Nanni❣️

x

HR has meetings with everyone once a month, and they take up the entire bullpen to do it. Desks that can be moved are moved out of the way, and they set up a whole whiteboard presentation to go along with it. All of the chairs are already taken because you were late to the meeting, but you don’t mind standing in the back.

It’s just that your lower back is killing you. Pregnancy has been wonderful to you so far, but lower back pain has always haunted you. 

Spencer walks into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand, and he notices you standing in the back, wincing in pain. You shouldn’t be standing, but no one is offering you their chair. Not that they have to, but he hates seeing you in pain. He slinks up to your side, and you smile at him.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

There’s no point in telling him how uncomfortable you are if he can’t do anything about it. You sway softly from side to side to lessen the pain, and Spencer takes notice of it. He steps closer to you so that your shoulder bumps into his arm when you sway toward him. He doesn’t say anything but allows you to use him to lean on should you need it.

You don’t even realize you’re leaning on him until after the meeting ends.

“Hey, how are you doing, really?” Spencer asks as he walks you to your desk near Strauss’ office. “How’s the baby?”

“He’s doing well. He’s growing a lot. Too fast for me to keep up, it seems like. I’m excited, though. The morning sickness is finally gone.”

You reach your desk and sigh in relief once you sit down.

“Do you need anything?”

“Um, do you have any more snacks?”

Spencer smiles brightly and nods. “I’ll be right back.” Spencer leaves and returns with not only your favorite snacks, but also your favorite drink.” I figured you might get thirsty, so I got you this.”

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“I gotta go back to work, but please let me know if you need anything else.”

You smile and lean back in your seat. “I’m okay. Thank you for looking out for me.”

Spencer will always look out for you, whether you realize it or not. His job requires him to go to another state, and he hates that he won’t be here to look after you. You can’t go since you’re not a profiler, so you promised not to get into too much trouble while he’s gone.

“It’s okay, Spencer. Go. They need you more than I do.”

“I’ll be back soon, okay? Don’t have the baby without me.”

“Unlikely, but I promise.” You lean up and kiss his cheek. “Go save someone’s world.”

While on the plane ride to Alabama, Spencer fiddles with his phone, trying his best not to text you so much. When he is alone in the conference room, he has his phone with him the entire time, always checking his messages to see if you texted him.

The entire team picks up on his behavior, more so JJ. She knows how he feels about you. She thinks it’s cute the way he cares about you, even though Spencer worries that he’s coming across as needy and suffocating.

With a break in the case, JJ walks into the conference room where Spencer is. He is smiling at something on his phone, and he quickly puts it away when he sees JJ.

“Hey.”

“Hey. How is Y/N doing?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Strauss is stressing her out, but I’m sending her funny memes to get her mind off it.”

“You really care about her.”

“I do. Sorry if I seem distracted. I hate leaving her.”

“You know she’s been doing this by herself for a while now.”

“I know, but I want her to know she doesn’t have to do it alone anymore if she doesn’t want to.”

JJ smiles and pats his shoulder in a friendly way. “She knows.”

You don’t want Spencer to get in trouble for always texting you when he should be focused on the case, but he promised everything was okay. Talking to him has been the highlight of your day. Whatever Strauss wants you to do throughout the day doesn’t seem so bad because you have Spencer to talk to.

You really like him, and it’s now more than ever that you think he might like you, too.

It’s another four days before Spencer returns, but he gets back at midnight. He won’t bother you now, so he’ll see you when he gets to work tomorrow.

He gets to work around the time you get there, but he doesn’t see you. Your stuff is at your desk; he knows you’re here, so he goes hunting for you. JJ watches with a smile when she sees Spencer walk around and ask about you. It’s cute how flustered he gets when it comes to you. Knowing how your ex treated you, she thinks Spencer will be good for you if you give him a chance.

No one has seen you or knows where you are. Spencer walks past a room meant for mothers to pump, breastfeed, or care for their babies if they have them. He hears crying come from inside the room, familiar crying.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” He knocks twice on the door. “Are you in there?”

You open the door and pull Spencer inside before slamming the door shut. “Something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something is wrong with the baby.”

Spencer’s entire body is on alert. His mind races a million miles a second as he tries to think of what could be wrong with the baby, and what could have happened in the five days he was gone. You were fine before he left.

“What is it?”

“There’s this flutter, Spencer. It can’t be good. It’s been happening all day. What do I do?”

“It’s okay. Don’t freak out.” He holds his hand out toward your stomach. “May I?”

“Yeah.” Spencer puts his hand over the spot you guide him to, and you hold your breath as you wait. A second later, the flutter happens again underneath his hand. Instead of freaking out, Spencer smiles widely. “Why are you smiling? What’s that smile for? Is he okay?”

Spencer doesn’t take his hand away when he says, “That’s your baby kicking. He’s just saying hi.”

Tears fall for a different reason now. You run your hand over your stomach and over Spencer’s hand. “Hi, baby. Oh, I love you so much.” You pull Spencer in for a tight hug. When you pull away, you kiss his cheek. You’re too excited to notice the blush on his cheeks. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

Another flutter comes, and you squeal in happiness. “It happened again! Oh, this is wonderful!”

Spencer can’t stop his next question from coming out. “Can I take you out? We could get something to eat or something.”

You’re taken aback by the question, but are pleasantly surprised by it. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

“Does tonight work?”

“Yeah.”

“Great.” He smiles so deeply that his small dimples pop out. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Okay.”

Luckily, work keeps you distracted enough not to think about your date with Spencer. Is it a date? He didn’t say it was one, and you’re not going to make a fool of yourself by assuming it’s one. It’s why you’re overthinking what to wear now that you’re home. It’s nearly seven, and you still don’t know what you should be wearing to this maybe-date.

Are you upset if it is a date? No. You’d love for it to be a date, but you don’t know if Spencer does or not. What if he’s just being nice by taking a friend out to eat? Are others coming? JJ or Pen? What does it mean if they do come? What does it mean if they don’t?

Fuck, you were never like this before. Does being pregnant scramble your brain to pieces? Unfortunately, before you can decide, someone knocks on your door. Fuck! Okay, don’t panic. Don’t panic. Everything is fine. You walk downstairs in your oversized robe and open the door to reveal Spencer standing there in dark jeans and a sweater vest. In his hands is a small bouquet of flowers.

Shit, this is a date. “Hi, Spencer.”

“Hi,” he smiles.

“Uh, come on in. Sorry, I’m not ready just yet.”

“It’s okay. I’m kind of early.” Spencer steps inside and shyly shows off the flowers. “I got you some flowers.”

“Oh, thank you. They’re gorgeous. Um, you can set them down in the kitchen. I’ll be right back. I’m almost ready.”

You race up the stairs and find the first outfit in your closet that doesn’t make you look so big and loathed. You comb back your hair and pin it to the sides. You brush on some mascara, light blush, and lip gloss. It’s not a fancy look, but you feel beautiful in it.

Rocco, your German Shepherd, sits on the bed with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. He’s so unbothered by everything. You scratch behind his ears and kiss him on the head before leaving your room.

Spencer got a vase from a cabinet, filled it with water, and put the flowers in it. Now he’s just admiring the books on your bookshelf. You always tell yourself you’ll find more time to read, but you never do. Still, that won’t stop you from buying books you think you’ll read.

“I’m ready.” Spencer turns, and his entire heart stutters to a stop. You are the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen. Even something as simple as a romper makes you look stunning. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Your neck and cheeks heat from his words, and you look away shyly. “You’re very handsome.”

Spencer escorts you out of your place and to his car, and then he drives you to a nearby restaurant. Nothing fancy, but a casual one that isn’t so intimidating. Spencer still made a reservation just in case, so the hostess takes you to a small circular booth in the corner when you arrive.

The waitress, an older woman, bounces over with a smile a few minutes later. “Hi, my name is Shirley. What can I get started for you two?”

“Can we get two lemonades, please? And one water without lemon?” Spencer asks before you can say anything. How does he know you love lemonade? You look at Spencer, and he smiles down at you. “Of course, I know your drink order.”

“Anything else?” Shirley asks.

“Yeah, can we also get an order of onion rings to start with?”

“I love onion rings,” you whisper.

“I know.” He looks at Shirley. “That’s it for right now.”

“You got it.” Shirley winks at you. “Now that’s a good boyfriend. He’s a keeper.”

“Oh, we’re not dating…”

“Shame. You’d make a cute one.”

Hearing someone say you’re Spencer’s girlfriend in front of Spencer is enough for you to want the ground to swallow you up. Not that you don’t want to be his girlfriend, but he probably doesn’t even like you like that. Even if he was, your life is a mess right now. Does he really want to be involved when you’re pregnant with another man’s baby?

“Sorry, Spencer,” you whisper.

“What if we were?”

You freeze for a moment before looking at him. “What?”

“What if we were a couple?” He chuckles awkwardly. “Is dating me so bad?”

“No, it’s not. I like you, Spencer, but I’m pregnant. My life is a mess right now, and I don’t have a lot of money, and things will just get stressful once Kaden comes, and it wouldn't be fair for me to ask you to be a dad if you’re not ready…”

Spencer shuts you up by grabbing your hands. “Look, I like you. Have been since before you broke up with your ex. I’ve always wanted kids, and it doesn’t matter how much or how little money you have. What matters is you. I like you. I felt Kaden kick today, and it was the best thing I’ve ever felt. Don’t think a little stress will scare me away. My whole job is stressful. I just wanna be with you, and Kaden is a bonus.”

You’re in tears from his words. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but when he says shit like that, it makes you want to cry and never stop. Spencer’s entire demeanor deflates, thinking you’re stressed or sad from his words.

“Please don’t cry. I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just…” You sniffle and wipe your cheeks. No one has ever made you feel the way Spencer does. “If you wanna try, I’ll try, too.”

Spencer smiles when you look at him. He slides closer to you in the circular booth and places his hand over yours. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod, and he leans down to kiss you softly. Sparks fly between you two, and it’s everything you hoped it could be. You only pull away when you hear the waitress come back. She is grinning as she sets the drinks and onion rings down.

“I’ll give you two a minute to look over the menu.”

When you catch her eye, she winks at you. Spencer slides his hand over your stomach, and Kaden kicks happily at his touch. If your son already knows Spencer is one of the good ones, then you sure as hell know it, too.

x

Spencer Reid had solved murders faster than this.

He had identified offenders from a single blurry photograph and a handful of contradictory witness statements that should, by all reasonable standards, have led nowhere. He had built psychological profiles from fragments of behavior that other people dismissed as noise, from inconsistencies in tone, timing, geography, and motive that only made sense once his mind had already begun stitching them together. He had memorized entire textbooks after a single read and spent years accumulating knowledge so dense it might as well have been its own language. His mind was engineered, always moving forward toward understanding. It was what made him valuable at the FBI. It was what made him one of the best profilers in the bureau.

And yet, somehow, after two full days, he still had absolutely no idea how to fix his argument with you.

The realization was becoming increasingly frustrating.

Because unlike a case, there was no evidence board to organize. No witness interviews to conduct. No behavioral indicators he could neatly categorize and analyze until a solution presented itself. There was only silence. Two days of it.

Forty-eight hours.

Two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes.

One hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight hundred seconds.

Not that he had been counting.

Not intentionally, at least.

The numbers just…appeared, uninvited, the way facts tended to do in his head when something refused to resolve itself.

The argument itself kept replaying in his head whenever he had a free moment, his mind returning to it with the same relentless persistence it reserved for unsolved cases. It happened during paperwork. During meetings. While standing in line for coffee. While brushing his teeth before bed. The memory would surface without warning, unfolding with such perfect clarity that it sometimes felt less like recollection and more like reliving it in real time. Every sentence was preserved in his memory exactly as it had happened. Every pause. Every look. Every slight hesitation between words.

He could remember the exact way your eyebrows had pulled together when he said something wrong. Just that small movement between your eyes that he had learned to recognize over time, the one that always appeared when you were hurt but trying not to show it. He remembered the way your arms had crossed over your chest afterward. He remembered the slight tension in your shoulders. The way your gaze had briefly dropped toward the floor before returning to him.

And he remembered your voice.

That was the part that haunted him most.

Not because you had been angry.

Because you hadn’t.

Spencer almost wished you had yelled.

He wished you had raised your voice, accused him of being an idiot, thrown every frustration directly at his face so he would have something concrete to work with. Anger was understandable. Anger was measurable. Anger had direction. He could have apologized for anger. He could have identified the source and addressed it.

But disappointment? it was infinitely worse.

That was the truly maddening part.

Spencer Reid’s entire career was built around understanding people.

Patterns made sense to him. Motives made sense to him. Human behavior, despite its complexity, usually made sense to him.

Yet somehow the further he examined the argument, the less certain he became. Every conclusion led to three more possibilities. Every explanation seemed incomplete. Maybe it had been something he said. Maybe it had been something he hadn’t said. Maybe it wasn’t about that specific conversation at all. Maybe it was something that had been bothering you for weeks and had finally reached a breaking point.

His mind chased possibilities endlessly, constructing theories only to discard them moments later, each one dissolving under the weight of another, quieter truth he didn’t want to examine too closely.

Which was unfortunate.

Because he missed you.

A lot more than he had initially allowed himself to quantify.

The absence was no longer just a shift in routine or a simple change in the office dynamic. It was everywhere now: seeping into the margins of his attention, slipping between case files, hiding in the pauses between conversations that used to include you so naturally he had never thought to appreciate them.

Cases felt longer, too.

Not because the work itself had changed, crime scenes still demanded the same precision, profiles still required the same mental architecture, but because he kept finding himself reaching for moments that weren’t there anymore. Small things. The insignificant things that should have been irrelevant in the grand structure of his day, and yet had somehow become essential without his permission.

He would turn slightly in his chair after spotting a pattern in a victimology report, already forming the sentence in his mind, already anticipating the way your voice, always quicker than people expected from someone who wasn’t even in the Bureau, would respond. You, Morgan’s younger sister, the civilian presence who had somehow become an unspoken part of their orbit at the work, drifting in and out of the bullpen with coffee runs, questions, or just the kind of energy that made the fluorescent lighting feel less oppressive.

And then the moment would collapse.

Because you weren’t there.

He’d look up from a report after discovering a strange historical correlation, something useless to most people, but exactly the kind of detail he knew would make you laugh and tell him he “needed a hobby that wasn’t trivia disguised as trauma” and his hand would already be halfway toward his phone before he remembered there was no message thread actively unfolding between you two at that moment. Only silence where there had recently been a rhythm.

Even coffee tasted worse, which he knew was irrational because, chemically speaking, the coffee was identical. Same beans, same machine, same burnt undertone that lingered too long on the tongue. And yet it felt different sitting alone in the break room, like the absence of your commentary had somehow altered the physics of it. Like taste, somehow, had become contextual.

Spencer sat at his desk, shoulders slightly hunched, a thin folder open in front of him that he had reread three times without absorbing a single line. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with a mechanical patience that made the silence feel even louder. Around him, the bullpen continued its usual rhythm, papers shuffled, phones rang, the distant cadence of someone's laughter breaking briefly through the procedural monotony.

And still, none of it reached him properly.

Then, agent Morgan dropped into the chair across from him with the kind of familiarity that didn’t require permission, leaning back like he had already decided this conversation was happening whether Spencer was ready for it or not.

“Pretty boy.”

Spencer blinked, as if the word had taken a moment to travel through whatever fog had settled behind his eyes.

“What?” he replied, though it came out slightly delayed, like he had to retrieve himself from somewhere else before answering.

“You’ve been reading the same page for ten minutes,” he repeated, slower this time.

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly on the file before he corrected, almost automatically, “I have not.”

Morgan didn’t even bother arguing. He simply lifted a hand and pointed across the desk with an almost lazy precision.

“The paper is upside down.”

There was a beat of silence where Spencer didn’t move at all, as though his brain had to reassemble the last thirty seconds into something coherent. Then, slowly, he looked down.

The page was, in fact, upside down.

“…oh,” he said, softly. Not quite embarrassed, not quite resigned, just caught in the inconvenient reality of being observed too closely by someone who knew him too well.

Morgan let out a short snort, shaking his head like he’d just confirmed a suspicion rather than discovered anything new.

“What’s going on with you?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he straightened the file, even though it didn’t need fixing, aligning the corners with unnecessary precision as if structure could substitute for composure. His eyes stayed on the desk, on the scattered papers that suddenly felt too loud in their stillness.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, a little too quickly, like the words had been waiting right at the surface and only needed the smallest excuse to spill out.

“Reid.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Reid.”

Spencer’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly at the repetition, the way Morgan’s voice had shifted from teasing to something sharper, more deliberate. There was no escape hatch in that tone. Only persistence.

He sighed, the sound quiet and tired in a way that didn’t belong to the report in front of him, and certainly not to the fluorescent-lit bullpen that usually kept everything neatly compartmentalized.

“What?”

Morgan leaned back again, studying him with a growing certainty that had nothing to do with profiling and everything to do with experience. The kind of certainty that came from knowing someone long enough to recognize when they were lying even before they opened their mouth.

“Girl?”

The single word hit the air like a thrown object.

Spencer froze.

Morgan’s grin widened, slow and unmistakably victorious.

“Oh my God,” he said, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “There is a girl.”

“No.”

It came out too fast.

Too practiced.

Morgan tilted his head. “That wasn’t a denial.”

“It was.”

“It was the worst denial I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Spencer dragged a hand down his face, pressing briefly at his eyes as if physical pressure might reset the conversation entirely. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. Derek Morgan wasn’t the type to let something go once he had it between his teeth.

“It’s not—” Spencer started, then stopped, because even he didn’t know what direction that sentence was supposed to go in.

“You got a girlfriend?”

“No.”

Morgan’s eyebrows lifted so high they practically disappeared into his forehead. “Oh.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost delighted: “Secret girlfriend?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was definitive. It filled the space between them in a way no words could compete with, settling over Spencer like gravity finally deciding to stop being generous.

Morgan blinked once.

Then twice.

And then he leaned back so abruptly his chair creaked, one hand flying up to his chest like he needed to physically contain his reaction.

“Oh my God,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t teasing. It was disbelief wrapped around amusement. “Reid. No. No way.”

Spencer lowered his voice immediately, shoulders tightening as he glanced around the bullpen like the entire building had suddenly become invested in his personal collapse. “Please lower your voice.”

“You have a secret girlfriend?”

“Technically,” Spencer admitted, reluctantly, as if even the word came with conditions he hadn’t fully agreed to.

Morgan froze for half a second.

That was worse than any reaction so far.

“Since when?”

“Five months.”

The word landed.

Morgan made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, choking slightly as he leaned forward again, eyes widening in genuine shock. “Five months?!”

Heads turned.

A few agents paused mid-step. Someone near the coffee station actually looked over their shoulder. Even the hum of the bullpen seemed to tilt toward them for a moment, like the entire room had decided this was more interesting than paperwork.

Spencer felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He wished, with a kind of desperate clarity, that the floor would simply give up on him and solve the problem permanently.

Morgan, entirely unhelpful, looked delighted in the worst possible way.

“You’ve been dating someone for five months and nobody knows?” he asked, voice lower now but no less incredulous.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Spencer muttered.

Morgan gave him a look that said he did not believe in accidents of that magnitude.

“It absolutely was intentional.”

Spencer exhaled through his nose, a tired sound that carried the weight of someone who had stopped trying to win this particular argument.

“Can we not focus on that part?”

Morgan’s expression changed slightly at that, just enough to signal he’d caught something underneath the embarrassment. The teasing didn’t disappear, but it softened at the edges.

“Something happened,” he said instead.

Spencer hesitated.

It was subtle, but enough.

His eyes dropped to the desk. To the corner of the file he’d been straightening for no reason. To anything except his friend.

Morgan didn’t need more than that.

“You fought.”

“It was a disagreement,” Spencer corrected automatically, as if the phrasing might make it less real.

Morgan scoffed. “How long since you’ve talked?”

A pause.

Spencer hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

“…two days.”

Morgan let out a slow, low whistle, leaning back again like the situation had just upgraded itself from something interesting to an inevitable disaster.

“Damn,” he said simply.

Spencer rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down like he could erase the entire conversation if he tried hard enough.

“I know,” he muttered.

“What happened?”

Spencer hesitated.

Normally, he would never have even come close to discussing his relationship with anyone at work. It wasn’t just a boundary, it was a principle. Something he kept carefully intact because once you started letting people in, even a little, they tended to see things you weren’t ready to explain. But Derek Morgan wasn’t just anyone at work. He was his friend. And worse, in this specific case, he was also your big brother, which meant there were layers of complication Spencer hadn’t fully accounted for when he started dating you in the first place.

So he spoke anyway.

Not your name. Never your name. Just fragments that still somehow felt too revealing.

He explained how he had missed a dinner he had promised would be just the two of you, no cases, no interruptions, no excuses waiting in the wings. He explained how it hadn’t been malicious, how time had slipped in the way it always did, like sand through fingers he didn’t realize were open until it was already gone. He explained how it wasn’t even the first time, and how that detail alone had changed the entire shape of the conversation when he finally walked through the door too late.

And then he admitted, less willingly, that when frustration came, when disappointment turned into something sharper, he had reacted instead of listening. That he had defended himself with logic, with context, with all the reasons that made sense in his head but apparently didn’t matter in the moment they were spoken. That somewhere between explaining and insisting, he had stopped hearing the part where it wasn’t about being right.

By the end of it, neither of them had apologized. Not properly. Not in a way that closed anything. Just a silence that stretched and hardened until it became its own kind of wall.

Derek listened the entire time without interrupting, which, in hindsight, should have been Spencer’s first warning.

When he finally finished, Morgan leaned back in his chair, exhaled through his nose, and looked at him with the kind of expression usually reserved for malfunctioning equipment or particularly disappointing case files.

“You were an idiot.”

Spencer blinked once. “What?”

“You were an idiot.”

“I don’t think that’s objectively—”

“You forgot dinner.”

“There was a case, and my mind was…occupied,” Spencer corrected quickly, almost reflexively, as if precision could soften the accusation.

Morgan pointed at him like that settled it. “Exactly. You don’t forget things. You remember license plates from twenty years ago, but you forgot a dinner you promised her?”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped. Closed it. Then tried again anyway, because not responding felt worse.

“I know,” he admitted quietly.

“And then instead of apologizing,” Morgan continued, “you gave her a lecture about why you forgot.”

“…yes.”

Morgan nodded once, like the case was already solved. “Yeah. Idiot.”

Spencer sank a little deeper into his chair, as if he could physically distance himself from the conclusion. “I wasn’t trying to upset her,” he said, quieter now. “Logically, if I explained the circumstances, she would understand why I missed it.”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Kid, women don’t always want logic.”

“That’s statistically impossible,” Spencer said automatically, because it was safer than sitting with the rest of it.

Morgan didn’t even acknowledge that.

He just leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the humor in his expression thinning into something steadier, less teasing now, more grounded, like he was done playing with the situation and had decided to actually look at it.

“Sometimes they just want you to admit you hurt their feelings.”

Spencer considered that for a moment longer than most people would have. His mind, as usual, tried to systematize it, translate it into something measurable, something predictable. But it didn’t settle into a neat equation. It hovered instead, annoyingly unresolved.

“You know what she’s waiting for right now?” Morgan continued, like he was narrating something painfully obvious. “An apology. And flowers. Be classic about it.”

Spencer blinked. “…that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

The simplicity of it almost offended him on principle.

“But what if she’s still angry?” he asked, because of course he had to account for every possible variable. “Anger doesn’t resolve instantly just because an apology is issued. There’s usually a cooling period, sometimes followed by—”

“Reid.” Morgan cut in flatly.

Spencer tried again, more quietly. “What if she doesn’t forgive me?”

Morgan let out a short laugh, shaking his head like the question itself was exhausting.

“Trust me,” he said. “If she’s put up with you for five months, she’s not leaving that easily.”

That earned the smallest shift in Spencer’s expression. Not quite relief, but something close enough to soften the edges. A reluctant smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.

Morgan noticed immediately, of course.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he added casually, almost offhand, too casual to be innocent:

“What’s her name anyway?”

The shift was immediate and almost physical.

Spencer went still in a way that wasn’t simply silence, it was interruption at the level of thought. Like whatever careful, fragile structure he had been maintaining inside his head had just been tapped in the wrong place and was now threatening to collapse in on itself. His eyes lifted too quickly, then dropped just as fast, betraying him before he could even attempt to form something resembling composure.

“…What?” he said, but it came out too sharp, too reflexive, as if the question itself had accused him of something.

Morgan tilted his head, watching him with the slow, patient attention of someone who had just found something interesting and had no intention of letting it go. “Her name,” he repeated, softer now, almost conversational. “The mystery girlfriend you’ve been circling around for the last half hour.”

Spencer’s brain did something deeply unhelpful, like attempt to exit his skull.

“I—” he started.

Then stopped.

Then tried again, weaker this time. “I didn’t say she was— I mean, I didn’t specify—”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Reid.”

That single word cut straight through whatever remaining momentum Spencer had been clinging to.

He stopped.

The silence that followed felt too loud for a room that had only seconds ago contained casual conversation. Spencer’s gaze dropped, then flicked away again, as if eye contact had become structurally unsafe. He adjusted his grip on his bag strap with unnecessary force, like he could physically organize his thoughts if he held onto something hard enough.

“I should go,” he said quickly, already moving before the sentence had fully finished forming, chair scraping faintly behind him as he stood a fraction too fast.

Morgan leaned back in his seat, utterly at ease now, watching the whole thing unfold like it was entertainment he hadn’t expected to enjoy this much.

Spencer didn’t look at him. Didn’t dare.

He just grabbed his bag, too tight, too precise, like if he handled it correctly he could still salvage what was left of his dignity.

Behind him, Morgan called after him, voice edged with amusement that had fully settled in now, no longer restrained by sympathy or hesitation.

“Kid.”

Spencer froze, hand on the strap.

Morgan’s grin widened. “You’re worse at hiding things than you are at talking to women.”

Well, that wasn’t what his little sister could say.

***

Spencer Reid found you at your work just after midday, when the world inside your building was caught in that peculiar rhythm of motion without urgency. He stood outside for a moment longer than necessary, as if the threshold itself required preparation. The flowers in his hands were simple, chosen with intent rather than extravagance, but even that simplicity had been carefully overthought, the stems adjusted and readjusted until they were aligned in a way that made sense only to him. He shifted his grip once, then again, thumb brushing against the wrapping as though precision could somehow translate into reassurance.

When he finally stepped inside, the change was immediate. The hum of the place wrapped around him, warmer, more alive, and suddenly he was hyperaware of everything: his own footsteps, the faint rustle of paper in his hand, the way his presence seemed to interrupt a rhythm he hadn’t been part of a second ago. He saw you before you saw him.

That alone made his pulse jump.

You were mid-task, completely absorbed in whatever demanded your attention at that moment, posture angled slightly forward in a way that suggested focus so deep it made the rest of the room irrelevant. There was a pen in your hand, and your hair had fallen slightly out of place, soft strands escaping whatever attempt you had made earlier to control them. Your expression was set in concentration, the kind that made you look, for a fleeting second, unreachable. Not distant in an emotional sense, but sealed inside your own momentum, like the world would have to wait until you decided otherwise.

It hit him again then, that disorienting realization that never fully settled no matter how many times he experienced it: you were not an equation he could balance, not a pattern he could predict, not a hypothesis that yielded itself neatly to observation. You were real in a way his mind struggled to compress into something manageable. Not something to analyze. Not something to solve. Just you...existing in front of him with an immediacy that made everything else feel slightly out of focus.

