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24f multistan💚

[incorrectara]

Hold It | John Logan

Summary: Logan and the reader had a massive fight a week ago and haven't spoken to each other since. They cross paths at a party in the hockey house and Logan loses his shit watching you talk to someone else.

Pairings: john logan x gf!reader

Word Count: 5.4k (not proof-read)

Warnings: filth. absolute porn with some plot, MDNI (stay away children) little bit of angst. angry sex turned mushy. edging.

💌: I watched a video of angry logan and it made me lose my shit y'all. This is based on what i think angry logan would be like. This might have some plot holes pls ignore i was in the pits. (If y'all wanna watch the video, i reblogged it right before this post 😋) Also might write a short prequel to this, like what exactly happened in the fight, angst central station babayyy

The music from the off-campus hockey house wasn’t just simply filling the room, it was pulsing through the walls, rattling the windows, and vibrating through Logan's boots, the bassline matching the rhythm of his heartbeat. The bass was loud enough to blur conversations into background noise, but somehow every laugh, every shout, every burst of drunken cheering only seemed to increase his irritation.

The hockey house was packed full of drunk students, who were definitely going to regret the decisions made under the influence.

Someone was winning a beer pong game in the kitchen, their teammates erupting into cheers loud enough to make Logan lose his mind; another group was singing terribly to music that wasn't even playing. Couples squeezed past one another in narrow hallways, red cups spilling onto hardwood floors that had long since become sticky with alcohol.

The entire hockey team was there.

Garrett had his arm lazily slung around Hannah while Dean argued with Allie over some ridiculous card game. Tucker was laughing so hard he nearly dropped his drink, and Birdie was already halfway to being completely hammered. To everyone else, it was another Briar party.

But for John Logan, it was pure torture.

He stood near the kitchen island, one hand shoved into his jeans pocket while the other loosely held a sweating beer bottle he had long forgotten, opened twenty minutes ago. His beer was warm and untouched. His jaw had been clenched for so long it physically hurt.

He had plans to get absolutely hammered tonight, a small break after a whole week of extra practice, but all that went down the drain the moment he entered his living room.

Garrett noticed before anyone else did. Every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward Logan with increasing concern. He knew the expression that Logan had written all over his face. Logan wasn't just quiet, he was dangerously quiet, his shoulders completely locked and his jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the beer bottle so hard his knuckles were turning whiter by the second. It meant he was on a warpath.

Eyes fixed on one thing, he wasn’t listening to the music or whatever bullshit Dean was spewing in a drunken haze, his eyes were focused towards the corner of the living room, refusing to look away.

Garrett followed his gaze. ‘Oh, shit.’

His entire universe had narrowed down to a single corner of the living room.

To you.

You looked beautiful without even trying, a simple outfit that somehow made every other girl at the party disappear. Your hair was slightly messy from dancing; your cheeks were flushed with the light pink colour he loved.

For the first time in the past seven days, you looked happy, carefree, and peaceful.

A whole week.

Seven days since your fight.

Seven days since you both screamed until neither of you had anything left to say.

Seven days since he convinced himself that walking away was the mature thing to do.

For one brutal, agonizing week, Logan was trying to do the right thing. He was staying away. After that massive, exhausting fight about his erratic training schedule, the constant media pressure of the upcoming NHL draft, and the heavy cloud of your own insecurities, he convinced himself that you needed space. He thought he was being unselfish. He thought he was protecting you from the chaotic vortex of his life.

He repeated those excuses so many times that he almost started believing in them.

Almost, almost being the key word.

As he stared down at you, he was getting more and more pissed, not at you, rather, at the guy standing next to you.

He was some guy from a fraternity, probably rich, Logan could tell by the perfectly styled hair, the pearly white sneakers, and the expensive casual jacket. He was leaning in way too close, his mouth practically brushing your ear, to be heard over the speakers. He said something to you, flashing a dazzling practiced smile, and you giggled. Not the polite little laugh you gave to strangers. This was a real laugh, your head tilting back, your smile actually reaching your eyes.

The insides of Logan’s stomach twisted violently.

The guy smiled wider, looking at your lips. He said something else. You playfully rolled your eyes before nudging his shoulder slightly. It was innocent, most probably, but Logan couldn’t tell, he was already raging because jealousy had already painted everything in him red.

It felt like a physical blow to his chest. A toxic, overwhelming wave of pure, unadulterated jealousy flooded his veins, turning his blood to fire.

Watching another man step into the vacuum he had left behind, watching someone else try to make you laugh, try to catch your eye, try to charm his way into your life.

‘Who the fuck is he?’ the question echoed inside him.

‘Get the fuck away from her.’ The thought screamed through Logan’s head, obliterating every shred of his logic, his patience, and his self-control.

Garrett quietly appeared beside him, ‘You okay?’

Logan didn't answer.

‘Logan.’

Still nothing.

And then, the frat guy reached out. It was a casual, fleeting movement where he just had his hand resting on the bare skin of your forearm to emphasize a point, but to Logan, it was no less than a declaration of war.

It was gasoline thrown onto an open flame. His breathing had gone frighteningly slow.

The kind of calm that always came right before he lost every ounce of self-control.

Garrett looked from Logan to you, then back again. ‘Oh no, don't do it, Logan.’ Garrett muttered, trying to get him to stop.

He set the beer bottle down on the counter with a heavy clink and started moving.

He didn't politely navigate the crowded room, he cut through it. People instinctively stepped aside as the 6’2 hockey player cut a straight line across the living room, his broad shoulders forcing a path through laughing strangers who suddenly stopped laughing the moment they saw his face. He bumped a freshman out of the way without looking, his eyes locked entirely on the target.

His eyes never left yours. Never leaving the man standing far too close.

Before the guy could slide his hand down to your wrist, Logan stepped directly into the space between you and him, physically blocking the guy from your line of sight, his broad shoulders creating an impenetrable wall. A solid wall of muscle, anger, and barely restrained jealousy, his shadow falling over you.

The conversation around you died instantly.

‘Hey,’ Logan's voice cut through the noise like a blade; it was low, dangerous, and deep with an intensity that made the air feel suddenly thin. ‘We need to talk. Right now.’

Not a request. A demand.

You gasped, stumbling back half a step as the sudden, overwhelming scent of cedar cologne, and familiar warmth filled your nostrils. Your eyes traveled up his chest, past the silver chain resting on his tense collarbone, only to find Logan staring down at you. His dark eyes were flashing, wide and wild with a possessive anger that made your stomach do a violent flip. You knew that look very well, ‘Logan?’, you breathed, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. Then, your own defensive walls flew up, ‘What the fuck? What are you doing? I'm in the middle of a conversation.’

‘I don't care,’ Logan breathed, not breaking eye contact with you for even a fraction of a second. He tilted his head just enough to address the guy behind him, his tone dropping into a lethal, quiet growl, ‘Walk away, man, right now. Unless you want a problem.’

And every person standing close enough to witness it immediately understood one thing, the party was about to become the least interesting thing happening in the house.

You stared at him in disbelief. Every muscle in his body looked coiled so tightly you thought he might actually snap.

The guy beside you awkwardly cleared his throat, looked at Logan’s rigid posture, the clenched fists at his sides, and the terrifying look of the massive hockey player ready to tear someone apart. He raised his hands in a mock gesture of surrender, ‘Uh man, I was just- easy man, no trouble,’ he muttered, quickly melting back into the safety of the crowded living room. He disappeared into the crowd so quickly it almost looked like he had been swallowed by it.

You rounded on Logan immediately, ‘Are you completely insane?’, you yelled, the words hitting hard as the sheer audacity of what he just did hit you. ‘You don't get to do that Logan. You can’t just march over here, act like a caveman, and scare off people who I'm talking to! We are on a "break" Logan! Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘A break does not mean you let some idiot frat guy put his hands on you, in MY house!’, Logan yelled back, his voice thick with a mixture of rage, desperation, and suffocating jealousy.

Garrett leaned against the kitchen doorway with Hannah beside him, both of them watching carefully. Dean muttered something under his breath. Allie stood there with a hand on her mouth. Tucker was in the backyard, tending to a puking Birdie.

The room suddenly felt far too aware of the two of you. Logan noticed it too. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

‘We are not doing this out here’, he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. ‘Come with me.’

Before you could fire back another retort, ‘I'm not asking.’

‘And I'm not agreeing.’

His hand found your wrist, his fingers curling loosely around it. His palm was warm against your skin, his grip firm enough to stop you from storming off but loose enough that you could've pulled away if you'd really wanted to.

‘Come on,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. You rolled your eyes, giving an exaggerated tug against his hold.

‘Logan.’

‘Five minutes.’

‘You don't get to-’

‘I'm asking for five damn minutes.’

‘John.’

‘Please.’

The word stopped you. Not because it was loud. Because it was broken. He sounded broken and he never sounded like that before.

‘I'll walk.’ you said quietly.

He yanked you forward, turning on his heel and pulling you up the stairs of the hockey house.

He reached the end of the hall, kicked his bedroom door open with the heel of his boot, pulled you inside, and slammed the door shut behind him. He threw the lock with a sharp, definitive click, instantly silencing the outside world in the safety of his room.

The sudden silence in the bedroom was heavy; it felt as if you would explode any given moment, charged with electricity.

‘Don't you dare touch me when you're acting like a lunatic,’ you breathed, pulling your arm back the moment he released his grip. You backed away until the edge of his wooden desk pressed against your lower back, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. You were trembling, a mix of adrenaline, anger, and a deep, agonizing hurt threatening to spill over. ‘You don't own me, Logan. You don't get to dictate who I talk to, who I smile at, who I want.’

‘You think I want to feel like this?’ Logan exploded. He couldn't stay still. He began pacing the length of the hardwood floor like a man losing his bearing, his fingers aggressively gripping and dragging through his dark hair, disheveling it.

He stopped abruptly, pivoting to face you, his chest heaving violently under his shirt. ‘I’ve been going out of my mind for the goddamn week! I haven't slept a full night. I can't focus on the ice, Jensen chewed my ass out twice today because I'm completely checked out. And why? Because every time I close my eyes, I wonder what you're doing. And then I walk into my own living room and see you smiling at some guy who doesn't know a single real thing about you? Some guy who looks at you like you're some prize he can just casually win for the night?’

‘He is my classmate, Logan! We were literally talking about the syllabus for a group project!’, you shouted back, tears of frustration and hurt stinging the backs of your eyes. ‘But you wouldn't know that, because instead of talking to me like a normal human being, you just explode! You panic, you push me out, you tell me you need to focus on your future, walk out on me and then you get mad when I try to just exist in the same room as you!’

‘Because the thought of you not being in my life is killing me,’ Logan bellowed, his voice cracking on the last word. His admission hung in the air, raw and bleeding.

In two long strides, Logan closed the distance between the two of you. He didn't stop until he was looming over you, his shadow completely enveloping you. He was so close you could feel the radiating heat of his body, could see the tiny amber flecks in his dark eyes, wild with an agonizing vulnerability.

‘Even the thought of it makes me physically sick to my stomach,’ he whispered, his jaw trembling, ‘I saw him touch your arm, and I lost my shit, I wanted to destroy everything in sight. I'm sorry I'm a mess. I'm sorry I don't know how to handle this perfectly or calmly. But don't you dare stand there and act like what we have is just some casual thing you can walk away from.’

God, he looked so hot. Jealousy was such a good look on him, it practically made your mouth water. It was as if he sensed you being turned on by his outburst, or maybe he just saw the way you squeezed your legs together when he came closer to you; nothing went past this man.

‘You're mine,’ he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, turning rough and gravelly. ‘I don't share, baby. You know that very well.’

Oh, this motherfucker knew all right. He knew what he was doing; he knew what this was doing to you.

Your breath hitched. The anger in his eyes wasn't a turn-off for you, not even close, and he knew that. The raw, possessive intensity of it sent a thrill straight down your spine, going places that made you want to jump his bones. Your eyes dropped to his chest, focusing on the way the silver chain rose and fell with his heavy breathing. Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers hooking around the cold metal of the chain, tugging him just a fraction of an inch closer.

‘Then do something about it, John,’ you challenged, your voice a sultry whisper, ‘Stop pacing and show me. Prove it to me. Prove that I’m yours.’

The anger was still there, buzzing like a live wire between your bodies, but it was twisting, morphing into a desperate, passionate hunger that neither of you could fight anymore.

Logan’s eyes darkened to black. He clenched his jaw so hard, you could see the muscle tense, and for a split second, the room went entirely still. And then, he snapped.

In one fluid motion, his hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your supple bottom. He didn't just pull you in, he lifted you completely off your feet from the table, your legs wrapping around his waist like clockwork, and crowded you back onto the mattress. The impact wasn't enough to hurt, cushioned by the heavy blankets, but it was authoritative enough to make you gasp. Before you could even blink, Logan was hovering over you, pinning your wrists on either side of your head with a grip like iron.

‘You want me to do something about it?’ he growled, his face inches from yours. His chest was pressed flush against yours, the ribbed cotton of his tank top hot against your skin. ‘You think this is a game, baby?’

‘I think you're all talk right now,’ you rasped out, intentionally baiting him.

Logan let out a low whisper, ‘Yeah, baby?’ that vibrated directly against your ribs. He released one of your wrists, only to slide his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into your cheek to tilt your head back. He stared at your cheeks squished between his fingers, and suddenly he came down on your mouth with a ferocity that stole the oxygen right out of your lungs.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was punishing and demanding. He tasted so good. Oh! How much you had missed him.

His tongue parted your lips with zero hesitation, claiming your mouth with a rough dominance that made your toes curl. You tried to arch up into him, but his weight was like a heavy anchor pinning you down. The feeling of his tongue exploring the crevices of your mouth made you unbelievably down bad for him, you moaned against his mouth.

When he finally pulled back for air, his lips were wet and his breathing ragged. The silver chain dangled down, the cold metal brushing against your collarbone, creating a shocking contrast to the burning heat of his skin. Fuck, him looking like this was doing things to you. ‘Logan, off’, you whimpered, your fingers instantly finding the hem of his black tank, wanting it off, wanting to feel him against you.

‘No honey’ he muttered, grabbing your hands and pinning them back above your head. He looked down at you, a wicked smirk playing on his lips despite the lingering tension in his shoulders. ‘I'm still mad at you. You don't get to dictate the pace tonight, you're going to be a good girl tonight and you're going to listen.’

He shifted his weight, his knee forcing your legs apart as he wedged himself between them. The friction of his jeans against you felt unbearable. Logan reached down, his fingers working the button and zipper of your skort with a rough impatience. He didn't bother being gentle as he tugged the fabric down your legs and tossed it carelessly onto the floor, along with your revealing top.

You were left in your underwear, completely exposed to his burning gaze. Logan took a moment to look at you, his eyes sweeping over your body with an intensity that made you flush from head to toe. ‘Beautiful,’ he muttered, though his voice was still rough around the edges, ‘So fucking beautiful and all mine.’ His lips find your neck, finding your sweet spot almost instantaneously, sucking softly which unravels you even more as you wither under him, trying to get a semblance of relief.

‘John, please’

‘You drive me insane, you know that?’, his mouth crashes onto yours as you gasp into him, fingers curling into his black tank which is fitting him so well that it makes your mouth water. You tugged on his hair, eliciting a guttural groan from his throat, his mouth moving from your now swollen lips to your neck, then chest , leaving a string of deep red marks, his hands feeling up your body once more, your nerves heightened with every grab and squeeze. You're whining, teeth clashing as he's biting at your bottom lip.

Your hips moving against him, grinding softly against him and he pulls away, ‘What did I tell you baby? It sure is a shame that you acted out today, you could've gotten my mouth or my fingers, I know how much you love those’ he begins, crawling on top of you, the dip of his weight pushing you back down.

‘But you're just going to get my cock, deep and rough until I make sure you aren't able to walk for a week straight.’

With that, your legs are pulled apart, panties practically ripped from your lower half as he throws them to the side like he's tearing open a christmas present.

Your bra is gone in what feels like seconds, making things easier and a lot more satisfying for him. His hands on your body feel hot and rough, but so right in so many ways. His aggressiveness only turns you on more, you're soaked and practically leaking down your thighs, moving and clamping your legs together to get some sort of relief from the emptiness you've felt all week.

His hands grip your tits vicariously as he starts to knead them, suck and bite them, making you whimper out as he runs his hands down your hips. He is latched onto your chest as if it's something he has been craving for so long, leaving red harsh hickeys all over.

‘Such a pretty body baby. I'm going to prove just how much you're mine, can't wait to ruin you.’ Your heart is hammering in your chest so loud you can hear it beating in your ears, and suddenly he's leaning up, one hand cupping your cheek, covering the side of your face as his lips harshly connect back to yours.

‘Will you let me?’ he almost whispers, eyes darkened with desire and hunger. You can't help but to feel warmth wash over your entire body as you look up at him. You know that he's asking for your permission, your consent king. Only John can make angry sex consensual, and the thought makes you giggle a little.

‘Yes john, I want you.’ He didn't waste any more time. He stripped off his own sweatpants, leaving him in all his glory. The sight of him, broad, muscular, clad only in that black tank and the damn silver chain, was enough to make your mouth go dry. He looked completely feral. As he took off his boxers, you saw his cock spring up, looking so hard, all red, angry and delicious.

And in an instant, your legs are being wrapped around his muscular torso, heels digging into his tailbone as he places one arm to your side and the other gripping the swell of your soft hip as teases your clit with it, you arched into his touch, a choked sob escaping you as his dick found your clit, rubbing softly, making you wither under him with a soft string of curses leaving your mouth.

‘John, please,’ you begged, your hips moving instinctively.

He hooked his hands under your knees, pushing them back toward your chest, opening you up completely to him. Taking his cock into his hands, he positioned himself, eyes locking onto yours. There was no hesitation, no slow teasing anymore as Logan pushed forward, driving himself deep inside you in one heavy thrust; he slammed into you.

A loud gasp tore from your throat, your fingers instantly flying up to grip his shoulders as your fingernails dug into the taut muscles of his back, but he didn't even flinch from it. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his chest heaving against yours. The silver chain swung gently, resting against your throat. You wrapped one hand around the metal links, holding him close, his cock stretching you out and filling you up with a sweet stinging sensation as you got used to the feeling.

‘Fuck, you're so tight,’ Logan groaned, his eyes closing for a brief second as he fought for control, pulling himself out and glancing down at the glistening wetness that is coating his dick before pushing himself back in, your hand clawing his back and holding him even closer by the chain.

The only thing you can focus on is the gorgeous man on top of you, his sturdy body hovering over yours as he begins to pound into you. ‘John, oh god fuck’, you cry out, feeling so full of him. The pace he set was punishingly fast and rough, a brutal, driving rhythm, his hips slamming against yours with a raw force that had the bed creaking loudly against the wall. Every thrust was deep, hitting the exact spot that sent electric shocks of pleasure through your entire body. You were completely at his mercy as he gripped your waist, his large fingers digging into your skin to hold you as he hammered into you. He was taking all his frustration, all his jealousy, and pouring it into you.

‘Look at me baby, I bet you talked with him on purpose huh baby? Just to feel my cock? Just to get me riled up into fucking you till you're shaking like a mess under me? Sneaky princess, ’ he coos, reaching up to stroke your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb as he looks at you as if you're the best meal he's had all week.

You can't even muster any words, not when he's fucking you like this, so hard that the bed is practically moving off its hinges and if you tried to speak, all that came out was whimpers and moans. Your eyes are rolled back as you arch your back, feeling him even deeper inside. He then glances down, slowing his pace as he takes one of your hands off his shoulder and places it on your lower abdomen. He looks back up at you with cocky, treacherous eyes, his large hand placed up on yours as he presses down against your belly, resuming his pace fucking you into the mattress. ‘You feel that baby? I’m all the way up there, princess. Pussy is made for me, isn't it?’

You can't contain the whimper that spills out from your throat as he lets you grip his shoulder again. He takes full pride in seeing you quiver and shake under him, cheeks all red and flustered, eyebrows pulled together as your eyes roll back in pleasure. ‘Please, please don't stop baby, fuck’, you beg, needing to feel full of him for as long as possible. You felt him hit the soft spot inside you and let out a hard whimper, crying out his name.

‘Am I gonna make you cum, baby? Are you gonna make a mess around my cock?’ He's kissing your neck now, warm wet lips on your skin as he nips and sucks at your sweet spot.

‘Yes, y-yes! Fuck, Lo, please let me cum.’, you whimper, trying to hold on to him as best as possible as he fucks you exactly how you like.

‘If you can hold out, I'll let you cum the second.’, he says back, voice husky and rough as his forehead gleams with the layer of sweat making him look ethereal, as his painfully handsome face hovers only inches away from yours. You squeeze out a small yes, one of his hands moving in between the two of you. You suddenly become hyper aware of what he's about to do.

Two fingers are placed on your sensitive clit, before he begins rubbing in harsh, sharp circles. ‘Fuck, Logan, I can't last when you, oh fuck’, you moan, nails digging into his bulging biceps as he holds himself up, one arm between your bodies as he continues to make your mind melt into a puddle.

‘Hold it.’ his voice is demanding and serious, eyes looking into yours with such intensity. Your bottom lip is between your teeth as you struggle to hold in your orgasm. ‘That's it, baby, hold it for me, ’ he encourages, taking his hand off and watching you come back down from the edge.

He dips down, taking your breasts in his mouth to keep you preoccupied before he denies you another orgasm. You moan out, hands flying to his dark array of curls. You nearly cry as he takes his mouth off and brings his hand back down between your legs, taking a hold of your clit. ‘Logan, please, I can't-’ He interrupts you with a rough kiss. You can't help but nod as you look at him, cheeks flushed and lips swollen, pupils blown out in a feral state as his heavy body ruts against yours, hips working at an impossibly fast pace.

Even with how rough he's being, you can still feel warm on the inside from the closeness between the two of you. You can feel every muscle flexing underneath his skin, his tummy pressed up against yours and his thighs rubbing up against the outside of your own. Your walls stretch around him, and wetness makes his movement so utterly smooth, coaxing his cock deeper. He wont admit but he has needed you this whole meek. It felt as if it had been ages since he had you under him like this, a quivering mess. He needed to let out some of the anger, and hell, even the fear.

You are the only thing that makes him feel better, nothing else will ever or could ever put him at ease like you do.

‘Logie fuck, please let me cum.’ you were so wet and incoherent, your wetness leaking all over him, making it so slick and easy.

He clenched his jaw, trying to stay focused as the effects of his own pleasure were getting the best of him. You simply have something no one else does, the feeling of you is not only one of a kind, but something he won't ever be able to get enough of.

‘Hold it baby, just a little bit longer.’ and you did, you tried your best to hold it together, your lower abdomen screaming for release, the build up was such a euphoric high, that everything around you felt unreal, especially Logan, until he stopped for the second time. Leaving you with an empty feeling as his pace shifted once again. You whine at the feeling of another edge that he left incomplete.

He slings your legs over his wide shoulders, the new position allowing his cock to hit the bundle of nerves resting deep within you.

‘Oh, yes Loge- fuck.’, you cry out, his massive hands gripping your thighs as he looks down watching himself disappear in you.

‘Look at how beautiful you are baby, can't even stay mad at you, can I?’ he coos, kissing right above your left knee as he fucks you into oblivion. At this point he couldn't even hold up his act.

You feel that burning pressure in your abdomen again, tingling prickling you in your oversensitive areas. You can tell he's close too, just by the way his face pouts, and his cheeks get sucked in. He gets this look in his eyes and starts making some noises which are music to your ears. The sight of him fucking you with such relentlessness and rigour does something to you, you start to unravel, the buildup becoming too much to handle.

‘I cant- please Logie please- please-’ he cuts you off, rubbing up and down your thighs softly, still fucking you at a pace too hot to handle, ‘Come for me, my sweet girl’

And you're completely done for, your legs attempting to clamp together as the blissful feeling washes over you, hitting you so so hard after two denied orgasms, radiating up your spine as your walls convulse around him. Looking at you unraveling under him, he can't hold it in any longer either, not with moans escaping your lips and his name rolling off your tongue in such a sweet way.

He holds you tight as his chest heaves up and down, body stiffening and breath halting for a moment as his hips bucket into you, filling you up.

‘Oh fuck- Oh fuck baby’, he groans his eyes squeezing shut and lips parting with laboured breaths as his voice becomes shaky.

He slowly pulls out of you, leaning down, taking your body into his arms as he lays down on the bed, as soft kisses are pressed to your shoulder and neck.

‘Baby, you okay? Was that too much?’ he coos in your ear as you pull up to reality, your face cupped in his hands.

‘I'm okay Logie, just a little spent.’ you nuzzle your face in his neck, taking in his warmth.

‘I missed you so much,’ he whispered as his fingers intertwined with yours.

‘I saw him making you laugh,’ he admitted. ‘And I realized something.’

‘What?’

‘I would rather fight with you for the rest of my life than spend another day pretending I don't love you.’

You looked down at your joined hands and then looked back up at him, ‘You don't get to fix this overnight. I'm still very mad at you y’know’

‘I know, you should be.’

‘No disappearing, No deciding what's best for me without talking to me.’

‘Never again baby.’

Outside, the party carried on.

Inside, neither of you cared.

For the first time in a whole week, the silence between you wasn't filled with anger.

It was filled with the promise that this time, neither of you was walking away.

[damselneedssaving]

「 DON'T GET THE DOOR 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: After days of being too busy to be intimate with you, Damian's finally got you propped up on the kitchen island, sweet and like putty in his hands, when a sudden knock sounds at the door... and he absolutely refuses to let you go and answer it.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, nothing too much—just making out, and a bit more, damian is physically incapable of keeping his hands off you, srsly babe wtf did you do to him, dick and jason cameo at the end

★ A/N: just some dami hating everyone but you action 🤭 enjoy trying to get him off you lmao

line divider by @cafekitsune, left art: @/se_5eeeee (twitter), middle art: @/cr0wkid (instagram)

Damian's gaze is heavy as it runs all over you, soaking you in with an intensity that makes you squirm on the counter, the marble cool against your bare thighs.

His hands are firm on your waist, sitting there like that's where they're meant to be—like they know no place else—as his chest moves to press up against your own, and his body stands situated right between your thighs, hot and present.

"I've missed you, Habibti," he whispers after a beat of just staring, and it comes out breathless, framed a little by disbelief, like he just can't fathom you're actually there.

You can only squirm in response, eyes ready to move to the side in all their bashful glory—when he ushers them back to him, fingers gentle against your chin.

"I've barely seen you these past few days—and now that I can, you choose to hide from me?"

You blink back at him, eyes wide and head shaking from side-to-side to convey what you can't with words, what you can't under the intensity of his gaze.

He hums, and he's so close now, so within kissing distance, that his breath fans over your face, minty and fresh, begging and pleading.

You don't even realise the way your lids grow heavy until it takes only half the time it usually does to shut them, until you're leaning forward and eager to meet him halfway as it registers to you just how much you've missed his touch.

Damian receives you with open arms, lips pressing against your own as he further pushes himself against you, hands now curling around your waist instead of situated at its sides.

All you can breathe is the scent of nature and cologne, drowning in all that is him until your head grows dizzy and your body begins to shake, until you're suffocating in heat and pounding need.

He kisses you like he's running out of time to, like at any minute, he'll be forced to pull away, hungry and desperate and left with an ache near impossible to fill.

He also kisses you like he has all the time in the world to, like he's taking in a piece of art, studying every inch until he has it etched into his mind forever.

It's too much—it's not enough—and you're left a panting mess when he pulls away, the air hot and heavy and seeping so much steam it practically fogs up your vision.

"Dami..."

He hums, lips now on your neck, having moved there as soon as he pulled away as though incapable of truly ever leaving you.

Your fingers move to card through his hair, and he groans right into your skin, just above a vein, sending a vibration straight through your body.

God, the moment is just so perfect, and you've just been so starved for attention, and everything in the world seems to just be going so right, that it feels wrong, like something will happen to ruin it all.

Something like a knock at your door.

At first, you think you're imagining it, because Damian continues to litter your skin with kisses like nothing's happened, his hands even beginning to roam beneath the hem of your shirt, touch light against your skin.

But then you hear it again, louder this time, and you're sure that it's real.

But Damian acts like it isn't.

His hands continue tracing patterns into your skin, lips painting your neck like it's one of his canvases as he worships you with all the devotion of a man begging for his life.

It's only when a third knock, even harder and louder than the former two, sounds from the door that he shows even a hint of acknowledgement, fingers digging into your sides, but not enough to hurt, your Damian would never hurt you.

"Damian!" a voice calls from the other side of the door, deep and insistent, "I know you're in there! Open up!"

"Would you be quiet?" another hisses right after, "People are looking."

You blink, pulling back a little, only for your boyfriend to chase after you.

Another knock at the door.

Damian growls into your skin just as you call softly, "Dami."

"Ignore those two idiots," he scoffs out with all the vitriol of a man wronged, one starved of something he's needed for far too long. "They'll leave eventually."

You nod, readily and easily because you don't particularly care for answering the door either. Not when he's holding you so sweet, and kissing you so right, and loving you like you're the only thing in his sight.

And you practically are with how he devours you, biting and sucking as he tastes you enough to shoot tingles down your spine and flood your veins with heat.

"Maybe he's not home," one of the two voices says, and you're just lucid enough to recognise it as Jason's.

"Oh he's home alright," the other responds, and you're quick to find that it's Dick.

But then all your lucidity washes out your veins because Damian's fingers start to crawl up your skin, and you're parting your lips to warn him with another call of his name.

"Dami—"

"Shh," he hushes you gently, and you know he doesn't mean it, soft and reverent as his hand reaches up to play with the band of your bra, lifting and snapping it back in place to send a jolt down your spine.

Your eyes dart to his, a heat pooling low in your stomach, and he simply meets your gaze with his own hooded one.

Then he moves to capture your lips again, and you're moaning low against his mouth, lips parting just a brief amount to let him in, when another huge bang slams against your door.

You pull back with a frantic, "Coming!"

Damian is already moving to try and capture your lips again, but you shut him down immediately, hands pressed firmly against his chest.

"Damian."

He growls, cursing beneath his breath in Arabic as he lingers a second longer, fingers curling against your skin. But he does ultimately let go, backing away enough to leave you room to hop off the counter, but not enough so that you can't feel the heat of him against you once you do.

And as you make your way towards the door, Damian follows right after, a shadow to his light, a knight to his princess.

A boyfriend to his girlfriend.

You swing open the door to two figures stood on the other side, both who you suspected them to be, wide-eyed and blinking as though they never thought you'd answer.

"Finally," Dick whines, lips jutted in a pout before they tug back up, flashing you one of his signature charming smiles. "Hey [Name]! Think Jason and I could crash—?"

"No."

A rush of wind flies over your face, the door to your apartment slamming shut before your very eyes to leave you dazed and a tad confused for a second.

Then a pair of arms wrap right around your waist, and that same voice that rejected the two brothers at your door is whispering right against your ear, hot and heavy, "Now... where were we?"

[goobfeels]

How come we never even dated?

Index

chapter2

this chapter has reader’s entire adoption story, and it isn’t the prettiest,

tw: gun violence, mentions of child trafficking, mentions of death-suicide, and toxic family

“come on kid, don’t act like you didn’t like the movie”-your mom, a famous journalist who had managed to help gotham rid itself of huge child trafficking rings, and had changed lives for the better,

“fine, i did like it-but we should’ve gone for a different showing-this one was too late.” you had commented,

“hmm-whatever kid, let’s just get home alright?”

she spoke, and you had just went along with it, though, thinking back on it-it probably would’ve been a good idea to not use the shortcut,

because a single turn-one you’ve made a bunch of times before, had turned into one you’d regret the most,

a thug who you were sure had been following you, had recognized your mom as the woman who got his boss into arkham,

and he was not about to let his father figure down,

“mom-please, don’t!” you sobbed, as the man pressed the nozzle to your temple,

“the kid didn’t do anything-leave them out of this” she pleaded, walking up a step,

“for once-you’re right miss, the kid shouldn’t be the one dead.” he said, turning the nozzle to your mom,

thinking back, it would have helped even just a little if you thrashed a bit-maybe flipped the safety on last second or pushed the nozzle away with your head-considering the fact that the barrel was firm against your ear,

but you hadn’t thought of that, the only thing running through your mind hadn’t been anything worth remembering, your heart in your ears, and your stomach churning, it didn’t help that when the trigger was pulled, the world had gone silent, or-did you just stop hearing?

you couldn’t tell, wobbly legs unreliable as you dragged yourself to your mom, you couldn’t hear the words out of her mouth, in fact-nothing made sound,

and you hadn’t realized the thug had been knocked out by batman’s sidekick, the boy looked at your ears, checking your ability to hear,

while you tried to read his lips, trying not to acknowledge that your mother’s body had gone limp,

years later, you held a small box, hand carved with small pretty flowers,

the police had found it last month, it had been under your mother’s friend’s bed, along with a stack of letters addressed to everyone she knew,

it hadn’t surprised you that she did it, her eyes were loosing color, and you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge it,

“so, where am i supposed to go now?” you ask the social worker,

she frowned, her pretty green eyes and ginger hair, “we were hoping you’d read the letter from Caitlin,”

oh,

yeah, Caitlin, that had been the name of your mother’s friend, she had taken care of you for a year after your mother’s passing,

she had been nice, but she could hardly take care of herself after her best friend’s passing,

even so,

she had paid for your hearing aids, and even offered taking you to therapy,

with your eyes trained at the box, hands shaking,

“we’ll contact your father, and see if he can take care of you.” she said,

“i have a dad?” you ask,

“says here-in your mother’s will that it’s…bruce wayne, sweetheart, did you not know?” she asked, you shook your head,

“no i didn’t,” you answer, “don’t i have to take my stuff from the apartment soon?” you ask, not wanting to dwell on the implications of your father’s identity,

the lady sighed, “yes, Caitlin’s family is demanding that you evacuate as soon as possible”

it hasn’t surprised you that they demanded your evacuation, they weren’t the nicest,

when you first moved into caitlin’s home they had ridiculed your mother, smack talked about you, and how you must’ve been a hindrance in their daughter’s life.

and it sure as hell didn’t surprise you when they denied your invite for her funeral,

“i’ll go pack then” you tell the social worker, “thank you for all of your help, please let me know when i can move into my father’s house.” you say,

“of course, we’ll ring your phone when he’s confirmed to take care of you.” she said, walking out of the apartment doors, then putting her shoes on before turning to speak again,

“if you need a place to stay till your father picks up, don’t hesitate to call me, we can have you settled in one of our houses.” she said,

“of course, if the need presents itself then i will reach out to you.” you spoke, internally wishing for her to leave,

and when she did, you had gone back to your room, packing what little you kept dear to you,

moving into the wayne house wasn’t so hard, you had gotten a room between two of bruce’s already adopted kid’s rooms,

the room was very spacious, with a good bathroom attached, the only problem you’d felt was the tightening churn of your stomach when you noticed just how big the room was,

it was almost like you had been turned into a hamster and put into a hamster cage after spending years in the small carton box you’d been birthed to,

a/n: thanks for reading this chapter, please come over to my inbox to give me your opinion on it

[supermenz]

fighting the hating the boyfriend final boss(es)

summary: Meeting the parents is always stressing. It especially is so when your dad's Batman, and your mom is what many would consider a terrorist cult leader, while his dad is an alien come to conquer Earth and his mom is... weirdly normal. (Or: four times you meet each other's parents individually, and the one time they all meet.)

pairing(s): mark grayson x al ghul!batsis!reader, batsis!reader x platonic batfamily, batsis!reader x platonic al ghul family

word count: 14.8k

warnings: i imagined them to be around 20-ish?, swearing, a smidge of spoilers from the comics but nothing too detailed, au of the two-parter linked down below (it can be read without reading that first, but if you want to understand reader's backstory you'd need to do that), enstablished relationship, suggestive maybe, making out, mark is kinda a sugar baby, oliver is a baby because i say so, nolan and debbie are still together for the same reason (debbie pls take him back), implied suicide, mention of hell and torture, conner kent is mentioned as reader's ex, other than that lots of fluff and banter!!

author's note: i know this batsis sounds cheesy in comparison to the one of the that girl is corrupt-verse, but let me explain: yes, they're the same person, but she's grown since then and has found her peace. also, this is just a funny AU, so don't worry, her and conner don't break up in the original fic!! as always, beta-read by my wonderful @lechelovestoyap <3 dividers from @uzmacchiato!

au of ⮕ that girl is corrupt | could you raise her to love me, maybe?

— one. 

“He’s late.” 

“I know he is.” 

“I didn’t expect him to be.” 

It’s twelve fifty-five. Mark was supposed to be here twenty-five minutes ago, and your father’s not amused. You raise an eyebrow, highly doubting his words. “You didn’t? Really?”

He taps his fingers on the table. “Meeting your girlfriend’s father is an important thing, if you value the relationship. I didn’t think he had it in him to show up late — not after all the psychological warfare you surely subjected him into.”

You roll your eyes, moving around the appetizers on your plate. The place is nice– because of course Bruce Wayne would choose nothing but the best restaurant to publicly humiliate his daughter’s boyfriend. It’s a rooftop restaurant that only makes boujee Italian dishes, where a reservation would take you months to get without the name Wayne attached to it, and while normally you’d love to eat here, you’d rather do so without the looming threat of your father reducing Mark’s ego to smithereens. “Evidently so, it wasn’t enough.”

You’re pretty sure that you reminded him of this lunch so many times that he must’ve dreamed about you — and not nice dreams where you’re nice to him and fulfill all his fantasies, but those ugly ones where you turn into a seven-headed demon and yell at him to be on time for once. The fact that all your brothers are sitting at a nearby table with horrendous wigs and fake mustaches is not helping. 

You even dressed up — which you never do. Sure, you’re always stylish, and a picture of you in a bad outfit would probably sell for thousands in gossip magazines, but this time you put in the work. Nice black dress. Silver Rolex. Pearl earrings that belonged to your grandmother in hope of softening Bruce up. 

Generally, the nice dress should’ve served as an incentive for Mark to show up and for your father to see him seriously. Now, it looks like you’re compensating for your chronically late boyfriend. 

You’re looking at your phone screen and setting it back down face-down on the table every five minutes. Dick and Jason have been cackling about something — no doubt Mark getting his ass handed to him somewhere around the world — for the last three minutes, and you swear you’re about to throw a salad knife at them.

God, the salad knife. You even taught Mark cutlery etiquette just for this. Will he ever need to know the difference between the fork used for the first course and the one for the main? Probably not, but anything to placate your father’s dislike for him. 

“You act like you’re never late,” you grumble to Bruce. He pokes at your shoulder, “That’s because I never am.” 

Finally. Some words you can throw back at him. Crossing your arms, you say, “Ah, you aren’t? Well, what about mine and Cass’ Christmas recital? We were doing Swan Lake, Father, and we were the leads. Then there were about a dozen council meetings at school– talking about the only ones you showed up at, by the way. Then it was Tim’s birthday last year, and Clark’s birthday, and Selina’s birthday, and my graduation, and Barry and Iris’ baby shower–”

“Fine, fine,” your father hisses, squinting at his watch. “But he better be here in the next ten minutes, because I’m not waiting for him then, and you shouldn’t either.” he lowers his voice, “I thought you were done for good with alien hybrids and supes after breaking up with Conner. Between the two of them, I’m not sure which one I despise the least.” 

You deadpan. “I could say so much worse about all your ex girlfriends, but for the sake of public appearances, I’ll leave it at that.” the simple fact that your mother’s in a terrorist cult should make him ashamed of trying to give you relationship advice. 

Finally, Mark Grayson graces the entrance doors. Like you had kindly asked him — which in your world means threatened without a sharp object in your reach — he’s wearing that light blue Ralph Lauren polo you got him for Valentine’s Day, and those Levis jeans that aren’t baggy but not even skinny that make him look like someone who can actually dress himself up nicely.

Thank God– so he knows how to listen when he wants to. You told him a thousand times to wear something casual, but not too shabby so as to let your father think he didn’t care about meeting him — guess setting the clothes out on his bed helped. His hair is brushed back as usual, his smile nervous as the waiter brings him over to your table, and in his hand is a bouquet made out of colorful tulips. He gives you a crooked smile, one that says, I’m sorry, I love you, please don’t hate me, I swear there was an alien invasion I had to stop before coming here. 

“Hi,” he whispers, bowing down to leave a kiss on your cheek. You glare at him, tapping your bicep as your father rises from his seat, hand extended. Mark tries to smile at him, but it comes out as an anxious wince instead when they shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Wayne– sorry for the delay, there was… traffic downtown. I’m sure you’d understand.” he holds the flowers out. “I also brought you flowers.” 

Bruce blinks, eyebrow twitching. Your brothers are staring over their menus, not even bothering to hide their spying, while the waiter waiting for their order looks at them with the eyes of someone who wishes they didn’t pay him enough to deal with such buffoonery. In the end, the playboy facade of your father always prevails, and he gives Mark a polite, tight smile. “The pleasure is all mine,” it clearly isn’t, judging by the grip he’s got on his hand, “try to be on time next time, will you? Counting traffic and all.” 

You take a deep breath. If you want to get out of this lunch with your honor still intact — and with a boyfriend still — you can’t keep giving Mark the cold shoulder. Once you’re out of here, you’ll berate him all you want — but as long as you’re here, you’ll have to look positive towards him. Even nice, perhaps. But only if he behaves well. 

As Mark takes a seat beside you, your father settles the flower on the empty seat beside him. They slump like they know this is going to be a disaster. 

Nervous, your boyfriend looks between you and your dad, still glaring at each other, then at the barely touched appetizers in the middle of the table. Then, of course, at the table right beside yours, where your brothers are pretending to be very interested in their menus. “Uh…” he lets out a nervous laugh, “I– I hope my timing didn’t ruin your first impression of me.” 

Your father’s first impression of him was doomed ever since Omni-Man appeared on national television and destroyed half of Chicago by beating him to a bloody pulp, but you won’t be the one to tell him that. Bruce finally drags his gaze out of yours and offers him a dubious look. “That’s the last thing I’m worried about.” 

Mark pales. Right. He’s probably more worried about the whole Viltrumite thing, as well as his daughter’s preference for half aliens. “Right. Of course. Well–”

“Can I get your order?” The waitress has a polite smile on her face and is clearly unaware of the tension at the table when she rounds it, notepad in hand. Your father doesn’t even hesitate, “I’ll take today’s special.” 

You’ve been here enough times to know your favorite dish without looking at the menu. “I’ll take the cacio e pepe.” 

Mark scrambles for the menu. You sigh, finally uncrossing your arms and placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “Take the lasagna. You’ll love it.” He nods and stutters out to the very amused waitress, “I’ll pick the lasagna then.” 

Before the woman can go, Bruce stops her. “Oh, one last thing,” he points to the table full of gossips beside yours, “tell security that Mr Wayne wants them out.” 

“Awe, c’mon!” Dick whines, his mustache standing crooked over his top lip. “Things were just starting to get good!” the waitress smartly decides not to linger and disappears in the kitchen. You can already see the headlines: WAYNE FAMILY TERRORISES RESTAURANT PERSONNEL OVER LUNCH WITH DAUGHTER’S BOYFRIEND. Oh, Vicki’s going to have a field day with this. 

Bruce manages to drag out every single one of your brothers in something that is very close to being the most embarrassing five minutes of your life, in which you make sure to brief Mark again on keeping his best behavior. “No mention of your father. Straighten up your shoulders. Don’t make him smell your fear.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, “Wait, he can smell fear?”

You blink. “Don’t doubt that for even a second. And don’t let him make you nervous — it’s how he guesses whether you’re serious about me or not.”

He pouts, hand coming up over yours. “I may be nervous, but I am serious about you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that — tell him.” 

Lowly, he laughs, pressing a soft kiss on your cheek — it’s best to stick to that as far as your father’s in a mile radius. “Thanks for the advice, babe– what would I ever do without you?” he noses at your temple, “Also, have I told you how ravishing you look?”

Despite everything — the fact that you should be mad at him for being late, the looming threat of your father’s disapproval and your brothers’ constant mingling — you find yourself letting out a hint of a chuckle. “Ravishing?” you muse, “God, Mr Grayson, have you gone back to your studies or what?”

He frowns. “Hey, I don’t need to go back to studying to know a new word to compliment my beautiful, stunning girlfriend, okay?” 

You tap his jaw, “If flattery could get you somewhere with my father, beloved, it would get you everywhere.” A sigh escapes your lips, “A shame he got so flattered up over the years that by now he’s immune to that.” 

Mark pats your hand. “I’m sure we’ll find another way to soften him up.” 

Having been together for almost a year now, you should’ve known that he was being way too optimistic. 

As you had expected, Bruce is ruthless. He asks countless questions circling what for him is the real problem — Mark’s father, of course — and whenever he makes jokes, they are passive-aggressive, with no real intention of easing the tension up. He asks why he left college, how fast his brother actually grows, how the two of you met, if he had heard of you before, if he has a job– common father stuff, if it wasn’t for the fact that he asks every question like it’s the one that could finally grant him the death penalty. You’ve got to pat yourself on the back, though, because your boyfriend replies like a champ every time, which means the psychological warfare training camp worked on him. Somehow. 

It doesn’t seem like it’s working in softening your father, though, because with every answer, his eyebrows crease more and more. With how it’s going, you’d bet he’ll look like he aged twenty years once you get out of here, and soon enough, he doesn’t even try to hide asking about Nolan anymore. 

You get it, okay? Common Bat concern or whatever it is for him. But this was supposed to be lunch to officially meet your boyfriend, not to collect intel on the aliens that Clark doesn’t really like. 

“So,” Bruce starts again, “how does your father plan to… atone for his actions?”

Your hand tightens around your fork, and Mark discreetly places his palm over your thigh, caressing your skin over the dress. It’s reassuring, but you bitterly think that you should be the one comforting him and not the other way around, because your father is blaming him for something he hasn’t done. He doesn’t say it, but he clearly thinks that he and Omni-Man can’t be much more different. 

Mark, bless his soul, just sits there and takes it for your sake, because were he to fight back Bruce would never let him live that down. “Well, he joined the Coalition of Planets a while ago, he’s gotten back to strictly protecting the Earth and has the intention of fighting against Viltr–”

“Just what is wrong with you?”

While Mark freezes, Bruce nearly drops his fork, because you’re giving him the same look your mom uses whenever she wants to kill him — which is more often than anyone would imagine. For a moment he wonders if you’ll take the fish knife and just stab him right now out of annoyance, but he’s quickly reassured when you don’t make a move for it. “You in the first place should know how hard it is to be judged by your parent’s actions — and whether you believe it or not, everyone at this table has risked dying at least once because someone saw their father in them.”

You’ve lost count of how many times you and Damian have been blamed for Bruce’s actions, and even if your little brother took the brunt of the hit thanks to Morgan Ducard, your father is the last man who should be making questions about parentage. “You have no right to ask him such questions, because yeah, you’re my dad, but you’re just getting to know Mark. And if you’re more interested in getting to know his father and trying to understand if he’s got the intention to destroy the planet, then pick up your goddamn phone and call Nolan Grayson, not his son Mark.” 

Under their bewildered looks, you get up from your seat and smooth your dress down. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” your heels click on the pavement as you cross the room, only to disappear behind the women’s restroom door. Great. Now it’s just Mark and your dad’s glare towards him. 

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves down. Clearly, he’s torn between his worry about you dating yet another stupidly overpowered alien and your happiness. “I’m sorry, Mark, but– you understand, right? After all the things your kind has done to humans, I can’t help but question your intentions towards my daughter.”

Mark can feel the uneasiness creep up on him — he wasn’t exactly comfortable earlier, but at least your father wasn’t comparing him to genocidal maniacs. “With all due respect, Mr Wayne, but I am not like the other Viltrumites, and I have no intention to hurt your daughter in any way.”

Your father sighs tiredly — the sigh of a man whose children continue to mess around with aliens to the point that he fears who are going to be your parents-in-law one day. He holds up his index finger, “Give me one reason why I should trust you with my daughter. One, and I’ll make sure to get to know you before I compare you to your father next time.” 

“Well, first of all, I love her very much,” he could write paragraphs on that — and he actually does, when he’s off-planet and only has his notes app as a means of entertainment. “And I’d never do anything to hurt her in any way, and–” he lowers his voice, “well, it’s kinda embarrassing to admit this to one of the first vigilantes, but… I’ve seen so many horrendous things in the last few years of my life that without even knowing it, she reminds me of why I do what I do, and why I need to keep on going.” 

Bruce doesn’t show particular appreciation, but raises an eyebrow at last — and, for once, not in doubt, but in curiosity. “And, yeah, sometimes things get shitty– um, sorry about that– but then I think that it’s all for her safety and it’s like everything settles back to place. I don’t even think she knows how one smile from her is enough to turn my days around.” 

This time, your father positively perks up, eyes widened the littlest bit. He pauses for a moment, speechless, then: “She smiles when she’s with you?” 

It’s not that you’re completely emotionless, it’s just that it’s hard to get a smile out of you. In all the years you’ve been with him, Bruce has seen you smile only a handful of times, and they were all mostly with Damian. Mark stares at him like he’s crazy. “Uh… she does?” It sounds more like a question, but it’s just because he doesn’t know if he said something he wasn’t supposed to.

Bruce takes a deep breath. Okay, okay. He already got over Starfire a long time ago, he managed to get over Conner twice already — once as Tim’s best friend, twice as your boyfriend — and one day, he’ll probably have to get over Jon being a constant in Damian’s life, too. How bad can another alien in the family be, as long as he makes you happy? “And how much?”

Mark is now looking at him as if he just grew another head. “Dunno — I don’t count how many times she smiles in a day.” a shrug, “Often, I’d guess.” 

You come back from the restroom, and suddenly, Bruce is very aware of how you instinctively lean towards your boyfriend, and how his arm immediately wraps around your shoulders, thumb caressing the bare skin there as if he’s done it already a million times. And then he looks at how you’re still wrinkling your nose at him in annoyance, and thinks about how you looked so at ease when he came back from kicking your brothers out of the restaurant. 

In the end, for once in his life and yet again for his children, Bruce Wayne relents. When Mark excuses himself to go to the bathroom, he nudges you with his elbow. “You chose a nice one,” he admits despite himself. “Well done.” 

— two. 

“Remind me when we can leave again?”

“As soon as the event’s done, Mark.” 

He pouts — he’s been doing that a lot in the past two hours, and it probably has to do with the suit he’s wearing. Mark has never been one for dressing up, but even if he was, you’re pretty sure that Dick’s suit is fitting him a little too right — not that you’d ever dare to complain about that. 

Now, it’s not that Mark doesn’t have nice suits: he just doesn’t have the expensive kind people use once for events and then let rot in the dresser out of sheer money squandering. So, as your father gave you little to no warning for this event, your boyfriend is stuck wearing one of the other Grayson’s suits, as between all your brothers he’s the most similar one to him in measurements. Unfortunately, Dick has all his suits tailored, so Mark’s biceps are just a little too snug under the shirt’s sleeves, and he’s adjusted his tie at least a hundred times since you got here. 

Bruce is somewhere in the Gotham sewage system looking for Killer Croc, hence why you’re here: no matter how hard Mark tried to convince him that he could’ve handled it for him, your father still insists on the no Metas in Gotham rule — and the fact that he’s more like an alien rather than a human with powers doesn’t really work in his favor. 

So now you and Mark are in an expensive-looking ballroom with high ceilings and marble floors, where the tables with food are more than the chairs to take a seat on. Crystal chandeliers shimmer over your heads and the guests are too busy sharing polite conversations to notice the way everyone is clearly judging everyone else. 

“How do you and your brothers handle this?” your boyfriend mutters, thumb rubbing circles over your waist. “This feels like high school all over again. They can’t possibly really think that they’re all friends.” 

You shrug, resting your cheek on his shoulder and taking a sip from your champagne glass. “It’s for charity, beloved. Handle just a few more hours, please.”

“Hours?!” he whisper-yells, quietening down when you shush him. “Yes, a few hours. It’s for a good cause. The species at risk of extinction will forever be grateful for your help.” 

He stares off into the distance, “Then how is it that the only brother of yours present tonight is the one that dislikes me the most?” 

Damian stands at the other end of the hall, with his arms crossed and a murderous look set on your boyfriend like he isn’t getting coddled left and right by all women present. His cheeks are red from all the pinches they’ve been giving him, and his hair is a bit more mussed than it was when you left the Manor — estimating all the pats on the head he got would be nearly impossible. 

You shrug. “He believes in the cause. The others are helping B.” 

“Well, I could’ve helped, too.” Mark shakes his head in sorrow, “He’s here to keep an eye on me because he hates me.” 

“He doesn’t hate you,” you counter, “he just feels deeply doubtful about you and our relationship because he got my father’s paranoia and is completely sure that you want to conquer the world alongside Viltrumites or something.” 

Your boyfriend blinks. “Ah, I got it. So he despises me.” 

“Stop being so dramatic.” You roll your eyes and down the last drops of your champagne, then push the empty glass to his chest. “Listen, Romeo, there’s an open bar in the name of all species leaning towards extinction. Would you be so kind as to get me another drink while I go save Damian?” 

He takes your glass without a word and moves for the crowded bar, then disappears between high-society pricks and whatnot. Across the room, you share a pointed look with Damian, one that says Will you behave, or am I going to leave you to your own defenses?, and you still start to cross the hall even if he removes his eyes from you in what clearly means I will not bend, just because he’s your little brother and you love him very much. 

A hand on your shoulder stops you on your tracks. “Do you have a special interest in alien hybrids or is your new intended just a coincidence?”

Your shoulders slump. You take a deep breath to calm down, because you don’t even need to turn around to know whose voice this is. “Talia,” you greet calmly, turning around. “What a surprise.” 

“Talia?” she raises a brow in disdain. She’s wearing an emerald satin dress, scarily similar to your deep blue one, and she’s got a hand over her hip like you’re the problematic one between the two of you. “Again with that first name madness? I am your mother, sweetling. Refer to me as such.” 

Your eye twitches. “Will it get you to leave earlier?”

She thinks about it for a moment. “We’ll see.” 

You shake her hand off your shoulder, “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” Talia pouts in that manner that almost makes her look like a normal mother and not an assassin trained to lie and pretend. “Your father got to meet your new partner, didn’t he? It’s not fair that I didn’t meet him.”

You deadpan. “First of all, he’s not exactly new– we’ve been dating for almost a year. Second, the last time I had you come over to meet a boyfriend you put liquid Kryptonite in his drink, and then tried to cut him in half with a magic sword.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Well, he survived, didn’t he?”

“Mother.” you both turn to look at Damian, poking his head from behind your hip. “What are you doing here?” He's hugging your legs, playing the part of the shy kid for all to see, but you both know better — you’ve seen him hide butter knives from the buffet table in his sleeves once, and you don’t doubt that he’d be able to do that again. 

Talia purses her lips. “I fear your father may have had a bad influence on you two — all you ask is what do you want and what are you doing here, but what about a nice, good evening, Mother, we are so happy to see you again?” she scoffs, “Your father has poisoned you with his American ill-manneredness. I thought he was better than that.”

“I know you preferred the champagne, but they were taking forever to bring the new bottle out from the back, so I just got you a piña colada–” Mark stops in his tracks right behind you, drinks still in his hands, blinking at your mother like she’s a ghost come to take him back to hell. With the subtlety of an overweight hippo in a ceramic store, he leans towards your ear and whispers, “You have a sister?!”

Both you and Damian look at him like he just lost all the esteem you had in his regards — which already wasn’t much to start with. You sigh, hissing, “She’s our mother,” 

Mark’s eyes widen, and she looks at Talia, then at you, then at her, then back at you. “Your father is a cradle robber?!” 

Your mother raises a judging eyebrow in his way as you elbow him on the ribs. Talia does not show her years, all thanks to all those dips in the Lazarus Pit over the years — as it slows aging with use — and the entire team of dermatologists that your grandfather kidnapped just for her as soon as she turned thirty. “He’s not. She looks young, but she’s fort–”

“Not a day over thirty,” she interrupts with a tight-lipped smile. 

You pucker your lips. “Whatever. Anyway, trust me, she was old enough when she had us.” Reluctantly, you pull Mark forward by his arm, “Mark, this is Talia Al Ghul — my mother. Mother, this is Mark Grayson — my… intended, as you’d say.” 

