ensuring their last moments were spent suffering and struggling for freedom they could never get. And still, they’d die of exhaustion and hunger, drawing out their pain as long as possible.

But the Picori weren’t just animals. They were innocence and kindness and hope and the light of warm childhood lingering upon such a scary existence. And this woman has the utter gall to- 

There’s the sound of wincing struggle, a hefty woosh, and a loud thud as something hits the floor with a solid smack. The vibrations move through the floorboards, even though the kitchen is a decent bit away.

“UH- Boss?!” Wren calls, light and panicky. Just like the bird. Just as innocent.

You sigh and through Ammi a look of exhaustion in the hopes that she’d get the que and back off already. Her eyes turn satisfied while she adjusts her woollen cardigan and catters something about going to the market and to save her some bread. You scoff, the only image your mind could conjure was of that cruel woman using it to lure poor, hungry animals. 

When you do reach the kitchen, you see a lot more white than there’s supposed to be.

A lot more white.

In fact, it seemed as if flour had gotten everywhere. In every corner. In every appliance.

You felt your shoulders tense in some mix of bewilderment and belligerence, the anger from before now targeting anew on the waste of what must’ve been three whole sacks of flour. 

“Look- I- I’m so sorry- I just saw you weren’t having a good morning so I thought I’d do the lifting for you since that’s your least favourite job, but they slipped and I-” She cuts herself off to finally look at you, and it seems as if her skeleton tried to jump from her skin in pure fear.

“Please- I really need this job, and I understand if you fire me but I’ll find some way to make it up! Dock my pay, I’ll work extra shifts, I’ll do anything just-”

“I’m not going to dock your pay, Wren” Your shoulders sag as the anger leaves you as empty as your fireplace. Cold as soot. She shuffles awkwardly in place, too scared to do anything else it seems. Too scared to make another mistake. 

“It’s ok, really. It happens. We make mistakes. I, much worse at your age. I’d be a hypocrite to punish you” You manage a light chuckle, and that seems to put her at ease that nothing will happen to her by your hand. “I’ll have to get more flour, so you can clean this up while I go to the market to get more.” 

“But you’ll miss sales-” 

“And I’ll miss even more if you keep fretting” Your voice holds a chaotic whimsy that returns a similar smile to her face.

“So let's get to it!” 

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

The market was crisp and cold, as it usually was around mid autumn. The shades of the leaves, the burn of the air in the back of your throat, the smell of the first few batches of spiced wine, it was all beautiful.

There were less people out and about than in the spring and summer, but it was nice to have the beauty to yourself. You were alone, but you were by no means lonely. You handed over a small bag of rupees to the man from the mills and ached as you took two bags on each shoulder. The air was just cold enough to sap the warmth form your joints and leave you stiff, the journey to haul the bags back to your house now twice as arduous. You focused on anything you could to take away from the pain. The slightly wobbly cobblestones as you walk onto your street, the plumes of white smoke from chimneys of your neighbours, the rattle of brittle branches in the wind, the soft squeaking by your ankle- The what? 

You looked down towards your ankle as you stood upon the stoop and realised dully there was nothing there. Empty space. You huffed, about to kick on the door with your foot (the closest thing to a knock as you could about get), when you heard the squeaking be joined by the satanic growl of Luci. You looked over at the crooked little hellspawn before you realised that it was about to pounce upon something caught in one of Ammi’s little traps.

Holy fuck it was a Picori. 

You unceremoniously drop the flour, ironic, your previous efforts forgotten in favour of now saving your new friend. By the time you leapt from your doorstep to Ammi’s, the cat had begun to pounce, claws fully extended. Your freezing knuckles wrapped around the trap with enough time to save the small mouse from the flurry of attacks. Your knuckles were bleeding; but as you peeled back your hands to see your small friend, you saw he was unharmed.

You scurry over to your house, opening the door frantically. All the meanwhile, the small body in your hands tried everything short of biting you to get out. You try to keep your composure as you rich to the kitchen, thankful to see Wren almost finished cleaning. Her eyes don’t catch on the dripping red blood, entirely focused on the stubborn flour in the cracks of the hardware she’d set to clean. 

“Uh- I sliced my hand on the way over- would you mind taking in the bags while I dress my cut?” Your voice is too high-pitched to make the request seem unsuspicious, but she leaves without casting you a thorough glance. One of the few times you could thank her naivety. She beams a smile while throwing her tea towel over her shoulder, turning on the ball of her foot to make steadfast for the door; and so it seems that’s the last of your inspection. You set down the trap and finally get a good look at the small creature squirming about. 

He’s small of course, they all are, dressed in his own small clothes. His tunic is sewn and embroidered into quadrants, with each little seam holding its own careful pattern and detail. Among the tiny motifs you see the weaving lines of kinestones, all leading back to the clover leaves where the quadrants meet. His little feet were wrapped in little booties of surprisingly fine leather, though it was hard to see in the thickened molasses tacked over them. His fur coat was a light blonde, the hair lengthened to frame the small face in something akin to a bob. Scraping against the wood backing of the trap was a tiny sword at his back, scabbard scratching at the wood as it used all of what little might it had to try and pull free.

You can swear for just the briefest moment that you’d seen it before in some sort of folklore… but the thought escapes you before you can seem to place it.

The differences were stark from the usual picori, the whole ensemble surprisingly ornate, something you’d usually assume the wealthy might wear if they were full size garments.

“Hey…” You started, but didn’t really know where you were going with this, much less where it would end. Finally, He stopped to turn to you, giving up the struggle of pulling his mitts from the tack.  

“I know how to get you out, there’s no need to tire yourself out” You chuckle lightly, half at the way the thing squints at you in some mix of indignation and incredulousness, and half for the sheer oddity of your situation.

Most sane people don’t stand about in their kitchen trying to assure trapped magic mice, but to your defence, when he finally did cease the struggle and turn its attention upon you, his eyes were so… knowing? 

Animals were sentient, sure, but fully conscious? …That’s a stretch.

Still, both beady eyes stayed affixed on you, the tips of small ears flicking slightly whenever you'd mutter something to yourself.

Warm water would dissolve the molasses, and oil could help separate the fur while incurring as little damage as possible. Good, gentle oil was harder to come by, most of it sourced from other domains, sent through merchants and sold for the rich. You supposed olive oil could work in the pinch, so long as you rinsed it off well enough. 

Settling for that, you set the glue trap down and headed into the stores, chuckling at how the little head followed you wherever you went. You hefted up the metle container of pressed oil and poured some into one of your soup bowls, setting it back where it was, mindful to close the lid. 

Bowl of oil in hand, and surprisingly docile (surprisingly armed) magic mouse by your side, you snuck upstairs just in time to check on Wren in the doorway as she tried her best to waddle from the front to the store room with a sack of flour. Credit where it was due, you doubted you could’ve done much better than her at her age. 

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Your actual private living space was much less adorned than the downstairs area. Most working folk didn’t spend time in their private quarters. You awoke in a room with bare, white walls, in sheets that you scraped together to afford when you bought the house, and got ready with clothes weaved by hands and from wool which both were birthed and would likely die in this town.

Only those who could afford to lie in bed, or dress in clothes brought from foreign lands, would see to decorating their private quarters. Your bathing room was much similar to the rest of the private quarters, plain outside of the necessities. Sink, soap cabinet, copper basin for the water, towels hung, only what you needed. You set your little friend down and rolled up your sleeves, drawing water into the copper bath and lighting the small fire beneath it so it may warm. 

You take a moment to sigh, meaning over the bath with your forearms braced on the thick lips of the copper. You take a moment to accept how off-kilter the day had gotten from the usual routine of bread and sales. 

When you do finally lift your head, it’s to look at the picori, who stands as politely as one could when stuck in a glue trap.

“You stayin’ in those clothes?” You draw up the strength to conjure words for your audience who can't reply. He nods fervorously, to the point where the flat foundation of the glue trap begins to rock back and forth.

Beneath the golden fur, you can almost imagine the flush taking over its face by how it covers its face when it thinks you aren't looking.

You laugh, using the tips of your fingers to stop him from falling flat on his back. Would it really be flat given his back was stuck about an inch into the glue trap?

You suppose not, but it's an entertaining mental debate you’ll shelve for the next time it’s a slow day.

Now, instead, you snuff out the fire beneath the bath and pick up the trap, using your other hand to test the temperature of the water. Just warmer than lukewarm, a comfy temperature that could still dissolve all that molasses. You remove the little green hat atop its head, minding the little clack the gold bird charm makes as it’s set against your tile.

He wriggles slightly to loops its tiny chin over where your hands are cupped around him, trying his best to stay above the water. You work first massaging the warm water against the tacky sort of glue, loosening it to a sort of thicker liquid. By the time it's mostly melted, you dip one set of fingertips into the oil and massage away what’s left of the stickiness from where it's gripping onto the fur. Some gentle pressure and scraping with your nails, the majority of the sticky substance removes itself from the roots of the fur. Cleaning the clothes still on the little body and the feathery tail is actually much harder than the fur, given how the oil can stain the clothes and the delicacy of the tail. But with a dip in the warm water and some soap, most of the oil lifts from the fabric. With gentle care, you can pry the tacky board from his feet, allowing him to finally relax in your hold. Out of some minor curiosity, you use the very edge of your nail to scritch at his scalp, and are delightedly met with a choir of happy squeaks as he nuzzles into your hands.

Not long after, his large eyes flutter, sleepy after all that effort of trying to free themselves and the warmth of the water.You keep the small body tightly wrapped in your palms so they can leech of that warmth and stay cozy. And cozy it was, given how they try to burrow into you as they sleep away, one of the highest compliments. Your hand leaves for a moment to take a towel off the rack, your hand freezing halfway as the most pitiful whine leaves the form in your hands. You look down to see worried little eyes, groggy and confused as to where all the warmth went. 

“Oh shush” You grabbed the towel, slipping it over your wrist  so your hand could return to the picori in your grasp. 

“See? I have you now, you don’t need to worry” You assure quietly, hiding your amusement as he begins to make himself cozy again. You know you can’t hold him forever, unfortunately, you did need to work.

And so began the plot to find the warmest place in the house. Your sleeping quarters were above the kitchen… and with the ovens on all day, the heat would make its way up.  You nudge the door open with your hip, lest it keep squeaking at you in defiance whenever you remove your hands. You nestle the comically large bundle of towel among the pillows and watch in amusement as he cozies up against the pillows. 

All considering how immensely unprepared you were, you considered this a great success. 

You return to the bathroom to wrap up your now no longer bleeding knuckles, cursing at the little bird charm at the end of the small green hat, left discarded on the tile. Hylia- it was small but painful. You put the little hat in your pocket, laughing at the mental image of trying to explain this to someone. Oh yeah! My neighbour traps and feeds mythical rodents to her devil cat and it scratched me when I was trying to stop it.

Honestly, if you weren’t so crucial to the village, you’re sure they’d send you to a convent.