He cleared his throat softly.

It was small, almost tentative, but it still felt too loud in his own ears.

Your eyes lifted.

There was a pause before you registered him fully.

It wasn’t immediate. First came confusion, like your mind briefly refusing to assign meaning to what you were seeing. Then recognition flickered through, softening that confusion just enough to make it real. And then something sharper settled in behind your gaze, like you were weighing the space between him showing up and him leaving again, and deciding which outcome you were prepared to tolerate.

Spencer swallowed.

“I—hi,” he started, and then immediately looked like he regretted choosing that particular arrangement of syllables. His shoulders shifted minutely, tension tightening and releasing in uneven pulses. “I brought…flowers.”

He lifted them slightly, like he was presenting something far more fragile than it already was. The bouquet tilted just a fraction in his grip, stems aligned with an almost anxious precision, as though even their angle might influence how this moment unfolded.

You blinked at them.

Then at him.

Then back at the flowers, as if your brain was taking a second longer than usual to reconcile intention with reality.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, the word drawn out with cautious neutrality, like you were waiting for the rest of the sentence to arrive and complete whatever meaning this was supposed to have.

Spencer nodded too quickly. “Yes. Right. They’re not— I mean, they’re not symbolic of anything negative.” He paused, corrected himself mid-thought, then continued with increasing urgency, “They’re actually meant to be apologetic.”

That made your brows lift slightly.

His grip on the flowers tightened a fraction before he forced it to relax.

“I missed our dinner,” he said suddenly, words spilling forward now that the threshold had been crossed. “And I know that wasn’t the first time, and I know I said it wouldn’t happen again, and I did try to come back but the case ran longer than expected and I should have called earlier, or at least sent a message, and I understand why you were upset because it’s not really about the dinner itself, it’s about—”

“Spencer.”

The interruption was quiet, but it landed cleanly.

He stopped instantly, like a switch had been flipped somewhere inside him. His mouth closed, the rest of the explanation collapsing unfinished behind his teeth. He looked at you properly then, as if realizing for the first time in the last thirty seconds that he hadn’t actually been speaking to resolve anything, you were supposed to be part of the conversation, not just the endpoint of it.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, simpler this time. “I shouldn’t have missed it. And I shouldn’t have made you feel like it didn’t matter.”

Spencer’s gaze stayed on you, careful now in a different way. Less defensive. More exposed.

Then, almost reluctantly, like the admission had to physically push its way out of him, he added, “And I…asked Morgan for advice, you should know it.”

There was a pause.

A very specific kind of pause, the kind that didn’t belong to silence so much as to realization. Like your brain had to double-check it had processed the sentence correctly before allowing any reaction to form.

Your expression changed first. Not immediately disbelief, but a slow recalibration, like the information had to be tested against reality before it was accepted. Then your brows lifted slightly. Then your mouth twitched, just barely, the smallest betrayal of something trying very hard not to become laughter too soon.

“Wait,” you said slowly. “You asked my brother for advice.”

Spencer nodded once, cautious now. “Yes.”

You laughed.

It started as something small, an exhale of disbelief that slipped out before you could catch it, but it didn’t stay small. It built quickly, breaking through whatever tension had been sitting between you a second ago. You pressed a hand briefly to your mouth, like you were trying to contain it, but it didn’t help. If anything, it made it worse. Your shoulders shook slightly as you looked at him, as if trying to reconcile the very serious man standing in front of you with the information he had just offered up so sincerely.

“You asked Derek,” you repeated between breaths, still laughing. “About us?”

Spencer looked mildly pained now, the way he always did when he realized a decision had aged badly in real time. “In retrospect,” he said carefully, “I recognize that may not have been optimal decision-making.”

That made you laugh harder.

“Oh my— Spencer,” you said, still smiling, still shaking your head like your body couldn’t decide whether to recover or continue. “That is the worst possible person you could’ve gone to.”

“I’m aware,” he said quietly. “He told me I was an idiot.”

That only made you laugh more, and something in his chest loosened at the sound, like a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally shifted, fraction by fraction, into something less suffocating.

When your laughter finally faded, you looked at him again.

Still hurt, maybe. Still not entirely okay.

But softer now.

“And?” you asked.

Spencer hesitated, then held the flowers out a little more properly this time, like he was committing to the moment instead of escaping it.

“And,” he finished carefully, still holding the flowers out a little too formally, “he was…unfortunately correct about several things.”

You tilted your head, considering him for a second, then scoffed lightly as if the idea itself offended you.

“Derek is never correct.”

That made Spencer pause.

You stepped closer, and before he could recalibrate whatever internal system was trying to predict the next outcome, you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

“You should just talk to me,” you said quietly, already pulling back slightly but keeping close enough that he could still feel you there. “We are adults.”

Spencer blinked once.

“I thought you were mad,” he admitted, voice thinner now, confused in that very specific way he got when reality didn’t match the model he had built in his head.

You exhaled through your nose, half amused, half exasperated, and lifted a hand to his face, fingertips brushing lightly along his cheek as if anchoring him back into something real.

“I was,” you said honestly. “Very much.”

That made his shoulders tense slightly, instinctively bracing.

“But I understand your work,” you continued, softer now, “and the shitty hours. I get it, Spencer. I really do.”

His eyes searched yours, still wary, still trying to calculate where the sharp edge was supposed to come in.

Instead, there was none.

Just you.

You thumbed gently along his cheekbone, steadying him in a way no explanation ever had.

“I believe in communication,” you added, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Something in Spencer finally gave up resisting.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, but this time it didn’t sound like part of a defense. It sounded like the end of one.

You studied him for a second, still close enough that your hand remained on his cheek, thumb resting lightly as if you’d decided that was simply where it belonged now.

“Good,” you said simply.

Spencer blinked. “Good?”

“Yes,” you nodded once, like it was obvious. “Apology accepted.”

That seemed to short-circuit him for a second.

“Just like that?” he asked, cautiously, as if he was checking whether there was a second stage to this he hadn’t been briefed on.

You gave him a look. “Spencer. I already kissed your face. What more do you want from me.”

His ears went slightly pink at that, which only made you smile more.

“I—” he started, then stopped, recalculating. “That’s…fair.”

You finally took the flowers from his hands before he could overthink them into oblivion, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. He visibly tracked the movement like it mattered more than it should have.

“They’re pretty,” you added, glancing at them.

“I chose them based on color theory and—” he began automatically.

“I love that.”

That cut him off mid-explanation, and for a second he looked like he was about to defend himself out of habit. Then he saw your expression and the defense just didn’t arrive.

Instead, he exhaled a small breath that might have been a laugh if he was braver.

“I also panicked slightly,” he admitted.

You nodded seriously. “That I believe.”

A pause settled between you again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable in a way neither of you had quite figured out how to name yet.

Spencer glanced at you, then at the flowers, then back at you like he was still trying to confirm this wasn’t some alternate reality where he had successfully handled emotional confrontation without catastrophe.

You, on the other hand, looked entirely too pleased with yourself.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “for someone who overthinks everything, you’re kind of cute when you’re trying not to implode.”

That made him freeze.

“…That is not a clinically recognized category of attractiveness,” he said automatically.

You smiled wider. “Didn’t say it was.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then seemed to settle on the only safe response available.

“I don’t know what to do with compliments,” he admitted.

“That’s okay,” you said, stepping a little closer again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I can help you.”

His gaze flickered to yours, softer now, less defensive and more present.

“That seems inefficient,” he murmured, but there was no real protest in it.

You lightly bumped your shoulder against his.

“I think you’ll survive.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost shy despite everything, he asked, “So…we’re okay?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, you reached up and gently fixed the collar of his shirt like it had been bothering you all day, smoothing it into place with casual care.

“Yeah,” you said finally. “We’re okay.”

***

When you got home, the apartment was quiet in that familiar, lived-in way: TV murmuring low in the background, something forgettable playing to an audience that wasn’t really watching. The kind of sound that filled space without demanding anything from it. Your brother was on the couch, stretched out like he belonged to it more than the furniture itself, one arm draped over the backrest, the other holding the remote in a loose grip that suggested he’d already stopped caring what was on.

He looked up the moment the door clicked shut.

At first it was automatic, half a greeting forming on his tongue, some casual comment ready to be thrown your way without much thought. But it never made it out. It stalled, visibly, the second his eyes actually focused.

The flowers came first.

Bright, unmistakable, slightly ridiculous in the way only something intentionally chosen could be. Then your expression, too alive, too soft around the edges, like you were still carrying whatever moment had just happened outside the apartment and hadn’t fully put it down yet. And then the smile. That was the real problem. Not just a smile, but one that kept threatening to turn into laughter every time you breathed, like it had gotten stuck halfway between contained and completely out of control.

Derek slowly sat up a little straighter.

Not alarmed exactly. More like recalibrating. Like his brain had just received new data that didn’t match any of the existing categories he had available.

“…Flowers, uh?” he said at last, drawing the words out carefully. He leaned back just slightly, like increasing physical distance might help him understand what he was looking at. “Should I be worried?”

You didn’t even hesitate.

The answer came too fast, too clean.

“Nope.”

A beat of silence followed that, heavy in its simplicity.

Derek stared at you for another second, then the flowers again, then your face, like he was checking for inconsistencies in a story he already didn’t trust. Slowly, very slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched.

“…Mm,” he hummed, leaning back into the couch with the long-suffering patience of a man who had clearly just missed a very important piece of information.

You didn’t stop.

You walked right past him like the conversation had already been filed away, resolved, and archived somewhere in your mind under done, the flowers cradled casually in your arms as you disappeared down the hallway. The door to your room was already half open before Derek could even find the next thought.

The apartment fell quiet again.

Not peaceful. Not normal.

Just…paused.

Derek stayed still for about three seconds, which, for him, was practically an eternity. Then he slowly turned his head toward the hallway like it might physically supply him with missing context if he stared at it hard enough. His brows pulled together, faintly at first, then deeper, like the situation was refusing to align itself into anything logical.

The smile on your face replayed in his head.

Then the flowers.

Then the timing.

Then the very specific, very suspicious absence of any emotional damage whatsoever.

Derek sat forward a fraction.

“…No way,” he muttered, almost to himself.

A pause stretched out, thin and sharp.

His gaze flicked toward the hallway again, then back, like he was assembling a puzzle he absolutely did not want to finish. Slowly, the realization stopped being theoretical. It settled. It clicked into place with the quiet horror of inevitability.

His eyes widened slightly.

Then he leaned back into the couch again, staring up at the ceiling like it had betrayed him personally and without warning.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with absolute conviction—

“Spencer!” you shriek, cutting him off before he can finish a statement like that at six in the morning.

He smirks. “I was just providing data.”

You pinch his side. “Provide less.”

He laughs again, sleepy and warm, and grins like he’s proud of getting you flustered.

You kiss him again. It’s easier now that the part where you pretend not to want to stay has worn off. You just want to stay, and you let yourself.

When you finally peel out of bed, it’s with mutual groaning and the kind of reluctant separation that would be disgusting if it were anyone else. He presses a quick kiss between your shoulder blades as you swing your legs over the side of the mattress; you pretend it doesn’t make your chest do something stupid.

By the time you’re dressed and make your way out of the bedroom, Spencer’s apartment smells like coffee and toast. He’s in the kitchen in a button down and slacks, tie draped around his neck, reading something in the newspaper with a little furrow between his brows. There’s a mug waiting for you — your mug, chipped on one side, living here now without discussion.

You snag a piece of toast off his plate, bite into it, and lean your hip against the counter while he wrestles with his tie. It’s a new one — navy with small, neat polka dots.

“Come here,” you say, setting your mug down.

He steps closer automatically when you hook two fingers in his belt and tug him in. You untie the knot and redo it, straightening it with careful precision. He watches your face like you’re doing something much more interesting than fixing his tie.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just… like you here.”

You roll your eyes because the alternative is something mushy, but then you lean in anyway and let your lips find his.

The kiss is soft and familiar and still somehow manages to make your knees a little shaky. He tastes like coffee and toothpaste and home, which is a terrifying thought you refuse to examine this early in the day.

He breaks away first, forehead resting against yours. “We should go.”

“Yeah,” you say, not moving.

A beat passes, then another long kiss. Eventually you both laugh, step back at the same time, and pretend you’re ready for reality to hit.

You grab your jacket and badge off the hook, he grabs his satchel and keys, and you walk out the door together.

—

By the time you pull into the Quantico lot, the radio is off and his hand is resting, casual and warm, on your thigh. You let it stay there until you’re close enough to see the building, then you nudge it away and give him a look that says later.

He gives you one back that says I know.

The practiced routine kicks in — you get out and head inside first, he waits three-and-a-half minutes before doing the same.

Spencer barely makes it to his desk before Rossi appears beside him like a well-dressed shadow.

“Ready to go?” Rossi asks, coffee in hand, already halfway turned toward the bullpen doors.

They’re headed to the academy building across campus, today’s guest lecturers for a criminology training. Spencer always pretends he’s indifferent to that sort of thing, but the second he’s in front of a whiteboard, he lights up.

Spencer blinks, then nods. “Yes. I just need—”

“Your notes are in your bag,” Rossi says. “You sent me five drafts already. Come on, kid, the cadets await.”

Spencer glances in your direction automatically. You lift your eyes just long enough to catch his and tip your chin, a small, private acknowledgment no one else would notice.

He smiles — barely there, but there — and then heads out with Rossi. You watch them go, then drag your focus back to the report in front of you.

You get maybe three minutes of peace.

“Greenawaaay,” Garcia sings, appearing at the edge of your peripheral vision like a colorful mirage.

You don’t look up yet. “If this is about your whipped cream experimentation with Kevin, I already told you I’m not certified in exorcisms.”

“It’s not about the whipped cream,” she says. “It’s much more important than the whipped cream. Which should tell you the stakes here are astronomical.”

You sigh, close the file, and finally turn. JJ and Prentiss are hovering behind her with matching she-already-recruited-us-but-we-don’t-know-what-for expressions. Morgan leans against the nearest desk, arms folded, clearly already in on whatever this is.

“What did you do?” you ask.

“Me?” Garcia bats her lashes. “Nothing. But we’re about to make history. Come on.” She jerks her head toward the hallway. “Top secret meeting in my office.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m on the clock, Garcia. I have work to do.”

“As do I,” she says. “This is… related to work. Trust me.”

You should say no. You should go back to your paperwork. Instead, curiosity wins and you slide out of your chair.

Garcia herds the four of you down to her lair like a cheerful, bedazzled sheepdog. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, the lights of her monitors bathing the room in neon. On the far wall, there’s a corkboard you don’t remember seeing before.

At the top, in big, bold letters outlined with glittery tape, it says:

OPERATION MYSTERY GIRL - O.M.G.

Garcia plants herself in front of the board, hands on hips. “Welcome, my beloved profilers and communications liaison, to the inaugural briefing of O.M.G.!”

JJ presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Morgan isn’t even pretending to not be thrilled. Prentiss looks like she’s just been handed front-row tickets to a train wreck.

“Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” you say.

“This,” Garcia announces, pointing dramatically at the corkboard, “is a fully serious, very important investigation into the case of Dr. Spencer Reid’s mysterious secret girlfriend.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?” She gestures dramatically to the board again. It’s already populated with printed photos, sticky notes, and colored yarn connecting pins like you’re standing in front of a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream.

At the bottom is a sheet of paper featuring a stick figure of a woman with a giant question mark over her face. Around it: headings that read EVIDENCE SO FAR, POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS, and VIBES in Garcia’s handwriting.

You step closer despite yourself.

Under EVIDENCE:

Suspiciously happy like all the time

Volunteering for less overtime than usual

New clothes??!!

His aura just screams I’M IN LURVVV

“Some of this is actually pretty accurate,” Prentiss says, leaning in.

“I’ve been monitoring his behavior for weeks,” Garcia says proudly. “The data doesn’t lie. Our boy genius is smitten, and he is hiding her from us.”

Morgan shakes his head. “He’s definitely hiding something. We’ve been saying that for a while. And at O’Keefe’s the other week, he didn’t exactly deny it. He just said ‘no comment,’ which means there’s definitely a girl.”

“He has a right to privacy,” you point out, mostly because you’re trying not to gnaw through your own tongue.

“Absolutely,” Garcia says. “He has the right to privacy, and I have the right to gossip with my friends about our other friend. Both things can be true.”

Prentiss snorts.

Garcia taps the POTENTIAL OCCUPATIONS column, where there are several options listed already:

Kindergarten teacher

Librarian

Baker

Social worker

“Seriously? You think he’s dating a kindergarten teacher? A librarian?” you ask.

JJ lifts a shoulder. “He does like to read.”

“And he’s good with kids,” Morgan adds. “Makes sense he’d go for someone sweet and gentle like that."

“It’s probably someone outside the FBI,” Prentiss proposes. “Normal job. Normal hours. No guns.”

“She definitely wears super cute colorful cardigans,” Garcia adds, already scribbling it down under VIBES. “And I’d venture to guess that she bakes cupcakes when she’s stressed. Smells like vanilla!”

“Vanilla,” you echo, deadpan.

JJ tilts her head. “You don’t think he’d be into someone like that?”

You shrug like it’s theoretical, like your heart isn’t doing something unpleasant in your chest. “He might be, I don’t know. But I think he needs someone who can actually handle the job. The hours. The… everything. This kind of life isn’t exactly gentle.”

“Exactly,” Garcia says. “Which is why she’s gotta be gentle. She provides a counterbalance. Yin and yang, crime and cupcakes. It’s poetic.”

She writes CUPCAKES under VIBES.

Morgan points his pen at the pinned drawing of the stick figure woman. “Come on, Greenaway. You spend a lot of time with him. Help us out.”

“I do not spend a lot of time with him,” you deny automatically.

Four pairs of eyes look at you.

You lift your hands. “Fine. I spend an appropriate amount of professional time with him. Not my fault Hotch pairs us together a lot.”

“Point is, you know him. So, from a purely hypothetical standpoint,” JJ says, “what kind of person do you think he’d be happy with?”

You stare at the board for a moment, at the fake girl they’ve built out of cardigans and vanilla extract. Then you pick up a pen.

“Someone smart,” you say. “He’d need that. Someone who doesn’t treat him like a walking encyclopedia but also doesn’t get lost or zone out when he goes off on a tangent. Someone who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly,” you continue. “You all know what this job does. You don’t get to just… opt out of the darkness. If you’re with him, you’re in all of it.”

You tap the pen against the board, then force your tone lighter. “And yeah, okay, probably someone nice.”

Garcia grins, scribbling down NICE under VIBES and functionally ignoring the rest of what you said. “See? This is why I invited you. You have insight!”

Morgan grins. “So we’re in agreement. She’s smart, sweet, likes kids, bakes.”

“And probably has no idea how lucky she is,” JJ adds.

You swallow back the instinctive no, she definitely knows she’s lucky and say instead, “Can I go back to work now, or are we building a composite sketch?”

Garcia swats the air. “This is just Phase One, my fine furry friend. We will reconvene later. In the meantime, I expect you all to investigate.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite in it. “Great. Can’t wait to see what Phase Two has in store.”

As you step back, your gaze catches on the stick figure again. On the glitter, the stickers, the ridiculous heading — O.M.G.

According to the board, Reid’s mystery girl should be someone who wears cardigans. Smells like sugar. Teaches kindergarten.

Definitely not someone like you.

You shove that thought down where it belongs, under seven layers of scar tissue and denial, and head back to the bullpen like nothing in here touched you at all.

—

The rest of the morning unfolds like any other day at the BAU, if you ignore the fact that one of your coworkers has unknowingly built a conspiracy wall about you.

You try to ignore it.

You work a consult. You write up a report on last week’s case. You argue with a detective over the phone until he backs down, and when you hang up, Morgan’s watching you like: damn, remind me to never piss you off.

“You good?” he asks.

“Peachy,” you say, tossing the file onto your desk. “Please tell me Garcia found a new hobby in the last hour.”

He grins. “Not a chance. She’s real committed to this one.”

You roll your eyes and open your email.

There’s a subject line from Garcia that reads: “O.M.G. – Phase Two Meeting Tomorrow - Agenda Enclosed!” with three heart emojis.

You don’t open it. You’re not that masochistic.

Around noon, your phone buzzes against your desk. You assume it’s another follow-up from Garcia and flip it over, already cringing. Instead, it’s Spencer.

Spencer: Cadets have already asked 3 questions that make me concerned for the future of law enforcement.

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop it, shoulders loosening.

You type back under the desk.

You: important news from the home front: i am currently the unsub in an unsanctioned profiling experiment being conducted out of garcia’s lair

There’s a long enough pause that you can imagine him reading it twice, brow furrowed.

Spencer: …What?

You: penelope has formed a task force

You: codename: operation mystery girl

You: acronym: O.M.G.

You: there’s glitter. so much glitter

You: and specific instructions not to tell you about it. oops

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

Spencer: Why can’t I know?

You: because you’ve been “suspiciously happy” so they’ve decided that gives them grounds to reverse-engineer your love life

You: they’re profiling your “type.” your mystery girl.

Another beat. You can practically feel him flushing through the screen.

Spencer: What have they concluded so far?

You: that you’re dating a bubbly, perfect kindergarten teacher who smells like vanilla

There’s a full minute of silence this time. You picture him in some Academy auditorium, phone in his hand under the desk while Rossi lectures about offender typologies.

Finally:

Spencer: I don’t even like vanilla that much.

You laugh under your breath and stare at that for a second, heat curling low in your stomach for absolutely no good reason as his second text comes through.

Spencer: I prefer more complex flavors.

You roll your eyes at your phone, because of course he somehow made that sound unintentionally sweet and slightly filthy without even trying.

You: stop flirting with me during class

You: you’re supposed to be educating the next generation of the fbi

As if on cue, Hotch’s door opens and he steps out into the bullpen, scanning the room. You turn your phone face-down on your desk.

By late afternoon, O.M.G. has evolved. Every so often you catch someone making a note — Garcia walking by while scribbling on a sticky, JJ whispering something in her ear, Prentiss and Morgan analyzing Spencer’s desk from a distance.

It’s fine. It’s all stupid and harmless and fine.

Your phone buzzes again around four while you’re in the hall heading back from the bathroom.

Spencer: Wrapping up here, should be back soon. Any further developments on the O.M.G. front?

You glance down the hall towards Garcia’s office. The door is closed, a faint glow spilling out from beneath it like a witch’s cave.

You: more of the same

You: i’ll fill you in tonight

You hesitate, then tack on one more message before you can talk yourself out of it:

You: miss you

It’s reckless and feels entirely too honest, but your thumb hits send anyway.

The reply comes before you’ve even locked your phone.

Spencer: I miss you too. See you soon.

You swallow, looking around like the words might be visible in the air, but no one’s looking at you. No one has a clue.

Yet.

—

By the time you make it to Spencer’s apartment after work, your brain feels like it’s humming inside your skull.

You kick the door shut with your heel, toe your shoes off in the entryway, shrug out of your jacket and scarf and hang them on the hook you’ve claimed as your own. Spencer drops his satchel by the couch and heads for the kitchen.

“Dinner,” he calls, opening the fridge. “Option A: leftover lo mein. Option B: grilled cheese. Option C: both.”

“C,” you pick.

He smiles faintly and pulls out the takeout container. It’s all so normal — him moving around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, you leaning your hip against the cabinets as you watch him. This is your life now: FBI agent by day, domestic lovergirl by night.

You watch him butter bread and portion out noodles like he’s solving a complex equation. He glances up.

“You said you’d fill me in,” he reminds you. “On O.M.G.”

You snort. “Right. Your fan club.”

He raises his eyebrows. You sigh and attempt to pick the least sharp version of the recap you’ve been brewing in your head all day.

“Garcia built a case board,” you say. “There are doodles and glitter tape and stickers. She has lists pinned to it for ‘Evidence So Far,’ ‘Potential Occupations,’ and ‘Vibes.’”

He blinks once. “…Vibes.”

“Vibes,” you confirm. “And according to our coworkers, apparently the ‘vibe’ is that you’re secretly dating a kindergarten teacher slash librarian slash cupcake baker who smells like vanilla and wears colorful cardigans and definitely doesn’t carry a gun or have years of trauma to work through in therapy.”

He pauses in the act of flipping a sandwich. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” You pick at a chip in the countertop.

“And what did you contribute to the investigation?” he asks.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. “That whoever you’re with would have to be smart. And able to handle the job. And not treat you like you’re made of glass. Clearly, my influence was minimal.”

The grilled cheese sizzles. The lo mein goes in the microwave. Silence fills in around it, heavy and familiar.

You eat on the couch, plate balanced on your knees, a National Geographic documentary playing low on the TV.

You make jokes at first. You tell him about Prentiss and Morgan’s intense study of his desk for “data collection” and Garcia’s email subject lines. Spencer laughs in all the right places. He looks at you more than he looks at the screen.

But by the time the plates are empty, the jokes have dried up.

You stack the dishes and take them to the sink, rinsing them off like the hot water might scald the thoughts out of your head. When you look up, he’s still on the couch, watching you with that careful focus of his.

“What?” you ask.

“You’re doing that thing,” he says.

“Please specify which thing,” you say. “I have a lot of things.”

“The thing where you brush something hurtful off like it’s funny but then go really quiet and your shoulders get all tense.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Come here.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

“I never said you weren’t.” His voice stays soft, but there’s a thread of seriousness underneath it. “I said to come here.”

You sigh and drop onto the couch beside him with more force than necessary. He shifts closer, thigh warm against yours. His hand finds the back of the couch behind your shoulders, not quite touching you yet.

“So,” he says. “What’s bothering you? And don’t say ‘nothing,’ because we both know that’s not true.”

“It’s stupid,” you grumble, staring at the coffee table.

He gently lifts your chin with his finger. “Okay. Tell me anyway.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, throat tight. You’ve been replaying it all day — the board, the stick figure, the list of traits that are a complete juxtaposition to your entire personality.

“I…” You trail off and try another angle. “The team loves you. They just want you to be happy. It’s sweet, honestly. A massive overstep and an insane invasion of privacy, but still sweet. I understand their curiosity.”

“But,” he prompts gently.

You exhale, sharp. “But… they built you a perfect imaginary ideal girlfriend, and she’s nothing like me.”

He’s quiet. You push on before you can lose your nerve.

“Like, not even a little bit,” you say. “She’s soft and gentle and bakes when she’s stressed and doesn’t know what a glock looks like. She smells like vanilla.” The word tastes bitter on your tongue. “And the thing is, Morgan and Garcia and JJ and Prentiss know you. Like, really well. They’re your best friends. So if that’s the woman who pops into their heads when they think about who’d be good for you—” You break off.

When you look up, his eyes are still on you, open and steady.

“When they eventually find out it’s me,” you go on, forcing the words out, “they’re going to look at you like you’ve lost your mind. Like you traded in a cupcake for… I don’t know. A Molotov cocktail or something.”

“You don’t honestly think,” he says, “that they sat there and consciously decided, ‘Reid should be with someone who is the total opposite of Greenaway.’”

“No,” you say. “I think they didn’t think of me at all.”

The words hang there, more naked than you meant them to be.

He goes very still.

“Not that I wanted them to think of me and figure it out, but still.” You stare resolutely at the coffee table. “And, like, I get it. I’ve spent a long time cultivating a vibe that says ‘do not perceive me unless you want to get bit.’ I don’t exactly radiate ‘nurturing life partner’ energy. It would almost be funny if it didn’t feel like—” You motion helplessly at some vague point in front of you. “Like confirmation,” you say. “That I’m wrong for you. That when they do eventually find out, they’re going to wonder how badly you hit your head.”