Talia extends a hand, “A pleasure to finally meet you.” you slap Mark’s arm away before he can shake it, and grab your mother’s wrist to rip a skin-like sticker on her palm. “No DNA scans for you tonight, Talia,” you hiss. “You didn’t even try to hide it.”

Mark would argue that he didn’t notice, but something tells him that it’s not the right move when your brother already thinks he’s the stupidest thing that ever happened to the whole planet. Your mother shrugs. “Trying didn’t hurt. He was falling for it– it’s not my fault your friends all have very interesting biologies, but such disappointing grey matter.” 

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow, “What’s that mean?”

You deadpan, “Stop running your mouth, you’re just proving her point.”  

“Our lineage is doomed,” Damian grimly mutters. You glare at him, “Says the guy who has accepted bullying from old women all night.” 

“Feel free to come by the League’s headquarters whenever you want,” your mother cuts in, looking at Mark with a fake sweet smile, “we’d be happy to have you.” 

“Thanks,” he replies, not totally convinced. “Um– League for what?” 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” she reassures him, then looks at the watch on her wrist. “Oh, would you look at that– your grandfather is waiting for me with Croc a few stores below Gotham’s streets. Are you in the mood for a nice family reunion?”

“No,” you and Damian reply immediately. She sighs, “A shame. Well, I have to go now.” 

Before turning on her heel, she sends a pointed look at you. “If his lineage wasn’t what it is, I’d probably tell you that he’s not good enough for you. But,” she scrolls her shoulders, “we could always use resources such as his muscles. As long as he’s… containable.” 

She disappears in the crowd of socialists soon after, and Mark is left gaping at you and Damian. “I don’t know why, but I always figured your mother was… dead, I guess.”

You side-eye him, “Never told you she was.”

“I know,” he mutters, “is she always this weird?”

“She’s not weird,” Damian corrects him, “she’s sophisticated. For the likes of you, anyway.” 

You slap him on the back of his head, then turn to Mark. “She’s a terrorist.”

“She prefers highly-skilled assassin,” your brother grumbles.

You roll your eyes, “The League she was talking about? League of Assassins. The grandfather she mentioned is Ra’s al Ghul — the Demon’s Head. He started the whole operation and trained both me and Damian for a time.” 

For a moment, Mark just stares at the both of you in disbelief. Then, barely containing the tone of his voice, he asks, “Your grandfather is fucking Ra’s al Ghul?”

Your grandfather isn’t really known to the grand public with his real name, but to anyone who has fought against the men of the League at least once and, mostly, to the Government, it might as well be as known as the benefits of drinking water. Innocently, you blink. “You didn’t know? I figured Cecil would have told you that.” 

Frantically, he looks to where your mother disappeared, “We let a world-scale terrorist get away just like that?”

Damian scoffs in scorn. “Didn’t you hear her, dim-wit? She said they’re working with Croc. I’m sure father will handle it just fine.” 

A loud BOOM! resounds from under your feet, and the shaking of the ground nearly makes you topple down; the crystal chandeliers rattle as the music stops, and everyone starts screaming. Holding both you and your brother steady, Mark eyes the latter, “He’s handling it just fine, is he?” 

Refusing to let him win the argument, the boy tsks. “Mishaps happen.” 

Rolling his eyes in fake annoyance, your boyfriend kisses your temple and ruffles Damian’s hair even if he protests. “Get everyone out, okay? I’ll go check in on them — make sure the city’s foundations aren’t about to collapse.” 

“Try not to be too vincible while doing so,” your brother grunts out. 

— three. 

“I still can’t believe we’re here.”

Mark is giggling into the bed sheets like a teenage girl, his chin propped up on his palms as he sways his feet back and forth in the air while looking at you get ready. You huff a laugh out, “Mind helping me tie this bikini or should I do it all by myself?” 

He jumps up before you can even finish the sentence, and immediately moves his hands to grab the loose strings of your top. His initial excitement slowly dies down when his hands fumble uselessly against the back of your neck, “Wait– I can’t figure this thing out. Why are there four strings?”

“You wrap two at the front in a bow,” you explain, still holding your hair up, “and the other around your neck. Wanna try one on?” 

He finally finishes up the back bow, and uses the other untied strings as an excuse to wrap his arms around your front, chin poking your shoulder. “I’ll pass.” He plays with the purple strings for a moment just to get a better peek at your boobs right under his eyes, then finishes the second bow and affectionately rubs his cheek against yours. “It suits you so well, though. It’s like staring at the sun– if I look a little too long my eyes will burn.” 

You hum, reaching for the waist bead chain you had left on the suite’s table, “Wow, looks like we have a charmer.” He pulls your back flat against his chest again and kisses the bare skin of your shoulder, nosing the hollow of your neck. “You’re aware that this is, like, the best birthday ever, right?”

“I am,” you reply, pleased, kissing the corner of his mouth. His hands rest over your belly button as he gets some more snuggles out of you, and you pat his forearm condescendingly. “Come on, tiger, you got enough cuddles last night. William and Rick are already waiting for us down at the beach.” 

Getting Mark a vacation for his birthday was an idea you’d come up with after seeing how ragged he ran himself in the last few months; the only question that remained was where to take him. Then he’d brought you on a double date to meet his best friend William and his boyfriend, Rick, and the machinations to make this vacation happen began. 

At first you wanted to make it simple — ask him where he wanted to go, who he wanted to go with and just book the tickets and hotel for him. Then William chimed in and said that he probably would’ve liked a surprise better, and scrapped your idea of a mountain resort for a tropical destination instead, suggesting Aruba and saying something about Mark always wanting to relax on a beach. Then he added that maybe, just to enrich the gift even more, he and Rick could’ve come too — and really, what a monster would you have been to let them pay for their own tickets when you’ve got access to all your father’s money?

(You know that William probably just had you bring him and his boyfriend to a destination they already want to see, but honestly, as long as Mark’s happy, you don’t really care.) 

Mark grumbles, rubbing his forehead on your neck, “That’s the only thing I have anything to say about. Inviting William and Rick, babe? We could’ve spent all this time by ourselves. Alone. In here, or possibly in the private jacuzzi on the balcony.” 

You peck his temple, “We’ll have time for that! But now your best friend is waiting for us down at the beach, and he’s begging for those scuba diving lessons we booked.” 

Your boyfriend sighs. “He’s such a leech.” 

Pinching his hand with no real malice, you snort. “He’s your best friend. Give him some credit.” 

Later on, he’s happy to find out that you packed a pair of swimming trunks matching your bikini — at least they will make the whole beach with the lovebirds experience less dreadful. He’s been so used to being William and Rick’s third wheel that sometimes he forgets he doesn’t have to be that anymore. 

Once he’s done in the bathroom, Mark comes out to the living room again, finding you sitting on the plush armchair, a sarong tied to your waist and sunglasses pulled over your hair. You look up from your phone at him, an eyebrow raised, “Can we go now?”

He’s the one to worry about the beach bags, of course, because being on vacation doesn’t mean he doesn’t have powers anymore. William whoops when he finally sees the two of you approaching hand in hand the sunbeds he already picked out this morning. “Thought you’d never get here!” he exclaims, hands over his hips as he glares at Mark settling the bags down. Then he turns to you, pointing to his best friend in an accusing manner, “Is this guy bothering you?”

“Not yet,” you assure him.

“Ha, ha, ha,” your boyfriend grits out, straightening out two towels on the sunbeds. “go on. Talk about me like I’m not here, and like it’s not thanks to me that you’re here, dude.” 

You and William share a look, then he snorts and goes back to berate Mark. “Well, it’s not thanks to you. She booked the vacation.”

“Technically, this is his birthday present,” you reply. 

“Technicalities, technicalities,” William waves you off. “So, are we going scuba diving or not?”

Lunch follows the one hour scuba session, and the four of you find yourselves sitting on a table of the beach bar, sunglasses pulled over your eyes, hair still damp with saltwater. William hums while sipping his drink, then clinks his glass with Mark’s. “Now, this is the kind of life you dream about! No monsters, no alien invasions — just us, the clear water and everything included.”

Rick presses his hands together as if in prayer, then bows his head ridiculously towards you. “All hail, the Waynes’ credit card,”

“Cards, Rick, cards,” you correct, amused. 

“One last question– if you hadn’t booked this vacation, what would you have gotten Mark?” William asks, by now far too invested in finding out just what your money’s length goes to. You shrug. “Oh, you know, normal stuff. A car, or that one figurine of Science Dog that he insists has been retired from the market.” 

Both Mark and William gasp. At the same time the latter shrieks, “He could’ve gotten a car?!” your boyfriend, bless him, screams, “I could’ve gotten the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers?!” 

His best friend stares at him, deadpanning, like he’s got a ghost in front of him and not the guy he grew up alongside for all these years. “Bro. You could’ve gotten a car.” 

“Who cares?!” by now, Mark’s hysterical, looking at you with big puppy eyes as you sip your drink. “I’ll have to buy a car anyway, someday — but the Limited Edition Groundhog Day Celebration Action Figure made exclusively for ten buyers? That’s something I’ll never get to buy in my life.” he intertwines his hands and looks at you with all the hope a praying man holds for deity. “Can we still get it?” 

Flabbergasted, William stutters. “I’m more worried about the fact that you know that figure’s name by memory than the fact you just scrapped a car for Science Dog.” Rick nods. “How is it that it’s limited edition if it already was intended for just ten buyers?” 

You’d already ordered it long before getting on the plane to come here, but having Mark being so clueless about all of this is just too funny to pass up. Twirling the ice cubes in your glass with the straw, you look at him, as serious as ever. “Why would I? You’ve already got your birthday present.” 

He looks positively crestfallen, and drops his forehead on your elbow like he’s begging — which, to be fair, he kinda is. “I’ll be the best boyfriend there is — please! I’ll hold your bags for you, always. I won’t complain anymore when you ask me for back massages.” he lowers his voice, making sure only you can hear. “I’ll eat you out for, like, a month straight.” 

You deadpan. “You act like you don’t already do these things — aside from complaining. You do that a lot.” sighing, you hold your hand out and say the magic words. “Get me my phone.” 

He squeals, scrambling for your beaded bag slung across the back of his seat, and William shakes his head. “The two of you are unbelievable.” 

Mark’s already too focused on kissing every inch of your face as you scroll through your phone to respond. When you show him that the figure’s already bought and is set to arrive the day you come back from this trip, his eyes well up with tears — actual, serious tears he’s about to shed over what everyone else will just call a toy. “I could actually marry you on the spot.” 

“Make sure not to sign any prenup before doing that,” William snorts. 

You shush him and press a kiss over Mark’s salty, damp cheek — already stained with tears like the man he is. He takes a body shattering beating without a single peep, but a rare action figure? That’s a different story. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease, affectionately scratching his jaw with your nails. “It’s a wonder how you and Tim manage not to get along.” 

The vacation is everything you’d hoped it would be. You have time to detox from Gotham’s air and take a break from Batgirl, all with the great, wonderful excuse of your boyfriend’s birthday. It also gives you a reason to wear all the bikinis you’d impulsively bought last year after sales at your usual boutique, and of course lets you stare at Mark’s physique all you want without any single remorse. 

Whenever he notices your staring, he just smirks and then teases, “Wanna take a picture? It’ll last longer.” 

The expanse of his back is even more enticing now that it’s tanned and shiny from his latest dive. You don’t even remember how much you spent on this trip, but you know for sure that it was money well spent. “I’ve got the real thing right in front of me,” you reply easily, shifting to lie on your stomach to tan your back. “No reason to downgrade it to a picture. Not to mention, in your case I fear that a picture would last less.” 

He doesn’t reply and you’re not looking at him, so you don’t see his reaction — but judging at how he slumps in the sunbed right next to yours not a whole minute later, you’d guess he didn’t enjoy the joke. “You know how your brain inevitably makes you think sad things when you’re having fun because you can’t ever really have nice things?” he sulks. 

“Go on,” you hum, used to his antics by now.

“You guys… you’re basically immortal, right? With the whole Lazarus Pit thing, I mean.” Ah. You know where this is going.  

“My grandfather’s lived for more than eight-hundred years with the Pit, and he’s become a psycho. Do you want me to live a thousand years and become a psycho?” 

He’s silent for a moment, thinking. “I’d rather you don’t. But… it’d be better than not having you at all. Would you get mad at me?” When you don’t respond, he specifies, “For resurrecting you, I mean.” 

Softly, you sigh. “Don’t ask me that, Mark.”

He fiddles with his bathsuit’s strings. “I’m just wondering. You can’t blame me for that.” 

You let a few minutes pass — you have to think about it. “Nothing in this world is given for free, beloved,” you say in the end. “I’ve been dead for… four, maybe five hours last time — before Ra’s dropped me in the Pit. And I vaguely remember dying, but I do remember Hell.” 

Slowly, Mark perks up. “You’ve been to Hell, too?” 

Letting out a dry laugh, you shake your head and drop your forehead on your arm. “Not on a work trip like you were. I got tortured by demons for everything I did, Mark. That was my punishment, and the worst thing is that I knew that I deserved it.”

He blinks. “Sometimes I feel like you leave out too many details from your life.” 

“Some things are better not said.” 

He snorts even if he clearly isn’t amused. “So. Do I have permission to resuscitate you or not? I’d never be able to go on knowing you’re down in Hell getting tortured.”

“it’s not as simple as that,” you pop open the sunscreen bottle, putting some onto your arms, “You don’t take everything and give nothing. Every time you get put into the Pit and come back, you become different. Your soul's getting more and more corrupted. Usually, a period of madness follows every use of the Pit. It’s not nice, Mark. When I came back from mine, nobody would even look at me the same anymore.” 

“Better than nothing, no?” you stare at him, gaping, then ask, “Did you just hear what I said?”

Mark winces. “How many years will it take for you to become a psycho, anyway? It’s better to have you be a little weird than not have you at all.”

You scoff. “Why are we even speculating about my death?” 

“Because it already happened once.”

“Yeah. By my own accord, if I remember that correctly.” 

He grimaces, “Don’t say it like that.” 

“It’s what happened, beloved.” a shrug, “I’ll die again, one day — hopefully by natural causes — and you’ll have to either get over it or accept that if you make me come back, I may never be the same.” 

One of his hands reaches for the sunscreen bottle, taking it and pouring some into his palm. “You’d rather stay in Hell than be with me for a few more centuries?” 

“I’m just saying I’d rather die than become like my grandfather.” In some hidden part of you, you still love Ra’s — because to you he wasn’t the horrible man everyone knows; he’s cherished you all your life, and growing up he was the closest thing you had to a father. You two have more things in common that you’d rather admit, and that genuinely scares you, because while to you he’s always been just grandfather — a great warrior and leader — he’s some people’s worst nightmare. Mass-murderer, eco-terrorist and all of that.

You don’t know if you’ve atoned for your sins, or if when you die you’ll go back to Hell. You can just hope all the good deeds you’ve done in the last few years, combined with Bruce insisting on regular attendances to mass despite none of you actually believing in God, will get you at least out of the torturing range down below. 

Mark massages the sunscreen over your back, quiet for once. “The thought of living thousands of years and seeing everyone I love die,” he mumbles, grim, “it keeps me up at night.” 

“Don’t think about what you’ll have in a thousand years,” you reply, calmly. “Think about what you have now, and what you want to do tomorrow. You’re closer to your thirties than you are to your thousands, and you’ll be for a long time.” 

He’s quieter for the rest of the day, but in a soft way rather than a melancholic one — like he’s savoring the moment and not thinking about when it will end. Later that night, when your skin’s still warm from the sun and Mark’s hair is still frazzled with saltwater, you’re sitting on a booth at the same beach bar from earlier, watching William and Rick as they play whatever alcoholic game the bar had to offer. 

Your head’s resting on his shoulder, pareu now tied over your chest as he traces patterns on the skin of your arm. “Want to join them?” he asks, gently nudging your temple with his chin. You shake your head, shuffling closer. “I’m fine where I am.” 

Chuckling, he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah, you’re right. I feel like I could stay here forever.” you take his hand in yours and play with his fingers, utterly serene. You’re always so stressed about everything usually happening in your lives that seeing you so calm soothes him, too, by default. 

When the music gets a little too loud and there’s more drunk people than sober ones on the dancefloor, Mark tugs you up to stand. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” 

You hold onto his arm affectionately as you reach the shore and start strolling alongside it without a care in the world, humming to the distant music’s sound and watching the faraway lights of the resorts. “We should do this more often,” you suggest quietly. 

Your boyfriend laughs. “We would if it didn’t always feel like the world crumbles every time we take some time for ourselves.” 

You huff out a laugh. “You’re right. I really want to see what destroyed Gotham for the umpteenth time when we come back to our lives.”

He stops, the water reaching his soles, and takes your hands in his. He brings them to his mouth and presses soft kisses to your digits, humming, “Wouldn’t it be nice not to constantly feel the weight of the world on our backs?” 

“It would,” you agree, slumping on his chest. You kiss the corner of his mouth once, twice, then laugh a little when his fingers pinch your hip, then rest there. “Although I think that’d be much easier for me to do, rather than you, Invincible.” 

He noses the apple of your cheek. “We could get out of the loop for a while,” he suggests, tempting. “Dunno… I could find a way to get you to that moon outpost the GDA doesn’t use anymore. I bet we’d have fun there.”

“What about Alsimna, then?”

At the mention of your pet alligator, Mark bursts out laughing. “Sometimes I think you love that thing more than me.” 

“I don’t,” you assure him, patting his chest. “But if I were to choose… let’s say it would be a tough choice.” 

He scoffs, then dives for your mouth. “You’re lucky I love you despite your weird preferences.” 

His hands on your waist are warm, and they caress the entire surface of your back as your lips mould over his, a relieved groan leaving him. One of your hands reaches for his nape, and you play with the short hairs there as your noses bump. The two of you depart slowly at the same time for the same reason, and sighing, he presses his forehead against yours. “What is it, dad?”

Nolan Grayson is standing above you, wearing khaki pants and a button up. In his defense, he has made his breathing particularly loud for both of your instincts to kick in and hear him come. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. “You, uh… you must be Mark’s girlfriend.”

“I am,” you reply cooly, “you’re Mr Grayson, I presume.” presume my ass. His face was all over the news a few years ago as he beat your boyfriend to a pulp. 

His feet touch the ground as the two of you move to shake hands. “Ah… yes, yes. I’d figured Mark would’ve told you something about me.” His voice has an edge to it, one that says, do you know who I am and what I did? And if you do, are you scared of me?

You press your lips together. “I heard. Fortunately, I come from a family where a kill count like yours isn’t something that weird to have.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. He looks over to Mark, who’s still got an arm wrapped around your waist, almost as if asking, where exactly did you find this one? “And… do I happen to know them?”

Your reply is a shrug. “My grandfather, probably. My father has never been on that side of the family business and my mother’s… not that weird.” an assassin for hire and a man who threatens the entire population over global warming are two very different levels of crazy. 

“Ah. I understand.” he totally doesn’t, but he isn’t there to meet you. He moves his attention toward his son, “A kaiju’s destroying Long Island. Cecil still doesn’t want me back in the costume, but Superman’s off planet, and while Hawkman’s at it… he’s doing a real shitty job.” 

Mark’s shoulders slump, and sadly, he looks over at you. “We should’ve gone for the moon when we had time for it, babe.” 

You pat his back reassuringly, “Go save the world, hero. Me and the resort will still be here when you come back from it.”

He pecks your temple. “You’re a lifesaver. I’ll be back before you know it, promise.” 

Nolan smiles, a little embarrassed. “So, who’s your grandfather?” he asks, like Long Island isn’t waiting for him to drag your boyfriend there. Placidly, you reply, “Ra’s al Ghul.” 

Slowly, he blinks. Then, recognition hits. “Ah.” 

Mark sighs. “Okay, dad– c’mon, let’s go.” 

He leaps up in the air, soon followed by the man. He waves his hand at you from the sky, “Don’t cry too much, okay? I’ll be back soon!” 

Raising an amused brow, you put a fist over your hip, “Mark.” 

Confused, he pauses mid-air and turns. “What?”

“You’re still in your bathing suit. You might want to change.” 

He looks down at his clothes — a funnily stereotypical Hawaiian, unbuttoned t-shirt and the same purple briefs matching with your bikini he put on this morning. “Oh.” 

— four. 

loml💞😍🌸: Hi. When are you coming over? The cookies turned out decent by the way. Mark G: hi babe, sorry i forgot to tell you i couldn't come over :( mom and dad are on a date and i'll have to watch oliver for the night Mark G: you could come over tho ;))) loml💞😍🌸: Your brother will literally be there.  Mark G: who cares💔 he's a baby he'll be down in like five minutes loml💞😍🌸: The last time you said that he cried as soon as we got out of his room. Mark G: okay MAYBE he's a little dramatic but he loves you a lot. not as much as i do tho 👁️👅👁️ Mark G: so you coming over or nah?

“I still don’t think this is a great idea.”

“Why not? You’re a natural, babe, just look at how he’s snuggling up to you!” 

You’re starting to think that Damian was right about your boyfriend being your archnemesis, because you think you just got cheated out of your dear night off, usually spent at your very comfortable, very silent apartment, for a night at the Grayson’s house playing babysitter full time. In your arms, Oliver — Mark’s very little, very purple alien baby brother — coos and reaches for the strands of your hair falling over your shoulder, chomping on them like they’re one of his toys. 

You like Oliver, you really do. He reminds you of your own brother when he was little, just like all babies do, but he’s hyperactive, and Mark knows he’s not going to lie down in five minutes — hence why he abandoned him with the likes of you with the pretense of cooking dinner. “For my beautiful guest,” he had swooned, bowing down to your height with puckered lips and a spatula in his hand, waiting for a kiss. Oliver had the right inkling to promptly headbutt him in the teeth. 

The cookies you had spent all afternoon making and still turned out a little burnt sit on the counter in one of Alfred’s topperwares, waiting for dinner to be finished before being tasted. You still have some doubts on whether they’re edible or not, but Mark’s survived worse than a couple of bad cookies. He’ll be fine, you’re sure. 

Mark’s busy over the stove, wearing a kiss the cook apron that he insists is his father’s, and he’s cooking premade hamburgers like they’re some kind of michelin star worthy meal. Technically, he just has to cook the meat and slap it into a bun. Practically, he’s making a show out of it, cooking onions and whatnot to add into it. 

Oliver is babbling something you’re not sure about, playing with the loose strings of your — Mark’s — hoodie while sitting on the counter in front of you. He looks as far from falling asleep as one can be, but you’re surprised to find yourself actually not minding it; he’s a lively kid who smothers you with wet kisses every time he sees you, and the thought of him growing up so fast actually makes you sad. 

“How long is he going to stay a baby, again?” You ask Mark as he turns the burgers over the pan. He shrugs, “Dunno. He’s been a baby for a while now, but dad says that by next week he’ll probably be a toddler already.” 

You pout at Oliver, and he giggles and grips your nose in his hand. “Stay a baby, Oliver, stay a baby. You don’t need to become an adult. The adult world is made of taxes and agony, and the teenage world is made of drama and mood swings, and the prepubescent world is made of pimples and mean kids. Never grow up, it’s not worth it.” 

He blinks at you like he gets your train of thought, then decides to blow a raspberry in your face. You grimace half-heartedly, “See? It won’t be socially acceptable to do that to me anymore once you grow up. Stay a baby and I’ll let this slide.” 

He grips your jaw and brings your face closer to his, taking a bite out of your cheek, babbling very eloquently, “Bay-bee.” 

Surprised, you blink. “What was that?”

He points at you, “Bay-bee.” then turns to point at Mark, “Bee-luh-wud.”

You blink. Mark turns to stare at his brother, stunned. “I think he may be starting to spend a little too much time with us,” you muse, and that’s kinda true — he’s basically monopolised your guest room from all the times your boyfriend had to bring him around after one of his parents’ spontaneous dates. He’s now picked up on the names you use for each other, you guess. 

“Bay-bee.” he repeats, slobbering all over your face. Mark gasps indignantly, “Hey, that’s my girlfriend, you heathen! Stay away!” he sends playful slaps his way, not actually hitting him, and Oliver squeals in delight, throwing himself in your arms. You giggle and give in to the fun, running away from your boyfriend as he threatens the very serious measure of tickles and cuddles. “Go, go!” the baby gurgles in your arms, sticking his tongue out at his brother behind your back. 

(You often wonder just how sentient of a baby Oliver actually is. Guess you’ll find out only when he grows up, which may as well be next month.) 

Soon, Mark catches up to the both of you, and you squeal as his arms circle your waist and lift both you and his brother up to drag you back in the kitchen. “My prisoners!” he bellows, with a fake deep voice. “I’m ready to fatten you two up well to be my own dinner!” 

The hamburgers could be worse — the buns are a little burned from when he followed you around the house, but it’s still better than what you usually come up with over the stove. Oliver plays with his mashed potatoes on the high chair, babbling and squealing, and all of this feels almost domestic. 

You’ve never had this — a normal childhood, with a little brother on the high chair with your mother trying to feed him while your father coaxed you into eating your vegetables. You and Damian instead got intense training from day one, and were more used to the taste of your own blood rather than a meal a little burnt, but made with love. 

You’re happy that yours was not a normal childhood, because you really don’t want anyone else to experience it. You look at Oliver, drawing faces on his plate, and think about Damian at his age, offering you a bottle with poisoned water given to him by your mother to see if you’d fall for it. If you had to go through that so that no one else would experience it, then so be it; you just wish Damian got to be raised by your father, in a softer environment that maybe would’ve let him become an actual kid instead of a miniature sized adult. 

“–ou even listening to me?”

Mark’s hand engulfing yours on top of the table startles you out of your thoughts. You remove your eyes from Oliver to look at him, blinking. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Amused, your boyfriend sends a raised eyebrow your way. “Penny for your thoughts?”

You sigh, “Nothing,” you insist, glancing at his brother. “It’s just that he’s really cute. Reminds me of my brother.” 

At first, Mark jokes, “Damian was once a baby as cute as Oliver? Impossible. I bet he was born with that frown on his face.” When you let out a small chuckle, his expression changes, like something has just clicked in his brain. He sends a side eye to Oliver, still babbling to his mashed potatoes, then looks back at you, eyes softer as his hand tightens around yours. 

“You, uh… ever thought about having one?” With me, the hopeful subtext reads.

He expects you to jump out of your seat and start yelling at him — like any other sane girl your age would do — but he’s surprised when you just start moving around the french fries on your plate. This might just be the closest thing you’ve ever come to nervousness, he thinks. “I’m not sure I’d be a good mother,” you mumble, “I mean… better not be one rather than being one like mine, y’know?”

You move your hand up to take a napkin and wipe at Oliver’s face, “But then again sometimes I feel selfish, because I’d like one of my own. Is that a stupid thing? I know it probably is.” 

His shoulder slump, face pulling into a sad frown. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” he whispers, “you’re not like your mother. You’re kind and absolutely nothing like Talia. Oliver doesn’t even know how to pronounce your name and yet he’s crazy about you.” 

The laugh that comes out of you is a rather bitter one. “Yeah, maybe that’s why he’s crazy about me — because he’s still not conscious enough to fully comprehend how I was raised.” 

“Babe.” Mark calls out, serious. “You literally grew up in an assassin training camp. If he could understand, he’d be thrilled.” He gives you a crooked smile, “Besides, I think you’d make a great mother. You’re already one to Damian, in some way — the guy literally worships you. You do realise that you’re probably more of a mom to him than your actual one, right?”

You shrug. “Well, that’s what happens when your brother’s almost ten years younger than you and your mother is emotionally and physically unavailable.” 

A few moments of silence pass, broken only by Oliver’s babbling. Then, just to ease the tension but also because you truly believe it, you say, “I think you’d make a decent father, too.” 

A frown, “Decent? I’d make a spectacular father.” 

You hum, “Right, right. Our hypothetical kid will have an emotionally repressed mother and a father that feels way too much.”

He tuts, “A father that takes them flying. Do you know how many points that gets you for the Dad of the Year Award? A thousand, at least.” he intertwines his fingers with yours and drags your hand up to his lips, pressing them against the back of it. “And you’re not emotionally repressed. A little unstable? Probably. But do not undermine yourself just because of how you were raised, okay? You’re smart– I know you’d be able to parent well enough.” 

You can’t help a little laugh from escaping you. “If you say so, beloved… but just so you know, we’re not having a kid anytime soon.” 

He pales. “God, don’t even joke about that,” 

You play with Oliver on the couch while his brother cleans up in the kitchen, then pick a movie that seems PG enough for him. When Mark comes back from the kitchen, he bows down from the back of the couch to press a kiss on both your heads, then grimaces at the TV. “The Bee Movie– really, babe?” 

You frown. “What’s wrong with it?”

You find out what’s wrong with The Bee Movie soon enough, but thankfully, Oliver doesn’t take long to fall asleep after dinner. He’s now cuddled up on your chest, breathing softly, and Mark caresses the soft tufts of hair on his head with a gentle hand. “I’ll go take him up to his room,” he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss on your lips, “and then I’ll come back for you,” 

Now, making out with your boyfriend on his family’s couch with his little brother sleeping upstairs isn’t probably the smartest thing you could do, but believe it or not, sometimes you have urges, too. And seeing Mark being so good with a baby is, against all you’d like to enjoy instead, way too hot. 

You’re giggling into each other’s mouths like teenagers, noses bumping and hands on the back of the other’s head, and at some point he moves to peck the tip of your nose. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asks, his palms moving to your hips to drag you in his lap.

Settling over his thighs, you hum, smile on your lips, eyes darting to his then to his pink cheeks, the little mole on his temple, his mouth– everything your pupils can scan. “You might have mentioned it once or twice before, yes,” you muse, already preparing to dive back in. But just when you’re about to stick your tongue down his throat again, you hear a rattle from the door — someone turning the handle without any luck, as Mark had locked it as soon as you entered the house earlier. 

Startled, the two of you turn to look at the front door. “Robber?” he whispers, lips still hovering over the corner of your mouth. Then you hear the jingling of keys, and you swear you’ve never moved to stand up again so fast in your entire life. 

By the time Debbie Grayson opens the door, she finds the two of you suspiciously put together, sitting straight on the couch with the weird movie from earlier still playing. “Hi, mom,” Mark manages, voice strained, “I, uh… didn’t expect you to be back so soon.” His arm’s slung over your shoulders with flaunted propriety, as if to say, we weren’t absolutely about to engage in some good and nice pre-marital coitus, priest. That superspeed of his surely comes in handy when you need to look presentable again in less than ten seconds.

She sighs. “Your father got called away for an emergency — a kaiju’s trying to destroy Los Angeles, apparently.” she looks tired, and you can’t tell if it’s from the late hour or the fact that it’s probably the umpteenth time one of their dates has been interrupted by an emergency. But then she notices you, and her face lights up. “Is she who I think she is?” she asks her son– excited, maybe? You can’t really tell. Your mother didn’t look that happy to meet Mark, if not for the prospect of getting some Viltrumite DNA in the League’s labs. 

A bit awkward, Mark pats your shoulder. “Oh, yeah, she is. Mom, this is my girlfriend. Babe, this is my mom.” 

You get up to properly shake her hand, trying to give her a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs Grayson.” 

“Oh, please,” she gushes, eyes wide and an unremovable grin on her face. “Call me Debbie. I’ve heard so much about you that I might as well know you already.” 

You stutter. “Oh, um… yes, sorry.” a bit uncomfortable, you shift your weight from one foot to another. “Uh… I was just about to go.”

She waves her hand up in the air, “Nonsense! Please, feel free to stay. Would you like anything to drink?” 

She quickly moves to the kitchen, dropping her purse on the couch. Mark groans, “Mom, you make it sound like I’m a horrible host who never offers anything,” 

Debbie raises an eyebrow. “Well, you never offer anything to William,”

“He’s been my friend long enough that he can fend for himself!” he gets up from the couch, too, and gently lays a hand over your waist for comfort. Too busy staring at him, you don’t notice his mom reaching for your radioactive treats. “Ooh, cookies?”

Before you can yell at her not to touch them because you're pretty sure they’re more cancerogenous than most processed foods, she’s taken a bite out of one of them. Her grimace is instantaneous, but then she looks at the unfamiliar tupperware they were stored in, and probably figures that her son wouldn’t randomly start cooking sweets when he never even tried to. Chewing painfully, she looks at you, “Um… you made these?”

“I did,” you say apologetically. 

Her swallow sounds like regret. “Oh, well… that was nice of you, honey. Just… make sure the oven’s set to the right temperature next time. And try to put in more sugar than salt. Other than that, they’re awesome!” as she moves to the sink — no doubt to wash her mouth with soap after the disgusting food roulette she just became a victim to — Mark puts his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, pinching the skin through the fabric

You yelp, then glare at him. He leans his head down to whisper, “I thought you said they came out decent,” 

“Decent doesn’t mean good. It means passable.” 

“Are you saying that you wanted to murder me with hazard cookies, and just tried to kill my mom?” he blinks, “Wait, when you said I would’ve been a decent father, did you mean that I would’ve just been okay at it?”

You shrug. “To be fair, the cookies were made for you and your stomach of iron.” you pat his chest, “As for the father thing– don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get better… sooner or later.” 

Before your boyfriend can rebut anything, Debbie turns back to look at you, her eyebrows in a barely contained frown as she no doubt is still recovering from that bite she took out of the cookie. “So– um, what do you do for work?”

Sitting down for a mug of tea on the counter, you soon find out that Mark apparently forgot to tell his mother who you’re the daughter of — which is quite literally the first and sometimes only thing everyone knows about you — and that you’d been dating for a little over a year now. Apparently, he has been talking nonstop about you since much before that, and she just thought you’d been together for two years or so. 

Debbie is a kind woman — funny, even. It’s weird to see someone’s mom being so normal and making tea, because the thing your mom specialized in was trying to kill you. Sipping her ginger tea, she smiles honestly, “I think I sold a house or two to associates of Wayne Enterprises. Wonderful people — I’ve never heard a bad word of Bruce Wayne from those working with him.” Another sip of her tea, and she turns a bit more nosey, “I didn’t know he was married, though.”

“Oh. Well…” you wince a little, “he and my mother are, let’s say… separated. They never had a wedding, but are actually still married.”

Curiously, Debbie raises an eyebrow, “How so?”

You shrug, “In our culture, the consensus of the woman is enough for two people to be considered married.” 

The woman’s eyes widen, and she carefully sets her mug down. Then she stares at Mark, sitting beside you without a care in the world, looking as calm as ever. “Oh. That’s, uh… that’s peculiar. I– where’s your mother from, exactly?” 

“Somewhere in the Mid East. When my grandfather moved to Tibet, they didn’t really have a name for the region he came from yet — probably Persia.” That actually was more or less eight hundred years ago, but you can’t really say that to poor Mrs Grayson. Her husband actually being a couple thousand years old must already be enough for her. “But don’t worry. Even if the only participating party is the woman, a ceremony is usually still needed.” sometimes. You’re not sure it’s actually needed, but she’s looking at you like you’re going to trap Mark in something, and she needs reassurance. 

“It’s okay, mom,” her son assures, arm slung over your shoulder. “Those are, like, old traditions her family doesn’t follow anymore.” he knows very well that he’s lying, and he doesn’t look remorseful — not one single bit. Pointedly, he looks at you, as if to say please back me up or she’s going to freak out. “Right?”

You avoid his eyes, and unconvinced, you say, “Riiight.” Who's going to tell him that more than twenty years later after their supposed wedding, your mother still insists on the fact that she and your father are married?

Debbie takes a relieved breath. Reassured, she claps her hands as if to wake herself up from the stupor she had fallen in, “Wonderful! So, when are your parents up for dinner?” 

— + one. 

“Parents doesn’t mean the whole family,” 

“Too bad for you that father has moved the meeting to the Manor, then, because we’re not going away.” 

Tapping your foot on the pavement in irritation, you glare down at Damian. “You sure have a lot to say for someone so little.” 

He growls. “Who’re you calling little? I’m the same size as you were at my age!” 

Unconvinced, you rest a hand over your hip. “No. I was definitely taller.” 

Now almost thirteen, Damian still has to properly meet the famous miracle called growth spurt that Bruce has been telling him about ever since he was nine and tall as a park bush. You pinch his cheek a little meanly, “Does Dami Boo Boo want his mommy? I’ll have to call a wambulance if things escalate.” 

Your brother seethes. “Call mommy– let’s see how she deals with you picking on me.” 

“Kids,” Talia hums from the armrest, scrolling through a photo album, “behave.” 

“Look at her,” you gesture towards her, sharing a look with Damian, “more than fourty years–”

“Thirty,” she immediately corrects. 

You take a deep sigh, “Thirty years in the League of Assassins and suddenly she’s here playing house in Father’s home. Where was this trad family instinct when we came to live here, Talia?!”

“For you, and for tonight, it’s mom,” she tuts, turning a page on the album. She looks like the exotic version of a typical high society housewife, somehow, green qipao and all. “Don’t you want this dinner to go well? I figured my astonishing presence was indispensable for an adequate result.” 

Again, you and Damian share an unconvinced look. Then, “Who even invited you?”

She raises an eyebrow, staring at you two over her album. “I had figured Deborah Grayson did so when she asked you when your parents were available for dinner.” 

Your eye twitches. “You have bugs in the Graysons’ house?”

“Don’t bother trying to remove them, or else I’ll just add more. Besides, even if I didn’t, it was your father who invited me.” she gasps at the sight of one picture, “Oh, look at how delightful the two of you look here– it’s almost like you weren’t trying to kill each other all the time!”

“I wonder whose fault is that,” you grumble before moving to see the picture. It’s one of those photos that look vintage but actually isn’t — this is just your grandfather and his obsession for old cameras. You’re standing side by side in your old training clothes — which meant black iga bakamas and white compression shirts — and while it doesn’t look like you’re trying to kill each other, it does look like you at least attempted to. 

You’re both staring at the other — glaring, daring them to try to hit again. You’ve got a bloody nose while Damian, always the more unfortunate one, has a black eye and a livid cheek. The image is turned all the more funny by the fact that he can’t be older than five in it. “You brought grandfather’s albums,” your brother says, displeased. 

“Actually, your grandfather brought them,” she says it like she’s announcing the weather — like your cult leader grandfather is just an old guy who likes fishing and watching football and not a world infamous eco-terrorist. “He’s down in the Cave, talking to your father.” 

You and Damian share a look, and for once, you agree on one thing: nobody’s getting out of the Manor alive or whole tonight, especially not you two. 

Not too long after, Ra’s himself enters the library, with Jason and Dick in tow. “We’re keeping an eye on him,” the former explains at your raised brow. For an eight-hundred-something years old demon, your grandfather looks like a weirdly normal, abnormally rich grandpa — green turtleneck, black suit trousers, the works. They’ve put in effort to look as less assassin-like as possible, it seems, because you’ve never seen your grandfather dress so normal in your entire life. Even when he’s got no battles to fight, he’s usually in his armour, either because he’s very proud of it or because he’s got no intention to have anyone ever think he could be an easy target. 

You groan. “You, too, grandfather? What, did we leave Ubu back in Nanda Parbat? At this point, he had the grounds to be invited, too.” 

He doesn’t even blink. “Ubu is waiting for me in a hotel downtown. I brought you a bowl of my shorbat al-adas.”

You pause, then re-evaluate. “…Okay. You can stay.” Alfred never got the recipe quite right, anyway. 

Said butler, bless his soul, peeks his head through the door opening. “The Graysons ought to arrive at any moment now, if you’d care to take a seat in the dining room.” 

WIth great disappointment, you find out that he must’ve been into this conspiracy, too, because the seats across the dinner table are the right number for all of you. You shake your head, exasperated. “You guys understand that Mark’s parents were supposed to meet just Bruce, right? I didn’t tell them to prepare for a whole family reunion.” 

“Technically, they were prepared for me, too.” Talia huffs. 

You deadpan. “I told them you weren’t coming.” 

The look she sends you matches yours. “You sure have a lot of faith in me, huh?” 

You could tell her for the thousandth time all the reasons why, but it’s not a good idea to fight with your mother just minutes before she’s supposed to meet your boyfriend’s parents and you want everyone to make a good impression. So you just sigh, take out your phone and text Mark. 

Hey. I know this is sudden, but my mother’s here as well. Ra’s too. And all the others. 

After he reads it, there’s a pause you quickly recognise as pure panic. 

i thought it was going to be just us and our parents?? i know that we’re bringing oliver too but DAYUM  like do you want me to make it out alive or not

“Fool,” Damian hisses, peeking at your screen. You slap him on the side of his head and lecture, “Quiet.” 

You’ll be fine. Hopefully. 

A moment of silence. 

Viltrumites are not allergic to Kryptonite, right? Because the al Ghuls have so much of it that they sell it to Lex Luthor. Just wondering. 

Three dots appear on the screen. 

dad says he’s never tasted it, but we shouldn’t have any problems with it mom made her casserole but i’m not sure it’s going to be enough at this point 

Well, someone better tell Nolan Grayson that Kryptonite isn’t for eating, but you won’t be the one to do that. Anyway, it’s good to hear. 

“Not a single mention of the League,” you tell your mother and grandfather in the spare minutes you have before the Graysons come around. “I don’t want to hear anything about world domination and partial annihilation of the Earth’s population. Make a joke about the Chicago incident, and you’re out of here. Got it?”

Talia rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.” 

Ra’s huffs. “I should feel free to express myself however I want with your in-laws. Isn’t that what your generation keeps blabbering about these last few years? Expressing yourselves without judgment?”

“That doesn’t apply to terrorists,” Tim utters. You point to him. “What he said.” 

The doorbell rings. Alfred speeds off the stairs to greet the Graysons, and you give a last nasty glare to Ra’s and Talia. “One sentence phrased badly, and you’re out of here for the rest of your lives.” 

Oliver is the first one to slip through the front door, swinging past Alfred and crashing on your legs. “Hiii!” he shrieks, grinning up at you. The kid grows at an astonishing pace, going from being barely a toddler to a five-year-old in just a little over three months. You smile at him, picking him up by his armpits, “Hi, buddy, how’s it going?”

He settles over your hip, gripping the collar of your jumper as Debbie, Nolan and Mark cross the threshold, all greeted by Alfred. “I learned how to write your name yesterday. Wanna see?”

You wave at the Graysons while nodding at Oliver, “Sure, bud. How about some dinner first?”

Debbie holds up a pan. “I made my casserole.” 

Alfred takes it without hesitation. “Thank you, Mrs Grayson, there was no need.” 

“It’s Debbie, please,” she waves him off, “can I call you Alfred?”

The latter blinks, unfazed. “Sure.” 

“I brought pastries from Paris!” Mark adds from behind his father. The glare he sends to Oliver isn’t subtle at all. “And you, little homewrecker– what did you bring?” 

He seems to think about it for a while. Then the poor kid turns to you, eyes watery, stuttering, “I– I didn’t know I had to bring something…” his grip on your jumper tightens, “are you going to kick me out?” 

“Of course not!” you assure him, sending a nasty glance at his brother. “Don’t worry, Oliver, Mark’s just being mean.”

Oliver, in all his purple glory, sticks his tongue out at him. “Bleeh! Rat!” 

The box of French patisserie is quickly left to Alfred’s care as Mark lunges for Oliver. “You little–!”

Nolan puts an arm in front of him, blocking his attack. “No fighting,” he chastises. 

Your father finally comes down the stairs, Talia following close behind. Your brothers all hide behind the railing, not actually invisible and very loud, while your grandfather just stands at the top of the steps like some conqueror to his new city. By now, it’s clear to everyone that the only one approaching this dinner with actual peaceful intentions is Alfred. 

Bruce’s smile tightens when he sees Nolan — clearly, he hasn’t forgotten the footage of him in Chicago, nor will he ever be able to do that. “Bruce Wayne– pleased to meet you.”

He shakes hands with both Nolan and Debbie before doing so with Mark, all under your mother’s inquisitive stare. By looking at them, you’d think the detective was her. Oliver pokes your jaw, then whispers in your ear, “Your mom’s really pretty.” 

At the same time, Talia leans in to affirm to Bruce, “That kid is purple,” like he hasn’t got eyes to see for himself. “I noticed,” he deadpans. 

“Oliver takes his skin tone from his mother’s lineage,” Nolan quickly explains, “it should fade over time.” 

Your mother stares at him up and down, and God, is it funny to see Omni-Man — mass-murderer, thousand-year-old Viltrumite, ex aspirant conqueror of Earth — cower the littlest bit under her gaze. She’s scary when she’s judgy, but he should’ve seen her during your upbringing. It is true that mothers always get softer after their second kid. Bruce pats her shoulder, trying to ease the tension up. “Forgive her– this is Talia. She’s, uh…”

“Mrs Wayne,” she introduces, and the only thing keeping you from slapping your face is the fact that you’re still holding Oliver in your arms. Genuinely, your father should get started on the divorce proceedings, because she cannot keep dragging this marriage thing for the rest of their lives. It’s really getting too complicated to explain to people. She doesn’t move to shake their hands, and instead continues to stare at them like they’re a really ugly painting in an art exhibit. 

Uncomfortable, Mark moves to stay behind you. You cough loudly, then propose, “Why don’t we all sit down at the dinner table? The food’s already set.” 

The dinner goes as bad as one would’ve expected. 

It was doomed from the start, honestly, even without putting in the equation both your sets of parents’ backgrounds, when Oliver sat beside you. Then Mark sat on the other side, making any seats beside you unavailable, immediately causing Damian’s utter indignation. And rather than just voice out his complaints, he ìtook the seat on Oliver’s left and started stealing things from his plate whenever he wasn’t looking — or worse, adding vegetables to it, causing the kid’s frustration and confusion because I just finished the peas and now there’s more!

Ra’s and Nolan get weirdly along with one another — one mass-murderer to another, you guess. Bruce never quite lets them finish a conversation, probably scared of what the possible outcome would be, and even if you highly doubt that the Graysons know of his nightlife, the tension in the air never really leaves. 

Your brothers taunt Mark every chance they get. Dick makes so many jokes about them sharing the same surname that at some point you lose count. Jason takes one look at him, tells him that he looks scrawny, then goes back to his potatoes. Tim impromptu quizzes him on comics you didn’t even know existed, and suddenly you discover that Science Dog’s topics are very far from the talking dog comedy you thought it was. Every once in a while, Damian glares at him with the same blazing heat of a thousand burning suns, and you catch him trying to poison his water when Mark’s off to the bathroom. 

The only one who seems to be having a good time is Debbie, of course — the only one at this table without any criminal records. 

She compliments Alfred on the food. Shares anecdotes about her boys to your mother, who, despite initial doubts, seems to like her just enough. She asks your father how the company’s new campaign is doing. Questions your brothers on what they do in their lives without a single ounce of judgement in her eyes. 

Then Talia takes out the family album right before the dessert, and suddenly half the table’s crowded behind her with their phones out to take pictures for blackmail. Alfred snatches a photo of you at three in a war ceremonial dress so fast your mother almost doesn’t notice. Mark snaps a picture of you in a bowl cut and says that if you have a kid, their hair won’t be spared from the same suffering you both have been subjected to as children. Bruce nearly cries when a picture of you holding newborn Damian shows up. 

But, hey, at least no one’s trying to kill anyone like the last time. And when Debbie takes out her phone and starts showing you pictures of Mark as a baby, butt naked and running around their yard, you think that this could be going much, much worse. 

In the end, you still get out to the balcony to get a breather, and are immediately joined by Damian. He’s quiet for a few moments, then mutters, “He’s not a complete idiot, compared to the last one.” 

Amused, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You mean that he didn’t even flinch whenever you put rat poison in his food?” 

He shrugs. “This one has a purple brother and often shows murderous intent, but somehow, he’s still far more acceptable.” 

Smirking, you nudge him a little. “Is it because his mom said you’re really cute?”

Suddenly, he’s avoiding eye contact and his face is all red. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” 

Later on, you say goodbye to Mark with a kiss on his cheek and a pat to his shoulder. “Good work today, soldier,” you hum, “let’s see if next time goes as well.”

He pales. “Next time?” he whispers, “I don’t know how many times more I can handle your mother asking me about my future plans for the planet while your grandfather tries to bribe me into being a part of some weird experiment.” 

The Graysons leave the Manor with warm smiles and firm handshakes. You take a deep sigh when the door closes, then turn to Alfred with the most serious expression he’s ever seen. “The next family reunion better not be until my funeral.” 

Meanwhile, on the ride back home, Debbie Grayson scrolls her phone as she chuckles. “Did you know there’s people out there speculating that Bruce Wayne is Batman? It’s crazy, really, the guy looks like he barely has any time for himself, let alone for a whole vigilante secret life.” 

Mark and Nolan share a panicked look in the rearview mirror, then the former laughs nervously. “Yeah,” your boyfriend agrees, “how crazy would that be?”

reader: I don't have a type

also her type:

taglist: @heartfully10 @victoria1676 @lillycore @ddeliajo @emberswithers

also omg i just realised i forgot about cass 💔 she's above this tomfoolery anyway

[daily-daydream]

Sneak Peek to my upcoming Batfam Fic!

Title: A Rose's Thorns

Pairing: Platonic Batfam x batsis! reader

Summary: After Poison Ivy escapes, you face cuddle pollen for the first time, faking immunity until eventually your family discovers the harsh truth

Note: Any feedback is appreciated!

They say every rose has its thorns, but some are sharper than others. In your family, you were definitely the rose in the garden. While many roses bloom brightly, others are tangled, sharp, and unable to be plucked. You were of the thornier variety.

Everyone knew you had one of the biggest hearts of anyone, even rivaling your older brother

Dick's reputation, but that heart was buried beneath many layers of attitude, stubbornness, and a sharp tongue.  Even if you didn't have as much training as the others, you were the dread of every criminal in Gotham. Essentially, nobody wanted to cross Sparrow in a dark alley at night. Even so, a rose is a rose, and your family loved you, thorns and all, even when those thorns pushed them away.

“You know, I had some math homework due tonight,” you grumbled to your older brother, Dick, as you walked down the dark halls of the abandoned factory. Tonight, Poison Ivy kidnapped the CEO of a large tech startup to stop his plans to build a data center on a field with an endangered species of flowers, threatening to kill him if he didn’t cancel the plans by midnight. The captive was hidden somewhere in an old building in Gotham, as far as Oracle could tell from the ransom footage, but the exact one hadn’t been pinpointed yet, which meant all of you had to head out in teams to find him. Bruce was meeting with Ivy at a rendezvous point to negotiate. 

Why did rogues always pick when you were practically drawing in assignments? Honestly, you couldn’t exactly blame Ivy for what she was doing. Not completely, at least, even if you disagreed with the whole threatening part. The problem with Ivy was that she always had a point. After all, the elite’s control grew more and more each day, their greed rooted in everything until it ruined others' lives. Despite the fact that the CEO’s project would force people who lived near the fields to move, nobody would care because he was well-loved and respected among the rich. Usually, the worst people are. People like him were weeds needing to be plucked. While this may seem hypocritical of you to think as the daughter of a billionaire, who else would know how corrupt they were? 

Dick shrugged, his voice breaking you from your thoughts.  “Come on, stop trying to be so perfect all the time. Don’t you already make straight As? That’s better than I did in college.”

“Maybe, but my professors are not exactly huge fans of me,” you went on. “Especially since I’ve already missed twelve classes this semester because I was up all night saving the city. Don’t even get me started on this one. I disagreed with him on one thing, and now he’s got it out for me-”

“Professors can be know-it-alls,” he said. “But I be-leaf in you.”

“Seriously? I don’t have time for your plant puns right now!” you sighed, nudging him in his side. “Could you lock in?” 

Dick held out an arm, shushing you, “Wait, I think I heard something.” Quickly, you grabbed the batarang at your side, glancing around the room for anything. 

“I think I hear a perfectionist who needs a serious visit from Mr. Freeze,” he teased, but there was a hint of frustration in his tone. “Because you need to learn to chill.” 

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed, “Sorry for caring about my future! At least I’m a self-aware perfectionist.” 

Dick stopped in his tracks, turning to face you with a mix of scolding and concern. “You put all of yourself into everything you do, okay? Patrol. Charity work. Grades. Nobody’s putting that sort of pressure on you. At this rate, you’re going to get burned out quickly. Stubbornness will only take you so far.” 

Pressure? Irritation rose up in you at the very notion. Of course, you were pressured! Batman was your father! Despite how little you cared for following his orders during patrols, every correction, piece of feedback, and harsh word was carved into your memory, even when he took them back. Words could be forgiven, but never forgotten. 

Okay, okay…so logically, you knew Dick had a point. Bruce told you to keep good grades, not perfect ones. After you started attending Gotham University, he assured you that you could take time off from vigilante work unless there was a major emergency. Even offered to hire someone to handle the details of the charity foundation you created until you graduated to make things easier. Yet you insisted on keeping things as they were, maybe to avoid focusing too long on memories you’d rather forget. 

“Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself,” he added. Stupid older sibling powers! They always had a way of noticing how you were feeling, no matter how much you tried to hide it. “I know my limits,” you insisted. 

  With a long sigh, he quietly went to check a few more parts of the factory for the hostage. There was no use in arguing.  After all, you were the most stubborn of Waynes. 

Footsteps echoed off the walls as you made your way to the other side of the room, looking for anything out of the ordinary. There was something eerie about this place. In the back of your mind, there was a nagging feeling of wrongness. Probably the sleep deprivation. Although why would Ivy pick here? Usually, she would choose a greenhouse or the botanical gardens, so she would have plenty of access to plants if needed to defend herself. 

Oracle’s voice came over the comms, “Nightwing and Sparrow, I’ve managed to track the CEO's phone, and he should be at your location. As far as I can tell, he should be somewhere on the second floor. 

“Got it,” you nodded. “Anything else?” 

“Be careful. This is almost too easy for Ivy,” she warned. “Keep a sharp eye.” 

“I’ve already considered that, but we brought our rebreathers if she has any pollen traps set,” you assured. “We’ll be in and out quick.” Turning your line off, you signaled for Dick to follow you up the stairs. The two of you made your way towards the second floor, going carefully. Each step felt heavier than the last, a sense of dread in the air you couldn’t quite place. On the last flight, something caught your eye. An old ad on the wall for rose perfume.

“Nighwing, what sort of factory did this used to be?” you asked. 

“I don’t know. I think it was makeup, or perfume, or something,” he shrugged. “Why?” 

Perfume. If they formulated the products here, then that meant actual flower petals would have been used to make the scent. Even if the plants here were long dead, even a dried leaf was enough for Ivy’s abilities to work. 

Worry crept into his tone, “I know that look. What are you thinking?” 

Before you could answer, Bruce’s voice came over the comm line: “Ivy never showed up for our meeting, but the hostage is here.” 

“It’s a trap!” you whisper-yelled, glancing around. Ivy must have left the phone here, knowing Oracle would track it to this location. “We have to leave!”

“Get out of there now,” Bruce ordered. “Oracle, notify the others to leave and meet with me.”

Too late. There was a small tug at your ankle, tightening a bit. A vine had wrapped around it, snaking its way up your leg. 

Panic spiked in you, the pit in your gut forming a thorny knot. Quickly, you grabbed a knife from your belt and sliced through the root. The scent of flowers hit your nose before you heard her. 

“That’s not very nice,” a voice scolded, echoing off the walls. 

More vines slithered across the floor from the shadows and climbed up the walls. From the shadows emerged Poison Ivy, red lips upturned in a smirk. Vines curled around her, lined with pink buds full of whatever pollen, no doubt. The thought sent a shiver down your spine. One thing you hated the most was feeling out of control, and her pheromones could make people do all sorts of things. Looks like you were going to have to wing it for now until you could get out. Hopefully, talking would work this time. Ivy tended to be one of the more reasonable of Gotham’s rogues you’d encountered. 

The stairs were blocked by her vines, and you were both too far up to jump without breaking anything. Dick seemed to notice as well, tensing for a fight. 

“I’m surprised the two of you really thought it was this easy,” she taunted. “The Bat must be getting soft with age, thinking I’d negotiate so easily. Thought you were more clever than that.” For the last words, her eyes were on you. A vine shot out towards you, touching your hair almost teasingly before retreating back. 