You laugh with each step down the warped wooden stairs and back into the kitchen, where Wren already began with the first batch of bread. Time passed quickly in the bakery. You always seem to get so absorbed in your work that you never realise the time passing you by. It was hardly ever now that you’d actually work baking. Wren, friendly as she was, didn't have her wits about her; and you’re certain that if she were to run sales, then every loaf of bread would be given away for free. There was nothing wrong with the front of house, but it wasn’t as if you opened a bakery because you wanted to talk to people. The conversations and the camaraderie and drama of the townsfolk were entertaining in some sense, but damn did you just like making bread. It was nice, after the hectics of the morning, to just spend your day doing something you liked, even if you had to stop every few minutes to explain to someone why their regular bread wasn’t out yet.

Late in the afternoon, after all the folks stopped by for whatever baked goods they needed, you split from cleaning the last counter to check in on the picori upstairs. The sun was fading out by now, the sky a brilliant mix of blues and pink, and you’d hate for him to just end up lost. 

Frustrated squeaking filled the quiet expanse of your bedroom as the little fiend struggled against his bindings (soft towel wrapping). You waited for him to tire himself out slightly, not particularly enthusiastic about the idea of more animal injuries. You weren’t certain of how sharp their swords could be, but you were certain that you didn’t fancy finding out if the hat was anything to go by. He lets you unwrap him from the towel, and seems fairly understanding that it’s time to go. You walk downstairs, making sure he isn’t jostled too much by the movement, and take a seat on the mossy stump a little ways back from your house. 

“Alright bud, this is it” You gently set him down, tilting your hand so he can slide off with little effort.

“Hope you enjoyed your stay, but it’s home time now” He scurries off for a few steps, tail bobbing and swishing with each step before he stops abruptly in his tracks. He turns around and pats his head, his little mitts held out to you expecting. What? Was this goodbye to them or- Oh that’s right he had a hat! 

You shuffle about in your pocket, eventually retrieving his little pointed hat, and placing it among his hands. You watched as he shuffled it about on his head, making sure the placement was perfect. Suddenly, he straightened, turning to face you, with those beady eyes bearing into you silently. Oddly, you feel a great amount of understanding between the two of you, just trying to get by and caught up in a greater web of things than you hoped. He lets out a string of squeaks you guess are supposed to make a sentence, and kneels in gratitude,regarding you for the entirety of the moment as you stand to leave. 

“Don’t even mention it” You held up a hand in dismissal of the grand gesture, pausing short when you do get an idea “well- maybe mention it to your friends. I don’t wanna see any of the rest of ya getting trapped, ok?” You raise your eyebrows expectantly, the whole embarrassment of talking to a rodent entirely out the window. Still, he nods, a pleased twinkle in his literal orbs for eyes, and scurries off to the safety of the foliage.

The next morning begins similarly to the last, lighting the fire in the hearth. Unfortunately (well, you suppose fortunately to the picori population) there’s no valid reason for you to forgo your usual work at the front of house. The first loaves of bread and savoury pastries are out when Wren arrives, the door handle nearly slamming a hole through your wall with how excited she was. You liked making bread, but this seemed like a bit much… even for her. She sets down her things and scrambles for an apron, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she waits for you to finish up. 

“That’s 15 for the bread… and five for the pastry, so 20 rupees is your total” You try your best to ignore the jittering ball of energy just behind you as the old man fished for a red rupee. 

“Thank you, have a nice day now” He slides it across the counter, the small jem making little clinks against your uneven counter. He’s hardly even turned to walk away when Wren starts up.

“Ok so I know you don't really like it when I work the front but I really reeeeeaaallly want to just for today- I mean think about it it’d be really good experience and if I don’t learn now then I’ll never learn, and I’m not saying you’re a bad boss I’m just saying that my whole point of being here is to learn and I need to-” You never knew someone could talk so fast. You’ve heard bees buzz at a slower pace. 

“Take it.” Your words are blunt as you step into the back, retreating into your comfy corner away from all the people. 

“Really?!” 

“By the three- please.”

And as the hours passed, and foot traffic slowed, she was no less excited. You were half convinced that purely for the fact of her motivation alone, you’d let her run sales. 

The last tray of bread had been packaged when you finally got around to closing up. All the sourdough starters had been fed, all the floors swept, all the counters wiped. All you really had to do was count up the till and go feed the ducks before it got too dark out. The whole day passed in a flurry of familiar work. Mixing, kneading, resting, re-kneading, re-resting, glazing, baking, cooling, bagging, all mixed in a jumble of orders to the demand of the customers. And soon it’d all be don- 

“Hey boss?” Wren hung off the doorframe, a far too mischievous smile on her face to mean anything good for  you. The type of plotting smile, juvenile. 

“...What?”

“There’s a guy out here.” She looked proud of herself, as though she’d caught you among some scandal. It wasn’t the first time she’d accuse some poor bloke of catching interest in you, and you’re sure this wouldn’t be the last.  But you still failed to see why she thought it was necessary to come get you. If anything, it was more in character for her to go prying them for information. 

“Ok? Can’t you deal with him?” 

“He asked for you. Specifically” She waggled her eyebrows, the utter scandal of the situation practically confirmed in her mind. Oh how the gossip mills were… milling. You sighed, unsure of what even warrants someone asking specifically for you. Wren could be a bit much, but it's hardly anything that needs to be taken up with you. You rubbed your eyes, squinting as the thinnest stream of sunlight split from the tops of the buildings, winding down for the evening. You get a good look at the man in front of you and actually stop walking– one foot in the air and all. 

He had to look up at you, courtesy of both the slightly raised staff portion of the storefront and the fact he was short. His eyes shined in apparent amusement, complimented by the boyish smirk tugging at his lips and the challenge in his brow. The sun drifted lower and caught upon his hair, making the straw color alight to fine threads of spun gold. Unassuming at first, but all of a sudden priceless. The four quadrants of his tunic were equally as vibrant as they were yesterday and thankfully unstained by the oil, each stitch of the embroidery now visible to you. 

Holy fuck the picori was a man. 

Ok now life was just being unfair- what are you even supposed to say to that?! Screw the village sending you to the temple, you might just do it yourself at this rate. 

The man gets a kick out of your utter shock, leaning with his forearms on the display case and laughing. Besides your burnt frustration, you laughed alongside him, bracing your hands on your thighs. Your stomach burned as you laughed at the nonsensical fairytale your life had spiralled into as of late. Your cheeks burned as your eyes settled upon him again, fond as an old friend. 

“I was told you requested me?” You tease, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to heckle him. 

“No, I just wanted bread” He defends, trying to cover his tracks as best he could. 

“Mhm. Sure” You roll your eyes, “What’d you want?” You gesture to what you have left, slim as it may be. He looks about the small collection, sneaking looks at you as he does before picking a short loaf. Its rounded sourdough, filled with nuts and dried fruit, not really common outside of your village as far as you’d know.

“You sure?” You ask looking between him and the bread, “Not sure they have this where you’re from” It’s as much a dig at him being a literal rat as it is genuine question. He laughs still, cheeks reddened and eyes almighty. 

“I mean… c’mon, it’s bread. Can’t be that different, right?” He raises an eyebrow, amused by your bread gatekeeping. 

“Well… Usually, people share this over some spiced wine, dip it in n’ all that” You explain, caught off guard by just how intently he follows along, hanging off your every word. 

“Oh great.” He hods, finally, while sliding you entirely too much money. He takes the bread and a few steps back before you could stop him.

“Then we could share!” He smiles, bright and unrestrained this time, beaming with a joy that worms its way into your heart. 

“Uh- I mean we totally could, but you don't have to-” You backtrack through your explanation, not trying to force him into a date for your care.

“Great!” He nods. “It’s a date!” Oh dear. “I’ll meet you outside” Oh goddesses. 

He turns his back as he walks out of your modest storefront, and it finally hits you from where you’d seen that sword before. 

Oh goddesses.

There’s no way you just accidentally asked the hero out on a date.

[rubiedmoon]

Politeness Optional

Everyone at Hogwarts knew who YN YLN was. You couldn’t not know her.

Smartest witch in her year—no contest. Maybe even the smartest in the whole castle, if Professor Flitwick’s proud twinkle had anything to say about it. A Ravenclaw through and through, with a quick wit, sharper mind, and the kind of effortless charm that made her as well-liked in the common room as she was respected in the classroom.

Even the Slytherins nodded in respect when she passed—some of them even smiled, which was rare enough to be considered an event in itself.

But if you asked Fred Weasley—prankster, troublemaker, eternal thorn in Filch’s side—he’d tell you something else entirely.

YN YLN? That was his best friend.

That was the part that made Fred grin the widest: not the detentions, not the fame, not even the perfect test scores she racked up without breaking a sweat. It was the way that, when all the noise faded, she always saved a seat for him in the library, or let him drag her into the kitchens at midnight for secret butterbeer raids, or sat beside him in the stands at Quidditch matches—nose in a book but always there.

Today was one of those days. The Quidditch pitch was empty, save for Fred soaring lazily in the air, bat in hand, while YN sat on a blanket spread across the grass, parchment in her lap, quill scratching steadily while her Potions book lay off to the side just within her eyesight.

“Oi!” Fred shouted, circling around and swooping low. “You ever look up from that thing, YLN?”

Without looking up, she replied evenly, “Fred, I am not the one who needs to practice my aim. One more swing like that and you will have hit Harry in the back of the head with the Bludger instead of towards the other team.”

Fred grinned. “Harsh. And here I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be polite.”

YN’s quill paused. She tilted her head just enough to meet his gaze—eyes bright, mouth twitching at the corner.

“We’re supposed to be of a knowing mind, Fred. Politeness is purely optional.”

Fred laughed, the sound echoing across the pitch. He loved this. Loved her—not like George always teased him about, but in that rare, golden way when you know someone’s got your back, no matter what. In a castle full of rivalries and house points and drama, YN was Fred’s constant.

After a few more loops around the sky, Fred touched down and flopped onto the blanket beside her, broom tossed carelessly aside.

“You do know,” he said, cheek propped on one hand, “with all the knowledge you have seemingly stored within the endless halls of your brain, you could really rule the world if you wanted.”

YN glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “World domination is far too time-consuming. I have exams.”

Fred snorted. “See? That’s why we’re friends. You’ve got the brains. I’ve got the charm.”

This time, her smile bloomed for real—warm, soft, the kind that not many got to see.

“And that is to mean… what exactly?” she questioned playfully.

“Well, we’re unstoppable, of course.”

YN huffed out a laugh and shook her head, quill poised over her parchment again. “Unstoppable,” she echoed. “Fred Weasley, you can barely make it through one week without a detention.”

He gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest like she’d struck him. “How dare you! I’ll have you know that I’ve gone two full weeks without one.”

“That’s because you were in the Hospital Wing with a cursed nose-biting teacup,” she pointed out without missing a beat.

Fred grinned, entirely unbothered. “Details, details.”

YN returned to her notes, but the familiar warmth of his presence at her side tugged at her focus. It always did. No matter how lofty her academic ambitions were, somehow Fred Weasley always had a way of pulling her back down to earth—and reminding her to actually enjoy it once in a while.

“Oi,” he said after a pause, softer this time, voice lacking its usual teasing lilt. “You’ve been at that for hours, YNN. Even your notes are starting to look tired.”

She blinked, glancing down at the parchment. He wasn’t wrong. Her usual elegant script had started to slope, and she’d copied the same potion ingredient twice without noticing.