There’s a prickling behind your eyes. You blink hard, once, twice. It doesn’t help much.

“And I hate that it’s getting to me,” you say. “I don’t care what people think. That’s, like, my whole thing. I have built an entire personality around not giving a shit. But I…” You flex your hands, fingers curling against your knees. “I care what they think of you. And of you with me. And apparently that’s enough to scramble my brain, because now I’m sitting here wishing I could be some fucking vanilla-cupcake-librarian for you because you deserve someone that sweet and soft and kind, but that’s— that’s not who I am. I don’t know how to be that girl. And I am so fucking tired of being the wrong kind of girl in every room.”

There’s a long moment where the only sound is the TV and your own breathing, too loud in your ears.

Then Spencer moves.

He reaches over, gently pries your hand away from your knee, and laces his fingers through yours. His palm is warm. His grip is firm without being possessive.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. It feels like standing on the edge of a roof and choosing, deliberately, not to step back.

“You’re right, they do know me,” he says. “But they don’t know what it feels like to be in my apartment at three in the morning when my brain won’t shut off and you stay up with me just so I’m not alone. They don’t know what it’s like to sit in a car with you at a crime scene and have you make the darkest possible joke at exactly the right moment. They don’t know how it feels when I start spiraling and you say, very firmly, ‘Reid, eat something,’ and shove a granola bar into my hand.”

You start to object. “That happened, like, one time.”

“It was three times,” he says. His thumb strokes along the side of your hand absentmindedly.

“They’re still a bit stuck on the version of me that existed before… a lot of things. Before Tobias Hankel. Before Gideon left. Before losing people changed the way I look at everything. They still see the kid who needed to be protected from himself.”

“Sometimes you still are that kid,” you say softly.

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But I’m also a man who knows what he wants. Who he wants.” His eyes are steady on yours. “And it’s you. It’s been you for a long time.”

Your throat tightens.

“They want me to have someone gentle,” he says. “And I get why. But gentle doesn’t necessarily have to mean cupcakes and vanilla and kindergarten.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re gentle with me in all the ways that matter. You know when to challenge me and when to just… be here.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want a cupcake,” you say slowly.

“I’m saying I don’t want to be handled,” he corrects. “I don’t want to be someone’s fragile project. I don’t need to be saved from my own life by a nice woman in a cardigan.”

He leans in a little, eyes not leaving yours.

“I chose you,” he says. “Not because I’m convinced you’re secretly soft underneath it all and one day you’ll transform into their idea of what my life should look like. I chose you, completely as you are. Sharp and stubborn and infuriating and the only person who’s ever told me to shut up not because you didn’t care what I had to say, but because you wanted to kiss me so badly you couldn’t wait."

Heat flickers under your skin at that memory. Your eyes sting again. You blink hard.

“They love me,” he says with a nod. “You’re right. But they also love you. They trust you with their lives. They’ve seen you bleed for this team. Do you really think that when they find out I’m with someone who understands all of that, who gets it down to the bone, they’re going to… what? Stage an intervention? Tell me I should hold out for someone better?”

You look away, jaw tight.

“If I didn’t want you,” he says, voice even, “I wouldn’t be with you. If I thought you were wrong for me, I wouldn’t let you into this part of my life.” He squeezes your hand. It’s grounding, the pressure. “I’m not going to look at Garcia’s corkboard and suddenly decide I made a mistake. I’m in this because I want to be.”

You swallow, hard. A traitorous tear finally escapes despite your best efforts; you swipe it away with the heel of your hand before it can go rogue.

“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter. “I’m mad at a fucking bulletin board.”

He smiles, small and fond. “You’re not mad at the board.”

He shifts closer, finally letting his arm drop around your shoulders, pulling you in until you’re halfway in his lap.

“I just don’t want to be the wrong choice,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You’re the right one. And if that conflicts with our friends’ wild imaginations, then that’s their problem to solve. Not ours.”

You swallow, breathing uneven. He’s so close you can count his eyelashes. You let your head tip against his shoulder as his thumb draws idle circles on the back of your hand.

“Okay,” you say eventually, almost too quiet to hear. “But if they look at me like I’m a bad idea when they eventually find out, you’re in charge of reminding them I’m not.”

“I can do that,” he promises.

You stay like that for a while — documentary murmuring in the background, the universe shrunk down to the circumference of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest. At some point, he turns his head and presses a kiss into your hair.

“You know Garcia’s going to put glittery heart stickers around my face if she ever adds me to that board,” you mumble against him.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m so keeping it if she does.”

You pinch his side. He yelps, then laughs, then presses another kiss into your hair.

Let them have their glitter for now, you think to yourself. Let them build their wrong profile. It doesn’t change the fact that you’re here, and he’s here, and you’re choosing each other.

—

Rossi’s email hits your inbox on Thursday morning, wedged between a case update and a training memo.

BAU Pasta Night at Villa Rossi: Saturday. 6pm. Mandatory attendance.

You read it twice. There’s something about dinner at Rossi’s that feels less like an invitation and more like a command.

Your phone buzzes with a text five minutes later.

Spencer: Did you see Rossi’s email?

You stare at the screen longer than you need to, then type back:

You: yep

You: guess we’re having pasta this weekend

Once Saturday night hits, Garcia is on Spencer before he can even take his coat off in Rossi’s foyer.

“REID,” she announces, planting herself in front of him with the kind of intensity she usually reserves for hacking and cross-referencing. “You came alone.”

Spencer’s mouth opens. Closes. “Hi, Garcia.”

Morgan appears behind her with a glass of wine, already grinning. “No plus-one, man? C’mon.”

Emily lifts her eyebrows in amusement. JJ’s smile is softer, more sympathetic than nosy.

You keep your face blank and slip past them toward the kitchen, waving awkwardly to Hotch as you pass by the living room, because if you have to stand there and listen to this, you will commit a felony.

Rossi intercepts you with a dish towel over his shoulder and a look that says I got you, kid.

“If you’re looking for a way to escape Penelope’s witch hunt, go ahead into the cellar downstairs and pick out another bottle of red,” he says mercifully. “Barolo or Chianti preferably, but it’s your choice."

“Yes, sir,” you say sarcastically, and take the out.

The basement is cooler, quieter. You let yourself breathe for a minute, fingers trailing over labels, pretending you’re here for the tannins.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Spencer is doing his best impression of a man who is not currently being cornered by three BAU agents and one extremely glitter-motivated tech analyst.

Garcia doesn’t even bother easing in.

“Okay,” she says, clasping her hands. “We have respected your privacy for—”

Morgan coughs. “We have attempted to respect your privacy.”

Garcia glares at him, then refocuses on Spencer. “—for a completely appropriate amount of time. But I simply cannot wait any longer. In my heart of hearts I know you’re seeing someone, and I’m DYING to know who she is.”

Spencer rubs the back of his neck. “This is, uh… really none of your business.”

Emily leans against the counter, entertained. “You’re surrounded by profilers, Reid. Being in other people’s business is kind of what we do best.”

JJ steps in a little. “Look, Spence, you don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” she says, and she means it even though Garcia’s threatening her with dagger eyes. “But we’re your friends. We notice when something changes, and we just want the chance to be happy for you.”

Spencer’s ears go pink. “I—I know. It’s just— It’s private.”

Garcia’s eyes widen theatrically. “So she IS real! Private means real!”

Morgan tilts his head. “C’mon, fess up. You seeing someone, pretty boy?”

Spencer hesitates for an awkward beat, running through the options in his head. He supposes that confirming the existence of a significant other isn’t the worst idea in the world, considering they’ve already pretty much figured it out, and it’s not like he has to tell them who the “mystery girl” is. That’s a boundary line he can draw and stick to. Plus, maybe they’ll chill out on O.M.G. and leave you some room to breathe if they at least have a few nuggets of information to hold them over for a bit.

“Yes,” he admits finally. “I’m…seeing someone.”

Garcia makes a sound like she’s about to ascend. “OHHH MY GOD. I KNEW IT.”

“So,” Emily says. “How long has it been?”

Spencer exhales. “A… while. Things started slow, so it’s somewhat hard to quantify.”

As if he doesn’t know the exact amount of time down to the minute that’s passed since you first kissed him in Ohio.

Morgan’s cheeky grin softens as he claps Spencer’s shoulder. “I’m happy for you, man,” he says.

Spencer nods and looks down, like he doesn’t know what to do with that. JJ’s expression brightens in a way that’s genuinely excited for him.

“Well,” Garcia says, leaning in like she’s about to jump into full-on detective mode. “Tell us about her! I want to know everything.”

Spencer’s eyes flick up. “I—”

“Not actually everything. We’re not asking for her social security number,” JJ clarifies. “Not even her name. Just…are you happy? Is it going well?”

Spencer nods, the corner of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It’s…good. Really, really good.”

Garcia’s voice turns unexpectedly soft. “Is she good to you?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Emily taps her fingernail against the counter. “What sorts of things do you two do? Do you go out? Stay in?”

“Both,” Spencer says. “We do, uh, normal things.”

Garcia squints. “Define ‘normal,’ because your normal includes reading hundred-year-old Russian novels for fun.”

He gives a small, helpless shrug. “We… we go on walks. Run errands. Go out to eat. There’s this little Italian restaurant in Georgetown she really likes. But… we also stay in a lot. We cook together sometimes. Talk. Read. Watch movies.”

“What kind of movies?” JJ probes.

Spencer thinks of you engrossed by a classic horror film or picking apart some terrible romcom with surgical cruelty, pointing out every dumb decision while somehow still being fully invested. He does not say that out loud.

“Uh, anything, really,” he says instead. “She made me watch Pulp Fiction recently, and I showed her a documentary about black holes last weekend. She… likes indulging my interests.”

Emily’s eyes flicker with satisfaction at that. JJ files it away. Garcia is practically vibrating.

Morgan jumps in next. “So, you planning on bringing her to one of these things eventually?”

Spencer’s throat bobs. “…Eventually.”

“In the meantime, I need more. What does she like?” Garcia presses. “What’s her favorite—food, music, whatever. Give us something, Reid! One harmless little detail.”

Spencer’s brain scrambles for something that feels safe. Something that won’t point to you. Something small.

“She… she has a bit of a sweet tooth,” he admits. “Brownies, cake, cookies… you know. But she hates warm fruit. Something to do with the texture. We went to a diner once where the waitress gave us free slices of pie, and she picked out all the fruit and just ate the crust and ice cream.”

Emily laughs. “That’s unhinged.”

Garcia clutches her heart. “Oh, a woman with a quirk! I just know I'm going to adore her already.”

Spencer’s eyes flick toward the cellar door for the briefest of seconds — instinctively, as if his gaze is trained on you like a magnet — before looking back at his nosy friends with his signature awkward, tight-lipped smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “I have a feeling you will.”

—

When you come back upstairs with a bottle of Barolo, the evening has already moved into that easy, warm groove: plates clinking, voices overlapping, Rossi refilling wine glasses.

You laugh at something JJ says. You argue with Emily about her taste in horror movies. Spencer watches you like he’s trying to memorize your face. As if he hasn’t already committed every inch of it to memory.

By the time the pasta plates are cleared and Rossi heads into the kitchen to grab dessert, you’ve almost forgotten about O.M.G. entirely. The team has, mercifully, taken it easier on Spencer after the conversation you missed while seeking refuge in the wine cellar.

Whatever he said to shut them up, it must’ve worked, you think to yourself.

Rossi returns to the dining room and sets a slice of apple pie in front of you. “Made from scratch,” he boasts.

You eye it. The apples are glossy and soft. Wrong texture. Wrong temperature. But the crust looks deliciously sugary and flaky and you’re not about to insult Rossi in his own home mansion, so you manage a polite “Thank you” and pick up your fork.

Across the table, Spencer freezes.

Not a subtle freeze — no. It’s a full, wide-eyed, deer-in-headlights freeze.

He clears his throat too loud. Knocks his fork against his plate. His foot finds your ankle under the table with a series of frantic little nudges.

You glance up, confused, eyes clearly asking what the heck is your problem.

He’s staring at your plate like it’s an unpinned grenade.

His mouth opens. Closes. He tries again, smaller, more desperate: “Uh—”

What? you mouth, eyebrows raised.

His eyes flick back and forth — pie, you, pie, you — like he’s trying to telepathically beam a message directly into your skull. But there is, unfortunately, no universal signal for if you eat your pie like a feral raccoon our coworkers are 100% going to figure out our secret so please just be normal this one time, so you just stare at him blankly.

Weirdo.

You gently kick his foot away — more confused than annoyed — and turn back to your plate.

And then you do what you always do.

You begin to push the warm apples to one side of the dish with the edge of your fork, methodically separating fruit from crust like you’re field-stripping a firearm.

Spencer’s face goes beet red in anxious anticipation, but the room doesn’t go silent all at once.

It’s staggered. Like a line of well-spaced dominos, toppling one after another in perfect succession.

Garcia notices first. Her whole face lights up, brows practically shooting up to her hairline. A strangled noise catches in her throat, and her hand clamps over her mouth like she’s trying to keep herself from screaming.

JJ freezes mid-bite, fork suspended, eyes wide and snapping to Spencer.

Morgan’s grin falters into disbelief. “No way,” he says, like he’s arguing with reality.

Emily’s jaw goes slack. “Oh,” she breathes. Then her eyes sharpen, bright with dawning glee. “Ohhh.”

You look up at the sudden weirdness and find four faces locked on your plate like you’ve just confessed to arson.

“What,” you ask carefully, “is happening. Why are you all staring at my pie.”

Morgan points his fork at your dish and turns to Spencer. “Reid,” he says, voice pitched with amusement, “didn’t you literally just tell us your girl does that? That she won’t eat warm fruit?”

Spencer shuts his eyes for a second — brief, pained — like he’s watching himself die in third person. When he opens them, he looks straight at you.

Pure apology. Pure guilt.

He winces. “I… I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

Something in you goes cold and then hot at the exact same moment you catch up to what’s going on.

For half a second, your brain offers you the classic Greenaway solution: vanish. Run and never look back. You can practically feel the panic trying to crawl up your throat, because this is what you were dreading — the second everyone knows, they get to have opinions. They get to look at you and Spencer like a math problem and decide you don’t add up.

Except… they’re not at all looking at you like you’re wrong for him.

You scan the room. Garcia’s smiling so big it looks painful. JJ’s gaze is warm, not sharp. Emily looks like she just won a bet she never told anyone she made. And Morgan is staring like he can’t believe you got one over on him, but there’s no anger in it — just that big-brother okay, show me you’re serious energy. The only person in the room who looks horrified is Spencer, who’s clearly just trying to cope with the fact he accidentally revealed your relationship in maybe the stupidest way possible.

You take a breath, feel your pulse in your throat, and then — because you’re not going to let all of your control over this situation be ripped out of your hands — you say:

“Congrats everyone, you cracked the code. Yes. Reid and I are together.”

Garcia explodes.

“MYSTERY GIRL IS YOU,” she shrieks, half out of her chair. “It’s been you this ENTIRE time. Oh my GOD. I made a board! I made assumptions! I said cupcakes and cardigans when in reality, Mystery Girl was right in front of me in boots and a leather jacket and—”

“Garcia,” Hotch warns.

JJ’s earnest expression is the first thing that cuts through the chaos. “This makes so much sense,” she says.

“Yeah,” Emily agrees. “The second you say it out loud, it’s like— of course. How did we miss that?”

Morgan sits back, still staring between you and Spencer like he’s recalibrating. Then he lets out a laugh — half disbelief, half delight. “Man,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I thought you were cuddled up with a librarian or something. Meanwhile you’re out here dating the most terrifying Greenaway sister,” he says, then winks at you like he’s trying to make sure you know he means it as a compliment.

You lift your chin. “Say that again and I’ll throw this pie at you.”

Morgan grins, hands up. “See? Exactly what I mean.”

Rossi sips his wine with a chuckle. “About time you bozos figured it out.”

Garcia whirls on him. “You KNEW?!”

Rossi’s mouth quirks. “What can I say, I’m good at my job.”

Hotch sets his fork down with the resigned patience of a man who has filled out a lot of paperwork on this exact subject already. “I’ve also been aware for some time,” he says evenly.

Garcia makes a noise that sounds like she’s dying. “BOTH of you knew?!”

Spencer clears his throat, still pink, still looking like he wants to apologize to you in six different languages. His eyes don’t leave your face.

Garcia’s hands clap together like she’s calling court to order. “O.M.G. never stood for Operation Mystery Girl,” she announces, breathless with triumph. “It stood for OH MY GREENAWAY all along.”

JJ’s gaze meets yours. “For what it’s worth,” she says, "I'm really happy that Mystery Girl is you.”

Emily lifts her glass in a small toast. “Me as well,” she adds. “This is good. This is really, really good.”

Morgan’s grin softens into something fond and protective. “As long as you’re both happy and nobody’s getting hurt,” he says, “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”

Garcia’s voice goes thick, emotional, and she tries to bulldoze right through it with dramatics. “I’m so happy,” she declares. “I’m also a bit devastated I wasn’t included in the secret circle of knowing earlier, but mostly I’m happy because you two are…” She gestures wildly. “You’re you. And it’s perfect.”

Something in your chest steadies instead of cracks.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling. “Cool. Great. Everybody get it out of their system?”

Garcia points at your pie plate, still half-disassembled. “Not even close. I’m sorry,” she gasps, “but I can’t get over that THIS is what did it.”

You deadpan. “My beef with pie is never-ending.”

Rossi claps once, satisfied. “Alright. Now that the children have finished screaming, eat your dang dessert.”

Laughter rolls around the room again, warmer now, less sharp.

Under the table, Spencer’s shoe nudges yours.

You nudge back.

And when you finally escape an hour later, the night air is cold and quiet, and Spencer grips the steering wheel like he’s trying to drive his guilt into the pavement.

You watch him from the passenger seat, heart weirdly calm.

He doesn’t say much on the drive. Neither do you. The secret is out, the world didn’t end, and for now, that’s enough.

—

Back at Spencer’s apartment, the quiet hits you like a soft wall.

No Garcia shrieking. No Morgan cackling. Just the click of the lock, the hush of the hallway outside, and Spencer standing there with his keys still in his hand.

“You okay?” you ask, toeing your shoes off.

Spencer exhales — sharp, like he’s been holding it since the pie incident — and sets his keys down with exaggerated care. Then he turns to you, eyes wide in that way they get when he’s trying not to catastrophize and failing.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “You don’t need to be.”

He shakes his head. “But I am. I’m so sorry. For all of it. For telling them the fruit thing. I didn’t realize I was outing us. I—I didn’t know there was going to be pie.”

“I gathered that,” you say.

He steps closer, hands hovering at his sides like he wants to touch you but doesn’t want to assume it’d be welcome.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he continues, words tumbling now that the gate’s open. “It was stupid. I thought giving them a hyper-specific detail would give them something to fixate on and shut them up, and that one seemed harmless enough, but then I saw the pie and I—” He swallows. “I really did try to warn you.”

“You did,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You were practically doing Morse code against my ankle.”

“I panicked,” he admits, cheeks flushing. “And then it all happened so fast and you looked—” He stops, eyes flicking over your face like he’s searching for hurt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I know you hate being… perceived.”

He takes one more step. You can feel his warmth now, close enough that it seeps into you.

“I keep thinking about the other day,” he says quietly. “How scared you were for them to find out.” His throat bobs. “And then I was the one who—who basically handed them our secret on a silver platter.”

You tilt your head. “On a pie platter, actually.”

He looks pained. “Please don’t make jokes right now.”

“Spencer,” you say seriously. “I’m not mad at you.”

He lets out a breath, but it’s not quite relief yet. He’s still braced for impact.

“And I’m not mad that they know,” you add, watching him closely. “I mean, I’m a little embarrassed that my downfall was pie of all things, but—”

His mouth finally lifts, small and uncertain.

“But,” you repeat, “it’s okay. I’m fine, really.”

You push off the wall and close the space remaining between you, because you’re tired of him hovering at the edge of you and want him to feel how not-mad you are.

His hands find your waist the second you’re close enough, careful at first, then firmer when you lean in like you belong there.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

“Because you could—” He swallows. “You could decide this is too much. Too exposed. And I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’d miss you.”

Something in your chest goes tight and hot.

You slide your hands up his arms, feel the muscle under his sleeves, the faint tremor he’s trying his best to hide. You clasp your fingers behind his neck and pull him down until his forehead nearly brushes yours.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

His eyes flutter shut for half a second, like the words physically steady him.

“You’re not?”

“No,” you say, and you let yourself mean it. “I told you, I’m not mad. I’m not running. The worst thing that happened tonight is that our coworkers found out I have psychopathic dessert habits.”

He huffs a laugh.

“Besides,” you add, because you can’t help it, “you looked kinda hot when you were trying to telepathically get me to eat my pie like a normal person.”

His eyes open, startled. “I— what?”

“You did,” you insist, deadly serious. “Somehow, panic is a good look on you. Big fan.”

His cheeks go pink, but now it’s in a good way.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide the smile.

“And you,” you say, sliding your thumbs along his jaw, “are catastrophizing.”

“I know,” he admits. “I just… I care about you.”

The words hang there, heavy and honest and dangerously close to a bigger truth, but you don’t let it scare you. Not tonight.

You kiss him instead.

It’s slow at first — soft, testing — like you’re proving something to him with your mouth: I’m here. I’m fine. Then it deepens, because Spencer never stays soft for long once you give him permission. His hands tighten at your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to misunderstand.

His mouth is warm, familiar, and still somehow new every time. You feel him exhale against you, a quiet sound that sinks into your skin.

When you pull back, he looks at you again and cups your cheek like you’re something precious.

“I’m glad you’re okay with this,” he says.

“I’m okay,” you say, and kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m… actually kind of relieved.”

His brow furrows. “Relieved?”

You roll your eyes, because you refuse to be poetic about it. “Yeah. It’s out, and they didn’t—” You falter, just a flicker. “They didn’t look at you like you were making a mistake.”

His expression softens.

“No,” he agrees. “They didn’t. I told you they wouldn’t.”

You nod once. “And you were right. So, I’m good.”

“Good,” he echoes, but his thumb keeps stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to let the moment go.

Your gaze drops to his mouth again. His eyes follow it, and his breathing changes — subtle, but you know him by heart now.

You smirk and lean in closer until your lips are brushing with every breath. “And hey, now that the team knows, we don’t have to pretend we’re not together every second of the day anymore,” you tease.

His voice goes a little rough. “We still shouldn’t, uh, do anything at work, you know.”

“Obviously,” you say, like you’re offended he even suggested it. “But we’re not at work right now, are we?”

He shudders softly as his hands slide from your waist to your lower back, drawing you closer like he’s been waiting all night to do this without consequence.

“No,” he murmurs. “We’re not.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time. He gives in completely, following your lead with that sweet, earnest hunger that always makes you feel a little wicked and a little adored at the same time.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing differently. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m still sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” you say. “It’ll make a good story someday.”

His throat works. His hands tighten on you like he needs the confirmation in his bones.

You press your mouth to his once more, slow and sure, just to make the point stick.

“Case closed,” you murmur against his lips.

Spencer’s smile turns soft and helpless. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Mystery solved.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

→ next part

this fic is part of the greenaway!reader universe/series! you can read more about this pairing here ♥️

Waking from a dreamless sleep, Yoongi stares at the empty half of his bed, fingers gliding across untouched sheets to seek warmth he knows isn’t there. 

But it will be. Yours will be. Because he’s fucking done with his own bullshit and will now trek the depths of his soul with a purpose redefined. The demons awaiting him have no chance, they have no say. 

Softly grabbing chilled cotton, Yoongi breathes in, the subtle heat of his own rest permeating his cheek for a few moments more. It isn’t until a few slow blinks and a million thoughts of you that he turns over, patting for his phone on the nightstand and immediately clicking the one notification that’s yours. 

Hustler [05:45]: 1 Attachment 

Mm. You sent him the dawn.

He’s gonna give you the world. 

For a long stretch of time, Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is stare at the way the sky blooms in pastel hues, admiring the framing you captured so perfectly from your front porch. 

Is there anything you aren’t good at? He can’t keep losing to you. 

Flopping back onto his pillow, Yoongi aims his phone upward, eyes still caked with sleep and drowsiness. 

Yoongi [06:13]: 1 Attachment 

Yoongi [06:13]: Mine’s better

The photo’s so dark you might not be able to tell what it is. But you’re smart, so you probably will. 

Fuck, he needs to get up.

Squeezing his eyes once before rubbing out the crust, Yoongi slowly vacates his warmth, grabbing a chain from the nightstand to clip it on.

Everything reminds him of you, even in the quietest and most mundane parts of his day. But the links around his neck are extra special. Because your blatant fascination with his jewelry will never, ever get old.  

If you only knew what else he wants to do with you involving the weight around his neck.

Yoongi’s mouth cracks into a sleepy grin as he heads to his bathroom. That particular fantasy will have to wait until much, much later. 

And unlucky for you, he is more than willing to wait.

He wonders if you know he notices. How he drinks in that sparkle in your eyes, shivers at those fingers you slide along his silver. Even if you never will, it’s fucking adorable either way.

Yoongi goes through his morning routine, and it isn’t until he takes vitamins in the kitchen—a part reinstated into his ritual ever since the mental turnaround—that he hears his phone buzz.

Hustler [06:34]: is that your ceiling?? lmao

Of course. He never doubted you for a second.

A small smile curves before Yoongi drinks another swig of water, holding the glass to his mouth while another message slides though. 

Hustler [06:34]: i wish i was there :((

Fuck.

You will be. You’ll be there much sooner than he originally planned, and the thought makes him anxious and restless in the best ways. 

Yoongi [06:35]: Same

Mm. He can do better than that. 

Yoongi [06:35]: I’d say meet me for lunch but then you’d be gone the rest of the day🤷‍♂️

Pocketing his phone, Yoongi grabs what he needs before heading to the studio. Because there are still projects to work on and things to plan, with a high possibility he won’t even get a lunch to begin with. 

Good problems. Lucky problems. He cannot take any of this for granted. 

Hustler [06:38]: worth it😩whisk me away 

And there’s no way he can take you for granted anymore, either. 

Yoongi [06:39]: Careful what you wish for 

If he got to see you, he’d be gone the rest of the day, too. Until you scolded him to get back to work, at least. 

The thought pulls out a tiny huff. 

After grabbing his wallet and keys, Yoongi plods to his shoes before the door is cracked open, crisp morning air wrapping around his features. 

He’s not alone. 

To his side, Miss Dion stops watering her plants, donned in a fluffy robe and a shit grin that Yoongi has to look away from out of pure… Is he being shy right now? “Morning.”

“Good morning to you, too, sugar,” she says through satisfied teeth. “I told you. What did I say?”

Yoongi can’t help but shine his own set to the sky before looking her way. “Mm. Depression and isolation can mess with memory, so.. Can’t recall. Looks like you’ll have to tell me again.” 

With creased eyes, he braces as his neighbor lightly threatens with an air swipe of her arm. 

“A smart one, huh? Figures. Glad to have you back, son.” Miss Dion shakes her head, one hand propped on a hip and staring low. “Looks like your little rascal is back, too.”

“My what?” Yoongi looks down before seeing a cat emerge from the nearby bushes, opting to walk on the sidewalk at the sight of people. Silent, he watches his neighbor tsk at the retreating culprit,

“She keeps messing with my plants and making my poor Zeke antsy. Get her some better food, okay? Go with your girlfriend before I charge you for garden damages.” 