Another vine shot towards Dick, aiming for his arm. In a blur of metal, you threw a batarang at it, pinning it to the wall before it withered. 

“Careful,” she taunted. “Wouldn’t want to see anyone getting hurt, now would we?” 

“I don’t miss,” you answered bluntly. The words seemed to tick her off more. If you couldn’t risk a right, then at least you could piss her off with your words. Your words tended to have that effect. 

“Can we just talk this out? I don’t understand! You’ve been out of Arkham for over a year now! Things were going well!” 

“Understand? I think it’s perfectly easy to understand,” she said in a harsh tone. The vines waved angrily. “The company was going to build an AI data center over an endangered plant! What else could I do?”

“There’s a life at stake here!” Dick pleaded. “We’ve been at this since I was Robin. Can we let this go?”

“Let it go?” she seethed. “It was them or the environment!” 

“Seriously? It’s an AI data center?” you asked. “That’s even worse! Honestly, I say screw AI.”

“Don’t tell me you’re taking her side here!” Dick exclaimed, giving you an exasperated stare. 

“I mean, it is AI we’re talking about,” you shot back. 

Dick sighed, “Look, I get it, but we can’t ignore the hostages!” 

“I knew there was a reason you were my favorite of Bat’s birds,” she said, smirking as she leaned on a vine.  

Turning back to face her, you went on, “I’ll speak with my father about this and see if Wayne Enterprises can stop him, or outbuy the project! Just let him go, and I’ll find a way to fix this, I swear!” 

“Do you really think it’s that easy?” she scoffed. “They’ll only build it somewhere else. Money is all they listen to.” 

“There has to be a law, or something,” you tried, realizing how pointless it was. In the end, she was unfortunately right. Things could change if enough people worked together, but the companies would still do damage. “Let me just speak with Wayne Enterprises. They’ll see the wrong in all this and stop the plans, I promise.” 

She paused a moment, as if considering it before the familiar anger returned to her eyes. 

“Sorry, but I can’t take that risk,” she answered in a low tone, with a hint of sympathy, as if she truly appreciated the offer. Then her smile turned more mischievous. Flowers began blooming. Oh no, you know that look. 

“Watch out!” Dick warned, but everything happened too fast. Before you both could put your rebreathers on, clouds of yellow pollen filled the air. Dick tried to block you, but was caught by a vine. The glint of a batarang. Pain filled your side before you realized you had been flung to the floor. A million thoughts filled your head as you tried to focus, adrenaline rushing through you. 

Factory. Exits blocked. Too many vines. Get out. Get everyone out safely. Get out. 

In the golden, pollen-filled fog, you saw a shadow of a figure on the ground. Great! You had to get to him. Stabbing pain filled your side, but you forced yourself to get up and keep pushing. If your family needed help, you could ignore it for now. 

A deep cold settled over you, digging into your bones. It nearly knocked you off your feet, making you stop in your tracks. Everything was cold. The entire world seemed cold, making existence feel like ice, followed by a deep ache in your core. A hollowness that made you want to reach out for warmth. 

Wow, Dick had been gone in Bludhaven for a while now, hadn’t he? Maybe you missed him more than you thought. Stephanie gave some of the best hugs. Actually, you hadn’t hugged your little brother Damian in a while. Did Cass need you right now?  Bruce’s arms around you. No, your father’s arms around you. The idea felt so, so warm. Warmth, you needed warmth. 

Shoot! This was cuddle pollen, wasn’t it? Easily, you brushed the feeling off, letting it slide away as if nothing had happened.

No different than usual.

Tags @littlebirdygirlywriting @starrydustedwinter @am-i-dreaming-right-now @bluercherry @overcaffeinated-lab-rat

[finalgirlfiction]

Maybe You Were Never Mine MASTERLIST

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader (Angst) and Beau Maxwell x Fem!Reader (Slow Burn)

Warnings: heartbreak, angst, crying, swearing, insynuation to smut but no smut

Summary: you always knew Dean wasn't relationship type of guy but you never could have guessed he would change for someone who's not you. Luckily you're not left all alone

PART I

PART II NEW ONE!!

[dilaurentisprincess]

⟡ THE HEARTBREAK ASSIGNMENT

DEAN M.LIST 𖤓 MAIN M.LIST 𖤓 SEND A REQUEST !

requested

⌯⌲ SYNOPSIS: When you find yourself in Dean Di Laurentis’ bed, you’re over the moon about it. You’d liked him for so long, it felt like a dream when he’d asked if you wanted to spend a night with him… But that dream is quickly crushed, along with your heart, when you overhear a conversation Dean and Allie Hayes have.

⌯⌲ CONTENT: 18+ — mentions of sexual situations, not in detail. angst. dean uses reader. strong language.

“So you slept with the Dean Di Laurentis? Don’t just leave me hanging girl, how was it?!” your best friend squeals, making you laugh while also shushing her.

“Calm down, I’ll give you the details,” you pause, looking up to see Dean entering the library, a small smile tilting your lips as memories from the night before flash through your mind. “Tomorrow though, I gotta go, love you!”

Gathering your books, papers and pens, you shove everything into your bag, quickly standing from your chair. Your best friend looks in the direction your attention is glued to, a mischievous smile tilting her lips now.

“Oh, I see you, girl. Dirty details later, don’t think you’re getting out of this one Y/L/N!”

You narrow your eyes, playfully giving her the middle finger before you turn and head straight towards Dean.

He’s standing at the very back of the library now, tucked away behind large, wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with books ranging from old as dirt to brand new. You inch closer to Dean, ready to talk to him about last night, but the conversation he’s already having with none other than Allie Hayes, stops you dead in your tracks.

“I completed the assignment, Allie-Cat, and I have to be completely honest, I didn’t really feel good doing it.”

Allie scoffs, her brown eyes shining with amusement as she looks back at Dean. “Oh, come on, Dean. You were this campuses biggest playboy when I first met you, I don’t believe for a second you didn’t enjoy whoever you slept with last night.”

Her words are like a knife to your heart. They’re discussing you. They’re discussing what you and Dean did last night, and Dean called it an “assignment”, what the fuck does that even mean?

Dean steps closer to Allie, his hand reaching out and tucking a strand of her wild, curly hair behind her ear. The way she looks at him… eyes full of adoration. How could you have been so blind? So stupid?

You’ve liked Dean for as long as you can remember, so when he came up to you at Malone’s last night, bought you a drink and charmed the pants off of you — literally — you thought it meant he liked you.

Not that you were some fucking assignment, which you’re still unsure what the hell that even means.

“I like you, Al, I told you this. I completed the stupid assignment because you did. You said if I completed it, we’d be even, and then we could move forward, so why are you-”

You can’t listen to anymore, you make your presence known, stepping into view of both Allie and Dean.

Clearing your throat, you lock eyes with a very stunned Dean.

“What the hell is the assignment you completed, and why am I somehow part of this?”

Dean stutters, his blue eyes wide as they volley back and forth between you and Allie.

You raise a single brow, placing one hand on your hip, waiting on him to explain.

“Any fucking day now would be great, Dean. Why the hell are you telling Allie you ‘completed the assignment’ and she’s saying you enjoyed whoever you slept with. You slept with me last night, so please, explain any fucking time.”

“Okay, listen..” Dean begins, but Allie quickly cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t tell her that it wasn’t going to be more than sex, Dean?”

Dean’s pretty eyes find Allie, looking shameful as he says, “It didn’t really come up, no, but I also didn’t even want to complete your stupid assignment and didn’t think about saying anything because I knew what it was for me.”

Allie blinks, her eyes wide with bewilderment at what Dean just said.

“Dean, girls have bigger feelings than… boys.” she points at him, her hand waving up and down while she does. “You needed to be transparent with her, now you’ve probably hurt this poor girls feelings.”

Your narrowed eyes slide to Allie, not necessarily angry at her, but not liking being considered a “poor girl”, that just makes it seem like you’re someone who needs to be pitied, and you don’t want that.

“Okay, listen, yeah it sucks, but I don’t want or need your pity, I’m just waiting on Dean here to explain himself.”

Dean sighs, running a hand through his messy blond hair. His blue eyes lock on yours, finally giving you the explanation you’ve been waiting on.

“I didn’t mean to use you, my intentions weren’t to hurt you either, I just…” he runs his hand through his hair again. “Allie and I started a no-strings attached type of relationship a few months back, we both started catching feelings, but she wasn’t ready for that, so we made a pact, kind of, we called it the assignment.” Dean pauses to take a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he gathers his thoughts.

“The assignment was basically for each of us to sleep with someone else to prove the feelings weren’t that strong, that we could remain no-strings. You were the girl I was drawn to last night, so, while yes you were my way of completing the assignment, I really was into you… I know that probably doesn’t make anything better, but, you weren’t just a girl I used, I mean.. not really at least.”

You scoff. His explanation makes sense in a way, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did use you. He may not have intended to use you, or hurt your feelings, but the bottom line is, he wasn’t upfront and honest with you. He didn’t tell you what last night was, and that is just plain unacceptable.

“So I was just, what? A game basically? You sleep with me, prove to Allie you don’t have strong feelings for her and the two of you can continue your friends with benefits relationship? I mean seriously, Dean, did you just not think I’d ever find out? That I wouldn’t want to talk to you today?”

Dean lets out another sigh, a look of defeat on his face. “I’m sorry, I truly wasn’t thinking. I never meant for this to happen.”

Rolling your eyes, you grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Fuck you, Dean. I truly didn’t ever want to believe the shit that’s said about you around this campus, but of course, that was just plain stupid of me. You are the fuckboy everyone says you are.”

Dean cringes, a flash of hurt crossing his face before he quickly schools it. “I understand.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

Turning on your heel, you rush out of the row of bookshelves the three of you were in. Rushing past the table you and your best friend were occupying, you see she’s now gone. You keep your head down, hiding the tears that are already threatening to fall. Fuck Dean. Fuck him and his little “assignment” that he and Allie had going on. He used you. The fact that he used you hurts so much more than the feeling of being invisible to him.

You rush out of the library doors and into the crisp fall air, letting the first tear fall. You rush all the way back to your dorm room, letting the tears flow as you try and clear your mind of Dean and his stupid assignment.

[bloodiedskirtts]

Honeybee

andrew "pope" cody x nanny!fem!reader

summary: Baz hires you as Lena's nanny...but you and her want to spend more time with Pope

content/warnings: NSFW + MDNI! 18+ ONLY! violence towards reader, smurf, daddy kink, unprotected sex, light stalking (it's pope ofc), oral sex (f & m receiving), no use of y/n

wc: 4k

notes: Set between season one and two, I'm only on season 3 of Animal Kingdom, so apologies for the ooc of it all. pics used just for aesthetic purpose, not a reflection of what the reader looks like.

You always loved working with kids. Always knew that you were going to work with kids. You worked as an au pair around Europe in your early twenties. But after almost a decade raising rich brats in France and Italy and Spain, you decided that it was time to come home. Or close enough to home.

That's how you end up sitting looking out at the sea in Oceanside waiting to meet your new kid. Lena.

Her father, single dad, Barry Blackwell had put out an advertisement for a nanny. And you needed the job. You could handle a rich American brat too. The Strand was being gentrified. But Mr Blackwell seems more rough-and-tumble than hedge fund manager.

If you're being honest, he makes your skin crawl. But you need a job.

"This is a live-in position?" you clarify as you sit at the breakfast bar in his home.

He nods his head, "Yea, um, with my job I have to be away from home a lot. I don't like leaving Lena alone."

You blink, "Well yes, she's six. I wouldn't leave her alone either. That's fine. I'll just take Saturday afternoons until Monday mornings off."

The man before you frowns, "What if I need you to work weekends?"

"We can discuss overtime, Mr Blackwell. But I will be taking weekends. I'm being generous with Saturday mornings," you say with a frown.

His frown deepens but he nods.

"Lena's mother would do a grocery run-"

"Mr Blackwell, I'm not a maid. Of course, I'll cook for Lena. But I don't clean, I don't cook, I don't grocery shop."

"If I paid more?" he asks then.

You cock your head to the side, "If you paid more, then we can discuss that, of course."

So that's how you end up working for Barry Blackwell.

You don't mind living in the house by the beach. You get Lena up every morning, you make breakfast, bring her to school. You go clean the house when she's away, even do the damn grocery shopping with the wad of money he leaves on top of the microwave each week. When you pick Lena up from school, you always bring her to the beach.

"Daddy never takes me to the beach," she tells you one day as you eat ice cream.

Yea, you gather. You really don't like her dad. But he's rarely at home like he said.

"Uncle Pope brings me," she says. "We go to the swings."

You stroke her curls and smile, "Your uncle? Does he live around here?"

Lena shrugs, "I think so. Sometimes he's at Grandma Smurf's. But he was away for a really long time. I don't know where. But he's nice."

One morning after you drop Lena to school, you walk into the house to find a blonde woman sitting in the kitchen. You jump when you see her. Nobody has been in the house bar you and Lena since Baz left at the start of the week.

She sizes you up and down, "Where's my son?"

"Mr Blackwell?" you ask.

You've never seen this woman before. Baz told you not to let anyone into the house when he was away. Fuck. The older woman softens at your tone.

"Who are you exactly?" she asks, pursing her lips as she eyes you up.

"I'm Lena's nanny," you explain. "Mr Blackwell hired me a few weeks ago. He needed the help after his wife left. I just dropped her at school. Sorry, he never mentioned any family."

She frowns at your words, "Well that would be why I haven't seen my grandbaby in so long. I didn't know what Baz was doing with her. But he's got a pretty girl like you taking care of her.

"You can call me Smurf. Everyone else does. How about you bring Lena over to my house after school?"

"Oh, sure. I, well, don't know where you live," you confess.

Smurf smiles, "Well why don't you come over now. And we can go get Lena together. We have a pool," she tells you.

You brighten up immediately, "Oh! I was trying to teach Lena to swim. She loves to go to the beach but she can't swim. You think I could teach her in your pool?"

Smurf is delighted by the idea. Let's you gather your and Lena's things before driving you over to the Cody house. You've never been to this area of Oceanside. You don't expect the huge house. And you don't expect to meet Smurf's other sons.

Craig and Deran are making noise by the pool when you walk in. Smurf just ushers you into the kitchen.

"Have you had breakfast?" she asks you.

"Um, no I usually eat after I come back from dropping off Lena," you respond.

Smurf immediately starts cooking for you. You hate being doted on like that. You haven't been in so long. So you try to help but Smurf tells you to sit.

"Can I make you coffee at least?" you finally ask.

Smurf allows this, and you get to work with making fresh coffee for them. You look up when you hear heavy footsteps approaching. Your heart skips a beat when you look up to see a man storming into the kitchen handsome, auburn hair, hazel eyes and sun-kissed skin.

"Who's that?" he asks Smurf, ignoring you.

"Baz hired a nanny for Lena," his mother responds, introducing you.

He frowns as he sizes you up, "What did he do that for? We can take care of her."

Smurf scowls at him, at the suggestion. She doesn't want him to say something stupid in front of this stranger. She puts her arm around you, squeezing you gently.

"This is my eldest boy, Andrew," she tells you. "He's a bit rough around the edges but I promise, he's a sweetheart underneath it all. Now you go eat your breakfast while I speak to him."

You do as you're told. A part of you knows better than to go against what this woman says. It's a gut feeling. And you don't go against gut feelings.

When Smurf leaves you and Lena back to Baz's, Smurf grips your wrist, stopping you from getting out of her car.

"Let's not tell Baz about this visit. I think it's best if we just keep it between us," she says.

You nod your head. You're not stupid enough to disagree with her. And anyway, it's just swimming lessons.

Since Pope learned about you, he knew he needed to keep an eye on you. He spent a week following you. Watching as you brought Lena to school. Where you do your grocery shopping. He watches you when you go to the beach before you have to collect Lena. He likes watching how your body moves in the water when you go for a swim. He tries to ignore how his body reacts to you when you walk out of the sea, water sliding down your body.

You have no idea about Pope Cody. One morning, when you go to wake Lena up to get her ready for the day, you go into her room, and she's not there. Your heart drops. She's not watching TV. She's not in the bathroom. You search every inch of the house.

You're about to call Baz when the door opens and Lena walks in. You rush over to her, falling to your knees and cupping her little face in your hands.

"Where were you?" you ask. "You know you can't just wander outside on your own."

"I wasn't alone," she says as the door opens wider.

You look up from where you're kneeling on the ground to see a man come in. Andrew. The man who you met briefly at Smurf's house.

"Uncle Pope brought me to swings."

You lean back on your kneels with a frown as you look at him. He stares you down and you can't help the way your heart races. You blame it on the stress of Lena going missing.

"You shoulda woke me up," you say to her, stroking her cheeks again before standing up.

Andrew, Pope, looks at you. Cocking his head to the side.

"Where's Baz?" he asks, his voice rough.

Lena answers, "He's away..."

"And is he away a lot?" Pope asks, his eyes flicking to you.

"Lena, can you get ready for school, sweetie. I'll make you breakfast in a second," you say.

As soon as Lena rushes off you turn your attention to Pope.

"You can't just break in here and take off with her," you tell him. "I thought she was kidnapped. Mr Blackwell woulda killed me!"

Pope sizes you up, "She's my niece. I can see her whenever I want."

You look at him like he's crazy. He has to be crazy. It's barely 6am and he thought he'd pay a visit?!

"I knew Baz wasn't around. I was worried about Lena. I thought she was here alone."

"And you didn't call your brother?" you ask, folding your arms in annoyance.

"He didn't answer. Where is he?" he retorts.

You shrug as you turn to the kitchen, Pope's eyes fall to the swell of your ass under your sleep shorts.

"He told me he travels for work. Is that not true?" you ask as you pull out bacon from the fridge.

Pope just sniffs in return. He knows his brother is probably with Lucy in Mexico. Leaving his daughter with a stranger.

"You're a nanny?" he asks then.

"Yea, I worked in Europe as an au pair. I've done all my courses. Everything is above board, if that's what you're tryin' to get at," you say as you start making breakfast.

"And you live here? With Baz?"

You shake your head quickly.

"I'm a live-in nanny. But I don't live with Baz," you say, maybe a bit harsher than usual. "You want coffee?"

Pope's lips twitch, as close to a smile as you'll get. He likes you.

You don't expect Pope to still be there after you get home from dropping Lena to school. But he's there, cleaning the kitchen.

"Lena really likes you," you say. "When she goes to her grandmother's she's always asking if you'll be there. I'm teaching her how to swim. I can't believe she's a Cali girl and she can't swim!"

Pope just shrugs. He's not much of a talker.

"Look, I have no problem with you seeing her but I'd appreciate if you told me first."

He takes another minute before looking at you.

"So I need your number," you say offering him your phone.

That's how you end up texting Pope Cody.

Pope Cody: Hello. I can pick Lena up from school today. I'm in the area.

Pope Cody: Good Morning. I can take Lena for breakfast, she likes a pancake place on the way to school.

Pope Cody: Hello. I made too much spaghetti, I can bring some over for Lena and you if you'd like.

You smile whenever your phone vibrates. You like talking to Pope. Even if it is just about Lena.

Whenever Baz is there, the texts don't come in. Sometimes Pope will come over to hang out with Baz. But you never get to say too much to him as Baz suggests you take Lena somewhere else.

Although one day you walk in as Baz snarls in Pope's face, "No one is ever gonna have a kid with you."

Pope can't meet your eyes as he walks past you to leave.

You spend your Saturday afternoons and Sundays out of Oceanside. Unless Baz has requested that you stay. He pays you in cash beforehand, and you just spend the weekend with Lena. Sometimes at Smurf's. Sometimes with Pope.

You're on the beach one Saturday with Lena, Pope is pushing her on the swings and you are watching on. A woman comes up to you and smiles.

"Your little girl is so cute and your husband is so good with her," she says. "I have to drag my husband out with them."

You should correct her, but you don't. You want people to think that you're a family. It would be nice...

Soon you find yourself texting Pope, not just about Lena.

You: I watched a documentary about wolves I think you'd like

You: I was going to go to the beach tomorrow did you wanna come? Deran said you used to like surfing!

Baz comes in all flustered one afternoon. He hasn't been home in almost a month. It's the longest that he's been away. He rushes over to Lena and she's so happy to see her Daddy. You go back to cleaning as she babbles about everything that has happened since he's been away. You smile.

She's a great kid. One of the best you've taken care of.

You hear Baz ask her to repeat herself and your head shoots up.

"She's teaching me how to swim in Grandma Smurf's pool," you hear her say.

It's not her fault. She's just a kid. And even though you had told her not to say anything about Pope or Smurf, you can't blame her for spilling details. But the colour drains out of your face nevertheless. Especially when you hear Baz telling her to go to her room. She does as she's told.

You continue cleaning as you hear Baz's footsteps storm into the kitchen. He grabs your hair and pulls you backwards. He's pressed against your back and you're looking up at him, fear coursing through your body.

"I thought I told you not to let anyone in the house. And now I hear Smurf has been sniffing around. And you're bringing my kid around to her house," he hisses at you.

You whimper as his grip on your hair tightens.

"She's her grandmother. I didn't think-" you being before Baz slams your head against a cupboard.

"Yea, you didn't fuckin' think. When I tell you something, you fuckin' listen. You stupid bitch," he snarls, hitting your head against the cupboard again.

You're bracing yourself for another slam, but you're suddenly falling to the ground. Baz has been hauled off you. You collapse. You turn to see Pope dragging him off you. He punches him once before pushing him to the other side of the room.

You whimper when you hear footsteps coming towards you but it's not Baz. Pope scoops you up into his arms and carries you out of the house.

"Lena," you breathe shakily.

You don't wanna leave her alone in that house.

"She'll be okay. Baz isn't gonna hurt her," Pope promises as he brings you to his car.

He puts you into the passenger side and drives you to his home. You've never been to Pope's house before, even though you spend most days with him now. You start to get out of the car, but Pope once again gathers you in his arms, bringing you into the house.

"Are you okay?" he finally asks, his face a mask of anger.

He places you down on the couch. He strokes the cuts on your face, he can already see where the bruises will come up. Baz at least hadn't broken your nose.

"Let me clean you up," he breathes after you nod that you're okay.

You're shaken but it wasn't the first time that you've gotten hit. It's just been a while. Fuck, you thought you were over that stage of your life. Shouldn't have gone to fuckin' Oceanside to mind some kid.

"You promise Lena'll be okay?" you ask him when he finally returns with water and cotton pads.

Pope grunts as he cleans you up, "I wouldn't have left her there if I thought Baz would hurt her...I'll get her in the morning and bring her here. Is that okay?"

"Thank you, Andrew," you say softly. "You didn't have to do any of this. And thanks for being there."

You don't query how he knew you needed his help. You're just glad he was there. His large hands are still holding your face and his rough thumb slides over your lower lip. He is well aware that he shouldn't do this. But he can't help himself. You gently kiss the pad of his thumb, your eyes never leaving his.

He brushes his thumb slowly over your cheekbone. His eyes never leave yours. Pope has never been good with eye contact but he holds yours for what seems like hours. He doesn't want to push you. Not after what Baz did to you. But you're the one who finally breaks and presses your lips against his. Pope tentatively kisses you back but when he hears your little whimper, he's a goner. His hands drop from your face to your waist, pulling you onto his lap.

You've been waiting for months to run your fingers through his auburn curls. You tug at his curls as you deepen the kiss. You're suddenly dry-humping with Pope Cody on his couch like two teenagers. And you couldn't stop if you tried.

That is until his hands slide up your shirt and grasp your tits. You moan into his mouth as his rough palms press against the swell of your breasts, squeezing and releasing. He pulls your shirt over your head, breaking the kiss for just a second to do so. He doesn't even undo your bra, just pulls the cups down so your breasts fall free. He flips you onto your back. He kisses down your neck and then to your tits. He spends what feels like hours laving at your nipples. Whichever tit isn't in his mouth is being played with by his rough hands. Your arousal is all but rolling down your thighs when he finally pulls away from your tits.

His eyes are so blown out they're almost black. He pulls your jean shorts and panties down in one move. He groans at the sight of you.

"Lemme see that pretty pussy, baby," he tells you as he spreads your legs. You've never been this turned on in your life.

"Andrew Cody, if you don't fuck me right now," you whine out.

Your whines only result on him smacking you hard on your weeping cunt. Your back arches off the couch. Fuck you need him.

"Now lemme see that pussy."

Pope crawls between your legs, getting eye level down with your pussy.

"So pretty," he praises as he spreads you open, his eyes scanning you. He blows on you, causing you to shudder. His thumb teases your clit watching how you clench around nothing.

"So, so pretty," he praises.

Finally he presses kisses up your thighs and eventually presses his tongue inside you.

"Fuck, yes, right there," you whine out in pure need, grinding against his face.

Pope decides he needs to have you ride his face next. But not yet. He wants to play some more. He focuses his attention on your clit, hooking your legs over his wide shoulders. And within just a handful of ministrations, you're coming undone over his tongue. Your orgasm hits like a freight train. You're painfully turned on. You've been wound up for so long. And Pope Cody is just so happy to help you let loose.

Once you come down from your high, you pounce on him, pulling his clothes off. Desperate to see him. He chuckles softly as he helps you take his clothes off.

You follow his lead, kissing over the freckles on his neck, down his chest and stomach. He tenses under your movements and you smirk, nipping over his abs. His cock is leaking, standing to attention. And he's fucking huge. You should have expected that.

"Wanna fuck my face, daddy?" you coo up at him.

That name sends Pope wild, he grabs your hair and guides you down onto him. Once you've gotten used to him, he starts rocking his hips up. He holds onto you as he starts fucking into your mouth just like you asked.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Shit," he grunts after just a handful of thrusts. "I can't take this anymore. I need to be inside you. I need to fuck that pretty pussy of yours."

Pope grips you, flipping you back onto your back so he's on top of you again. He teases your clit with the head of his cock, smirking as you start to squirm.

"You want daddy's cock, huh? You gonna be a good girl and take my cock?" he growls in your ear.

You nod desperately, dumbly. Finally he's pressing inside you, inch by inch. You lock your legs around his hips as he finally bottoms out.

"Just like heaven, baby girl," he breathes in your ear.

He should be gentle, sweet, slow, after what Baz did to you. But he's desperate. So he starts jerking his hips in and out of you. The snap of skin on skin fills the room. Your pussy is so wet you can hear it just as well. You're so desperate for him.

"You gonna cum on daddy's cock?" he breathes as he fucks you. His hands palm at your tits with each thrust.

And as if on command, you cum again. You soak him and Pope looks victorious. But he's not finished with you yet. He pulls out to flip you onto your stomach and press inside you again.

"Fuck, so big, daddy," you whine for him as he pounds into you.

Pope kisses over your neck and down your spine, as best as he can from this angle. He buries his face into your neck as he hits that sweet spot inside you over and over again. Your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm hits you.

This time you clench so tightly over his cock, Pope can't move. Your cunt literally milks his cock, forcing his orgasm out of him. He hasn't cum in so long that his release his hot and thick. It starts sliding out of you as your abused pussy can't take it all.

And Pope, you hates mess, marvels at the sight. After you've both come down from your highs, he gathers you in his arms.

"Sorry...was that too much?" he breathes.

You shake your head, "No. It was perfect. Needed it. Needed you."

"I can sleep out here," he says suddenly.

You look at him in shock, "Oh no baby. I wanna sleep right next to you. What if I need daddy's cock in the middle of the night?"

Pope gives you a wolfish grin as he kisses you again.

Baz thinks everything is alright when he wakes up the next morning and sees that Lena is already gone to school. But then he realises that all your shit is gone. And he sees red.

He drives straight to Smurf. Planning on spreading some bullshit about the nanny. Some sly bitch you tried to swindle him. He walks into the house, crocodile tears at the ready so mommy can fix his mess.

He frowns when he sees Pope sitting on the couch looking like a fucking king and you curled into his side. He's running his hand up and down your arm as the cuts and bruises Baz left on your face are on display.

"Baz," Smurf tuts when she sees him. "We need to work on your temper."

a/n: thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed! any and all feedback appreciated. requests open

taglist: @sweetashhh @orangecheescakeleftover @elenamoncadaibarra @joelmillrenthusiast @abbotaes

masterlist | requests

[fangirl-dot-com]

Animal Kingdom x The Pitt crossover basic idea: Let’s assume that both universes are set in the same city, and the reader ends up having to be taken to the hospital because she was involved in an accident or was injured in some other way (I haven’t watched AK, so I have no idea if this could happen more intentionally, like as an act of retaliation; if not, just consider a more plausible scenario), and Andrew is contacted because he’s her emergency contact.

Obviously, he’s sensible enough not to say anything incriminating in front of others, but I think it would be interesting to see how the Pitt crew would react to the couple (if you consider it plausible that the reader was intentionally injured, for whatever reason, because, depending on their vibe—especially Andrew’s—I imagine they might suspect the couple of having ties to a gang or at least wonder how she could have ended up in that situation). 👀

In your other crossovers involving these fandoms, the reader usually is part of the The Pitt staff, so I find the idea interesting that she isn’t part of it this time and that her relationship with Andrew (and, consequently, perhaps some of the tension that exists within it?) is observed by an outsider who doesn't have all the details.

These Hands Are Gentle

summary: after a bank heist with your husband and brothers-in-law went sideways, you were forced to make a split-second decision that ultimately lands you at the pittsburgh trauma medical center where the doctors are concerned about your bruises and the your husband's split knuckles after he arrives.

tags: andrew "pope" cody x reader, canon typical violence, animal kingdom x the pitt, concerned pitt staff, protective andrew, hurt reader, job gone wrong, 18+ MDNI

notes: thank you nonnie for this beautiful and delicious request! I'm glad everyone seems to like my doppelgänger fics, especially the ones with jack and andrew! if you'd like to join my permanent master list, please comment here! enjoy!

word count: 4.6k

You hated Pittsburgh. 

Compared to sunny Oceanside, the Pennsylvania city was all smog and despair. You, technically, weren’t even supposed to be there, but being a dutiful wife, you followed your husband and his brothers wherever they went. Being a part of a crime family (whose favorite pastime was robbing banks) had its perks, one of them being the first-class tickets they al splurged on. The other being the large house that they rented during your stay. If you closed your eyes long enough, the pool could almost transform into the ocean waves. 

But that had been at the beginning of your stay when you believed the job would go right. 

You should have known that the job wasn’t as simple as it had seemed. The plan was to rob a bank; simple enough for men who’d been doing it for more than half their lives. However, Pittsburgh wasn’t Oceanside that seemed to be stuck in the early 2010’s with beach shops that had sub-par security systems and workers who cared more for their lives than pressing the emergency button. 

Andrew hadn’t wanted you there . . . as in, inside the bank when it all went down. He knew how fast jobs could go south; he knew the risks better than anyone. Three years and nineteen days in prison had shown him that truth. Yet, since the city remained foreign, they needed eyes and ears in the lobby. 

That was where you had come in dressed as a civilian with an earpiece tucked strategically behind your hair. 

For fifteen minutes, the plan went smoothly. Andrew and the boys came in, guns raised with masks over their faces. You played your part as the hostage, hands in the air, stomach to the floor while they demanded money to be shoved in their bags. 

For fifteen minutes, you believed that you all would get out of there unscathed. 

By minute seventeen, the emergency alarm went off three minutes early; a result of a forgotten clerk who was already bent behind the counter before the boys had even walked through the glass doors. 

You watched them panic behind their otherwise cool demeanor. Instead of running, they waited for the rest of the cash before sinking out the back. Andrew, still going according to plan, picked you up by the arm and pushed the butt of his empty gun to your temple. He dragged you along, and you kicked and screamed the entire way again as the perfect hostage. 

It wasn’t until freedom was in sight, twenty-seven minutes after the plan went into motion, when the first wave of cops rushed in. You could hear them yell all the way from where Andrew held you close. And for what you believed to be the first time ever, you felt Andrew freeze at your back. Your hands that gripped his forearm tightened. 

“You need to leave,” you hissed quietly. “Now.” 

“No,” he replied, voice so low it left no room for debate.  

You shook your head. “You cannot go back to prison; I won’t let you. Drop me and find me later.” 

Andrew whispered your name in that soft tone he used to always get his way when the two of you argued. If you turned, you knew you’d see his soft and pleading hazel eyes. Andrew may have been a hardened criminal to most people, but he never failed to show that he reserved a special softness specifically for you. With the quickest kiss in history to the back of your hair, lips pushing through the strands, he shoved you forward and ran. 

Your hands scraped against the ground while your mind raced. To everyone else, you’d been taken hostage, but the lack of injuries would probably look suspicious. Not knowing what else to do, you sucked in a breath, curled your fist, and started hitting yourself. 

The first punch landed against your cheekbone. The second managed to catch the divot of your eye. The third made a cut by your lip, curtesy of your engagement ring and wedding band. After that, you lost yourself in the motions until your face pulsed with extra blood in painful beats. 

Voices grew louder, and in one final attempt at making yourself look beaten and bruised, you threw yourself back down to the ground. Your head rested and rolled against the cold, scratchy concrete. It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before the back door burst open with men drenched in SWAT uniforms. You pushed a desperate, overexaggerated whimper from your lungs. 

“We got one over here!” you heard one of them yell. “We need a medic! Abbot!” 

Footsteps thudded in your ears, adding to the rush of blood and the dizzying feeling that was threatening to swallow you whole. Your self-given hits might have been a bit overboard, but Andrew had been the one to teach you how after giving a whole lesson as to why self-defense was important to learn. You let your eyes flutter closed after the footsteps seemed to grow louder. 

“Ma’am? Can you hear me?” a voice asked right above your head as hands gently rolled you onto your back. “Ma’am? Can you open your eyes for me?” 

No you wanted to say, but really all that came out was another pained noise. Blood from the lip cut already drenched your teeth and trickled down the side of your chin. 

“Victim is unresponsive. Calling in a 10-52.” 

Ambulance needed your brain provided, and your heart raced below your sternum. Ambulance meant hospital, and a hospital meant questions. Your eyes flew open while you pushed out a sound of disagreement. Your hands shuffled below your body and began to push your top half up, but that same gentle hand pressed you back down. 

“Nope; you gotta stay down for me. You’ve been in a heist and hostage situation. Can you tell me your name?” 

You mumbled it out, body giving up any fight since you knew it was pointless. They were going to take you in anyway. 

“Okay, that’s good. Glad to be acquainted with you,” he said while his hands ran over your face, checking your injuries. 

Through slotted eyelids, you glanced at his blurry face and frowned. Slowly, your hand raised and tried to touch his face, but the motion was more of a swat, and Jack was quick to push it back down next to your side. Your brows furrowed. 

“Andrew?” you muttered in confusion.

Andrew wasn’t supposed to be dressed up as a SWAT medic. Even if he’d donned other uniforms, wearing one now wasn’t part of the plan. He should have been long gone with your brothers-in-law. If this was a deviation, you were going to give Craig and Deran a stern talking to the moment you found them again. 

“There’s no Andrew here, ma’am. My name’s Jack.” He met your eyes before sighing, face turning towards the radio clipped to near his shoulder. “Victim is disoriented. What’s the status for my 10-52?” 

He had just finished asking when the wail of an ambulance suddenly rattled your skull. It was so loud, it could have been right on top of you. The sound gulped you down until all you could hear was the cry of the siren. Your eyes blinked lazily as you looked around. More feet joined near Jack, and the next thing you knew, you were being slid over onto a gurney. You grunted when they lifted the gurney into the ambulance. Jack used both hands to haul him in after you. 

“All right,” he said once the doors closed. “We’re going to take you to Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center to get you looked over.” 

The paramedics placed leads under your shirt and followed with a quick check of your vitals. You squinted when they flashed a penlight across your eyes. 

“Pupils are equally reactive. No signs of concussion.” 

Jack pursed his lips. He knew you had to have been “down” for at least five minutes, and looking at the severeness of his injuries, he was confused. You were giving him the textbook symptoms of a Grade 1 Concussion: mild confusion, slow blinking, wincing at the noise. 

“Let’s get her hooked to an IV,” he ordered. “And I want a CT ordered.” Jack rubbed a hand on your arm when your eyes closed again and said your name loud enough to get your attention. “Do you have an emergency contact we can get a hold of?” 

You were silent for two breaths. “My husband, Andrew. Phone’s in my pocket . . .” you trailed. 

“We’ll make sure to get him called,” one of the paramedics reassured. 

“Thank you.” 

After another round of vital checks, the ambulance screeched to a halt. The doors swung open, and instantly, there was another group of people waiting for intake. You jolted with the gurney as it dropped down from the ambulance. Your chest expanded in a sharp inhale when the sliding doors opened. With men all around you, the oncoming emergency department devoured you into the belly filled with people who, if they asked enough questions, might be able to put your family into prison. 

_______________________

Andrew had never felt such pure terror than when he pushed you to the ground and ran without a second look goodbye. 

You were his wife, his life, and his reason for living all wrapped into one, and he had left you behind after promising that nothing would go wrong. He had to swallow every single curse word and insult under the sun in order to not spew them at his brothers, especially Craig who was supposed to be the one who counted the employees. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel as he drove them around and around, waiting and praying that his phone would ring with you telling him where to pick you up. 

But with every lap that you didn’t call, his panic grew and grew until it wrapped around his throat. 

“Dude, a watched pot never boils. Stop looking at your phone,” Craig muttered from the passenger seat. “She’ll call when she gets somewhere safe.” 

“She should already be gone by now,” Andrew barked back. 

Deran shook his head, hands gripping the backs of both seats. “And she’s smart. If they kept her longer for questioning, it might be a couple of minutes.” 

Suddenly, Andrew’s phone began to ring, yet Craig was the one to pick it up and put it on speaker. When the call went through, they waited for you to be the first one to speak, however, their concern and confusion grew when your voice wasn’t the one to flood the speaker. 

“Hello? Is this Andrew Cody?” 

The three of them glanced around before Andrew spoke. 

“This is he? Who are you, and why do you have my wife’s phone?” he questioned, fingers gripping the wheel even tighter because he knew if he let go, his hands would be shaking. 

“Hi Mr. Cody. My name’s Dana Evans, and I am the charge nurse at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Mr. Cody, have you spoken to your wife recently?” 

Andrew’s heart thudded in his chest. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center? What happened after he left you? Why were you at the hospital? Were you hurt? 

He cleared his voice. “She was supposed to be coming back from the bank.” He swallowed a gripe. “Is my wife okay?” 

“Unfortunately, it looks like your wife here was held up during a bank heist earlier this morning. SWAT officers picked her up after finding her out back with some injuries that needed to be looked at.” 

Injuries? Andrew’s brows pinched. “Injuries?” 

“Yes, sir. Looks like one of the suspects beat her up before fleeing.” 

Deran sat up and leaned between the front seats, looking equally confused as Craig and Andrew. They both knew that, while Andrew wouldn’t hesitate to rough up someone, he’d never touch you. 

“Is she okay?” Andrew asked once he knew he could talk without his voice breaking. 

“Right now we’re holding her while we wait for a CT, she’s already given a statement, so if the CT comes back just fine, she’s good to go home.” 

“Am I able to come sit with her while she waits?”

“That would be perfectly fine, Mr. Cody.” 

Craig pulled out his own phone and quickly typed in the address while Andrew spun the wheel to turn the car around. He quickly wrapped up the phone call and stomped on the gas. At one point, Deran had to remind him to slow down; they couldn’t afford to be pulled over with the guns and bags of cash in the back. Hesitantly, Andrew released the pedal just a bit but kept a steady speed. His heart never once calmed down during the entire drive, and it seemed to race even more when he pulled up to the front. 

Andrew didn’t even say anything before he jumped out of the driver’s seat and stalked up to the door. If Deran and Craig were smart, they’d drive off and go back to the rental to lie low while Andrew stayed with you until the scan was finished.

All at once, his senses overloaded the minute he stepped foot into the waiting room. Blood tanged the air, babies wailed, and adults yelled at a patient woman sitting behind Plexi glass. Andrew hated every moment of it while he stood in line, and he desperately wished he remembered to grab his earplugs from the car door. 

“Next please?” 

He stepped forward and wrung his hands. The woman looked up and smiled at him, an action that made his chest ache. 

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked. 

Andrew looked around before holding eye contact. “I got a call about my wife being here. I’d like to sit with her.” His voice stayed monotone and held a wave of anxious feelings. 

The woman typed something into her computer. “First name?” 

He said your name before spelling it. 

“Last name?” 

“Cody. C-O-D-Y.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “Ah, there she is. You can come around back. She’ll be in Room 3.”

To his right, he heard the door hiss and unlock. He gave the woman a silent nod before slipping through the door. Again, he hates the way the next room is crowded, even if he knows that rushing doctors and nurses are necessary in an ER. Without much thought, his hazel eyes lock onto Room Number 3. 

You were behind that door. 

Andrew knocked once before entering and paused in the threshold. Every nerve in his body fired at the sight of your face. He noted the cut on your lip, the mottled bruise that spanned from your eye to your cheek bone, and the matching shade on the opposite side near your temple. He was going to kill whoever did this to you. 

You, on the other hand, perked right up when Andrew walked through the door. 

“Andy,” you said, holding out your hand. 

Andrew stayed put, and his hands curled by his sides while he continued to watch you. He tracked the wires sticking out of your shirt and up to the heart monitor in the corner. The rhythmic beeping did little to settle him, but it also helped him know that you weren’t dying. 

“Andy.” 

He tore his eyes away and looked back at you. 

“Come here.” 

Almost like a trained dog, he obeyed. It took him two steps to get to the side of your bed, and you grabbed his hand once he was close enough. With a small tug, you made him sit down. Your hand rose and settled against his cheek, thumb rubbing in a back-and-forth motion under his eye. He continued staring as he took in your face now that he was closer. 

“Who hurt you?” he whispered, tone baring a viciousness you hadn’t heard in a while. 

Your face scrunched in a wince. “You’re going to think this is silly,” you said, and your casualness made him jolt. 

Andrew swallowed thickly around his tongue. “You’re hurt. How is that silly?” He raised his hands and cupped your face but remained careful of your injuries. 

“You shouldn’t have taught me to punch so hard,” you muttered. “I guess I didn’t know my own strength. That’s what’s silly.” 

“What?” His eyes took another lap around your face before he realized the meaning of your words. 

Sure you had bruising, but the locations didn’t make much sense. When Andrew punched, he drove his fists into the middle of someone’s face since it was the largest area that he could reach. He rarely ever went for a lip or the high cheek bone unless whoever he was after kept squirming. His chest finally loosened a bit when a small chuckle pushed past his lips at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You did this?” he asked, lips curling ever so slightly. 

You nodded slowly before speaking in a low tone. “Thought it’d look suspicious if I was taken and came out unharmed.” 

Andrew leaned forward, placed his lips to your forehead, and held them there for a few seconds. He couldn’t help but think about how perfect you were. Unasked, you had injured yourself so that they could get away, and cops were always too concerned to press for more questions. When he pulled back, he placed kiss on your lips. 

While you kissed back, your hands trailed until they covered his. Your fingers rubbed against his knuckles until you felt a roughness across the skin. 

“Did you punch Craig or something?” you asked against him. 

“No. Punched the steering wheel.” 

“Andy—” 

“You didn’t call; I got mad.” 

“Doesn’t mean you need to punch the poor rental.” 

Andrew grumbled, and you leaned back enough to look fully at his face until you remembered something important about the emergency department you were currently at. However, before you could speak, someone knocked at the door. Andrew instantly pushed up and stood near the top of the bed next to where you were propped up acting like a guard dog waiting for his next order. 

In the next breath, two people entered the room. You recognized the first woman since she had already been in once to go over your plan of car, but the tall man next to her looked utterly surprised when his eyes looked past your shoulder to where Andrew was standing. He quickly composed himself as he shut the door behind him. 

“Sorry about that wait for the CT. The line is backed up like no other. I’m Dr. Robinavitch, the senior attending on shift,” he introduced himself, trying to keep his eyes on you. 

However, you caught the way his gaze shifted towards your husband more than you liked. 

“All good, doc,” you cooly responded. “The only thing I’m missing is pool time at our house.”

He chuckled at the joke. “Sounds to me like you’re feeling better, which coincides with your all-clear scan.” 

Your shoulders loosened at the news. “Does this mean I get to leave soon?”  

The woman—Dr. Trinity Santos—nodded this time. “Yep. We just have to run one more test if possible.” 

“One more test?” you echoed. “I’m sure a couple of bruises don’t need more testing if the CT came back clear.” 

Andrew’s hand lifted and rested against your shoulder, but he continued to stay quiet. You looked up at him and softly smiled before looking back at the two doctors. 

“I think I should be fine, yes?” 

Trinity bit her lip, and her fingers played with the tablet that she held to her chest. “We just want to make sure that everything is perfectly fine before we get you your discharge papers. If we could just have your—” She took a quick glance at the tablet screen. “—husband step out, we’ll have you out of here in no time.” 

Oh. 

You knew exactly what was happening, and you felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner that they were probably thinking that Andrew was the one to put you in this hospital bed even though you’d told them that you were roughed up by the “bank suspects.”

Andrew surprised you by speaking first. “I’m not leaving my wife while she’s already hurt.”

Dr. Robinavitch slightly stood up taller. “I can assure you that it’s just precaution and standard protocols for patients.” 

The hand on your shoulder gripped you tighter, but you knew that was just Andrew’s fear of leaving you flooding out of his system. You needed to think of something fast before they even thought of calling security. 

“I know exactly what you’re going to ask if he were to step out,” you stated. “And I can assure you that my bruises were caused by the men that robbed the bank.” 

The two doctor’s eyes widened.

“Ma’am, that’s not—” 

You held up a hand. “Please. I can see the way you’re both looking at him with apprehension. To an outsider, it does make sense. I have bruises all over my face, and his knuckles happen to be split. And I understand that so many can say this was all some coincidence, but sometimes that’s the truth. My husband boxes; that’s actually why we’re in town.” 

Andrew caught on to what you were saying. “Yeah. One of my buddies was plannin’ a tourney for later this week over at Conn-Greb Boxing Club. Thought I’d come visit and help out.” 

You giggled slightly to ease the tension in the room. “His gloves didn’t fit in the bags because . . . well, I think I got excited when he told me he got us a house with a pool, and I packed way too many swimsuits.” 

Trinity and Dr. Robinavitch glanced at each other before Trinity looked back down at the tablet. You knew that she wanted to keep pressing, and a part of you was thankful that she did. You’d known of so many women who had to go back to abusive households because their doctors didn’t want to deal with the paperwork. 

“Is Dr. Abbot still here?” you asked instead. “He was the one who found me, and other than this morning, I’ve been away from Andrew all day. Maybe he can convince you two.” 

Dr. Robinavitch seemed to mull your words over before he twisted and opened the door. His voice was muffled a bit, but that didn’t really matter since he pulled back in after a few words. The door remained open until a familiar man walked through the doors. You couldn’t help but smirk when the doctors’ eyes went back to Andrew before moving onto one of their own. 

Jack gave you a once before looking at the man over your shoulder. “Well, glad to see it wasn’t a concussion talking.” 

You looked up to Andrew and laughed softly. “Andy, when Dr. Abbot found me outside the bank, I thought you were there instead. Thought I finally got to see you in something other than your button up polos.” 

At your try of a jest, Andrew pouted. “I thought you liked my button ups.” 

“I do; I do,” you reassured before turning back to the group of three doctors. “On the other hand, I more than understand the need for caution, but I think I can say that Dr. Abbot is 100% certain these bruises were not there before I went to the bank.” 

Jack’s eyebrows rose in understanding. He’d done enough extra testing for women with signs of abuse to know what was going on even before he walked in.  

“Yeah,” he agreed with you. “Bruises were fresh when we got to her, and the cut on her lip was still bleeding as well. If CT came back clean, she’s all good to go. Definitely no need for one more test.” He shot a wink your way. 

“But it’s good that you wanted to follow up, Dr. Santos. I know so many people need a doctor like you who’s not afraid to get more information.” 

At your words, Trinity smiled. “Then I will go get your discharge papers. I hope your bruises heal and fade quickly, Mrs. Cody.” 

Dr. Robinavitch didn’t say anything else, and the two of them left the room. Jack gave you one more smile, shook his head in amusement after glancing back at Andrew, and followed them out of the room. 

It was silent until Andrew spoke up. 

“Can’t believe they’d think I’d hit you,” he muttered. “I’d rather die.” 

“I know, Andy,” you said before dropping your voice into a lower pitch. “But I had to do something. Like I said, you are not going back to jail and leaving me alone, Andrew Cody. You understand me?” 

Andrew nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good.” You leaned back against the bed. “Should probably call your brothers. I’m sick of these white walls. And tell Craig that if he ate my leftovers, he might be the one to experience the best trauma center in Pittsburgh.” 

_______________________

“No, literally, the guy was an exact copy of Dr. Abbot,” Trinity’s voice carried across the nurses’ station. “He was giving off this don’t look at me vibe, and honestly, I think that’s exactly the type of man his wife wants.” 

Jack laughed as he looked over another tablet. “While I’m flattered you think he looked like me, Santos, I definitely didn’t see it. Poor woman was so confused, and I think she just wanted her husband in her time of need.” 

Trinity huffed, her eyes finding Robby’s figure over on the other side of the counter. “Dr. Robby, you saw it right?” 

Robby looked up from his computer. “Saw what right?” 

“That husband with the lady earlier after the bank heist. He looked like a younger Dr. Abbot; the resemblance was uncanny.” 

“She has you there, brother,” Robby replied. “Thought I was going crazy.” 

“Man, I want to see Dr. Abbot’s doppelganger,” Victoria chimed in. “You know that there are at least seven people in the world who look like you? It’s crazy that you found one of them!” 

“What were they here for anyway?” Jack questioned. “Her insurance statement came in from Oceanside, California.” 

Trinity thought for a second. “I think he said a boxing tournament over the Conn-Greb Club. The dude was a tank.” 

Jack cocked his head to the side. “Can’t be Conn-Greb. It’s closed for renovations. I had to find a new gym because of it, and now I’m down another fifty for a second membership.” 

“Mmmm, pretty sure he said Conn-Greb.” 

Victoria took out her phone. “What was their last name?” 

“Cody.” 

The med student went silent while she typed “Cody Oceanside, California” into a search engine. Her eyes widened when her screen flooded with multiple different news reports. “Oh.” 

Trinity was instantly curious. “What’s oh, Crash?” 

Victoria turned her phone around wordlessly, and an air of shock engulfed the station. Everyone stood silently as they read the first few headlines. 

Andrew “Pope” Cody Released From Folsom Three Years After Bank Robbery 

Heist Charges Dropped Against Cody Family

Cody Family Not Named in Recent Cartel Bust 

Your name stood highlighted in the short blurbs that trailed off after a few words. 

Trinity nodded slowly. “So Dr. Abbot’s doppelganger . . . is a part of a crime syndicate? The universe must have been laughing when that happened.” She shook her head. “Small world, right?” 

Jack blinked slowly, taking it all in that he might have just let you two walk free now knowing that you were probably in on everything and it was too late to do anything. He leaned against the counter and sighed heavily. 

“Small world indeed, Santos. Small world indeed.” 

🏷️ permanent tags: @dumb-fawkin-bitch @nofinnn2 @books-thingys-andstuff @nyxmoretti @glitterquadricorn @itzpixiebabe @xoxoloverb @macbaetwo @cerberus101 @thorfemmes @goddess-of-spring @staygoldsquatchling02 @obi-wansgirl @phantom-101 @fly-me-away @xblackcatx @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @aoi-warrior @keepingitundercover @sofianotvergara @shawnhatosysrightbicep @straykids1011 @vicky066 @67-angelofthelordme-67 @sepidehmoafiglazer @multiversalfandomwriter222 @bellamys-girl1 @violet1661 @damoclesdarling @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @fancyvoidtragedy @hoffmanfan13 @lostfallenangelsblog @teenwolfbitches28 @isuckcigbuds @kaorisakamotofan @alexaplayldr @mszeitxt @darknessofhell666-blog-blog @yapeez @riseabovethorns-blog @thedivinegirlyp0p @valentine1047 @sl33ping-sir3n @toxicwasteee @chanelwidag @cloudrisens @ravenwtfbro @ra-ven-124 @rainaris-ac @glamorizethechaos @queen-of-disasterrrrr @toxicwasteee

[fictionallygabby]

ak x pitt crossovers are amazing but this is brilliant i am obsessed 🫣

[minminn22]

Tucker County: manual labor

John Tucker x Citygirl!Reader | word count: ~700

Summary: inspired by Hannah Montana: The Movie .ᐣ.ᐣ.ᐣ

Tropes: country boy x city girl, childhood rivals-to-lovers, FMC forced to go back to her hometown

Off Campus Masterlist

Fun fact, the midday Texas sun does not care about designer labels. It doesn’t care about the thread count of your clothes, the price tag on your shoes, or the fact that you spent the last two years living in a high rise with AC blasting 24/7.

By hour three of volunteering at the annual community ranch restoration (a mandatory local obligation my mother conveniently forgot to mention until she practically shoved me out the door and handed me a paintbrush) my favorite white button down was officially ruined. Rust streaked across the sleeves, paint speckled the cuffs, and every gust of wind glued another layer of red dirt to the fabric.

Down the fence line, someone hollered for another bucket of paint while a tractor sputtered to life near the old barn.

"You're going to give yourself a heat stroke just out of pure stubbornness," a voice called out.

I didn't even need to look up to know who it was. John Tucker was leaning against a weathered wooden fence post a few feet away, a heavy roll of chicken wire slung effortlessly over one broad shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing. He’d traded the grease stained Carhartt shirt from a week ago for a faded gray tank top, his shoulders already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat under the brutal noon sun. A smudge of dark dirt cut across his collarbone, highlighting the sharp lines of his frame. It was an aggravatingly rugged look.

"I’m actually doing a flawless paint job, Johnny. Leave me to my art," I said, aiming a sharp glare at him through the top of my sunglasses. My hands were already cramping from gripping the cheap, splintering handle of the brush, and my lower back was screaming.

He let out a low snort, dropping the heavy roll of wire to the dusty ground with a thud that vibrated through the soles of my shoes. "Art? Darlin', you’ve been painting the same three feet of fence for forty five minutes. And you're using the wrong sealant. The first heavy rain we get is going to wash that expensive chalk right into the dirt."

"It's weather resistant enamel, you caveman," I snapped, though I secretly had no idea if that was true. Truthfully, I’d just grabbed the can with the prettiest label.

Before I could bite back with a retort about his utter lack of faith in my artistic vision, John crossed the distance between us.

He didn't ask permission. He just reached out and took the brush from my fingers.

His hand brushed mine in the process, warm and rough, and my hand twitched under his.

"Watch," he said.

I expected him to step beside me and demonstrate from a reasonable distance.

Instead, he moved behind me.

My entire body went rigid as he reached around my side, guiding my hand back onto the brush handle.

"You're holding it like a pen," John murmured.

His hand settled over mine.

His shoulder brushed mine as he adjusted my grip. I forgot entirely what I was supposed to be looking at.

"Too rigid. You're fighting the wood." His grip shifted slightly, guiding my wrist. "Let it do the work."

I stared determinedly at the fence.

At the paint.

At literally anything except the fact that John Tucker was standing close enough for me to feel the heat coming off him.

"Like this."

He guided the brush in one smooth stroke down the board.

The hostility we'd spent years hiding behind suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

"Right," I said.

John went still for a second.

Then another.

Neither of us moved.

Around us, the ranch kept moving. Somewhere behind, a hammer struck metal with a sharp clang that made both of us blink.

When he finally stepped back, the space between us felt oddly thick. Thicker than the normal humidity.

"There," he said.

I looked up, expecting the familiar smirk.

It wasn't there.

"Tucker!" someone called from the far end of the property. "You got a second?"

His jaw tightened slightly, dark eyes fixed on mine for a moment longer than necessary.

"Keep that up," he muttered, nodding toward the fence, "and you might actually finish before the sun goes down."

He grabbed the roll of wire mesh and headed toward the far end of the property without another word.

I stood there holding the paintbrush, staring after him.

Someone brushed past me carrying a ladder, snapping me out of whatever had just happened.

Then I looked down at the fence, realizing….