With a sigh, she set her quill aside. “Suppose I lost track of time.”

Fred nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. “Come on, then. One break won’t kill you. Besides, you promised me a game of Exploding Snap, remember?”

YN gave him a sideways glance. “I believe you promised me you wouldn’t cheat this time.”

His grin turned devilish. “I would never.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Alright, maybe sometimes,” Fred admitted, laughing. “But not today. Today, it’s a fair match. Honest Weasley honor.”

She snorted. “Is that a thing?”

“Absolutely,” Fred said with a wink, already rummaging in his bag for the battered deck of cards. “But if it’ll make you feel better, you can shuffle.”

YN shook her head again and leaned back on the blanket, eyes tilting up toward the endless stretch of sky. The sun was warm on her face, the air filled with the faint scent of grass and broom polish.

These were the moments no one saw—the quiet ones. No pranks, no tests, no pressure. Just her and Fred, two friends beneath the blue sky.

[userm3rc]

Spellbound in the Stacks

ᯓ★ summary; in which at the beginning of the semester, you keep seeing a certain stoic slytherin around the library...and end up getting stuck with him as a partner..what in the world!

⭑.ᐟreaders house is personal preference :3 / open ending ..?

wc; 2.4

cw; none besides reader is super silly *

the light taps of rain pattered on the large window in the back of the library, this week has been oddly dreary. the constant downpours possibly contributing to the somber mood among the students despite the new semester barely beginning..

the usual bubbling chatter heard from the sea of students has dwindled to a quiet murmur throughout the past 5 days, though perhaps the 8 paged essay Snape assigned to your year has a part to play in that. no amount of praying to merlin could get that professor to have mercy on his students despite being 2 weeks into the new year, you'd think you were prepping to publish a book with the amount of coursework he was assigning, but alas the only thing being posted were your grades!

luckily with your newfound dedication to be top of the class this school year (or as top of the class as you can get with Hermione around) , you've been at the library at least 2 hours a day and my has it paid off! you've definitely noticed the difference, for once you're not confused or dosing off in boredom, hell even sometimes you're contributing to the conversation!, finishing your work in class allowing you to have more free time then you've ever experienced during your academic years.

but here's the problem, you're bored. times where you'd be stressing over an assignment or a reading, are now empty. hours of your usually packed schedule (procrastinating on an assignment you swear you can finish 10 minutes before class) is now cleared! which is quite honestly, very possibly, how the quietest slytherin crept to be the object of your affection...

okay that's a bit dramatic. but in your full defense you've always found the infamous Zabini to be quite the looker, I mean who didn't notice him would be a better question to ask.

it wasn't like you were blind. his high cheekbones, slim build, mysterious yet aloof demeanor, and gods don't get you started during the quidditch games. you never paid much attention to the sport, people screaming in the common place about the professional players or about the recent game that just occurred on Hogwarts's very own pitch was enough to keep you in the loop (involuntarily) . but on the rare occasions you'd attend a home game to support your house, you couldn't help yourself from staring a bit too hard at the rumored pompous zabini, chest heaving from the obvious effort he's putting in, the thin layer of sweat over his face... he looked , well, delectable. and its not as if staring a little bit longer than usual ever hurt anybody! he has quite a way of making boring classes bearable, doodling on his paper or actively reading along the textbook while the professor is going on and on, dare I say its inspiring, and possibly the reason you've taken studying seriously this year...

─────────

which brings us back to present day, the nonstop rain (which you must say does wonders for studying) creating a blanket of comfort in the library, where you've also managed (by a miracle of merlin) to see the Blaise Zabini every time you've entered. almost like clockwork everyday of the semester, you catch him in a dark corner surrounded by books or pieces of parchment paper seemingly working on assignments or a reading, but these past few days you can only assume he's working on snapes demanding book essay.

a part of you is tempted to ask him if this was a norm of his, visiting the library daily. its not as if you'd know, you've only recently started dedicating yourself to your studies, for all you know he could've started this ritual his first year. but you can't help but notice how he's always alone in these visits, no one from his house surrounding him causing a ruckus ,which is usually the scene in the dining hall, or classes, or hell even the hallway. matter of fact, blaise is always with his friends, what's with the random split from them? this question deeply bothers you the more you think about it,

and while lost in thought about this demanding issue, you don't realize you've been staring. not just staring at anything, no, staring straight at zabini. but, as if an act of fate, before you could tear your eyes away and act as if nothing happened and pretend you've been studying the whole time, (like you should've been) you realize somethings staring back.

no not something, silly. blaise.

hes staring deeply into your soul as if he knows exactly what you've been thinking. how your eyes have been lingering on him these past few weeks, how he's slowly been taking over your mind as you see him everyday in class or the library, hell somehow even in the dining hall during your meals. you immediately feel sick to your stomach, as if you've been caught doing the most heinous thing by a trusted adult, as quickly as you can manage, grabbing all of your belongings and bolting out of the library. deciding that was enough 'studying' for the day and actually! you deserve a break for all the hard work you've been doing.

rushing back to your common room not realizing you've left your last quill at that damned library desk, chest rising like you've ran a marathon (realistically you did), heart pounding, boulder still in your gut. thankfully your friends are too engrossed in their previous argument about merlin knows what, they don't realize how frazzled you look and demand you pick who the obvious winner of this squabble is. fortunately you use this opening to push the incident to the back of your mind and fully focus on the very important issue at hand, taking all the facts (and snarky comments) into careful consideration as you take ones side.

they quickly lost interest in the conversation once a winner was picked, and you realize you need to finish the rough draft of snapes essay, remembering he'll be checking them tomorrow. rummaging around in your bag (thankfully) you find your papers, but no quill, cursing as you speed walk to the library praying to whoever was watching over you that you'd make it in time before detention (silently cheering as you do) and bee lined towards your dedicated study spot only to realize, its missing. exhaling slowly in an attempt to calm your already frazzled nerves, you chalk it up to a student seeing the quill unattended and snagging it. not as if you can blame them, you would've probably stolen it too in their position, actually you believe that's exactly how you came to be in possession of it.

ending your night off begging a friend to borrow their quill was not ideal, but hey, the rough draft got completed.

─────────

the following day was as uneventful as ever, the most entertainment coming from overhearing a griffindor quarrel with a slytherin in the hallways between classes.

entering the damp potions classroom used to fill you with dread, that was until recently , when you actively started understanding the curriculum being taught. patiently waiting for Snape to enter the classroom, you start to overhear peoples conversations, mostly students talking about the upcoming games, some already excited for holiday breaks as if they didn't have months to wait in-between.

as you were about to really indulge in someones story, Snape enters delivering a line, that in retrospect, should've had you trembling in your seat.

'the rough drafts that i...expect are completed, will be peer reviewed and worked on with said peer until it is finished.. if said draft isn't complete, you will come to me privately and it will be handled from there.'

quickly glancing to your friend to form a silent agreement of partnership, as you begin to take your papers out, Snape starts to call out names, and that's when you realize this wasn't a chosen partner activity.. 'no sweat' you think to yourself , 'there's a 1 in 30 chance I get paired with someone I dislike, this is doable'.

in the midst of you giving yourself positive affirmations, you hear

'your name and Blaise Zabini'. and that's when you realize you sorely miscalculated. not taking in account the only other person who you've had an awkward interaction with as a possibility of being your partner, you slowly look over at him and see he- well actually he's not in his usual seat! well thank merlin! he must be out sick or skipping class (you don't admit feeling a bit bad about him being under the weather), you've been saved as of this moment!

that was until you looked to your left expecting to see your friend and were instead, met with a familiar sight of slightly downturned brown eyes that stare deeply into your soul that you realize your second mistake of the day. not only was he in attendance, he knew exactly who you were already with no need of an introduction, and made his way over to you. now you can't deny a part of you feeling a bit flattered, the infamous blaise knowing who you were, well, dare i say anyone would be honored, but the feeling of twisted pride pales in comparison of your shock and anxiety.

collecting your items and thoughts, you've never actually taken time to think about just how, quiet he truly is. yes you've watched him here and there, seeing how he seamlessly blends into a conversation with his friends, however you're not his friend, and he's not speaking to you.

using whatever dignity and confidence you have left, you decide to initiate the conversation with him. I mean, you have a draft to get through and an essay to finish! no man is worth messing up your academics!

'well, im your name, as you already know I guess. would you like to switch drafts now? or have you finished yours? sorry to assume-'

stopping before you start rambling and making unnecessary comments, you look at him waiting for an answer.

to which he keeps a blank, almost bored (ouch!) look on his face as he lazily grabs his papers and hands them to you, while simultaneously grabbing yours,

'here. take them. we can switch them at the library later today.'

and before you can process he even spoke to you, he's gone back to his friends as if he was never there. face mildly flushed as you replay his words and dissect the whole situation, mission accomplished! you weren't paired with someone lazy and did the assignment, and even got him to talk to you! but on the other hand barely spoke and abandoned you at first chance.. 'well, you can't win them all! might as well as take the wins where you get them', is what you chant to yourself the rest of the day before you head to the library on your usual schedule.

─────────

assuming (and praying, which you acknowledge you've done quite a bit this week!) blaise would be at the library at his regular time , due to his lack of communication and your lack of confidence to follow up, you anxiously go about the rest of your day.

looking around the library you notice Blaise's usual corner is empty, heart dropping as you deeply exhale and walk to your designated study spot, accepting that you missed his visit and silently cursed yourself for not forcing him to give an exact time. glancing at your table, nearly dropping your bag as you see your assigned parter patiently waiting for you to arrive.

'oh- hey sorry if you've been waiting for me for a long time, its just , you never said a time and I assumed that meant regular time since you're always here when I am and- yeah.'

you sputter while speed walking over to the table, finally putting your things on the desk as you glance up at him, noticing a faint smile (or is it a smirk?) on his face as he looks at you.

trying not to word vomit on him again, as you both settle into a silence preparing to discuss the drafts and work on them together to abide by your teachers demands, you space out while you prepare all of your items and don't realize blaise placing a (your) quill down infront of you, it wasn't until he started speaking you snapped back into reality,

'you left this here last time. assumed you'd need it for your work.'

doing a double take between him and the quill, a loss for words as you piece together that he's seen you in now 4 embarrassing situations within the last 24 hours, and took your quill after your swift exit yesterday, just to return it to you.

'ah yes! that's mine! haha thank you for grabbing it and not stealing it- not that I think you would or anything'

feeling your face flush at the weight of everything from the past few days as your words die on your tongue, mentally prepping for him to think you're weird and refuse to work with you after this, and deciding the best thing to do is keep your eyes trained on the desk to prevent any further mistakes on your part. grabbing your previously lost and now found quill from the desk fiddling with it in an attempt to calm yourself and think of the next course of action to survive this godforsaken assignment, you hear an (exasperated?) exhale next to you followed with

'it was really no issue. I have no reason to steal your quill... are you ready to discuss the assignment?'

and you must be losing your mind because you swear his tone seemed a lot warmer delivering that line than you've ever heard him speak before, and you can't help but looking at him and oh,

his face has dropped from that aloof guarded look to such a soft and cautious one...

quickly registering he's trying his best to comfort you, you come to realize this man doesn't hate you, he's willingly engaging with you , and not making some devious snarky comment about your mistakes like any slytherin usually would... you've been freaking out for no reason! gosh you let the anxiety get the better of you, mentally kicking yourself for you actions you begin to speak,

'yes of course! so after reading your draft I saw...'

launching into conversation about the assignment, you discern the best choice of action is to meet him halfway. this was the most effort you've ever seen blaise put into well, anything! and you surely don't want to mess this opportunity up.