A full laugh bursts out of his chest, realizing he’s got a little in common with the feisty, older woman. Is Zeke the name of a dog or something? “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good.” Settling into a warm smile, she radiates serenity with sparkles in her eyes. It’s a look that reminds Yoongi of his own mother, and his heart suddenly yearns to go back home. “Now shoo and get on with your day. Don’t let me keep you.”

Turns out, there are plenty of good people in this world. 

And maybe—just maybe—he’s starting to feel like one of them, too. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

—

On his drive to work, with morning air breezing through open windows and bottom lip between his teeth, Yoongi decides that you’re gonna hear everything from him from now on. Every single day, he’ll reach out every moment he can. 

He knows it won’t ever, ever make up for the months he fell off the planet, but he’ll abruptly switch up his behavior because you deserve his full extent of communication and he has been severely lacking. 

And the first thing he will hound you about is getting in a good meal today. 

—

—

Work flies by, which is another sign things are looking up. 

During a break, Yoongi fishes out his phone to continue a search he started earlier. And seeing your nickname on his screen sends wings beating around his chest like a fucking lovesick fool. Will he ever get over this feeling? Fuck no. 

You [13:25]: Which one were you looking at? I wanna see!

Cute. It’s one of the keyboards he’s been looking for, but definitely out of his price range—for now. But it’s whatever. He knows what he can do with bare bones and minimal tools, so anything a step above worn-down pads and keys is just a plus. 

Yoongi [14:30]: This is the one I really want but not right now

Yoongi [14:31]: 1 Attachment 

Honestly? Just the fact that you’re interested in what he’s talking about is enough for him. This is leagues better than anything he could’ve imagined, and now he doesn’t know why he didn’t start doing this sooner. 

Well. He does know why. 

Hustler [14:33]: Responded ❤️ to an Attachment

Hustler [14:33]: HOTTT GET IT NOW!!!

Yoongi [14:34]: It’s expensive!! Gonna save up.

Shit, his cheeks can’t hide. Grinning like an idiot and you’re gonna get him caught in this fucking studio. 

But your next text? Your question? Wipes his whole expression and squeezes his lungs shut. 

Hustler [14:35]: how much? i might be getting a raise already so i can spot you🤪

Yoongi damn near drops his phone. 

Are you serious? You’d be willing to do that? For him? You see the price on that. You know how much it is. 

A shimmering feeling spreads throughout his chest, and he’s fighting everything to keep his vision from blurring. You have no idea how much this one text means to him. After all that fear and trauma that shattered his soul, you’re slowly stitching him back piece by piece. Even if his chest is constricting so hard he has to clutch it to keep it from breaking for an entirely different reason. 

Fuck, you’re everything. His beginning, his end, his every sleeping and waking moment. 

And you don’t even know how many of his lives you’ve saved. 

Hustler [14:38]: hey i’m sorry if that was overstepping. 

Hustler [14:39]: obv i know you can get it on your own, but i just got way too excited and wanted you to get it asap haha.. but yeah it’s a great investment either way so i say go for it!

Oh, fuck. Screw it. 

Rushing out of his swivel chair, Yoongi walks out of the studio, past a curious Jungkook and Namjoon with a finger already on the call button. 

Walk, walk, walk, get as far out as he can. The rings are blaring in his ears and his chest is on fire but this couldn’t wait. It’s the twentieth step that falters as you timidly answer with,

“Hello? Wait, are you okay?”

Instead of saying the first thing that comes to his mind, or even the second, Yoongi goes with the third. Which is fucking nothing because his mind is where his heart is and his voice is nowhere to be found.

“...Hello?” From the ruffles on the line, he can tell you’re getting up and going wherever the fuck you need to go. Because Yoongi knows he’d be doing the exact same thing. “Where are you.” 

He can only manage a slight chuckle before asking, “What are you doing to me…”

Your sigh of relief turns into a soft laugh. “I really am sorry. If you felt some type of way, I wanted to say that. Shit, I thought you were… I don’t know.”

“Just had to get some air cus of you,” he admits with a huff and shake of his shoulders. “Gonna ban you from my phone.” 

“There’s a word for that, you know.”

There you go again. Boldly teasing him while he’s on the clock? How you hit all of his hidden buttons so effortlessly, he really needs to know. Cheeks tight in a grin, Yoongi fires back, “You wanna try that again?”

“Oh, you don’t know? It starts with a B, too, you were so close!”

You are so fucking lucky you aren’t here with him. The urge to grab and attack your sides until you can’t stop laughing hits Yoongi like a wave, and he scrunches his nose until he counters with feigned nonchalance, “Okay, I see how it is. That’s fine..”

“No, wait, I—”

“I’ll remember that.”

“No!” That laugh is always contagious as hell. “Ah, whatever, you won’t do anything anyway.”

Nah. Even during his goodbye, Yoongi is already plotting. Because while you call his bluff on many things—a surprising amount of them—about this, you couldn’t be more wrong. 

“Guess you’re right, baby girl,” Yoongi says, using a low tone that always makes you shiver just right, “I sure won’t.”

He doesn’t have to tell you it’ll take four days to make that a blatant lie.

—

—

During the next studio session a few days later, everyone starts hanging out and messing around since things got wrapped up fairly quickly. Something about being organized and intentional can free up time or whatever. Yoongi just laughs at how simple yet how rare that really is in the industry he chose. 

As they jam with Woosung and the guys, he lets himself truly let go, feeling the flow of music and rhythm and playing away on one of the lingering guitars. It’s his first time touching one in so long without it cutting deep into his skin. 

It feels good. He’s not even that rusty. This is the best development in a long time. 

Even the band has compliments running all throughout the session, and it takes everything for Yoongi to not grin too wide or strain his cheeks in shyness. He knows he’s good, but hearing it from them is a little too much to handle. 

It also doesn’t help to feel a pair of eyes look his way a little too strangely. 

But soon after it ends, Yoongi finds himself out back again with Woosung, leaning against bricks as smoke fills the alleyway. 

“You seem okay today,” the singer notes through a small smile. “You gonna be alright?” 

“I am.” Yoongi watches the afternoon skies. “And I think so.” 

A small hum. “You have to say it like you mean it. Even if you don’t believe it, you have to try.” 

Shit, that’s a lot easier said than done. But Yoongi keeps his mouth shut and his eyes blinking, looking down and smelling wisps of tobacco. “What do you do when you..” Fuck, how should he say it? “What do you do when you keep falling back down?” 

Woosung takes a drag, and he seems to know what that means. “First I’d tell you the obvious. Keep picking yourself back up.” Coughing, he continues in a much more relaxed manner. “But honestly, you gotta figure out why it’s happening in the first place.” 

Yoongi looks his way.

“Once you deal with the reason for the fall, you know how to fight the push. The slip. Whatever you wanna call it.” 

With a deep inhale, Yoongi slowly focuses back on the sky, wanting to lose himself in the clouds drifting pass. 

Without a doubt, he knows what his push is. He’s just been too weak to fight it. Now that he has people helping—and you—it shouldn’t be as hard. “Thanks.” 

“You learn a lot on the road. And I can tell you wanna be on stage, you know. You’d kill it.” 

“You think so?” 

“I think you think so.” 

Yoongi laughs with him. Because the guy's not wrong. “I’ll get there. There’s not really any other options for me.” 

Woosung appraises him with pride. “There’s a few camps that are opening up spots. You guys should go to one. It’s good networking, if anything.” After flicking his cig, the singer then turns to fully face him. “Who knows? We might end up opening for you someday.” 

Huh? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Brows furrowed, Yoongi blinks before getting confused at the guy’s laugh.

“I’m not kidding. There’s something special about you, I can tell. You just need more time and space to let it grow.”

Mulling it over, Yoongi knows where the conflict is coming from. Yes, he does need to learn more and pretty soon, they could all outgrow that studio and move into another. But they have to push forward and try, even if they’ll be out of their element at these networking opportunities. “I’ll let them know,” he finally says.

“Good.” Woosung pushes off the wall with a shoulder. “I know you’re doing this for you, but… Is there someone else you’re doing all this for, too?” 

Yoongi nods without hesitation. 

“Then don’t leave them in the dark for much longer.” 

What the fuck? How did he know?

“If they catch you in a bad moment… You might lose them before you can even say sorry.” 

—

—

Yoongi strolls across another aisle before halting mid-stride, tugging himself into the seasoning and oil section to grab more of what he needs.

After work, he chose to stop by the nearest supermarket to grab things. And the more he walks through the different areas, the more he realizes just how much he’d been needing. Fuck, the damn bill is gonna be huge. 

But it’s all worth it. Surprising you with a hearty meal? Yoongi thinks he could do that every day for the rest of his life.

If only there was a nice spot in town you could also go. The ache he has to take you out and show you off has been reaching record highs, but he knows it’s not possible right now. 

Yoongi just wants to show you he’s cool with bringing you outside of his place. Never mind that it feels less like home, he’s more concerned about you thinking the worst. Thinking that things are over or limited when he has plans that extend beyond— 

Jimin: Incoming Call

A brow is raised before Yoongi answers, “Hey.”

“When’s the release party again?”

That was definitely not what he expected to be asked. Especially when Jimin has been texting him about movies and reminders about practice all day. “Uhh. In a couple weeks. Why?”

“Okay. I.. I dunno.”

Yoongi checks the expiration date on a carton before flat out blurting, “Just date him.”

A groan sounds on the line. “I just.. What if he doesn’t want to? Then I’ll look like an idiot.”

Putting back the first, Yoongi pulls out a second, approving the better date and lowering it into his cart. “Then he’s the idiot.”

“Well. He is.” A rueful laugh crunches through as the smell of cheeses and bread fill the air. “But only because of the way he looks at me.” 

Yoongi’s heart clenches. He feels the same about you, wondering how you could still regard him with those beautiful eyes and make him feel more than wanted. “If it helps, you look happy with him.”

“Ah, throwing my own words back at me now?”

“Guess so.” Yoongi flexes his jaw. “I just know how this feels.”

“When are you gonna tell him.”

His whole body locks. “I don’t know.”

“Dude.”

And his eyes slowly shut.

“It’s been long enough, you know that, right?”

Stopping off to the side, he leans onto his cart swallowed in his hood, ignoring a few passing looks and gnawing into his lip. “Course.”

“So do it. I get that you don’t want to, but you have to.”  

A hand angrily rakes through his hair, and he lowers his head to speak to the ground. Of course he would get this lecture in the middle of a fucking store. “He’s gonna fucking kill me and who knows what he’ll say to—”

“And I’ll be sending flowers and Tae will write you a song.”

A pause. Then a huff. Yoongi almost feels like it could be that simple.  

“She deserves this. You deserve to finally make this.. I dunno, real. Official, if you wanna call it that. Blessed? Wait, is that only for weddings—”

“Chim.”

“You get what I mean. And the most important—and I’m sure you know this because you’re not an idiot—he sure as fuck deserves to know.” 

“I know. We both do.” Yoongi sighs, hearing wheels squeak around him and various chatter. He knows he should move before weirding people out, but his feet feel glued to tile. “It’s just.. gonna be shit for all of us.”

“…At least it’ll be less shit if you tell him before he finds out on his own.”

Jimin is always right. 

“Also, I might need that keyring back soon if you aren’t even gonna put it to use. I wanna practice after work for the last game.”

“I am using it.” 

“Not how I planned.”

“How you planned?” What the hell does that mean? It’s just a set of keys that unlock the gym a ways away, and Yoongi uses it to play by himself after it closes so he’s alone. 

When he’s alone. Wait. 

“I’ll give it back,” Yoongi finally speaks. “After the game.”

There’s an audible groan on the other line. “Can’t believe I have to spell everything out around here.” 

Mustering enough strength to prop his head up, Yoongi finally rolls from his spot and heads to the front to pay. “Thanks, Chim.”

“Use it well. Make her happy, make you happy, make babies, make me a fun uncle, I don’t care.”

Yoongi outright laughs, heart beating a little faster. And he thought just shopping for groceries with you would be enough for him. Gotta hand it to Jimin for getting miles ahead of everyone else. Although… 

“But you have to tell him.” 

Dreams dashed through, he murmurs a quiet, “I know.”

“Yoongi… I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me, too.” Yoongi slips into line, waiting behind a young man giving his girl a cheek kiss and laughing at her dramatically wiping it away. “Thanks for everything.” 

“You can thank me by telling someone you need help next time. Even if it’s not me.”

As the girl goes to lift food to be scanned, she gets stopped by her boyfriend, watching with a small smile before helping him anyway. “I will.”

“Good. Love you.”

Yoongi swallows, eyes a little prickly for more than one reason. “Love you, too.” 

—

—

Even though Yoongi has been getting small evidence of your eating habits—as instated by him this past week—he’s still determined to get you more nourishment. 

He’s pretty sure you like the restaurant next door, so despite knowing this could get him in a world of trouble, he uses his lunch time to bring you food. 

Writing a note and some groceries he forgot to get last time, Yoongi sets it in the paper bag and walks to your building, still in disbelief that you’ve been this close this whole time. The pain of remembering how much of your life he missed while he was unreachable pangs his chest. But he deserves it, and you deserve a lot better. 

Finally on your floor, he walks up to the receptionist before immediately ignoring their wide eyes. 

“Who are you looking for?”

“My girlfriend. Just dropping this off.” 

“Oh.. This is so sweet of you.”

Yoongi doesn’t even give that declaration a second thought. It came out so naturally.

Maybe he really is ready to move on.

You aren’t there at your desk. Which is probably best because he’d just steal you away. So Yoongi quietly sets it on your empty space, looking at all the trinkets and pictures you have in your little world. Some are just adorable, but he spots a polaroid of your brother that clenches his chest. 

He was there for that. You both had matching cameras and took an impromptu picture of each other at the same time. He’s pretty sure your brother has yours very visible somewhere, too. 

But there’s no time to think because he’s gotta bounce. 

Walking fast past reception, he hears a quick, “Wait, are you not gonna wait for her?”

Pausing, Yoongi turns. “I….” 

On second thought? Yeah. Because fuck this sudden shyness, he's gonna take any chance to see you.

Be it from being impatient, or just really nervous, Yoongi waits around a nearby corner until you find your food. He needs to see your reaction to the note, because if you throw it out or ignore it? He’ll take that as the most glaring sign to give you space.

But when your hand slowly covers your mouth and your body quietly buckles, his heart beats so loud he thinks you can hear it, and his soul pulses so fucking hard his vision glosses over. 

You will never know what you truly do to him.

Back at the studio, Yoongi is locked in the rest of his shift. Because he isn’t just doing this for him now. There’s another reason he’ll be making it big. 

You’re still believing in him after all this time. You still stayed. 

And Yoongi will take over the whole world just to kneel at your feet to give it to you. 

—

—

The entire night is perfect. 

In fact, Yoongi’s entire life feels like it’s where it should be. Hanging out with you in a gym, starting another water fight because he still dreams about the one you sprung on him that day? This is what life is about. There are no shadows with him now that he’s fully in your light. 

And that carries him through the night and up until the game the next day. His sleep was restful, his spirits are high, and his mind is completely spotless. 

But with one glance at the man from Dalo, all the darkness comes rushing back in. 

—

—

Did you just tell them all to play? 

Even though the guy that assaulted you is on the other team, you want everyone to stay? To play out the game? 

Seeing you look so folded in on yourself, Yoongi’s chest feels twisted with immediate rage. How the fuck are these guys allowed to even be here? How did they make it this far? That fucker is staring him in the face and he’s trying unbelievably hard to not go over there and commit felonies. 

Honestly? If you’re really about this and want them to go ahead and play, Yoongi knows exactly how it’s gonna play out. All the scenarios are manifesting in his head and he can’t help but feel a sadistic elation knowing how fucked this other team is gonna be. 

But he looks at his best friend with heated eyes. “What do you wanna do?” 

It takes him awhile, but your brother responds exactly how he thought he would, “Fuck this shit up.” 

“Exactly.” 

At your addition, Yoongi looks your way, liking your spark but hoping you’re not overcompensating for anything. If you’re uncomfortable, they should just forfeit the game and bounce. 

You aren’t budging. You’re clearly shaking and yet, you are immovable in your decision. And it’s so like you and fuck he wants to kiss your fears away in front of the whole gym just so everyone including that dipshit knows you’re forever untouchable. “The fuckin’ nerve.” 

“Bold,” Jimin adds from where he stands, turning to you and dropping into oblivion to say what they’re all already thinking. “Don’t worry, love.” 

Yoongi turns to the other bench.

“This will be over soon.” 

—

—

Everything starts off exactly how they want it to. 

Turns out, Jimin’s regimen and practice schedule worked out in everyone’s favor. Now that they’ve played multiple games with each other, Yoongi and the other guys can communicate with just looks and moves alone. Which proves a huge advantage because they’re making the other team look completely unorganized. 

All those nights alone in that gym have also contributed to Yoongi’s form. This is the quickest it’s taken him to be in the zone and he’s even impressing himself with how sharp he is. 

No one can guard him. No one can stop him. It’s painfully obvious to them and he can’t help but laugh at their shock every time, shrug at their little team squabbles, smirk at the way this idiot can’t even keep up with him. Tragic? Worse. 

But things get dicey when Rohan fouls a little too hard, everyone nearly converging on him and the guy selling his pain as if it wasn’t just a normal swing. On cue, shoving and pushing happens, Yoongi being on the outskirts since he’s the last to get there. 

It’s over when the coaches come separate, but amongst all the racing heartbeats, your brother looks really focused coming out of the fray. Really calm. Which means something went down and he is fighting to keep his attitude in check. 

As they both head to the bench, Yoongi immediately gets the rundown. And his whole attitude ices over with a snap. 

“They know which car is mine.”

Fuck. 

That means one of two things. One, these guys just happen to really like knowing who drives what. Or two, this isn’t a game anymore. This isn’t the matchup—the real one is not going down on rec center floors. 

Yoongi is already repeating his apologies to you. 

Well, shit. May as well have some real fun with it now. If they can get the other team to call it quits here, they may have a shot at an easier standoff later. 

Right. 

—

—

Yoongi doesn’t like this one bit. The other team was too quiet to just have left without a word. 

They really will be meeting them in the parking lot. And suddenly, things get a little too real. 

This walk could be the last, depending on what they may have on them. The only shit those guys have against them is that this is a public center, and there could still be a lot of witnesses walking by— 

Thunder rumbles as they reach the end of the long awning jutting out from the rec center entrance, and Yoongi looks at the dark sky with lidded eyes.

Fuck. So much for people passing by. They may be left out there on their own for real.

“Still?”

At Jimin’s question, Yoongi nods. Because they still have to confront this group of cowards one last time, pouring rain or not. Revenge is never one to raincheck. 

Maybe they bluffed. Maybe the storm settled in some seconds thoughts. The lot still looks fine, with cars emptying out one by one as they walk and the space getting more scarce. Your brother’s car and Jimin’s exist in the same spot a ways down near the end. 

With more than an alarming number of guys surrounding them. 

Is that a whole fucking crew? Fuck, this was not the plan you need to get out of here and anywhere else but your place. 

Before Yoongi can say anything, your brother beats him to it. “Taehyung. Get her out of here. Now.” 

And your scream of resistance tears through every cell in his body. 

Yoongi can’t even fucking look at you, even if to burn the image of your face in his mind to get through this bullshit. Because if he does? He’ll be the one hauling you away and bringing you both to the safest place he can think of without a second or third thought. 

But he will not inconvenience his loving mother with a sudden visit just yet. When he finally brings you home, it will be for a different reason entirely. 

“No! What the fuck—” 

“We’re leaving.”

“Please—! No, let me go!” 

This is the thought that will keep him grounded. It has to. He has to face this situation because from the way things are looking, if they don’t settle this now, it will only get worse. For them, for you, for everyone. 

Fuck, your voice. It’s taking everything for Yoongi to keep his anger in check because, despite his malice, he’s the one that ultimately started this. He thought he was in the clear. What a fucking joke fuck you’re clawing at his ducts and he doesn’t need to look at your brother to know what he’s thinking. 

The man is fucking silent. 

And this is the one Yoongi remembers with full body shivers. The protector. The one that will do whatever’s necessary to save the ones he loves. This is the guy Yoongi has to eventually confront, if they—when they—get out of this situation in decent pieces. If your brother did what he did for him? What the fuck is he gonna do for you? 

But in all fairness. For the first time, Yoongi understands this side of his best friend. Because for you? There’s no limit to what he would do to keep you safe. What a fucking shame he’d left you in the dark for that long. If you hate him after this, he’ll deal with it. At least that means you were safe enough to say it. 

Woosung warned him. And Yoongi still didn’t heed the signs. 

But no use dwelling in it now. Your screams have morphed into sobs as Taehyung hauls you away. And with quick observation, Yoongi notices that even some of the faces he’s watching falter. 

You’re his everything. Your brother’s everything. And he fucking hates himself for all those opportunities he had to be by your side, all those times he could’ve just confessed but couldn’t because of his own damn faults. 

Rolling his shoulder, Yoongi braces for the storm, your brother finally speaking with a clutched phone behind his back as soon as you’re out of earshot, 

“Last chance.” 

The man from Dalo shoots out a huff of disbelief. “For what, motherfucker.” 

“To back off my fucking car.” 

Thunder rattles some of the guys into a step back, but your brother doesn’t move. Resolute, he brims with sinister energy, its bristles curling around Yoongi’s legs and hardening Jimin’s shoulders. Even some of the guys from the team have stayed behind, which doesn’t come as a shock seeing as how close they are with your older sibling. 

“That’s your play?” Dalo guy drawls before looking around. “Outnumbered and you’re worried about a little paint scratch?” 

Your brother only smirks like he has a secret. And Yoongi knows full well that it’s a bluff that always works like a charm. “I mean, I’d be worried if I were you, but. If you can skip a few months’ rent to pay off the damages, go ahead.”

More of the guys shuffle in nervousness, which is the sign they all need. If they actually leave, things should end quicker. All they have to do is hold it out long enough for them to talk. 

“How about this,” the man suggests, poison trickling down his curve before he swings his bat right into the side mirror of your brother’s car fuck. “Let’s see how many swings it takes for you to stop me.” 

“I’m gonna guess a few,” your sibling drawls under the blare of his car alarm, expertly hiding the fact that he’s pissed as another swing hits the passenger door. “Give or take.” 

“You shut the fuck up,” the leader growls, smashing the nearest window right out and grinning into the vehicle. “Oh, what’s this? I’ll take that, thank you.” 

“Don’t.”

Yoongi’s blood freezes as he sees exactly what the guy takes, noticing the matching polaroid that your brother has of you that’s always on the dash. 

Oh, fuck this noise and fuck this guy. Now he’s waving it like a little trophy? All bets are fucking off. No amount of morals will help him now and your brother turns downright murderous. 

“Think I’ll get a lot of good use out of this,” the assaulter boasts with a sinister grin, shoving the picture in his pocket that Yoongi can only assume reeks of sweat and cowardice. Thunder booms once more, and droplets start pinging off shoulders and sweaty heads. 

He wants to hurl thinking of what the guy means, and he doesn’t even realize he’s one step further than before until an arm stops him at his chest. Turning, Yoongi sees his best friends’ eyes ablaze but still facing forward, and he stops his strides—mind racing with rage. 

“Your girl looked good today, by the way!” The Dalo guy appraises with a lift of his chin, rain running down his angular cheekbones and staining his dark mesh. Yoongi snaps his gaze forward again because shit this is being addressed to him. “We got a nice view from our bench.” 

Fuck this dude. What the fuck is happening to his spiking heart rate? Is it anger? The rain? A thunderous mixture of both? 

On heavenly cue, thunder tears through the sky again, raindrops starting to pick up just to drown this guy’s talking, 

“Think it’s time for me to see her again? Her skin’s so soft, bet it feels like heaven when y’all fuck, huh?”

Don’t fucking break, don’t fucking break, stop clenching both fucking hands. 

“Not gonna share?” The man turns to your brother with the evilest glint in his eye. “Guess I can always stop by and ask her myself.” 

When the sky rains down in sheets, everything erupts at once. 

—

—

Gritty, darker days of the past melt into Yoongi’s vision as the night blurs and roars around him. 

For a brief moment in time, he doesn’t think they’ll make it. Youth has slipped its protection from their bones, taking the recklessness of their souls with it. They haven’t done this in ages. And it fucking shows.

Because Yoongi’s side hurts like a motherfucker and his palms sting with white hot singe. Rain and bodies slow in their motion as he takes it all in, and his eyes droop as he shifts closer to his friends—mind swirling like the lights pulsing down the street.

Your brother smacks into wet ground before wrenching himself back up, and a Jimin sporting a botched eye yanks him backward before distancing them all from another hit. The other guys from the team shield their blind spots, everyone now mangled and boxed in tighter and tighter.

This is because of him. He did this. He did all of this.

Mind and skin slick from the rain, his guards crumble. Dark thoughts flood back in and inundate his every crevasse. You deserve to hate him and you should you should you should. 

A prideful laugh erupts before yelling out, “Let’s get this over with, yeah?” 

“You aren’t gonna do shit,” your brother taunts.

“Think so?” As the man reaches behind his back, Jimin’s voice pierces like an arrow, 

“Watch it!”

Acting without thought, Yoongi bolts to his friend, knowing what to do but not having a plan for what’s next oh fuck what’s this guy pulling out—

“Yoongi!”

If anything, he can at least go out with the knowledge that he kept your brother safe. You’ll be safe with him. Yoongi will find a way back to you even if it takes another lifetime or two. 

Rain roars down as something dark is pulled from the man’s pants. But Yoongi can barely make out what it is as he shoves your brother out of the way.

"No!"

He's frozen. He can't fucking move. Your bright light is the only thing that flashes into his mind as he stares into glinting, vengeful eyes.

But everyone else will be safe. That is the most important. The only thing that matters. 

Suddenly, sirens sound from a ways down, everyone flinching in the downpour. Lights swirl and swirl, and it’s your brother’s exhausted admission that shocks everyone, 

“Those are for you, by the way.”

“The fuck?” The man backs up immediately, shocked when half the guys are already scrambling off. “You fuckin’ snitched?”

“What can.. I say,” your sibling huffs through heavy breaths. “Don’t mess.. with my fuckin’ car.”

“Bullshit.” 

“Stay if you want.” Straightening with a repressed wince, your brother sets a hand on Yoongi’s good shoulder before walking right up to the man that assaulted you, weapon in hand be damned. “It’ll make it easier for them to spot you. You know, with all the cameras and shit.” 

“…Huh?”

“We’re in a public lot, genius.” He wipes blood from the side of his face, looking up behind him at the very obvious camera positioned on the nearest floodlight. “And if we run the tape back, y’all smashed my property.” 

The man slowly smiles. “And you’re on the same footage instigating a fight. What if I just…” Something happens between their bodies, but Yoongi can’t see what. “Do it right here? Defend myself?”

Your brother raises his shoulders before exaggerating a sigh. “See, the thing is…” Hands on his hips, he reminds Yoongi of you, flinging him back to a very similar rainy afternoon with much less harrowing stress. How he’s remaining so calm is unfathomable. “You broke into my car and stole from me. Anyone seeing that footage—you know, before the rain—is just gonna see… Well, us trying to stop you.”

The sirens get louder and louder, and more of the guys have long gone by now. But your assaulter stays in disbelief, eyelids blinking away rain and arms shaking. “They can’t catch me from those cams.”

“Probably. But they can pick up your voice from my recordings.” Looking down, your brother finishes with bored finality, expertly ignoring the fact that he's millimeters from death. “And you have my picture in your pants, dumbass.”