I'd painted the same board three times.

◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈ ◡̈

Taglist: @jewles-chai, @sunshinevansh, @parker-barnes-af, @ilocuras24, @hagarsays, @antisocialfiore, @mirandameaniepants, @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns, @ethanthequeefqueen, @wiishies, @readinf, @wonderpals02, @aeyoshinyships, @nisarelle, @cherryangel-coke, @nihoshi17, @kataleya21200103, @logans-sweet-cherry-pie, @mos4s4rus, @kode, @bookluver114, @miadreamerss, @abcxrandomx, @missmaddyline, @flashyourgreeneyesatme, @bisexual-and-intellectual, @kmc1989, @bambi-lia, @ralilda, @badasspizzalover, @queensunshinee, @kkkkisworld, @maryyyswift, @kravitzwhore, @leysol, @littlepippilongstocking, @cultish-corner, @kkkkisworld,

(NOTE: i do overall fandom master taglists, not separate ones for individual series/fics! Feel free to send me a message if you'd want to be added or removed)

[80sfilmclub]

♡ɞ✦ ┆・ DOLL'S CORNER.

summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you. word count. 16.5k (this got away from me) content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)

As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡

[mariasont]

DEAN THIS WAS SOOOOOO FUN!!!!!!!!!!!!! the freaking blog graphic are u kidding??? stunning!!!! i am dolly’s number one biggest fan!! (as per my comments on her blog mhm mhm i know that’s right) i also just love love love the juxtaposition of how sexy and sultry she is on camera vs her with jack 🤭🤭🤭🤭 she literally melts

"It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

CASUAL DOMINANCE AND CARETAKING BE STILL MY HEARTTTTT

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

correct 🚬🚬🚬🚬 he is

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that."

LMFAOOOOOO

wowowow this was a 10/10 read from start to finish!!! my mooties are just so talented and wonderful!!! will be thinking about this 4ever

[deerfawnn]

i want you to stay

pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: pope wishes he was your favorite cody brother. content warnings: fem!reader, mention of how pope gets mistreated by everyone else in his life, mention of drugs + alcohol, they share a bed, too many mentions of smurf, they're kind of loneliest guy in the world x loneliest girl in the world a/n: hai my lovelies! this is me introducing bambi reader to you!!!! the link leads to a pinterest board, which i'm still working on, but i hope you like her as much as i do. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3 wc: 4.4k

No one was exactly sure why you were friends with Craig. Not even Craig, but he liked you. And though he tried his best to get you into his bed, it never worked. And god, he tried. Annoyingly so. Your resolve never wavered, standing with not being interested in Craig whatsoever.

At every party he threw, you were the girl hiding in the living room or in the kitchen. Anywhere where strange, drunk and high, people couldn't talk to you. It was almost impossible to find you, yet you also seemed to never go home, instead deciding to remain at the loud party surrounded by people you didn't like.

It was strange for Pope to watch you, know that you feel the same things he did, but do nothing.

You had every right to disappear, leave this haunted house, go back to your own.

Instead, he'd find you in the living room, remote in hand. You'd usually shoot him a sweet, knowing smile, aware that he was feeling just as uneasy as you did. Not fond of any loud noise, or drunk people. And he wished he had the courage to ask you if you wanted to leave the house with him, if you wanted to just drive around, sit at the beach and watch the waves.

But he'd always turn on his heels and go back outside and hate himself for it.

If he asked you to sit with him, you probably wouldn't even bother him, wouldn't try and force him to drink alcohol or get high like everyone else. You probably wouldn't even talk to him, knowing he liked his silence. He always regretted not asking you the moment the smell of beer hit his nose, and the moment water splashed onto his clothes, while people laughed around him. It made him feel lonely and different.

Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.

You were just there.

And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.

There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.

It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.

Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.

Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.

He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.

His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.

The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.

Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.

It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.

Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.

There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.

When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.

Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.

Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.

Things like this made him doubt everything.

Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.

But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)

Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.

Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.

He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.

But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.

The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.

You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.

He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.

You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.

You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.

"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.

You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"

Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.

You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.

The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.

Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.

He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.

No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.

"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.

"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.

Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.

Stupid.

He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.

"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.

Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.

People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.

Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.

A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.

He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.

"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.

"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.

He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.

You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."

"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."

You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"

Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.

To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.

You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?

You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.

Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.

You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.

You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.

"Is that yours?"

Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."

"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.

Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."

In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.

You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"

"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.

You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.

You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.

"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.

No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.

His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."

"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.

Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.

Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.

You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.

You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.

Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.

"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.

"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.

You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.

He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.

Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared by anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.

He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.

He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.

You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.

He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.

He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.

You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.

"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.

"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."

"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.

"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."

Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.

"Thanks for dinner tonight."

Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.

He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"

"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."

Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.

They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.

But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.

He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.

"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.

People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.

The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.

He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.

He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.

"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.

You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.

Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.

Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."

Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."

"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.

As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.

Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.

Maybe next time he'd be the courageous one and ask you to stay.

[minkieater]

KANG YEOSANG — MAGE 𓃠

⟶ you’d been tutoring him with his classes. history of magic, herbology, transfigurations, potions. your sweet, shy, caring friend yeosang… how shameless he becomes after you both ingest the most dangerous, illegal lust potion to exist.

𓄃 happy birthday to me, this is my gift for all of you!!! 𓄃 day twelve of @chimivx and i’s kinktober! 𓄃 wizard!yeosang x fem!reader | wc ~7k 𓄃 heed the warnings im not your mother: smut minors dni, this fic is very sex-pollen esque, they’re both intensely horny, virgin!reader, strong beefy ponytailed yeosang, oral f!receiving, multiple rounds, p in v, lotta unprotected creampies :p loosely based on hp universe but if u dont know hp its fine they’re just wizards, fuck you jk rowling

You can hear them before you see them, huddled up together in the lounge, cackling so loud the sound reverberates throughout the stone corridor your penny loafers carried you through. High archways, open air windows, intricate carvings into stone that no human hand could have perfected, you try to ignore the paintings that moved with your steps.

You turn the corner into the lounge, a palm softly caressing the heavy, arched wooden doorframe, double doors that opened up into the vast, candle-lit space. Green velvet chairs that matched the curtains draped over floor to ceiling windows, only one or two stayed open during the day, typically drawn shut so students could study calmly. 

Calmly. 

“You three are so loud,” you snarl as your penny loafers click to a stop before the three chairs huddled in a triangle, a deep, black table in the center, holding thick books and chalices of god knows what. With a hand on your hip, the other arm holding books pressed to your chest, you keep your voice quiet but sharp, “This room is for studying, you know.”

San makes a show of looking around him, at the lack of people occupying the lounge. Almost ten, maybe fifteen chairs took up space, five tables amongst them, maybe three people occupying them. You let your eyes dance over the almost empty room before landing back on San, his slicked back hair, the black robe hanging over his shoulders, the yellow illuminating the breadth. 

You stand your ground, “Just because it’s not busy in here doesn’t mean you need to be obnoxious.”

“We weren’t even loud,” Wooyoung argues, the blue in his robe bringing out the chocolate of his eyes, the red undertone in his black hair that nearly lays over his lashes. His mouth twitches upward in a smirk, “We were just laughing. You should try it sometime.”

You slide your scowl to Yeosang, whose eyes dance between the three of you, but he doesn’t interject. He never interjects, not when Wooyoung makes one of his infamous remarks towards you, nor when he encourages San into teasing you, too. Yeosang, quiet, timid and kind until it killed him, you wondered how you were both in the same House. Sometimes you wondered if you were tutoring him to bring out the bravery buried inside him, too. 

“Whatever,” you huff, rolling your eyes. You turn your body to Yeosang, hands clutching your books to your chest a little harder, “Are you ready? It’s past three.” 

Yeosang nods, black hair tied tightly behind his head, tendrils framing his face that curved just beneath his jaw. Both hands grip the armrests of the chair to help him stand, then he grabs his books from the table, his goblet, you had the same routine every other day. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the days you meet Yeosang here at three o’clock sharp to tutor him in everything. History of Magic, Herbology, Transfigurations, Potions, you remember the day your professor assigned Yeosang to you in hopes that you’d get him to at least pass. 

“Good luck,” Wooyoung teases, a song in his tone, eyes trapped in crescents with how wide his grin spreads. He reaches into his pockets, “Hold on, don’t forget this.”

“I’m not taking that,” Yeosang huffs, “You shouldn’t even have that.”

“What is it?” You ask, eyeing the iridescent liquid in the small glass vial. It doesn’t look like any potion you’ve seen before. 

“Liquid Luck,” Yeosang answers too quickly, waving his hands in front of Wooyoung who tips his head back in loud laughter. Your eyebrows furrow, you know the color of Liquid Luck, a molten gold that looks as lucky as it makes you, but you’ve never seen such a pearly, almost rainbow substance. Your curiosity makes you take a step forward, hand reaching out to touch it.

Yeosang lurches forward to snap the potion from between Wooyoung’s fingers before you get the chance, “You’re beyond help. Beyond saving, Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung just laughs louder, crinkles beside his uneven eyes, “You- You should try it out, man. Just see what happens, I’m curious.”

“You use it,” Yeosang stuffs the glass in his robe pocket, the red interior bustling outward at the movement, a bite in his tone you’ve never heard before. You’re standing frozen, eyes wide, confusion and surprise written all over your face. 

“I’m not as lucky as you,” Wooyoung is smirking again, his eyes sliding to you right before he winks, long, dark lashes almost reaching his cheek as he does so. “I like ‘em to have a little attitude.”

Your top lip curls in disgust, “Ew, Jung Wooyoung. Never speak to me again.” You turn on your heel, penny loafers heading toward the private study room you and Yeosang always used. Turning your head behind you to Yeosang who had leaned towards Wooyoung, no doubt whispering words you didn’t want to hear, you called, “Let’s go, Yeosang.”

He straightens on command, following behind you to the study room. The room smelled faintly of morning mist leftover from the window that had most likely been cracked earlier in the day, paired with the same smell of magic and ancientness that wrapped around the school like a hug. You laid your books down on the wooden table, a long slab of oak that ate up half the space, benches lined on either side, a tall, full bookshelf against the wall. A lonely bar-cart sat in the corner, water and potions glittering the space for focus, listening, learning, golden goblets and tall jars atop a used, golden slate.

“I’m sorry about him,” Yeosang mutters quietly as the heavy door groans closed, the small metal lock latching louder than his voice. 

You take your normal spot, and the bench cries as Yeosang sits down beside you. You give him a quick shake of your head, “Nothing I’m not used to.”

“You shouldn’t be used to it,” Yeosang’s voice is quiet, small, almost sheepish. 

Your head turns, taking in the shape of his jaw, the slope of his nose. So beautiful he’d appear feminine if it wasn’t for the masculinity he bore in his chest, his shoulders, everywhere from the neck down. You open your Potions book to the page that you left off last on Wednesday, somewhere in the middle, a wit-sharpening draft Yeosang couldn’t memorize for shit. The same draft charmed to keep itself filled kept in the corner of the study rooms.

You huff, “It is what it is.” Spreading your hands on each page, covering the contents of the book, you turned to him again, “You studied?”

Yeosang’s lips curled at the corner, “...Somewhat.”

“The exam is on Monday, Yeo,” you slant your eyebrows, pointing your gaze. “That whole time you were giggling with San and Wooyoung you could have been memorizing.”

“I’m sorry,” he frowns, a crease forming between his brows, “I looked over it last night.”

“You swear?” You ask, pulling the book towards you, not waiting for his answer. “Recite it to me then.”

His cheeks heat a pretty pink color, kissing the high points, spreading wide over his nose. His voice is quiet, uneasy, slightly high-pitched as he counts on his fingers, “Water, ginger…”

“And?” You raise your brows, “There’s only four ingredients, Yeosang.”

“Something with beetles…” He makes a disgruntled face, features morphing together. “...Armadillo.”

Your lips curl into a grin, “So close.”

He meets your eye with nothing but uncertainty swirling in deep brown, “Scab beetles.”

“Scarab beetles.”

“Right, right. Armadillo…”

“Bile.”

“Yes!”

“I’ll actually accept that,” your eyebrows raise, mouth bending to show how impressed you were. Usually Yeosang didn’t remember anything past water. “Now tell me how to brew it.”

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and the word falling from his lips so shamelessly makes you choke on your spit, a laugh tumbling form your chest. 

“I don’t think that’s a step,” you giggle, then attempt to look serious again, “Don’t curse, it’s foul.”

“I’m sorry,” his lips are still bent, humor and amusement in his eyes. “Simmer the water, add the… Scarab beetles, stir three times–”

“Five times,” you correct. 

“Five times,” he nods, “Clockwise.”

“Counter-clockwise.”

He furrows his brows, “Clockwise.”

You tilt your head, lips smacking, “Counter-clockwise.”

“Check the book,” his eyes drop to the book you held to your chest and you peel it from your red-colored robes, eyes scanning the page. Right there, in clean cut handwriting, it says Clockwise.

You purse your lips, “I’m sorry, my fault. It’s clockwise.”

His smile is proud like he wants to pat himself on the back– the sight makes you giggle. You don’t get to see that look on him very often. With heat in your cheeks, you shake your head quickly, “Keep going.”

“Five times clockwise,” he nods his head as he speaks as if he’s committing the information to memory, searching for more inside his head, “Simmer five minutes. Add ginger, don’t stir, simmer again.”

“For how long?” You cock a brow. 

“...Twenty minutes?” His eyes widened, looking to you for confirmation. When you nod, he smiles all teeth, and continues. “Let it cool, stir seven times every three minutes, clockwise and counter-clockwise. When it’s not hot anymore–”

“How do you check?”

“With a hand over the pot. Add the armadillo bile then, and let it sit for eight minutes.” 

“Wow,” you breathe, “That was all, like, perfectly correct. I’m surprised and impressed.”

He claps his hands together ceremoniously, lips stuck together, curled at the edges and pursed in the center. You lean in closer, smelling the woody, black pepper, tea-leaf scent that was purely Yeosang, “Now tell me how to make it taste better.”

“Peppermint leaf on the tongue, not in the potion,” he nods, then meets your eye, pride evident in his features. You clap your hands together, wide smile on your face, cheering for him like he had just won a world record. It was a huge deal to have a study session go so smoothly, so effortlessly– Usually studying was like pulling teeth with Yeosang. 

“Temperature is key for this one,” you say after a minute of cheering, “You need to be vigilant with the fire while brewing, to keep it at a simmer. You don’t want it boiling.”

He nods with every word, letting them sink in, and you place the Potions book atop the wooden table again, hands landing just beside it, letting the cold, almost damp-feeling oak settle into your skin. A knock sounds at the door a moment later, and your necks snap to Wooyoung creaking the door open, a sly grin on his cheeks. 

“Apologies, study-birds,” he teases, peeking his head around the slab of oak, “Can I get that vial of Desiderium back?”

Your jaw drops to the wood beneath your skull. You repeat, with eyebrows in your hairline, “Desiderium?!” 

Yeosang huffs, an irritated breath, digging into his pockets for the glass. You choke on a laugh, “How the hell did you get your hands on Desiderium? You could get expelled for that, Jung Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung rolls his eyes and holds his hands out for Yeosang to toss the vial to him. He catches it swiftly between deft fingers, shooting Yeosang a nod of appreciation before his rebuttal, “Who cares.”

You stand, palms planted on the damp wood as Wooyoung makes his way over to the study bar, carelessness in his steps. You keep your voice quiet but harsh, “Wooyoung, Desiderium is banned, like banned banned. You could get somebody hurt, you could hurt yourself, that isn’t a toy or Viagra.”

He whips his head around, a nasty smirk on his lips, “You know what Viagra is?” 

Your cheeks flush, back straightening, fingers curling before your robes. Voice smaller now, not as quiet or confident, you say, “Yes I know what Viagra is, I’m not a child.”

He pours himself a goblet of the wit-sharpening potion, taking a deep drink from the scratched golden chalice, you watch how his bumped nose dips into the cup, how his Adam’s apple expands with each gulp. He lets out a massive, verbal breath when the cup is drained, slamming the goblet back on the slate. 

“Go to the bathroom and drain that vial, Woo.” 

He raises his brows, “Do you know how much it took to even get this? Hell no.”

You crane your neck to look down at Yeosang who appears utterly thoughtless. With a strain in your voice, you try, “Yeosang, do something.”

“What am I supposed to do?” He asks, his voice genuine. “He did go through a lot to get it.”

You release a sound of disbelief, a sharp breath from your lungs. “Yeosang!” You whisper-yell, then turn back to Wooyoung who leans against the bar cart, “I can’t just let you carry that around with no consequence.” 

“Who are you gonna tell?” Wooyoung raises his brows in amusement, “A professor? Head Girl?”

You sputter, “I- I’ll–” 

The truth was, you didn’t want to tell anyone. You eyed his pocket, the crinkle of weight in the black robe, curiosity lighting up your mind. Desiderium was a banned potion across the wizard world, a worse love potion than Amortentia, it wasn’t even considered a love potion. It was an… Arousal potion of sorts, you’ve only heard stories of it, but you knew it wasn’t safe. If taken in large quantities it was toxic, resulting in a stomach-pumping spell or in worse cases, death. If taken in small quantities, it makes the consumer unbelievably horny, insatiable for hours, so aroused and consumed by lust they lose themselves completely.

You wondered, despite knowing it was banned. If that really was Desiderium, if it really does what it’s supposed to, what it feels like to be under the spell. You don’t have much experience in the sex area, or really in the arousal area entirely. Your life has always been centered around academics and competition, and your small group of friends that were more like you than someone like Wooyoung. You’d never had a boyfriend, or someone to pull that velvety feeling from your gut, you’ve never felt the feeling of losing yourself that you’ve overheard Wooyoung talk about when debriefing his hook-ups with San and Yeosang.

“You’ll what?” Wooyoung tilts his head in amusement. 

“It’s fine,” Yeosang finally interjects, “He won’t do anything with it, he has no problem getting… no problem in that area.” 

“Yeosang, that’s–”

He glances up at you, eyes clear, certain. You swallow down your disdain, your clear discomfort, the heated curiosity nipping at your cheeks. You sit down slowly, back in your place next to Yeosang, and Wooyoung giggles like a child. 

“Have fun studying,” he winks again, and then he’s out the door in a flash. 

You huff a breath when he’s no longer in sight, irritation biting at your skin, heating you beneath your robes. Pushing your hair behind your ears and flattening your skirt, you huff, “I’m just gonna pretend like that didn’t happen.” 

“That’s best to do with most things concerning Wooyoung.” 

“Well, do you think it’s right?” You’re facing him now, eyebrows back in your hairline, “He could do whatever he wants with Desiderium, he could give it to whoever he wants. That’s sick.” 

“He’s not a bad guy,” he’s shaking his head fervently, his hands coming up to his chest in defense, “He’d never use it on someone without their knowledge or anything like that.”

“Then what’s the point of having it?” You argue, jaw tight, eyes focused. 

“Well,” Yeosang cranes his neck slowly, a tilt to his head that means he doesn’t want to finish his sentence, “There’s this one girl, and he… They, you know. A lot. And there’s stuff he wants to try, and—”

“Okay,” you turn away, cheeks growing hot at the words leaving his mouth. For a moment you wonder if Yeosang has ever been with anyone like that, if he’s taken a sip of the Desiderium, if he ever thinks of getting that kind of… boost. 

You shake your head to hopefully rid yourself of the thought, “I get it. But if he uses it on anyone,” you shoot him a sideways glance, “I can’t let that slide. I won’t be a bystander. You have to tell me.” 

Yeosang nods what seems like a thousand times in a millisecond, “I will, I promise.” 

You push out a heavy breath, forcing your eyes back on your book, you had three more potions to get through for his exam on Monday. Blinking at the page, brain drifting back to the Desiderium… No. 

“What’s next?” His voice is soft, as if he’s gracefully pulling you out of your mind, as if he could read it. You swallow. 

“Sleeping draft,” your voice is so low it’s basically a whisper, turning the page, trying to ignore how the energy in the room feels different. Charged. Maybe two curious brains instead of one. You don’t look up, “Ingredients?” 

He leans onto the table, two elbows pressed to the wood, his chin buried between them. He tilts his head to the side, giving you a view of his pretty cheekbones, the side of his face that didn’t have the birthmark. You glue your eyes to the book. Yeosang is barely even your friend, just a guy you tutor– But you wonder if his thoughts mirrored yours at all, even if you shouldn’t think of him that way at all. 

“Water,” he’s mumbling, his tone half bored, “Um, Lavender.”

“This one’s a breeze,” you try to push some encouragement into your tone, “One more ingredient, and then tell me how it’s brewed.”

A small breath passes through his lips, “Uh,” he closes his eyes for a moment, “Mint.”

His lips are so shiny– wet, like he’d just swiped his tongue over them. The loose pieces of hair hanging out of his ponytail lay over his creamy skin, the rich color a contrast to the pink on his cheeks still present. 

“No, chamomile.” 

Shit. You didn’t even hear him get it wrong. 

“Hey,” he picks his head up, eyeing you from the table, “I thought you said cursing is foul.”

You said that out loud? “It is,” your chuckle is nervous, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he smiles, the S in sorry slurred by his slight lisp. The sound brings an unfamiliar warmth to your chest, a smile on your cheeks. In a rush, you turn your head back to the book. 

“Okay,” you heave a breath in an attempt to push the weird air away from the two of you, “Water, lavender, chamomile. Tell me how it’s brewed.”

Yeosang groans, sitting up straight, “I can’t focus.”

“Fill your cup,” you jut your chin in the direction of the mind-sharpening potion in the corner of the room, “Actually, can you pour me one, too?” 

He nods, untangling himself from the bench to walk over to the bar-cart, and you suck in a deep breath that isn’t full of Yeosang’s air. You don’t know what’s going on in your chest, or why the mention of Desiderium has you both feeling weird, or maybe it was just you that was weird. It was always just you, the untouched one who has no experience that feels weird when anything sex-related is brought up. Yeosang is probably fine. 

Your eyes pick up to his fingers wrapped around the handle of the jar, watching how the veins that climb up his forearm like vines strain while he fills two goblets. You’ve always known Yeosang is attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. He’s popular amongst the girls in your year, your house, other houses, even. He’s kind, genuine, soft, but you’ve never really thought about him that way, never had anything to add to the conversation, because you know him as the timid dumbass you tutor in every single subject. 

“Do you want any mint?” He asks from the cart, and you nod your head, mumbling your thanks. 

Always kind, with his deep voice and the muted rose colored kiss mark on his temple, funny in the way that has you shaking your head because his humor was so silly it was almost childish. He always opens the door for you to the study room, pulls out the heavy bench if the last group to occupy the room pushed it in too far. Chivalrous. Sweet. Gorgeous. 

You’re taking it from his hand by the time he walks back to the bench and gulping down the cup in four massive swallows. You need to focus on tutoring him, not how pretty he looks when he’s smiling or how words fall off his lips like each one is a spell. 

When his empty goblet hits the oak you plant your hands on the wooden table before you, mind already feeling sharper. “Okay, seriously now, this one’s easy.” You shoot him another sideways glance. “Tell me how it’s brewed.”

“Bring the water to a slow boil,” you’re both nodding with his words, “Add lavender and stir twenty times.”

“Twenty-one,” you correct, and his smile blooms again. You shudder. 

“Add chamomile and let it simmer for twenty minutes.”

“Ah, that’s where twenty came from.”

“Add purslane for nightmares,” he hums, a low, ruddy sound, “Add ginger for some kick.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say matter-of-factly, “You even answered questions I didn’t ask yet.”

“I told you I studied!” He’s smiling wide and bright, “I know how you work now, how you ask questions. I know the question before it’s on your tongue.”

You think both of your eyes widen at the same time. An innocent statement, nothing behind it, but the word tongue… Right now… Why is there a heat blooming in the pit of your stomach?

He must feel it too, with the way his eyes dart for his lap, fingers twisting together above his slacks. You swallow again, robes feeling heavy on your skin, the air of the room feeling hotter. 

“The next is, um,” you’re blinking rapidly as you flip the page, “Uh, deflating draft. Antidote for the… Swelling solution, it reduces… Um, swelling… And size.”

You can feel the sheen of sweat on your forehead growing rapidly. You’re twisting your neck in discomfort, your clothes too fucking hot, you shimmy off your robe, letting it fall over back of the bench. 

There’s an intake of breath on your left, and your head turns to Yeosang who’s already staring at you, his pupils blown. Eyes wider. Nostrils flared in a way that told you he was on alert. 

“Ingredients?” You squeak, swallowing down the spit that keeps forming in your mouth. What the fuck is going on right now?

“Water, wood sorrel,” his voice is monotonous, as if he was reading a script, mind somewhere else, but his eyes are still locked on you. His voice deepens, a low hum, “Sagebrush, aloe, powdered galangal.” 

Your thighs tighten. Has he always sounded that way? Sultry? Sexy?

You clear your throat as his fingers stop twisting together on his lap, he crosses his leg over his knee and throws his robe over his slacks. Your jaw locks, the movement shoving his smell into your space, and the scent becomes a feeling. A low rumbling in your gut, a blooming heat turned to sparks ignited. 

“How- Um, How do you brew it? The potion?” You’re obvious. You’re internally smacking the shit out of yourself because it’s so fucking obvious you’re horny, it might as well be written on your forehead. 

Yeosang looses a shaky breath, you can hear how it staggers, you can feel how it reaches your hair, moving it across your blouse. Still in that sultry, alluring tone, he says, “Boil the water, and– fuck, add the woodsorrel and sagebrush.”

You don’t scold him for the curse. He continues, “Don’t stir, make sure they’re submer- ah, under water, under the water completely. Submerged, yeah.” 

Your ears are red-hot, body tingling, you can feel the stickiness growing between your legs like it did when you’re ovulating. And his voice, his voice, your shoulders slouch listening to him, getting lost in how clear he sounds in the depth of his words. Breathily, you say, “Keep going.”

He groans. Groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, head dipped down, hair creating a veil so he can’t see you. It feels unbearable– the fire burning so brightly in your gut, your body felt like a livewire, if he so much as brushed his skin against you, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to hold back. 

“Lower the temp to a simmer, add the aloe,” your eyes slide to where his fists curl around his robe, knuckles white. In a low grumble, he says, “Fuck Wooyoung.”

Your head perks up, eyes widening as you face him, and as soon as he sees your face his eyes close immediately, lips curling together. “Shit, I can’t even look at you right now.”

“Why?” You ask, barely noticing how heavy your breath has gotten. You were nearly panting now, lips wet and swollen, “Why fuck Wooyoung? What did he do?” 

He looked flushed, his cheeks bright pink, his ears tipped red, his birthmark was so dark. You wanted to kiss it, lick it, his eyelashes so beautiful, you wanted to see them closer–

“He used it,” he cracks an eye open, “The Desiderium.”

You blink, eyes sliding to the pair of empty goblets on the table, then back to him. “Like, on us?”

Both of his eyes are open now, but they dance around the room, never landing on you. “Yes, on us, we drank it. I don’t– I don’t know how much, but it was in the potion jar on the cart, we- we drank it.” 

“Oh, shit,” you gasp, but somehow the air filling your lungs feels good, “Oh shit.” 

Panic doesn’t seem to find you. You’d left yourself entirely, entering a bubble of lust and arousal, feeling the burn inside your body with nothing to fucking smother it. Your eyes drop to his robe, the breadth of his shoulders, the veins dancing on his wrists while his fists still curl around the fabric. 

“What do we do?” He asks you, eyebrows shot up, “What’s the anecdote?!”

“Don’t know,” you mumble dreamily as your eyes catch onto his jaw, his tongue that pokes between his lips as he speaks. He’s so pretty, so big and so muscular but so beautiful, you wonder if he tastes as sweet as he looks. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and it sounds like a compliment. 

You smile, head tilting, hand reaching forward to play with one of the hairs that frame his face. His eyes widen when you take it between your fingers, twirling it, knuckles brushing against his face. The millisecond of contact, of skin on skin, you can feel it like you’d just stuck your hand between your legs. 

He moans. 

He moans, and your entire world is flipped upside down. 

Your eyes lock together, a question neither of you want to ask, have to ask. 

Pride was a thing of the past by the time you climbed into Yeosang’s lap, legs splintered by his hips, mouths messily tangling together as if you were trying to swallow each other whole. You could feel him pressed up against you— hard chest, hard abdomen, hard cock— every inch of you was touched by him, consumed by him, burning, steaming, you were sure when you lifted your heads the windows would be fogged over. 

Panting into each other’s mouths like dogs, his tongue dragged across yours hastily, harshly, his lips bruising yours with blatant force. Your hands held onto his nape, fingertips tangled in the slick of his ponytail, pulling stray hairs out every time your fingers twitched. 

“Shit—” he breathed, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, a nasty, brutal sound. You moaned at the sound of his voice, shameless and completely involuntary, head dropping at how it rumbled from his chest. 

“We,” he tilted his head back as your lips moved to his jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses down his throat, tongue lapping at every inch of skin as if you’d taste his very soul. His hands land on your hips, heavy and rough, “I can’t—”

“I need it,” you sound breathless, murmuring into his skin, “I need you to do something, need you to touch me, Yeosang.” 

He moans again at how his name falls off your lips, high-pitched, eyes screwed tight with his hips bucking up at how gone you sound. Your hips grind into him, panties pressed against his slacks, skirt blanketing over where your hips met. 

“We’re not in our,” his groan is breathy, strained, as if he was fighting it off, “Right minds. We shouldn’t be doing this here.” 

“I don’t care,” your hands slide to his cheeks, feeling the heat beneath them, hips still working their dirty, slow grind, meeting his eye. “You want it, don’t you? You do, right?” 

He’s nodding before you finish the question, “I want it, I want you, in this skirt, your face, fuck—”

Your lips curl, parting, leaning forward to attack his again, tongue slipping into his mouth like its made a home there. This heat, this urgency, you didn’t care how you looked, how you sounded, if you were doing this right, it was incredible. Empowering. It was a fleeting thought, how you’ve never done this before, how you’ve gone so long without doing this. 

His hands find your top while your lips stay locked, fingers nimble, making haste as they undo the tiny buttons lining your chest and abdomen. He pushes the cotton off your shoulders, throwing it to the floor, face lighting up when he sees the baby pink bra adorning your chest.  

“Are you sure?” He mumbles as he pulls back, eyes zeroed in on your chest, as if he couldn’t force himself to meet your eye if he tried. You wonder how he still has so much self control, yours was gone the moment the goblet touched your lips. “I need, need you to say yes, I—”

“Please, yes, do something.” 

A hand slides under your ass, lifting you at the same time as the backs of his knees push the bench out from behind him. One hand clears the table while the other keeps you close, and then your ass is pressed to the bare wood, his palms pressing your shoulders back until you feel the steam of the wet slab of wood meet your burning skin. 

“Yeosang!” You squeal, the cold a shock, but a comfort. He grunts in response, pulling his wand from his pants, quickly charming the door locked, the room soundproof, two spells you’d taught him to master two weeks ago. 

“I’m sorry,” he growls and it doesn’t sound like an apology at all, especially not when he peels his robe from his shoulders, pulling his sweater vest over his head, more stray hairs framing his face. His voice is dazed now, low, here but far as he starts to unbutton his own shirt, “I can’t risk someone hearing or coming in, I need you, I need to do whatever, everything, I need all of you.” 

Your body tightens at his words, at how desperate he sounds, the only thing you want right now is for him to take all of you. You want him shameless, you want him impolite, you want him so far from kind he isn’t Yeosang at all anymore. 

You spread your knees, bare thighs pressed to the wood, skirt hiked up to your hips. He gasps when he bends while pulling his pants down, eye to eye with your heat atop the table, a low groan rips from his chest again. 

“You’re soaked,” still dazed, eyes locked again, he spoke to himself more than to you. “I want— can I taste you?” 

“Stop asking,” you mutter, anticipation carbonating your very blood, “Do everything like you promised.” 

He’s on his knees then, fingers hooked into the elastic of your baby pink panties, tugging them down your legs. He pulls your hips to the end of the table and the back of your head meets the wood, sighing in relief when the thick air meets your core, gasping again when you feel cool breath pushed into your glistening folds. 

He wastes no time licking a stripe up your center, moaning so loud when his tongue slides between your folds, and the noise, the pleasure makes your back arch. It's barely a thought in your mind that no one’s seen you there, that no one’s had their mouth there— you didn’t care, you needed it. You needed more. 

Your hands fly to his hair, fingertips sliding into his tightly bound ponytail, nails clawing at his scalp, sounds of pleasure ripping from your chest one after another. It felt so good, so wet, you’ve never experienced anything like it, this burn in your core, how every nerve ending in your body seemed to ignite. 

When the tip of one of his fingers prod at your entrance your body locks, thighs squeezing against his head, it felt foreign and weird but good and confusing. He hums against your clit, lips wrapped around it, lightly sucking as he slips inside slowly, groaning into you when he gets past his first knuckle. 

He pulls back, “You’re tight.” 

You can’t see him, but you moan in response, words escaping you before you can think about them, “Stretch me out then.” 

With more force he curls his finger inside and your back lifts from the wood, an elbow sliding behind you, holding yourself up as a wrecked, ragged, guttural moan escapes you. “Keep doing that,” you breathe, “Oh my god, Yeosang, do that again.” 

His eyes flick up to yours and they’re so dark, his pupils so wide, with his hair so messy and his features so deep he almost seemed menacing. He shakes his head, fingers pulling from your core, mouth detaching from your folds, you feel empty.

He doesn’t sound like himself anymore, raw, restless, “Can’t, can’t take it anymore.” 

Your back meets the wood again as he tugs his deep red briefs down to his thighs, rock hard and leaking cock slapping up between veiny hips, his chin tucked to his chest. He grips himself, knuckles white around the base of his cock as he stares at your core, still glistening, pulsing for him. 

“Inside,” you nearly cry, knees bending upward, spreading yourself wide. His eyes meet yours and there’s no uncertainty, no pause, no patience. 

He lines himself up, mushroom tip poking at your entrance that’s never felt more than his finger, your breath hitched in your throat. Your face tightens as he slips himself inside, a cry leaving your lips once the fat tip pushes past your folds, a relieving yet strangled sigh when he sheathes himself fully. 

“You have to— I’m not gonna,” his eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open, lips glossy and wet, hands planted on either side of the table. He’s moaning now, higher in pitch and you’re trying to calm your breathing, locked in on how he feels like he’s splintering your stomach. 

Overwhelming but everything, he’s huge, everything about him. Your eyes flutter, open and closed, watching how his curved shoulders flex, how the veins on his arms swim up to his biceps, the chiseled abs on his torso, stuck in a time-warp of constant enduring how he splits you open. 

“I gotta move,” he’s panting all over again, “Open up for me, baby.” 

Your breath hitches at the pet name, pulsing around him, clenching around his length. A muddled groan leaves his lips as everything freezes, his fingers on the table, his abdomen, his eyes, you feel warm. Full. He curses through an ear-piercing moan, pulling out halfway, chest heaving, and then he mutters, “Shit, I just came.” 

You lean up on your elbows, eyeing him through wet lashes, “What?” 

But then he’s grabbing you, a strong, sticky forearm wrapping around your torso, pulling you into him, his mouth sloppy against yours once more. He whines into your lips as he starts thrusting inside you again and you’re speechless, frozen, drool spilling down your unmoving lips as his cock curves upward, hitting that same spot from before. 

“Gods, baby, you gotta open up or I’m gonna cum again,” he says through a ragged breath, hips quickening their pace, the slick inside you letting him move so easily. 

“I can’t,” you whimper, chin tipping back, hands braced on the table behind you. “It feels so good, Yeo,” you snap your head back down, “I didn’t- I didn’t know it felt so good.” 

His eyes flicker to yours, a question on his tongue he didn’t need to ask, he didn’t want to stop. Selfishly he fucks into you faster, harder, hands planted on your hips as he drinks up every moan and cry that leaves your lips. 

His head hangs low, sweat dripping past his collarbones, down his abdomen, your legs hook around his waist, knee socks and penny loafers slamming into his too-hot skin. 

“I need,” you shake your head, throat dry, the pleasure was too much. Too overwhelming. “Sit down, sit, sit sit sit.” 

In one quick motion he’s scooping you up, sitting back on the bench, your knees landing on either side of him with your hands planted on his shoulders. 

You bounce as soon as you gain leverage, ignoring the immediate burn in your thighs as your forehead falls to his shoulder, lips pressed to his skin with sounds of pleasure stringing together in a continuous song. He’s somehow deeper, the pleasure more intense, a pit of blazing heat that grows stronger, you can’t keep yourself upright. 

His grip on your hips is steady, grounding in the swirl of sweat and spit and lust, bouncing you effortlessly, keeping you moving in rhythm. His voice is low and strained again, “Want you to cum around my cock, baby.” 

You cry, hips twitching against him, the pit in your stomach growing hotter, stronger. His lips press against your burning skin and you moan, his tongue is heavy and sopping wet as he licks up the sweat along your jaw, whispering, “Rub your clit for me, baby, please.”

Your nails claw into his shoulders harder, stomach clenching, a cry leaving your lips after the words leave his mouth, your orgasm was right there, right on the brink. You clench around him, hips stuttering when a low groan leaves Yeosang’s lips, so low and rumbled it makes the rubber band snap. 

Your moans slur together you cum around his length, his firm hands on your hips fucking you through it as if you were weightless, nothing but a fucktoy for him to use. His huff of a laugh is in amusement and disbelief, “You came? Just like that?” 

Winded, cheeks hot and body stinging, you nod, head tipping back, needing the air of the room on your skin. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, “I need to cum again, need to fill this pussy one more time.” 

His arm wraps around your waist one more time and you’ve submitted to the fact that you could be just a toy for him to use forever. You’re on the floor in a flash, knees pressed to hardwood, your palms braced before you, on all fours. 

He slips back in and you fold, chest pressed to the hardwood, cheek hot against the floor, elbows bent with your palms still braced on either side of you. He fucks into you ruthlessly, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, his hands heavy and hot against you. 

You’re jelly, body moving with his, muscles barely holding you up anymore. You’re sure drool is puddled beside your mouth, sounds leaving you that you couldn’t hear, a mess of overwhelming, blinding pleasure. 

“Want you to cum again,” he says from behind you and all you can do is cry. Tears fill your waterline and spill down your cheeks, into your mouth, mixing with the drool on the floor. 

He’s so fucking deep you swear he’s in your throat, his rhythm sloppy but merciless, cockhead kissing your cervix. He slips a hand around your front, two fingers pressed against your clit, rubbing quick circles as he leans down, panting against your back. 

“T-Too much,” you cry, nails clawing into the hardwood, shoulders shaking with each sob. 

“You can,” he’s straining like he’s on the brink of his own orgasm, “Come on, baby. Cum with me, c’mon.” 

You focus on his hand between your legs, his cock drilling into you, the pit in your stomach filling with pressure again. You choke, on your breath or your tears or your spit you weren’t sure, breath getting caught in your lungs as he pushes you closer, your orgasm so close to could taste it. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, voice utterly raw, words slurred and muffled. 

“Yes,” he moans, “Mm, fuck, yes, so good for me, cum around my cock.” 

Your body locks, joints tightening at his words, orgasm rushing over you like a tidal wave. His grip on your hip is blinding, he’s focusing on fucking you through it, keeping his rhythm precise, his angle perfect, “Yes, that’s it, baby. So tight— fuck, you’re so— fuck.” 

He’s spilling into you again, filling you with that sticky warmth, that fullness you felt before. You moan together, shameless and debauched as his thrusts slow down, then he’s pausing, fully sheathed, the only sounds in the room being your heaving breaths. 

“Oh my gods,” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, heavy hands running over your shaking, hot skin. Down your back, landing on your hips, he pulls you backward as he sits on his heels. 

You land over his chest, cock still buried inside you, head flopping back over his shoulder. He moves your hair from your face, thumb swiping below your lips, cleaning off the drool. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, panic in his tone. 

You nod, still pulling breath into your lungs, eyes softly closed. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” you repeat with a shake of your head, “That sex felt so good, Yeosang.” 

You crack an eye and he’s beet red, half his hair pulled out of his ponytail, framing his face like a mural. He’s so fucking beautiful. 

“I didn’t know that you haven’t had sex before,” his voice is quiet, tone raw, you both needed water. “I’m going to kill Wooyoung.” 

“No,” you shake your head, dry swallowing, “No, thank him.” 

“Thank him?” Yeosang repeats, eyebrows raised. 

Your smile is lazy, tired, a slow chuckle tumbling off your tongue, “I don’t think the Desiderium wore off yet.” 

His cock twitches inside you, still rock fucking hard, he blushes even deeper, “You wanna go again?” 

“It’s a form of studying,” you shrug, breaths finally slowing, “You can tell Wooyoung exactly how it works.” 

© minkimivx 2025 ≫ masterlist ≫ plum's kinktober masterlist

[stxrrywoo]

MAKE YOU A MOMMY ── j.yh

synopsis ; watching you babysit your best friend's daughter was a sight that left yunho yearning and the moment you showed even a semblance of sign you wanted kids he was on you in record time.

pairing(s) ; husband!yunho x f!reader

☆ ── wc. ; 0.9k ☆ ── genre ; smut w/ a tinge of fluff ☆ ── tw. ; MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!, cussing, kissing, unprotected sex, dom!yunho x sub!reader, petnames (angel, sweetheart, sweet girl...), breeding, just straight baby making, implications of multiple rounds, a tinge of manhandling, fingering (if you squint), creampie, lmk if I missed anything!! ☆ ── notes ; this one got a bit longer than intended 🤓 (hence why it's in this format and not my drabble one...), smth about yunho and breeding just makes me a little crazy I fear 🤪 now this is based off this request, enjoy babies!!

⏤͟͟͞͞ JOIN THE TAGLIST ── MASTERLIST NAVI ── MAIN NAVI

You and Yunho have been married for almost two years, and during that time, neither of you really thought about having kids. At least not until your best friend asked if you'd watch her daughter while daycare was under construction for the next few months. At first, it was just a simple babysitting thing; you'd watch the little girl while Yunho worked, and he'd come home to you playing with her.

However, the longer that you took care of the little girl, the more his thoughts began to race. Visions of you pregnant with his child, belly swollen and round, even the thoughts of your little pregnancy waddle. They were harmless thoughts, really, at least they were until he started imagining stuffing you full of his cum until he was sure that his seed would take. There had been a few times that he had to excuse himself to go take care of the raging boner that suddenly popped while he watched you babysit.

It was starting to drive him up the wall; he was trying so hard to keep his composure, not wanting to scare you. However, he met his breaking point when you let out a soft sigh, and those few words slipped past your lips.

“Man, she makes me want a baby.” Your words held no true meaning, just a longing for the future, but when you didn’t get any kind of response from your husband, you looked over at him. Your breath caught in your throat due to the intensity of his gaze, his pupils blown wide, and his lips parted.

He didn’t even give you the chance to call out his name before he was on his feet, walking towards you. A yelp fell from your lips when he grabbed your waist, hauling you over his shoulder. Your questions and protests fell on deaf ears as the taller male made his way towards your shared bedroom. You let out a huff as Yunho all but tossed you onto the soft mattress, his body instantly coming down to cage you underneath him.

His lips moved down to ghost over your warm breath, fanning your face and causing your eyes to flutter while your heart raced in your chest. Yunho's hands gripped your waist, tugging you flush against his body, relishing in the shiver that ran through your body.

"Let me give you a baby, angel, please," He pleads with you, his tone borderline whiny, and all it took was a simple nod of your head for him to strip both of you bare, lips all over your skin as he stretched you open on his fingers first.

"Y-Yunho," You choked out, nails scratching red marks into his back as he began splitting you open on his cock. The mixture of pain and pleasure caused your mind to fuzz over, your head falling back against the mattress, while Yunho left wet kisses all along the expanse of your chest and neck.

"Gonna give you everything and fill you so full your sweet little body has no other choice but to get pregnant," He growled against your skin, rocking his hips into yours, swallowing your moans and whines when he kissed you.

Stars danced across your vision when he began to fuck into you at an almost animalistic pace, hands moving to grab behind your knees. Incoherent babbles fell from your lips when he brushed over your sweet spot, the sensation causing the coil in the pit of your stomach to pull tight.

"Nghh, Yunho!" You nearly scream his name when he pressed down further on your knees, pressing your thighs to your chest, and the tip of his cock kissed your cervix. The tall male then leaned over you, lips finding your jaw and nipping at the skin, and your back arched, mind completely overtaken by pleasure.

"'M gonna get you pregnant, sweet girl. Make you a mommy," He cooed against your skin, and you let out a pitched whine, walls clamping around his cock. "You're gonna look so fucking pretty carrying our baby angel,"

"P-Please, Yun." You cried out, eyes rolling back when he delivered a particularly hard thrust to your aching cunt, "wanna be a mommy, wanna make you a daddy."

Yunho groaned at the words that fell from your kiss-swollen lips, his cock twitching in your walls. That familiar coil tightened in your gut, and before you could even warn Yunho, much less comprehend it, your body shook violently, your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. The way your walls squeezed Yunho's cock had him toppling over the edge as well, hips rocking against yours, riding out his and your high and fucking his cum back into your sopping cunt.

"Fuck sweetheart, you're milking me dry," Yunho growled, fingers tightening on the back of your thighs, and you could only cry out when he started to fuck into your abused cunt once more.

He didn't stop until both of you were completely drained dry, the mixture of your and his cum seeping out of your twitching cunt. Yunho laid on your weak body, relishing in your warmth and the way you ran your shaky fingers through his hair. Then he was lifting his head, bringing his lips to yours, kissing you sweetly, and you cupped the back of his neck.

"You're gonna make such a good mommy," He cooed against your lips, and your body heated at his words, red dusting your cheeks, and you covered your face, causing the brunette to chuckle, kissing your knuckles.

© 𝐬𝐭𝐱𝐫𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 | 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙡, 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙨𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙨𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚, 𝙤𝙧 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫 : 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙮 𝙖 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙮 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙨. 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙪𝙧𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙟𝙤𝙮𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙡𝙮

[kisssan]

pairing﹢song mingi x fem!reader genre﹢smut. pwp, strangers to lovers, big dick mingi agenda, unprotected sex, just the tip, overstimulation, praising, marking, implied size kink/difference, mentions of multiple orgasms, creampie, usage of petnames (baby, princess, pretty), minimal aftercare. synopsis﹢your pizza delivery guy is late with your order, and there's really only one way to compensate and make it up to you. word count﹢3,8k

a few things about university life are that sometimes the fridge is full, sometimes it’s empty, and every time you open it, you're expecting something to appear magically. in moments like this, you wish you had a genie like aladdin. you’d wait a lifetime for something gracious and divine to be bestowed upon you, because you’ve been waiting an hour and a half for your damn pizza to arrive. 

by the time the doorbell finally echoes through your apartment, you’ve already scavenged a half-eaten bag of chips and some questionable grapes from the back of the fridge. pausing your minecraft horror mod video mid-jumpscare, slightly annoyed since those saved videos were meant for when the food was here, not when it clearly wasn’t. dragging yourself to the door, you swing it open with a frown already forming on your lips.

you’re still irritated, but also distracted. because why is your delivery guy kind of… cute? tall, blonde, pretty boba-like eyes, there’s a guilty smile tugging at his lips that somehow softens the whole picture. the dark blue uniform only makes his hair stand out more, and for a second, your annoyance stutters.

"hi, and i am so sorry," he says, and the deepness of his voice catches you completely off guard. it doesn’t match the softness of his face at all. he also looked a little disheveled, clearly stressed. "the car broke down, and there were no available backup drivers."

you sigh, leaning against the doorframe. "it’s been an hour and a half… so let’s just get this wrapped up."

turning to grab the money already waiting on the nearby dresser, but when you glance back, he’s looking down, biting his lip. he knows the drill — late delivery means no tip, maybe even a complaint that messes with his shift… or worse, his monthly bonus.

"i know… look, it’s on the house. i already marked it as delivered and paid for in the system, so you won’t get charged.” he was unfairly attractive for someone who had just battled a car breakdown. “i just… i feel bad."

you glance at the box in his hands, raising a brow. “cold pizza isn’t exactly a great apology.” there’s a hint of teasing in your tone, but it hits its target as he shifts slightly, gripping the box tighter. you didn't want to make him feel even more at fault, but the sadist in you just had to do something about it. and on top of that, it's not every day that the delivery guy is so handsome and young, someone your age, probably, maybe a little older.

"then let me make it up to you," he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “your next order is free or anything on the menu. i can make sure it gets to you on time.”

“anything?” you tilt your head by repeating, and he nods quickly. “yeah, anything.”

you hand him the money, and he passes you the pizza, but neither of you says goodbye. not right away. he lingers, unsure whether to leave, and you can tell he didn’t expect someone like you to open the door, pretty enough to make him hesitate. because he definitely doesn’t offer free orders, and bends rules like that, not even for his closest friends, so… you should feel a little special.

"what’s your name?" you ask, softer this time.

"MINGI."

you hum, leaning a little more into the doorframe. "well then, mingi… that’s a pretty big offer." your eyes trail down his frame, as he swallows, then straightens slightly, like he’s trying to gather some confidence.

"i said i’d make it up to you."

"how far are you willing to go for that tip?"

far enough, apparently willing to offer one of his own. you didn't expect tuesday night to go this way... you had planned to be on the couch, sure, but not with you ending up in a stranger’s lap, his hands on you, kissing as you both moaned into each other's mouths.

you pull back just enough to breathe, lips tingling, mind a little foggy from how fast this escalated. one second, you were annoyed about cold pizza, the next… this. your fingers stay curled into the fabric of his uniform, keeping him close even as you narrow your eyes at him, pretending to think.

“you’ve been out delivering all day…” you murmur, gaze dragging over him. “you at least showered before your shift, right?”

“yeah,” he looks at you properly now, taking in how little you’re actually wearing. his hands squeeze your waist like he’s asking you the same thing without words, “i did even on my break. promise.”

dark eyes flicker over your face before dropping lower to your oversized shirt and bare legs. you are wearing shorts that barely count as shorts, enough for the comfort in your home. he wouldn't lie that the moment he saw you, something literally snapped inside him: love at first sight is a strong statement, but he couldn't deny the attraction he felt towards you.

“you always answer the door like this?” he asks quietly, one eyebrow slowly rising as you smirk a little, “you always show up an hour and a half late?”

a small grin tugging at his lips as he thinks fair enough. his hands settle at your waist again, but this time there’s no hesitation. his thumbs brush lightly over the thin fabric of your shirt before slipping underneath, and you don’t stop him. his fingers are a little cold at first, contrasting against your warm skin, and the contact makes you shiver and arch slighty. 

“mm.” you hum, leaning in again, your lips brushing along his jaw. your fingers slide into his hair at the back of his head, tugging just slightly. “you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

“not when i’m working.”

you smile against his skin, unconvinced but entertained, letting your lips trail lower, along the line of his jaw and down to his neck. you take your time there, pressing a little firmer, teeth grazing just enough to make it count. he reacts instantly when something between a whimper and a gasp slips out from his mouth, and it makes you pause for half a second, surprised… and then your lips press again, a little slower this time.

“wait,” stopping yourself just before you decide to give him something permanent, “you don’t have a girlfriend, right?”

“not anymore,” mingi exhales, head tilting slightly, giving you better access without even thinking about it. “broke up four months ago.”

you hum, satisfied, finally pulling back to look at him properly. your hands slide from his hair to his shoulders, and god. you didn’t really notice before, but now that you do — he’s big. even with the uniform jacket still on, you can feel it. broad shoulders under your palms, filling your space in a way that makes something in your stomach flip. your eyes flick down without meaning to, taking in how his frame carries, the hint of strength in his thighs when he moves. where has he been all your life?

“what a relief… i mean–” you whisper, slightly correcting yourself. “didn’t feel like being someone’s regret tonight.”

something in his expression changes at that as he becomes less nervous and more confident. big hands move again, he’s mapping you out and learning along the way. you close whatever space is left between you, and a second later, you’re the one pulling back to tease and ask questions.

“is this how you apologize to all your customers?” you tease, breathing a little uneven as your fingers curl against his shoulders.

he chuckles in return, “only the ones who wait an hour and a half.”

“oh, really? i should order late more often.”

“i wouldn’t recommend it.”

and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time, as he figured you out already to be confident about it. his grip tightens slightly, pulling you flush against him, and any lingering irritation you had melts away completely, along with any thought of the pizza still sitting forgotten in its box on the table.

the air in the room is heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and cold pepperoni, but neither of you cares. his hands are no longer just resting; they are active as you feel the sudden, firm hook of his fingers against the waistband of your shorts and underwear. it’s a singular motion, as he tugs downward. pressing your weight into your knees and rising from his lap to give him the clearance he needs. the fabric sliding down your thighs is followed immediately by the hunger of his gaze.

you’re barely aware of the rustle of denim and polyester. your focus is entirely on the stretch of skin at his throat, your teeth grazing and your lips pulling until the flush of red hue deepens, a vivid map of marks that will undoubtedly be a bruised purple by morning.

by the time you pull back to admire your handiwork, the reality of the situation hits you. you’re both stripped from the waist down, the discarded clothes a messy pile on the floor. he looks at you with emotions you can't decode, that alone makes your pulse throb, but your eyes wander up, hitting the barrier of that stiff uniform jacket.

“if we’re going to do this,” you sound a little commanding and curious, “remove that jacket. i want to see if you’re actually as muscular as you feel.”

“picky, aren’t we now?” but his hands came up to the zipper.

“god forbid a girl likes someone with muscles,” you retorted, leaning back to give him the room to shrug it off.

the jacket hits the floor with a soft thud. underneath, the thin fabric of his shirt does little to hide the truth. the broadness of his chest and the sharp definition of his arms are finally on full display, and you just can't believe how someone can be so goddamn hot.

“satisfied?” for some reason, he’s towering even while seated, a mountain of lean muscle that makes you feel impossibly small as he guides you to straddle him.

before the main event, he’s all patience and devastating focus. his large hand cups you, his thumb finding your clit like someone who knows exactly how to touch you and make you feel good. he massages it in slow and rhythmic circles, fingers slicking themselves in your heat, spreading it until you're a whiny mess. your hips stuttering against his palm. he’s priming you, stretching you out with his digits alone just to make sure you're ready for the sheer scale of what’s coming.

then, the moment he lines up against your entrance… you swear you are going to die. you’ve never seen anything like this, let alone take it inside you. massive is one way to describe it, the girth of him looks like a physical impossibility. as you begin to lower yourself, the sensation isn't just fullness, it’s a total gut-wrenching and rib-creaking stretch.

"oh my god," you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your nails leaving white crescents in his skin.

it hurts, really fucking hurts. it’s a stinging pressure as your body tries to accommodate the impossible width of his tip. tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the sight of his collarbones. mingi freezes, his large hands moving to your waist to steady your trembling form.

"is it too much, princess?" he rumbles, expression softening with genuine concern. "tell me. we can stop."

your breath is coming in shallow pulls as you stare down at where you’re joined. you’re barely even on him, just the crown of his cock is forcing its way inside, and you’re already at your limit. but the primal throb of it, the way he fills every microscopic space within you, is too addictive to quit.

“no.” you grit your teeth, a stray tear sliding down your cheek as you shake your head. "just... give me a second."

he doesn’t let you drop any further while you are trying to adjust; he knows you can't take the full length. instead, he maintains this cowgirl position, his hands locking onto your hips to keep you hovering right where it’s tightest. and then he begins to move, but it’s not a full thrust. it’s an agonizingly slow grind, using just the massive tip of his cock to hook against your internal sweet spot.

every time he nudges upward, your vision white-outs. because he’s only doing so little, but the pressure is so enormous, concentrated to hit your g-spot with the force of a sledgehammer.

"look at you," mingi breathes, watching your head fall back as you moan his name like a prayer. "taking it so well for me, baby. just like that."

the sensation of being stretched to the breaking point by him is overwhelming. you clench around him in a frantic and pulsing rhythm, and you realize that if this is just the tip, the rest of him would truly be the end of you. your body is a mess of tremors, a tension you’ve never felt before. your stomach clenches so tight, a fluttering ache of being pushed to an edge you didn’t know existed. honestly, the terrifying part is that he’s barely started.

mingi is a complete anomaly. the men from your past, the ones you thought were good enough, their full length couldn't even compare to what he’s doing right now. size shouldn't matter this much, you try to tell yourself, but the agenda is proven right in the most beautiful and torturous way.