꩜ I was not expecting to write so much... sorry guys it came to me in a vision </3 blaise does NOT have enough attention and it kills me

thinking about making a pt 2 to this depending how people react to it... anywho I hope u guys enjoyed it & pls don't hesitate to send reqs!!! <3333

[makingfanfictionstosleep]

the cure to his curse

sylus x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || drabble out of boredom that spiraled into a series while listening to linkin park's song - heavy || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is not smut || story masterlist : love and deepspace

previous next

FIVE

The world swam back into focus with a dull ache that seemed to emanate from every cell in your body. Four days. Four days in a coma, a silent battle waged against the very edge of oblivion. You'd lost so much blood, almost slipped away, kept tethered to life only by the sheer, stubborn will of your evol.

Sylus was there, of course. His hand, warm and trembling, yet surprisingly steady, rested over yours. You instinctively tried to recoil, but your body was too weak, a leaden weight that refused to obey. He saw the flicker of your eyes, a wave of relief washing over his face, mixed with that familiar, heavy guilt. "Doctor!" he called out, his voice sharp with urgency.

Moments later, the familiar figures of Luke and Kieran appeared at the door, their faces a mixture of worry and profound relief. Then came Zayne. MC’s 'friend,' the calm, unreadable doctor. You knew there was more to their connection, just as you knew of her tangled web with Skyhaven’s Colonel Caleb, the enigmatic Rafayel, the elite hunter Xavier… and your own lover. You remained silent, your head throbbing, your body protesting every movement, every flicker of consciousness.

"Her evol is unique," Zayne murmured, his voice professionally detached yet tinged with a hint of awe. "It's already begun to completely heal the scars. They will fade because of the nature of her evol." He ran a diagnostic tool over your arm, his expression thoughtful. "She's responding well. We should expect a full recovery, Sylus."

You simply nodded, the only response you could muster. The physical pain was sharp, but manageable. The ache in your heart, however, felt like a gaping wound, far more debilitating.

You just wanted to fade, to never wake up from this nightmare. You closed your eyes, drifting back into the dark embrace of sleep, intentionally shutting out Sylus, Zayne, and the twins. You didn't want to see them, to acknowledge the world that had become so painful.

After weeks of slow, arduous recovery, you were back on your feet, but the person you once were felt like a distant memory. Sylus tried to make it up to you, his attempts a clumsy dance between desperate yearning and ingrained stoicism.

Sometimes, you'd scoff at his efforts, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. Other times, you'd accept a meal he'd brought, or a quiet moment in his office, and for a fleeting instant, things would feel almost normal, almost like the lovers you once were. Then, just as quickly, the wall would descend, and you'd become completely withdrawn, a ghost in his presence.

He knew. He saw the shift in your eyes, the subtle contempt in your voice that no one else would detect, but he, who had known you so intimately, could feel it like a physical blow. He knew he'd messed up, knew why you were hot and cold, why your responses were laced with a hidden sting. He just couldn't bring himself to face the full extent of his mistake.

Then came the night that shattered everything. You were walking past his office, intending to drop off some urgent mission reports, when you heard voices. His voice. And hers.

"...it's the cursed loop, Sylus," MC’s voice, soft, almost regretful, drifted through the slightly ajar door. "Just like before, the curse of being fated."

And then Sylus, his tone so gentle, so utterly endearing, a softness you thought was reserved for you alone. "I know. It's just… complicated this time."

Your blood ran cold. You froze, every nerve ending screaming. You heard the hushed words, the undeniable intimacy in their voices.

‘Lovers in the past. Fated partners. Destined to love each other, yet kill one another.’

The cursed loop. It wasn't just a mission, wasn't just her evol, wasn't just his professional responsibility. It was history. It was destiny.

You didn't realize you were crying until the hot tears streamed down your face, blurring the edges of the corridor. Your chest burned, a volcanic eruption of pain and betrayal. At that exact moment, the office door swung open. Sylus stood there, his eyes widening in shock when he saw you, your tear-streaked face a silent testament to everything you’d just overheard. He knew. He knew you knew.

‘Where does this place me? What am I to him? Was I just a replacement? A fleeting romance? Once the curse is broken, will he leave me?’ The questions screamed in your head, a cacophony of agony.

Sylus moved, his hand reaching for you, his lips forming words you couldn't hear, couldn't process. They were just noise, drowned out by the deafening roar of your own despair. You looked past him, into the office. MC was there, her expression unreadable, not a hint of regret, not a shred of apology for the devastation she’d just wrought. ‘How greedy she is,’ you thought numbly, ‘not content with one, but wanting five.’

Absentmindedly, you held out the documents you’d come to deliver for the next mission. Your mind was numb, your shoulders slumped in utter surrender. You felt tired, profoundly, devastatingly tired, yet the tears wouldn’t stop.

Sylus, in a rare display of uncontrolled emotion, snatched the documents from your hand and hurled them to the floor. "Wait!" he cried, but you were already turning, walking aimlessly, your feet feeling like lead, each step an enormous effort.

It was too much. The voices in your head, the searing pain in your heart, the betrayal. Everything was running at once, a chaotic symphony of hurt and confusion. You felt everything, and yet, paradoxically, nothing at all. You just kept walking.

Sylus overtook you, his strong hands gently but firmly gripping your arms, stopping you. You stared at him, your eyes dead and dull, devoid of any light. His heart visibly broke as he saw your vacant gaze, guilt twisting his features.

He knew now. He knew he should have been truthful. His affections, his actions, had been treading a dangerous line between devotion and emotional disloyalty.

Through the fog of your despair, you managed to articulate one desperate plea. "I just want to sleep," you whispered, your voice raw, "and hope to never wake up again. Not in this kind of sick nightmare." You pulled free from his grasp and walked past him, your heavy feet dragging.

Sylus stood frozen, watching you go. He felt helpless, utterly broken, condemned by his own actions. He wanted to follow, to beg you to stay, to explain, but his legs wouldn't move, rooted to the spot by the weight of his guilt.

You heard MC’s voice in the background, a faint, sweet, worried tone calling his name. You didn't hear Sylus reply. You zoned out, focusing only on the journey back to your room, needing nothing more than to crash and stay in that oblivion, that dreamless slumber, forever.

[nanamis-bigtie]

don't close your eyes

↬ itadori yuuji x gn afab!reader ↬ masterlist // ao3 version

cw: smut, reader has a vagina (no excessive body descriptions), aged-up character, piv sex, mating press, messy sex (lots of drool descriptions), yuji has a big dick, bottom reader summary: after weeks of dating you're finally having the first sex with your boyfriend word count: 1.8k a/n: repost from the old account. divider by saradika

Yuuji's embrace beams with warmth and safety.

Even now, shed off your shirts and melting into each other, making out on his mattress, you feel spoiled just from their touch, from the tight and surprisingly soft loop wrapped around your back. The heat is building up slowly, simmering in your abdomen and lazy, steadily crawling into the furthest crevices of your body, up to your lips where you're sharing it with him. There's esurience but no hurry; you're tasting each other with patience of hours to come, hidden in meticulously build cocoon so close to the surrounding world yet—as isolated as you only can in his room, thin wall separating you from his roommates frolicking in the shared living area, long-forgotten movie still playing on laptop, abandoned on the make-shift table made of books.

You move your hands from his broad back to his chest and Yuuji groans into your mouth when you squeeze a handful of his pecs. They're so big and soft yet, whenever a pleasant spasm runs through his body, you feel power flexing in them right under your curious fingertips. For a try, you sink your nails into his skin, not hard, just enough to leave crested-shaped lines. You're squeezed tighter in response, for the first time today, for the first time ever. The ever-loving touch of your boyfriend—the same arms that cradled you in moments of stress, that carried you bridal-style when you sprained an ankle, that adored you with the softest, the warmest puppy love—finally dares to show lustful fangs. He pulls you into him, flush against his muscular torso, one hand slipping down to your ass and guiding you to take a better seat.

Hard, pulsing bulge, perfectly palpable in the confines of gray sweatpants, presses right at your core and sends a different, hotter shudder across your body.

You mumble his name with a ragged breath, finally breaking the kiss that lasted for what feels like hours. Yuuji pulls away just enough to look at you, a string of saliva still connecting you two, his face flushed, and pupils dilated under barely open lids. His lips are dark red and swollen, drool shamelessly pooling at their corners; it takes everything from you to not immediately lean for more, even with your lungs in desperate need of fresh air.

"You okay with this?" He asks once he finally finds words, his voice strained and shaking nevertheless.

It's the last call before the gate closes and irrevocably leads you to another step of your relationship. You're not each other's firsts but you've been taking your time as if you were, Yuuji always making sure you're feeling comfortable with every new milestone and leading you there with a strong, yet gentle arm wrapped around your waist. You've never felt so loved and adored before, with the passion and submissiveness of a guarding dog, surrounded with his warmth until you've grown addicted, unable to think of any other flame than his.

No, no one else could need you like this. No one else could make you squeeze your thighs around them so desperately, afraid he may slip out of your reach once you stop.

You still loosen the hold, giving him place to act upon your agreement. "More than okay."

There's suddenly more of his tongue, more of his raw power nearly crushing you with the last kiss, finally revealing what Yuuji is capable of once let loose off the leash. He knocks air out of you, in no time has you mewling under him as he picks you up with ease and changes position, pressing you to the mattress now. Treated like a flower for weeks, you've almost forgotten he's a beast, and you're no better than dust in comparison to his strength. If only he wanted, he could tear what you're still wearing off you, but he's busy devouring you, wet and hot lips skimming down your neck, nipping at your chest, sucking your perked with pleasure nipples. He leaves a trail of saliva behind, truly like a dog, and there's only more with each passing second. He tries to leave hickeys, doesn't have enough patience, just licks you instead, sipping your scent straight from your skin and groaning in pleasure whenever you spasm for him.

He finally stills at your navel, whimpers as he pulls away, his face flushed and messy with his own drool. There's genuine pain in his eyes when he has to abandon you, even if just for a minute; he trips on his way to his backpack as he can't peel them off your figure.

You lose no time, already pulling your shorts and underwear down to your ankles. Time spent on intense make out pays off, you're wet and leaking, ready to take him without much prep despite his size you've already got to feel with your hand. Lifted on elbows to see him better, you kick clothes off the mattress and spread your legs for him, ready and impatient.

Yuuji turns straight into the perfect view, a box with condoms slips out of his hand at the sight, but he catches it mid-air. For a moment he fumbles around, not sure if he should put it away first or just drop his pants instead, finally decides on the latter and almost trips when trying to kick them off. His hard cock springs out of his boxers a moment later; it's fat and leaking and throbbing in anticipation: a treat that has you licking your lips. 