Yoongi’s never seen someone slam a hand into their pockets so fast. As the polaroid falls into puddles, a voice quivers while something is tucked back in wet pants, “Fuck you.” 

Before he can run, the man gets snagged by his jersey, sirens blaring closer and closer as your brother unleashes his final threats, “Since you did the smart thing and spared me, I'll be nice. But I don’t wanna see you, I don’t wanna see any of them. Come around again, and I’ll make sure you never see daylight, you understand?” 

Fully rattled, the man throws his hands up with a growl, “Fine, I got it! Fuck!” 

With the last dashes of a coward, the team is left alone in the lot. 

Turning their drenched heads and shoulders just in time to see the cops fly by.

—

—

After a quick check to make sure no one’s sporting a major injury, all the team members that stayed are told to go home before any other cops come to ask what’s up. Your brother finishes calling a tow truck for his battered pride and joy, and Yoongi rejoins him with a very silent Jimin. 

Even though the rain never stops, the three of them wait until everyone else is driving off. Until everyone else is safely on the way back to some place dry. 

When alone, the three of them turn to each other without a single word. 

It’s done. It’s really done.

—

—

Just sliding into the passenger seat of Jimin’s car makes Yoongi hiss in pain. 

Groans from the others fill the humid space, and Jimin makes sure the lot is completely cleared again before watching his rearview mirror. “How the fuck did you know the cops would come?” 

“I didn’t.” 

Jimin’s good eye widens. “That was just coincidence?” 

“So was the rain being this bad.” 

Fucking hell, they lucked out on every single thing they could’ve lucked out on. If it went down any other way? At least one of them would’ve been lying face down on pavement. 

Swallowing, Jimin clutches his wheel with one hand before asking next, “Well.. What are you gonna do? You leave tomorrow, right?”

They’re about to talk about the towed, smashed car he called in. So Yoongi’s just gonna lean into his seat and try to fucking breathe. 

“Yeah,” your brother huffs out. “Umm. I’m not sure. There’s no getting out of this trip, and I can’t exactly tell my boss what happened.” 

“Need us to bring it into the shop tomorrow?”

“Really? Damn, that’d be perfect, thanks. I’ll just get a ride to the airport in the morning then.” 

Yoongi winces to himself as he adjusts, hearing a groaning curse from the backseat at the same time. “You sure you’re good to leave tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” The man sighs. “Couple hours of ice and some bandages should do it. And the suits will cover most of me up.” 

“K.”

Jimin starts the car, hand gripping the center console so hard his veins pop. “I gotta say… That was the first time I’ve been that scared. In a long time.”

The whole space falls silent in agreement.

It’s your brother that croaks out next. “The last time we were in shit that deep.. Yoong got his back thrown into that barbed fence.”

At that, Yoongi looks out the window.

“But the important part is that we made it. And they won’t be coming around now that we have shit on them. Fuck, the way I wanted to just—”

Yoongi cuts his sentence off immediately, “Luckily you chose logic.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“We just all have someone to live for now,” Jimin grits out with frustration. “So can we just.. Not do this anymore?”

Another hush of understanding falls over the group, and everyone quietly agrees. 

“Good.” Jimin rolls his car forward and starts calling someone, setting his phone down while Taehyung’s name shows on his car screen. 

“Hey.”

He answered. Which means you’re right at his side. Fuck, Yoongi’s heart is pounding so hard it’s drowning out the rainfall. Your voice. He needs it. He’ll take anything you have to say. 

“Hey.” 

“You okay?”

Jimin’s tongue prods his cheek. “Yeah, we’re all alright, but…”

“Say it.”

As Jimin relays the damage, Yoongi starts picking at his fingernails in nervousness, something he hasn’t done in so long but still feels like second nature. “My eye is pretty fucked. Yoongi’s face is cut up and he’s got some nasty bruises on his—” 

“Where is he.”

Oh. That’s really you. 

Shit.

Jimin audibly pauses on the line before having the audacity to chuckle. What the fuck is he laughing for? What about any of this could possibly be funny? 

“This isn’t funny, Park. Where the fuck is he?” 

“With us,” Jimin slowly answers, as if this suspense is good for anyone. “In the car.” 

At least he has enough mercy to start out with including your brother. Hopefully that first response was enough to clue you in before saying anything more damning. Not that something damning wasn’t already said. Fuck, this wasn’t exactly what Yoongi meant when he said he wanted to hear you. But goddamn if his soul isn’t already pulsing at the thought of you asking about him. 

After another beat, Jimin decides to spell it out for you. And Yoongi feels like he’s about to dangle from a precipice. “Your brother’s here, too.” 

“Ah… Am I on speaker.” 

Both Yoongi and Jimin look at the center screen, already knowing your brother is looking, too. “Umm.. Yeah.” 

Whatever Yoongi thinks you’re gonna do or say? Is nothing compared to what you actually do. He hasn’t been this chewed out in ages and the pit in his stomach morphs into a void.

“Actually, you know what? Good. Now I can say you’re all idiots and immature as fuck.” 

The man in the back tries to cut you off to no avail. “Hey, wait a damn minute—” 

“I waited long enough!” 

Yoongi physically feels his whole soul sag with guilt, guilt, guilt. 

“I know this shit isn’t new to y’all, but really? You didn’t need to do this.” 

“He was gonna—”

“All you had to do was play the game! Why’d you have to make them mad? Do you even know what could’ve happened back there?” 

Yes, they all know. In fact, Yoongi is still mentally running from that one split second of terror. If the dude from Dalo was reaching, that could only mean a couple things and he doesn’t wanna think of either one. How the fuck is he supposed to face you now? When he almost got—

“Just tell me one thing… Is this gonna happen again?” 

That one your brother answers with finality. “They won’t be coming around anymore.” 

Yoongi hopes to everything in the universe that it’s true. Judging by the fear in those eyes? The way they all ran? There’s no way they’re coming back. But the adrenaline pulsing through his cuts and bruises gives some room for doubts. 

“Okay… Are you okay?” 

Your sibling answers yet again, making things seem much less concerning than they really are. As usual. “Me? Yeah, the hits I took were weak as fuck. I’ll get home soon so if you wanna order in tonight we can.” 

“Fuck that.” 

“Huh?” 

“Bro, you don’t even know how fucking mad I am. I’m going to Yuri’s.” 

That shake in your voice will stay for a very, very long time. Even as his best friend dares to question you, Yoongi’s throat remains shut. “What? Nah, come home tonight and we’ll talk.” 

“I just—No.” Fuck. Your pause is the loudest thing. It’s long enough to make them all think you’ve hung up, but he has a feeling the next thing you say will crush him. 

And he’s right. 

“I’m not talking to any of you for awhile.” 

You mean that. There’s no doubt in Yoongi’s mind that you’re dead set on cutting them all off with no hesitation. And they all deserve it, especially him. What they did tonight was idiotic and could’ve been avoided in a thousand ways. You have every fucking right to be furious. Truthfully, you’re kinda letting them all off easy.  

Once again, your brother is the spokesperson for the car. Because why would anyone else be, right? “…Fine. But go asap then. I don’t want you out late on your own.” 

“…Of course you don’t.”

And you hang up so fast it cuts Yoongi’s breath in two. 

Silence follows. Followed by a multitude more. Unspoken thoughts are forming dark clouds in the car, stuffing the space and jamming cotton in everyone’s ears. 

In the rear view mirror, Yoongi watches his friend rub both hands over his face before a fist bangs against leather upholstery, Jimin reacting immediately with a quick,

“Behave.”

“Sorry.” A rustle of clothes and guilt follows. “I just… My sister’s right. What the fuck are we doing anymore? This one was stupid.”

“All the fights we’ve been a part of have been stupid,” Jimin tuts, looking over his shoulder and wincing before turning a corner. “Fuck, my eye.”

Yoongi offers with a hand still slung over his waist, voice hoarse, “Need me to drive?” 

“No one with a death wish gets to drive my car.” Jimin hisses out another whoosh of pain. “But no, I can make it to his place.”

“K.”

“And she’s right.” Jimin rolls to a stop at the next light. “Even if tonight was coming, this could’ve been prevented. Or done another way. Honestly, I’m surprised we made it out.”

“Same,” Yoongi agrees. 

“Glad I got his shit recorded,” your brother sighs, wincing while adjusting his seat. “They shouldn’t be able to refute the recordings in court—fuck—if it gets to that point.”

“What happens if they—”

“Forget about them,” Yoongi interjects, earning two looks of shock and feeling a little surprised himself. When the car starts moving again, he works his hurt jaw, trying to figure out how to word his ever twisting thoughts. “We didn’t tell her anything and that’s where we fucked up.”

Did that come out too upsetting? Can he blame it on his aching side? Does it even matter anymore? Does anything?

“How do you know that.”

Stiffening ever so slightly, Yoongi uses his battered side as an excuse to shift. Wincing, he looks at the center console, choosing not to peer out the window on purpose. Face this shit now. Tell the truth in parts to control it,

“She told me.” 

Jimin doesn’t acknowledge that answer, instead turning at the next corner and checking his mirrors. 

“When.” 

Motherfucker. Yoongi’s mouth is drying out so fast he doesn’t taste the blood anymore. Everything feels like sandpaper, scratching his tongue, tearing his esophagus to shreds. The rasp that results rips his throat red,

“After—”

“After I told her everything,” Jimin jumps in, throwing a blanket over his fire. As Yoongi gives him a look, he continues with eyes on the road, “At that party you hosted a few days after you came back.”

Thank god the blond knows to step up when he’s needed. Yoongi still can’t think straight and was about to admit he called you during that party. Full on busted. And how would that have gone? 

“The party I…? Oh, the one that Sunday? Fuck.” Your brother wipes his lower face before shutting tired eyes. “I remember now. Cus I was gonna tell her back then, but everyone started coming over.” 

“We should’ve told her before Dalo even happened,” Yoongi says with a sag to his voice. 

Thankfully, all suspicion and tightness is gone from your sibling’s voice. Only agreement resonates. “Yeah.. Yeah.” 

More silence washes over the car, sweat and rainwater caked on skin while blood hardens in layers. Though Jimin makes no comment, Yoongi knows he’s gonna pay for any damages just sitting in here will accrue. 

Rolling up to your house, Jimin parks in the driveway, all of them still wordlessly suffering because of all the shit he started. 

Yoongi can’t see it any other way. This all happened because of him, whether his best friend says so or not. Yeah, he threw that punch on the court back then, but Yoongi’s the one that fell for the taunts. How fucking stupid. And to think he thought all of this would just, what, go away with time? 

You reached for him on the court this last game. You were begging for him to tone it the fuck down. Once again, he didn’t listen, blinded by the anger boiling over—at that coward, and at himself. 

But you’re safe, your brother is safe, and everyone that fought today is fine. Yoongi’s gonna count every blessing that he can before the darkness wins again. 

“Thanks for driving, Chim,” your brother grunts as he opens the door. “And Yoongi?” 

He turns to look his way. Staring right into those eyes laser focused and exhausted to hell all at once. Not even the pouring rain can divert either of them from breaking contact. 

“Get out of the fucking car.”

Fuck.

Yoongi works his cheek before grunting out of the doorway, winding the car and knowing Jimin is on high alert inside. If this is about you? If this is the battle he was supposed to fight for months? 

Maybe he’s not making it out tonight after all. 

As soon as Yoongi gets close, he’s yanked forward by the collar, eyes unmoving as he knows not to flinch. He’s gonna own his shit, as much as he’s scared out of his fucking mind right now. 

Words rip low from your sibling’s lips, “Whatever the fuck you did? Don’t even think about doing it again.” 

And there it is. 

The door he’d been so desperate to open has been sealed completely shut, caught in this torrential downpour and retreating so far back he can’t see it any longer. “I’m sorry,” he rasps out. “I was gonna—”

“Jimin’s right. You got a fucking death wish? What the fuck is wrong with you? How would you think I wouldn’t figure it out?” 

Ice blocks all his veins, freezing his chest over and chilling him below his bones. Everything from the moment you knocked on his door to now comes rushing past his vision and breaking in lightning quick snaps. 

All Yoongi wanted to do was protect you. And now he’s gonna lose both of you. 

Shoving him backwards, your brother growls out. “I just… Are you fucking serious?” He sighs to the ground, rain drenching his already slicked head and steaming shoulders. “You got one life, and a future bright as fuck. Stop throwing it away so easily, or we’re done.” 

What?

Now Yoongi’s eyes jolt for another reason. Shock thrums and resets his body, forcing it to grapple with the real conflict between them. “This is about me saving your life?” 

“What the fuck else would it be!” Your sibling rushes forward and shoves him again, and Jimin is fully springing out of his car now. “The fuck were you thinking?”

“What the hell are you two doing?” 

“You’re fucking kidding me. Are you serious? He was about to—”

“I can handle my own shit!”

Jimin keeps a bull from charging again, full on forcing him back. “What the fuck!”

“I can save you from an idiot with a gun,” your sibling grits out like it’s hurting him from the inside, “But not her, dude.” 

Her? What the fuck?  

“Yeah, don’t think I believed you for a fucking second. She’s still there, huh? I can see it all over your face!”

As Jimin stills in his pushing, Yoongi’s feet start to get tugged into the earth. 

“Look at you. Gone for days at a time, starting shit on the court, and just—throwing yourself out with no plan? Do you even care about your life anymore?”

Thunder cracks the sky once more, punctuating his words on impact.

And it's Jimin’s turn to shove his friend back, voice tightened in ice, “I suggest you choose your next words very carefully.”

“Do you?”

Life slows around Yoongi, magnifying the pain he feels in his side and the blow he took straight to the lip. Everything hurts. Everything’s numb. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, this isn’t what he bargained for at all. And even though it’s been forever since he’s seen his ex, he can feel her ghost howling and grinning like a victor, tearing his heartbeats to shreds. 

Your brother’s right about her still being burrowed in his place. That has been the case for months and he needs to fix that. But caring about his life? Of course he does. Did it look like he was just throwing himself out? Truthfully he doesn’t remember everything he did he just acted on pure instinct. “That’s not.. It’s not like that—”

Shucking off a persistent Jimin, your brother straightens and backs up a step. “Someone to live for, huh? Yeah, count me the fuck out. Her? What the fuck, Yoong?” 

No. Not this again. Say something. Say fucking anything to fix this shit. The dread that settles into his stomach is finding permanent residence because he’s about to lose his best friend for the wrong reason, “Listen, I—”

“Save it. As long as you’re still with her I am done.”

The panic in Jimin’s eyes matches his own, his hands trembling as he keeps them separated, “It’s not like that, okay? Both of you need to—”

“Get out.”

Yoongi and Jimin still, with the latter asking a shocked, slow, “What?”

“You heard me.” Your brother backs up towards the house, rain falling in rivers across his skin and failing to hide the streams from his eyes. “Get his ass home. I’m not saying shit until she’s gone.” 

“But she’s—she’s not even—”

“I’m out.” 

—

—

Rain stains the windows of Jimin’s car in splotches. 

After the entire drive goes by in silence, Yoongi slides tired eyes up to see his place coming into view. 

“Yoongi.” 

He doesn’t respond. 

“I’m staying with you tonight.” 

Shutting down, he gives his friend a shoulder so cold even he regrets it. “No.” He knows Jimin’s already red-rimmed and teary. So he keeps his head down and arm slung over his waist. “Taehyung needs you.” 

“Please,” Jimin begs, voice wavering and full of fear. Which is justified. He knows what will happen if he’s left alone. “I’m staying. I can get him and we can both stay, just—”

“Not tonight.” 

A sniffle is the only response. “I fucked up. I’m so sorry I messed it all up, but please don’t do anything when I’m not there to—”

“I’ll be fine.” Yoongi clicks the door open, greeted by the boom of thunder and endless rain. He can hear the desperation in his best friend’s pleas, but this is something he can’t let anyone witness. Not feeling in control of his body is frightening, and he needs to be isolated. Again.

Before shutting the door, he turns. “This is something I have to do alone.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“I’ll… I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” 

More sobs wrack Jimin’s body as he wipes his bruised eye with shaky fingers. “Promise me there’s a tomorrow.” 

Oh. Jimin thinks the worst. Fuck, Yoongi is hurting all of his friends in every fucking way possible. “Chim,” he sighs, rain lowering his temperature so much he shakes. “It’s not like that at all. K?” 

“Okay.” 

“I just… Yeah. We’ll talk about it when I’m ready.” 

“Yoongi,” Jimin halts him right as he’s closing the door. “I really am sorry.” 

And he looks down at the seat he just occupied, rainwater and sweat and regret and relief all sunk into leather upholstery,

“Me, too.” 

—

—

As Yoongi stumbles into his apartment, he doesn’t bother to turn the lights on. Why would it matter if all they’ll do is highlight the repercussions of his decisions? The stupid fucking decisions ever since the day he damned you all. 

A shadow snickers, wrapping around his brain and forcing him to recite them all once again. Just like he had been over the last three months. 

Yoongi’s shoes trip over nothing as he stumbles, careening to the floor and smacking a bruised shoulder on impact. White hot pain zings up his limb, shoving out a curse and a wheeze as he lies still because he can’t. Fucking. Move. 

All he wanted to do was protect you. Those guys were loaded with dark intentions and he lost it defending your honor. But that doesn’t negate the fact that he put you and your brother in danger. He’s the one that started the fight on the court that day, he’s the one that messed up by making you feel unwanted. Danger? He put you in that. The club? He put you in there, too, and almost tore his mind apart when he saw what happened to you there. What did you say to him afterward? When you both were in the safety of your own bed? 

“I was so scared.” 

Yoongi punches the floor, gritting his teeth before willing himself to get. Up. Limb by limb, muscle by muscle, he slowly rises to his feet, kicking off his shoes and stripping off his damp, bloody clothes. Because it’s done. The danger won’t reach anyone he cares for any longer, and yet… 

He can barely change into new garments as his mind flashes with more reminders, like how he messed up rushing to defend you at the party, making his best friend silently size him up and wrenching daggers in his side. Even leaving you to deal with his shadow fucked you up, because he couldn’t bring himself to tell you why he even left in the first place. 

But there’s a lot of that hesitation going around. After all, he hasn’t even confessed to you brother yet. Just the thought makes him want to hurl, and he almost does. 

But Yoongi quickly shakes his head, as if doing so flings the memories away. He stalks through his living room, his path illuminated by the flashes of lightning and shaken by the booms of angry thunder. 

You may as well command the very skies. Because your rage seems to mirror them tonight, and he cannot blame you one bit for tearing them all apart. God, he can’t get that tremble in your voice out of his fucking head. You sounded so hoarse, so broken, so defeated and yet so strong. 

In a screwed up way, Yoongi is proud of you for telling them off, setting off a new conversation that ended in them making amends to how they settle things from now on. They all deserved that as much as they needed it. 

You’re too good for him. Yoongi has thought this once before, but it’s more than true now as he stops at the corner of his living room. The darkest one. The one that's been driving him to the brink of insanity and back again.

It’s so loud right here. 

Darkness winds around him in waves, only fleeing when lighting floods the room. His face pulses in pain just as much as his side, and he hunches forward, almost touching the neck of his black guitar case. 

Yoongi can only stare. 

He messed up a lot of things. He knows that. And yet, you haven’t run from him once. Even when he fucked up again, and again, and again, you never ran. That day you almost walked out the door? Yoongi’s heart crumpled and squeezed when he saw you turn right back, eliminating that stabbing fear in his chest and replacing it with a heal of hope. 

But you finally cut him off tonight. 

And honestly, that was the best decision you could’ve made. 

Gripping the firm cloth of the case, he unzips from the top, moving in slow, calculated motions. Thunder rumbles overhead, and he almost flings back to the first time this instrument of disaster was gifted to him. But he fights the memory, quietly choking the guitar by the neck and lifting it from its confines. 

He hears it gasping. Fuck, he hears the screaming. 

And therein lies the root of his manic war. 

This isn’t just an instrument. This isn’t just an object. 

It’s a life. 

If he does anything to it, the guilt will forever mar his conscience. He’ll carry this violence wherever he goes. 

But what else can he do? If he throws it out and someone finds it, the shadow can come back to haunt him. Or inflict its power over someone else. Is that too much of a stretch? Is he truly going insane now? 

A fuck up. A screw up. For as long as he can remember, Yoongi believed those were all used to describe him. However, if you have taught him one thing in the time he’s orbited your presence, it’s a simple fact. He may be a fuck up, and he may be a screw up… 

But he was still a good person. 

Those labels plagued him for years, had him questioning his very existence and rocked him off balance every time he stepped out of line. 

All this time, those words were a projection, flung at him with the intention of making them stick until he couldn’t rub them off. Mud, mud, so much mud had been flung onto his brain and buried his very essence so far deep that he couldn’t even find it anymore. Even his vision dulled, colors looked less vivid, life didn’t feel worth living. 

But Yoongi has fucking had it with the sludge. He already faced your nightmare head on just to keep you safe. If he had to trudge through a thousand miles of sludge next just to get to you? He’s doing it. Because you’re so fucking worth it and he’s not wasting anymore fucking time on these lies, these half-truths, this bullshit. 

Tightening fingers around polished wood so hard that strings bite into his skin, Yoongi turns, lightning flashing and casting his own shadow into his room. 

His shadow. No one else’s. He’s not letting there be two of them in here any longer. 

The screaming reaches a shrill cry.

A dizzying thought roars in his brain once more, crumpling him at the waist and making his ribs sting. Breaths ragged, he squeezes both eyes tight and heaves at the painful pulse of his head. 

That whole time away didn’t even matter, did it? All it took was one phone call to have your brother on his ass yet again. 

Fuck. Is he gonna have to keep his distance again? Shit. He didn’t think about that under all the pain he’s sporting right now, all the mental assault he’s enduring because it is relentless tonight. 

Goddamn it. He can’t deal with another three months away from you. Even three days without you sounds like agony and death right now, because he has to spend his days and nights with the monster in his hand. The dark will await him once more, but he doesn’t want it anymore. It’s not part of him. It’s not it’s not it’s not. 

Eyes slowly opening, Yoongi slowly straightens as much as his ribs allow, shifting his lidded eyes to the weight he carries. 

Get rid of it. 

Throw it out, all of it, all of it. 

But how? He can’t move to throw it away. His feet stay glued to the floor as he struggles to even carry it another second. His chokehold slips, staccato notes giving way to a cacophonic hum as the bottom of the instrument hits the floor. 

Get rid of it. 

It’s like you’re speaking to him. But how is that possible? Is this what happens when one descends into madness? Because that’s what Yoongi feels in the marrow of his bones. Burdened by the fact that no matter what he does, he’s gonna mess it all up. No matter what he tries, it will be in vain. He’ll never be happy. He’ll never get the future he wants. The future with you. With you, with you, with you, wasn’t he just fighting for you? What the fuck is happening to his brain? 

Get rid of it. 

He can’t. 

Get rid of it. 

He can’t. 

Throw it out. All of it, all of it. 

…Can he? 

Yoongi struggles to breathe, heaving out dry, bitter struggle once again. His limbs almost give under the weight of the mud, the pile of sludge. The door seems so far away and he can’t crawl to it any more. There’s too much trash. There’s too much pain. 

Your voice rings across his mind one more, desperate time. 

Get rid of it. 

And someone’s wise words from awhile ago echo right behind like a ripple. A mantra. A reminder.

“If there’s something you need to get through...” 

Manic resolve seizes the reins. 

“Hit it until it breaks.”

Lightning flashes in slow motion as Yoongi doesn’t even feel himself. He hears the bangs, the crashes, the splinting of wood and shrieking of glass as something enormous tramples through his living room. But nothing feels real, his vision isn’t his, those lifts of his arms aren’t his doing as swing, after swing, after heavy final swing hits in front of him. 

This is everything he wanted to unleash in that parking lot. Every movement swathed in rage.

Strings snap, whipping out in all directions as glittery rain falls onto his rug and his floors, skittering in all directions and glinting off the storm light outside. 

His throat is hoarse. His ribs are worse. 

And his brain goes completely dark. 

—

—

When Yoongi blinks, his living room looks unfamiliar. 

Until he wakes amongst millions of shattered pieces, surrounding his bloody limbs in a descent suspended in time. 

Somewhere, what was once a guitar is split in pieces, slain in cold blood to be rid of the shadow inside. A death necessary for life. Yoongi vows to never break an instrument like that again. 

He did it. It finally happened. The only shadow he can see is his. 

…Right? 

Yes. Yes. It’s over.

—

—

Floating. 

Endless, endless floating. The ocean of his mind is calmer without the scepter in the room, but he’s so exhausted he can only move his eyes.

There’s a voice in the dark box he puts himself in. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? When he’s supposed to always end up alone. 

Jimin did his best. So did everyone else. But it’s a simple fact that, in the end, it’s only gonna be him here, listening to you call out to let you in.

Wait. That’s really you. You’re calling him? Has he been responding? When the fuck did he even answer his phone? 

No. You shouldn’t be here tonight. Not tonight. Not like this. 

Regret and anger fill him to the brim as he screams at himself to not push you away. But he will, breaking his own heart to save you from seeing him in his aftermath. You don’t need to see this. You should be miles from where he lies. 

“Not tonight.”

But on the other side of his door, you are fighting like you never have before. 

“Yoongi, I swear to god—” 

“Not tonight—”

“—you don’t let me in I’m—”

“Go home—”

“I’m fucking staying out here until you open the goddamn door!”

Why? Why are you still there? Why are you trying so hard and why does your effort hit him square in the chest? In his mind, he’s reaching for the door but he can’t get there. Still so far away. But you’re screaming for him to try. Begging. 

“I’m serious.”

“No.”

“Go home.” 

“No!” 

It takes everything for him to utter your name, because he feels like even that he doesn’t deserve to say. 

He could hang up. He could just shut you out. So why isn’t he? Is he turning away, or clinging on to your outstretched hand? 

Yoongi knows why he’s still on the line. It’s because he needs you. Fuck, he needs you and yet he wants you the furthest distance possible. You can’t see this. Any of this. You’d cast him away and never look back.

Which is why he finally reaches the point of begging, “Please.”

Your silence drags on. Only the shaky, quick breaths you exhale fill the deadened air and squeeze his lungs. 

Go. Don’t go. Stay. Run. 

No matter what Yoongi begs you to do, he’s already screaming at himself to do something. Because even if he doesn’t let you in, you’re just gonna keep standing there. Three months you kept your distance, and you’ll wait another ten until he lets you in. That’s just who you are.

And that’s the you he fell in love with. 

But Yoongi feels the most broken he could ever feel. The most damaged, though the worst is over now. What are you going to say? How are you going to react? Will you run? 

Will you leave? 

Don’t leave. 

Don’t leave him alone. 

Heart on its last desperate breaths, Yoongi lies still, hoping you say something yet begging for you to take one last chance. 

He thought it was best to be left alone. And now he’s silently calling out for you to open the door. 

“…No.” 

His heart pulses waves throughout the living room, beating stronger and stronger and yanking his limbs into action. 

Breathe. Focus. Get the fuck up and walk, crawl, do anything but just get to the fucking door. 

So crawl he does. Across shards, across rainwater, across the damage he dealt to the last piece of him that needed breaking. Your effort cannot be left alone and he’s going to meet you halfway. 

Fuck, he’s still cold. Still wet. But he will keep crawling on forearms until he can muster the courage to stand up and let you in—no matter how long it fucking takes. The ground feels like sludge and dirt and blood and it’s so dark. He may drown here. But that won’t stop him because he will trudge through hell to reach your voice and this is one and the same. 

Almost there. 

Stand the fuck up. 