“mingi.. it’s too much, ahh–" you gasp, the words breaking apart in your throat. you’re overstimulated, your nerves fried from the constant pressure. you’re soaked, making it so easy for him to slide against you, but your body is still screaming at the intrusion.

"come on, just a little bit more, yeah?" his voice is a soothing vibration that contrasts the raw power he is barely even applying. he is strong, but he is a gentle giant first and foremost.

he pauses to steady your shaking hips, waiting for you to catch your breath. you close your eyes, trying to find some sense of calm, and when you finally peek them open, he’s watching you with an intensity that makes your heart skip, giving you a small and encouraging nod.

"you can do it... trust me, it won't hurt that much."

what a pretty liar, he is. you want to curse him because it hurts in a way that makes you feel like you’re being split right down the middle. but beneath the pain, there’s a rising tide of pleasure. the tension is building with every tiny push he makes to fit inside you. he’s not even halfway in, and you’re already losing your mind. then, he pushes off just an inch, the blunt head of his cock catching that one hypersensitive spot deep inside.

the sensation sends you into a total frenzy. you go rigid, your back arching as a sudden wave of climax crashes over you. you’re creaming all over him, pussy spasming and clamping down on him with a desperate grip.

mingi lets out a choked whimper as he twitches inside you, his own body reacting to the tightness of your walls. he shuts his eyes tight, head tilting back as he bites his lower lip, that habit of his when he’s trying to keep his own composure. when he finally looks down, seeing how your juices are spilling down the length of him… can’t help but be smug about it, especially with the way your moans fill the room, and to him, it’s the only music he ever wants to keep on repeat.

everything happened so fast for you to process. you’re hypersensitive, could barely keep your grip on his shoulders, your mind caught in some hazy middle ground between heaven and hell. was he even human? you felt like you were dreaming, tangling with some kind of incubus who had taken the form of a delivery guy just to ruin your life.

he’d promised it wouldn't hurt, and after the first four orgasms, the pain had finally eased, but he wasn't done.

"come on, pretty girl... do it for me, please? just one more," he was so cocky about it too, knowing exactly what he was doing to you, fully aware of his power.

the couch was a total mess. covered with the evidence of your pleasure and his own lack of restraint. when that second orgasm had hit you earlier, he’d lost his own self-control by coming inside you with a force that felt endless. you’d never seen a man to cum so much; he just kept going, his body jolting against yours as he let out those cute, high-pitched whines. so vocal, proving that he was just as obsessed with the feeling of you as you were with him.

"min... mingi– i can't, please, i'll–"

your plea was cut short by a sudden ringing coming from the floor. it was buried in his discarded jacket, the sound muffled but irritatingly insistent. mingi didn't even flinch at first, his eyes locked on yours, his hips still giving those devastating nudges that kept you right on the edge. the phone cut off and immediately started again. he let out a frustrated huff, finally reaching down without breaking the connection between your bodies. he fished the phone out, but before answering, he pressed his large, warm palm firmly over your mouth, silencing your moans.

"yeah?" he answered, though still a little breathless. "sorry... car broke down. yeah, engine's totally shot. the lady's husband is out here helping me fix it right now... i'll call you back as soon as we solve the problem."

he hung up quickly, tossing the phone back onto the pile of clothes. a wicked grin stretching across his face as he gazed at you once again. his gps had been stuck at your place for nearly an hour, knowing he was pushing his luck with the boss, but looking at you, he clearly didn't care.

"baby…" he whispered against your skin, his hand sliding from your mouth to the back of your neck. "better make this quick then, before boss starts tinking i'm slacking."

enjoying the thrill of the lie as much as the heat of your body. he shifted his weight, his grip on your hips tightening until it was almost bruising.

"i'm gonna give you one last one, princess."

mingi didn't even wait for an answer. he became rough to coax that last drop of you, since he didn't have time to be gentle anymore, and even though he didn't want to rush, unfortunately, he had to. what was the count now? seven? eight? you couldn't breathe, let alone count.

you were screaming into the void, the adrenaline makes it feel like a total collapse of reality. it feels less like sex and more like a total soul-merging, as he dives into you one last time, hitting so deep that your breath hitches and stays caught in your throat.

you reach up, your hands trembling and slick with sweat, to cup his face. you need to see him. you need to feel the heat of his skin against your palms as the wave begins to build in the base of your spine. mingi leans into your touch, his eyes blown wide with a devotion that borders on worship, and maybe love, but who knows.

"look at you," he whispers, voice breaking as he brushes his lips against yours, groaning. "you’re so beautiful like this, so perfect for me. look at how well you're taking me... such a good girl."

the praise is the final spark. you pull him down into a sweet and desperate kiss, as you feel your climax shatter in a blissful way that radiates from your core to your very fingertips. mingi follows you instantly by breaking the kiss to throw his head back for a second, before burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body jerking with the force of his release. it’s endless warmth filling you up, a pulsing sensation that feels like it’s never going to stop.

"that's it, baby," he pants against your skin, words muffled by your hair. "take it all. you earned every bit of it. i’ve never felt anyone wrap around me like you do... you're a dream, you know that? a fucking dream."

the orgasm lasts so long, leaving you both limp and tangled together on the ruined cushions. he keeps his hands on you, stroking your sides gently, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, and finally your lips again, lingering there as the aftershocks slowly fade away.

"my girl," he breathes, satisfied and completely ruined by you. "nobody's ever going to do it like that for me again."

the silence that follows is peaceful, broken only by the sound of your synchronized breathing. right now you're cuddling, your bodies still as close as possible, a warmth that can't be held in any other way.

“i don’t want to leave,” he confesses, а raspy mumble that vibrates through your chest. “i want to stay here and get to know you.”

you reach up, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. “then stay.”

but he pouts, stealing one more soft kiss. “i can’t. my boss is already going to kill me for the ‘broken engine,’ but… i’m free this friday. so, how about i take you out?”

“it’s a date then,” you whisper, and the smile that breaks across his face is so bright it makes your heart do a clumsy backflip.

before he gets dressed, he helps you back into your shorts and underwear, his touch lingering on your skin with tenderness. once you're settled back against the cushions, since your legs feel like jelly and your head spins like a rollercoaster ride, he disappears into the kitchen.

you hear him rummaging around, and a minute later, he returns with a plate, setting it on the small table in front of you with two slices of pizza, nudging it toward you. finally after so long, the food you have been waiting for.

“eat, princess,” he says softly, brushing a stray hair from your face. “you were so good to me. the least i can do is make sure you aren't starving after all that work you put in.”

and with that, he gives you one last, lingering look at the door, a promise in his eyes, before he finally slips out into the hall.

an hour later, mingi is back doing deliveries with a new car. a notification pops up from the delivery app, and he checks it: 5 stars. no comment left, just the perfect rating.

leaning his head back against the headrest, gripping the wheel, he thinks about how good you were to him. your perfect and sweet body was made for him, and... if that’s the review he gets for just the tip, he has no idea how you're going to survive friday when he finally gives you everything else.

© KISSSAN do not copy, repost or modify my work.

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[minkieater]

⋙ something takes a part of me, you and i were meant to be.

FREAK ON A LEASH [bassist!yeosang x cheerleader!reader] ⋙ college au, exes to fwb to lovers, regina george x rodrick heffley type shi. intended to be read as a standalone, but is tied to dare. wc 23.2k ⋙ yeosang was the starting running back, until he gave up the cowhide leather in his palm for an instrument strapped across his back. you wanted nothing to do with him after he quit football and joined a band, he went from a star to a loser. but still, after everything, no one compares. no one could ever be him. ⋙ smut minors dni | sub-leaning switch!yeosang, dom-leaning switch!reader, toxic behavior, reader is a warning herself. pinv, mommy kink, creampie, oral (both), facesitting, hate sex/jealousy sex, humiliation, dry humping a hand? ⋙ playlist: freak on a leash — korn / operate — peaches / crazy bitch — buckcherry / glamorous — fergie / feiticeira — deftones ⋙ thank u beamie duckie for fixing my banner so i didn't rip out my hair. i love u @sungbeam

Two hands at twelve on a Sunday night. Six weeks.

It’s been six weeks since he’s seen you. Six weeks since he’s felt your manicured nails on his skin, tasted your lip gloss, smelled your designer perfume layered over the lotion he’s massaged into your aching muscles a thousand times. It’s been six weeks since you’ve stood in the doorway of his apartment; he can’t remember the last time you asked to come inside and waited to hear him say yes. 

Six weeks ago you would’ve walked in on your own. 

“Hi,” you mumble, shy. Your shoulders are set, your back straight, your eyes pointed but your glossy, bottom lip is tucked between your teeth. Yeosang’s brows furrow, the pulse point in his neck throbbing, he hopes you can’t hear it like he can, a steady rhythm of bass pounding in his eardrums.

“Hi,” he mutters, confused, starstruck, and relieved all at once. 

“Can I come in?” you ask, eyes sliding behind him, peering into his apartment. Baby pink sweatpants sit low on your hips, your white, strappy tank barely meeting the waistband, showing a sliver of your skin that makes Yeosang’s short nails curl into his front door. 

He steps to the side, allowing you entrance as he mumbles, “Sure.” 

There’s flip-flops on your feet, showing off your toes always lined with white, thin, silver rings clamped on the middles. A miniature pink purse sits on your shoulder, you let it fall down to hold it loosely between your fingers as you glance around, taking in the sight of his apartment that hasn’t changed. 

“I thought you would’ve gotten rid of the football posters,” you say absentmindedly, as if it’s normal for you to be here, as if you didn’t shatter his heart to shrapnel six weeks ago. 

“I still like football,” Yeosang closes the door behind him, but he lingers, fingertips still touching the oak. “My priorities are the only thing that changed.” 

“Changed,” you repeat, turning to face him, blowing annoyed amusement through your nose. “You ruined your future, that’s what you did.” 

Yeosang sighs. “If that’s what you believe.” 

“It’s what I know.” You throw a hand on your hip. “Why haven’t you texted me? You haven’t reached out once.” 

Yeosang lets his bare shoulderblades touch the door, letting the cool wood seep into his skin as he counters, “You broke up with me. What did you want me to say?”

You shrug, hands waving in the air on either side of you, purse swinging as you all but whisper, “Something.” There’s an edge to your voice, one that makes his gut rumble, something deep and low. “You could have said anything, Yeosang.” 

“You made a choice,” Yeosang keeps his tone calm, soft. “I respected it.” 

Your top lifts in distaste, taking a step towards him. “God forbid you actually disagree with me on something.”

“Isn’t acceptance better?” Yeosang’s voice goes shallow, airy. He can smell you and it’s making his head fuzzy, his knees weak. He wonders how long it’ll take to get the smell out this time. 

“Define better,” you take another step towards him, eyes flickering over his build. The shorts on his legs, hanging too low for company, the lack of a shirt on his upper half. You drink him in like you missed him. 

“Why are you here?”

“I need,” you start, full of confidence, but you cut yourself off. Standing just a foot away from him, Yeosang’s head is angled downward to see you, the first thing he notices is the shift in your breathing. Quicker, shallow breaths, you conjure as much certainty as you can to say, “I want you.” 

Yeosang’s brows raise, length opening an eye in his basketball shorts. You don’t give him a chance to respond, running your fingers through your styled hair, voice pitched with impatience. 

“No one else gets it,” you mutter, stress bleeding through your words. “You’re different. You get it, you get me.” 

“What do I get?” Yeosang’s whispering, he needs to know, even if he’s scared you might change your mind and push past him if he asks. He’s terrified that giving in will alter his brain chemistry. “Why me?”

“Yeosang,” you say his name like it relays everything. He keeps your stare even if he wants to look away, like he was facing a bull, dressed in crimson and there was no way in hell he’d win, but something forces him to stand his ground. Maybe it’s because he knows you just as well as you know him.

“I know your priorities have changed,” your voice lowers, but you keep your eyes on him like you know his defense is already stripped. Like all you had to do was say the magic word and he’d be putty in your palms once more. “But if there’s any part of you that still wants me at all, I need a favor. I need… I need to… I want to fuck you.”

Yeosang can hear his own heartbeat. He can feel the sweat prickling his skin at the back of his neck, on his pecs, at the base of his spine. His eyes blow wide, swallowing down his shock, hesitance making him blink at you, lips parting. 

You groan, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, covering your eyes. “Please say something,” you mutter, “it’s humiliating enough that I’m even here right now.”

“I,” Yeosang starts, but his voice cracks on the singular word. Clearing his throat, he shakes his head a little, “I don’t understand.”

“What is there to understand?” Your arms stretch out on either side of you, bewildered that Yeosang didn’t immediately respond yes, that he wasn’t on his hands and knees begging for it. “We had one good thing, Yeosang.” 

It hurts his chest, like your manicured hand pierced his skin, reached right for his heart and squeezed. You had plenty of good things, several good things, your relationship was damn near perfect before he quit football. Before he joined Jay’s band. 

You take a step towards him and he can see the last six months flash before his eyes.

“You don’t miss me?” Your voice is softer now, dripping in a fake sweetness that makes his breathing manual, he can feel the heat of your body. 

Low, almost a whisper, Yeosang says, “I do.”

Your lips curve at the corner, glossy, sparkling and edible. Like he’d given you the green light, your voice coated in candy, you ask, “Can I take care of you?”

Yeosang’s brows knit together ever so slightly, a sign of want, of need. All he can muster is a tiny, whimpered, “Please.”

You don’t kiss him.

You drop to your knees, eyes on his, staring up over your forehead. Slowly, your purse falls to the floor beside you, your fingers reach up to the waistband of his shorts. Yeosang’s brows are already tied together, back arched, hips bent toward you while his shoulders stay flush to the door.

“Do you want to cum in my mouth, or inside me?”

Yeosang sucks in a sharp breath, hollowing out his stomach, abdomen flexing. “Wherever you want me to.”

Your smile is wide and true as you tug his shorts down to his thighs, his cock springing out, slapping against the skin between his veiny hipbones. Pupils dilating like you were starved, like Yeosang was your last meal, you licked your lips, muttering a curse under your breath. 

Yeosang’s hips twitch toward you, “Please.”

“Don’t beg,” your eyes flicker upward again. “The fact that you’re this hard when I haven’t even touched you is pathetic.”

A small, tight moan slips from between his lips, cock jumping, face scrunched up in pleasure. Your soft, dainty hand finds the base of his length, sliding up over his tip, your palm rolling against his slit, spreading the slick that’d already begun dribbling down the side. The sound he makes should be embarrassing, it’s deafening, laying over the silence of the room, loud and sharp and needy. 

“Quiet.” The order isn’t harsh, but it’s not fully confident, either. Your eyes flicker upward again like you needed to see if he’d listen, like it’d give you confirmation to continue. His lips fold between his teeth and your knees part further on the floor, other hand wrapping around his cock, the two holding him in full. 

He fights his own instinct to rock his hips into your hands. His breathing is verbal, heavy, chest rising and lowering, muscles contracting as you squeeze, but don’t move. You stay there for a second, testing him, his restraint, his control– he assumes he passes when you guide his tip toward your glossy lips, tongue poking out to lick over his slit, soft and flat and wet. 

Your lips wrap around him and the dull thud of the back of his head hitting the door sounds through the room. Taking him into your mouth, hands falling to his hips, he groans as your tongue massages the underside of his length, sliding down until your nose meets the tuft of hair at his base. 

“S-shit,” he grinds out, “s’good.”

You hum around him, vibrating his cock, his hips twitch into your mouth. He glances downward, but you don’t react, you start bobbing your head, working up a rhythm. His hands dig into the wood behind him, whines escaping from his lips one after another, pitched and loud and embarrassing, but he doesn’t care. 

It’s been six weeks. 

Gagging yourself on him, he whimpers, thighs shaking from how hard he’s trying to keep himself composed. You can feel the way he’s climbing, reaching out for euphoria, silently begging you to let him paint your throat white, you bring him as close as you can to his peak before you’re pushing off him with a pop. 

His hips follow, a muddled curse rolling off his tongue, two fists banging against the door behind him. You huff a laugh, licking your lips that curve into a sly grin, “That quick?”

His chest is heaving, golden skin splotched with shapes of pink, his face angled and sharp with denial. “I–, I don’t–”

“Go. On the couch.” You don’t move from where you’re planted on the hardwood, ass on your calves, staring up at him. He listens, still trying to catch his breath, pulling his shorts down to his ankles before he sits back on the deep brown couch, waiting for you. 

Standing before him now, you don’t waste any time pulling your sweatpants down, leaving the pink, lacy panties with a bow at the center of the waistband on your hips. Yeosang’s eyes flock to it like a moth to a flame, his favorite. So cute, so dainty, so you, absentmindedly he almost reaches for his cock that leaks onto his abdomen. 

“Last longer,” your voice is firm, direct. “You don’t cum until I do. Okay?” 

His nod is eager, “Y-yes.”

You kick your sweats and your panties off before you swing a leg over his lap, a manicured hand finding the base of his length again. Yeosang hisses out a curse, you lick your lips, watching him react. Tummy flexing, muscles still just as defined as they were six weeks ago, you note that he’s still going to the gym. Nothing’s changed except his hair color, what was once a pretty blonde was now a neon green, ends tipped with black, a foul pair of hues. You look at his pretty face instead, his pecs that sit flexed, his cute, pink nipples that pebbled in the open air of his living room. 

You lift yourself to line him up with your core, bracing yourself for the stretch, it’s been over a month since you’ve sat on his length and fuck you weren’t prepped even a little. Sliding his tip through your folds, wetness coating him, dripping down the width of him, you take your time guiding him inside you, letting yourself feel every inch, every vein, each twitch of his cock that pulsed as you sank down. 

Yeosang’s head tips back, groaning, hands finding your hips. “Oh my god.”

You moan as your thighs meet his, fully seated, mounted onto him like he was your throne. Clenching around him, breath picking up, your heart pounds against your ribs at how good he feels inside you. You missed this, you missed him, the way he feels, the sounds he makes, how easy and compliant he is, always. 

His fingers squeeze, “T-tight, baby. So tight– shit.”

Yeosang feels like he could bust at any second. Six weeks without sex, without you, it was blowing his fucking mind and you haven’t even moved yet. It feels so good, it’s so wrong, you aren’t together, he doesn’t even know who else you’ve been with. He doesn’t care; he still loves you. The way you look at him, the way your skin feels on his, the way you can read every single one of his expressions, he doesn’t have to say a word. He loves how you take care of him. He loves how easy it is for you to make him cum. 

He missed your smell. He missed your smile. He missed the way you order him around and the way his body responds without his brain. 

“Gonna move,” you whisper. “Take it.”

You start rocking your hips and Yeosang’s head snaps forward again, eyes wide, jaw slack. It’s so good, you feel so fucking good, clenching around him like he was nothing but a toy. He watches your chest bounce beneath your tank, no bra, your nipples poking through the thin, useless fabric. 

His hands follow his thoughts, pushing the hem over the peak of your breasts, cupping them in his palms, thumbs running over your peaked nipples. So fucking pretty, his mouth waters, he needs–

“Go ahead,” you sigh, moving your hair away from your face, over your shoulders. 

He leans forward, lips wrapping around your nipple, his hand massaging the other, brows knitted together like he’d died and gone to heaven. Satisfied wasn’t the word, pure bliss, his mouth occupied, your hips moving in a dirty grind against his cock, beautiful, pitched noises leaving your lips, music to his ears. 

He feels alive again, it’s so easy to ignore that this is wrong. He shouldn’t be doing this. The ramifications of his actions will be too heavy to bear, a weight on his shoulders for the weeks to come, he doesn’t care, not when your moans grow louder, head tipping back, core clenching around him with every other drag of your hips, chasing an orgasm he’d never deny you. 

He’d never deny you anything. 

Your hands find his hair, pulling his head backward, you stare into him, his eyes glossed over, his swollen, pink lips parted, so beautiful you want to lean down and kiss him. You don’t, though, it feels too intimate, like it’d send the wrong message, like you wanted him for something more than his cock poking at your cervix. 

“Please,” he mumbles, voice lagged and heavy with arousal, “need to feel you cum around me, want– need to fill you up.”

You moan a curse, lifting your hips, dropping them down against his cock harshly, picking up your pace to chase the pressure that’s steadily building in your gut. So pretty, so beautiful, so yours, you mumble a question you don’t register asking, “Have you fucked anyone else?”

He’s quick to answer, “No.”

You’re glad you asked. You laugh a little, a small, tiny breath of amusement, “Of course not.”

He grunts when you clench around him, like it gets you off knowing that in the six weeks you’ve been apart he hasn’t even looked at anyone else. He’s spent the last six weeks in class, in Jay’s garage, or here, on his couch with his bass on his lap, playing the same song over and over. Practicing, thinking, debating on whether or not he made a mistake– he never thought quitting football would make him lose you, too. 

But here you were, back in his apartment, wrapped around him like no time had passed, as if you never ended things with him in the first place, like you didn’t ghost him for six weeks. It’s not like he reached out, either, you made it clear that if he wasn’t on the team, you had no business being together. Who was Yeosang to argue with you about what you wanted?

The captain of the cheerleading team and a running back, you liked him in uniform, with shoulder pads and cleats and his fingers wrapped around brown leather. You liked it when he was practicing on the field and the cheerleading team was in the corner, rehearsing, doing stunts on the turf. You liked it when you were both sweaty and high off adrenaline and you’d meet eyes across the green, thinking about what came later. You liked it when he won games, when you could run over and jump in his arms and kiss him stupid, then fuck him in congratulation afterward.

You built a routine together, one that wasn’t official–because that seemed to be the norm on this campus, at this age–and a routine built off instability rarely had a happy ending. Part of Yeosang saw it as a ticking time-bomb, one that met its inevitable end. 

Skin wet like you were dripping in condensation, your body moved against Yeosang’s like you were built for him. Like no one else in the world could make you feel this good, he could hear it in how you sang for him, how reactive you were to his touch, to him. You were the one that missed him, that’s the only explanation for you showing up unannounced, mere days after he heard the rumours about you and Jaemin. 

Now you’re here. And he let you in so easily.

“Y’feel so good,” you moan, fingers curling into his shoulders. His hands find your hips again, guiding you on his length at the pace that always made you cum quick, his hips angled to curve into the spot at the front of your walls. “Yeosang!” You clench around him again and he bites down a curse. “I’m close.”

His brows knitted together, jaw slack, middle flexing over and over, he focuses on angling himself at that same spot, moving you at the same pace, a fixed rhythm, using your sounds as motivation to keep himself anchored. 

You reach down between your bodies, fingers circling your clit and he’s thinking of anything he can to stop himself from coming. A whimper escapes him, pitched and needy and pathetic, he knows it is. You gasp before clenching around him, hard, your body trembling, legs shaking on either side of his body, Yeosang smiles. 

“Yes, cumming f’me,” he sounds ragged, rambling out of arousal. “So pretty, so sexy, missed you s’much. Let me fill you up, please? Please let me.”

Your hips pick up in pace on their own, it drives him crazy. He’s moaning, fingertips pressing into your hips, his mouth unmoving because his orgasm is so close he can taste it. 

“Cum for me,” you soothe, voice encouraging and full of praise. “Made me feel so good, you deserve it. Wanna feel you, Yeo.”

It’s enough to push him over, stuttering a groan as he empties himself inside you, hips bucking up into yours as he feels every second of release. Six weeks without sex is a long time. 

You stay there for a moment, hands warm on his skin, controlling your breathing until your heart rate slows into something regulated. Yeosang keeps his eyes on you, watching, feeling, etching the memory into his mind because he doesn’t know if it’ll happen again. He doesn’t know how long he’ll go without you this time. Maybe forever. 

Then you’re lifting yourself off him, standing on his rug before the couch, fixing your white tank, reaching for your panties and your sweatpants. He waits for you to speak. 

Your lips flatten as you tug your clothes up to your hips, “Can I use your bathroom before I go?”

A slow nod from Yeosang, a small mumble of of course. 

He fixes his clothes, pulls his briefs and his shorts back over his hips, then leans back into the couch, letting himself relax into the plush. Letting himself feel. It feels like his birthday to have you in his apartment – but to sleep with him? Because you missed him? There’s a rush of giddiness inside him, one blooming from his chest to the tips of his fingers, you missed him as much as he missed you. 

His heart beats to the sound of your flip flops smacking through his apartment, he opens his eyes to you grabbing your tiny little pink purse from the floor, reaching inside for your lip gloss. 

He feels like he should say something. Ask something. He’s scared you’ll leave without a word if he doesn’t. 

“Hey–”

“Look,” you cut him off, screwing the cap back onto your gloss, shoving it in your miniature purse. “I’m sorry I came over unannounced, it won’t happen again. I just… I needed that.”

“It can happen again.” He doesn’t want it to be over. “I get it.”

You sigh, a hand on your hip, “It shouldn’t happen again. We aren’t ever going to be anything, Yeosang.”

“Then why come back?” He sits forward a little. “Why fuck me? And not Jaemin?”

Your eyes widen like he caught you red-handed. You stand a little straighter as you swing your purse over your shoulder, “Leave Jaem out of this.”

“Okay,” Yeosang nods, shrugging, internally despising that you just called him Jaem. “I will. Whatever makes you happy.”

Your eyes find the floor, shoulders slouching ever so slightly. “I have to go,” you mumble, not meeting his eye. “I have practice early tomorrow.”

He watches, he hears you as you leave, as your flip flops smack down the hallway outside of his apartment. He wishes he had the balls to ask you to stay. He looses a breath he didn’t know he was holding, running a hand through his sweaty hair, cursing under his breath when he looks at his fingers and sees green. 

He smacks his teeth together, the box the neon-green dye came in said it wouldn’t bleed. Disappointed in the hair dye, disappointed in you, disappointed in himself, he knows in his soul he shouldn’t have fucked you. It restarted all the progress he’s made the past six weeks, coming to terms with the fact that you and him were over, that he had a new life now. He’s different now. 

He terminated his contract and bleached his head. He dyed it green, texted Jay, asked if he still had the spot open in his band, to which Jay responded hell yeah and Yeosang hauled his ass to his garage with his bass strapped over his back. 

In six weeks, he’s played two shows. Everything was just starting to feel right.

There’s fear stemming at the base of his spine, that thirty minutes of his life, thirty minutes of sharing saliva and being inside of you would destroy all the work he’s put in. Everything he’s already changed. Everything he already loves. 

Because in the back of his mind, at the bottom of his heart, he knows he loves you more than all of it. 

He doesn’t see you again for another three weeks. 

You made good on your promise, not swinging by his apartment again. It took days to get the smell of you out of his living room, again. He still smells the couch cushions daily just in case. Maybe a part of him wishes it lingered. 

He doesn’t reach out, though. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t DM. He doesn’t go anywhere near the places you frequent on campus. If you miss him, you’d let him know. You’d show him. Somehow.

Yeosang thinks maybe this is your way of saying it, in the Arts Building, nowhere near the lecture hall majority of your classes are in. Did you change your schedule? Forced into taking another elective for the sake of credits? There’s no reason for you to be walking towards him in a denim skirt so small he can almost see the lacy pair of panties beneath it. 

Your face is pointed like you had an agenda. All Yeosang can do is sit there, in the common space, on the same cushioned chair he always sat in, sketch pad on his lap, waiting for you to approach him, to speak. 

But you don’t. 

You walk past him, heeled feet somehow clinking against the carpet-covered floor. Your head doesn’t move but your eyes stay on him until he’s in your peripherals, your chin up, shoulders squared, back straight, Yeosang can’t take his eyes off you. Denim kissing the crease where your ass meets your thighs, the shadow above your waistband showing the indent of your spine, the muscles in your calves flexing with each step, he swings his legs around to the front of the chair just so he can watch you leave.

Moth to a flame. 

He curses himself for how easily he gives in to you. You let him see you because you wanted him to see you, you wanted yourself on his mind, you wanted him to go home and sit on his bed with a fist wrapped around his length, recalling the last memory of it being your mouth, instead. 

He shoves his sketchbook into his bag, throws it over his shoulder, and hauls himself outside. Screw his last class, he’d look at the notes online, maybe. He doesn’t really care what he’s about to miss. He needs to grow a backbone, needs to strengthen his mind so you can’t penetrate his mental walls so effortlessly. Already he’s stirring beneath his cargos, he needs to go somewhere, he needs to do something, he refuses to go back to his apartment and lose time thinking about you. 

Impulse brings him outside of campus. Hours walking through busy streets of the city, listening to music and chatter from restaurants, the traffic rushing between them, he finds comfort in the sunshine on his skin, making his head feel hot, his cheeks feel pink. 

Impulse brings him to a piercing shop. Brow quirked, lips pursed, there isn’t much thought in his head as impulse pushes his legs inside. 

By ten he’s at home again, throwing his bag on the couch, turning on the speaker in the corner of the room just to fill the silence while he lights a joint. In the kitchen, he makes himself dinner, the thought occurs that he was out for so long and didn’t eat– routine and discipline embedded in his veins makes him pull out meal-prepped food from his fridge.

Half a joint burned to ash and a meal digested, he’s only half-satisfied, he wonders when the practices that years of playing football have embedded in him will fade. If he’ll ever just be Yeosang again, instead of an ex-running-back, or the guy who dropped football for a bass guitar. 

He debates checking his phone, calling Jongho, calling Aven, someone to occupy his fucking time, to ease his thoughts, so his fuzzy mind doesn’t hyperfixate on everything being different. So he can forget that he saw you today. 

Three knocks sound at his door, loud, angry noises that make him jump where he stood beside the counter. He runs to the front door, swinging it open, about to open his mouth when you barrel past him into his living room like a fucking fly buzzing past his ear. 

“You looked at me today.”

You’re angry. Eyes pointed, chest puffed out, brows chiseled and furrowed, Yeosang looks behind him like maybe he isn’t on the receiving end of this. Seeing nothing but an empty hallway, he closes the door behind him, and turns to you again. 

“Okay?” He asks, says, it’s genuine. What answer is he supposed to have?

You’re in a sports bra and shorts that cling to your body. They reach high, over your belly button, but the hem squeezes right at the tips of your thighs, painted onto your skin. Yeosang’s breath turns manual as he takes in every detail, how your outfit doesn’t leave anything to the imagination, not that it’s anything he hasn’t seen before.

“Don’t do that,” you huff, hands on your hips, a wristlet hanging from your silver-covered forearm. Three bracelets, bangles, sparkly, they hang off your wrist, still dancing together, sounding like wind chimes on a summer day. 

“Okay,” Yeosang’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I won’t.”

“God, you piss me off,” you start pacing, hands on your forehead, walking back and forth in his entryway, if he could even call it that. If you open his front door, you’re already inside of his living room. “You do understand that I want nothing to do with you, right? That we’re not together?”

Yeosang nods, slowly, brows still furrowed like there are a million points he’s missing. “I’m very aware.”

“Then don’t look at me like that!” You finally stop in the middle of the room, voice loud, accompanied by the wind chimes on your wrist and the music coming from Yeosang’s speaker. “Don’t look at me like you still have some sort of feelings for me. Especially in public, Yeosang, I don’t need anyone asking me questions about you.”

His arms cross over his chest, once again dumbfounded, unsure of how to reply. 

Your arms fall to your sides, eyes slimming. “What’s in your ears?”

His head cocks to the side, fingers coming up to touch his ears, suddenly reminded when it stings that he filled them with metal today. Simply, he responds, “Earrings.”

Then you’re marching up to him, manicured hands in his hair, pushing it off his face. You’re so pretty, skin soft, eyelashes long, coated in black. Sunkissed, like you’d just come from an outdoor practice, a little flushed with exertion, as if it wasn’t just after eleven. You’re talking, he can’t hear you, lost in your features, wondering how it’s possible for someone to exist this beautifully.

“Yeosang,” you urge, it’s a warning, stealing his attention. His brows raise in question. “The green hair was enough. What else are you gonna do to ruin yourself?”

“Are you my mother or something?” It slips out of his mouth, instinctive, he smacks his lips together. He blames the weed, the lingering smell of sweat on your skin, your face so close to his, his head is fuzzy. He short-circuited.

Your eyes darken, thinning, your hands fall to your sides. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. “I wanted earrings, so I got them.”

“Don’t change the subject,” you bite. “What did you just say to me? Say it again.”

He swallows, eyes meeting the floor. Voice quiet, under his breath, he answers, “I asked if you’re my mother.”

You laugh, a short, chopped sound of feigned amusement, it makes goosebumps rise on his arms.

“Did you finally learn how to fight back?” Your arms cross, pushing up your chest in your sports bra, Yeosang averts his eyes elsewhere. “To me, of all people. The one person you shouldn’t argue with.”

His eyes flicker upward, meeting your irritated stare. “Why not? We aren’t together, are we?”

From annoyed to impressed to angry, Yeosang watches your face morph into each emotion, a dance of your eyebrows and a scrunch of your lips. He can’t believe he said it, and neither can you. 

“No,” your voice lowers, quieter now. “But if there was any chance of us fucking again, it’s gone.”

Yeosang’s eyes flicker down to your chest then, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty for it. If he doesn’t know when he’s going to see it again, then he might as well etch it to memory now.

“You know,” you start, eyes twinkling with mischief, a snag in your smile. “It’s funny you used that as an insult, of all things. Am I your mother.” 

Yeosang doesn’t respond, but his chest feels heavy. Like he already knows where this is headed.

You take a step forward, close enough that Yeosang can smell the lingering sweat on your skin. He can see the remnants, too, a gloss on the highest point of your cheekbones, over your brows. It melts into your perfect skin, skin you care for daily, every morning, every night. He’s watched you complete your routine enough times to know it was time-consuming and expensive; he knows each and every step, the ingredients in each product, how much they cost. 

“There was a time you used to call me something… similar,” you pop a brow, the snag in your grin widening to a smirk. “Remember?” Yeosang gives you a ghost of a nod, barely a twitch of his head. You cock your head, “Remind me, it seems to have slipped my mind. Weird.” 

Yeosang’s jaw clenches, embarrassment flaming in his cheeks. He can feel his Adam’s apple move as his throat bobs, like a lump of shame he can’t pass. Quietly, almost under his breath, he mumbles the word. The reminder.

“What was that?” your voice is playful, a sing-song tone. Like you’re eating up every fucking second of this. “Say it louder. With your chest, Yeosang.”

His eyes find the floor, his pale, bare feet a contrast to the hardwood. He says it quicker, louder, a one-syllable confession like he despised the curve of his lips as he said it, “Mommy.”

You smack your teeth, and your grin spreads from ear to ear. “Right, that’s it, can’t believe I forgot!”

Yeosang glares from under his brows, despising the rush of adrenaline he knows is coursing through you at the title on his tongue. A word he used to say proudly, more often than he should’ve, a word that used to push you past the finish line if he said it coated in a desperate whine. Right now, all it’s doing is feeding your already-huge ego.

“Are you finished?” Yeosang asks, and the question is honest. Without remnants of a snide tone, no snarky attitude, he’s over the humiliation ritual. If you were just going to stand here and tease him, you could leave. Even if every fiber of his being wants you to stay.

You shake your head before answering a smooth, “No.” Shifting your weight onto one leg, you ask again, “Do you remember when you used to call me that?”

Yeosang pops a brow, unsure of the correct answer. “When I was fucking you?”

You blow amusement through your nose. “You never fucked me, I fucked you.”

And maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s the half of him that’s still in love with you. Some part of him stands a little straighter and responds, “So do it again.”

Your face scrunches for half a millisecond. Taking a half-step back, you ask, “What?”

“Do it again,” he says with his chest this time, taking a half-step forward, closing the distance again. He searches for the reason inside himself and he comes up with nothing. You came here to tell him to stop looking at you, even if you put yourself in his line of sight. You insulted him, his hair, his earrings, his appearance. You made fun of him for what he used to call you at his most vulnerable moments with your chest puffed, chin jutted upward, making you seem six feet tall. 

Is wanting you some kind of incurable fucking disease? Should he go to the goddamn doctor?

“Remind me why I used to call you that,” he leans down, his voice low, smooth. “Give me a reason to do it again.”

Possibly for the first time ever, you seem speechless. Eyes wide like saucers, he can hear your breath catch, an accidental sound between a gasp or spit getting stuck in your throat. You stutter, “N-no, I told you last time was the last time.”

“Then why’d you come here?” he’s too quick to ask, it spills out of him. “Where were you? Working out? On a run, trying to get all this pent-up shit out, when you know the only thing that works is me?”

Your heels come together, back rigid. Your eyes dance around his face, even the shake of your head stutters, like you were desperately trying to control the instinct driving you. He feels like he’s vibrating, electricity threading from his thighs to his fingertips that linger millimeters beside them, body begging to touch you so he could share the lightning.

“Admit it,” he whispers.

Your jaw clenches. “You can’t fucking bait me.”

“I’m not baiting you,” he quips. “I just know you.”

“Fuck you,” you bite, baring your pearly, white teeth.

Yeosang grins. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

You lunge for him. Not that there’s much space to clear, you nearly jump onto him, into him, his arms catching you underneath your thighs swiftly, holding you tight as your arms wrap around his neck. Your lips hit his and all he could taste was your anger, frustration, all pent up in your sickeningly perfect body, he can’t believe he’s tasting you again. He can’t believe he’s kissing you. 

He walks you to his bedroom himself. You don’t even process that you’re moving, he doesn’t break the kiss, he could walk around his apartment without a singular misstep in pitch black darkness. Smooth, effortless, he only breaks the kiss to lay you down gently on his bed.

Still perfectly made from this morning, thank god, you’d have a fit if it wasn’t. Another thing that's stuck. Meal-prep, hydration, shaving, his gym routine, making his bed… Yeosang is a man of practice.

“This is what you wanted,” you growl as soon as your back hits his comforter. “You wanted me here. On your bed.”

“You wanted me,” he pops a brow, words easy. “You came here for one reason, and one reason only.” 

Your jaw clenches, “Take my shorts off.” It sounds like your best attempt at coming off icy, but Yeosang hears the burnt edge of arousal, the impatience on your tongue. Your hips twitch against the bed, legs dangling in open air. 

Yeosang doesn’t listen. He watches you, taking his time with each sneaker, unlacing the bunny ears before throwing them to his floor. He barely waits to hear the sound of foam and rubber hitting the hardwood before his thumbs are tucking into your socks, sliding them down your smooth, strong ankles, taking his time rolling them off your feet. He doesn’t care where they land on his floor, he hopes it takes time to find them later. 

Your cheeks match your chest, both flushed and bleeding impatience, your upper half rising and lowering rapidly like you also couldn’t believe this was happening. Again. 

“Yeosang,” you say when he takes a moment to press a knee into the mattress. “My shorts. Now.” 

His palms find your knees for leverage as he leans down, eyes catching on the dampened spot on your shorts. A deepened, asymmetrical shape of teal, darker than your turquoise shorts, your matching sports bra. He swallows, mouth filling with saliva, he could feel his eyes fucking dilating and he knows you can see it, too. He tucks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, using might to pull them down your lower half. With the way they were painted onto your skin, the slight gleam of sweat still sparkling in his dim bedroom, the curves and muscle on your body…

And you have nothing on underneath. He nearly moans. 

“Fuck,” he utters under his breath. “So pretty.”

“Shut up, Yeosang,” you huff. “You’re taking too fucking long.”

He doesn’t know how you switched places. Swift movement had Yeosang on his back, your knees pinned to the mattress on either side of his head, and faced with the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, impulse has his forearms curling over your thighs, pulling you down onto his tongue.

Your pitched moan pierces his bedroom. You peel your sports bra over your chest once your hips start their rhythm on his tongue, fingers flying to your boobs, pinching your peaked nipples. He keeps his tongue poked out, eyelids fluttering, savoring the taste of your soaked folds that coat his tongue in candy.

He takes a moment to inhale, to bask in your scent; natural, mild, a little tang from sweat. Has he ever been this hungry in his life? Can he blame any of this on the weed anymore?

Your hips roll over his flexed tongue, head tipped backward, filling the air of his bedroom with a song of your pleasure, the bass-line the jingle of your bangles dancing down your wrist as your fingers grab for his hair. He can’t hear the music coming from his living room anymore, each one of his senses enveloped by you, and he’d gladly die right here, right now, his last meal being you.

“Yes,” you moan out, and the word is so full of sheer relief it makes Yeosang grip your thighs harder, makes him moan into your core. He focuses on licking over your clit, the rhythm only broken up by his lips swirling around the bundle of nerves, sucking without making it overwhelming, too much too quickly. A pace you love, the pressure he knows pushes you further down the line, Yeosang’s only goal is getting you over it. 

You tilt your hips up, clit grazing the tip of his nose, and the way your abdomen flexes has his own hips bucking upward. An abrupt jerk of movement you feel, you know is happening, even if it’s behind you.

Eyes low-lidded, glazed over, you take a peek over your shoulder before asking, “You’re getting off on this?” Yeosang can’t answer with a mouth full of you. You try to laugh, but you suck in a sharp intake of air as his teeth ghost your clit. “You want to be used. Does anyone know what a bitch you are? That you get off on just tasting me?”

Yeosang moans into your center, hips bucking again.

“I’m sure they don’t.” Your eyebrows are tied together as you reach one arm behind you, palm landing on Yeosang’s abdomen for leverage, using the strength of him to give free movement to your hips. You grind yourself onto his mouth harder, faster, a quicker rhythm as you say, “Do they know about me? Or did you get rid of our history when you got rid of your own?”

His fingers sear your thighs, knuckles bone-white. You croak out a whine, “You’d never be this pliant for anyone else. No one else can make you feel this way without even fucking touching you.”

Yeosang moans his agreement, tongue plunging into your entrance, he hopes it’s answer enough. Your head falls back, chest heaving, free hand squeezing your chest, “Shit, I’m close.”

He’s never felt so motivated before. Nodding his head in rhythm with your hips bucking over his mouth, he keeps himself focused, brows furrowed and brain clear. When your moans grow in pitch, when your hips stutter, he keeps your pace fixed by his grip on your thighs. He keeps his tongue flexed, focused on rolling over your clit, using the same pressure, the same speed, never once faltering.

Then you’re crying out, hips seizing, body rolling, the muscles in your stomach clenching and unclenching; but never once do you say his name. Never once do you praise him for being the one to push you over the finish line, to bring you to orgasm.

Sitting back, nearly putting all your weight on his chest, it’s a comfort to him, even if you already look disappointed in the fact that you let this happen again. He can see your heavy breath, upper body expanding, caving in, lips parted and brows upturned ever so slightly. You take a moment to stare at him, to put the pieces together.

“Give me a shirt to go home in,” is all you say before climbing off of him like he was a fucking ride at an amusement park.

Yeosang sits up on his elbows, his own chest heaving, covered in slick from the bridge of his nose to his chin. He licks his lips, whatever skin his tongue can reach, just to savor the taste.

You’re pulling your bra over your chest, grabbing your shorts from his hardwood floor. “Are they in the same drawer?” You ask, not even looking at him. Then you’re before his dresser, opening his tee shirt drawer, grabbing a random white one, pulling it over your head.

It swallows you, down to mid-thigh. Yeosang’s head feels fuzzy, he searches for words inside of himself, he can’t find any. You turn to him, face tight, eyes blown, pupils dilated enough to swallow the color.

“This was the last time, Yeosang,” you say, but you don’t look like you mean it. “I mean it.”

All he can do is grin. He can smell the lie from where he lays.

“You guys don’t have to come.”

Aven and Jongho flanked him, his two best friends, the only two to understand Yeosang down to atoms and particles. Other than you, he supposed; but that was neither here nor there, and he knows you shouldn’t be on his mind, anyway.

“I want to hear your new song,” Aven, on his right, walks in-step with him, while Jongho trails just a step behind. 

The latter adds, “This is the only day this week I have off from practice.”

Yeosang’s giddy. He was just being nice, saying they don’t have to come, but the truth is that he’s elated that his friends are coming to his band practice with him. Really, he has plenty of things to be happy about.

You’ve shared his bed twice since the last time. The first time, you’d come over under the guise of giving him his shirt back, just to leave in a different one. The second time, you didn’t have much of an excuse. You’d walked inside his apartment like you owned it, then fucked Yeosang like you owned him. And, in a sense, he supposed you did. 

The air feels warmer, the sun feels brighter, the grass looks as green as his hair. Pink and orange flowers blooming on trees wafted sweet-smelling air straight into his nose, as if a reminder to appreciate all that he came across, that everything was okay and will be okay. His life is going back to normal, even if he’d uprooted all of it.

“We have three original songs for our gig at Eonian in two weeks,” Yeosang says, turning the corner that Jay’s house sat on, an older two-story home on the corner, just outside of campus. An easy walk from his apartment, Aven’s apartment, Jongho’s apartment. “The rest are covers.”

Yeosang can hear Jisung shredding, Jongseob on the drums, even from around the corner. Jay’s voice becomes clearer the closer they get, a rough, heavy tone; perfect for the punk genre of music they make, perform.

The garage door was wide open, the inside refurbished into a make-shift studio. Not really. It was the same worn-down garage that came with the home, posters on the walls, the same shelves sitting at the far corner holding mechanic supplies and tools of the sort. Jongseob’s drum set sat at the center of the room, mic stands and amps scattered around the space, Jay’s garage was a cookie-cutter neighborhood’s worst nightmare.

The music died out when the three men caught Yeosang’s head of green hair rounding the corner. Shouts of about damn time, finally, and get in here all met his ears at once, making him flinch. 

“I’m sorry!” Yeosang threw his arms up in defense, then threw a thumb pointing behind him. “I had to stop and get these two.”

Jisung’s cheeks went pink at the sight of Aven. “Oh– oh. Hi, guys.”

Yeosang rolled his eyes, pulling on the strap of the nylon guitar bag to get it over his head. Jisung wore a baseball cap on his head, the hood of his zip-up laid on top, his cheeks and white smile the only things visible in the shadows of his hood. Fender strapped around his front, his fingers holding the neck, his body language morphed to something smaller. He’s always had a crush on Aven, and Aven’s always allowed him to.

“Hi, Hanji,” her head tilted, lashes fluttering.

“Hey,” Jongho smacked her arm. A warning.

Yeosang snorted. He pulled his bass from the bag, slinging the strap over his head, and played a few chords just to check the tuning as he made his way toward his spot, just beside Jay, opposite of Jisung.

Jay, lead guitarist and lead singer, took a step forward as Yeosang plugged the chord of the amp into his bass. “You’re happy today.”

Short, cropped hair, midnight-colored and gelled into spikes, his outfit was everything punk. Yeosang lifted a brow, “Yeah? It’s nice out.”

“It’s nice out everyday,” Jay slims his eyes and Yeosang feels his stomach tumble. Fuck Jay for knowing him so well already. “What’s new?”

“You have that freshly-fucked look about you,” Jongseob gleams from behind his drumset. Sitting centered behind the toms, cymbals surrounding him, he twirls a stick in one hand, his blonde hair tied up and braided into an upstyle that made him look feminine. The youngest, a freshman, but he was the fan favorite.

Yeosang’s laugh is nervous, he can’t help it. “What? No.”

Everyone’s face falls as they land on Yeosang. From Jongseob, who looked somewhat surprised, to Jongho standing just over the lifted line of the garage entrance, silence had fallen over the open space like a weighted blanket.

Jongho was the one to interject, “You’re lying and nervous.”

“Holy shit,” Aven mumbles under her breath, eyes sparkling with discovery. “It’s her.”

“No,” Jisung stands a little straighter, eyes going wide. “Yeosang, no.”

Yeosang’s heart is in his asshole. He starts with a rebuttal, shaking his head rapidly, “No it’s not, no it’s not. I don’t know what you guys are talking about.”

“Do you not remember what state you were in when you joined the band?” Jay asks, face angled in disappointment. “You’re like a fucking girl, going back to a shitty ex. I’ve been the shitty ex that girls have gone back to, Yeo, and it doesn’t fuckin’ end well.”

“Okay, well, you suck,” Yeosang’s lips form a line. “We’re seeing each other again, big deal.”

He knew you were not seeing each other again. He knew that it wasn’t anything more than sex.

Yeosang catches Aven throwing a hand over her mouth from the corner of the garage, he sees Jongho shaking his head slowly. But it’s Jongseob who asks, “I thought she was fucking Jaemin now?”

“Jaemin doesn’t fuck her like I do.” Yeosang quips, catching himself smiling, giddy as hell. But his face falls immediately when he takes in the five pairs of eyes on him, all staring with heavy disappointment. Clear distaste. 

“Has she stayed over?” Jongho asks, arms crossed over his chest. Long shorts, a black tee tucked in, hair styled over his forehead, he wore the silent accusation in the thin line of his lips. Yeosang swallows. Shaking his head, he tries not to let the shame show in his eyes. Jongho smacks his teeth, “I thought so.”

Yeosang can feel the heat on his cheeks. “It’s not a big deal–”

“She hurt you,” Aven continues, “because you pursued your passion. Do you really want to be with someone like that? Who wants to be with you for looks, the image it portrays, instead of liking you for you?”

Yeosang can feel the frustration bubbling up inside him, overflowing before he has the chance to close the lid. “Are you in any place to give me shit? You’ve been fucking the same guy for four months, and he won’t even–”

Jongho cuts him clean off, “Do not finish that sentence.”

Yeosang didn’t even realize that he stepped forward, that his chest was heaving. For years they’ve bickered like siblings, saying the truth even when it hurts. Yeosang nods at Jongho, taking a steadying pause, silently thanking him for interrupting before he said something he’d regret. Wooyoung was the touchiest subject of them all for Aven, four months of back-and-forth, a relationship hidden in the shadows. He supposed he couldn’t give her shit, anymore, either.

“We just care about you,” Jay admits from beside him, the center of the makeshift-garage-stage. “And we don’t want to see you hurt again.”

Yeosang’s jaw ticks. “I know what I’m doing.”

He can feel the phantom stretch of his nose growing an inch longer. The lie burns. He has no idea what the fuck he’s doing.

Yeosang hears his door open, then close. He doesn’t even look, he knows it’s you, no one else would be barging into his apartment after the sun goes down, it’s the entire reason he left his front door open. 

Tuning his bass on the couch, he’s sitting hunched over it, eyes on the heads, thumb on a string. He hears you come closer, stopping on the other side of his coffee table, he’s willing to bet a thousand dollars you have your hands on your hips, weight beared on one side of your body.

When he looks up, he makes a mental note that he owes himself a thousand dollars. Standing in his hoodie, it comes down to mid-thigh, swallowing the shorts he wasn’t completely sure you were wearing. He blinks, you’re staring. Hard. 

“What, you don’t care that I’m here?” You finally bark out, arms crossing over your chest. “I could have been, like, a murderer or something.”

“I knew it was you,” Yeosang answers, then brings his attention back to the instrument on his lap, playing a chord. His top lip lifts, he tweaks the head. “I know your footsteps.”

There’s a pause before you kick your shoes off, walking towards his kitchen. He eyes your flip flops sprawled across the rug beneath his coffee table, making yourself at home, when this wasn’t your home. At one time you’d treated his apartment just like this, walking in unannounced, leaving your shit wherever because you could, because you shared just as much of Yeosang’s space as he did.

He looks over his shoulder, watching your head of hair bop around his kitchen, silently. After a moment, you hold up a laptop charger and turn to him. “Who’s charger is this? It’s not your laptop charger.”

His lips flatten, a sigh threatening to escape. “It’s Aven’s, she was here earlier with Jongho, studying.”

Your brows raise a millimeter. “Aven’s,” you repeat. “They were here studying.”

“Here we go,” he says under his breath. 

You cross the kitchen, back into his living room, eyebrows tied together as you make your stand beside the couch. “She’s here often, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Yeosang says, voice flat. “Just like she always has.”

Your eye twitches. “And she just leaves things here, often?”

“No, she has a lot going on right now.”

Your face blows into surprise, disgust. “Oh, and now you’re making excuses for her.”

“She’s literally dating Mingi,” Yeosang argues, hating the taste of the lie on his tongue. “Why is this a big deal?”

“It’s not,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. You walk back to the kitchen, putting the laptop charger back where you found it, white chord glowing atop the charcoal granite. You used a little more force in dropping it than necessary. You keep your voice steady as you say, “Jaemin asked me to go get drinks tomorrow after his game.”

He can hear the control you’re reaching for as the words leave your lips. He asks, “Yeah? You going?”

He wasn’t sure what you were doing in his kitchen now. He plays another chord, and it sounds smooth. “I think so,” you respond. “Probably.”

Yeosang doesn’t know what kind of strength he has in his soul that made him respond, “Good, you should go.”

There’s a pause, he doesn’t hear your bare feet moving across the tiled floor of his kitchen. His fingers pick at the strings, strumming a small, melodic, funky rhythm. Then he hears your feet slapping against wood as you trudge into the living room, beside his couch again, face twisted up in confusion. “You don’t care if I get drinks with Jaemin?”

“Why should I?” Yeosang asks. You wouldn’t be telling him if you were actually going, you wouldn’t be telling him if Jaemin had actually asked you, but his heart is below the hem of his shorts, anyway. “You’re not my girlfriend, are you?”

“No,” you answer simply, happily, almost. Yeosang plays another beat, another strum of chords, his finger catching the wrong strong, the entire melody clashing. He didn’t realize his fingers had started shaking. You grin, “I knew it.”

Yeosang’s head snaps to the side, “Knew what?”

“You’re jealous.” You’re smirking, arms crossed, accomplished.

All five of Yeosang’s fingers point toward the kitchen, “You just flipped shit over a laptop charger.”

“Because it’s hers!” You argue, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You have a girl over here every other day, leaving her shit here, her hair-ties, her charger. What’s next, her clothes? Tampons in your bathroom?”

“It’s Aven,” Yeosang reiterates, like the mention of her name was enough explanation. “She’s been my best friend for years, you know this.” You blink at him, and his lips curve in a grin. “You’re jealous.”

“Why the fuck would I be jealous?” you spit out, arms uncurling from where they sat twisted over your chest. “I’m the one that’s fucking you.”

Yeosang can’t help but laugh. Head tipping back, bass and body slumping into the couch cushions, his laugh is genuine, straight from his belly. “You–” he tries to get out, head turning to the side, laughter still barreling out of him. “You tried to make me jealous with Jaemin, the fucking kicker.”

Your body feels hot. You’re positive your face is flushed, arms crossing right back over your chest again, you could stomp your fucking foot in irritation. “You’re so fucking aggravating, Yeosang.”

“Yet you’re here,” he responds, his laughter dying down to a breathy giggle. “Look at where you’re standing.”

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding, body ignited, growing hotter by the second. Just his stare, chocolate eyes, long lashes, knowing they were fixed on you made you feel two feet tall. You don’t answer, not as he pulls his bass off his body, setting it down beside him on the floor, the neck leaning against the couch. You can hear your heartbeat, feel the heat on your skin, sweat prickling beneath your hoodie. His hoodie.

“We’re not dating,” you finally announce. “We aren’t exclusive.”

“I know,” he nods once. “Which means you’re free to go do whatever with the kicker.”

You hate the way he mocks him, the way he says kicker like it’s an insult– he doesn’t even play anymore. Jaemin’s nice; a little stupid, he definitely doesn’t let you rough him up, and he certainly doesn’t know any of the kinks you keep buried, revealed to Yeosang and Yeosang only.

“I do,” you lie. “And I’ll continue to. Just wanted to make sure you were aware.”

Yeosang sits up a little straighter. “Aware of what? The possibility of getting an STD?”

Irritation only makes you burn hotter. “He’s clean, Yeosang, and so am I.”

“You sure?” his brows lift. He’s taunting you. “When’s the last time you got tested?”

“Shouldn’t you have asked me that,” you pull your hands out from your sleeves to count on your fingers, “a few weeks ago, before you fucked me raw, came inside me, let me sit on your face? Or how about when I had your cock down my throat? Shouldn’t you have wondered before that?”

He shrugs, a small thing. “Forgive me for having trust in you.”

“Trust,” the word makes you laugh. “Because there’s so much trust in what we have.”

Yeosang stands, his bulky build swallowing you, height towering over you. You can’t believe your body forced you to swallow.