With hands shaking, Yuuji tries to slide a condom on, fails time after time, desperation, let loose after the patient hunt, his biggest enemy in the crucial moment.

"Lemme help," you beckon him closer.

He almost pounces on you, thinks twice at the last moment and kneels between your legs instead, holding himself at the base as you finish the job for him, your own hands at the verge of shaking too. His eyes drink up your body, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth again, until he has to wipe them with a hand before leaning for the last, shallow this time, kiss before the main event.

"Can I put it in?" Strain in his shoulders tells how badly he wants to do it, he explores your cunt with fingers first instead.

You grab his wrist and peel him away, "I want to feel it stretching me."

Yuuji doesn't need to be told twice. He scoops your hips to rest in his lap, cock flush against your sex, then guides your legs to rest against his shoulders. He kisses the sole of your foot on his way, wet lips ticklish for your sensitive skin. Laughter doesn't take anything out of the heat between you two, just urges him to take a proper sip of you faster.

He spreads your moisture, still lingering on his fingers, all over his cock, and lines himself up properly.

"Oh...god," he shuts his eyes tight, his face taunt and exploding with scarlet as his tip slides past the tight ring of your entrance. Incoming snap is written all over his expression, an ungodly amount of self-control is needed for him to not just slam himself whole into you, but he keeps it up, patiently stretching you inch by inch in.

Yuuji fills you up just right, the line between immense pleasure and stretch beyond discomfort deliciously thin. His pulse is thudding through your body, your rhythms united in the most intimate way possible, and when he finally bottoms out, even your breaths melt into one. He sways you both gently for a while, trying how much is allowed and expected, each slow thrusts splitting you into shattered pieces. Eyes rolling at the back of your head, you claw at his massive thighs, prompting him closer, craving only more with each move and each draft of air hissing through your taunt throats.

He listens, always obedient, always such a good boy.

Your legs are flicked towards you, knees almost by your head, as he easily folds you in half and advances on you with the whole weight and power of his body. He's so deep now, deeper than anyone else before, and stretching you up in ways you've never thought it's possible for you. Throbbing of his dick almost reaches your chest, the scent of his sweat finally breaks through the thin layer of simple shower gel he's coated himself an hour or two before, saliva almost dripping straight from his lips into your open mouth. 

He's closer than ever before, almost absorbing you whole into himself.

You're given three deeper breaths to reconsider the position before Yuuji starts pounding into you, the last coil of restraints finally snapping. It's not only his hips, he's taking you with the power of his whole body, from heads to toes, as if he tried to bury himself into your hot cunt. He tries to speak, words only die between whines and grunts, drown in chaotic, deep kisses, flooding you with his tongue and drool.

"It's... All mine," he manages to choke out, maybe about cunt, maybe about your body as a whole, it doesn't matter to you now, when folded in half and manhandled as if you were a mere fleshlight. Still, there's only love and care, each thrust slamming into you with passion and yearning of weeks of building the tension for this moment only. 

You're both drenched in sweat, so close you swear you can feel his scars and the finest of his body hair. His thrusts almost push you off the mattress; he pins it down with one hand above your head, the other cradling your face into the crook of his neck. His scent is sharp there, the pressure of his touch suffocating you in the most delicious way possible. 

Your hole flutters tight around his length, his rumble of pleasure resonates through your body: the final, littlest impulse that finally sets you on fire and drowns you into pleasure until you're seeing white, and your body loses tension.

Yuuji's rhythm stutters in response, eases as he lifts himself above you, sparing you much needed air.

"Oh god..." He mumbles, eyes fixed on your blissed out expression. "You're so—"

One more sharp thrust later, he tenses too, and comes with a desperate, choked-out I love you whined into your ear. The union of your rhythms breaks, and your bodies start to drift apart. His cock is still nestled deep in you and your thighs are still flush to his sides—but the heat has simmered down to flame barely tickling your skin. 

The beast has turned docile, relaxed in your arms and purring softly when you slide fingers through his sweaty hair.

Yuuji lets your legs rest flat and nuzzles up to your neck, wiping the drool off his lips against your moist skin. Both of his arms sneak under you and squeeze you close, lust gone and replaced by lazy love and satisfaction.

His embrace beams with warmth and safety again.

[blue-disco-lights]

A little ficlet for Gallavich Week 2025 - for the Rainbow prompt 💕 Thank you @gallavichthings!

Preview above the cut, and the rest is below... full story on AO3.

Mickey is flat on his back - and not in the way he likes. 

Their anniversary weekend, so Ian insisted on another one of his moonlight picnics in the old dugouts. As always, he’d come prepared with a soft blanket, dinner in to-go boxes, and of course, a six-pack of Old Style in his backpack. Because you can’t fuck with tradition.  

His husband actually wanted to look for shooting stars. The sap. 

Ian’s warm hand finds its way into his. And as they lay there, watching the sky (and likely due to the top-tier edibles they enjoyed for dessert), Mickey thinks about color.

How, from the day Ian burst into his life, his world had exploded in it. He closes his eyes as memories take over….

Mickey pounds his fist into his baseball mitt and wonders for the 100th time why his dad all of a sudden cared about them having “afterschool activities.” Not like they were some normal TV family. Mickey’d been in charge of himself since he learned how to walk.

The only reason he got roped into this Little League shit was to fuel Terry’s ego, that much he knew.

It’s bad enough getting into this dumbass uniform, but he has to listen to Coach drone on about “team work”. And getting yelled at when he doesn’t perfectly follow the rules. 

“Milkovich, get back on base or consider yourself benched for the rest of the game!” comes the booming voice, and Mickey just about loses it then. He doesn’t need this, he gets yelled at enough at home.

So he does the next best thing to raising his middle finger in Coach’s face. He unzips his fly and pisses right on the base. He’d never felt more free in his short life.

He looks around the field, smirking at Coach’s fury, the stunned, laughing faces of his teammates - and catches sight of this one kid, absolutely losing his shit on the next base over.

He’s laughing so hard, he’s doubled over, tears streaming down his little freckled face. He swipes the baseball hat off his head … to reveal the brightest red hair Mickey has ever seen. 

Mesmerized, he barely remembers zipping his pants back up, before Coach storms over and leads him off the field. 

Mickey knows he’ll be in trouble with his dad after pulling that stunt… but seeing that kid made it all fuckin’ worth it. 

====

Every memory of their life together after that is in technicolor.

His ratty green scarf, and the blue Gatorade at the Kash & Grab. The red comforter on Mickey’s old bed. The orange glow of the cigarette they shared in the dugouts right after he got out of juvie that first time. Telling Ian he was “fucked for life” and actually believing it.

The hot yellow sun beating down on them as he watched Ian run around the obstacle course, training for the Army. Ian’d green camo pants, how much shit Mickey gave him for looking like such a dork, but loving the way they looked anyway.

The pulsating lights in the Fairy Tale after he’d finally found him there. How they lit up his face when they were standing on that stage together, Ian’s eyes full of challenge. Make your move on me. And so he did. He still remembers how it felt to kiss him in that moment, bathed in blues and indigos. 

And all the moments after that – the orange and pink flowers on that dress he wore at the border. That green tank top Ian wore when he was really sick. Those heinous yellow prison jumpsuits. The orange juice on the Gallagher’s kitchen table. The rainbow Fruit Loops always on tap during Covid. 

The bright blue of the Stargazer Lillies at their wedding. The green of Ian’s tomato garden on their patio, in their home.

Mickey looks up at the violet sky, minutes from turning pitch black. The stars are almost visible.

He turns his head and looks at Ian. Their eyes meet, and he can’t help thinking what a beautiful life they’ve had together. And wonder what vibrant moments lie ahead.

[velvetghoul]

Control Issue

✦ One-Shot

Reader x Toji Fushiguro x Shiu Kong | 18+ MDNI

cw: threesome (F/M/M), explicit sexual content, dominance, power-play, dirty talk, roughness, some slight jealousy/bratty tension between Shiu and Toji, possessiveness, mutual pleasure, really filthy

⸻

The room smelled like sweat, desire, and something far more dangerous—testosterone-laced tension thick enough to taste. Toji’s broad frame leaned against the headboard, legs spread like he owned the damn bed. His scarred chest glistened with a sheen of sweat, dark eyes lazily tracking the movements of the man beside him.

Shiu was clearly irritated—but it only made him prettier. His pale hair was a mess, his open dress shirt slipping off one shoulder, his lips shiny from your mouth and his tie looped around your wrist like a leash.

“You’re way too close to me,” Shiu snapped at Toji, scooting an inch away. “Personal space, ever heard of it?“

Toji gave a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled from deep in his chest. “Aw, what’s wrong? Worried I’ll bite?”

“You do bite.” Shiu sniffed, pouting. “And I’m not into gorillas getting grabby when I’m trying to focus.”

You, still straddling Shiu’s lap, ground your hips deliberately down. He choked on his words.

“You’re both pathetic,” you said smoothly, voice like a knife dipped in honey. “Two grown men arguing like kids while I’m the one doing all the work.”

Toji’s lip curled into a smirk. “Then shut us up, sweetheart. Make us behave.”

You tugged Shiu’s tie tighter around your wrist, yanking his face closer until his breath hit your lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” you murmured, and kissed him hard.

Shiu moaned into your mouth, his bratty tension instantly melting into need. His hands found your thighs, squeezing like he was desperate to hold on. He was always mouthy until you had him under you—until he was dizzy, breathless, and begging.

Toji, still watching, reached out without asking. One hand on your hip, the other slid between Shiu’s legs, gripping the base of his cock through his slacks.

Shiu flinched. “Hey—! Touch me again like that and—”

“What?” Toji rumbled, voice low and sharp. “You’ll whine louder?”

He squeezed harder.

You ground down between the both of them, your body pressing into Shiu’s chest while Toji pulled your hips back just enough to feel the friction. Heat bloomed in your belly, the air around you practically crackling.

“You both want to fuck me,” you said coolly, voice thick with control, “but I’m the one calling the shots tonight. If either of you gets needy, I’ll edge you into next week. Understand?”

Toji’s laugh was low and approving. Shiu looked up at you like you’d just stepped on his pride and he liked it.

“Then move,” you said, getting off Shiu and pushing his shoulders down so he lay back on the bed, eyes dazed. His open shirt framed his torso beautifully, and you dragged your nails down the center of it, marking his skin just to hear him hiss.

Toji came up behind you, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to face him. His eyes were hooded, half-lidded with arousal.

“You sure you can handle both of us, princess?” he growled against your mouth, biting your lower lip just enough to sting.

“Don’t doubt me,” you hissed back, biting him right back, harder.

Toji’s grin spread. “Good girl.”

Then his hands were on you—spreading you open, lifting you onto Shiu’s cock, pushing him deep into you while you moaned sharply at the stretch. Shiu groaned like he’d just touched heaven.

“Shit—fuck—” he gasped, hands immediately gripping your waist. “God, you’re tight. I—”

“You talk too much,” you muttered, grabbing his chin and making him look at you. “Be useful.”