Unlock the door. 

As soon as your face comes into view, Yoongi doesn’t quite register what you say but he’s already preparing to—

With a sudden fit of strength, he grips your waist and tugs you back into him, both to keep your feet from danger and to selfishly feel the warmth of his only source of sunlight. 

You’re silent. You’re still. 

“I told you, doll.”

Your sob is all he needs to know. Instead of the pain of you choosing to leave, Yoongi gives you the out one more time. 

Despite desperately wanting you to stay right by his side. 

“Go home.”

-

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tbc in fugue, pt. iv

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so... thoughts before the last fugue? | join the server! | fugue pt. iv

a/n: we have one more part to fugue left, and if you guys remember everything that happens after reader sees the wreckage.. let's just say the rest is gonna be the most important, most heartfelt parts from yoongi's pov. i seriously cannot wait to share this last fugue chapter with you all, and i wanna do it the most justice i can offer. a/n 2: i love you all so much, and i've missed being here. thank you all again for being so patient with me as i work through an entire inner working of 3tan yoongi. i knew i wanted to take this on, but i did not account for how much it would affect me mentally. it's been a rough but necessary journey for the both of us. all we know for sure is that we needed to brave the sludge to end in full bloom. and that's where we are finally heading next. ++ feedback box: ⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated! ⇥ for the ones that are too shy to reblog with a review, comment on this, or send a message, i went ahead and made another anonymous form where you can send in what you think! ⇥ no emails collected, no need to put in a username. it’s literally just a comment dropbox :D feedback can be as short/sweet or as long as you’d like! ⇥ here! ++ more links: ⇥ masterlist  ⇥ three tangerines masterlist

a/n 3: we have a slight goal to hit before 3tanfugue4 is posted! i want to make sure we have activity here before posting the next part, and some of you guys suggested that we have post goals to encourage interaction. so we're gonna try it and see how it goes! if we don't dig this idea, we can go back to normalcy after fugue4.

The air tasted of ashes, incense, and something sweeter beneath it, something floral and rotten, like roses left too long in a sealed room. Every sound arrived late. Your heartbeat echoed seconds after it beat. Your breath misted before you exhaled. Somewhere beyond the pillars, water dripped slowly into an unseen basin, counting time in a place where time should have had the decency to die.

Then a voice spoke from the dark.

“You are late.”

You turned.

Seokjin stood at the far end of the hall in a black suit so perfectly tailored it looked less worn than worshipped. His beauty was almost painful here, colder than it had been in the waking world, his pale face touched by the moon and sharpened into something ancient enough to make fear feel newly invented. He did not sit, although the room seemed built for kneeling. He did not need a throne. The space arranged itself around him anyway.

Another figure leaned against one of the pillars, half-hidden in shadow.

Elias.

No.

Taehyung.

The name arrived inside your mind before anyone spoke it, soft and impossible, like a memory that did not belong to you had opened its eyes.

He looked almost amused.

That was the worst part.

Jin was stillness. Elias was a blade pretending to be bored. Dark hair fell over his forehead, his mouth curved faintly, and his long coat spilled around him like smoke. He looked younger than the room and older than everything breathing inside it. A beautiful contradiction. A corpse with a soul still watching from behind his eyes.

“Late?” Elias repeated, smiling at Jin. “I came when I wished to.”

Jin did not move.

The silence after that should have killed something.

“Careful,” Jin said.

Elias tilted his head, as if the warning were a hand he was considering biting.

“Always.”

You should have hidden.

You should have stepped back behind the nearest pillar, held your breath, pressed a hand over your mouth until the dream forgot you were there.

Instead, your feet carried you closer.

That was how you knew the dream was not entirely yours.

Jin’s gaze shifted.

Not toward Elias.

Toward you.

Your stomach turned cold.

“Little rose,” he murmured.

The name dragged across your skin like silk over a wound.

Elias looked at you then, and something in his expression changed so quickly you might have imagined it. The smile stayed. The cruelty stayed. But beneath it, something old flickered. Recognition, perhaps. Or resentment. Or the strange anger of a thing forced to stare at its own reflection in broken glass.

“She should not be yours,” Elias said.

Jin’s eyes remained on you.

“Should?”

The word was soft, but the room seemed to flinch.

Elias pushed away from the pillar with the lazy grace of a predator that had never needed to hurry. “You dislike that word.”

“I dislike disobedience.”

“Then you must be very tired of me.”

Jin finally looked at him.

A lesser creature would have burned beneath that stare.

Elias only smiled wider.

“You made me,” he said, almost fondly. “You did not empty me.”

The curtains snapped hard against the walls.

For one suspended second, the dream trembled. The black pillars blurred, stretched, became trees, became bones, became the ribcage of something vast and dead. You saw a flash of gold. A palace roof. A man standing beneath red banners with dark hair tied back, his face younger, warmer, wiser. He wore robes stitched with the quiet dignity of old nobility, his expression solemn beneath the weight of a kingdom that had expected too much from him.

Kim Taehyung.

Then blood.

Then Jin’s hand at his throat.

Then the same man on his knees, eyes black, mouth red, soul breaking open like a door.

Elias gasped in the vision, not in pain, but in the terrible shock of becoming.

You staggered back.

The hall returned.

Jin watched you as if he knew exactly what you had seen.

“Do not show her things she cannot understand,” he said.

Elias glanced at you again. “She understands more than you like.”

“I do not need her understanding.”

“No,” Elias murmured. “You need her obedience.”

Jin’s face did not change, but the dream darkened around him.

“That is what you needed from the mother too, was it not?” Elias asked softly.

The words struck the room like a match.

Your breath caught.

Mother.

Jin’s gaze sharpened.

Elias took one slow step closer to him.

“You failed with her,” he said. “You failed with the father. And now you have found the daughter, and suddenly failure has dressed itself up as destiny.”

Jin moved so quickly you did not see the distance disappear.

One moment he stood beneath the moonlight.

The next, his hand was around Elias’s throat, forcing him back against the pillar hard enough to crack the stone.

You flinched.

Elias laughed.

It was not a kind laugh. It was not brave either. It was worse than bravery. It was the sound of something that had been hurt so long ago it had learned how to make pain entertaining.

“My king,” Elias whispered, the words soft with mockery.

Jin leaned closer.

“My dog.”

Elias’s eyes darkened.

“Your dog has teeth.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Jin’s fingers tightened.

“You were told to bring her closer.”

“I did.”

“You were told to fog her mind.”

“I tried.”

Jin’s smile was cold. “No. You watched.”

Elias’s gaze flickered to you, and you hated the way your heart gave a frightened little jump, as if it recognised danger and beauty as the same language.

“I watched very carefully,” Elias said.

“You failed.”

“Perhaps you should go fetch her yourself, Seokjin.” Elias’s smile turned sharp enough to cut glass. “Since you are so great.”

The hall cracked open with sound.

Not thunder.

A scream.

Many screams.

Women’s voices, layered and distant, rising through the floor, through the walls, through your bones. The moonlight turned red. The pillars bent inward. Jin’s hand remained at Elias’s throat, but his eyes were on you again.

“You are not your mother,” he said.

Your chest tightened.

“No,” Elias whispered, still smiling beneath Jin’s hand. “She is worse.”

The floor gave way.

You fell through darkness, through red thread and broken mirrors, through the scent of roses and blood, through a woman’s voice calling your name from somewhere you could not reach.

Then another voice, closer.

Lower.

Ragged with restraint.

“Wake up.”

Your eyes flew open.

You came back to the world with a gasp so violent it hurt.

For a second, you did not know where you were. The room around you was dark, but not the dream’s darkness. This one had edges. A ceiling. Tall windows. The distant glitter of Seoul stretched beyond the glass like a fallen constellation. Rain traced silver lines down the panes, and somewhere beneath it all, the city breathed with late-night traffic, sirens, and the secret life of people who had no idea monsters were discussing them in their sleep.

Jungkook was kneeling beside the couch.

His hand hovered near your shoulder, not touching.

That was what steadied you first. Not the room. Not the rain. Not even his face.

The space he gave you.

“You were dreaming,” he said.

Your throat felt raw. “That was not a dream.”

His expression tightened.

“No,” he admitted. “Probably not.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. Sometime after the nightmare of Minho’s apartment, after the mirror, after everything, Jungkook must have brought you here properly, settled you on the couch beneath a thick dark blanket that smelled faintly of cedar, cold air, and him. You were not fully dressed. Your clothes from earlier were gone, replaced by one of his black shirts, soft and far too large, falling loose around your body and leaving your legs bare beneath the blanket.

For once, you did not panic.

That surprised you.

Being vulnerable near Jungkook should have terrified you more than anything. He was danger shaped like a man. Teeth behind a soft mouth. A beautiful problem with a pulse he had stolen from other people. Yet the longer you looked at him, the more you realised the fear was there, but it no longer owned the whole room.

You felt more in control with him now.

Not safe.

Not exactly.

But present.

Aware.

Able to choose.

You tugged the blanket higher out of stubbornness rather than shame. “Please tell me I did not scream.”

“You threatened to stab someone.”

You blinked.

Jungkook’s mouth twitched faintly.

“In Greek.”

You stared at him.

Then, despite everything, you groaned and covered your face. “Wonderful. Traumatised, unconscious, and still multilingual.”

A breath of amusement left him, but it did not last. His eyes searched your face, lingering on the pulse in your throat with a hunger he did not quite hide quickly enough.

“What did you see?” he asked.

You lowered your hands.

“Jin. Elias.” Your voice softened unwillingly around the second name. “Taehyung.”

Jungkook went very still.

The air changed so fast it felt like someone had opened a door to winter.

You sat up more fully, the blanket gathered to your chest. “That is his name, is it not?”

Jungkook looked toward the rain-dark windows.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, “It was.”

The dream clung to you. The throne room. The pillars. Jin’s hand around Elias’s throat. The flash of a younger man beneath red banners, noble and solemn, before the darkness took him.

“Kim Taehyung,” you said.

Jungkook closed his eyes.

It was not confirmation.

It was worse.

It was grief worn by someone who did not believe he had earned the right to grieve.

“He was from Silla,” Jungkook said at last. “The royal bloodline. Not a king, from what little I have been able to piece together, but close enough to power that history remembered his name for a while before Jin erased what mattered.”

Your fingers tightened around the blanket.

“Silla,” you repeated. “As in…”

“As in over a thousand years ago.”

The room seemed to tilt.

You stared at him, trying to fit the words inside your head. Over a thousand years. Not two hundred. Not an old ghost from a recent century. Something ancient. Something that had watched kingdoms rise, burn, and become textbooks.

“But you said Jin—”

“I told you what I believed.”

His jaw tightened.

The bitterness in his voice was not aimed at you.

“He told me we were both made around two hundred years ago. He gave me a history that felt close enough to mine to be believable. He made himself old, but not impossible. Ancient enough to respect. Young enough to understand.” Jungkook gave a humourless laugh. “It was one of his games.”

Your skin prickled.

“He lied about his age?”

“He lied about everything he did not want me to question.”

Rain tapped against the glass.

Jungkook stood and moved away from you, not far, but enough that the space between you became another kind of confession. He wore black, as always, but less formally tonight. His shirt was open at the throat, sleeves pushed to his forearms, dark hair slightly dishevelled from whatever battle he had been fighting while you slept.

He looked less like a nightmare prince.

More like a man who had spent too long holding himself together with his teeth.

“Jin is older than I knew,” he said. “Older than almost anything I have touched and survived. Elias too. But Elias was not born a monster.”

You swallowed.

“Taehyung.”

“Yes.”

“What was he like?”

Jungkook looked back at you then, and something softened in his expression. Not tenderness, exactly. Respect for the dead, perhaps. Or shame for the living.

“Just,” he said. “Wise. Dangerous in the way honourable men become dangerous when they believe they are protecting something worth dying for.”

Your chest ached.

The words struck too close.

Maybe because somewhere deep inside you, beneath fear and grief and sarcasm and the growing darkness that had started to wake in your blood, you recognised that kind of person. Someone who would stand between danger and the people they loved, even if the danger had already opened its mouth.

Your father had been like that.

Your mother too.

Maybe, in a way that frightened you, so were you.

“Jin turned him,” you said.

“Jin remade him.” Jungkook’s voice lowered. “There is a difference.”

You could still see it. The flash from the dream. Taehyung on his knees. Jin’s hand at his throat. Not simply death. Not simply transformation. Something more intimate. More violent. A soul being taken apart and rearranged to serve the hand that broke it.

“He became Elias,” you whispered.

“He became Jin’s right hand. His hound. His blade.” Jungkook’s eyes darkened. “For centuries, Elias obeyed him. Admired him, perhaps. Worshipped him in the way ruined things sometimes worship the one who gives ruin a purpose.”

You thought of Elias laughing with Jin’s hand around his throat.

Your dog has teeth.

“But he is not mindless,” you said.

“No.” Jungkook looked almost grimly amused. “That is the problem.”

You shifted on the couch, the blanket sliding against your thighs. “He antagonises him.”

“He tests him.”

“Like a disobedient dog?”

“Like a loyal dog who remembers it can bite.”

The words settled between you.

You looked down at your hands. “In the dream, Elias said Jin failed with my mother.”

Jungkook’s expression changed.

There it was.

The truth he had been circling like a locked door.

You lifted your gaze. “Tell me.”

He did not answer quickly.

“You already know some of it.”

“I know my father wrote that if he failed, she would come for the kids first. If she failed, he would come.” Your voice trembled on the memory, but you forced it steady. “I know the ‘he’ was Elias. I know the ‘she’ was my mother. But not my mother as herself.”

Jungkook’s silence confirmed the rest before he spoke.

“Jin wanted to make her an echo.”

The word slid cold beneath your ribs.

“Like the pale shaman?”

“Yes. But stronger.”

Your breath caught.

Jungkook’s hands curled slowly at his sides, as if he had to restrain himself even from speaking too harshly.

“Your mother was not only psychic. She was unusually powerful, unusually resistant, and unusually loved. Jin has always been fascinated by what love does to power. How it strengthens it. How it corrupts it. How it can be used as a chain if you pull hard enough.”

You felt suddenly sick.

“He wanted to turn her against us.”

“He wanted to hollow her out and leave enough of the mother for you and Minho to trust her.” Jungkook’s voice was quiet now, which made it worse. “His first command would not have been to kill you immediately.”

You looked at him.

“He would have told her to bring you to him.”

The room fell away.

For one awful second, you were a child again, small hands, small shoes, the smell of your mother’s perfume, the feeling of safety when she entered a room. You imagined that face at the door. That voice calling your name. Minho running first because he had always tried to be brave for you, even when he was too young to understand what bravery cost.

Bring me the children.

Your stomach turned.

“If we resisted?” you asked.

Jungkook’s eyes lowered.

“You know the answer.”

You did.

You wished you did not.

“And Elias?”

“He was meant to come if she failed.” Jungkook looked toward the window again. “Your father knew that. I do not know how much he knew or how he learned it, but he understood the order of danger. First, the thing that looked like love. Then the thing that did not need to pretend.”

Your throat burned.

“My father knew he might die.”

“Yes.”

“And still he left the warning.”

“Yes.”

The ache that opened in your chest was old and new at once.

You looked away before Jungkook could see too much of it. The rain blurred the city lights into trembling gold. Somewhere out there, Minho was alive because your parents had not failed completely. You were alive because some part of their love had survived Jin’s hands, Elias’s shadow, and all the years that followed.

“What changed Elias?” you asked quietly.

Jungkook did not pretend not to understand.

“Your mother.”

You turned back.

“She was kind,” he said.

The simplicity of it hurt worse than anything else.

“She was wise. Soft, from what I have heard. Loving. A faithful wife. A devoted mother.” His gaze met yours. “Not weak. Never weak. But good in a way Elias had not seen for a very long time.”

Your fingers tightened.

“He did not want Jin to destroy her.”

“No.”

A strange, foolish hope stirred before Jungkook killed it with his next words.

“Do not mistake that for goodness.”

You gave a bitter little smile. “Obviously. Why would I ever assume the ancient vampire assassin has a heart of gold?”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious.

“Elias is a killer. He has killed women before. He would kill one again if he believed she was wicked enough, useful enough, or unfortunate enough to stand where Jin pointed.” Jungkook paused. “But your mother was not those things.”

The room seemed quieter now.

“She reminded him of his own mother,” you whispered.

Jungkook’s gaze sharpened.

You touched your temple. “I think I saw pieces. Or felt them. I do not know anymore.”

“He had a mother once,” Jungkook said. “Before Jin. Before Elias. A woman he buried so deeply inside himself that even her memory became dangerous.” He exhaled. “Your mother touched that wound.”

“Not kindness,” you said slowly.

“No. Recognition.”

“Disturbed mercy.”

Jungkook looked at you as if the phrase had reached exactly where it needed to.

“Yes.”

You let the thought settle.

Elias had looked at your mother and seen another weapon waiting to be made. Another beautiful ruined thing. Another version of himself.

Another Elias.

“So when he says I should not be Jin’s…”

“He means Jin failed with her, failed with your father, and now wants you as proof that he can still perfect the experiment.”

Your stomach tightened.

“He thinks I am his second chance.”

Jungkook’s face hardened.

“He thinks you are his.”

Something in the way he said it made heat move beneath your skin despite the fear.

It was not possession.

Not exactly.

It was anger on your behalf. A refusal.

You lifted your chin. “I am getting very tired of ancient men discussing who I belong to.”

Jungkook looked at you.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

It was brief, soft at the edges, and so devastatingly human that your heart tripped over itself.

“Good,” he said. “Hold onto that.”

“I was planning to. Along with a weapon, possibly.”

“You threatened someone in Greek while unconscious. I believe you are armed enough.”

“Flattery will get you bitten.”

The second the words left your mouth, the room changed.

Not dramatically.

Not loudly.

But Jungkook’s stillness deepened.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

Then to your throat.

Your pulse betrayed you at once.

The silence stretched.

You hated your body for how quickly it remembered him. His mouth at your neck. His hands careful around your waist. The terrible intimacy of his restraint. The way fear and want had begun to twist into something you could no longer separate cleanly.

Jungkook looked away first.

That gave you far too much satisfaction.

“You need to feed,” you said.

His head snapped back toward you.

“No.”

You raised a brow. “That was fast.”

“No.”

“You do realise repeating it does not make it more convincing?”

“I am not feeding from you because you made a joke.”

“I am not offering because I made a joke.”

His jaw tightened.

You pushed the blanket aside enough to sit straighter, the hem of his shirt falling to your thighs. Jungkook’s eyes flickered downward before he caught himself and looked at the floor with such pained discipline that, under different circumstances, you might have laughed.

Tonight, it only made your chest ache.

“Jin’s threat works if you are hungry,” you said. “If starving makes you easier to control, then starving is stupid.”

His eyes flashed. “You are not a solution.”

“No. I am a woman with a pulse and unfortunately excellent problem-solving skills.”

He gave you a look.

You pointed at him. “Do not start. I am fragile and traumatised.”

“You are sitting half-dressed in my living room, arguing that I should put my mouth on your throat.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Then narrowed your eyes. “When you say it like that, you make me sound irresponsible.”

“You are being irresponsible.”

“I am being strategic.”

“You are being human.”

“And you are being dramatic.”

His expression darkened. “You do not understand what you are offering.”

“Then explain it.”

“I have.”

“No,” you said softly. “You have explained the danger. You have not explained what happens if you do not feed.”

That silenced him.

You slid your feet to the floor. The wood was cool beneath your soles. Jungkook watched the movement as if every inch of you required restraint, and something warm unfurled low in your stomach at the knowledge that he was trying. Not because he did not want you. Because he did.

Too much.

You stood slowly.

He did not move away.

He should have.

You knew he should have.

Instead, he remained there, tall and dark in the city-lit room, his body rigid, his hands at his sides, his eyes tracking you with a hunger so controlled it became reverence.

You stopped in front of him.

“Jungkook.”

His name did something to him. You saw it. The smallest break in the line of his throat. The faintest tremor through his jaw.

“Do not,” he whispered.

“I am saying yes.”

His eyes shut.

“That is not enough.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

His eyes opened again, black and aching.

“Not with me. Not with what I am.” His voice dropped. “Your yes matters. It matters more than anything. That is why I have to know it is clean. Not fear. Not grief. Not lust. Not my voice in your head. Not the bond. Not hunger answering hunger.”

You softened despite yourself.

“I know what I am choosing.”

“You cannot know all of it.”

“Then let me choose what I do know.” You stepped closer. “I know Jin wants you hungry. I know feeding helps you stay in control. I know you stopped when you could have taken more. I know you are afraid of hurting me, and I know that matters.”

His gaze searched yours.

Your voice gentled.

“And I know I am safer with the monster who is terrified of becoming one than with the king who thinks everyone else was born to kneel.”

For a moment, Jungkook looked as if you had struck him.

Then his hand rose slowly, carefully, giving you every second to move away.

You did not.

His fingers touched the side of your throat.

Barely.

A feather-light contact over the place where your pulse ran wild beneath your skin.

“You should not trust me this much,” he whispered.

You swallowed, and his gaze followed the movement.

“I do not.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“There she is.”

“I trust you enough,” you said. “Do not let it go to your head.”

His thumb brushed your pulse once.

Your breath caught.

The sound was small.

He heard it anyway.

His eyes darkened, and this time, you did not look away from the beast inside them.

“You need to tell me to stop if you want me to stop,” he said.

“I will.”

“No pride.”

You gave him a flat look. “Have we met?”

His hand slid from your throat to the side of your neck, steadying you with a touch so gentle it almost made the hunger worse.

“No jokes,” he murmured.

Your voice softened. “I will tell you.”

He leaned closer.

Not to bite.

Not yet.

His breath touched your skin first, cool at the edge of your jaw. Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, and you felt the restraint in him shudder. He paused there, lips hovering above the place where your heartbeat had become embarrassingly enthusiastic.

“Still giving orders in my house?” he whispered.

Your eyes fluttered despite your best effort to look unimpressed.

“Someone has to. You are taking forever.”

A low sound left him, almost a laugh, almost a warning.

Then his mouth touched your throat.

Not teeth.

A kiss.

Slow. Careful. Almost reverent.

Your knees nearly forgot their entire purpose.

Jungkook’s arm slid around your waist before you could sway, drawing you against him, and the contact stole whatever sarcastic comment you had been preparing. His body was cold, but not empty. Beneath the chill, something waited. Something that remembered warmth and wanted to return.

He kissed your throat again.

Then lower.

Then back to the pulse, as if he were learning the rhythm of you before daring to take anything from it.

“You are shaking,” he said against your skin.

“You are very close to my neck.”

“You told me to be.”

“Do not sound so smug while being terrifying.”

His mouth curved against your throat.

Then his fangs grazed you.

Every thought in your head vanished.

Not from glamour.

Not from compulsion.

From anticipation so sharp it bordered on pain.

Jungkook went still.

Your fingers tightened in his shirt.

“I am okay,” you whispered.

His hand spread against your back, grounding you.

“Again,” he said.

You understood what he meant.

You hated how much you loved that he asked.

“I am okay,” you repeated. “I want you to feed.”

His breath trembled.

Then his teeth sank in.

Pain flashed first, bright and clean, a white spark behind your eyes.

You gasped.

Jungkook’s arm tightened instantly, holding you upright, his other hand cradling the back of your neck as if he could apologise with touch while his mouth remained sealed to your throat. The pain softened before it could become fear, melting into a warmth that spilled through your veins like dark honey. Your body surrendered to the strange, intimate pull of him, not because it was forced, but because it felt as if some hidden tension inside you had finally been given a name.

He drank slowly.

So slowly it ruined you.

Every swallow moved through him like a confession. You felt it in the way his hand flexed against your back, in the way his breath changed, in the way the cold of his body began to shift where you touched him.

Warmth.

At first you thought you imagined it.

Then your palm flattened against his chest.

Beneath the black fabric, his skin was no longer winter-cold.

It was warming.

Not fully human.

Not truly alive.

But closer.

Jungkook made a rough sound against your throat, and the vibration travelled through you with such force your eyes closed.

“Jungkook,” you breathed.

He pulled back at once.

Too soon.

Your hand caught his shoulder.

His mouth was red.

His eyes were black.

And his skin beneath your fingers was warm.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Rain whispered against the glass. The city watched without understanding. Your heart beat wildly between you, and Jungkook stared at you as if he had stepped out of a grave and found the sun waiting with your face.

“You are warm,” you whispered.

His expression shifted.

Something like grief crossed it.

You lifted your hand before you could think better of it and touched his cheek.

Warm.

Barely, but enough.

His eyes closed under your palm.

The sight undid you.

This monster. This man. This beautiful, terrible creature who had watched you for years from the snow, who had terrified you, saved you, lied by omission, told you truths worse than lies, and now stood before you trembling because your blood had made him feel almost human.

Your thumb brushed the corner of his mouth.

He opened his eyes.

You should have stepped back.

Instead, you pulled him down and kissed him.

Jungkook froze for half a heartbeat.

Then he broke.

His mouth claimed yours with a hunger he had kept chained until that moment, and the force of it drove you back a step. His arm locked around your waist, his other hand sliding into your hair, careful and not careful, gentle and desperate, all restraint fraying at the edges. He tasted faintly of blood and rain and something heartbreakingly warm now, something that made your chest ache with a need you did not have time to be embarrassed by.

The back of your knees hit the couch.

He stopped instantly.

You did not.

You pulled him with you.

He caught himself above you with one hand braced against the couch, his body hovering over yours, not crushing, not taking, but there. Close enough that every breath became shared. Close enough that the loose shirt you wore slipped off one shoulder, exposing your throat and collarbone to his darkening gaze.

Jungkook stared at the revealed skin as if it were a prayer and a punishment.

“Do not look at me like that,” you whispered.

His eyes lifted to yours.

“Like what?”

“Like you are deciding whether to worship or devour me.”

His mouth parted slightly.

Then he gave a soft, ruined laugh.

“Those are not as different as you think.”

Heat rushed through you.

He lowered himself enough for his chest to press against yours, and the warmth of him startled you all over again. He felt real. Solid. Nearly alive. Your hands slid up his back, feeling the tension there, the restraint pulled so tight it might snap if you breathed wrong.

His mouth found yours again.

Slower this time.

Worse.

Because now he was trying to control it.

Every kiss became a lesson in restraint. He would take your mouth until your fingers curled in his hair, then pull back before the hunger sharpened too far. He would kiss the corner of your lips, your jaw, the sensitive place below your ear, then pause against your skin, breathing hard, as if teaching the beast inside him where the boundaries were.

Not prey.

Not food.

Not a thing to break.

You.

Your heart raced beneath him.

He felt it.

You knew he did because his hand slid carefully over your side, stopping at your waist, fingers flexing there as if the rhythm of your pulse had entered his palm. His touch was not explicit, but it was intimate enough to scatter you. He touched you like someone starving learning not to bite the hand that offered him bread.

“Your heart,” he whispered against your jaw.

“What about it?”

“It changes when I touch you.”

You tried for sarcasm. “That is generally how attraction works.”

His mouth brushed your skin.

“This is not general.”

He kissed your throat again, just beneath the bite. You shivered hard.

His fangs grazed you, not piercing.

A soft bite.

A warning.

A promise.

Your fingers slipped into the hair at the back of his head and tugged.

Jungkook’s eyes flashed black.

The beast rose so visibly beneath his face that a smarter woman might have screamed.

You pulled him closer.

His breath left him in a shudder.

“Do not,” he said, but his voice had no strength.

You lifted your chin, exposing your throat like an idiot or a queen. At that point, you could no longer tell the difference.