“We don’t have anything,” he uses emphasis on the last word. “As per your choice. You come here to fuck, blow off steam, you come here to get what no one else can give you. You tell me that only you can make me feel this way, but what about you? Who else is fulfilling every little thing your nasty fuckin’ mind gets off on?”

Your breath catches. He continues, “And you want me angry over Jaemin? Did you forget I know him, and know him well? That I was on the same team as him? Lived in the same house as him?” You don’t answer, eyes widening, you can feel your pupils dancing below your lids, trying to gauge his next move. “You don’t think I know that he drinks whiskey like it’s water, and can barely get it up half the time? That when you fucked him—which I’m sure was, what, once or twice?—he busted after three strokes and was already asleep by the time he rolled off you.”

You can feel your heart beating, an unsteady thrum in your chest. “You’re wrong, Yeosang.”

He’s right.

“Does he let you call him names?” He asks. You notice that his green hair has faded a little, framing his sculpted, flushed cheeks. His birthmark seemed brighter, more opaque, a spot you’ve kissed a million times, it beckoned you to do it again. “Does he let you slap him? Does he let you choke him? Does he call you mommy?”

You gasp. It’s small, but it’s clear, slicing through the air between your faces. Every ounce of you wishes you could suck it back in, retract it, feign that his words were doing nothing to you. It would be useless, anyhow, he knows you down to the bone, keeping any sort of emotion from him proved futile time and time again.

“Answer me,” Yeosang urges, and there’s nothing in his voice that’s calm. The subdued, submissive man you’ve spent countless hours with is nowhere to be seen. The muted hum of adrenaline swimming through your body zaps at the base of your spine, like it’d been woken up, branching off to every nerve ending.

“No,” you whisper, hating that you’re admitting it, but what choice was there? “He doesn’t.”

“I know,” Yeosang grins. There’s no warmth in it, it’s sly, mocking. Like all of that was just to get you to say it. “Remember that, the next time you want to make me jealous of the goddamn kicker.”

His chest is flushed pink beneath the white tank he wore. Heaving, rising rapidly, lowering just enough to suck more air in. He’s pissed, and you don’t know why the sight is going straight to the throb in your panties. Never once has Yeosang been dominant, never once has he been mad at you, never once has Yeosang not been the submissive man you trained.

“When he does fuck me,” you start, and you genuinely have no idea where you’re going with it. “He’s… rough. He does to me what I do to you.”

Lies. You’re lying through your fucking teeth. To anyone else, Yeosang would seem unbothered. But you see the flash in his eyes, the deepening of chocolate to coal, how his lips peeled back from his teeth ever so slightly. 

“And I like it,” you breathe. “I like it better.”

There’s a semblance of amusement in the curve of his brow. “Yeah?”

You nod, “He’s better than you. Bigger than you, too.”

The snag in Yeosang’s grin, you’ve never seen before. Mischievous, like he was already planning the million-and-one ways he’d break you apart. It makes your toes curl into the hardwood beneath your feet, your fingers twitch, your heart double in speed. Excitement, thrill, that’s what was passing through the air between you, a stand-off of sorts.

Do it, you think, hoping, praying he can hear you. Do it, Yeosang.

And he does. 

His lips find yours in a hasty crash, his right hand reaching for your throat. Unsteady, uncontrolled movements, not entirely full of confidence but not insecure, either. You moan into it, the sound desperate and relieving all at once, and his fingers tighten. Pressing against the sides of your neck, weight on your veins, your eyes flutter beneath your lids, knees trembling. 

“This what you want?” He asks into your mouth, breath heavy, panting like he’s been waiting for this. 

Your knee hooks over his hip, “Yes, Yeo, yesyesyes.”

His hand leaves your throat, grabbing at the leg you threw over his body, using just that one fucking hand under your thigh to lift you off the floor. You answer with your other leg, he catches it swiftly, moving your bodies backward, toward his bedroom. Never breaking the kiss, your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging at his roots with enough force that he hisses into your mouth.

He throws you back on the bed instead of laying you down delicately, and as your back hits the mattress, your eyes peel open to catch the sight of him. Pupils dilated, cheeks splotched, forehead kissed with moisture, he looked at you with such hunger it made your back arch off the fucking bed.

“Teasing me,” he mutters, and you think he’s talking more to himself than to you as he climbs over your frame. “Dangling him right in front of my fucking face like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“Yeah?” you push his hair off his face, throwing your legs over his muscled thighs. “What are you gonna do about it, then?”

He studies you for a cool, calm second before moving. Sitting back on his calves, he pulls your body flush to him, then he flips you over in one swift movement. With a yelp, you’re on your stomach, eyes wide and legs parted, hips lifted off the mattress.

“What can you take?” He asks, and instinctively, you weren’t sure if it was rhetorical. “What’s he do when he fucks you rough?”

Without you answering, he pushes the back of your hoodie up, fingers digging in the elastic of your shorts, pulling them over your ass. You whimper, pushing yourself up by your knees to help him get them off you. 

Elastic rolled around your thighs, he lands a harsh smack to your ass. You barely get a cry out before he’s repeating himself, “I asked you a question.”

“Fuck,” is all you can get out, nails curling into the duvet beneath you. “H-he fucks– he fucks me hard.”

You don’t have time to wonder if he’s buying the bullshit you’re spewing, not when he gets your shorts down to your knees, then down and off your ankles. Two strong, callused hands lift you by the hips, hiking you upward until you’re on your knees. 

“You’re such a fucking liar,” he hisses from behind you, painting a finger through your folds. A moan forces itself through your lips at the stimulation, thighs already shaking. Did he know you were lying from the jump? Was he doing it anyway?

“‘m not lying,” you whimper in response, knees spreading further, needing more. 

“If you wanted me rough, you could have just asked.” You can hear the ruffle of his shorts sliding down his thighs, the elastic of his briefs snapping against his skin. Then you feel his length, his tip, sliding against your folds, spreading the slick that’s already gathered. “Aren’t we past the point of pretending I wouldn’t do anything for you?”

The question lights you up like a Christmas tree, but sends a pit of something other to your gut simultaneously. You weren’t sure how to break down the feeling, you didn’t have the brain power to try, not when his tip was prodding at your entrance without prep, without stretch, without anything. 

“Yeosang!” You squeal, turning your head to the side, trying to catch even a glimpse of green over your shoulder. But then he’s pushing in, and the feeling sucks all the air from your chest, forcing your eyes to squeeze shut. 

“Baiting me,” he gruffs out, like he was talking through his teeth. “Telling me Jaemin’s bigger than me when I’ve seen his fucking cock. We lived together. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“N-no,” you whine, head in the clouds, somewhere else entirely. His hips snap against yours, a rough, nasty pace; sliding over the front side of your walls, massaging you deliciously, all you can do is shake with pleasure. 

“You talk so much shit, run your fucking mouth,” he says, fucking into you like he was strumming along to a beat. “What happened to you didn’t fuck me, I fucked you? Huh? Look who’s getting fucked now.”

You think you might be crying, face hot, mouth pried open. Your fingers lose their grip on the duvet, body completely at Yeosang’s mercy, to his hips that snap against yours brutally, relentlessly.

“Quiet now?” He asks, then his thrusts stop completely. His hands grab for your arms, pulling you backward, up toward him. He grabs your hoodie by the hem, pulling it over your head, throwing it elsewhere; then one hand splays across your stomach, the other up at your throat, and he fucks into you again like he never stopped. “Did I break the fucking bitch inside you?”

Your body folds. Or tries to, a loud, uncensored cry ripping from your throat. He holds you steady, two hands keeping your back pressed to his chest, his mouth on your ear.

“You liked that, huh?” He asks, amusement playing in his tone. “Good to know, for the next time you want to make fun of me because I call you mommy, I’ll remind you of today. Of tonight.”

“Yeosang,” you whimper, eyelids fluttering again, your hands searching for his, clasped around your body. Tugging, pulling at them, nails clawing into him, he doesn’t budge. 

“Mm,” he moans into your ear. “I don’t think so. Should I make you call me daddy? Call me sir?”

Your head tips back, falling limp against his chest, the pocket of skin between his pec and his shoulder. “Yeosang.”

His hips switch into a nasty grind, cock dragging against your walls perfectly, his hand drops from over your stomach to between your thighs. Two fingers rub at your clit at the same pace his cock fucks into you, and you nearly fold again.

“Shit!” you gasp out, “shit, shit, shit.”

“Ask me,” he says from behind you, voice clear like you were the only one losing your mind. Pressure looms, pleasure building steadily with each circle he traces. “Ask me if you can cum.”

You think you might have whiplash. It makes sense, you think, in all the months you’ve dommed him, all the times you’ve said nasty shit, for him to pocket every single movement, every single sentence.

You whimper, “Please.”

He grunts. “Ask. Me.”

“Please, Yeosang,” you urge, eyes finally cracking open. And thank god you did, because the sight before you threatens to rip the breath from your lungs all over again. Green hair stuck to his forehead, bleeding down his cheeks, over the red mark beside his eye. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and crazed; you nearly cum on the spot. Instead, you ask, “Can I cum? Please?”

He kisses you, forgoing a response, forcing you to hold it. His tongue slides into your mouth, teeth clashing against yours, so messy and hot you find yourself teetering scarily on the edge, thinking of anything to delay the inevitable. 

“No,” he says into your mouth, the word final.

Despair seems like a tangible thing. A sob cracks from your throat as he lifts his fingers from your clit, sliding out of you, and pushing you face-first onto the mattress. Your body might be jerking, twitching, twisting– you weren’t exactly sure, because too quickly his hands hook under your legs again, flipping you onto your back. 

“Denial sucks, doesn’t it?” he asks, grin wide. You wished you had the brainwidth to wonder how he was so good at this, where this experience came from. The easiest answer would be from you. He pushes your knees up to your chest, settling between them, callused palm leaving your skin only to line himself up with your entrance.

Pushing in smoothly, he tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, muffling his moan of pleasure. You reach for him, his face, his shoulders, his hair, and he gives you all three as he leans down, elbows bracketing your head. His lips find yours, tongue and teeth and spit, another messy conjoining with the slick sounds of his hips hitting the backs of your thighs. 

“Want you to cum, just like this,” he says, voice quiet, barely more than a ragged breath. His bottom lip stays on yours, sharing breath, sharing space. And for a moment, staring into his eyes, you’re scared.

It’d be easy to get addicted to this, you think. To him, all over again. When you were together, it was addiction; it was daily, sharing spit, sharing space, him inside you like that was his first home, then the apartment surrounding you. With Jaemin, with anyone else, on the field, you performed. You acted, you were someone other than yourself, living outside of your skin.

You’ve never had to perform with Yeosang. Other than the acts you enjoy putting on, the displays of dominance– submission now, too. It was natural, fitting, like water and ice, matchstick and flame. Running back and captain of the cheerleading team.

Staring into his eyes, panting into his mouth, clenching around him as euphoria swallows you whole, there’s a part of you that damns him for quitting football. For stretching the gap between you, ruining routine, forcing you into having feelings for a fucking bassist of a garage band.

He had everything. He had it all. He had a future, he had stability, he had routine– he had you. 

And he ruined all of it. For what? 

He kisses you as he empties himself inside you, spit warming your tongue, filling the space where your breath had dried it. You push the feelings down, the wave of dread, the feeling of everything crumbling around you. You let his weight on your chest be a comfort, the smell of him, a little weedy, sweaty and Yeosang. 

There was no one else on the planet who understood you like him. There was no one else who could satisfy you like him. There was no one else who could handle everything that you are.

The thought haunts you, that he might accept you for all of it. Pom-poms, glitter, bi-weekly manicures, a nasty personality and a sex drive that challenged a virgin’s. He might even like the parts of you that you consider a nuisance, the parts that even you can’t comprehend.

Would anyone else pay so much attention? Would anyone else learn you down to what’s at your core?

“Why are you crying?” he asks, face warped into confusion, concern.

You blink. Once, twice before your hands are flying to your face, wiping at your tears. “Subdrop, maybe,” you laugh a little, nervous. Embarrassed. “Happens sometimes. Never been on this side of it before.”

He moves your hair out of your face, swiping his thumb under your eye. He shakes his head once, “Can I get you anything? Water? Food? A shower? Clothes?” 

“Jesus, Yeosang,” you laugh again, the sound fully forced out of your chest as you push him off you. Sitting up, you can feel the rumbling of emotion in your chest. You push it down, down, down. “I’m fine.”

He stares at you for a long second, and you shudder under the weight of it. Moving, your legs aching, you swing them over the edge of the bed, running a hand through your hair. Sheepishly, you look over your shoulder, “Maybe water?”

“Lay with me,” he says, naked and flushed, chest still heaving. Eyes softer now, less terrified, a comfort. “Five minutes.”

This wasn’t right. Usually it was you offering comfort, you’ve never been the one having the come-down after a release of emotion. Of control. 

You swallowed, face heating. But you nodded, and then laid back down.

And as his body engulfed you with sticky, sweaty heat, it terrified you that there was nowhere else you wanted to be.

He didn’t mean to pass you. 

Not really. 

But on the way to the Arts Building, if he took the long way, especially if he really needed to get his steps in… it’s for his stamina, he swears, to keep his lungs strong onstage. That's the only reason he passed the field, rounding the corner of the one-hundred-twenty yard turf. It just so happened that he passed by your side, catching a glimpse of your black, tiny shorts, your black sports bra, white Nfinity sneakers on your feet. 

Hands on your hips at the top of the formation, stood opposite of the rest of the team, your team, nodding your head with each beat of the actually kinda sick song. Heavy bass, guitar riffs, vocals dim and monotone. Not a competition mix, then. 

He hears your voice yell over the turf, bold and dominant, a captain’s voice. “Five, six, seven, eight. Tight! Tight, strong, clean. Get it right!”

Yeosang pauses for a second, his own head nodding along to the beat, watching the twenty-something girls with their hands balled in fists burst into quick, clean movements. Over their heads in a V, hands on their hips, knees bent as they damn near glide into their next formation, fluid with the song. 

He kicks his feet into motion as you bark out another order, a girl’s name. He’s lucky he played football instead of being a cheerleader, he thinks, he doesn’t know if he’d survive you as his captain.

But it’s sexy nonetheless, seeing you in your element, guiding, controlling, watching with a calculating eye, picking out mistakes as soon as you see them. A perfectionist, someone who thinks good isn’t good enough, a captain who cares about her team, how they’re perceived. How they rank. 

You don’t see him, thank god. But that means he still has to pass his team—his old team—and he wonders if it was worth it to catch a glimpse of your boobs tucked into your bra or your ass peeking out of the legs of your bloomers. 

He snorts to himself. Of course it was.

Eyes trickling down to the field, opposite of where you practice, he recalls all the time he’s spent on the turf. Drills, sprints, positional work, formations, it’s weird looking down to the green, the guys on it, and feeling nothing. He could cling to nostalgia all he wanted, the feeling he had when he scored, when he won a big game for his team. 

But he didn’t miss being down there. He didn’t miss those guys at all. And he feels guilty for it, because they never did anything bad to him.

He spots Mingi, the quarterback, his hair dark, long and sweaty, visible without a helmet on. He’s dancing on his cleat-covered toes, football between his gloved palms, watching Haechan run down the field, waiting to throw the ball. He can remember the days when it was himself sprinting down the field, adrenaline pushing his legs harder, faster, readying himself for Mingi’s no-doubt perfect pass. 

His mind wanders, thinking of Aven, thinking of those two, together. Part of Yeosang worries that she’ll get hurt in her plan to hurt Wooyoung, that Mingi would crack the last bits of her that still wanted to try, that still had hope of a relationship, of love. 

He shakes his head, ridding himself of the thoughts. If anything, Aven will eat him alive. 

His ears catch onto a particularly loud yell, and his head snaps backward, watching as you saunter out on the turf, fingers pointing, voice lashing. He laughs to himself as he watches you correct someone’s form, physically fixing her arms into place, throwing your hands over hers to strengthen her fists. 

Yeah, he wouldn’t survive you as his captain. Thank god he played football. 

Grabbing his phone from his pocket, he dials Jay, wondering if the younger man was in class, or home. With a seven-second long conversation, he turned on his heel, and headed home to grab his bass, instead. 

Twenty minutes before he ended up in Jay’s garage, he was thankful his lead singer didn’t press him about the reason he was there. Jay didn’t question Yeosang at all, the two understood each other differently than the other two– what music meant, how it shaped a person. Jisung and Jongseob were in class, leaving Yeosang and Jay standing on opposite sides of the garage, their instruments plugged in, and in complete verbal silence, they played. 

Finding each other’s melodies, adapting when the other switched, trying to keep in-tune with one another, it was a game. A challenge. A fun one, Yeosang quickly realized, sweat kissing his brow, his tongue poking out between his lips in focus, listening to Jay while simultaneously moving his own fingers, slapping his bass to the tune of the younger man’s electric guitar. 

This is what Yeosang lived for. Music has always been vital; morning workouts, evening workouts, a playlist he had plenty of songs forced into ringing through the speakers during practices. When he was younger, his parents had music playing almost all the time. He woke up to soft rock, ate lunch to metal, played in his backyard to pop, ate dinner to jazz, fell asleep to classical.

He first picked up an acoustic guitar when he was eight. His first song might have been Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but as soon as he learned the chords, the strings, how to move his fingers along a fretboard, it was over. Yeosang came home from school and picked up his guitar like it was the only thing he cared about— the only thing he lived for. 

And for a long, long time, it was. The first time he picked up a bass he was twelve. Different from guitar, the neck was longer, the strings were thicker, Yeosang quickly became obsessed with how if you aren’t listening, you can’t pin-point where the bass is in a song. But if you really listen, if you look for it, you’ll know that bass is vital. 

Rhythmic precision, in-sync with the beat of the drums, the sounds coming from a bass guitar are low, but not any quieter. A song without bass is hollow, depthless. For whatever reason, Yeosang became infatuated with the idea, with the fact that if he played bass, if he mastered it, he’d be as vital as the instrument.

Then he learned he was really good at catching a football, and at that point Yeosang had so many hobbies he still to this day wonders how he made time for them all. Keeping up with guitar, with bass, and with football was a lot easier when he was twelve than when he was seventeen, getting scouted for college. Long talks with his guidance counselors, with his parents, and Yeosang knew that football was his choice. It’d put him through on a scholarship, and he could still play, he could still shred, but football was his top priority.

And for the first two years, he loved it. Life was easy— he lived in the football house, he had friends, his team, a shared routine with all of them, he’d found a family. He spent countless hours in his bedroom on the second floor, playing for no one. He’d bring his bass downstairs during parties, play it like it was his hidden party trick. No one knew what his bass meant to him, what music meant to him. He had Jongho and Aven for that, the two people he fully confided in, that knew the feelings he kept in the small corner of his conscience. For those first two years, that was enough.

The end of his sophomore year, when he met the younger man beside him, Jay had heard through the grapevine that Yeosang played bass, and approached him in his lecture hall looking for a bassist for his band. Jisung, Jongseob, two younger guys he didn’t know at all, Yeosang almost laughed in his face, almost asked Jay if he knew who he was. 

When he met you, for those first few weeks, everything in his life cracked open. He started playing more, he became addicted to it all over again, the weight of mahogany on his lap, strapped over his shoulder. Slapping his callused fingertips on strings and being mesmerized with the sounds that it made, he played often, any moment he could find, with you always at the forefront of his mind. He cared less about football, only that you were on the other side of the field, or on the sideline. He didn’t really care about his teammates, was it so terrible that the only weight they held for him was surface-level friendship? He started focusing on the things that mattered, whatever brought him joy.

You, and his bass. Jongho and Aven, too, when they weren’t a pain in his ass.

It was hours now that he’d spent in Jay’s garage, but thankfully, Jay didn’t bring you up once. As if the younger man knew Yeosang was plunging balls-deep in his own mind, and didn’t want to bring it to the surface. They talked about their show instead, in a week and a half, at the bar they frequented on Fourth Avenue, just outside of campus. It wasn’t their first show at the dingy dive, but they had more original songs now then they did last time they performed there, and pressure was a weight he gladly bore. 

“I have an idea,” Yeosang told Jay, the pair in beach chairs on his driveway now. A pizza sat on a folding table between them, two brown bottles of beer on the cement beside their chairs. 

Jay popped a brow, “Yeah?”

“A song to cover,” Yeosang says, reaching down to grab his beer bottle, bringing it up to his lips. Swallowing, flushing down the pizza, he continues, “For the show at Eonian.” 

“The show is in like, a week.” Jay shook his head. “Fuck no.” 

“Come on,” Yeosang leaned forward in his beach chair. “Do you trust me?” 

“Fine, I’ll bite.” Jay says, reaching for his beer. Bringing it up to his mouth, his bottom lip touching the rim, he asks, “What song is it?” 

Yeosang’s lips pursed. “I don’t know. Yet.” 

“You don’t know?”

“I just heard it,” Yeosang explains, cheeks flushing pink. This is what he gets for speaking without thinking. “I’ll find out tonight, play it for you tomorrow.”

“I don’t doubt that, you fuckin’ weirdo,” Jay laughs to himself. “It creeps me out when you do that, learn a song just by listening to it.” 

Yeosang shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

When he gets back to his apartment, immediately he's on his couch, sitting over his bass, on the couch, trying to play the melody from memory. He thinks he has one section down, maybe, possibly, by the time you’re bursting through his apartment, right on-time.

His front door slams behind you. You’re still half-dressed, but at least you had a shirt on now. Even if it was his, and the bottom hem was tucked up into the band of your sports bra, showing off the stretch of skin from your upper abdomen down to the waistband of your shorts. 

Your hair was still tied up, off your face, white sneakers still on your feet. Fresh off the field, then. “I’m irritated.”

Fresh off the field and pissed. Yeosang sits a little further back on the couch, readjusting himself, waiting for the explanation. 

“Those girls have no fucking respect,” you throw your wristlet onto his coffee table, arms crossing over your chest.

“Karina?” Yeosang asks, remembering when you were appointed captain at the end of the previous captain’s, Jihyo’s, reign. Karina is the only one on your team who never accepted that you were captain, and not herself. 

“Karina and her evil fucking minion, Giselle,” you snap, eyes big and raging. “I think they’re doing it on purpose. Either to get me to step down or get my rank removed, but the joke’s on them, because neither is going to fucking happen.” 

 Walking from one side of his rug to the other, you keep going. “We’re doing a pep rally next week, and I was told about it a week ago. I only had a few days to choreograph a routine before we needed to start practicing, and I did, now I don’t know if it’s because of where Karina is placed in the formation, but the ones that are watching her are copying her. These girls have been cheering for years, Yeosang, we’re a D1 fucking school and they can’t learn a routine in a few days?”

Yeosang’s lips flatten. “You’re putting in the work and they aren’t.” 

You stop in your tracks. “You’re right, it’s literally only me putting in work, isn't it? I need to talk to my coach, I don’t know how half of these girls made it onto the fucking team.”

“I could probably learn the routine quicker than them,” Yeosang shrugs. 

You nod ecstatically, “You could. You literally fucking could, Yeosang. You should see these girls, it’s like they’ve never cheered a day in their life.”

“Show me the routine,” Yeosang says.

You pop a brow, standing still, palms finding your hips. “What?” 

“Show me,” Yeosang shrugs, then smiles. “Let me see if I can do it.”

“No!” You shake your head like the idea was ridiculous. “I’m not cheering for you, that’s embarrassing.” 

“Okay, fine,” he huffs. “At least let me hear the mix.”

“It’s not a mix,” you say, quieter. Voice small, like you were even embarrassed of that. “It's a song.” 

Yeosang tilts his chin up. “Let me hear it.”

As you pick up your wristlet, unzipping it to pull out your phone that somehow fits in the tiny, skinny thing, Yeosang’s grip tightens on the frets of his bass, fingers steadying over the strings. 

It takes you only a moment to pull up the song, to press play, like you hadn’t even checked your phone after finishing practice, you had come straight here. He doesn’t let the thought linger as the beat starts playing through the small speakers, Yeosang’s ears straining to pick apart the melody like he could see the sheet music in front of him. 

He nods his head as you nod yours, your limbs moving like you couldn’t stop yourself from micro-performing if you tried. Counting in his head, gauging the sound, the rhythm, the beat, Yeosang’s fingers start moving. 

Your eyes fly to his bass, wide, then back up to him. He starts playing, flawlessly, as if he’d heard the song a million times before. 

“What?” You mumble under your breath, eyes locked in on where his fingers smack at his strings. “How the fuck are you doing that?” 

Yeosang smiles, pride in the display of teeth, head nodding along as his fingers pluck the strings. A monotonous beat, his other hand barely moves on the frets.

He gets it now. The song takes shape in his head, his lips scrunch in satisfaction, tongue poking out, nodding to the beat he plays without even looking now.

You look starstruck. Unblinking, stuck in place, eyes wide, jaw slack. You take a step forward, like you couldn’t believe it, like Yeosang was a fucking hologram or something. 

“Yeo, that’s really fucking cool,” you almost whisper. Your eyes meet his again, finally blinking, fast enough that Yeosang thinks you might’ve actually convinced yourself he was an illusion. “How do you do that? Can you do that with any song? How do you know how to play it?” 

Yeosang shrugs off what he takes as compliments. “I’ve kinda always been able to,” he explains. “I started playing guitar when I was eight, bass when I was twelve.”

Your jaw drops further as you round the coffee table, taking your spot next to him on his couch. “That long? Like, over a decade?” 

Yeosang snorts, “Yes, over a decade. It’s about time that I did something with it.” 

The song ends, you bury your phone in the couch cushion absent-mindedly, eyes twin saucers as you stare at him like he was a completely different person. “Is that what you want?” you ask, leaning into the back of the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest. “To make it your career?”

He nods without hesitation. “I thought I wanted football… obviously, going to a D1 school and all. But then I met Jay, and realized that I only played football because I had to, then everything felt like it was moving in the same direction, y’know?”

“Like it was meant to be,” you offer. He nods. Your lips purse, scrunching to one side before you admit, “You seem happier.”

“Really?” He grins, teeth showing. “I guess I am, I like being onstage, I’ve always liked performing, actually.”

“I never thought that about you,” your eyes find the couch, a string of fuzz ripped from the seam. You pick at it with your manicured fingers, mumbling, “Outside of football, you seemed content being… hidden. Quiet, like a mouse. I guess that makes sense, though, you were kind of a star on the field.”

“Mingi’s the star,” Yeosang says. “He gets all the glory.” 

“Well, I was always cheering for you.” You finally look up at him, eyes sparkling, and he can feel his breath catch, hear it. So pretty, so perfect, he’s never loved anything in his fucking life the way he loves you. Maybe music. Maybe his bass. But there’s still the part of him that knows neither compared to what he feels for you, that you were the reason he fell back in love with music all over again.

“Would you still cheer for me?” He finds himself asking, but to him, it feels like a different question entirely. “When I’m onstage. Would you cheer for me in the crowd?”

Your head tilts, a playful smile taking over your entire face. “Wait, like, actually come to one of your shows?”

“Yes, actually,” he teases, shifting his body so he faces you a little more, bass still taking up space between you. He doesn’t mind it, though, barely notices it, not when your gaze fixed on him is hotter, brighter than stage lights. “Next Friday. Eonian.”

Your lips scrunch again, a cute flush spreading across the apples of your cheeks, your nose. “I don’t know, Yeosang.”

“You don’t have to be front and center,” he urges, “even though I know that’s where you love to be. Just…come see me play.”

You stare at him, eyes dancing across his face, contemplating. Your smile falls a little, and he knows you’re running through the events in your head, what could go wrong, what people would think, what it’d look like if you showed up for him. 

“I’ll think about it,” you nearly whisper, and he knows that not giving him an answer, avoiding yes or no, was intentional.

You’ve already made up your mind. He knows you won’t come. He can feel it, an icy chill spreading through his blood, prickling his scalp. Rejection.

All you have is sex. That’s all it’s been from the jump. 

He stands, placing his bass carefully in its stand, deciding that he didn’t want to stare at your perfect face anymore. Looking back at you over his shoulder, he asks, “Have you eaten?”

“No,” you admit. “I came straight from the field.” 

That, he knew. He knew you didn’t eat before he even asked the question. Without thought, without words he aims for his kitchen, sorting through his fridge for something that wasn’t prepped already, his cabinets for anything in-line with your diet which was just as extensive as his own.

“What are you doing?” In the entryway of his kitchen, your shoes are gone, you probably kicked them off somewhere on his rug.

He doesn’t look for longer than a millisecond. “Trying to find something to feed you with.”

“You can feed me something else.” Your voice lowered into velvet, he can hear the want lining your tone, slurring the words together. “I’m still irritated, and I’d rather fuck it out than eat right now.”

“Should I act surprised?” He quips, leaning his hip into the counter, brows flat.

You step closer, confusion spreading across your features. “Where’d the attitude come from?”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing as your feet land before his, your arms swinging around his neck. “I don’t have an attitude.”

You raise yourself on your toes to bring your face close to his as you say, “You do, and if you keep it up, I’m gonna redirect my irritation to you.”

Your fingers find his hair, nails scratching at his scalp, and his eyes close, lungs emptying. He can remember when you first came to his apartment, vulnerable and needy, asking to fuck him. You told him you had one good thing. He wonders if you were right.

Your lips press into his, soft, questioning, searching for the taste of yes on his mouth. His hands find your waist, lips parting, tongue slipping into your mouth to answer your silent ask. Always yes, he’d never deny you anything, he ignores the way his chest aches, how his throat constricts.

He can remember the day he picked up his bass from the corner of his bedroom at the football house, sitting on his bed, and playing the same measly love song he’d memorized years prior. He hummed the lyrics as he played, fucking up chords, his bass completely out of tune. He didn’t care, though, he could barely hear it over his thoughts swarming, every single one about you. The cheerleader he’d just started hooking up with, the one with a loud mouth and a pretty smile, the girl that made him feel whole again.

For a while, you just kissed. You turned him until his back hit the counter, hands in his hair as you kissed him breathless. Your tongue licked into his mouth like there was new space to cover, land to explore, like he felt new. He let you, mind wandering, hands falling under the tee shirt that swallowed your body, touching every inch of skin he could find, wondering if he’d ever feel the rush of picking up his bass from the corner of his bedroom like it was the first time again.

When you broke away from him, panting, fingers still curled in his hair, you kept his face close to yours, mouths barely an inch apart. He spoke first, though. “Thought you wanted to fuck it out.”

Your lips curve, a breathy laugh tumbling into his mouth. “Me too.”

You kiss him again, palms sliding across his chest, down to his abdomen, nothing about your touches felt impatient, or stemming from frustration. Like you were basking in him, as if he were the anchor bringing your temper, you back down to earth.

In the times that you’ve fucked since you knocked on his door those weeks ago, you’ve never just kissed. He isn’t sure if you’ve ever just kissed. The lack of heat, without promise, just exploratory, easy. Intimate, in a way, more intimate than his most vulnerable moments with you.

A man he is, with disgusting, primal, masculine instincts, the blood rushing below the hem of his shorts is anything but voluntary. He gasps when your front brushes against him, your body warm, your scent in his nose, stray hairs tickling his cheeks. You’re all over him, part of you lives inside him, it’s second nature that your spit on his tongue gets him hard. You smile into the kiss, and he can feel the shape of pride in it, the arrogance.

Your palm drops, ghosting over his length in his shorts and he moans. It’s pathetic, really, how easy he is, how fucking worked up you get him without even doing anything. Your palm lays flat, adding pressure, and he groans.

“Work for it,” you whisper, palm curving over his length, fingers gripping the width. Yeosang’s hands leave your waist to grab the edge of the counter behind him. “You know what to do. Make me proud.”

His hips rock once, experimentally grinding his length into your palm. His head tips back when he’s met with a wall of pressure, your hand unmoving, a surface for him to get off on. He can’t fight the high-pitched whimper that crawls up his throat, pleasure igniting each nerve ending in his body, the apples of his cheeks on fire because he can’t believe he’s getting himself off on your hand.

You make a small sound, maybe in awe, Yeosang isn’t sure. He rocks his hips faster, harder, broken moans and ragged breaths slurring together, completely unbothered by the fact that there were two layers of cloth between skin.

“So pretty when you’re like this,” you murmur, palm made of stone, warm like a boulder basking in the summer sun. “Thinking with your cock, doing anything I tell you to. Do you always get this hard when you kiss me?”

He forces out a breathy, “Yeah.”

“My pretty boy,” you coo, then smack your lips. “So good for me. Y’gonna get on your knees after I make you cum in your pants?”

He moans, head rocking forward again, features twisted tight. “Fuck, yeah, yes.”

“You want it? Don’t wanna fill me up?”

He bares his teeth, your question slicing through his pleasure, not enough to get him to fuck up his rhythm. “Where– wherever you want– want me to, mommy.”

You gasp, and he opens his eyes to see your brows furrowed in pleasure, eyes dark and focused. His cock twitches at the sight of your swollen, kiss-plump lips, parted, glossy with spit. Pressure builds in his gut, knowing what the title does to you, that it tumbled off his tongue. 

“Cum,” you demand, the word coated in arousal. “Cum for me, wanna see you make a mess.”

He grunts, gasping out a desperate, muddled moan, but it takes no more than three more humps of his cock on your hand to spill hot, sticky release into his briefs. He hisses at the feeling, uncomfortable, messy, humiliating. When his hips slow to a stop, you don’t move your hand, you don’t lessen up the pressure. Your fingers wrap around his cock over his shorts instead, and Yeosang curses so loudly he prays the entire complex can’t hear him.

“Shut up.”

He shudders, backing into the counter impossibly further, lowered down to his elbows, knees trembling. Whines, whimpers and moans spill from his lips, bucking away from you, jerking rapidly under the weight of your hand. “I can’t take it,” he shakes his head, sucking air down to the base of his diaphragm. “I can’t– I can’t–”

“You can,” you move closer, caging him in. Eyes locked on his hips, how he shakes beneath you, he can see the grin on your lips from above you, the curve of your cheeks. “Wanna see how much.”

“No,” he gasps, eyes squeezing shut, his body in fight or flight. The overstimulation burns to the point of ache, his mind going fuzzy, all you do is laugh. “Please– please.”

“One more,” your eyes glance upward, round and doe-like as if you weren’t pushing him past the breaking point. You still haven’t even taken off his shorts. “Can you do that for me?”

There’s a demon inside him that loves to obey you. That gets off on doing what you ask of him. It erases his refractory period like it didn’t exist at all.

“Y-yes,” he whimpers, tongue lolling out of his mouth, swiping over his bottom lip. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes–yes mo–mommy.”

“Kiss me, baby,” your voice is so soft he blinks to make sure he heard it right. “Come here.”

Lifting himself up, your wrist twists over his shorts, palm rolling over his tip and it’s just enough pleasure to get him building again. He pants into your mouth, the kiss not much of a kiss at all, exchanging breath and spit, teeth clashing together. Yeosang’s babbling into your mouth, begging for something he isn’t sure of, reprieve, maybe. But he’s close and you taste so sweet and your hand feels so fucking good and it’s not even touching his skin. 

Your other hand finds his hair, fingers tugging at his roots, with a sharp hiss from his lips and a stuttered, staggered grunt, he’s spilling into his shorts all over again. You coax him through it, praises, compliments, sweet words he only got to hear when he was obeying you, it makes his brain all fuzzy, makes his abdomen twitch and his cock jump like he had more to give. He knew in his soul that he didn’t.

You kiss the corner of his lips, his chin, his jaw, then pepper short, soft presses of your lips down his neck. “You’re so good,” you whisper into his sweaty skin, “always so good for me. So proud of you.”

His chest is still heaving, eyes barely closed, but your praise gives him clarity. “Need to clean up.”

“Wanna see,” you whisper, soft, delicate hands traveling down his abdomen, over his tee. “Let me see.”

Your fingers dip into the elastic of his shorts, pulling them down. He can feel the heat of shame, his head tipping backward, eyes on the ceiling. He didn’t want to see the mess he’d made.

He hears you gasp, the trickle of awe falling past your lips. Maybe he does want to see what you see. “You’re so perfect,” you whisper, and he looks down at his light gray briefs, the shattered splotch of wetness darkening them into charcoal. Marvelling at the sight, you mumble, “Look at you.”

“Stop,” he whines, hips twitching, “‘s embarrassing.”

“It’s hot,” you counter, fingers tugging at the waistband of his shorts, pulling them over where his soft length hangs heavy. “So messy, you’d do anything for me if I asked.”

His cheeks burn. He doesn’t answer, tucking his lips between his teeth, eyes finding the ceiling once more. “C’mon.” His briefs snap against his hips again. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Confused, he fixes his gaze on you again. “Wha–? Do you–”

“Bathroom,” you hum, already turning. “Come on, messy boy.”

He follows, like a moth to a flame, a dog to his owner. You clean him, though, a warm towel to his pelvis, his wet clothes thrown in his hamper. In silence, the hum of the bathroom fan sound enough, he watches you move, the fluidity of your movements, brows crooked in focus, with care. You care about him.

You walked through his apartment like you were angry at god himself and somehow, he diffused it. His head tilts, sitting on his bed, watching you sort through his drawers for new clothes as if he were incapable of doing it himself. Thinking out loud, he says, “You really should talk to your coach.”

Your head snaps to the side, black briefs in your hand. Your face reads calm, but your answer is short, “I know.”

“If they’ve been torturing you this long, they’re not going to stop.”

You sigh, and he knows you’re trying to find your favorite pair of his shorts. Gray, soft, long, they reach below his knees. Finding them, you close his bottom drawer and turn, crossing his bedroom to hand the fabric to him. “What kind of captain does that make me? That I can’t handle two girls.”

He stands, “It’s not that you can’t handle them, you shouldn’t have to.”

You watch him tug his briefs over his hips, his shorts. “The other girls, my girls, I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of dictator. That if you don’t like me, you’re out.”

Yeosang grins, “That sounds like a very you attitude to have.”

You roll your eyes, sitting on his bed, then deflate as your back stretches over his duvet. He can see the hint of a smile tugging on your lips as you argue, “Not when it comes to them. I don’t want them to hate me, or hate cheer because of me. They felt that way with Jihyo, I felt that way with Jihyo, and she chose me. I wanna be different.”

Yeosang lays down on his bed beside you, flat on his back, lungs emptying as he stares at his ceiling. “You’re different from her, you’re strict, but you’re not unfair. Just because you don’t condone bullying doesn’t mean you’re a dictator.”

He can feel your eyes on him, so he turns his head, meeting your stare. “What would you do? If you were me.”

“I’d give it right back,” he answers, without a second of thought. “You’re not the kind of person who backs down. Remind them who you are.”

You stare at him for a second, unanswering. Then your head turns, eyes finding the ceiling, and Yeosang mimics you, staring at the beige wall above him. 

Minutes might have gone by, maybe hours.

You finally turn to him, “I’m hungry.”

His brows lift. “It’s late.”

“I think we both know by now that your bed’s big enough for two.”

The pep rally was rough. 

In the locker room, chatter filled the air, high-pitched giggles, yells, conversation swarmed the hallways, bouncing off the metal lockers, directly into your fucking ears. 

The Birds put on a beautiful show, which you assumed they would, probably the outcome of a pep-talk by the one and only Song Mingi. The team revered him as if he were a god or something, desperate to impress him, like if Mingi said the word, they’d be drafted to the NFL alongside him. It helped you out, though, it left the crowd distracted, focused on them, a thrum of adrenaline passing through the stadium as you ran onto the turf with your girls.

You don’t think the crowd even looked at you or the team once when you were in the middle of the field, fucking up each step of your goddamn choreography. 

Your friends weren’t there, there wasn’t a familiar face to look at, to keep your focus on. Not that it specifically bothered you, there were plenty of away games you cheered at where you had to stare at random faces, maybe an older man’s bald head, and used it as a beacon. Somewhere to look. Something to keep your eyes on while you performed outside of your own fucking body.

But the team still didn’t have the routine down, and the last-minute tweaks you made to make the routine easier, to dumb it down, failed. The team couldn’t keep their heads on straight, Karina couldn’t remember what you had just taught her two days ago, and had been rehearsing since. It was frustrating, to know that you failed, to accept that all that you had done still wasn’t good enough. You shuddered thinking about getting a call from your coach later. 

Enduring all of it, feeling all of it, you knew in the pit of your gut there was something else. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, what’s wrong. A sense of dread was consuming you head-to-toe, like something was off, something was missing. You couldn’t put your finger on it. 

Maybe it was just a rough week; you’re sure the girls hated you right now, with how hard you pushed them all week, they must feel relieved to know the pep rally’s over. Even if you have to start preparing for competition tomorrow. 

You caught Jaemin’s eye on your way to the locker room, just a glimpse over the kelly green pom-pom in your hand that held the door open for the rest of the girls. He winked at you, smiled with every single one of those beautiful, white teeth, and you felt nothing. Nothing. 

You never have felt anything for Jaemin, if you were being honest with yourself. If you were being really honest, if you came to terms with what you felt, you’d remind yourself that every time you catch Jaemin’s eye on the field, after practice, all the times he’s sauntered up to you when you were cleaning up on the turf, flirting with you shamelessly… you remembered when it was Yeosang. You wished it was Yeosang.

Your stomach aches. Twists, churns, like cramps on the second day of your period. You slammed your locker shut a little harder than you meant to, jaw settled in frustration, palms sweating. 

“You good?” Karina asks, black hair still tied at the crown of her head, curled and framing her face, laying on her shoulders. The massive, bright green bow glimmered, lined with gold and white, bringing out the red in her cheeks. 

You grimace. Feigned concern, Karina doesn’t give a fuck if you’re okay, she doesn’t care about anyone except herself. 

“Fine,” you respond, a short, curt reply. It meant don't push it. 

Karina huffs a laugh as Giselle comes up to her side, the brunette twin smirking as if she could read Karina’s mind. You think maybe they could read each other’s minds— where one goes, the other follows. Your eyes bounce between the two with growing confusion, your upper body jerks as if to ask what. 

“Nice hickey,” Giselle giggles. “Jaemin?”

Your hand comes up to clasp around your neck, the spot where Giselle’s eyes were locked. You didn’t even know it was there, you don’t know how you didn’t notice when you were putting your makeup on. 

“No,” Karina makes drama of the word, dragging it out, head tilting to the side, body leaning into Giselle’s. The two had dressed already, back to denim shorts and microscopic tank tops, flip flops on their feet. “She’s not fucking Jaemin anymore. Right, Captain?” 

Your cheeks flush, an embarrassed heat flooding you. Maybe the reminder of Yeosang is what you needed to fake a laugh, one icy, mean. “And since when are you two so interested in who’s inside me? Are you waiting for your turn?”

Giselle nearly gags. Karina huffs, “That’s disgusting, why would you even say that?”

You shrug, a nasty smirk tugging at your lips. “Seemed like where it was headed. If you asked nicely, I might have said yes.”

“I wanted to know because I fucked Jaemin,” Karina stands a little straighter, arms crossing over her chest. “He said you haven’t called him in weeks. Ghosted him. Guess it’s ’cause you’re gay now?” 

You grab your duffel bag from the bench, a rectangular, heavy bag beaming hues of green and gold through the locker room like a kaleidoscope. “Were you talking about me before, or after you fucked him? Or was I on your mind during all three strokes?”

Karina’s cheeks redden, face morphing into something horrified. Her eyes dance, searching for something to argue with before she flat out asks, “I— you— are you still fucking Yeosang?”

You hate the way his name sounds on her tongue. Your hand grips your bag strap tighter, knuckles changing color with strength. “No,” you hiss.

“We know you are,” Giselle crosses her arms, like Karina’s mini. “Are you going to his show on Friday? To watch your little garage-band boyfriend?”

Your jaw clenches, ears moving with the grit of your teeth. Karina laughs, head tipping back, “It’s a shame, you know. He had a bright future, but now he’s a loser. Do you think he quit football to get away from you? Just for you to follow him like a lost puppy dog?” 

“I wonder if he’s thinking ‘damn, I can’t get rid of her’,” Giselle sighs, a finger poking her cheek like she’s mid-thought. “Or maybe he’s so fucking high from all the weed he smokes he just doesn’t care who he’s fucking.”

“You don’t get to talk about him,” you hiss, stepping forward, dropping your duffel to the floor in a harsh smack. “Keep his name out of your filthy fuckin’ mouth.”

“Or what?” Karina steps closer, meeting your broadened shoulders, her chin jutted upward. “Go ahead, do something. I’ll be made captain so fucking quick it’ll make your head spin.” 

You laugh, and it’s vile. Low, coated in malice, it takes everything in you not to spit on her. Tipping your chin up, looking down at her over your nose, you say, “You wish you had someone like Yeosang. The only guys you can get to fuck you are the ones so fucking drunk they can’t see you.”

You snap your head to Giselle, “I’ll be at his show, proudly watching my garage-band boyfriend while you keep plowing through the lacrosse team, praying one of them will actually text you back this time.”

You bend down, grabbing your duffel bag from the floor. “I’m captain because I deserve to be, I worked my ass off for that title. What have you accomplished, other than living in my shadow?”

Karina counters, “Those girls watch me, not you.”

“I wouldn’t be able to look away from a trainwreck, either,” you bark back, teeth bared. “I’ll make sure to keep you in the back from now on.”

Karina gasps, eyes blowing wide like that was a death sentence. “No.”

“I’m the captain,” you respond, leaning forward, making her shrink where she stands. “You’ll be lucky if Coach doesn’t kick you off the goddamn team after I call her.”

Steam is radiating off you as you barrel out of the locker room. Chest heaving, jaw locked, fingers shaking around the strap of your duffel bag, your mind is roaring as you nearly sprint down the hallways dripping in gray. Flickers of green and white beckoned for your sight, posters, banners, streamers, you couldn’t see until you were out of the stadium. And then began your trek to him.

He wasn’t home, though. His apartment door locked. You knocked, you banged, you called his name. No answer. You thought about calling him, your phone buried somewhere in your duffle, when you looked down you realized you never even changed. Still in uniform, a green and white tank, Birds printed diagonally across your middle, your matching mini-skirt reaching just mid-thigh.

You needed him, you needed him, not to blow off steam, not to touch him and feel like you had a semblance of control over something. You needed him to tell you again, that you’re strong, you don’t back down, that you’re worthy of your title and you aren’t just like Jihyo. You wanted to hear him say that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself, that you’re right, only his reassurance could ease the raging war in your chest. 

You needed him. You’ve never needed anyone in your fucking life.

“Hey,” you hear from behind you, a voice so comforting and warm your body twists.

Your eyes widen, taking in his outfit. Green tee, oversized, white long-sleeve covering his arms. Denim on his legs, boots poking out, hair styled over his forehead, silver gleaming in his ears. You’re slapped with the memory of waking up beside him, the both of you naked, bodies molding together like you’d both been dreaming of it.

You blink, “Where were you?”

His cheeks go pink. Sheepishly, he admits, “The pep rally.”

It steals the air from your lungs, relief flooding you, rendering your body hot. “You came?”

“You were stressed about it,” he shrugs. “I skipped band practice for it. You were right, that bitch was smug, she knew exactly what she was doing–”

You drop the duffel bag, throw your arms over his shoulders, and steal his lips. He smiles into the kiss, holding you tight, laughing a little at your enthusiasm. “Why?” 

“You came,” you’re smiling, pressing your forehead against his. “I didn’t think you were there, I didn’t even think to ask you to come, Yeosang.”

“I thought you would’ve spotted me,” he’s laughing, his smile silly and happy. “Green hair and all.”

Your hands find his hair, soft between your fingers, “So much team spirit.”

He kisses you again. “You caught me, I dyed it so everyone would know I was there for you.”

You laugh, head tipping back, arms tight around his shoulders. Words thrum under your skin, floating through your limbs, climbing to the tip of your tongue. Your smile falls. Swallowing all three of them down, you admit, “I fought with Karina in the locker room. I think I won.”

“Like, fist-fight?”

“Strongly-worded verbal argument.”

“That’s your forte,” he makes a face like that was obvious. “No shit, you won.”

Your smile returns tenfold. “Can we go in?”

“Does that mean you’re going to change out of your uniform?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, no.”

You feel like you’re living outside of your own body.

You aren’t a dive-bar girl, you were lucky you had your ID in your purse, you didn’t even think about needing to show it to the tall, bulky brunette guy standing outside the front door. He let you in, and you mentally thanked god he got you away from the guy smoking the disgusting cigarette out front that nearly choked you. Who even smokes anymore?

Reality hits you, and you remember you're at a bar. Not a nice one, either. Neon signs hang from the walls, license plates and dollar bills scribbled on with black marker stapled to the deep brown oak lining the roof over the bar, music played through the speakers, rock music, heavy music, you fought not to cringe. The smell– the smell, tobacco and beer and sweat, there were college kids fucking everywhere.

All people your own age, but fuck, each and every single one you laid eyes on, you gave a stare of disgust. You didn’t understand the point of coming here on weekends, drinking until you blacked out, kissing randoms in the corner, the idea of you doing it had you gagging. The bar was packed, brown leather stools topped with people in denim, a guy with a shaved head behind the bar juggling bottles.

You felt scarily out of place. You think you might turn around and leave.

You had too much to make up for. Too much to prove. Too much to fix. 

Conventional relationships weren’t for you. Your taste was different– what got you off, what you searched for in a partner, wasn’t something you could find in just anyone. When you met Yeosang and realized you could be yourself, that you were free, you dug your nails in and refused to let go.

When he quit football and ripped your world from under your feet, you hated him. You hated him for a long while. You were embarrassed that you felt so deeply for someone who was comfortable with climbing down the social ladder instead of up. You felt shameful that you were so attached to someone who didn’t mind upending his entire life, without even considering you or how you felt about it.

You can remember the night he told you he was quitting football, how you screamed at him, you can still count how many times you said no. You’ll regret that night for the rest of your life, because how free you felt with Yeosang, how everything fell into place, how comfortable you’d become being yourself, is what he became after he quit. When he committed himself to his passion.

He was comfortable changing his entire life because he felt safe enough to be happy. He assumed he had your support, that you’d be by his side through it all, and you let him down. You left him. And for what? What the fuck did you leave him for? What shame did you think you’d carry, if your boyfriend was no longer on the football team?

You ordered a drink from the bald guy and ignored his face when Aperol Spritz left your lips. Yeosang showed up for you, after he asked you to show up for him, and you basically said fuck no to his face. Were you really so ignorant that you couldn’t see yourself cracking each and every layer of his confidence? Were you so shallow that the only thing that’s real to you, is how other people see you? Did that make it reality?

It’s pathetic. He’d give you the world if you asked him to, and you’ve never done anything for him. You’ve never given him any reason to be kind to you, any reason to love you. And yet he still trusts you with every ounce of himself, trust you’ve never, not once, deserved.

You’re simmering in rage, self-loathing as you take the seat of a high top table in the back corner. Bare legs crossed, one knee over the other, the toe of your heel sits on the bar of the chair, your mini-skirt covering only what it needs to. You feel eyes on you, on your low-cut top, and the part of you that still clings to being perceived, wonders if they’re judging the streak of green you clipped into your hair. The one that matches Yeosang’s shade exactly. 

You keep the skinny black straw attached to your lip, the orange liquid in the tall glass bitter. Your eyes find the stage, still dark, the head peeking out of the side. Olive skin, dark eyes, ebony hair spiked atop his head, you think that’s Jay. You’ve never met him, only heard about him from Yeosang, but from the description you remember receiving, it matches him. Your back straightens when you realize his eyes land on you, the two of you wide-eyed, staring at each other. You couldn’t be sure, the stage on the opposite side of the bar, but how his body seemed to freeze, you think he might know you, too.

You poke at your phone that laid dark on the table-top. They were supposed to go on any second now. Your leg starts bouncing, lips sucking on your straw, guzzling down liquid. Impatient, nervous. You scan the bar, muscleheads, girls half-dressed, people dressed in all black, silver sparkling on their wrists and necks.

You spot Mingi at the bar, and for a second you feel relief seeing a familiar face. His eyebrows are tied together, mouth moving, hands splaying with every word like he’s mad. Then you spot Aven beside him, chin jutted upward, shoulders back like she could will herself into being taller than him. Your brow pops in curiosity.

Eyes sliding to the corner, you spot Karina, Giselle, standing with another girl that looks semi-familiar. Then you notice cigarette-guy at her back, arms wrapped around her, and you cringe as you remember the smell of tobacco. Says a lot about your two teammates, if that’s the company they keep.

It feels like fucking forever until the music shuts off, the lights go dim, and the stagelights burn warmth. Jay walks out first, you think the brunette is Jisung, the small blonde boy Jongseob. Yeosang’s last, and your glass nearly falls from your fingers.

He’s in leather. Black, on his legs, hugging each and every muscle in his thighs. On his bicep, a band, leather and tight, it squeezes him ever so slightly, his bicep bulging out above and below it. On his left hand, a loop around his pointer finger, covering the stretch of skin on the outside of his palm.

The tank on his upper half is cotton, you think, low-cut, showing off his pectorals, the hint of purple from the hickey you’d left days ago still bruising his skin. His hair is messy, freshly dyed, bright and neon and attention-stealing. His smile is wide and sure, his grip on his bass firm, you’ve never seen him look so confident. So assured.

His eyes scan the crowd, the people who flocked to the stage. Jay’s speaking, you can’t hear him, it was as if there was a tunnel between yourself and Yeosang, the two of you on opposite sides, all you could see was him, all you could hear was him.

And like he really was on the opposite end, his eyes landed on you. They stay there, widening ever so slightly in surprise, maybe happiness? You hope it’s happiness. You can feel your heartbeat pick up, heat on your cheeks like you were the one beneath the spotlight, you wondered if you made a mistake in coming here.

Jay strikes a chord, and Yeosang’s muscles flex as his fingers find the strings of his bass. For too long, his eyes stay on you, like he couldn’t believe that you were really there, as if he’d made it up. You throw him a little wave, a small smile, and he beams.

The first song was original, you recognized it, something punk, loud and rhythmic. Your head nods, your foot bouncing against the bar on the chair in tune with Jongseob beating on the drums. Halfway into it you know they’re talented, better than good, and you curse yourself for never asking Yeosang to play for you. For never caring about this side of him, never showing interest, never wanting to know. 

It’s not until the third song that your cloud of self-loathing dissipates, because you recognize it. Last week, he sat on his couch, bass in his lap while you played it from your phone. Just days ago, you performed with this song as the fucking track. 

You stand from the chair, his eyes find yours. Smirking, like he knew exactly what was going through your mind. Then you’re fighting through the crowd, kitten heels stepping in puddles of liquid, arms pushing people out of your way like they were nothing but obstacles. You were sure people cursed at you, yelled at you, you didn’t hear them, not when you were feet away from the man you love and he was playing a fucking song for you.

Bodies jumped at the front, arms swinging, people singing along. You stood there, eyes wide, trying to catch your breath, hand over your pounding heart in your chest. He’s beautiful. Sweat kisses his skin, his pink-splotched chest, hair already wet and sticking to his face. You’ve never seen him look this way before, confident, more than confident, arrogant, even– fingers plucking at the strings like he could play it with his eyes closed.

You love him. You love him. 

Overcome with emotion, adrenaline pounding through you like Jongseob’s sticks hitting the drums, you let go. Jumping, singing along, your arm swings over your head, the sound of your heels hitting the floor completely drowned out. You keep your eyes on him, completely and utterly ecstatic, and Yeosang smiles back, refusing to take his stare away from you like he didn’t want to look away, either.

You love him, you love him, you fucking love him. 

You loved the structure of your relationship before he quit football. You loved him in uniform, in cleats, a football in his hand– but was this that much different? Was this not better, doused in black and leather, his fingers creating instead of catching? Did the rush you felt when you kissed him on the field even compare to the rumbling in your chest right now? Why the fuck did it take you so long to give it a goddamn chance?

For the rest of his show, you stayed up front, and to your surprise and his, you knew some of the songs. Old music your dad used to play when you were growing up, but that kind of nostalgia sticks with you, glued to your spine. Much like your eyes stayed glued to him, swaying back and forth, jumping out of your skirt when Jay and Jisung started shredding. What the hell have you been so afraid of?