Toji didn’t wait. He was behind you instantly, hot skin pressed to your back, cock grinding between your thighs as he watched you ride Shiu like you owned him. His hand slid around to your throat, gently holding, just enough to make your head fall back against him.

“She’s fucking you so good, huh?” Toji murmured against your ear, voice heavy and dark. “Already trembling and she hasn’t even started moving.”

Shiu tried to sass him back, but your hips dropped down with force, taking him fully, and he choked on his own breath. You bounced again, harder, building rhythm and punishing him for every complaint.

“You still gonna complain, Kong?” you asked, biting into his shoulder. “Still mad he’s too close?”

Shiu whimpered. “I-I didn’t say I didn’t like it—fuck—”

Toji licked a stripe up your neck, cock now fully hard against your ass. “Bet he loves it. Little brat likes pretending he’s not needy.“

You rolled your hips again, gasping as you felt Shiu’s cock drag inside you just right. He was long, smooth, and now twitching inside you with every moan you forced out of him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging it back, watching his pupils dilate.

Behind you, Toji wasn’t patient anymore. He spat into his hand, lined himself up, and with one deep push, he sank into your ass.

The breath punched out of you. Shiu moaned under you at the feeling of being pressed tighter, sandwiched between both men.

“Fuuuck,” Toji growled. “So damn tight. You take us both like a fuckin’ dream, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your body felt like it was going to split apart with how full you were—one cock deep inside your pussy, another stretching you open behind, both men groaning in chorus at the feel of you.

But you weren’t done being in control.

You started to move. Slow at first, then faster, grinding your hips in tight, brutal circles that made both men curse.

“Ride us,” Toji growled, his hands on your hips, slamming you back down with every thrust.

You did.

You fucked them like you had something to prove—like it was war, and the only weapon was your body.

Shiu was gasping, legs trembling under you. “I-I’m not gonna last—fuck, don’t stop, please—”

Toji bent you lower, his hand tangling in your hair as he pounded into you from behind, unrelenting. “Yeah, beg for it, pretty boy.”

You bit Shiu’s throat. “Come if you want—but you’re still gonna eat me out after. Got it?”

Shiu nearly sobbed. “Yes—fuck—yes—”

His cock pulsed inside you, and with one more brutal grind, you milked him through his orgasm, felt his hot release spill deep inside you as his hands clawed at your thighs, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

Toji wasn’t done.

He grabbed your hips and started fucking into you harder—animalistic now, loud, wet sounds echoing in the room as your breath hitched and your eyes rolled back.

“You gonna break on me now?” he snarled in your ear, biting your shoulder. “You gave all your attitude earlier—where’s that mouth now?”

You turned your head, bit his lip, and growled, “I’m gonna come all over you, sir.”

He snapped.

One hard thrust—then another—and you detonated.

Your whole body shuddered with the force of your orgasm, white-hot pleasure ricocheting through you like electricity, your moans messy and unfiltered. You clenched around both men like you were trying to keep them inside forever.

Toji came with a growl, hips jerking, teeth gritted as he emptied himself inside you, possessive and raw. His hands held you so tight you knew you’d bruise.

And when it was over, you all collapsed.

You slid off Shiu, still trembling, your legs like jelly. Toji caught you before you fell, pulling you against his chest like it was instinct.

Shiu flopped back on the sheets, shirt fully off now, hair wild, lips swollen.

“You both… are insane,” he muttered, chest heaving. “Also… that was the best sex I’ve had in years.”

You crawled over to him, straddled his chest, and looked down at his flushed face.

“You still mad Toji touched you?” you asked sweetly.

Shiu gave a dramatic sigh. “Only a little.”

Toji smirked. “Wanna go again?”

Shiu groaned. “God. Fine. But I get to be in the middle this time.”

You grinned. “No promises.”

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

[intrepidacious]

four: groundhog day [2/2]

» time after time series: chapter four

this is a repost of my time loop fic in shorter parts for greater reading convenience. please refer to the series masterlist for more context.

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 5.2k

chapter warnings: description of a panic attack; this writer is still grappling with the events of endgame and the nature of time travel; underneath the banter, tensions are rising. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

Before the loop, it’s been a while since you’ve been to any library. For the first time in a while, maybe all your life, you’ve enjoyed owning most of the books you read instead of lending them from somewhere.

So it still feels kind of like a novelty, setting foot into the Schwarzman Building. Even if it’s through the back entrance while the security guard is on his lunch break, enjoying a bit of sunshine on the steps outside.

It’d be so much easier if you had your powers, you think as you watch Bucky get through the locks you show him, more discretely than he probably has to. Stopping the flow of time has always come easiest to you, and in situations like this one, it was your most useful asset. You would have simply halted time and slipped past opened doors while everything waited for you to will it forward again.

Instead, you wait for Bucky.

The routine of it all is calming by now, in a way, his tongue poking his cheek in concentration, the only sound either of you makes the quiet clicks of keyboards and doors and locks until you can finally enter the reading hall through a small, unassuming stairwell leading up to the third floor. He seems to get a little quicker at it every day, as if his body retained some form of muscle memory from the countless redos as well.

The last door opens.

It’s not quite as impressive as entering through the marble-tiled entrance hall on Fifth, you suppose, but when the smell of pages and dust hits you again as you ascend the stairs, you can’t help but release a small, content sigh.

You’ve not been to the Main Branch often, and not in a while, but usually when you’d peruse the countless rows of books, there’d be groups of children and tourists dotted between the densely packed shelves, the reading tables filled with overcaffeinated students and academics and librarians and the usual array of curious caricatures omnipresent in any library. It’d been quiet, sticky, lively, like a school library during finals week, and you didn’t hate it but it wasn’t quite like this.

It’s blissfully quiet.

Every step you take creaks softly as if you’re about to break through the wooden floorboards. Your pace only stays determined until you reach the main reading room, because you can’t help but stop in a spot of sunshine and close your eyes to breathe it in, this peaceful stillness of life and the wonderful, familiar smell of books. Just for a second.

When you open them again, Bucky is staring at you.

“I haven’t been in here since 1936,” he told you five days ago.

“Hasn’t changed a bit, I bet,” you said.

The way he tilted his head seemed so precious. Like he was walking through his memories right in front of you. “Well, I definitely remember the gift shop. And the computers.”

“We need to go downstairs,” you say now, shaking your head to resettle yourself in the never-ending present.

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Bucky asks, following you with his hands still in his pockets.

“Anything we can find on the astral plane. Which, sadly, isn’t a whole bunch.”

You can’t risk using the internal searching system on the library computers when you’re not even supposed to be in here, not unless you want to waste another afternoon getting caught, so the search to find even the right section has been quite tedious. There’s been a lot of running around in circles.

“Why?”

You just assume he’s not wondering why there’s not a lot of publicly available grimoires on magic shit. “Because Strange is an evasive asshole.”

There’s still no sign of life from anyone at Bleecker Street, or any of the Sanctums for that matter. Since no jet or plane would make it to Kamar-Taj in what limited hours you have, it seems the only way to reach Strange is in trying to get back to the astral dimension.

And figuring that out is a bitch.

“Weird,“ Bucky says, "that you two shouldn’t get along.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” you snort.

You watch him stride away through the aisles with a small grin, appearing aimless, before he invariably stops in front of the same shelf. With a shake of your head, you continue walking.

"What is it with you and Voltaire,” you murmur, not intending for him to hear.

“What’s wrong with Voltaire?” he still replies.

“Nothing,” you say, looking down the next aisle over. “Dense, is all.”

“We used to have this at home,” Bucky says, pulling the volume off the shelf. “I remember my ma tryin’ to get through it, but with the four of us, she never managed.”

You turn back towards him, surprised he’s offering you this glimpse into his past. “I didn’t know you had siblings.”

It’s a half-truth. He brings up Rebecca rarely enough, but the fact that there used to be even more Barnes children is news to you. You’re almost shocked he’s mentioning it at all. Maybe it’s a mistake.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s gaze is still absent, the memories clinging to him like fog. It makes you want to wipe them away gently.

You turn down the aisle sharply, not waiting for him to follow as you push through a door.

The upstairs library is already huge, but it’s nothing compared to the countless rows of stacks hidden downstairs and underground. It’s taken you almost two days to gain some semblance of orientation in this maze, and it takes you almost five minutes to find the shelf you were looking at yesterday. It doesn’t help your confusion in the slightest that the books seem to be mostly organized by size instead of topic.

With a sigh, you carry another stack of volumes to one of the reading tables. The additional trouble with doing research on a single day with everything constantly resetting while you’re running out of time is that there’s really no good way for you to take notes. You only have so much real estate on your own skin that you can comfortably reach in a public space, and there’s a spot right below your elbow that you keep empty.

You’ve been combing through all kinds of books on mysticism, but most of it has been a bunch of baloney and esoteric nonsense. While the theory of an astral plane is already hard enough for you to grasp, the practical step-by-step guide to getting there is either decidedly under-researched or they’re deliberately keeping it from you.

You’re about to put another book to the side after it tells you to meditate when you can hear Bucky approaching from the stacks behind you.

“Any luck yet?”

“Depends,” you sigh. “Are you ready to take the next step in redefining your relationship with Jesus? Because, boy, do I have the almanac for you.”

“I’m good,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of amusement in his voice. You bury your head in your hands.

Every day, it’s harder to look at him.

He doesn’t say it, but you see the determination in his eyes each day, the absolute certainty that today is the day. The last one.

It always is, for him, and his unexpected faith in you shatters you to the core. Meanwhile, you’re not even capable of asking for help.

“It’s not your fault, Twelve,” Bucky says, and you flinch.

“Of course it’s my fault,” you say quietly. “Who do you think got us into this mess.”

“So you set out to kill me repeatedly?”

You shoot up straight. “Of course not!”

Bucky just leans against the table next to you, flicking through one of the books without paying it any attention. You press your lips together.

“What difference does it make, though? We’re here anyway.”

“If you don’t know that already, I don’t know how to tell you,” he says calmly.

None, you think. It makes zero difference, and you both know it, even though he’s nice or smart enough to not tell you to your face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, once again, because lately all you want to do is apologize to him, no matter how many times he forgets.

Bucky frowns, but before he can say something else that will undoubtedly break your composure completely, you quickly clear your throat.

“Could you get me this one book down, actually? It’s on the top shelf and, well …” Stretching is still a struggle.

He shrugs and follows you back into the labyrinth. The silence tears at you in a way it hasn’t before, and you twist your fingers in front of your chest. You never look at your rings anymore.

“I never asked,” Bucky says casually, dragging the fingers of his right hand along the spines as you keep looking for the book you’re after. “Do you have any siblings?”

Your hands still.

For a moment, you consider telling him. About your family. About the life you used to have, before everything. It seems so long ago, now, almost like a distant dream. You don’t dwell on it too long.

“Ask me tomorrow?” Your voice is thin.

He follows your gaze to the shelf and easily picks out the book you want. His eyes are very blue when he turns back to you, his head slightly tilted to the side. “Are you gonna tell me then?”

You swallow as you slowly take the book out of his hands and hold it against your chest. “Remember to ask me,” you say, almost pleadingly, “and I might.”

He doesn’t, so you don’t. It shouldn’t hurt.