“You are the one hovering over me.”

“You pulled me down.”

“And yet you seem very comfortable blaming me.”

His mouth descended on your neck with a sound that was almost a growl.

Not the bite.

Kisses.

Open-mouthed, heated, devastating kisses along the side of your throat, your jaw, the place where your pulse leapt for him like it had no survival instinct whatsoever. He nipped softly, never breaking skin, each gentle bite making your body arch before your pride could stop it.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, half warning, half plea.

He stopped.

Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

You felt the war inside him in every line of his body. The hunger. The warmth. The power returning with your blood. The terrible voices he had mentioned but not yet explained fully, whispering from somewhere old and ruined inside him.

Claim her.

Take more.

Make her yours.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

His breathing was ragged.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentler now.

“It is okay,” you said.

“No.”

The word was rough.

He pushed himself up enough to look at you, and the sight of him nearly destroyed the last sensible part of your brain. His hair was mussed from your hands, his mouth still red, his eyes black with hunger and restraint, his body warm above yours because your blood was inside him.

“No?” you repeated, voice quieter.

“No.”

He moved away before you could stop him, sitting back on the edge of the couch with both hands braced on his knees, head bowed. The distance felt brutal.

You sat up slowly, tugging the shirt back over your shoulder.

For once, you did not make a joke immediately.

He looked like he was one breath away from either apologising or tearing the room apart.

“What happened?” you asked.

His laugh was hollow.

“I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“That you are human.”

The words chilled you more effectively than any touch of his could have.

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

No seduction. No teasing. No beautiful vampire nonsense hiding the horror beneath.

Just Jungkook.

Terrified of himself.

“If I take this further before I know I can stop, I could kill you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know there is danger.”

“No.” His voice sharpened. “You do not.”

You flinched, not from fear, but from the sudden severity in him.

He saw it and softened at once, pain flashing across his face.

“I am sorry.”

“Do not apologise. Explain.”

He dragged a hand through his hair.

“The hunger is not only hunger when it comes to you. That is the problem.” His gaze lowered to his own hands. “When I touch you, when I kiss you, when your heart changes because of me, something in my head starts speaking. Not words exactly. Instinct. Command. Claim her. Take her. Drink deeper. Hold harder. Make her unable to leave.”

Your skin prickled.

“And Jin can use that.”

“If he reaches me when I am unstable, yes.” Jungkook’s eyes lifted. “He could strip away the restraint. Not create the desire. That is already mine. He would only remove the part of me that cares whether you survive it.”

Silence pressed down.

You swallowed. “That is… less romantic than the kissing.”

His expression did not change.

You winced. “Bad time?”

“A little.”

“I am processing through inappropriate flirting.”

“I noticed.”

“You are supposed to be charmed.”

“I am trying not to imagine your funeral.”

That shut you up.

Jungkook exhaled and looked away again, guilt tightening his jaw.

“I do not say this to frighten you.”

“Liar.”

His gaze returned to yours.

You gave him a small, sad smile.

“You are absolutely saying it to frighten me. A little.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Because fear might keep you alive where attraction makes you reckless.”

You crossed your arms, mostly to hold yourself together. “So what I am hearing is that you would be dangerously good in bed.”

His eyes flashed.

“Do not.”

“What? I am just—”

“You could die.”

The words cut through the room.

Not shouted.

Not dramatic.

Simple.

Severe.

Final.

Your mouth closed.

Jungkook stood, pacing once toward the window before turning back. The city’s light traced the edge of his face in silver.

“I am not refusing you because I do not want you,” he said, voice low and strained. “That is the problem. I want you too much. I want you in ways that do not know how to be gentle yet. I want you with a hunger that has spent years watching from a distance because distance was the only decent thing I had left.”

Your breath caught.

He looked almost ashamed.

“I loved you better when I had never touched you.”

“That is a horrible thing to say.”

“It was safer,” he said. “From far away, I could pretend wanting you did not have teeth. I could stand in the snow and watch you leave roses behind and tell myself I was not harming you because my hands were clean.”

His smile broke before it fully formed.

“Now I know what you feel like when you pull me closer. I know what your mouth tastes like when you are angry with me. I know how your heart beats when you are afraid, and how it changes when you decide not to be.” His voice lowered. “Do you understand what that does to something like me?”

You did not answer.

You could not.

He stepped closer, but not close enough to touch.

“If I ever have a life with you, it cannot begin with me surviving you by accident. It cannot begin with you mistaking danger for devotion because I made it feel beautiful.” His eyes burned into yours. “You deserve choice. A real one. Every time. Even when you want me. Especially then.”

The ache in your chest changed shape.

Sharper now.

More dangerous than desire.

“Jungkook…”

“No. Listen to me.” His voice gentled, but the command beneath it was not supernatural. It was fear. “If Jin takes my restraint, I will not go for strangers first. That is not how cruelty works. He will aim me where it hurts. You. Minho. Anyone I love. Anyone whose blood would make me hate myself enough to come crawling back to him.”

Your heart stumbled.

Love.

He heard the change.

Of course he did.

His expression tightened, but he did not take the word back.

“In his own way,” you whispered, “he knows you love me.”

Jungkook’s silence was answer enough.

You looked down at your hands.

The idea of being loved by Jungkook should have warmed something in you. Instead, it arrived covered in snow and blood and years of being watched from a distance by a creature who had mistaken restraint for penance.

And still, beneath the horror, your heart betrayed you.

“What about feeding?” you asked.

His gaze sharpened.

“If feeding makes you stronger, does it also make you more dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“Then Jin wants that.”

Jungkook’s mouth flattened.

“Yes.”

You waited.

He looked toward the city.

For several seconds, he was quiet.

Then he said, “Jin never wanted me because I could bring him victims.”

A chill moved through you.

“That was never the point?” you asked.

“No.”

“What was?”

“Access.”

The word felt too small for the darkness behind it.

Jungkook’s reflection stared back from the window, black-eyed and almost human-warm.

“Money,” he said. “Old names. Hospitals. Police. Prosecutors. Politicians. Families with enough wealth to bury entire scandals beneath marble floors. The last remnants of royal bloodlines that still mattered in rooms no one admits exist.” His jaw tightened. “Jin did not want me to bring men and women to his door so they could knock on death’s. He wanted me to open every door in Korea that power had locked against him.”

You went very still.

“And you could?”

His reflection smiled faintly.

It was not a proud smile.

It was worse.

“I was not only a mind controller. That sounds too simple. Too clean.”

He turned back to you.

“When I fed properly, when I stopped trying to be humane, my voice became something people wanted to obey. I could talk, and they would lean closer. I could whisper, and they would forget which thoughts belonged to them. Sometimes I only had to look at someone, and they would bend.”

Your stomach tightened.

“Bend how?”

“Will. Loyalty. Desire. Fear.” His eyes darkened. “Body and soul.”

The room felt smaller around you.

“You made them serve Jin.”

“I made them believe serving him was a privilege.”

You thought of Jin in the dream. Cold. Beautiful. Unbending. A king without a throne because every room became one around him.

“Jin is powerful,” Jungkook said, almost as if he heard the thought. “But he is not a people’s person.”

Despite everything, a startled laugh nearly escaped you.

Jungkook’s mouth twitched without humour.

“He does not charm. He does not ask. He does not lower himself enough to be liked. Jin is the King. He never kneels. He never begs.” His eyes held yours. “That was why he needed me.”

“Because you could.”

“Because I could make kneeling feel like devotion.”

The words sank into you slowly.

Elias was Jin’s blade.

Jungkook was Jin’s voice.

No.

More than that.

His siren. His kingmaker. His beautiful political weapon walking through rooms of money and law and bloodline, making powerful people smile while handing over their own chains.

“For two hundred years,” Jungkook said, “I helped him hold the last of them. Old families. Wealth. Police. Hospitals. Men who decided which bodies disappeared from records. Women who controlled charities and foundations and private clinics. Politicians who owed debts they could not remember agreeing to.” His voice roughened. “I built networks for him. But he lost all of it in the two decades”

“What happened the last twenty years?”

“My control faded.” He looked down. “Slowly. Not enough at first for Jin to panic. Enough for people to hesitate. To misplace loyalty. To become afraid without remembering why they had once mistaken fear for love. Hospitals became less reliable. Police less obedient. Families more difficult to manage.”

“Because you stopped feeding.”

“Yes.”

You stared at him.

“So if you feed again…”

“It comes back.”

The warmth of him. The strength. The voice. The look. The part of him that had once made powerful families hand Korea’s hidden doors to Jin with a smile.

“And my blood?” you asked.

He went quiet.

That was answer enough.

You stood slowly.

Jungkook’s eyes lifted.

“My blood makes it stronger.”

“I do not know that.”

“Do not lie to me.”

His jaw worked.

“Your blood is different.”

“Because of my mother.”

“Because of everything you are.”

The air between you trembled.

Fear and want. Truth and danger. A future standing on the edge of a blade.

You moved toward him.

He stayed where he was.

“Then we learn control,” you said.

His gaze searched yours, disbelieving.

“Together.”

Something in his face broke softly.

Not enough to be safe.

Enough to be beautiful.

Before he could answer, your phone rang.

The sound shattered the room.

You both froze.

Your phone lay on the low table beside the couch, screen glowing bright in the dark.

Minho.

Every tender, dangerous thing inside the room turned cold.

You grabbed it.

“Minho?”

For one second, there was only static.

Then your brother’s voice came through, tight and low.

“Where are you?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I am safe.”

“That is not what I asked.”

You glanced at Jungkook.

He heard every word. You knew he did.

“I am with Jungkook.”

Minho swore under his breath.

Normally, you would have told him to stop being dramatic and give you three business days to explain yourself. But there was something in his silence that stopped you.

“What happened?” you asked.

A crackling sound came through the phone.

Not static.

Music.

Opera.

Faint, distorted, playing somewhere far away from the receiver.

Your blood went cold.

“Minho?”

“I need you to listen to me carefully,” he said.

Jungkook stepped closer.

“Where are you?” you asked.

“Daegu.”

You blinked. “Daegu?”

“A music hall outside the city centre. Private venue. Closed for renovation, apparently.” His voice tightened. “Someone made sure we would find it tonight.”

The opera swelled faintly behind him, a woman’s voice rising high and beautiful before warping through bad speakers.

You gripped the phone harder.

“What did he do?”

Minho did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice had changed.

He sounded like the boy he had once been, trying not to scare his little sister while standing in front of something no child should ever have imagined.

“There is another body.”

Jungkook’s expression hardened.

You closed your eyes.

“Imperfect?” you whispered.

“No.”

That single word frightened you more than yes would have.

Minho inhaled unsteadily.

“It is a marionette.”

The room seemed to drop beneath you.

“What?”

“Not alive. At least, I do not think…” His voice faltered, then steadied with visible effort. Detective Kang forcing brother Minho behind his ribs. “It is staged on the main platform. Suspended across the stage with wires. White dress. Red thread. Speakers in every corner playing opera.”

Your hand started shaking.

Jungkook took the phone from you gently, not to control the conversation, but because he could see your fingers losing strength.

“Detective,” he said.

Minho’s voice went colder. “Put my sister back on.”

“She can hear you.”

“Good. Then both of you can hear me.” A pause. “Whoever did this tried to make her face look like my sister’s.”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook’s eyes went black.

Minho continued, each word clipped as if precision was the only thing keeping him sane.

“It is badly done. Deliberately, I think. The face is constructed from several victims. Different women. Different features. Sewn together under stage makeup like some sick attempt at a portrait.”

You covered your mouth.

Jungkook’s hand closed around the phone so tightly you were surprised the screen did not crack.

“There is a message,” Minho said.

The opera behind him faded, then rose again.

You whispered, “What does it say?”

Minho’s silence lasted too long.

Then he read it.

“Thank you for bringing my rose back to my door.”

Jungkook closed his eyes.

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet, even though his skin was still warm from your blood.

“It is addressed,” Minho added.

You already knew.

You wished you did not.

“To Jungkook.”

The name hung there.

A blade on a thread.

Jungkook opened his eyes.

There was no softness in them now.

No almost-human warmth.

Only the old thing beneath.

The thing Jin wanted back.

“Do not touch anything you do not have to,” Jungkook said.

Minho’s laugh was sharp and humourless. “Thank you. I forgot how crime scenes work.”

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Then Minho’s voice softened, and that hurt worse.

“Are you okay?”

You took the phone back.

“No,” you said honestly. “But I am alive.”

“I know.” He exhaled shakily. “Keep it that way until I get back.”

“You too.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter, “He made her look like you.”

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

“I know.”

“I hate this.”

“Me too.”

“I hate him.”

You looked at Jungkook.

His face was turned toward the window, but you saw the fury in the line of his jaw.

“Get what you can,” you told Minho. “Then leave. Do not be alone there.”

“I am never alone at a crime scene.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know.”

The opera crackled again.

Then Minho said, “Little sister.”

The use of this endearing term, not a nickname, not a teasing insult, not your name, made your chest tighten.

“Yes?”

“Whatever he is, whatever Jungkook is… do not let him make decisions for you.”

Your gaze flickered to Jungkook.

He did not look offended.

He looked as if he agreed.

“I will not,” you said.

“Good.”

The line ended.

For several seconds, you held the phone to your ear after the call had already gone silent.

Then your hand lowered.

Neither of you spoke.

Outside, Seoul glittered as if nothing had happened.

Somewhere in Daegu, a dead woman hung beneath stage lights wearing a face Jin had tried to make from stolen beauty and cruelty. A gift. A warning. A thank-you note to the monster standing in front of you because your blood had warmed his skin and perhaps woken something Jin had been waiting twenty years to feel stir again.

Your voice came out hollow.

“He knows you fed from me.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Jungkook’s expression was unreadable.

“Because parts of his old network are not as dead as I hoped. Because my hunger has a signature. Because your blood is not quiet.” His gaze dropped to your throat. “Because Jin has been waiting for me to make one mistake.”

“You did not make a mistake.”

His eyes lifted.

You stepped closer.

“He did this. Not you.”

“You do not understand.”

“I am getting very tired of people telling me that.”

His mouth tightened.

Then he said, “Elias was Jin’s hound.”

You stilled.

The shift in his voice told you this was not a comparison.

It was a confession opening its door.

“His blade. His ancient masterpiece. The thing Jin sent when he wanted fear to arrive before death.” Jungkook swallowed. “But I was not Elias.”

You waited.

Rain slid down the windows.

The city burned gold beneath the storm.

“What were you?” you asked.

His eyes met yours.

Dark.

Ruined.

Beautiful enough to make surrender feel like an idea you had invented yourself.

“I was his voice.”

The words entered you slowly.

Then all at once.

“When I fed,” he said, “when I was what Jin wanted me to be, I could make rooms kneel. I could make powerful men open doors they had sworn were locked. I could make women with fortunes and old family names offer secrets before they remembered they had meant to keep them. I could look at police chiefs, doctors, prosecutors, politicians, heirs, and make obedience feel like desire.”

His voice roughened.

“I was worse than a puppeteer. More dangerous than a siren. Sirens lead men to death.” A faint, bitter smile touched his mouth. “I made them build the road there first.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer, and it took everything in you not to step back.

Not because you wanted to flee.

Because now you understood the danger in a new way.

His teeth were not the worst of him.

His hunger was not the worst of him.

The worst of Jungkook had once been beautiful.

Persuasive.

Welcome.

A voice in a dark room telling monsters with human faces that kneeling was their own idea.

“That is what Jin wants back,” Jungkook said. “Not a starving pet. Not a lover stupid enough to bite too deeply. He wants his kingmaker. His favourite. The part of me that made Korea’s most powerful families smile while handing him their throats.”

You whispered, “And feeding brings him back.”

“Yes.”

“With my blood faster than anyone else’s.”

He did not answer.

He did not need to.

The bite at your throat throbbed faintly beneath the silence.

Jungkook looked at it, and shame moved across his face like shadow.

“That is why I cannot be careless with you. Not with my teeth. Not with my hands. Not with my voice. Not with anything in me that knows how to make surrender feel like love.”

Your heart twisted.

“And if I still choose you?”

His expression cracked.

“You should choose with all the facts.”

“Then give them to me.”

“I am.”

“No,” you said softly. “You are giving me the ugly ones first because you think they will make me run.”

His eyes held yours.

“Will they?”

You thought of Jin’s message. Elias’s smile. Your mother’s almost-fate. Your father’s warning. Minho standing in a music hall in Daegu before a corpse made to look like you.

Then you thought of Jungkook stopping when he could have taken more.

His hand hovering before touching your shoulder.

His refusal to glamour you.

His voice breaking when he told you that you deserved choice.

“No,” you said.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“That is not wisdom.”

“Probably not.”

“It may be darkness.”

You smiled faintly.

“Good thing I have some.”

For a moment, he stared at you as if he saw it then.

Not only the good human girl with grief in her chest and sarcasm on her tongue.

But the darkness beneath.

The part of you that had survived every grave Jin left in your life. The part that would walk into a nightmare with bare feet and still insult the monster’s interior design. The part that had loved your parents, protected Minho in all the ways a sister could, and now stood before a vampire kingmaker with your pulse marked by his mouth and your will still your own.

A good human with darkness inside her.

And Jungkook, darkness with something human struggling toward the light.

Not a mirror.

A broken one.

The reflection sharp enough to cut both of you.

Jungkook reached for you slowly.

You let him.

His fingers brushed your cheek.

No compulsion.

No command.

Only touch.

“I will never glamour you,” he said. “Not when you are afraid. Not when you want me. Not even if you ask. Especially then.”

Your throat tightened.

“You are making it very hard to stay mad at you.”

His mouth softened.

“You should try. You are good at it.”

“I am excellent at it.”

“I know.”

You looked up at him, at the monster Jin wanted, at the man fighting not to become him, at the warmth your blood had left beneath his skin.

Somewhere far away, Jin had arranged death beneath stage lights.

Somewhere even older, Elias was laughing at the leash around his throat.

And here, in the quiet room above Seoul, Jungkook lowered his forehead to yours as if the smallest touch could be a vow.

“I need control,” he whispered. “Before I can have a life with you. Before I can touch you the way I want. Before I can feed without fearing what wakes in me.”

Your eyes closed.

“Then we build it.”

His breath trembled against your mouth.

“We?”

You smiled, tired and terrified and somehow still yourself.

“You are not doing all this brooding alone. You will make it unbearable for everyone.”

A soft laugh left him, broken at the edges.

For the first time that night, it sounded almost alive.

Then your phone buzzed again.

Not a call.

A message.

From Minho.

A photograph did not come through. Thank God.

Only text.

Found something backstage. Not for police report. For you.

A second message followed.

A red rose. Fresh. On the piano.

Then a third.

There was a mirror behind it.

Your blood turned cold.

Jungkook read the messages over your shoulder.

The warmth left his face.

On the dark screen, beneath Minho’s words, a final message appeared from an unknown number.

No name.

No image.

Just one sentence.

Tell my kingmaker she tastes like her mother.

The apartment went silent.

Jungkook’s eyes became completely black.

And somewhere inside the glass of the window, behind your reflection and his, another figure smiled from the dark as if he had been watching the entire time.

Elias.

His mouth moved soundlessly.

But you understood him anyway.

Run, little rose.

Toji Fushiguro, in apartment 08, right next door, he stepped out the side door with a black garbage bag in one scarred hand, in the same tight black t-shirt you’d seen him in a dozen times before, sleeves stretched tight around thick biceps, fabric clinging to the hard planes of his chest and stomach like it was painted on. Dark sweatpants slung low on narrow hips, the waistband showing a thin strip of tanned skin when he moved. 

That scar sliced the corner of his mouth, pulling slightly when his lips twitched like he was always half a second from smirking at something only he found funny and black hair messy, damp at the temples from the heat or maybe from whatever he’d been doing inside his own place all day. 

He didn’t look your way at first, he just hefts the bag into the big metal bin with one easy toss, muscles rolling under tanned skin, then wipes his forearm across his brow.

You should’ve looked away, should’ve pretended to stare at the sky or your chipped nail polish or literally anything else, but your eyes stayed glued, tracing the way his shoulders flexed when he turned, the slow roll of his neck as he cracked it side to side and maybe he felt it, because those sharp green eyes finally flicked over.

Eyes locking on yours.

Your stomach does a nasty, liquid flip. Not fear, exactly. Something hotter. Hungrier. You feel suddenly very aware of how your shorts are bunched high on your ass, how the hoodie’s ridden up to show the dip of your spine, how your thighs are parted just enough that if he looked lower he’d see the soft inner curve where skin meets cotton.

He didn’t smile, didn’t wave. Just stood there with one big hand still resting on the bin lid, staring like he had all night to decide what he wanted to do about the pretty little thing next door finally looking back.

Then he starts walking.

Not toward his apartment, towards you.

Each step, heavy. Bare feet on gravel and the closer he gets the more details you take in, faint sheen of sweat on his throat, the way veins stand out along his forearms and he stops at the edge of your porch slab, one foot planted on the rickety porch so he’s towering without even trying.

For a second the world narrows to just that look; heavy and unreadable, dragging down the length of your sprawled body like he was cataloging every inch. The hoodie half-open so the thin tank underneath showed the soft dip between your breasts, nipples pebbled from the sudden shift in temperature and maybe something else, your shorts bunched high enough that the plump curve where thigh met hip was on full display, cotton stretched tight across your mound. 

You felt the fabric pull snug there, outlining the soft curve of your pussy in a way that made heat crawl up your neck, shifting your thighs together instinctively — only making it worse. A tiny damp spot had already started blooming at the crotch from hours of lazy daydreams and the sticky summer air.

You swallow. Throat dry. “Hi,” it comes out smaller than you meant.

Toji’s scarred mouth twitches barely. “Hey.”

Voice low and rough around the edges like gravel dragged over velvet. One word and it already felt like he’d put his palm flat on your sternum and pressed.

You sat up a little straighter, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “You’re… Toji, right? My dad said you’re the quiet one.”

He huffed through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh you’d ever heard from him. “Yeah. That’s me.” He took one slow step closer. “And you’re the kid who’s been runnin’ around in those little shorts all summer.”

Your breath hitched, you're not a kid. Not really, but the way he said it with that lazy drawl, his eyes dropping to where your thighs are pressed together, made your clit throb under the cotton like he’d reached out and thumbed it.

“I’m not a kid,” you mumbled, cheeks burning. “I’m nineteen, almost twenty.”

Toji’s brows lifted just a fraction. “Almost twenty,” he echoed, like he was tasting the words. Another step forward, now he was close enough you could smell him; clean sweat, faint soap, something darker underneath like motor oil and cedar. “Old enough to know better than to sit out here lookin’ like that when it’s just you and me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You tried to play it cool, tugging the hem of your hoodie down like it would hide anything. “It’s hot. I just wanted air.”

“Mm.” His gaze slid lower again, shamelessly, lingering on the visible outline of your pussy lips printed through the thin shorts, plump, puffy, already so swollen from nothing but his proximity. “Looks like you’re feelin’ more than just the heat, sweetheart.”

The pet name landed like a spark on dry grass, and you squeezed your thighs tighter, but that only made the damp cotton drag against your slick folds. A tiny, involuntary whimper slipped out before you could catch it.

Toji’s eyes darkened. He crouched slowly, his big body folding with surprising grace, until he was eye-level with you on the step. Forearms resting on spread thighs, scarred hands dangling loose between his knees. So close you can see the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, the way his happy trail disappears under the waistband, dark and tempting.

He tilts his head, just enough that the dying sunlight cuts across the sharp line of his jaw. Moss-green eyes drag from your bare legs up up up- slowly and unapologetic. Lingers on the bare strip of stomach where your hoodie’s rucked up. On the way your shorts cling to the plump curve of your ass, aaaaall the way up to your face like he’s cataloguing every inch he’s already seen a hundred times through cracked blinds.

“Been seein’ you around,” he says. Voice quieter now and allmost intimate. “You live next door, right? Your old man’s girl.”

Not a question again.

You nod anyway. Tongue feeling too big in your mouth.

“Yeah. I’m… back for summer break.”

He hums, deep in his chest. The sound vibrates through the humid air straight into your bones.

“Didn’t figure you’d be out here lookin’ like that,” his eyes glance to your lips then back up to your eyes, “always out this late too huh, doll?”

You blink. “...You noticed?”

Another almost-laugh. “Hard not to.”

Heat floods your cheeks. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin. The way your nipples have pebbled against the thin hoodie fabric from the slight breeze or maybe just from him looking at you like that.

“You been watchin’ me too, huh?” he murmurs. Voice softer than you expect. Almost gentle. “Every time you come out here. Corner store. Back porch. Thought I didn’t notice?”

Your lips parted, no sound comes out at first. Then, barely a whisper, “I… I thought you didn’t.”

“Wrong.” One big hand lifts slow, carefully and the rough pad of his thumb brushes the edge of your hoodie sleeve where it had slipped down your shoulder. Goosebumps erupts across everywhere he almost touches. “Been noticin’ you since the first day you walked by in those jeans. Ass hugged so tight I could see the outline of your panties. Thought about bendin’ you over the railing right then.”

Heat floods between your thighs so fast your vision blurs and you can feel yourself leaking now, slow, syrupy slick soaking through your cotton panties, darkening the crotch of your shorts in an obvious little patch. His eyes drops to it immediately.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost laboured. “Look at that. Sweet little pussy already cryin’ for me and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

You whimper again, louder this time, hips shifting forward on instinct, chasing nothing.

“You alone tonight?” he asks. Casually, like he’s asking about the weather.

You nod, throat dry. “Dad’s working late again, always is.”

Toji hums, low in his chest. The sound vibrates through the air into your palms.

He reaches out, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted.

You don’t.

Thick fingers catch the hem of your hoodie where it’s ridden up over your hip and he doesn’t pull it down. Just tugs it a little higher, exposing another inch of soft skin. His thumb brushes the edge of your shorts, barely a graze, but it feels like he’s touching you somewhere much more intimate.

“These are reaaaaal short,” he drawls. Voice gone darker. “You always walk around in shit like this?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Sometimes.”

He exhales through his nose, almost a growl.

“Careful, sweetheart.” His thumb presses just barely into the crease where thigh meets ass. “Lots of eyes around here.”

You’re trembling now and its not from fear, its from the sudden, vicious ache blooming low in your belly. Your thighs press together on instinct and he notices. Of course he does.

Toji’s eyes flick down to where your legs squeeze, then back up to your face, that smirk of his deepens.

“You scared of me?” he asks softly, almost sweet — if sweet could be laced with this much danger.

You shake your head, barely.

“Liar,” he says but he sounds pleased.

His hand slides higher, his fingers splaying wide across the small of your back, his palm is hot and rough as calluses drag against your skin like a promise. He doesn’t push you down. Doesn’t need to, you’re already melting into the floor boards, arching just enough that your ass lifts a fraction — offering.

He groans quietly and guttural, the first real crack in that cool exterior.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re trouble.”

You lick your lips, voice barely there. “You gonna do something about it?”

His eyes snap to yours. Dark, predatory.

For one endless second neither of you moves.

Your breath hitches when his gaze drops again — straight to the damp patch you know is starting to show. The cotton’s darker there now, clinging, outlining the plump shape of your pussy lips so clearly it’s obscene. You’re soaked, have been since you noticed him watching. And he can fucking see it.

“Pretty little thing like you,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something dangerous-soft, “sittin’ out here all needy. Drippin’ through your shorts for the old man next door.”

Your mouth falls open on a shaky gasp. No denial. No lie. Just liquid heat, shameful heat — flooding between your legs at his words.