After they bow and leave the stage, you’re moving with them, pushing through bodies to the left of you to try and get yourself where Jay had poked his head out earlier. You weren’t thinking, you didn’t even consider if you were allowed backstage as you pushed yourself forward, forward, forward.

You needed to see him, needed to touch him, you needed him. You needed to tell him you fucking love him, that you’re proud of him, that nothing makes you happier than seeing him happy.

He meets you at the curtain. Dark eyes dilated, body doused in sweat, clothes sticking to him, you didn’t care. He pulls you behind it and you don’t say a word before you throw your arms around his neck and crash your lips onto his. 

He holds you steady, one foot stepping backward to keep you both upright, he’s laughing into the kiss, giggling like he still didn’t quite believe you were here. Pulling away, your hands fly to his hair, “I’m so proud of you.”

“You came,” he says, voice breathy, he still hadn’t caught it. “You’re here.”

“You’re insane.” You laugh, pushing the stray hairs off his face, your feet not even touching the ground. “You’re fucking insane, Yeosang, I didn’t know– I didn’t know you were so good.”

“Damn, what about us?” 

Your smile drops, eyes blowing wide as you lift your head up. Jisung stands with a brow popped, Jay’s face flat, Jongseob’s face blown into full surprise, hands half-gripping his drumsticks like even he couldn’t believe you were here. It was a sorry excuse for a backstage, or a green room, you weren’t sure. You were at a dinky dive bar.

Yeosang slowly lowers you back down to the ground as you swallow, “Sorry. Hi guys.”

Jay’s lips stay flat, he waves, just a movement of his fingers. Jongseob blinks. Jisung grins, “Hiii.”

“That was incredible,” you force a smile, it’s nervous. “You’re all so talented.”

“We put him back together,” Jay says, tone flat. Yeosang jumps, trying to interject, but Jay cuts him off, “We were there when you destroyed him. Do you even know what he went through?”

You swallow, cheeks flaming. You shake your head.

“Jay,” Yeosang warns, his voice tight. You’ve never heard it before, but you barely notice, you can’t when Jay’s eyes thin further.

“Don’t force us to do that shit again,” Jay barks. “It took too long, and we’re too busy.” You loose a breath at the amusement playing in his tone. “And we better see you at our show next week.”

Nodding, you immediately agree, “I won’t, I’ll be there. I promise.”

Jisung’s hands find Jay’s shoulders, nudging him forward, “Come on, father Jay, Jesus Christ. Let’s give them some space.”

Jongseob follows the pair, eyes still wide and sparkling, head never once turning away from you as all three of them walk through the curtain. You release the rest of the breath you didn’t know you were holding as you turn back to Yeosang, “Did he mean that?”

Yeosang starts to shake his head, mumbling reassurance, hands searching for your waist, but you stop him. “Sangie,” you urge him, “did he mean what he said? Did I hurt you?”

“Can I say something without freaking you out?” Yeosang asks, and your hands find his shoulders as you nod. “I was, like, balls-deep in love with you. When you ghosted me, I went off the deep end a little.”

Your bottom lip curves, pain slicing through you. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“That’s in the past,” he shakes his head. “Long time ago.”

“Not long enough,” you whisper. “I’ll regret hurting you forever, Yeosang. I’ll never do that to you again.”

His eyes dance across your features, reading in-between the lines. He doesn’t respond.

“Do you still love me?” you ask, and fear curls in your gut. 

His lips perk upward, “You know I do.”

A smile dares to swallow your face. “Is it okay that I love you, too?”

He answers with his lips on yours, both of his hands on your back, kissing you so hard it dips your body backward. You squeal into his mouth, arms flying around his neck, holding him tight as he lifts your feet off the ground.

“You showed up for me,” he says into your mouth, before kissing you again. “You cheered for me. That’s all I could have ever wanted, ever asked for.”

“Start thinking of new gifts,” you say as you land back on your feet. “There’s a lot I need to make up for.”

He presses his forehead to yours, fingers squeezing at your hips. “The fact that you love me is enough.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands, heels lifting off the floor to press another kiss to his lips. “You make me a better person, Yeosang. You let me be me. I want to be that person for you, too.”

“You are–”

“No, I’m not,” you shake your head, your smile weak. “But I will be, if you let me.”

He kisses you again, and it’s answer enough. He pushes you backward by your hips, five steps before your back gently hits a wall, arms closing around his neck. You throw one of your legs over his, pushing your tongue into his mouth, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Say it again,” he says into your mouth, pushing his hips into yours. 

“I love you.”

He moans, quiet, but telling. “Again.”

You roll your hips against him, “I love you, Yeosang.”

His palm finds your thigh, gripping tight as his other hand tilts your jaw upward, kissing you deeper, harder. Your hands search his abdomen, his chest, sliding up to cup his cheeks, using the smallest bit of force to pry his lips off yours. 

“You’re not fucking me here,” you breathe out, taking in his dilated pupils, his red cheeks. “This place is disgusting.”

He snorts, head dipping forward, “You’re gonna have to get over that, what if I go on tour one day and wanna have a quickie backstage?”

A full-body shiver racks through you, and it only makes him laugh harder. He kisses you once more, then peels himself off you. “I love you, too, even the high-maintenance.”

“You don’t even know half of it,” you bring your leg back into yourself, both feet finding the floor, fixing your skirt. “How high-maintenance I actually am.”

“I assume I’ll be learning.”

“Yes, you will.”

you are an HONEST PERSON with a warm heart do NOT steal my shit masterlist 🦠

[03jyh23]

“Level Zero” ── j.y.h

Jeong Yunho is the human equivalent of a system crash. A 6’2” wreck of stuttered sentences, fogged-up glasses, and nerves he can’t outgrow. He has spent his first year of college trying to be invisible. He’s a tactical genius on screen, but on campus, he can barely survive a three-word greeting without his voice cracking. He tries to start a Gaming Club in a basement that smells like dust and dump. When a pack of “Mean Girls” turns his recruitment drive into a public execution, you step in. You lie. You improvise. You claim you’re his pro-tier controller—his star recruit. Now you learn the hard way: Rule #1 of saving a cute nerd from bullies is this—don’t claim you’re an expert in a game you’ve never played.

➢ gamer!yunho x fem!reader | ➢ collage au, romance, strangers to lovers, slice of life | ➢ mdni, bullying, emotional manipulation & deception, substance use | ➢ ~21k | ➢ this is my humble contribution to LIVE ALIVE! collab, dear @sungbeam thank you for letting me be a part of this! ♡ | ➢ disclaimer: i am not a gamer!! i played Valorant like three times so please bare with any mistakes!! after all it’s just for fun!! | ➢ part one out of three

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The floorboards groaned under Yunho’s socks as he carved a frantic circle into the small room. He looked frayed—ashy blonde strands of hair standing up in jagged peaks where he’d clawed at them for the last half an hour. His tall shadow flickered across the wall, momentarily eclipsing Seonghwa, who lay sprawled like a discarded coat across the duvet. “We have to jump on this, hyung,” Yunho snapped, his voice tight, vibrating with a caffeine-edge. “The internship panel won’t even look at me if the ‘Extracurricular’ section is a desert. High marks don’t mean a thing when everyone else is out here saving the world on weekends.”

Seonghwa didn’t move, save for the rhythmic motion of his jaw. He was focused on a bag of mango jellies, the scent of artificial fruit heavy in the stuffy air of Yunho’s bedroom. He popped another one into his mouth, the plastic crinkling like a slow-burning fire. “I hear you, Yunnie. I really do.” Seonghwa’s voice was muffled by the gummy candy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes tracking a hairline crack in the plaster. “But what’s the pitch? We’re ghosts on this campus. We don’t have a network, and you can’t exactly launch a club with two guys and a half-empty bag of sweets.”

Yunho stopped mid-stride, his chest heaving. He looked down at his best friend, his hands twitching at his sides. “We don’t need a network yet. We just need like... five names and a mission statement.”

Seonghwa finally looked at Yunho, his expression skeptical as he swallowed. “You’re visibly shaking, sit down before you go through the floor.”

Yunho’s socks hissed against the wooden floor with every sharp turn of his pacing. “We don’t need a crowd. We need a list. Five names only and a faculty advisor who’s too tired to read the fine print.” Yunho stopped, his reflection flickering in the darkened window. He looked gaunt in the yellow light of the desk lamp, his fingers digging into his scalp again. “Professor Shin said my resume looks like a blank sheet of printer paper. ‘Technically functional, but nobody wants to hire a void,’ he told me. A void!”

Seonghwa sat up, the plastic bag of jellies crinkling. He swallowed, the sugar coating scratching his throat. “So you want to start a... what? A hiking club? We both hate stairs. A film circle? You fall asleep during the opening credits.”

“A— ” Yunho tripped over his own tongue, the momentum of his panic outstripping his vocabulary. He lunged toward the bed, knees hitting the mattress with a heavy thud that sent Seonghwa’s phone sliding toward the crack between the wall.

The door to the room creaked open, the rusted hinge screaming. Mingi stood there, one headphone hanging off his ear, a half-eaten convenience store kimbap in his hand. He looked between Yunho’s frantic posture and Seonghwa’s sugar-dazed expression. “Are you starting a cult?”

Yunho spun around, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, slick with a fine sheen of nervous sweat. “Mingi. You’re exactly the third person I was looking for.”

The navy haired boy took a slow, cautious bite of his kimbap, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. “I feel like I should leave.”

“No, no, stay!” Yunho blurted, the words tripping over each other and coming out in a jagged, high-pitched heap. He lunged forward, grabbing the hem of Mingi’s red hoodie with white-knuckled intensity. The fabric felt rough and smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. “You’re perfect! You’re… you’re non-affiliated!”

Mingi’s deep hum of confusion was a rumble that seemed to settle in the very marrow of Yunho’s bones. He stared at Yunho’s hand on his sleeve, then back at Yunho’s face, his eyes tracking the frantic twitch of the taller boy’s eyelid. “Man, your eye is doing that thing again. The glitchy thing.”

“I’m not glitching, I’m innovating!” Yunho squeaked, his voice cracking like dry parchment.

Seonghwa groaned, the sound muffled as he shoved another mango jelly into his mouth. “He’s lost it, Mingi. The internship panel broke him. He wants to invent a personality before Monday so he doesn’t have to put ‘Good at Valorant’ as his primary life skill.” Seonghwa sat up fully then, his brown fringe a mess around his face. He looked at Mingi, his eyes softening with a weary, beautiful sort of pity.

Mingi shifted his weight, his heavy boots clunking against the floor. He looked down at his kimbap, then back at the duo. “A club for what?” he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe. The wood groaned under his weight. “I’m not doing anything that involves physical labor or... talking to girls. Or boys. Or people in general.”

Yunho’s chest puffed out, his spine straightening until he was a full, looming 6’2” of confidence. He adjusted his glasses with one trembling finger, the plastic clicking against the bridge of his nose. “It’s... The E-Sports and Strategic Digital Coordination Union.”

Seonghwa paused, a mango jelly halfway to his lips. “That’s just a fancy word for a gaming club.”

“It’s a prestigious organisation, hyung!” Yunho’s hands began to fly, sketching invisible monitors in the stagnant air. “I’m talking high-level tactical analysis. We provide a space for competitive excellence. The university will see ‘Leadership’ and ‘Team Management’ on my resume. They’ll see a Captain!”

Mingi let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-choke, the scent of the kimbap’s sesame oil wafting through the air as he doubled over. “A gaming club? Yun, we’re in university, not fifth grade. Are we gonna have juice boxes and snack time after we lose a round of Roblox?”

“I am a Radiant rank! I have a sixty-percent win rate!” Yunho’s voice cracked on the last syllable, a sharp sound that betrayed his nerves. He lunged to his computer on the desk, the fans whirring to life like a jet engine. The glow of the RGB keyboard splashed neon violets and electric blues across his pale face, making his eyes look wide and manic. “Look! Look at the stats! I’m literally Top 200, I’ve spent 4,000 hours mastering utility lineups and macro-rotations. If I can IGL four randoms against pro players, I can lead a campus organisation!” He turned back to Mingi, his expression pleading, his fingers twitching. “Please. Just let me put your name down. I’ll buy you the deluxe kimbap for a month. The one with the double tuna.”

Mingi paused, his jaw working as he chewed, the saltiness of the dried seaweed sharp on his tongue. He looked at the frantic, giant nerd in front of him, then at Seonghwa, who was now slowly licking sugar off his fingers with a look of utter resignation. “Double tuna?” he finally stepped fully into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made the air feel suddenly heavy.

Seonghwa finally sat up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders to reveal a rumpled oversized sweater and grey sweats. “I don’t even know what ‘utility lineups and macro-rotations’ are,” Seonghwa said softly, his voice a smooth, grounding contrast to Yunho’s frantic energy. “The last time I played with you, I spent the entire round following you around and shooting at… whatever was moving. And then my gun started making that sad click noise, so I assumed it was tired.”

Yunho’s head snapped up. “That’s—hyung, that’s because you ran out of bullets. Guns don’t have infinite ammo!”

Seonghwa blinked, genuinely startled. “They don’t?”

“They do not.” Yunho jabbed a shaking finger at the screen like it had personally betrayed him. “You sprayed thirty rounds into a wall because the wall ‘looked suspicious’ and then, mid-fight, you started panic-staring at the floor like the bullets were going to grow back.”

“I thought it was like… Mario Kart,” Seonghwa said carefully, as if trying not to offend the concept of ammunition. “Like you just keep going.”

“It’s not Mario Kart!” Yunho hissed. “So then you picked up some random gun off the ground—because you had to—and you asked me if it was the ‘loud one’ or the ‘pointy one.’”

Seonghwa’s expression stayed serenely blank. “Well, they all look like… gun-shaped.”

“They are all gun-shaped,” the words were filled with nothing but pain. “But they’re different guns. Different fire rates. Different recoil. Different—”

Seonghwa waved a hand. “I didn’t want to be picky. I just grabbed the first one that fell out of a man.”

Yunho made a strangled sound. “And then your aim—hyung, your crosshair was doing figure eights. You were shooting walls. You were shooting the sky. You were shooting me. Repeatedly.”

“By mistake! I was trying to be supportive,” Seonghwa said, utterly unbothered. “In Animal Crossing, when someone looks stressed, I give them a gift. I thought I was giving you… covering fire.”

“YOU BLINDED ME,” Yunho snapped, eyes wide. “You hit me with your ‘blue ice balls’—”

“They’re pretty,” Seonghwa offered.

“They’re called Slow Orbs! And you used them like confetti!” Yunho’s hands flew up. “You threw one at spike. You threw one at a door we weren’t even pushing. You threw one at the ceiling because you said you wanted it to feel ‘wintery.’ And then you asked why you couldn’t throw more.”

Seonghwa frowned, offended on a philosophical level. “Because it should come back. It’s my power.”

“It doesn’t come back in the same round!” Yunho said, voice cracking. “Most abilities are one-time use, and you have to buy them before the round starts. You forgot to buy them. Half the game you were just—just a guy with a gun and no abilities because you spent all your credits on a ‘pretty’ pistol and then abandoned it in a corner because it clashed with your gloves!”

“It was clashing,” Seonghwa tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Fashion is a form of leadership, too.”

“And the agent you picked—” Yunho continued, clearly spiralling, “—you didn’t even know what they did. You used your ultimate because you said the button looked ‘important’ and then you immediately walked away because you got distracted by a plant texture.”

Seonghwa considered that. “It was a very nice plant.”

Yunho’s voice jumped an octave. “Then you found the Spike—”

“The beeping backpack,” Seonghwa corrected immediately.

“—and carried it to spawn to ‘meditate’ because it sounded anxious!” Yunho screamed, burying his face in his glowing keyboard. A series of random ASDFGH keys appeared on his screen. “That wasn’t a backpack! That was the objective! We lost the game because you were roleplaying a pacifist florist!”

Seonghwa shrugged, a tiny, elegant smile playing on his lips. “I just don’t think you should be in charge of an organisation if you can’t handle a little ice and some flowers, Radiant Rank.”

Yunho froze, his forehead still pressed against the keys. The mechanical switches clicked rhythmically under the weight of his head. Slowly, he peeled his face off the keyboard, a faint grid pattern from the keycaps imprinted on his cheek. “A… pacifist… florist…” Yunho whispered, his voice dangerously low. “Hyung, they have guns! They have knives! They have limited ammo. They have economy management. There is no ‘meditation’ in Valorant. There is only the grind.”

Seonghwa hummed a soft, melodic tune—the Wii Shop theme, Yunho realized with a jolt of horror—and reached for his Nintendo Switch on the nightstand. “If you say so. But while you were ‘grinding,’ I actually managed to cross-breed a gold rose today. It took a lot of discipline. Far more than clicking on heads.”

Yunho stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “You’re comparing a Top 200 Radiant peak performance to… to gardening?”

“I’m just saying,” Seonghwa said, his screen lighting up with the cheerful jingle of Animal Crossing. He didn’t even look up as he delivered the killing blow. “In my game, everyone likes me and the island is thriving. In your game, you just spent ten minutes screaming at the screen about a backpack and explaining to your Vice President that bullets are finite. Who’s the real leader here?”

Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t quite a scream and wasn’t quite a sob. He abruptly spun his chair around, slammed his headset on, and aggressively queued for a match. “I’m going in,” Yunho barked, his eyes narrowing as the MATCH FOUND sound boomed through the room. “I’m going to IGL this team into the dirt. I’m going to show you leadership!”

“Don’t forget to hydrate,” Seonghwa chirped, his thumbs happily clicking away at his Joy-Cons. “And try not to get mad at the ice balls this time. It’s just a game, Yunnie.”

“IT’S NOT A GAME, IT’S A CAREER!” Yunho roared, just as the loading screen popped.

Seonghwa only sighed, tilting his head. “So dramatic. He’d never survive a Bowser level in Super Mario.”

The room was a cacophony of clashing digital worlds. On one side, the high-octane thwip-thwip of tactical utility and the aggressive, metallic clack of Yunho’s mechanical keyboard; on the other, the soft, whimsical tinkling of Seonghwa’s island paradise. Mingi stood frozen by the doorway, his half-eaten kimbap forgotten in his hand. He looked like he’d walked into a glitch in the simulation. His eyes darted from Yunho—who was currently whispering into his mic with the intensity of a bomb squad technician—to Seonghwa, who was humming while digging a hole for a digital tree. 

“I... I think I’m having a stroke,” Mingi finally said, his voice sounding too dramatic, cutting through the Animal Crossing theme. “I am standing in a room with a 6 ’2” tactical mastermind, and a man who just admitted to committing international digital terrorism because the bomb was ‘anxious.’ What is happening? Why are we even like... alive right now?” He gasped loudly, then finally dropped onto the edge of Yunho’s bed, the springs groaning in protest. He buried his face in his free hand, his silver rings catching the neon glow of the keyboard. “Yun, look at me,” Mingi pleaded, his voice dripping with theatrical despair. “Look at your life! You’re queuing for a match at 11 PM on a Tuesday to prove a point to a guy who thinks a tactical shooter is a fashion show! You’re Radiant! You’re the 1%! Why are you letting the ‘Pacifist Florist’ over there get under your skin?”

“Because he’s wrong!” Yunho barked, not taking his eyes off the screen. His glasses were fogged up at the edges from his own heated breath. “He’s fundamentally undermining the integrity of the competitive ladder! He’s—SHOOT HIM, JETT! SHOOT HIM!”

Seonghwa didn’t even flinch at the shouting. He just tilted his Switch screen toward Mingi, a serene smile on his face. “Look, Mingi-ya. I got a new hat. It has a little sprout on top. Doesn’t it make me look approachable?”

Mingi stared at the tiny, pixelated sprout. Then he looked at Yunho, who was currently biting his lower lip so hard it was turning white as he clutched his mouse. “You guys are insane,” Mingi whispered, his drama levels reaching a fever pitch. He flopped backward onto the bed, limbs flailing, nearly kicking the empty bag of jellies onto the floor. “I’m the only normal person in this circle! I’m the only one seriously worried about the charter! We can’t start a gaming club if the Vice President thinks the objective is a Zen garden and the President is a hair’s breadth away from a literal cardiac arrest!” He sat up abruptly, his eyes wide. “Wait. If we start this club... do I have to play? Because I swear to god, Yunho, if you put me in a match and Seonghwa throws a ‘gift’ at me, I’m going to throw myself off the campus library roof. It’ll be a whole scene. I’ll make it very aesthetic and tragic.”

Yunho somehow died in-game—a crisp headshot that echoed through his headset. He slumped in his chair, the neon light making his ashy hair look like a halo. He slowly turned his head to look at Mingi, his expression completely hollow. “Mingi,” Yunho whispered, his voice cracking. “The Jett just told me I have ‘no rizz’ and muted me.”

Mingi snatched the headset, the plastic frame creaking in his large grip. He didn’t put it on; instead, he held it out like it was a piece of contaminated evidence. The muffled, tinny sound of a teenager screaming about “utility” leaked into the room, a sharp contrast to the peaceful clink-clonk of Seonghwa’s shovel. “No rizz?” Mingi looked at Yunho, who was currently trying to disappear into the mesh of his gaming chair, his ears a glowing, fiery red. “I’ve seen you trip over your own feet while standing still. I’ve heard you say ‘you too’ to a vending machine. But I will not let a twelve-year-old on the internet say you have no rizz!”

“I was just—the comms were cluttered!” Yunho squeaked, his hands fluttering toward his fogged-up glasses. He looked like he wanted to crawl into his own PC tower and live among the wires. “I’m a tactical leader! I don’t need ‘rizz’!”

Mingi tossed the headset back onto the desk with a heavy clatter. He stood up, stretching his long limbs until his knuckles brushed the ceiling. A smirk, sharp and teasing, pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at the wreckage of the two “leaders” before him. “Right. Good luck with that, Captain,” he chuckled mockingly. He reached out and ruffled Yunho’s hair, intentionally messing up the peaks Yunho had been stressing over. “You’re a genius behind a screen, but out there? In the hallway? You can’t even look the librarian in the eye without your voice doing that little flip.”

“It’s—it’s an efficiency tactic!” Yunho stammered, his face heating up until it felt like his skin was going to melt his glasses. “Minimal eye contact saves... saves social energy!”

“Sure it does.” Mingi turned toward the door, pausing to point a finger at Seonghwa, who was still happily planting bushes in his digital paradise. “And you. Vice President of Flowers. If you’re going to be the ‘face’ of this club, try not to tell people about the ‘anxious bombs.’ It’s bad for the brand.”

Seonghwa blew him a distracted kiss, his eyes never leaving his Switch. “The brand is empathy, Mingi-ya. You should try it sometime.”

Mingi let out a sharp laugh and pulled the door open. The rusted hinges gave one last, dying scream as he stepped out, “You guys still need two more names for that charter,” he called back, his voice echoing. “Two more people who are willing to be led by a guy who glitches in public and a florist who commits war crimes. Good luck finding those unicorns! I’ll be at the convenience store if you decide to give up and just become full-time losers!” The door clicked shut, leaving the room in a heavy, neon-blue silence.

“He’s right,” Yunho whispered, the “system crash” finally reaching its peak. “Hyung... who else is weird enough to join us?”

Seonghwa finally put his Switch down, his expression turning thoughtful as he looked at the door. “Well... I did see a guy in the library yesterday who was trying to fight a printer. He looked pretty motivated.”

Yunho groaned, his head hitting the desk with a soft thump.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The library didn’t smell like books; it smelled like a dozen overheating processors and approaching deadlines. Yunho marched toward the printer bay with his spine fused into a rigid, trembling line, clutching his flash drive like it was the last hope for humanity. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes were darting—left, right, checking the corners of the stacks—expecting a flank from a disgruntled librarian or, worse, a peer who might actually make eye contact. He reached the printer. Every shuffle of a sneaker against the floor sounded like a gunshot in his ears. His palms were so damp the flash drive nearly squirted out of his grip like a wet soap bar. “Focus, Yunho,” he hissed under his breath, a whisper that barely escaped his throat. “Check the angle. Execute the print. Clear the site.” He slid the drive into the port. The computer let out a cheerful ding that felt like a flash bang to his frayed nerves. On the screen, “his recruitment asset” bloomed in neon violets and electric blues—a masterpiece of digital authority. It looked like the login screen for a professional tournament. It looked like someone who had their life together.

Then, he clicked Print.

The machine didn’t hum. It choked. A wet, mechanical gurgle echoed through the quiet of the library, followed by the shrill, rhythmic scream of a red light.

[PAPER JAM. OPEN TRAY 2.]

Yunho froze. His breath hitched, fogging his glasses into two opaque white discs. He was blind, trapped in a public space, and the hardware had just staged a coup.

“Uh… excuse me?” The voice was smooth, casual, and utterly terrifying. Yunho spun around so fast his neck made a sound like a dry twig snapping. A student stood there, hip cocked, holding a stack of neatly stapled essays. They looked... functional. They looked like they had never felt the cold sweat of a botched social interaction in their entire life.

Yunho’s throat didn't just lock; it welded itself shut. He stared at the student, his 6’2” frame looming over them like a skyscraper that was about to be demolished. He tried to summon a word—any word—but his internal server was timing out. “I— I’m—” He produced a sound that was less a syllable and more the noise a laptop makes when it’s overheating. His hands tightened around the creased, jammed poster that was slowly being spit out of the machine’s maw like a piece of chewed gum.

“It’s jammed,” the student said, their voice dripping with a pity so sharp it felt like a knife-edge to Yunho’s chest. They reached past him—their arm brushing his sleeve, a contact that sent a literal jolt of electricity through his nervous system—and yanked the paper free. The poster was ruined. A jagged, diagonal scar ran through the word Coordination. It looked less like a prestige organisation and more like a ransom note.

“Thank you,” Yunho croaked. The student lingered. They were waiting. This was it. The perfect time for mission recruitment.

“Do you play games?” his brain shouted. “I think I’m dying,” his mouth felt.

“Do you…” Yunho began, and then his voice did a spectacular, triple-axel flip into a high-pitched squeak.

The student’s eyebrows shot up. “Do I…?”

The printer saved him from the final blow by letting out a long, mournful beep.

[OUT OF PAPER.]

Yunho didn’t just flinch; he practically performed a crouch. “Yes. Paper. Right. Objective. I mean—sorry!” He turned and fled. He didn’t walk; he pathfound the quickest route to the exit, clutching his mangled poster to his chest like a shield. His phone buzzed. A lifeline from the only other person on the planet who understood his specific brand of insanity.

Hwa Hyung: Did you die? Also I bought more mango jellies.

Yunho stared at the screen, his vision blurring. He was the human equivalent of a blue-screen error, standing in the middle of a library while students swirled around him.

Yunho: Not dead. Printer jam. No recruits. Emergency.

He hit send. And then, because his motor functions were officially offline, his fingers turned into wet noodles. The phone slipped. It didn’t just fall; it performed a graceful, mocking arc before slamming into the tile floor with a sound that echoed through the quiet library like a thunderclap.

A dozen heads turned.

Yunho stood there, 6’2” of pure system failure, looking down at his cracked screen.

“Reset,” he whispered to the floor. “Please... just... reset.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The library’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent, droning hummmm that matched the static frequency currently vibrating through Yunho’s skull. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. His sneakers were practically fused to the linoleum, and his phone—his poor, shattered lifeline—lay face-down on the floor like a fallen soldier.

An hour.

The sun had shifted outside the high, narrow windows, casting long, mocking shadows across the room. Students had ebbed and flowed around him like a tide, some casting confused glances at the towering, blonde statue clutching a mangled piece of paper, others just assuming he was part of some niche performance art piece. Yunho’s eyes were fixed on a specific scuff mark on the floor, his breathing shallow, his internal processor stuck at 99% completion on a task titled: Recover_Dignity.exe. His glasses had long since cleared of fog, leaving his vision sharp enough to see the microscopic dust motes dancing in the air. He felt like he was floating in a void, a soul trapped in a high-refresh-rate nightmare where the “Exit Game” button was grayed out.

The silence of his catatonia was suddenly shattered by the rhythmic, elegant click-clack of loafers. The scent of artificial mango and lavender fabric softener hit the air before the person even spoke. “Well,” a smooth, melodic voice sighed, vibrating with a mix of genuine concern and a hint of suppressed laughter. “I see the recruitment mission went... exactly as predicted.” Seonghwa stepped into Yunho’s vision. He looked like he’d just stepped off a runway, his hair perfectly swept back, his oversized knit sweater hanging off one shoulder with devastating grace. He looked down at the shattered phone, then up at Yunho’s frozen, pale face. “Yunho-ya,” Seonghwa said softly, reaching out. His cool fingers brushed against Yunho’s wrist. “The library is closing soon. Unless you’re planning on becoming the ghost of the printer bay, we should probably move.”

Yunho’s eyes slowly flickered. The “system crash” began to resolve, but the hardware was still glitching. He blinked once, twice, and then his head creaked toward Seonghwa like a rusted hinge. “Hyung,” Yunho whispered, his voice a dry, jagged husk of its former self. “The... the printer... it was a trap.”

“I know, Yunnie. Technology is a cruel mistress,” Seonghwa cooed, bending down with agonisingly slow grace to retrieve the broken phone. He inspected the spiderweb of cracks on the screen. “You really did a number on this. It looks like it’s been through a fight.” Seonghwa tucked the phone into his pocket and took the crumpled, scarred poster from Yunho’s death-grip. He looked at the neon gradient and the diagonal crease. “It’s actually quite aesthetic. Very... post-apocalyptic.” He moved to stand directly in front of his friend, taking both of the younger boy’s hands in his. “Mingi is waiting at the cafe across the street,” Seonghwa lied—Mingi was actually currently complaining about Yunho’s “dramatic disappearance” while eating a second blueberry muffin, but Yunho didn’t need to know that. “He says if you don’t show up in ten minutes, he’s going to register the club himself and name it ‘The Yunho Stutters a Lot Society.’”

That did it. The mention of Mingi’s chaotic interference acted like a hard-reset. Yunho’s spine snapped back into its 6’2” glory, and his eyes regained a flicker of that Radiant-rank focus. “He wouldn’t,” Yunho gasped, his voice finally returning to its normal frequency. “He doesn’t have the paperwork. He probably doesn’t even have his student ID on him!”

“He has a pen and a dream, don’t test him,” Seonghwa tugged Yunho toward the exit. As they walked—Yunho stumbling slightly like a newborn giraffe whose legs were still being calibrated—he looked down at Seonghwa. The older boy was smiling, that tiny, serene smile that always made Yunho feel like the world wasn’t actually ending, even if his “no rizz” status was now officially campus legend.

“Hyung?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can we... Can we go the back way? So nobody sees the guy who stood in the library for an hour?”

Seonghwa squeezed his hand, his eyes sparkling under the library’s dimming lights. “Of course.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The sun was a warm, heavy weight against your eyelids, the kind of heat that made the world feel blurry and kind. After a winter that had felt like an endless loop of grey slush and biting winds, the spring air was a gift—smelling of damp earth and the faint, sweet drift of cherry blossoms from the quad. You were sprawled across the wooden slats of the bench, your head tilted back, letting the Vitamin D sink deep into your skin until your bones felt soft.

The distant hum of the campus was just background noise—until it wasn’t. The rhythmic, frantic thump-thump-thump of heavy sneakers hitting the pavement began to override the chirping of the birds. It was followed by a sharp, melodic sigh that sounded far too elegant.

“Yunho, please, your legs are three miles long. Slow down before you break the sound barrier!”

You cracked one eye open, the sudden light stinging after the blissful darkness. Two figures were silhouetted against the blinding afternoon sun. One was slight, moving with a fluid, feline grace, his oversized knit sweater catching the breeze. But it was the other one who caught your attention. He was massive—a 6’2” wreck of ashy blond hair and frantic energy. He was clutching a piece of paper to his chest like it was a sacred relic, his glasses sliding so far down his nose they were barely hanging on.

“I have to find a spot, Hwa!” the tall one barked, his voice cracking mid-sentence. “A high-traffic area with low-judgmental density! If I don’t post this in the next five minutes, the momentum is gone!” He stopped abruptly, right in front of your bench. His shadow fell over you, instantly stealing your warmth. You looked up, squinting. From this angle, he looked even taller, a looming skyscraper of nerves. He was staring at the bulletin board directly behind your head, but as his eyes traveled down, they landed right on you. He froze. It was like watching a computer program hit a fatal error in real-time. His pupils dilated behind his fogged lenses, and his mouth fell open just enough for you to see his bottom lip tremble. He looked like he wanted to bolt, but his feet seemed to have forgotten how to function.

The shorter one in a beige sweater stopped beside him, crossing his arms like he needed the pressure to keep himself from dissolving. “Oh. Hi,” he said, and then immediately cleared his throat like the word had gotten stuck on the way out. “Sorry to interrupt your... nap.”

The tall blonde boy let out a sound like a strangled bird. “I—uh—we—post!” He thrust the paper toward the board, but his hand was shaking so hard the flyer was blurring when you looked at it. It was a neon-violet mess with a giant, jagged crease running through the middle. Before he could pin it, a gust of wind snatched it from his trembling fingers. The paper fluttered through the air, performing a mocking, graceful arc, before landing right on your lap.

You looked down at the flyer. It was covered in aggressive, messy handwriting in the margins that definitely wasn’t part of the original design.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

You looked back up at the tall boy. He was now a shade of red that you didn’t think was biologically possible. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust right there on the path. “I’m—I’m—I’m—” he stammered, his voice doing a spectacular, agonising flip.

You didn’t just look at the flyer; you took your time, your thumb smoothing over the crease that ran through the words Strategic Digital Coordination. Then, your eyes drifted to the margin. To the messy, black-inked betrayal of someone’s handwriting. “Leader has no rizz but is good at clicking heads...” You felt the heat of the sun on your skin, but the heat radiating off the boy in front of you was ten times more intense. You slowly looked up, the paper crinkling in your hand. You didn’t say a word. You just tapped your finger against the “no rizz” comment and raised a single, questioning eyebrow.

It happened in stages. First, the taller boy’s eyes widened until the whites were visible all the way around his irises, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks behind his glasses. Then, his mouth, which had been hung open in a frozen “O,” began to twitch. The vivid crimson of his cheeks didn’t just stay on his face—it surged downward, staining his neck, disappearing under the collar of his hoodie, and rising up to the very tips of his ears. He looked like a pressure cooker seconds away from a catastrophic failure. “I—it—he—Mingi—that’s—not—” He produced a series of choked noises that weren’t even syllables anymore. He tried to reach for the flyer, but his arm stopped halfway there, his hand spasming in mid-air before he jerked it back to his side as if he’d been burned.

The shorter boy made the mistake of meeting your eyes for a second. His expression did that same tiny, fatal stutter—like a screen trying to load a page on bad Wi‑Fi. The amusement drained right out of him, replaced by a polite, blank panic. His ears flushed pink. He opened his mouth like he had a line ready. Nothing came out. “Oh dear,” he managed finally, but it came out too soft, like he was apologising to the air. He stepped back half a pace, shoulders lifting as if he could physically make himself smaller. His fingers twitched at the hem of his sweater, an idle, nervous fidget. “I think he’s reached his limit. Yunho-ya? Are you still with us?”

Yunho clearly wasn’t. The 6’2” tactical genius had officially left the chat. His knees buckled just a fraction, his height dropping by an inch as his entire posture slumped. His glasses chose that exact moment to finally lose their battle with gravity, sliding down the bridge of his nose and hanging precariously off the tip. He didn’t even push them back up. He just stared at you, his eyes glazed over, his brain having successfully completed a total system shutdown to protect itself from further trauma. He was a statue of defeat, looming over your bench in the warm spring sun.

The Hwa guy, or whatever the tall one, Yunho, called him, stared at the flyer like it had personally attacked him. He reached down to pick it up, then hesitated, like touching it would make the situation more real. When he finally took it from your lap, his fingers brushed yours for the briefest second, and he flinched like he’d been hit with a static shock. “Um.” He swallowed. His throat bobbed. “So.” Another pause. His eyes darted anywhere but your face: the bulletin board, the path, the sky, the violent amount of sunlight. “If you… if you don’t mind.” He cleared his throat again, the sound too loud in the open air. “Do you play games? You don’t have to. That’s not— it’s not mandatory. This is— it’s just a club.” He shoved the flyer toward the board with a jerky motion, like he was trying to pin his own dignity up there with it. “And if you don’t, that’s fine too,” he added quickly, words tumbling over each other. “We can— we can find someone else. Or we can disband. Immediately. Right now. We can pretend this never happened.”

Before you could even open your mouth, they retreated. Yunho made a strangled noise—half apology, half evacuation order—already stepping backward like the ground in front of your bench was wired to explode. “S-sorry. Sorry for— for being here. Bye.” The word came out too fast, too high, and then he was turning, shoulders hunched like he could fold his frame into something invisible.

The other boy didn’t let it get any worse. His hand snapped around Yunho’s wrist with gentle, practiced efficiency, and he tugged. “Sorry,” he echoed, the syllable soft and polished, like it had been ironed. He didn’t look at you for more than a heartbeat. “Have a nice day.” And then he dragged stumbling Yunho away down the path.

The air felt suddenly, jarringly still after the frantic energy of them vanished. The click-clack of loafers and the clumsy scuff-thud of retreating sneakers faded into the distance, leaving only the scent of expensive, floral cologne and the lingering warmth of the sun. You sat still for a second, your fingers still tingling from where the brown haired boy hand had brushed yours. You looked down at your lap, expecting to find the flyer, but then remembered he had pinned it—or rather, shoved it—onto the board behind you.

The quad was back to its normal, sleepy spring rhythm. A couple of students walked by, laughing about a lecture, completely oblivious to the fact that the human equivalent of a system crash had just suffered a total hardware failure right on this very spot. You felt a strange, fluttering curiosity in your chest. They were so... much. Absolutely, catastrophically weird. You stood up, your joints popping after being sprawled on the bench for so long. You turned around to face the bulletin board, squinting against the glare of the sun reflecting off the glass casing.

There it was. It was pinned lopsidedly, one corner already fluttering in the breeze because Hwa had been too flustered to line it up properly. The flyer looked even more tragic up close. The giant crease across the middle made it look like it had survived a war, and the aggressive handwriting was shouting at everyone who walked by.

“LEADER HAS NO RIZZ BUT IS GOOD AT CLICKING HEADS. JOIN OR HE WILL CRY. - M”

Beneath it, in neat, technical print, was a Discord handle for an interest meeting that was scheduled in two days. Your eyes trailed down to the bottom of the board. There, lying in the grass beneath the pins, was something they’d dropped in their frantic retreat. It was a small, plastic bag, still half-full of yellow, translucent squares. Mango jellies. You picked up the bag. It was warm from the sun, smelling cloyingly sweet and artificial. You looked down the path where they had disappeared. They were long gone, probably hiding in some dark corner of the student lounge trying to figure out how to change their identities and move to a different country. You looked back at the flyer. “Need 5 names,” it said. They didn’t just need a member. They needed a miracle. Or at least someone who could hold a conversation without blue-screening.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The air was crisp, that biting spring wind nipping at your skin, but you didn’t mind. You leaned against the cold stone of the terrace wall, the familiar scent of tobacco smoke swirling around your head before being swept away by the breeze. You watched the quad through a hazy veil, your eyes narrowed. Down by the main path, you noticed the tall boy from a few days ago—Yunho, was it? He’d set up a rickety card table, his flyer taped to the front with too much Scotch tape. From up here, he looked like a giant trying to hide behind a blade of grass.

Then, you saw them. They didn’t walk; they prowled. A trio of girls whose coordinated outfits were as sharp as the insults they dealt. You felt a wave of cold disgust wash over you. You had the misfortune of sharing a few classes with them. They were—to say the least— annoying, mean in that practiced, effortless way—the kind of people who looked for blood everywhere. You watched as they circled the table. The leader, Seoyun, a girl with hair so polished it looked like she just left a hair salon, plucked a flyer up and laughed. The sound was high and brittle, carrying across the quad like a physical strike. Yunho’s reaction was visceral. You saw his shoulders hike up toward his ears, his frame trying to fold itself into a smaller, less noticeable shape. He reached up, his fingers trembling as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table, the plastic groaning under his weight.

“Wait, is this for real?” Seoyun sneered, her voice loud enough to make a passing group of freshmen stop and stare. “The ‘Strategic Coordination Union’? Is that a fancy name for ‘I have no friends and my breath smells like energy drinks’?”

Yunho’s head bowed. He tried to speak—you saw his jaw move, saw the frantic way he swallowed—but the system crash was in full effect. “I-it’s… it’s a p-professional… we have a r-ranking…”

“Oh my god, it stutters,” another girl, whose name you couldn’t remember, giggled, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. She leaned over the table, poking at a small figure Yunho had placed there for decoration. “Do you think if we keep talking, he’ll actually burst into tears? That would be such a vibe for my story.”

The disgust in your chest boiled over into a sharp, white-hot heat. You took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing bright, before walking down the stairs.

“‘Strategic Digital Coordination’?” the third girl drawled, her laughter a high, brittle sound that made your jaw ache. “Is that what we’re calling it now? It’s a gaming club for losers who can’t hold a conversation. It’s actually embarrassing.”

Yunho’s head dropped, his chin hitting his chest. He looked like he was trying to implode.

“It’s tragic, honestly,” the leader interrupted, her voice dropping into a register of fake, disgusting pity. She looked him up and down, a predatory glint in her eyes. “Look at you. You’re, what, six-two? And still managing to look like you’re asking permission to exist. You can’t even say one full sentence. Do you practice being embarrassing, or does it come naturally?” The other two girls erupted into giggles, the sound echoing off the walls. Yunho’s face didn't just turn red; it went a deep, bruised purple. He looked like he’d been slapped. His hands began to shake so violently the table rattled, and he squeezed his eyes shut behind his fogged-up glasses, his entire frame trembling with the effort not to cry. Seoyun stepped toward the rickety table. She reached out, her manicured fingers snagging the collar of Yunho’s oversized flannel. She yanked him forward, forcing his frame to hunch awkwardly over the plastic table. The legs of the table groaned, a sharp, plastic screeech that set your teeth on edge. “Six-two and you’re trembling because a girl touched your shirt?,” she hissed, her voice loud enough to draw a crowd of whispering onlookers. “It’s pathetic. You’re so useless.” She leaned in, her voice dropping into a register that made your skin crawl. “All that height, all that potential... and no one is ever going to fuck you. Not even for a pity fuck. Who would want to deal with a guy who probably stutters in bed as much as he does in the hallway? You’re a waste of space.”

Yunho looked like he was physically choking on his own shame. He tried to pull back, but his motor functions had completely stalled.

Then, Seoyun took it too far. With a lightning-fast motion, she reached up and snatched the glasses right off his face.

“Hey! Give them—!” Yunho’s voice broke, a high, desperate sound. Without his lenses, his eyes looked wide, glassy, and utterly terrified.

“Oh, look,” she mocked, holding the glasses high above her head like a trophy while her friends giggled. “The gamer is blind now. What are you gonna do, hm? Cry? Or are you just gonna stand there like a statue while I—” She didn’t finish. With a cruel, casual flick of her wrist, she dropped them. The glasses clattered across the pavement, the lenses hitting the concrete with a sickening clink that felt like a bullet to your chest. Yunho let out a sound that wasn’t even a word—just a raw, strangled sob of pure humiliation—and started to sink to his knees to find them, his hands groping blindly at the dirty ground.

The heavy soles of your Dr. Martens hit the pavement with a rhythmic, menacing thud-thud-thud, each step echoing the white-hot rhythm of the pulse in your neck. You took one last, deep drag of your cigarette, the smoke hot and biting in your lungs, and flicked the butt directly at Seoyun’s feet. It sparked against the concrete, a tiny explosion of orange embers that matched the fire behind your eyes.

You didn’t just intervene. You crashed into their little circle like a wrecking ball.

When the glasses hit the ground with that sickening sound, you saw Yunho’s soul shatter along with them. He was folding, collapsing into himself, his large hands trembling as they looked for the glasses. Seoyun reached out to kick the glasses away, her mouth open to deliver another filth-ridden insult about “pity fucks,” but you were faster. You stepped into her personal space, the scent of well-worn leather and stale smoke drowning out her sugary perfume. Without a word, you brought your hand up and slammed it into her shoulder. You didn’t just shove her; you launched her. She flew back a good three feet, her heels skidding on the pavement until she hit the dirt, her two friends shrieking as they scrambled to get out of your way.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you pathetic, bottom-feeding bitch?” Your voice wasn’t quiet; it was a roar that silenced the entire quad. You stepped over the table, your fishnets snagging slightly on the plastic edge, and loomed over her. You flexed your fingers, your long black nails catching the sunlight. “You think because he’s quiet, he’s a target? You think because you’ve got a high-end concealer on, no one can see how fucking ugly you are on the inside?”

“You’re—you’re assaulting me!” Seoyun shrieked from the ground.

“I’m teaching you a fucking lesson,” you barked, leaning down until you were inches from her nose, your heavy eyeliner making your gaze look even angrier. “Touch him again. Say one more goddamn word about what he does or who would fuck him. I dare you. I will drag you across this campus by your fake-ass extensions until there’s nothing left but a grease stain. Pick up the glasses. NOW.”

She scrambled. It was a frantic, undignified crawl. She snatched the cracked frames from the dirt and thrust them toward you, her whole body shaking. You grabbed them, the metal cold against your skin, and stood up straight, your leather jacket creaking as you squared your shoulders. “Get the fuck out of my sight,” you snapped.

They didn’t wait. A click of heels cut through the heavy silence of the quad. But Seoyun hadn’t gotten far. She’d turned back, her ego unable to swallow the humiliation of being shoved in public. Her friends hovered behind her, waiting for her lead. She tipped her chin up, her eyes raking over your Dr. Martens, your fishnets, and your heavy eyeliner with a sneer that was more defensive than dominant. “Whatever,” she spat, her voice trembling just enough to betray her. “You’re the same kind of loser he is. You just wear it louder.”

You didn’t flinch. You took one slow, deliberate step forward, the leather of your jacket creaking like a warning. “Wrong,” you said, your voice a low, razor-clean growl that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. Without breaking eye contact, you jabbed a thumb toward the 6’2” wreck of a boy behind you. “I’m his star. You heard me.”

Seoyun’s mouth curled into something ugly. “Oh my god. What, are you his girlfriend now? Is that the only way a freak like him gets a pity-save?”

You let out a laugh—a sound that had no humour in it, only teeth. “No,” you said, leaning in until you were close enough to watch her pupils shrink. “I’m his pro-tier controller. His star recruit. The kind of player who doesn’t just win games—I end careers.” You let the silence hang for a heartbeat, watching the sweat break on her forehead. “And if you ever touch him again,” you continued, your voice dropping to a dangerous, lethal purr, “or if you even think about opening that mouth to say that shit again, I will drag you so hard across this campus they’ll think you got hit by a fucking truck. I’ll make sure the only thing people remember about you is the way you looked when I was done with you.” The girl’s expression didn’t just flicker; it collapsed. The “mean girl” mask shattered, leaving nothing but a terrified student who realized she had finally stepped in front of a real monster. “Go,” you said, the word flat and final. “Before I change my mind and make this genuinely embarrassing for you.” She didn’t wait for a second invitation. Seoyun turned on her heel, her “backup” stumbling over each other to follow.

The adrenaline was still humming in your veins, making your hands itch for another fight. You stood motionless for a second, chest heaving, watching the retreating backs of those three girls until they were nothing but a bad memory and a faint scent of perfume. Slowly, you turned back to the wreckage of the recruitment table. Yunho was still frozen. He was standing there in pure shock, his hands still hovering in the air where he’d been trying to shield himself. Without his glasses, his eyes were wide, blinking rapidly, looking incredibly soft and vulnerable against the harsh sunlight. He looked at you—at your scuffed boots, your leather jacket, the unapologetic sneer still ghosting on your lips—and he didn’t say a word. You stepped closer, the leather of your jacket creaking. You reached out, your long black nails glinting as you held out the cracked glasses. “Here,” you said, your voice still rough and low with leftover rage. “One of the lenses is fucked, but they’re still in one piece.”

Yunho’s hand shook as he reached for them, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact was like a live wire. He flinched, his face turning a shade of red that looked physically painful. He slid the glasses back on, the spiderweb crack bisecting his vision, and finally looked at you properly. “You...” He choked on the word, his voice cracking spectacularly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Y-you... just... you shoved her.”

“She deserved a lot worse than a shove,” you snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. You kicked at a fallen flyer with the toe of your Martens. “You just gonna stand there and let those bottom-feeders talk to you like that? You’re twice their size, for fuck’s sake.”

Yunho flinched again, his shoulders hunching as he looked down at his boots. “I-I... I don’t... I’m not good at... people. T-talking. It’s hard.” He looked back up at you, his eyes shimmering with a mix of terror and absolute, unfiltered awe. “N-no one has ever... done that for me. Ever.” He looked at the rickety table, then back at you, his expression shifting into something frantic and desperate. He lunged for a crumpled clipboard that had survived the scuffle, holding it against his chest like a shield. “I—I’m Yunho,” he squeaked, the word coming out an octave too high. He was shaking now, a tremor running through his massive frame. You introduced yourself without breaking the eye contact. “I’m starting... a club. For... for gaming. Competitive gaming.” He looked at your heavy eyeliner, your fishnets, and your “don’t fuck with me” aura, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to run away. But then, he stayed. He planted his feet, his jaw tightening even as his hands continued to shake. “You’re... you’re really cool,” he whispered. “And... and I think you dropped this.” He reached down, picking up your lighter that must have fallen from your pocket. He held it out to you, his fingers trembling, his eyes searching yours behind his broken lenses. You took the lighter from his shaking fingers, your black nails grazing his palm. You tucked it into your pocket, eyes narrowing as you watched him. 

It was starting to sink in. The word Pro-tier was echoing in his head, overriding his fear, his shyness, and the humiliation of the last minutes. “You—you really…” Yunho gripped the clipboard so hard the plastic groaned. “You said you’re a controller… You said it to her face.” He took a step toward you, his frame finally unfolding. He was still blushing, still stammering, but his eyes were suddenly burning with an intensity you wouldn’t expect from him. ”What—what’s your rank? Are you Radiant?” he squeaked, his words starting to tumble out faster and faster, a waterfall of gamer-jargon fuelled by pure adrenaline. “I—I’ve been looking for someone for my team with that kind of... of aggressive spacing! Did you see how you took that space? You cleared the site! You didn’t even hesitate, you just—you just executed!” He began to pace in a small, frantic circle around the broken table, his hands gesturing wildly as if he was explaining a map strategy to a ghost. “If you’re a controller... if you can click heads like you just shoved her... oh my god.” He stopped, looming over you again, his breath coming in short, excited huffs. “Do you play on high-sens? You look like a high-sens player. Your movements are so—so flick-heavy! Please tell me you have a decent headshot percentage.” He thrust the pen at you, nearly poking your chest in his excitement. He was a mess—a gorgeous, stuttering, 6’2” mess—but for the first time, he wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking at you like you were the final piece of a puzzle. “Sign it!” he pleaded, a manic sort of grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sign the charter. I don’t care if you’re scary. I don’t care if you smoke! Mingi smokes too! If you can play like that... we’re going to be unstoppable. We’ll make them all eat their words. Please. Just tell me... who’s your main?”

You looked at the pen, then at the “Member 4” slot on the crumpled charter. Behind that spiderweb crack in his glasses, Yunho’s eyes were wide and shining—not with tears anymore, but with a frantic worship. To him, you weren’t just the girl who had dog-walked his bullies; you were the legendary player who was going to save his failing dream.

Yunho kept looking at you like an excited puppy who’d just seen a leash, all trembling hands and too-bright eyes, like he might start wagging his entire body if you gave him one more second of attention. You should have told him the truth. You should have said you didn’t even have the game installed, that you only knew the words coming out of his mouth because your roommate, Wooyoung, treated Valorant like a religion and wouldn’t shut up about it. But Yunho was holding the pen out like it was a lifeline, and after what those girls had said to him, you couldn’t bring yourself to cut him down with something as small and stupid as honesty.

Viper.

The second the name left your lips, you wanted to swallow it back down along with the smoke still stinging your throat. You hadn’t even thought about it. It was just a memory of Wooyoung screaming at his monitor at 3:00 AM, something about “toxic screens” and “lineups” while you pounded on the wall telling him to shut the hell up. You bit down on your lower lip, your eyeliner masking the “oh shit” moment happening behind your eyes.

The reaction from Yunho was visceral. He didn’t just freeze—he looked like he’d been struck by lightning. His mouth fell open, and for a second, the stuttering stopped completely. Then, he let out a sound that was less a word and more of a high-pitched, strangled whistle. “A... a Viper main?” he squeaked. His voice didn’t just flip; it broke into a dozen different pieces. He looked down at your long black nails, and you watched him swallow so hard his Adam’s apple practically did a backflip. In the game, Viper was a cold, commanding scientist in a skin-tight suit. Looking at you in your leather jacket, looking like you’d just come from a riot, the resemblance was... unfortunate for his heart rate. “You... you play the chemist?” he clutching that clipboard to his chest like it was a shield against his own feelings. “She’s—she’s one of the hardest agents! She’s... sophisticated. D-dangerous. You have to be so... in control to play her.”

Oh, I’m in so much trouble.

Internally, your brain wasn’t just panicking; it was a full-blown room on fire. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you screamed at yourself behind your cool, “unbothered” expression. Who is she?! you frantically demanded of your memory, trying to scrape together every late-night rant you’d ever heard from your roommate. Wooyoung—that loud, chaotic menace—usually spent his nights screaming at his dual monitors while you tried to study. Think, think! You remembered him yelling something about “Mommy Viper” while slamming a peach flavoured Red Bull. You remembered him complaining about a “poison cloud” and something called a “snake bite” that apparently didn’t involve actual snakes. Most importantly, you remembered him mooning over her voice—how she sounded like she was bored of everyone’s existence but would also kill them without blinking.

“I—I have a lot of... respect for Viper mains,” Yunho stammered, his ears glowing a luminous pink. “I mean, I think her kit is... very balanced. And her—her voice lines are—I mean, her strategy is very... intense.” He was lying through his teeth about the “strategy part.” Everyone on the server knew Yunho’s desktop wallpaper was a high-res fanart of Viper looking down at the camera. And here you were, smelling like smoke and looking like you were ready to decay anyone who crossed you.

“She’s the Queen of the Pit, you don’t understand!” Wooyoung had wailed once while you were trying to sleep. “She’s scary, she’s smart, and she makes everyone feel like they’re suffocating!” And now, looking at Yunho—who was literally staring at you like you’d just cured every known disease—you realized you’d accidentally stepped into the most dangerous role of your life.

“Please,” he pleaded, his voice soft and desperate. “Sign it. We need a Viper. I need a Viper.” You looked at the clipboard, but all you could think about was the absolute, ruinous devotion in Yunho’s eyes. He wasn’t just recruiting a teammate; he was recruiting his literal idol.

The pen felt heavy in your hand, like a weapon you didn’t know how to safety-check. Your brain immediately started screaming. What was the line? Ugh, Wooyoung would always say it was the hottest thing any agent ever said—he’d rant about it for hours while his neon-green keyboard light bathed the dorm. And then it hit you, clean and sharp, like a bullet you didn’t see coming. With a sharp, aggressive flourish, you scrawled your name. The ink was dark and bold, cutting into the paper just like you’d cut through those bullies. You handed the clipboard back, fingers lingering against his for a second too long, and leaned in. “They call me a monster,” you purred, the words vibrating low in your throat, mimicking that bored, lethal rasp you’d heard coming from Wooyoung’s speakers a thousand times. You tilted your head, your smirk growing razor-sharp as you looked at him through the spiderwebbed crack in his glasses. “Shall I prove them right?” You almost cringed at yourself, the internal embarrassment hot enough to melt your make-up, but you forced your face to stay ice-cold. If you were going to commit to this lie, you had to commit all the way. You couldn’t just be the girl who saved him; you had to be the chemist he was currently daydreaming about. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t blink. Don’t apologise. What would a ‘monster’ do? You let a slow, icy smirk crawl across your lips, even as your stomach did a nauseating somersault.