* * *

“Here’s what I don’t get,” Sam says, leaning back in his chair. “You said you only saw Strange once. Shouldn’t that happen every day, if you’re stuck in a time loop?”

You want to yell, and yell, and never stop.

“Theoretically, yes,” you say, again. “Our time, here, is looped. But Bucky’s right.”

“Hear that?” Bucky tells Sam. You both ignore him.

“Every time I go back in time, I essentially switch realities, except right now, that’s not happening because we’re stuck on repeat. That’s not true for the astral plane though, because it’s a different reality. So Strange can do whatever he wants, because he’s not part of the loop.”

“I’m getting a headache,” Sam says.

“Get in line, man,” Bucky remarks. “I’m apparently dying.”

“We’re missing something,” you say, staring at the plexiglass board until your eyes start burning.

“Sanity?” Sam suggests.

“Well, let’s think about this rationally,” Bucky says, voice only slightly laced with sarcasm. “How many other times do we know something like this has happened?”

You pull up the list of movies you already had ready for this question, pointing at them one by one. “Endless loop. Saving each other, that’s not working out so far. That one was terrible.” You let out a heavy breath of air. “I guess we could try threatening Loki and see if it helps.”

“Loki’s dead, though.”

“Mhm, right.” You scroll to the bottom. “Well, I guess that leaves blowing ourselves up, then. Can’t hurt.”

“Sounds like a Friday night to me,” Bucky says.

“Alright, lemmings one and two, let’s calm down again,” Sam cuts in. “You said it’s because of the mission, right? Why don’t you just sit this one out, then?”

You roll your eyes. “Haven’t heard that before.”

“I’m not letting the two of you go in there alone if these guys are dangerous enough to get one of us killed,” Bucky predictably says.

“I can call Torres for backup,” Sam tries. “Or, I don’t know, one of those guys in midtown.”

“Give it up, Sam,” you interrupt. “He’s not going to listen. We’ve been over this every day.”

“Well, is there any part of the mission we—”

“Any part of the mission we overlooked?” you cut him off, voice getting louder until you’re shouting. “I don’t know, because every time I think I’ve got everything covered, something new pops up, and nothing fucking changes anyway! And then we’re here again, over and over, and I’m starting to go insane!”

Alpine hisses at you from her place on Bucky’s lap.

“You do realize we’re trying to help. Don’t you,” Sam says, so calmly that your anger dissipates immediately. The usual wave of guilt hits you, instead, and you bite the inside of your cheek until you draw blood.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s just—everywhere I look, there’s a roadblock.”

“I know.” Sam pinches his nose as he stares at the board. “I’m guessing you’ve tried the Groundhog Day option?”

Your heart drops.

Usually, you see this coming, but your thoughts are too muddled today. You feel the heat rising to your cheeks and Bucky scrunches his eyebrows together.

“What’s the Groundhog Day option?”

“It wouldn’t work,” you say sharply, sending Sam a glare. He seems entertained by it.

“And how’d you know that?”

“Because it’s a movie,” you hiss. “And a stupid one at that, things don’t work in real life like they do in a Hollywood film!”

“Hey!” Bucky says loudly. “No ignoring the dying man. What’s the Groundhog Day option?”

“You guys fucking breaks the loop,” Sam answers before you can stop him. Alpine jumps to the floor and parades away. For the first time, you admire her.

“Oh,” Bucky says, after a painfully long pause.

“Yeah. Oh.” You don’t meet his eye. “Like I said, it’s stupid. And it isn’t how time works.”

“It doesn’t work by you accidentally creating a loop either, though, does it,” Bucky says, nodding at your half-hearted drawings on the board.

“Bucky, I’m not going to sleep with you just in case. That’s not even how it works in the goddamn movie,” you say with a pointed look at Sam, who shrugs.

“I just thought I’d ask.”

“Hold on a second,” Bucky interjects, cheeks slightly tinged, “so you’d rather I keep dying than just see if it works?”

“What?” Your face is burning. So are his eyes. “No, I—it’s just not that easy.”

“Sounds pretty straightforward to me,” he argues.

“It’s not about the sex!” The words tumble out of your mouth to the beat of your heart. “He has to fall in love with her, that’s what breaks his loop in the movie. It’s a completely different situation!”

There’s a beat where the two of you stare at each other before Bucky’s face goes blank of emotion.

“Right.” He nods, his jaw set tight.

Something inside you curls. “Sam, could you give us a minute?”

Sam looks between the two of you uncomfortably. It’s clear he doesn’t particularly want to stay, but he doesn’t want to leave the two of you alone, either. “You sure?”

“Not necessary,” Bucky says, standing up. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he says, and the iciness in his voice freezes you to the spot. “And don’t follow me!”

You flinch as the door slams shut behind him.

“That went well,” Sam says.

“Really?” You glare at him. “Did you have to bring up fucking Groundhog Day?”

“Sorry that my frame of reference for breaking a time loop isn’t wider than nineties pop culture,” he says, crossing his arms. “Also, I don’t see what the problem is.”

You stare at him and his expectantly raised eyebrows. Your heart is still thundering.

“I don’t fucking have time for this,” you say, and turn your back.

* * *

When you enter the kitchen, it takes you a moment to realize that Sam is still on the phone.

“That’s nice,” he says, nodding his head to acknowledge you. “No. Nah, but I’m leaving now. Yeah. Tell them hi from me, okay. Okay. You, too. See ya.”

“How’s Sarah?” you ask after he ends the call.

“Good. She’s good.” He starts folding up the recycling and you can’t bring yourself to tell him there’s no need. “They’re hosting the barbecue again this year, so the boys are thrilled.”

“Sounds lovely,” you say, twisting your necklace between your fingers.

“It’s chaos.” He laughs. “Man, I miss ‘em. Always feels like it’s been too long.”

Even longer than he is able to remember, you think with a pang in your heart.

“Why didn’t you fly home for the holiday?” you ask.

“Because,” Sam says, rolling his shoulders, “I can’t just be uncle Sam for Cass and AJ today, I have to be uncle Sam for the whole country. That’s my part on America’s day now.” He shrugs it off. “Just how it is.”

“I’m sorry,” you say. It’s hard for you to imagine how he is able to handle all of this pressure, the scrutiny, the weight of everyone’s expectations on his back. You can barely handle your own life, and what’s that, by comparison?

“Don’t be.” His neck cracks and he sighs quietly. “Kinda signed up for this, didn’t I?”

You look at the shield, casually placed on the kitchen counter, waiting for him to pick it up on the way out. It’s always looked heavier than it is.

“Besides,” Sam continues, “pizza is almost as good as homemade hot dogs.”

You successfully swallow down your slight gag. “It’s not that far to Louisiana. There’s still time for that hot dog.”

He knows what you’re doing, and so his lopsided grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “Let’s get our cyborg through the day, alright? I’ll see her soon enough.”

He squeezes your shoulder and heads for his room to change.

His words tug at something deep inside you, long after he’s closed the door behind him. Something you have to keep locked, normally, deep in the core of your ribcage, like an unruly bird, because otherwise it’ll keep breaking free and rendering you unable to move.

You sit crosslegged on the floor next to your window, your back to the wall, just like she used to. You feel ridiculous, but that birdlike thing inside compels you and you’re weak. The back of your closet seems to scream your name, begging you to keep digging until you find the sad remnants of an embrace in a soft piece of fabric.

You ignore it.

Still, your phone finds its way into your hand, and before you can stop yourself you’re scrolling through abysmally few contacts, your finger hovering over one of them for a whole ten seconds before you press it. There’s no air in your lungs as it rings an infinite amount of times, and then—

“You’ve reached Nat.”

Her voice is like a kiss on the forehead and an ice cold shower at the same time. The room in front of you starts to blur.

“I obviously can’t talk right now, but I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s about one of the kids, try the main office. Thanks!”

“Hey, Natasha,” you say a few seconds after the beep, your voice thick. “It’s me. I just … I wanted to tell you that I really miss your voice.”

You laugh wetly, because already, it’s fading from your memory again. A tear rolls down your cheek.

“So sappy, I know, but it’s true. I miss you, and I really need you today. Every day, actually.” The lump in your throat grows. “Sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me. I love you, Nat.”

You end the call and throw your phone on the floor, not caring if it breaks.

Normally, when you cry like this, you halt the world. Your emotions aren’t for anyone to witness, not like this. Not when everything is spinning and every gasp for air makes your entire body shake.

Now, though, you’re left with no other option than to have it keep moving with you, each passing second making the temporal rift between you and her larger.

You are incapable of saving anyone, no matter your promise. Useless.

You don’t hear the knock on the door, only his voice on the other side.

“Y/N? Can I come in?”

You clap your hand over your mouth so hard even more tears spring to your eyes, desperately trying to slow your breathing. You find yourself nodding.

“No!” you shout, and it sounds pathetically whiny.

He can’t see you like this, not when you look as broken as you feel. Your insides are twisting, screaming, yearning for someone to rock you in their lap and tell you everything is going to be alright.

But they’re all gone.

You have no one.

“Please?” he says again, and something about the way he does makes white-hot anger course through you.

You barely notice yourself rising to your feet, blindly grabbing the first thing within reach and throwing it with everything you have left in you. Your lamp crashes to the floor, the screen off center, the bulb shattering into a million pieces. Your alarm clock is next, the screen only cracking before you smash it against the wall and it finally stops its incessant ticking. You sweep everything off your desk with a swing of your blood-stained pillow, not caring about the noise or the damage or anything, really.

Your actions have no consequences anymore.

Pictures and books and clothes all fall victim to your wrath for the second time, and you step on them all, kicking and shoving until there’s a crack underneath your heel and you wince.

The splintered frame hurts more than the shards. You couldn’t care less about your own face, unrecognizable underneath the broken glass, but Natasha and Steve’s wide grins have also been shattered by the fall. It’s almost poetic, in a horrible way, and when you wrap your arms around yourself and stumble backwards, you notice that you’re shaking.

“Please,” you whisper, sure it’s too quiet for anyone to hear, sure that by now, he’s long gone.

The door opens, anyway.

You don’t turn away from the picture, tears falling silently now. He gingerly steps over your mess until he’s so close you can feel him right behind you. It takes you another minute to catch your breath enough to speak.

“It’s not fair,” you say quietly, voice still quivering. “I know I’m cursed, but why is it that everyone else has to pay? Why her? Why you?”

“You’re not cursed,” Bucky says and you laugh mirthlessly.

“No, I am. I damned myself and I’m taking everyone else down with me, and I don’t even know … I don’t know how to stop this.”

“Twelve—”

“Don’t—” you start, but you don’t have the energy anymore. It’s all been drained from you. Bucky sighs.

“Powers or not, you’re still in control of your actions.”

It only makes you cry harder.

“Can I—” He clears his throat. “Can I give you a hug?”

And it’s so easy to turn, finally, and to find yourself enveloped by his arms, your fingers digging into his shirt so tightly it has to hurt, but he doesn’t say anything. His heartbeat is so loud when you’re this close, so alive, and he holds you through the next shaky fall of tears, warm and steady, hands pressing tightly against your back as if to remind you he’s still here.

At least for now.

“Step on my feet,” he tells you softly, so you can tell it’s a request, not a demand. “There are shards everywhere and you’re already bleeding.”

You do so, hesitantly, and Bucky clears the way out for both of you, slowly walking backwards with you leaning on him until you reach the threshold.

You barely notice as he sits you down on a bed, only whimpering as he carefully pries your fingers from his shirt to retreat a step from you, taking his warmth with him.

“I’ll be right back, doll.”

He squeezes your hands before he lets go, and you fall back on the bed in shameful exhaustion. You can feel your mind drifting, as if you’re in a trance, your limbs heavy by your side. Something at the back of your head seems to tingle, like a memory or an inkling.

And then you feel the pull again.

This time, instead of falling it’s like treading waters, onwards and upwards through a thick, gooey resistance in the air, fighting the urge to open your eyes, incredibly aware of every itch in your body until … you’re not.

You feel very light, somehow, as if you’ve been carrying a heavy backpack that’s no longer dragging you down. Hesitantly, you open your eyes.

Odd angles and off colors, and the still disconcerting sight of your own body sleeping in bed.

Your gaze drops to your wrist. The now familiar band of green symbols is still wrapped around it, but when you concentrate, you can feel the slightest glimmer of your powers in that empty void inside of you.

Different realities. He was right.

“You’re back, then.”

A mad laugh escapes you as you drop your hand. “Really? That’s all?”

Strange raises an eyebrow at you, his cloak flapping slightly. He’s sitting at your desk, seemingly without a care in the world, two steaming cups in front of him.

“Did you expect to be complimented for the bare minimum?” he asks, unperturbed. “Because then we’re both in for disappointment.”

“You know what?” you say sharply, straightening up. “A single nice word would be great! You have no idea, no clue what I am going through here!”

“What you are going through?” He takes a sip of tea. “Imagine how Sergeant Barnes must feel.”

Again, you feel rage bubbling up inside you. “That is all I imagine! Okay? I am failing him every single day, over and over again. And he doesn’t even really know it, which makes it worse because he still thinks that somehow, I’m going to save him, even though it’s all my fault!”

“Contrition. How refreshing.” Strange’s cool gray eyes fixate on you. “Sit down.”

You stare at him blankly.

“Don’t mistake my presence here for kindness,” he says when you show no intentions of moving. “Your powers, left unchecked, continue to be a menace to the structure of space and time, and trust me, you don’t want to start tearing that down.”

“Or what?” you say.

“Chaos,” Strange answers. “Now sit. Down.”

You sit on the edge of your reading chair, not letting him out of your sight for a second. The other mug of tea scoots closer to your end of the table on its own. A sweet, herbal smell drifts over. You eye it warily.

“I can’t well poison you without a body,” Strange says, rolling his eyes. You suppose he has a point. “Here’s the deal,” he continues. “I am going to help you in exchange for honest answers.”

“You didn’t offer your help last time,” you mutter around the rim of your mug.

“You were too busy acting tough and shouting at me to ask for it. Most people don’t react too generously to that.”

The tea is both soothing and energizing at the same time; you’ve never tasted anything like it. “So I answer your questions and you help me … how?”

“Like I said, the only one capable of ending the loop is the one who started it in the first place.” Strange’s cloak points at you. You frown back at it. “But for that, you need a stronger hold on your powers.”

“And how do I do that, then?”

Strange’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he looks at you from head to toe. “Black tourmaline and silver.”

Reflexively, you reach for your necklace.

“A bit primitive, but effective, as it seems,” he continues. “Your own idea?”

You need him, you remind yourself. As much as it pains you.

“My mother’s,” you answer reluctantly.

“Of course.” Strange puts his fingertips together in a triangle, thinking. “That’d keep others from sniffing up your powers from miles away. Smart woman, your mother. Quick thinking. But that’s not all, is it?”

“Listen, doc, I’m not going to tell you my life story unless you give me something in return,” you say, putting your empty mug back on the desk. “What are we going to do about my powers?”

Strange reaches into thin air and his hand vanishes in a mirror crack. When he pulls it back, he’s holding a book in it that he throws into your lap. “You get to studying.”

* * * * *

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you said later that evening, staring at the ceiling. A content sort of exhaustion had started to set in, but none of you were ready to call it a night quite yet.

“Of course,” Natasha said from her upside-down position on the couch, continuing to play with Steve’s hand in her lap.

You pushed up to your elbows. “Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really,” Steve answered without so much as a pause.

“Seriously?” Nat turned her head towards him. “You don’t think there might be a reason we’re sitting here right now?”

“Sure I do.” He booped her nose with their entwined fingers. “We’re here because we chose to be here. Like I chose to take the serum and you chose to escape the Red Room.”

The quick shadows dancing across her face made you wonder whether Steve didn’t know everything about Natasha’s past, either. You sat up slowly, crossing your feet underneath you.

“So you don’t think there’s one way things are supposed to go, some grand plan or scheme or whatever, and we just … I don’t know. Pretend we can mess with it?” You fiddled around with your necklace.

“Nah,” Steve said with a tired smile. “Everyone can change something.”

“That’s putting a lot of faith in individuals, isn’t it?” Natasha asked.

“What do you think, then?”

She thought about it, wriggling her toes in the air. Her nails were painted as red as the roots of her hair. “I like the thought of serendipity,” she finally settled on.

You grinned. “You mean, you like the movie Serendipity, you sap.”

She threw a pillow at your head and you laughed. “I will neither confirm nor deny that,” she said with a charming twinkle in her eye. “But that whole 'fate or free will’ thing—I don’t know, I just don’t think there’s a clear cut answer like that.”

Steve hummed. “So, happy accidents?”

“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “Sometimes. Not fated, just fortunate.”

“I think I like that,” you said thoughtfully, pressing the pillow to your chest.

“Why are you asking?” Natasha looked at you and you dropped your gaze.

“Just wondering,” you mumbled. You were pretty sure she knew, anyway.

Nat had a way of understanding things that bordered on the telepathic, an empathy that always seemed so out of place with everything else you’d learned about her, with what little you knew was in her past.

Whether or not there was a higher power behind it, it had to be a rare miracle in a series of coincidences that Natasha Romanoff had stayed as good as she did.

Serendipitous, almost.

Later, when you lay in bed and had the world stop to listen to your own heartbeat, you kept coming back to that thought. Green wisps of time curled around your fingers like shimmering jewelry, and you asked yourself if those accidents ever felt happy in the moment or if that was something you had to conclude later.

Maybe sometimes there was no way of telling at all.

part 1 | series masterlist

[leapingbadger]

When You Least Expect It - Chapter 23

Summary: Obi Wan and Cody struggle with tough decisions as disaster strikes...again.

*Hope it's okay to use this gif @raphaerolo. It makes me want to sob. It's so perfect! 🫶

Read on AO3

Excerpt:

Obi Wan had to hang around later than usual thanks to parent/teacher conferences. Cody swung by to pick Anakin and Ahsoka up and Obi Wan was struck by how domesticated they had become. So much like a family of four. He wasn’t sure why it had suddenly hit him at such a strange time, but seeing his fiancé care for his siblings as he would, it just drove home the fact that Cody was something special. And that Obi Wan was lucky they had found each other.

The house was quiet when Obi Wan got home. It wasn’t too late but while Cody sat in the kitchen, reading something on his phone while eating leftover spaghetti, Anakin and Ahsoka had disappeared to their respective rooms.

“Good evening, my love.” Obi Wan said, planting a soft kiss on Cody’s forehead and making for the fridge.

Cody grabbed the belt loop of his pants and pulled him back, bringing them lip to lip, even with a mouth full of food. Obi Wan chuckled.

“How’d it go?” Cody asked when he finally relinquished him.

Obi Wan shrugged and leaned against the counter, munching on a chocolate biscuit instead of getting himself some actual food. “You know, grinning and baring it while telling them their child still can’t tell the difference between their, there, and they’re.”

Cody laughed, “I bet that went down well.”

Obi Wan shrugged again, “Sometimes saying it in an English accent softens the blow, for the mothers at least. The fathers tend to take more offence.”

“I bet you had all the mothers and stepmothers falling at your feet.” Cody said with a proud smile.  

Obi Wan smiled back, “I think you’re overestimating my appeal, love.” He replied.

“I have it on good authority that at least three teachers have crushes on you, and one was planning on asking you out until you came back from winter break engaged.”

Obi Wan laughed outright, “Ahsoka has been known to bend the truth. Did she ask you for anything in return for this information?”

Cody shrugged, “A pony. What kind of wicked stepfather would I be if I didn’t play the game?”

Obi Wan stroked Cody’s face fondly, “there’s nothing wicked about you, my love, except perhaps your sense of humor and sex appeal. Which is frankly off the charts.”

Cody grinned, grabbing Obi Wan’s hips and pulling them closer. “I have to tell you, flattery will get you everywhere, fiancé.” He said, dropping his voice an octave and making Obi Wan positively weak in the knees.

“Do you mind holding that thought until I’ve eaten something. I have a feeling I may need the stamina.”

Cody grinned and the two perfect dimples on his cheeks glinted in the light of the kitchen. Seriously, how was this gorgeous creature his? It made no sense to him, even after all this time.

“I think I can handle that. I need to have a shower anyway. Had to help Rex on an install. Wolffe has the flu again.”

Obi Wan rolled his eyes as he dug a yogurt out of the fridge and surrendered to a less than stellar dinner. “How is that possible? he just had it three weeks ago.”

“Kids are germ magnets. You should know that.” Cody said with a shrug, his eyes silently judging Obi Wan’s choice of meal.

Cody headed upstairs while Obi Wan finished his yogurt, cleaned up the kitchen and checked on his siblings. Anakin was watching a movie while attempting to finish some math homework. Soka was curled up in bed, reading a book.

“Mrs. Day only had good things to say about you today.” He said as he peaked in the door.

“Did she say when I’d get my ruler back?” she asked hopefully, putting her book down.

Obi Wan couldn’t help but twist his mouth into a smile. Ahsoka had quite the reputation in school. If she hadn’t been such an excellent student or didn’t have such a righteous sense of right or wrong, she might have rubbed some teachers the wrong way. Luckily, that was far from her reality. She was universally loved by teachers and students alike.

“She said you could have it back if you promised to refrain from flicking spit balls at Tarkin.” He said.

Soka rolled her eyes but shook her head in agreement. “Fine, but he deserved it.” She said with a pout.

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Obi Wan said. “Perhaps there are other ways to get back at him that are more subtle.”

Ahsoka’s lips quirked up. “Like?”

Obi Wan held his hands up. “I’m afraid I can’t help with that. But I know you’ll come up with something.”

Soka cocked her head to the side. “You know, most big brothers wouldn’t tell their sister that revenge was okay.”

“I didn’t say revenge, Soka. But sometimes offense if the best form of defense and offence is often the only thing bullies like Tarkin respond to. Let’s just try not to break his nose this time. I’m not sure I can protect you from another suspension.”

“Got it.” She said with a little salute.

Obi Wan crossed into the room and kissed her on the head before heading to his room.

He heard the sound of the shower and started to slip off his pants, tempted to jump in with Cody, when his phone rang.

[overdosedandlooping]

Continuing with pen doodles