Yunho didn’t just freeze; he looked like his soul had been physically yanked out of his chest and replaced with high-voltage electricity. His eyes blew wide, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the brown of his irises. The crimson flush didn’t just stay on his cheeks—it raced down his neck, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt. He let out a sound that wasn’t even human—a tiny, strangled wheeze that sounded like a tea kettle reaching its breaking point. “V-Viper...” the word was barely a breath. He was trembling so hard the clipboard rattled in his hands. The “Gamer Persona” was fighting a losing battle against the “Massive Fanboy,” and the fanboy was currently screaming in a language only gods and nerds understood. To him, the pixels had just stepped out of the screen, put on a leather jacket, and threatened him with a good time.

Holy shit, it worked, your brain hissed, even as your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your ribs. He actually thinks I’m her. I’m going to hell. I’m literally going to hell for this. You didn’t give him time to recover. You reached out, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw for a split second—a touch so brief it could have been a hallucination, but it made him flinch like he’d been burned. It was the final killing blow. Yunho practically jumped out of his own skin. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his breath hitching in a way that made it clear he’d forgotten how to use his lungs for anything other than worship.

“I—I—” he fumbled with the clipboard, nearly dropping it twice before he managed to pin it against his chest. “Discord! I need—we need—to coordinate the... the lobby! The server! I have a private channel for the SCU—the Strategic Coordination Union—and I... I need to...” He stopped, blinking rapidly. He looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe, let alone how to operate a smartphone. “I don’t have... I mean, I have a QR code! Somewhere!” He began frantically patting down the pockets of his jeans. He looked like a giant puppy trying to find a lost bone while on a sugar high. “Wait, no, it’s—it’s on the flyer! The one those girls... they...” He looked at the ground where the crumpled, dirty flyers lay, and his face fell for a split second, a flicker of that earlier hurt returning. But then he looked back at you—at Viper who had just claimed him—and the panic returned tenfold. “Just—just tell me!” he squeaked, holding his phone out with both hands as if he were offering you a sacred relic. His hands were shaking so hard the screen was a blur. “What’s your username? I’ll—I’ll add you! I’ll make you an Admin! I’ll give you a custom role! It’ll be neon green! Like—like your... like the pit!”

The username. Your brain went into a full-blown emergency lockdown. What the fuck is my Discord username?! You usually only used it to send Wooyoung memes or tell him to turn his volume down. You blurted it out, praying to every god of gaming that it was correct. Yunho’s thumbs flew across the screen, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in sheer concentration. He hit ‘Send Friend Request’ with a flourish that was almost cinematic. When his phone chirped with the confirmation, he let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “I'll send you the link at 8:00 PM. We’ll run a warm-up.” He was beaming now, the trauma of the bullying completely overwritten by the sheer, geeky ecstasy of having a Pro Viper on his team.

“Don't be late,” you warned, putting on your best cold-voice one last time as you began to back away. “I have a very low tolerance for... technical difficulties.”

“I’ll be early!” Yunho shouted after you, waving his phone in the air as you walked away. “I’ll be there at 7:30! I’ll be there forever!”

The second you turned the corner and hit the shade of the wall, you collapsed against the brick, your lungs finally burning with the air you’d been holding. Your hands were shaking so hard you almost dropped your phone.

“Wooyoung,” you hissed into a voice note, your voice trembling with pure panic. “You have four hours. If you don’t teach me how to play your game and be a ‘toxic scientist’ Viper by dinner, I am telling everyone you still sleep with a nightlight!”

Your phone buzzed against your hand with such violence you nearly jumped out of your skin.

[1] New Discord MentionServer: Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL) Channel: #general-tactics

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: GUYS WE HAVE 4TH MEMBER! SHE SIGNED IT!!! I’M LITERALLY SHAKING. SHE CALLED HERSELF A MONSTER. MINGI, SHUT UP, SHE’S GOING TO BE OUR VIPER AND IF YOU ANNOY HER I WILL PERSONALLY UNINSTALL YOUR LIFE.

FixOn_Mingi: lol. i’m scared but also... i’m sat.

“Oh, I’m so dead,” you whispered, sliding down the brick wall until your thighs hit the gravel. “I am a dead person. I’m a corpse.”

Your phone erupted. Wooyoung wasn’t just replying; he was calling. The second you hit ‘accept,’ his voice blasted through the speaker. “A VIPER MAIN?!” Wooyoung screeched, and you could practically hear him falling off his gaming chair. “YOU? YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE WASD KEYS ARE! YOU ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE CALCULATOR THREE TIMES THE LAST TIME YOU TRIED TO PLAY MINESWEEPER!”

“Shut up!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your ear like a weapon. “I had to! He was getting bullied by those three girls, they broke his glasses, and he looked like a kicked puppy. Then I signed the charter and—oh god—I did the voice—the monster line I always hear from your speakers!”

“Wait, wait, wait—hold on. Pause. Full stop,” Wooyoung’s voice dropped from a screech into a sharp, nosy hiss, like he’d just smelled drama in the air. You could hear the frantic squeak of his gaming chair as he scooted closer to the mic. “Who are we even talking about? Since when do you care about the general public? Last week you said men were a ‘distraction from your sleep schedule’ and you meant it with your whole chest.”

You squeezed your eyes shut so hard you saw stars. “It wasn’t about caring. It was about him getting publicly mauled like a wounded deer, and me being biologically allergic to injustice.”

“Uh-huh,” Wooyoung said, drawing the syllable out like he was tasting it for poison. “So you shoved his bullies into a different zip code, lied about being a Viper main, and then role-played a femme fatale voice line at a campus nerd. On purpose?”

You opened your mouth to defend your honour.

He cut you off immediately, his voice climbing an octave. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Are you actually… ovulating right now? Because the last time your hormones hit that level of insane, you tried to hit on me and I am still severely traumatised! I still see your ‘come hither’ eyes in my nightmares, and let me tell you, they were terrifying! Are you literally in heat for a nerd right now or what is actually happening?!”

“I was NOT in heat!” you snapped, your face turning a shade of red that rivalled Yunho’s earlier meltdown. “And I did NOT hit on you, I was just being—"

“You were being a menace to society!” Wooyoung shouted, deeply offended. “You looked at me like I was a snack-sized bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I had to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours! And now? Now you’re out here in the wild, using ‘Mommy Voice’ on a nerd who probably looks like he’s never even seen a woman before! It’s predatory! It’s shameless! I’m reporting you to the campus authorities!”

“I was saving him from bullies!”

“By claiming his soul?!” Wooyoung cackled, the sound of his keyboard clacking like a machine gun in the background. “Girl, you didn’t save him, you claimed him. You hit him with the Viper line! That poor boy is probably currently writing your name in his notebook with little hearts around it while he shakes like a leaf. You’ve ruined his life, and frankly? I’m proud. But also, I’m calling a priest.”

“He’s… tall,” you said, the word coming out like a confession of a crime.

Wooyoung gasped so violently he actually smacked his mic. “TALL? Oh my god. Of course. Your type is ‘could carry me to safety’ even though you literally bite people when they try to help you.”

“I do NOT bite people!”

“You bite the air when you’re mad, it counts! Okay. Tall. Glasses. Nervous. Is he rich? Is he sad? Does he look like he needs a hug? Because that’s your kryptonite. You see one pathetic little tremble and suddenly you’re Mother Teresa in heavy eyeliner and a leather jacket.”

“I wasn’t being Mother Teresa!” you hissed, pushing off the brick and starting to pace. Gravel crunched under your boots, sounding like it was being punished for your sins. “They took his glasses, Woo. Like cartoon villains. And he just… stopped. Like his body got unplugged.” There was a beat of silence. Not the teasing kind. The rare, dangerous kind where Wooyoung’s actual brain engaged.

“Okay,” he said, his voice dropping. “Yeah. That’s… actually trash. I’d have kicked them too.” The softness lasted exactly two seconds. “But also,” he added immediately, “you should still be arrested for what you did. ‘They call me a monster’?” He made a choking, gagging sound. “WHO ARE YOU? A Wattpad villain? EXO member? I’m calling the police. The crime is terminal cringe.”

“Shut up!” you yelped, mortified all over again. “It just came out of my mouth! Like vomit! Like a demon possessing my vocal cords!”

“A demon named Mommy Viper,” Wooyoung sang, his voice dripping with glee.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, feeling the cold metal of your rings against your skin. “I don’t even know what she does, Woo. I just remembered you screaming about her at 3 AM.”

Wooyoung’s inhale was sharp and delighted. “Oh, baby. This is my Super Bowl. This is my villain origin story.” In the background, you heard the familiar click-clack of his mechanical keyboard, the aggressive thunk of his desk drawer opening, and then—like he was summoning a ritual—an energy drink cracked open. Tshhh. “Step one,” Wooyoung’s voice suddenly calmed in a way that made your skin prickle. “You are going to stop pacing like you’re about to fight God. Step two, you have four hours. Four hours to become a toxic scientist with commitment issues. And you’re going to do it because I refuse to let you die of embarrassment on a Discord server.”

You made a strangled noise. “It’s called ‘Strategic Digital Coordination (PROVISIONAL).’”

“Everything about this is provisional. Your self-control. Your dignity. Your ability to keep a straight face when you see him again.”

“Woo,” you said quietly, staring at the notification on your screen like it was a live grenade. “He’s going to want to… play. With me.”

Wooyoung’s voice softened, just a fraction. Not gentle—he didn’t do gentle—but less jagged. “Then we make you good enough to not get exposed in the first round.”

“And if I do?”

“Oh, you will,” Wooyoung said cheerfully. “But you’re going to get exposed later, after you’ve already emotionally imprinted on the tall nerd boy and he’s already given you a custom neon-green role. We’re playing the long con, Viper.”

“What if he’s… like… actually nice?” you muttered.

Wooyoung made a loud, wet gagging sound. “Oh my god. You’re in heat. I’m hanging up. I’m calling a vet.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“Too late! I’m already Googling the nearest 24-hour animal hospital!” Wooyoung was fully committed to the bit now. “I’ll tell them I have a rabid Viper main who needs to be tranquillised and put in a cage before she flirts a 6’2” puppy into a coma!”

“I am going to actually murder you!” you hissed, finally reaching a bus stop, your travel card trembling as you tapped it on the reader. “I’m coming in. If I see one TikTok of a golden retriever on your screen, I’m snapping your keyboard in half.”

“Oh, you’re so scary when you’re feral,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock-terror. “Listen, I’m sending you a link. Click it. It’s the ‘Viper Voice Lines’ compilation. Listen to it until you can say ‘Come here’ in a way that makes me want to file a restraining order. And for the love of God, stop blushing! I can hear your face getting hot!”

“I’m hanging up now,” you muttered, leaning your forehead against the cool glass of the window.

“Wait! One more thing!” Wooyoung’s voice turned deathly serious, dropping into a dramatic whisper. “If he asks about your ‘lineups,’ just look him dead in the eye and say ‘I don’t need a map to know where to strike.’ It means absolutely nothing and it’s a total lie, but he’ll probably fall to his knees and offer you his firstborn son.”

“You are a menace to society,” you breathed, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your throat.

“I am your only hope, Monster,” Wooyoung sang. “Now get in here. We have a reputation to build and a tall boy to accidentally-on-purpose traumatize.” The line went dead, leaving you seated with the hum of the bus ringing in your ears and your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You looked down at your phone one last time. A new message was sitting there, glowing in the dim light.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: Hi. Sorry. I forgot to ask. Do you... do you prefer the Phantom or the Vandal? I want to make sure I buy the right skins for you to use when we swap.

You stared at the message. You didn’t even know what a Phantom was. It sounded like a car. Or a ghost from the opera.

You: Surprise me.

You sent it, your thumb trembling. It was the only “Viper-coded” thing you could think of.

Golden_Retriever_Yunho: ...oh. Okay. Wow. Yes. Ma’am.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The apartment was no longer a living space; it was a high-stakes command centre for two men who had completely lost their grip on reality. Yunho was practically glowing. He was standing in the middle of the kitchenette, staring at a piece of toast as if it held the secrets to Viper’s heart. “She’s real, Viper is real,” Yunho breathed, his voice swinging wildly between a reverent whisper and a panicked squeak. “She’s real. She’s not just a collection of pixels and voice lines. She wears Dr. Martens. She smells like tobacco and—and justice. She shoved that girl so hard!”

Seonghwa was sitting on the edge of the sofa, a microfibre cloth in one hand and a bottle of lens cleaner in the other. He looked like he’d aged five years in the last hour. He was meticulously trying to polish the smudge off Yunho’s broken glasses, but his eyes were narrowed in deep suspicion. “Yunho, she smells like smoke,” Seonghwa muttered, his voice full of protective fret. “And she was aggressive. From what you just said she’d probably been in a street fight. And I still remember her eyeliner from the other day... It was so heavy. How can you trust someone whose eyes you can’t even see properly? And look at these frames! They’re spiderwebbed! We have to go to the optometrist or you’re going to get a migraine.”

“I don’t need eyes where we’re going!” Yunho shouted, throwing his arms out. “She’s a pro-tier! She’s a Viper main! Do you know what she said to me? She looked me dead in the eye—the broken lens side—and she said, ‘Shall I prove them right?’ I nearly died. I actually felt my soul leave my body.”

From the corner of the room, a loud, muffled thud sounded. Mingi, who had been sprawled across his gaming chair with his headset on, suddenly ripped his ears off. He spun around, his jaw practically hitting his knees. His hair was a mess, and his eyes were wide with a very specific, very desperate brand of terror. “Wait, back up. Did you just say... a Viper main? Who quoted the ‘Monster’ line?”

“Yes!” Yunho beamed, tripping over a stray power cord in his excitement.

Mingi’s face went completely pale. He looked at his second monitor, where a high-res wallpaper of Viper stood in her emerald-green gas. Then he looked at Yunho. Then he looked at the door as if he expected you to kick it down right now. “No way,” he whispered, “No. Way. That’s—that’s the dream! Yun, if she’s actually a pro Viper... I’m trash. I’m literally garbage beneath her boots. You realise she’s going to eat us alive, right?”

“I want her to!” Yunho yelled, completely unhinged. “I mean—tactically! I want her to lead!”

Seonghwa stood up, holding the cracked glasses out like a peace offering, though his face was a mask of pure worry. “This is a disaster. You’re both in love with a girl who sounds like she’s going to set the apartment on fire. Yunnie, please, put these on. At least see the girl clearly before you give her your social security number.”

“I don't need to see!” Yunho cheered, grabbing the glasses and sliding them on, the crack splitting his vision of the room into fragments. “8:00 PM, boys! The Queen is coming to the Pit, and I haven’t even vacuumed!”

Mingi scrambled to his feet, suddenly frantic. “Vacuum? Screw the vacuum! Hyung, help me find my good jersey! The one that makes my shoulders look broad!”

Seonghwa just sank back onto the couch, buried his face in his hands, and whispered a silent prayer for their sanity—and their internet bandwidth.

“I’m going to marry her,” Yunho announced proudly, his voice reaching a frequency that made the nearby windows rattle. “I don’t care if she’s a monster. I’ll be her monster-husband. We’ll have a green-themed wedding. Everyone will have to wear gas masks. It’ll be aesthetic.”

“You met her an hour ago! She shoved a girl! She threatened to drag someone across the pavement! She probably has a criminal record!”

“She has a vision!” Yunho lunged for a notebook and began scribbling frantically. “I need to know her favourite map. If it’s Bind, we’re honeymooning in Morocco. If it’s Icebox, I’m buying a puffer jacket. I’m already looking at engagement rings—do they make them with miniature poison canisters? Is that a thing? Mingi, look it up!”

Mingi wasn’t looking anything up. He was currently having a spiritual experience in his gaming chair. He had draped a green hoodie over his head like a cowl and was staring at his reflection in his darkened monitor. “I’ve decided,” he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and entirely delusional. “I’m going to be her loyal guard dog. I’ll be the one who dies for her. Every round. I’ll run into the line of fire just so she can get one extra kill. We’re going to be a power couple, Yunho! You, me, and the Goddess of the Pit!” Mingi yelled, spinning his chair around.

“That’s a throuple! That’s a completely different team comp!”

Seonghwa could hear the sound of his own blood pressure rising. “She is a girl with a cigarette and a bad attitude,” he moaned into his palms. “She is going to join the server, realise you two are barking like stray dogs, and she’s going to delete us. She’s going to delete our whole lives.”

“She’s a pro-tier!” Yunho squeaked, ignoring his hyung entirely as he started practicing his ‘cool gamer voice’ in the microwave door reflection. “‘Welcome to the team, Viper-nim. I’ve prepared three different site-executes and a bouquet of black roses.’ No, that’s too much. ‘Hey, Queen. Ready to decay?’ Yes. That’s the one.”

Mingi started doing push-ups in the middle of the living room. “I have to be in peak physical condition,” he gasped between reps. “What if she wants to 1v1 me? I have to have the stamina to lose gracefully!”

“THE GAME IS PLAYED WITH YOUR HANDS, SONG MINGI!” Seonghwa screamed, finally snapping. “PUT YOUR DAMN COMPUTER GLASSES BACK ON, SIT DOWN, AND PRAY SHE DOESN’T REALISE WE’RE ALL IDIOTS!”

But it was too late. The delusion had taken root. In their minds, the wedding bells were already ringing.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You slammed the door behind you with a force that made the pictures on the wall rattle, your boots thudding against the hardwood as you sprinted toward the living room. The apartment smelled like spicy ramen and Red Bull. “WOOYOUNG!” you bellowed, the panic finally boiling over. You rounded the corner into the living room, and the sight stopped you dead. Wooyoung was slumped in his $500 ergonomic gaming chair, back-lit by the neon violet and acid-green glow of his dual monitors. He was wearing his oversized hoodie, his black hair a chaotic mess where he’d clearly been tugging at it in anticipation. He didn’t even turn around; he just held up a single, dramatic finger while his other hand flew across the mechanical keyboard in a blur of click-clack-clack-clack.

“Don’t speak,” he commanded, his voice tight with focus. “I’m in the middle of a clutch. If I die now, it’s a bad omen for your entire fake career.” A second later, a loud, metallic SHINK sounded from the speakers, followed by a frantic cheering noise. Wooyoung threw his hands up, spun the chair around with a violent kick of his heels, and levelled a look at you that could have withered a cactus. “You,” he said, pointing a half-eaten pocky stick at your face. “You are the harbinger of my demise. Look at you. You’re practically glowing. You look like you just committed a felony and enjoyed it.”

“I’m in a crisis!” You collapsed onto the beanbag next to his desk, burying your face in your hands. “He’s... he’s so earnest. He’s 6’2” and earnest and I’m a liar!”

Wooyoung leaned back in that stupidly expensive chair, one knee bouncing with rhythmic, caffeinated energy. The neon from his monitors carved hard edges into his face, making him look like he’d been rendered in the same high-stakes engine you were about to embarrass yourself in. He looked you up and down, a slow, theatrical scan that felt like a character inspection. “Oh,” he said, his voice syrupy with a judgment so thick you could drown in it. “So this is what we’re doing tonight. We’re doing panic-romance cosplay. We’re really committing to the bit.”

You dragged your hands down your face, the cold metal of your rings dragging against your skin, and made a noise that was half groan, half prayer. “It wasn’t romance. It was—it was triage. Battlefield medicine, Woo.”

“Sure.” He clicked his tongue, his eyes glittering with delight. “Medical emergency. You had to administer CPR with your mouth. On his self-esteem. Very heroic.”

“I didn’t—” you snapped up, then immediately deflated. “I didn’t administer anything.”

Wooyoung raised his brows, his grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “You literally said, in your best ‘Mommy Viper’ voice—” he deepened his tone into a velvety, gravelly imitation that made your skin crawl, “They call me a monster. Shall I prove them right?”

You grabbed a throw pillow off the beanbag and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder with a soft whump and fell to the floor like it was ashamed to be involved. He didn’t even flinch. He just smiled wider, like you’d fed him exactly what he wanted. “Don’t do that,” you hissed. “Don’t repeat it. It sounds worse when someone else says it.”

“It sounded like a war crime when you said it, too,” he corrected. “Okay. Tell me everything again. From the top. But this time, don’t downplay it. I want the unedited director’s cut. I want the part where the 6’2” puppy looks at you like you’re his owner.”

You folded your arms so tight your leather jacket creaked. “I am not doing this.”

“Then I’m not teaching you how to use a Snake Bite,” he said, instantly businesslike. He spun his chair back to the screen. “Good luck telling Mr. Golden Retriever that your ‘toxic screens’ are actually just you running into walls.”

The silence lasted exactly two beats before your pride crumbled. “…He looked at me like a puppy,” you muttered, the confession tasting like ash.

Wooyoung slammed a palm on his desk like he’d just won the lottery. “YES! That’s the juice! Okay. Continue.”

You glared. “He was getting bullied. They took his glasses. Like cartoon villains.”

Wooyoung’s expression sharpened for half a second—real irritation, real disgust—before the chaos reasserted itself. “Okay, no. That’s actually vile. That’s ‘getting shoved into a locker in a 90s movie’ behaviour. I’d have bit them too.”

“I didn’t bite them. I shoved one of them. And then,” you prompted yourself, your voice going small, “he looked at me like I was a limited edition collectible that just dropped.”

“The tall nerd looked at you like you were a limited-time mythic skin,” Wooyoung corrected, then pointed at you like a prosecutor. “And then you lied. You lied right to his face. You said you main Viper. You, a woman who thinks a ‘ping’ is the sound a microwave makes.”

“It just—came out!” you said miserably. “It was either that or admit I didn’t play and then he’d feel stupid for asking, and he’d already had his glasses broken!”

“Ah.” Wooyoung’s tone went mock-soft. “So you committed identity fraud out of compassion. You’re a saint. A saint in a push-up bra and combat boots.” He sat back, hands behind his head, looking blissful as the green light from the monitor bathed him in a villainous glow. “God, you’re so insane. I love this for us.”

“You’re not helping.”

“No, I am helping,” he corrected. “I’m helping by bullying you into competence. That boy has already gotten attached to you. If you load into a game and stand there staring at the floor like a baby deer with a concussion, he’s going to lose it. You’ll kill him. His heart will actually stop.”

“I don’t stare at the floor!”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened with fake offence. “You stare at the floor professionally! Last month you walked into a door because you were mad and refused to look at your surroundings!”

“That door started it.”

“It was a push door, you psycho!” Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, trying to keep it together. He failed. His laugh cracked out sharp and loud, and he actually had to wipe his eyes. Then he snapped his fingers and spun back to his monitors, suddenly all business. “Alright, Monster,” he announced, opening Valorant with the gravitas of a general. “Sit. Hands on keyboard. No, not like you’re about to perform surgery. Like you’re about to commit a felony.” You slid onto the floor beside his desk, back against the sofa, and eyed the keyboard like it might bite. “Stop looking like that. WASD won’t hurt you.”

“The last time I tried, I opened fourteen menus and a calculator.”

“That was iconic,” he said warmly.

You groaned. “I hate this.”

“You love this! You’re in your little ‘I did something stupid and now I’m emotionally invested’ era.”

“I’m not emotionally invested.”

He turned slowly in his chair. The silence was lethal.

“…He asked what skin I wanted,” you confessed, your voice barely a whisper.

Wooyoung’s face did something violent. He clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “HE ASKED ABOUT SKINS? ON DAY ONE?”

“Yes,” you snapped, defensive. “Isn’t that a normal thing you gamer people ask?”

“That’s not ‘normal,’ that’s a dowry!” Wooyoung shouted. “That’s offering you resources! That’s—oh my god—he’s nesting! He’s building you a little green toxic pit to live in!”

“It’s not like that!”

Wooyoung stared at you, deadpan. “What did you say?”

You froze. “I told him to surprise me.”

He pointed at you again, his finger inches from your nose. “You. Told. Him. To. Surprise. You. That is the Viper equivalent of saying ‘I’m yours, do what you want with me.’”

“I PANICKED.”

“You didn’t panic,” he said, voice dripping with delight. “You purred through text.” You made a sound that could’ve been a scream if you had any dignity left. You shoved your face into your knees. “Look at me,” Wooyoung ordered. You peeked out. He held up two fingers. “How many brain cells do you have left?”

“None. They’ve all evaporated.”

“Correct.” He patted your cheek twice. “Okay. We do not have time for shame. Shame is for people who don’t have a Discord match at eight. Now, hit me with the line. In your Viper voice. Like you’re bored. Like you’ve never once apologised in your entire life.”

You swallowed. “This is stupid.”

“Say it.”

You inhaled, forced your shoulders down, forced your face into ice-cold stillness. “They call me a monster.”

Wooyoung’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Wait. Okay. That was—unfortunately—very good.”

“Shall I prove them right?” you added, your voice dropping into that lethal, bored rasp.

Wooyoung made a noise like someone witnessing a masterpiece. “Oh my god. You’re actually evil. And now? Now we’re going to learn how to throw a smoke so you can be evil with evidence!” He clicked into the practice range. The screen filled with targets. “Alright, W-A-S-D. Try not to hit my desk like it owes you money. You’re Viper. You slither. You don’t stomp.” You set your fingers down. You pressed W. Your character lurched forward like a drunk baby. Wooyoung slapped his desk and cackled. “YES! That’s it! That’s my girl! That’s my pro-tier controller! Look at you go!”

“STOP,” you snapped, trying to correct. You slammed into a wall.

Wooyoung wheezed. “A NATURAL. A GODDESS. THE QUEEN OF THE PIT HAS ARRIVED AND SHE IS CURRENTLY STUCK IN A CORNER.”

“Wait.” You froze, your character currently spinning in circles on the screen because you’d accidentally sat on the mouse. “Wooyoung. Look at me.”

Wooyoung stopped cackling long enough to wipe a tear from his eye. “I’m looking, but I don’t see a pro-player. I see a girl who just tried to ‘shoot’ a tree.”

“You’re going to play,” you said, the realisation finally coming to you. “I’ll be on the Discord call. I’ll have my mic on. But the screen? The gameplay? That’s all you.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widened. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, radiating pure, unholy energy. “A Ratatouille play? You want me to be the little mouse under your leather jacket pulling the strings?” He slammed his hands together. “Y/N, that is diabolical. That is fraud. That is... the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Can you do it?” you asked, leaning in. “Can you play on your PC while I talk to them on my laptop?”

“Can I?” Wooyoung scoffed, “I can play Viper with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. I’ll make you look like a god. I’ll hit shots so clean Yunho will think he’s hallucinating!” He paused, pointing a finger at you. “But you? You have to keep the act up. If I get a Triple Kill, you don’t cheer. You don’t giggle. You stay cold. You stay... bored.”

“I can do bored,” you whispered, trying to channel the ice in your veins.

“And,” Wooyoung added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss, “if I clutch a 1v4, you have to say something so toxic it makes their toes curl. None of that ‘good job team’ trash. I want ‘Don’t get in my way again.’”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The Discord pinged—a sharp, digital summons.

[Voice Channel] Strategic Digital... Golden_Retriever_Yunho is in the channel. StarHwa_04 is in the channel. FixOn_Mingi is in the channel.

“They’re in,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs. You put on your headset, adjusting the mic until it was hovering right by your lips.

Wooyoung settled into his chair, his expression going dead-serious. He cracked his knuckles, the glow of the monitor reflecting in his dark eyes. “Alright, Monster. Hide your screen. Open your mic. Let’s go make a puppy fall in love with a lie.”

You clicked ‘Join.’ The silence in the channel was immediate. You could practically hear the collective sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“...Hello?” Yunho’s voice came through, sounding of pure, unadulterated nerves. “V-Viper? Are you there?”

You looked at Wooyoung. He gave you a sharp nod, his fingers already dancing over the keys as he loaded into the lobby. You leaned back, hooded your eyes, and let out a long, slow sigh—the sound of someone who had better things to do than exist. “I’m here,” you rasped, the tone low and dangerous. “Don’t make me regret it.”

On the other end of the line, you heard a muffled thump—the distinct sound of Yunho’s forehead hitting his desk—and a faint, wheezing moan from Mingi.

“She’s here,” Mingi whispered, sounding terrified and delighted. “Hyung, she’s actually here. I think I’m going to faint.”

Wooyoung’s fingers moved like they were possessed—clean, lazy arcs on the mouse, taps that sounded bored even when they were lethal. He loaded you into a custom lobby with the practiced ease of a magician making a coin disappear: fast enough that no one could see the trick, but smooth enough to feel like an insult.

Yunho, on the other end, made a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “O-okay. Great. Custom. Yes. Uh—what map do you want?”

You leaned closer to the mic, letting your voice go low, flat, and unimpressed. “Anything.” The silence that followed was immediate and devotional.

“Anything,” Mingi repeated, his voice hushed like he was standing in a cathedral. “She said anything. Hwa, she’s literally the main character.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound tiny and careful. “Yunho-ya. Pick one. Before you actually pass out.”

Yunho’s laugh came out strangled. “Right. Yes. I’m—sorry. I’m picking. I’m fine.” You could hear the lie cracking over. On screen, Viper stood in the agent preview, all sleek confidence and emerald poison. Wooyoung selected her with a flick that looked like pure contempt. Yunho’s voice went even quieter. “You’re… actually locking Viper.”

“Obviously,” you said.

Mingi made a low, wounded noise. “I would die for you.”

“Don’t say that,” Seonghwa snapped immediately.

“I’m not saying it like a threat!” Mingi rushed, his voice jumping an octave. “I’m saying it like—like… a service. Like customer support. I am at your disposal, Queen.”

Wooyoung’s laughter hit the mic by accident—a short, sharp cough of amusement that was far too masculine to be yours.

Yunho froze. You could hear the sudden stillness in his breathing. “Who was that?” Your spine went rigid, Wooyoung stopped moving so abruptly even Viper’s idle animation looked like it was waiting for permission to breathe.

Seonghwa’s voice slid in, quick and protective. “Yunho. Don’t be weird.”

But Yunho didn’t back off. He never did when the strategy felt off. “It sounded like… a guy,” he said, the words measured and dangerous. He was holding an angle now, his mental crosshair trained right on the centre of your lie. “Is someone there with you, Viper?”

You let the pause stretch. One beat. Two. Long enough for the panic to rise. Then you said, bored to the bone, “My roommate. He’s not involved.”

A long, shaky inhale on Yunho’s mic. Then, quieter: “Okay.” He sounded like he was pretending not to care, but the air in the call had shifted. The ‘Golden Retriever’ had just tilted his head, sensing a stranger in the yard.

Mingi, trying desperately to stop the server from imploding, blurted, “Yeah, okay, cool! Roommates are normal! I have roommates! Like… Seonghwa and Yunho. And shadows. And my own crippling student debt!”

“Please stop talking,” Seonghwa muttered.

Wooyoung started the warm-up. The first shot cracked. A headshot. Clean.

Yunho inhaled so hard it whistled. “Oh my god.” Another headshot. Another. A string of taps that sounded like an execution.

Mingi’s voice went reverent again. “She’s farming. She’s actually harvesting their souls.”

Wooyoung leaned closer to your shoulder, his eyes bright with unholy chaos, and mouthed: Say something toxic. Now. Your mouth went dry. You forced the voice back into place. Cold. Controlled. “Keep up.”

There was a small, broken sound from Yunho’s mic—the sound of someone trying to swallow their own heart. “Y-yes,” he breathed, immediate and automatic.

“I’m going to throw up,” Mingi whispered.

“Great,” you said, flat. “Do it off-mic.”

The match was pure chaos. Wooyoung was playing like a possessed demon, flicking the mouse so fast the screen was a blur of green smoke and headshots. Meanwhile, you were leaning into the mic, delivering lines that made Yunho and Mingi lose their minds. Your eyes were glazed over, staring at a monitor that had become a fever dream. You watched a tiny digital woman in a gas mask sprint while the world exploded around her. Wooyoung was a frantic, blur-motion mess next to you. His fingers were dancing over the mechanical keys like he was playing a Mozart concerto at 2x speed. Every time he clicked, a loud CRACK echoed, followed by a little skull icon popping up. You had no idea what was happening. The round timer bled out in the corner of the screen, but Wooyoung was bleeding the bots out faster. His fingers were a blur of violent, efficient motion—the only sound in the room was the rhythmic, aggressive clack-clack-clack of his mechanical keyboard.

“Last one,” Yunho said, his voice tight with a mix of awe and pure adrenaline. You could hear the desperation in his mouse-hand through the mic, the way he was trying to sound captain-like and failing miserably under the weight of his own crush. “We’ll—uh—we’ll run one more execute. A-site. I’ll entry, you wall, Mingi trades. Seonghwa… Seonghwa, you just… vibe.”

“Strategic contribution: vibes,” Seonghwa echoed flatly, sounding like a man who had already accepted his fate.

Mingi made a strangled noise. “I’m contributing my life insurance policy. I think my heart just did a backflip and died.”

Wooyoung’s fingers hovered over the keys, his eyes darting to you with a manic grin. You leaned closer to the mic, hooding your eyes, and let your voice go low, flat, and lethally bored. “Stop talking,” you rasped. “Start moving.”

Yunho’s sharp inhale hit the channel like a stun grenade. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

On Wooyoung’s screen, the world was an emerald blur. A wall cut vision. A cloud bloomed with the lazy precision of someone who had done this a thousand times and hated everyone involved. Yunho tried to follow the plan. Mingi tried to follow Yunho. Seonghwa tried to follow the minimap, walked into a corner, sighed, and corrected himself like the wall had offended him personally.

Then, Wooyoung swung. Tap. Tap. Two skulls flashed on the screen. A third followed instantly. The kill banner hissed.

“Holy—” Mingi’s voice cut off into a breathy, hysterical wheeze. “She’s—she’s—Yunho, I’m going to file a formal complaint with God. This isn’t fair.”

Yunho’s mic crackled with the sound of frantic movement. “I—okay—okay, we’re up! Site is clear! Plant, plant, plant!” You watched the spike go down. You watched the last bot step into the poison like it owed you money. Wooyoung ended it with a flick so fast it barely looked real.

VICTORY.

Silence reigned in the Discord. It was the kind of silence usually reserved for witnessing a miracle or a car crash.

Then Yunho spoke, his voice sounding like it had been ripped out of a very small, terrified body. “That was… perfect.”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, the sound of a man trying to reboot the universe. “Yunho-ya. You are being weird again. Your breathing is audible.”

“I’m not being weird!” Yunho protested immediately—the verbal equivalent of tripping on a flat surface. “I’m being… appreciative. Professional. Captain-like!”

Mingi whispered, his voice thick with reverence. “Captain-like. Sure, buddy.”

Wooyoung elbowed you lightly, a silent, chaotic go on. You made your voice colder. Sharper. The kind of tone that made people sit up straighter even through cheap headsets. “If you’re done worshipping,” you said, “schedule the meeting. Get your five names. And fix the comms. I don’t work with amateurs.”

Yunho choked on air, and the sound of him hitting his forehead against his desk filled your ears. “Y-yes. Yes. We’ll do that. Absolutely. Tonight.” A frantic, high-stakes pause. “Also—uh—do you… want to queue? Like, an actual game? Not customs. If you’re… if you’re not busy. If you’re not going to—you know—delete us from your life.”

Mingi exhaled like a man walking toward a guillotine. “Queueing with her is how people die, Yunho. I’m not ready to meet my maker.”

Seonghwa’s voice went soft, a warning. “Yunho. Don’t push it.”

You glanced at Wooyoung. His grin was pure criminal intent, his fingers already hovering over the ‘Queue’ button. You turned back to the mic, leaned in, and let the lie take its throne. “Queue,” you said, your voice a silken threat. “One.”

Yunho made a sound that was half victory-yelp and half cardiac event. “O-okay! Okay! One! One is good! One is—yes! Loading now!”

The lobby clicked. Match Found.

On the other end of the line, Yunho whispered like he was praying to a Goddess he didn't quite understand. “Welcome to the team.”

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎The campus cafe was a circle of hell. It smelled of burnt espresso and the metallic tang of wet umbrellas, the air thick and humid from too many students crammed into a space designed for half their number. You sat in the corner booth—the only quiet spot you’d managed to snag by sheer intimidation—and stared down your third cup of coffee. It was lukewarm, the surface of the liquid filmed over with a depressing sheen. You hated lukewarm things; they felt like indecision.

That was when you saw him. Jeong Yunho was impossible to miss. He moved through the crowd like a lighthouse in a storm, a head taller than everyone else, his blonde hair a messy, ashy halo where he’d clearly been stressing at his scalp. He looked like a deer caught in high-beams, clutching a paper bag and a volume of manga tucked tightly under his bicep. His eyes scanned the room, desperate for a square inch of table space, until they landed on you. For a split second, the tactical genius who led your group through the trenches of the server—glimmered in his gaze. Then, reality hit. His eyes widened behind the spiderweb crack in his glasses, his ears turned a vivid, violent shade of pink, and he immediately whipped his head toward a ‘No Smoking’ sign, staring at it like it contained the secrets of the universe. 

You rolled your eyes, the movement sharp and impatient. On the server, he was a frantic, commanding presence. Here? He looked like he wanted  to phase through the drywall. “Jeong Yunho!” The name didn’t just leave your mouth; it cut through the cafe’s roar like a sniper round. A few freshmen at the next table jumped, nearly sloshing their lattes.

Yunho froze mid-step, his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he squeezed the paper bag until it crinkled. Slowly, like a man walking toward a guillotine, he turned back. “Oh! Hi—hey. Is it ‘hi’ or ‘hey’?” His voice cracked, pitching higher than anything remotely “Captain-like.” He stumbled forward, long limbs suddenly clumsy in the cramped space. “I didn’t... I didn’t see you there, Viper. I mean—Member Four. I mean... Hi. Or hey. Whatever you prefer.”

“Liar,” you said flatly. You didn’t move your bag from the seat; you just gestured with a sharp tilt of your chin. “Sit. Before someone else tries to take this table, and I have to bite them.”

He slid into the booth, his knees immediately knocking against yours under the small table. The contact was electric—the heat of his jeans searing against your skin. He recoiled as if he’d been hit with a taser, a frantic, “Sorry, sorry, so sorry,” tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to tuck his frame into the tiny space.

“What’s in the bag?”

He blinked, his long lashes fluttering behind his lenses, then slowly pulled out a bagel. A plain bagel. No cream cheese, no golden toasted edges, no life. Just a beige circle of misery. “A bagel,” he stated.

You stared at the dry bread, then up at him, your eyes narrowing. “A plain bagel? No toppings? Are you a Victorian orphan or a psychopath?”

Yunho let out a small, startled laugh—the sound was rich and warm, the first glimpse of the boy you actually knew from the server. “It’s efficient!” he defended, a spark of playfulness dancing in his eyes. He lifted the book slightly. “I don't have to worry about getting cream cheese on my manga. And it‘s... it’s comforting. Quiet. Like a reset for my brain.”

“You’re weird,” you muttered, but you took a long, judgmental sip of your coffee to hide the fact that your pulse was starting to sync up with the frantic rhythm of his.

“And you’re addicted to caffeine,” he countered, voice dropping an octave, gaining a sliver of that server confidence as he leaned in just a fraction. He noticed the two empty cups, and his gaze softened, trailing up to the dark circles under your eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you’re ready to delete the entire campus if someone breathes too loud.”

“I might,” you said, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best efforts. You leaned forward, bracing your chin on your hand, letting the Viper mask slip just enough to let a predatory, teasing light into your eyes. “But honestly? It’s hard to stay grumpy when you’re sitting there looking like an adorable puppy in a cute sweater.”

Yunho had just shoved a massive, ambitious hunk of dry bagel into his mouth. Then, he froze. His eyes blew wide, the pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. For a heartbeat, there was total silence. Then, his lungs remembered they needed oxygen, and his throat remembered it was currently occupied by a dense ball of un-toasted dough. “—Guh?!” He started hacking, a frantic, wet wheeze that sounded like a vacuum cleaner sucking up a sock. 

“Oh my god,” you deadpanned, watching as he flailed, his long arms nearly knocking over your third coffee cup. “Don’t die. The Captain dying of a bagel-related injury is not the lore I signed up for!”

“I—cough—I’m—wheeze—” Yunho grabbed his water bottle, his fingers fumbling so hard he nearly dropped it into his lap. He took a desperate, undignified gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. He finally managed to swallow, letting out a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp. “You...” his eyes watered behind his cracked lenses. “You can’t just... deploy compliments like that! That’s a violation of the Geneva Convention!”

“It was just an observation,” you said, your voice dropping back into that silken purr, though your heart was currently doing a drum solo against your ribs. “You do have a very... symmetrical face. Even with the broken glasses.”

Yunho looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He leaned back so hard the back of the booth groaned in protest. “Symmetrical? Symmetrical is for geometry! I’m—I’m a mess! I have bread crumbs on my One Piece!” He frantically brushed at the pages of his book, his movements jerky and chaotic. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re trying to destabilise my mental state so I’ll miss my skill shots tonight.”

“Is it working?” you asked, tilting your head.

Yunho went quiet, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a fraction of a second before he looked at the ceiling as if seeking divine intervention from the industrial lighting. “Why are you being nice to me?” he asked, and the humour was suddenly gone.

You didn’t answer immediately. Your eyes were locked on his hand—the one pointing at you with that trembling, accusatory finger. Up close, without the barrier of a glowing monitor, his hands were… ruinous. They were massive, his long, elegant fingers spanning half the width of the table. You could see the faint, rhythmic pulse in the blue veins tracing paths over his knuckles, stretching taut under his pale skin. His hand was shaking—just a fraction—a sign of the absolute system crash you were causing him. It made your stomach do a slow, heavy roll. You wanted to see if those hands felt as warm as they looked. You wanted to see if they’d go still if you covered them with yours. You wanted to fell them against your—

Your stomach dropped. 

No, not metaphorically. Not the cute little flutter people wrote poems about. This was a full, violent plunge like your organs had missed a step on the stairs and decided to take the rest of you with them. Heat rolled up your throat, sharp and humiliating, and for one terrifying second you couldn’t tell if it was adrenaline or nausea or something worse—something soft—curling in your ribs. Get it together. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. You were supposed to be the cold thing. The monster voice. The leather jacket. The girl who could shove a bully three feet and keep walking. But the way his fingers shook and the way his voice went honest on that single question—Why are you being nice to me?—hit you so clean it made your brain stutter. Oh no. Oh no. This was the exact moment you realized you weren’t playing a bit anymore. Your body had already made a decision without asking you. And now you were sitting here, staring at his hands like a starving person, while panic clawed up the inside of your chest because wanting things was a liability and you were suddenly, catastrophically aware of how much you wanted this one.

“Nice?” You finally spoke, your voice dropping into that low register that usually sent Mingi into a panic. You reached out, slow and deliberate, and used your index finger to gently, slowly push his trembling hand down until his palm was flat against the cold laminate of the table. His skin was like a furnace. The contact sent a jolt of pure static through your fingertips. “I’m not being nice, Yunho,” you whispered, leaning in until you could see the way his pupils flared, swallowing the honey-brown of his irises. “I’m being observant. There’s a difference.”

Yunho’s breath hitched but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers twitched under yours, his large palm instinctively trying to cup your smaller hand. “It feels…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that was distractingly masculine. His voice was now, a voice of a man who was very, very aware of the girl sitting across from him. “It feels like a trap. Like you’re waiting for my guard to drop so you can… delete me.” His eyes darted to the coffee-stained napkins. “I mean… girls don’t usually… talk to me. Not like this. I mean—it’s not like I don’t like girls! I do! I really do! It’s just—the efficiency—the social energy—it’s just—” He cut himself off with a strangled noise.

You stared at him for a long, flat second. The cafe’s humidity seemed to condense right in the space between you, making your skin feel tight and your coffee-fuelled heart thrum. “Breathe.”

He did not. His lips parted, but no sound followed. His gaze flicked to your hand—where your fingers were still casually draped over his—like it was a grenade with the pin pulled. Then his eyes jumped to your mouth, then away so fast the movement bordered on physical pain. His shoulders hiked another inch, his massive frame trying to crawl into the sanctuary of his oversized hoodie and vanish into the cotton.

“Oh,” you muttered, unimpressed, though your own pulse was starting to hammer against your ribs. “So that’s where we’re at.” Yunho’s throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing frantically. A tiny, pathetic noise—something between a wheeze and a whimper—escaped him. You leaned back in the booth, crossing your free arm over your chest, your expression carved into something bored and sharp. The Viper mask settled over your face like a habit. Like armour. Like a bad decision you kept making on purpose because the alternative—being vulnerable—was a “Game Over” you weren’t ready for. “You don’t have to deliver a presentation,” you said, your tone dropping into that lethal, low-register rasp. “Just breathe.”

His fingers twitched under yours. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint, rhythmic tremor of his large knuckles. “D-do you—” he started, then immediately failed. His voice snapped up an octave, betrayed him, and then vanished entirely into the steam of the espresso machine.

You sighed, slow and dramatic, like his software was personally inconveniencing your day. “Captain. Your brain just alt-tabbed.” The effect was instant. Yunho made a sound that should not have come out of a human being—a high-pitched glitch of a gasp. His mouth opened. Nothing. He shut it. Opened it again. You watched him quietly implode, chin propped in your palm, observing him. “Mmm,” you hummed, deadpan. “It still runs on the ‘Captain’ trigger. Good to know.” His hand finally jerked—too fast, too clumsy—trying to pull away from the contact, but your finger pinned him down with casual, precise pressure. You dug your nail slightly into the skin of his wrist, right where his pulse was thumping. He froze, his breath hitching so hard his chest hit the edge of the table. You leaned in just enough to make the air between you feel electric. “You’re allowed to like girls,” you said, sounding almost bored, though you were tracking the way his pupils flared. “You’re also allowed to talk. Without apologising for existing every three seconds.” Yunho swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table as if the wood grain could save him. You clicked your tongue, “Look at me.”

He tried. It was the saddest, most beautiful attempt at bravery you’d ever seen. His long lashes fluttered, his gaze landing somewhere near your shoulder before drifting toward your eyes like it had to cross a literal battlefield to get there. “I’m—” 

You lifted a brow, your thumb starting a slow, ruinous circle over the back of his hand, feeling the prominent veins under his skin. “If you say ‘sorry,’ I’m going to bite your bagel.”

His head snapped up, genuine horror masking the blush for a split second. “D-don’t—! It’s dry! You’ll choke!”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. Not a smile—just a crack in the ice. “Efficient.”

Yunho stared at your mouth like it had committed a federal crime. His fingers—still trapped under yours—curled involuntarily, his large palm seeking yours, wanting to hold on even as his brain told him to run. “I… I do like you,” he blurted. He looked like he wanted to eject his soul from his body and haunt the cafe instead. “Not like— I mean— as a person— and also— the utility— and—” He stopped as he realized he was rambling.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed, voice dry as his sad bread. “Pick one sentence and finish it, Captain.”

Yunho’s throat bobbed. He took a breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he finally met your eyes. “I like you,” he said again. Smaller. Realer. Without the stutter.

You held his gaze, your expression still grumpy, still sharp. But your thumb did something traitorous—it dragged, once, slowly, over the edge of his knuckle like you owned the right to touch him. “Yeah,” you said finally, as if it didn’t matter. As if it wasn’t making your heart feel three sizes too big for your chest. “I figured.” You leaned in further, so close the scent of his woodsy cologne mingled with your stale coffee. “And for the record? If I wanted to delete you, Yunho, I would’ve done it already.” You let your gaze drop to his mouth for one, lethal second. “So stop flinching like you’re about to get patched out of existence. It’s annoying.”

Yunho didn’t just smile; he beamed. It was like someone had flicked a switch and flooded the dark cafe with pure, unadulterated sunlight. His entire body seemed to expand, his shoulders dropping from his ears as he let out a shaky, relieved laugh. “Copy that, Member Four,” he chirped, the stutter completely gone, replaced by the giddy energy of a man who’d just secured a legendary drop. He grabbed his dry bagel and took a massive, triumphant bite, looking like he’d just won the World Championship.

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag and standing up. The Viper mask was back on, sharp and cold, but as you turned to walk away, you stopped. “Enjoy your bread, Captain,” you called out over your shoulder. 

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You were slumped on the sofa, a condensation-slicked bottle of beer dangling from your fingertips.

“You’re doing it again,” Wooyoung was sprawled in the armchair opposite you, his legs draped over the side. He popped the cap off his second bottle with his teeth—a move that was 100% for drama—and leveled you with a look that was way too sharp for someone three beers in.

“Doing what?” you muttered, taking a long, defensive swig of your beer.

“The stare. You’re looking at that bottle like you’re calculating its trajectory into someone’s skull.” Wooyoung leaned forward, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. His dark eyes glittered with the kind of mischief that usually ended in a campus-wide scandal. “Is it the Captain? Did the Golden Retriever finally trip over his own oversized paws?”

You let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating. “Woo,” you said, your voice cracking just enough to be pathetic. “I’m fucked.”

Wooyoung’s entire aura shifted. He didn’t offer a platitude. He didn’t say it would be okay. He let out a cackle—that loud, high-pitched, signature siren-wail that echoed off the kitchen tiles. “I KNEW IT!” He practically teleported to the sofa, shoving your legs aside to claim the spot next to you. “Tell me everything. Did he cry? Did he stutter? Did he do that thing where he looks like he’s trying to swallow his own tongue because you breathed in his general direction?”

“He bought a plain bagel, Woo. A plain bagel.” You stared into the amber liquid of your bottle, feeling the heat of the memory creeping up your neck. “And I touched his hand. To pin him down. And his pulse… It was frantic. And he said he liked me.”

Wooyoung gasped so loud it was practically a theatrical performance. He grabbed your shoulders, shaking you until your teeth rattled. “He confessed?! On campus?! In broad daylight?! My son! My giant, clumsy son finally levelled up!”

“It was not a confession!” you shrieked, your face heating up so fast you were worried you’d trigger the apartment’s smoke alarm. You clutched your beer bottle like a weapon. “He just! He likes—he didn’t mean it like that! It’s the team dynamic! It’s... it’s professional respect!”

Wooyoung didn’t even blink. He just stared at you, one eyebrow arched so high it was practically receding into his hairline. He took a slow sip of his beer, then let out a dry, mocking pop of his lips. “Professional respect,” he repeated, his voice dripping with enough sarcasm to drown the entire campus. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘HR-approved professional boundaries’ like pinning a 6’2” man to a cafe table and making him swallow a dry bagel whole.”

“I was stabilising the situation!”

“You were mark-marking your territory!” Wooyoung barked a laugh, slamming his bottle onto the coffee table. He leaned in, his eyes narrowed into twin slits of pure malice. Wooyoung’s cackle didn’t fade—it echoed, like he was trying to make the universe itself understand how right he’d been. “You’re fucked,” he repeated, delighted, dragging the words out like he was tasting them. “Monumentally. Astronomically. Biblically.”

You tightened your grip on the bottle until it slicked your palm. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I will not,” he was far too happy, pointing at you like you were a whiteboard in a lecture he’d been waiting to teach all semester. “I knew this was coming. I smelled it. I felt a disturbance in the force. The second you said ‘he bought a plain bagel,’ I knew your brain was doing that thing it does when you see something pathetic and your maternal instincts wake up like a sleeper agent.”

“I don’t have maternal instincts,” you snapped.

Wooyoung leaned back, propping his feet on the coffee table with the confidence of a man who had never once experienced shame. “Right. Sure. You just have… what do we call it… feral spring hormones and a violent allergy to tall men who apologise to a mailbox.” You made a strangled noise and took another sip, purely to have something to do with your mouth other than confessing crimes. Wooyoung watched you over the rim of his beer like a predator with a PhD. “Oh my god,” he breathed, eyes widening with theatrical awe. “Look at you. You’re doing it!”

“Doing what,” you said flatly, even though you already knew you were losing.

“The defensive drinking,” he nodded like a disappointed coach. “The ‘if I swallow enough beer, my feelings will dissolve’ technique.” You flicked a glance at him, trying to weaponise boredom. It didn’t work. He looked like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to glance at him so he could start a powerpoint. “Okay. Timeline. You touch his hand—”

“I didn’t touch his hand,” you cut in. “I—pinned it. For emphasis.”

Wooyoung’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of joy. He slapped his knee once, hard. “FOR EMPHASIS,” he repeated, losing his mind. “Oh my god. That’s worse. That’s not casual. That’s not ‘haha friendly.’ That’s dominance. That’s territorial. That’s you going—” he deepened his voice into an obnoxious, smoky imitation, “—no. stay. be still.”

“Don’t,” you warned, staring at your beer like it might provide an emergency exit.

He did it anyway, because he hated you in the way best friends do. “And then,” he continued, relentlessly, “he said he liked you.”

“He didn’t say it like—” you began.

Wooyoung held up a finger. “No. Don’t. Don’t you start that ‘professional respect’ propaganda again. I’ve seen you be professionally respected. You don’t spiral for hours and drink like you’re trying to erase a memory.”

You swallowed, jaw tight. “I’m not spiralling.”

“You are spiralling,” he said gently, and somehow that made it worse. Then his face snapped right back into menace. “And you know what the root cause is?” You didn’t answer. You just stared at him, because silence was safer than whatever his mouth was about to do. Wooyoung pointed at you, triumph blooming. “Female hormones.”

“Oh my god.”

“OH MY GOD, YES,” he exclaimed, thrilled. “You’re in your ovulation-phase villain era or whatever. Your body’s like, ‘Find tall mate. Acquire golden retriever. Bite anyone who interferes.’”

“I’m not in anything-phase,” you hissed.

Wooyoung leaned in, whispering like he was telling you government secrets. “You’re in the ‘I’m going to pretend I’m above romance while actively aching for it’ phase.” You kicked at the coffee table. His boots didn’t move. Neither did his confidence. He took another sip, eyes never leaving yours. “Listen. You can deny it all you want, but I have evidence.”

“What evidence,” you said, instantly regretting giving him a prompt.

Wooyoung started counting on his fingers with nauseating precision. “One: you saved him. In public. Two: you lied to protect his feelings. Three: you role-played a voice line at him. Four: you touched him. Five: you’re sitting here drinking and saying you’re ‘fucked’ like he’s a disease and not a boy who bought bread and looked at you with sad eyes.” You went still, bottle halfway to your lips. Wooyoung’s expression softened for half a beat—something sharp and sincere under all the mischief. “He’s nice,” he said, quieter. “And you’re not used to that. You’re used to loud. You’re used to mean. You’re used to people who swing first so you can justify swinging back.” Your throat tightened. You hated that he could do that—drop one line that hit clean, then immediately go back to being insufferable. Because he did. He sat up straighter, the softness evaporating like it had never existed. “But,” he said brightly, “the good news is: if this is hormones, it’ll pass.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s the good news?”

“The bad news,” he continued, grinning wider, “is if it’s not hormones, then you’re actually catching feelings, and I’ll have to watch you become… domestic.”

“I will not become domestic,” you said, disgusted.

Wooyoung gasped. “You’re right. Sorry. Not domestic. Just… compromised.” You made a noise like you wanted to throw the bottle at his head but cared about the deposit. Wooyoung leaned back again, smug as sin. “Oh. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally overheating,” he said. “You look like an Internet Explorer running twelve tabs and a guilt complex.”

You covered your face with your free hand. “Wooyoung.”

“Yes?” he said sweetly.

“I’m going to kill you.”

He hummed, pleased. “That’s fine. But first you’re going to tell me if the Captain’s ‘I like you’ sounded like ‘I like you as a teammate’ or like ‘I like you and I’m about to implode because you exist’.”

Silence.

Wooyoung’s grin sharpened. “Ohhhhh.” You lowered your hand just enough to glare at him. He didn’t gloat. He glimmered. “It was the second one,” he whispered, like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “It was the second one and now you’re panicking because you can’t decide if you want to run or bite.”

“I don’t bite,” you muttered.

Wooyoung looked you dead in the eye. “You bite emotionally.” You just stared at him. He stared back, unflinching, then lifted his beer in a tiny toast. “Welcome to being a person,” he said, mean and fond at the same time. “It’s disgusting. You’re going to hate it.”

You took another sip. “I already do.”

Wooyoung nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your beer, God knows you need it if you’re going to keep up the scary act while he’s being a literal ray of sunshine. I’m all ears, tell me everything. And if you leave out details, I’m calling him ‘your boyfriend’ until you combust!”

➢ part two