Toji’s eyes darken and hooks one thick finger under the hem of your shorts. Doesn’t pull them down. Just lifts the fabric the tiniest bit, letting it snap back against the crease of your thigh with a soft thwack.

“Bet these panties are fuckin’ ruined,” he says, almost conversationally. “All wet and clingy, pushin’ up against the seam, yeah?”

You whimper high and helpless, hips shifting forward before you can stop them.

He chuckles, low and mean. “Knew it.”

Toji’s hand moves again, this time cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking slow along your jaw. Calluses rough against your soft skin. “Pretty thing,” he murmured. “So shy. So needy. Bet you’ve been touchin’ yourself thinkin’ about the mean neighbour next door, huh? Imaginin’ what these hands would feel like spreadin’ you open.”

Your head tipped into his palm. Eyes fluttering. “Y-yes…”

“Good girl.” Praise hits like honey dripping down your spine. He leaned in closer — close enough his breath fanned your glossed lips. “Gonna kiss you now. Wanna taste how sweet that pouty mouth is before I ruin the rest of you.”

You nodded with frantic little jerks of your head.

Then his mouth is on yours.

Soft at first, just the brush of scarred lips over your glossy ones, tasting artificial cherry and nervous salt. He groaned low in his throat the second your mouths connect, like he’d been starving for it, his big hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants so he could lick slow into the seam of your lips.

You opened for him instantly. Tongue shy and tentative, his is thicker, hotter, curling against yours with lazy confidence. He kisses like he had nowhere else to be, like he could spend hours just licking into your mouth, swallowing every tiny whimper you give him.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against your lips between slow, wet kisses. “Taste like summer, like you’ve been waitin’ for this.”

His other hand finds your thigh, palming the plush inner meat, squeezing gently, thumb stroking higher and higher until it grazes the damp edge of your shorts, not pushing inside. Just petting. Soothing. Praising.

“Doin’ so good for me already,” he whispers, nipping your bottom lip. “Letting me kiss you like this. Letting me feel how wet you are just from my mouth. Such a good girl f'me already.”

You moan  into his kiss loud and  needy — hips canting up so his thumb presses firmer against the soaked outline of your pussy. He growls softly, rewarding you with another deep, filthy lick into your mouth.

The kiss turns hungrier. Wetter. His tongue fucks slow and deliberately into yours while his hand kneads your thigh, inching closer to where you ache most — never quite touching your clit, just circling, teasing, making you drip more and more until the cotton’s clinging transparently to every swollen fold.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath ragged, green eyes blown black with want.

“Tell me you want more,” he raspes. Voice wrecked. “Tell me you want my hands on you. My mouth. Everything.”

Your lips trembles, gloss smeared and eyes glassy.

“I want it,” you breathe. “Want you…please, Toji…”

He smiled then slowly, gaze darkening but still so gentle when his thumb brushes your cheek again.

“Good girl,” he purred.

And then he kissed you deeper — claiming, devouring, promising every filthy thing he's about to do to you next.

His mouth is still on yours hot, slow and filthy in the best way. Tongue sliding deep, curling lazy against yours like he's mapping every soft inch of your mouth, tasting the cherry gloss you’d slicked on earlier just because you felt pretty. 

Toji kisses like a man who’s waited too long to taste something sweet and now couldn’t get enough. A big hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive spot just under your ear while the other squeezes the plush meat of your inner thigh — fingers digging in just enough to make your hips twitch forward, chasing more pressure against the soaked cotton clinging to your pussy.

You were drowning in it. Brain turning to warm syrup, every thought melting into the wet drag of his tongue, the faint scrape of his scar against your lower lip when he sucks it between his teeth. Soft little whimpers bubbling out of you every time he pulls back just to nip, just to breathe a rough “good girl” against your mouth before diving back in deeper.

Your hands found his shoulders somewhere in the haze, your fingertips digging into hard muscles under that tight black shirt, feeling the heat rolling off him like a furnace. He smells so good up close; clean sweat, faint cologne that clung to his neck, something darker and masculine underneath that made your clit throb harder every time you inhaled.

When he finally eases back — barely an inch, forehead pressing to yours, your lips swollen, gloss smeared across both your mouths, strings of spit connecting when yours part. You were panting, chest heaving under the half-zipped hoodie, nipples tight and aching against the thin tank.

Toji’s green eyes were blown black, pupils eating up the color as he stares down at you like you were the only thing left in the world worth looking at. His thumb brushing slowly over your bottom lip, spreading the mess even more.

“Fuck, look at this mouth,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough and wrecked. “All glossy and puffy from just my kisses. Bet it’d look even prettier wrapped around my cock.”

The words hit you like a slap of heat. Your thighs clenching hard — slick gushing fresh against your already drenched panties, the cotton so wet now it was sticking transparently to every plump fold. You could feel the outline of your pussy lips print shamelessly through the shorts, fat and swollen… begging.

You tried to speak — tried to be smart, to play it cool, but your brain was mush, words tumbling out careless and needy.

“W-wanna… come inside?” you breathed, barely coherent. “For… for a drink. Or… something. Please.”

Toji’s scarred lips curves slow and predatory, but still so fucking gentle when his thumb strokes your cheek again.

“Yeah?” he rasps. “You invitin’ the old man next door inside while your daddy’s gone? Careful, sweetheart. I might'n wanna leave once I get my hands on you proper.”

Your head bobs, frantical little nods. “I… I don’t want you to leave.”

He groans low in his throat, like the confession physically hurt him in the best way. Then he was standing, a slow roll of his muscles as he rose to his full height, now towering over you on the step. One big hand extended down.

“C’mon then pretty girl. Show me where you live.”

You take his hand, your small fingers swallowed up in his scarred palm and you let him pull you up. Legs shaky, thighs slick where they're rubbing together. The second you're standing he tugs you closer, arm banding around your waist so your soft body presses flush to his hard one. You could feel him, thick and heavy…his cock already half-hard and straining against his sweatpants, nudging insistently against your lower belly.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your hair, inhaling deep like he was trying to memorize your scent. “Smell's so sweet. Bet you taste even better between those thighs.”

He walks you the few steps to your door like that, an arm possessive around you, free hand palming slow over the curve of your ass through your shorts, squeezing the plush flesh like he was testing how soft you really are. You fumble the key with trembling fingers and he just chuckles low against your ear.

“Easy, baby. We got all night.”

The door finally opens. You stumble inside, the dim living room lit up only by the lamp you’d left on, the cheap couch, scattered textbooks from last semester you hadn’t bothered to put away. Toji kicks the door shut behind him without looking, then spun you gently until your back hits the wall beside it.

He didn’t crowd you right away. Just stood there, close enough you could feel his heat, but giving you that one last second to back out if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Instead you tipped your head back, lips parting eyes glassy and pleading.

Toji’s hand came up and cupsyour jaw so gently it made your chest ache, his thumb stroking over your swollen bottom lip again.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice thick with something almost reverent. “So fuckin’ pretty. So young and soft and already drippin’ for a man old enough to know better. You know how filthy that is, sweetheart? How wrong?”

You whimpered, nodding your hips canting forward so the damp crotch of your shorts brushes the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

“Feels right to me,” you breathe out needy.

His eyes flutters shut for a second — like your words punched the air out of him. Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, hungrier. Tongue fucking slow into your mouth while both hands slid down to grip your thighs, lifting you easy like you weighed nothing. Your legs wraps around his waist on instinct; he pins you to the wall with his hips, his thick cock grinding slow against your soaked pussy through layers of fabric.

You moaned loud into his mouth, a desperate, broken sound.

“That’s it,” he praises against your lips, rocking slow and deliberately. “Grind on it, baby, let me feel how wet you are for me. Soaked right through these little shorts… fuck, I can smell you. Sweet little cunt cryin’ for cock.”

His hands kneads your ass rough, spreading you open even through your clothes, his fingertips dipping under the hem of your shorts to brush the edge of your drenched panties. You jolt at the contact and he just shushes you softly by kissing the corner of your mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmurs. “Such a good girl lettin’ me touch. Gonna take care of you, yeah? Gonna make this pretty pussy feel so full… but imma take my time. Wanna savor every second of ruinin’ you.”

You were shaking, your whole body trembling with need, clit throbbing against the drag of his cock every time he rolls his hips. Slick had soaked through everything now and you could feel it smearing against him, making the fabric cling obscenely.

“Toji…” His name comes out wrecked, pleading. “Please… need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, tender and filthy all at once.

“I know, sweetheart,” he rasps, pressing one last soft kiss to your forehead. “I know. Gonna give you everything. But first…”

His hand slid between your bodies and cups your pussy over the shorts, his palm grinds slow against your swollen clit while two thick fingers traces the soaked outline of your lips through the cotton.

“Gonna make you come like this first,” he promises, voice low and wrecked with want. “Just from my hand, m'gonna watch this sweet little thing soak my fingers before I even get inside you. You gonna be good and come for me, baby?”

Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling, your hips already chasing his palm in frantic little circles.

“Y-yes… yes, please… Toji…”

He smiles slowly, dangerous and adoring.

“That’s my girl.”

And then he kisses you again deeper and filthy, while his hand works unhurried, perfect little circles over your dripping cunt, building you up slow and sweet until you’re trembling on the edge, ready to fall apart for the quiet neighbour who’d finally let you into his world.

Toji didn’t set you down.

Not even for a second.

The second your shaky “yes” left your lips he scoops you up like you weigh nothing, his big scarred hands sliding under the plush meat of your thighs, lifting you clean off the floor so your legs had no choice but to wrap tight around his narrow waist.

Your soaked shorts presses right against the thick, heavy ridge of his cock straining through his sweatpants, and the friction made you whimper into his mouth — high, the needy sound swallowed by another slow, filthy kiss.

Toji doesn’t even glance at the couch, he heads straight for your bedroom door instead. “Wanna take this where I can spread you out proper. Where I can watch every little thing that pretty face does when I make you come apart.”

Your arms loops around his neck — fingers digging into the short black hair at his nape, clinging like he's the only solid thing left in your world. He carries you down the short hallway like that, feet heavy on the cheap laminate, every step grinding his cock against your dripping pussy through the thin layers. You could feel how hard he is — thick, hot and pulsing, already leaking enough that a damp spot had started blooming on his sweats where your slick had soaked through everything.

Your bedroom door was half-open already. Small room — nothing fancy. Twin bed pushed against one wall with rumpled pastel sheets you hadn’t bothered making, fairy lights strung lazy across the headboard from last semester, a cluttered desk with half-finished college notes and empty energy drink cans. Window cracked, letting in the thick summer night air. It smells faintly like your vanilla body spray and the faint laundry detergent on your sheets.

Toji kicks the door shut behind him, a soft click of the latch sealing you both in and crosses the small space in three strides, he didn’t bother with the light. The glow from a dim lamp on your table and those soft fairy lights was enough — warm, hazy, turning his sharp features golden and making the scar on his mouth look even more wicked when he smirked down at you.

He lowered you slow onto the edge of the mattress carefully, almost worshipful, until your ass hit the comforter and your legs dangles off. But he didn’t step back. Just stayed between your spread thighs, towering, broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something soft and hungry all at once. Big hands sliding up your sides, under the hem of your hoodie this time, his palms rough and warm dragging slow over the soft curve of your waist, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits through the thin tank. “So fuckin’ soft everywhere. Plush little body just beggin’ to be touched.”

You shiver, your whole body trembling as his hands keep roaming. Up your ribs, over the swell of your breasts, squeezing gently through fabric until your nipples peaks hard against his palms.

Then back down, his fingertips tracing the gentle pooch of your tummy, dipping into the soft dip of your navel, spreading wide to span the width of your lower belly like he was measuring how perfectly you’d fit under him.

His eyes drop lower, locking on the obscene wet spot darkening your shorts. The cotton plastered to your pussy now, every plump, fattened lip outlined clear as day, swollen clit peeking through like a needy little button begging for attention.

Slick soaked all the way through your cotton panties underneath, making the fabric sheer and clinging, showing the glossy sheen of your arousal coating every fold.

“Jesus,” he breathes, almost dazed. “Can’t even hide it, can you? Fat little cunt just printin’ out for me, drippin’ right through everything. Been leakin’ like this since I kissed you on the porch, huh?”

You nodded frantically, cheeks burning, your hips shifting forward on instinct so the soaked crotch of your shorts brushes his thigh.

Toji groans low, a deep rumble in his chest, then leans down, caging you with his arms braced on either side of your hips. His mouth finds your neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing slow from under your ear down the column of your throat. He sucks gently at first, his lips sealing over soft skin, tongue flicking — then harder.

Teeth grazing just enough to sting before he soothes it with slow laps, blooming dark purple bruises one after another like he was marking territory.

“Good girl,” he whispers between sucks, voice muffled against your skin. “Lettin’ me mark you up like this. Gonna look so pretty tomorrow, little love bites all over this sweet neck so everyone knows who’s been takin’ care of you.”

His hands never stops moving, he slides them under your hoodie again, pushing the fabric up slowly until it bunches under your tits. Callused palms dragging over bare skin now, the rough texture making you arch, you let out a faint gasp, as his fingers splays wide over your soft tummy, kneading gently like he couldn’t get enough of how plush you were there.

“Love this,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of your jaw. “This soft little belly. Gonna watch it bounce when I’m fuckin’ you deep later. Gonna feel it quiver when you come all over my cock.”

You were whimpering nonstop now, your brain goopy, thoughts reduced to nothing but the heat of his mouth, the weight of his hands, the slow grind of his hips every time he shifts closer. He was still fully clothed, his tight black shirt stretching over thick pecs and sharp-cut abs, sweatpants slung low but you could feel every ridge of muscle flexing against you when he moved. Solid. Unyielding. Cutting through the thin layers like he was already inside you.

Toji pulls back just enough to look at your face, eyes dark, tender and filthy with want. Thumb brushing over one of the fresh bruises on your throat, a gentle stroke that made you shiver.

“Doin’ so good for me, baby,” he praises, voice low and steady. “Look how pretty you are.” Your eyes were all glassy, lips swollen, pussy so wet he could hear it every time you shift. “Gonna take my time with you, m'gonna touch every inch, talk you through it nice and slow till you’re shakin’ and beggin’.”

One hand slides down, cupping your soaked mound over the shorts, his palm grinding slow against your clit while thick fingers traces the plump outline of your lips through the fabric. Not pushing inside yet. Just petting. Soothing. Building.

“Feel that?” he whispers, pressing firmer so you could feel how your slick squelches against his palm. “That’s all for me. Sweet little thing gettin’ this messy just from my kisses and my hands. Such a good girl. My good girl.”

You moan, loud and broken, your head tipping back as your hips rolls up into his touch.

He kisses you again, his tongue sliding against yours while his hand keeps that lazy rhythm between your thighs. The other stays on your tummy, rubbing slow circles over the soft pudge, possessive and adoring all at once.

“Gonna watch you fall apart, sweetheart,” he promised against your mouth. “Gonna make this pretty pussy cum so hard you see stars. And then I’m gonna do it again. And again. Till you’re too fucked-out to think about anything but me.”

His fingers hooks under the waistband of your shorts slowly tugging it downward, just enough to bare the top of your drenched panties.

“Ready for more?” he murmurs, nipping your bottom lip. “Gonna strip you and kiss every bruise I leave, spread these plush thighs and taste how sweet you are.”

Your answer was a shaky nod, eyes locked on his and pleading.

Toji smiles slow, dangerous and so fucking gentle.

“That’s my girl.”

And then he starts peeling your hoodie off slowly, his hands worshipping every new inch of bare skin he uncovers, mouth following right behind with more soft kisses and praise, ready to unravel you piece by trembling piece on your little twin bed while the summer night presses warm against the window.

Toji pulls back from your neck, his lips shiny with spit, a fresh bruise blooming dark and pretty under your jaw and his eyes drops to your face. You were a wreck already, cheeks flushing hot, eyes glassy and half-lidded, mouth hanging open in soft little pants.

A thin string of drool had slipped from the corner of your lips, trailing slow down your chin like you’d forgotten how to swallow. Fuck. The sight punches straight through him, making his cock twitch hard against the damp front of his sweats, thickening even more until the fat head was outlined clear as day through the gray cotton.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice thick and wrecked. “Look at you droolin’ for me already. Can’t even keep that pretty mouth closed.”

He leans in slow, his big hand cupping the side of your face, thumb sweeping under your lower lip to catch the mess. But instead of wiping it away he just smears it wider and then dips down and licks it up himself, tongue flat and hot dragging slowly from your chin to the corner of your mouth, tasting the sweet-salty mix of your spit and his earlier kisses. You whimper the sound coming out high and broken as he seals his scarred lips over yours again in one sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.

Tongues sliding messy and wet, no rhythm left. Just hunger. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth with a gentle tug and then plunges back in, licking deep into your mouth like he was trying to drink every drop of you.

Drool spilling between your lips, stringing down your chin again, soaking into the collar of your tank. You're making the filthiest little noises, soft, wet glucks every time his tongue licks into you and he groans low against your mouth, swallowing them all down.

“Such a messy girl,” he murmurs between kisses, nipping your tongue. “Doin’ so good though. Lettin’ me lick it all up. My sweet, sloppy baby.”

He breaks the kiss with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting your mouths for a second before it snaps and he sits back on his heels between your spread thighs. His eyes raking down your body slowly, like he was memorizing every inch. Hoodie shoved up to your tits, tank rucked under them so the soft undersides spilled out.

Shorts still on but soaked dark at the crotch, clinging transparently to the plump mound of your pussy. The fat lips were printed perfect through the cotton — swollen, puffy, glossy with thick gluey slick that had leaked through your panties and was now starting to drip down the crease of your thighs, making shiny wet trails on your sheets.

Toji’s mouth waters so hard he has to swallow. His cock was rock-hard now — veined, fattened, throbbing painfully against his sweats. He palmed it once, roughly squeezed it through the fabric, just to take the edge off. The head leaking more, darkening the gray in a fat wet spot right at the tip. But he didn’t care about himself yet. Not when your pretty soaked pussy was right there, begging for his mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice strained. “Look at this messy little thing.” So sticky. So sappy. “Drippin’ all over your bed like you can’t help it.”

He hooks two thick fingers under the waistband of your shorts, slowly tugging it down your hips. You lifted for him on instinct, — a shaky little arch and he peels them off along with your drenched panties in one go. The fabric stuck for a second — clinging to your slick folds before coming free with a wet schlick. Strings of thick, glossy arousal stretching between the cotton and your pussy, snapping slow as he tosses them aside.

Your legs fell open wider, your knees bent, feet planted on the mattress and there it was; your pussymound all shiny and swollen, lips puffy and parted just enough to show the sticky pretty inside. Slick coating everything — thick, gluey strands webbing between your folds, dripping slow down to your tight little hole that clenched on nothing.

Your clit was begging — fattened, flushed dark, peeking out from its hood like it was throbbing for attention. The whole thing glistened under the fairy lights — sappy, cummy, so fucking wet it looked obscene.

Toji groaned deeply, a guttural sound coming from his chest. His hands slid up your plush thighs, spreading you wider, thumbs hooking under the meat where thigh met hip so he could hold you open. Your pussy lips parted more, the sticky strings stretching, then breaking, revealing the creamy mess inside.

“Goddamn,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen. All swollen and leaking for me. Gonna taste every drop, baby. Gonna lick this sweet cunt clean till you’re shakin’.”

You whimper high and desperate, your hips twitching up toward his face.

He leaned in slow, his hot breath fanning over your clit first, making it jump. Then his tongue, flat and wide dragged up the entire length of your slit in one long, slow lick. From your dripping hole to the tip of your clit. Thick gluey slick coated his tongue instantly, sweet, tangy, so fucking much of it he had to swallow hard. He groaned against you, the vibration rumbling straight through your core.

“So sweet,” he praised, voice muffled as he licked again — slower this time, savoring it. “Taste like fuckin’ heaven. My good girl’s pussy all creamy and ready. Doin’ so perfect for me.”

His tongue circled your clit, with gentle flicks at first, then slower, broad laps that made your hips buck. One big hand slid up to your soft tummy, his palm spreading wide over the plush curve, holding you down gentle while his mouth worked. The other kept your thigh spread, thumb stroking soothing circles on the inner meat while he sucked your clit between his lips, a soft pull, then releasing, then pulling again.

You were moaning nonstop loud and  wrecked, the sounds filling the small room. Slick gushing  fresh with every lick — thick ropes of it coating his chin, dripping down his neck. He didn’t stop, just kept on lapping messy and hungry, his tongue dipping into your tight hole to scoop out more of that gluey cream, then dragging back up to suckle your clit like it was candy.

“Look at her clenchin’,” he murmured between licks, eyes flicking up to watch your face. “So tight and needy. Gonna come for me like this, yeah? Gonna let me drink all this pretty mess while you fall apart?”

His tongue plunged deeper, fucking slow into your hole, then he pulled out to circle your clit again, the hand on your tummy pressed firmer, feeling the way your muscles quivered under his palm.

“That’s it, baby,” he cooed, voice thick with praise. “Doin’ so good. Such a sweet girl lettin’ me eat this pussy. Gonna make you come so hard you soak my face. Then I’m gonna do it again. Gonna keep goin’ till you’re cryin’ my name.”

He sucked harder, his lips sealing around your clit, tongue flicking faster now and your whole body arched, your thighs shaking, hands fisting the sheets, drool slipping from your open mouth again as the pleasure coiled tight and hot in your belly.

Toji didn’t let up, he just kept licking slow and filthy, worshipfully talking you through every tremor, every gush of slick, every broken whimper.

“My perfect girl,” he rasped against your dripping cunt. “Come for me, sweetheart. Let me taste how good I make you feel.”

And with one more long, slow drag of his tongue — circling your begging clit just right — you shattered.

You came hard, harder than you ever had alone in this little bed with your fingers or with that cheap little vibe tucked in your drawer. Your whole body seized up like lightning hit your spine, thighs clamping around Toji’s head on instinct, plush hips bucking wild against his mouth while thick ropes of slick gushed straight onto his tongue.

Your clit throbbing against his lips — fat, swollen, pulsing like a second heartbeat — and he didn’t pull away. Didn’t even flinch. Just groaned deep into your cunt like the taste of your orgasm was the only thing he’d been starving for all summer.

“Thaaat’s it,” he rasped, voice muffled and wrecked against your dripping folds. “Come all over my face, sweetheart. Fuck, look at her spillin’ for me. So sweet. So fuckin’ messy.”

He kept licking slow, greedy — greedy laps through the aftermath — cleaning up every fresh gush like he couldn’t bear to waste a drop. Your pussy lips were puffy and flushed dark now, glossy with spit and cum, parting easy every time his tongue nudged between them. Slick coated his chin, dripping down his scarred neck in shiny trails, soaked into the collar of his black shirt. The fairy lights caught it all — turning the mess iridescent, obscene, beautiful.

You were shaking, overstimulated already, clit so sensitive it hurt in the best way, but Toji wasn’t done. Not even close. Man-starved didn’t even cover it, he ate like he’d been denied pussy his whole life and yours was the first real meal he’d ever had. Toji after a moment hooked his fingers into the underside of his shirt and pulled it off in one fluid motion.

Then his big hands shoved your thighs wider, thumbs hooking under the crease where thigh met hip, spreading you so open your tight little hole winked at him with every clench.

He pulled back just enough to look, eyes black with hunger, pupils blown wide watching the way your fattened lips trembled, the way thick gluey strings of your arousal stretched between them like spider silk every time you fluttered.

“Goddamn,” he breathed softly. “This pretty cunt’s still cryin’ for more. Look how she’s clenchin’… all tight and needy even after comin’ that hard. Fuck, baby… you’re killin’ me.”

He dove back in — lips sealing over your clit again, sucking soft at first, then harder. Wet, filthy pulls that made your hips jerk, made your back arch off the mattress until your tits spilled free from under the rucked-up tank. His tongue flicked fast over the swollen bud — quick little lashes — then slowed to broad, dragging circles that had you sobbing.

“Toj i— f-fuck — too much — s’too much — ”

“Shhh,” he soothed without stopping, voice vibrating straight through your core. “You can take it. Doin’ so good for me. My perfect girl. Just lemme taste a little more. Gotta drink every drop this sweet pussy’s givin’ me.”

He licked lower, his tongue plunging slow into your tight hole, fucking in and out with lazy thrusts that made obscene wet squelches fill the room. Your walls fluttered around him greedily, sucking at his tongue like they wanted to keep him inside forever. He groaned — deep, guttural — then pulled out just to spit right onto your clit. A thick glob of his saliva landed hot and heavy, mixing with your slick, running down your folds in slow rivulets.

You whimpered, high and broken when he blew a soft puff of air over the mess, his cool breath hitting your overheated, spit-slick clit like ice on fire. Your whole pussy jolted — clit jumping, hole clenching hard enough to push out another bead of thick cream that dripped slow down your ass.

“Fuck yeah,” he growled, watching it with dark, fascinated eyes. “Look at her twitch. Sensitive little thing. Love how she jumps when I blow on her. Gonna make her come again just like this.” You were overstimulated and shaking.

He sucked your clit back into his mouth, gently this time, lips soft around the swollen bud while his tongue lapped slow, soothing circles. One hand slid up your soft tummy, his palm spreading wide over the soft give of skin, fingers splaying to feel every quiver of your muscles.

The other kept your thigh pinned, thumb stroking slow, reassuring circles on the inner skin like he was petting you through the overstimulation.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured between sucks, pulling off just long enough to speak before diving back in. “Lettin’ me eat this messy cunt even when it’s too much. Takin’ everything I give you. So pretty when you cry for me like this.”

He licked into you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling to scoop out the thickest parts of your cream, feeding it back to your pussy with slow, filthy thrusts. Then he pulled out, lips shiny, chin dripping and spat again. Right onto your hole this time, watching it slide in, mixing with your slick until everything was glossy and obscene.

“Breathe, baby,” he cooed, blowing another soft puff over your clit, watching it throb, watching your hips buck helplessly. “Just breathe. M'gonna make you come again. Gonna suck this pretty clit till you’re soakin’ the sheets even more. Wanna see how many times I can make her gush before you’re beggin’ me to fuck you.”

Your hands flew to his hair — fingers tangling in the black strands, pulling hard enough to make him growl against you. But he loved it, loved the way you were falling apart and drooling again, spit slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes rolling back as another wave built fast and brutal in your belly.

He sucked harder — lips sealing tight, cheeks hollowing — tongue flicking relentless over your clit while he hummed low, vibrations rumbling straight through you. His free hand pressed firmer on your tummy, feeling the way your muscles clenched, the way your whole body trembled on the edge.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he praised, voice thick and wrecked. “Give it to me. Come all over my tongue again. Let me taste how overstimulated this sweet pussy gets for me. My good girl, my perfect, messy, drippin’ girl.”

One more long, slow drag of his tongue, circling your clit just right, then plunging back into your clenching hole and you shattered again. Harder. Louder, your whole body convulsing, thighs shaking around his head, slick gushing in thick spurts that coated his mouth, his chin and the sheets beneath you.

Toji drank it all — groaning like a man possessed — licking slow through the aftershocks, soothing your twitching clit with soft kitten licks while you sobbed his name, overstimulated and wrecked and still so fucking needy for more.

He finally pulled back — lips swollen, face a mess of spit and cum, his eyes locking on yours with that dark, adoring hunger.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, crawling up your body slow, caging you under his broad frame. “You taste like sin. Like every filthy thing I’ve ever wanted.”

His mouth found yours, in a slow, deep kiss letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Thick fingers sliding between your thighs again and petting your soaked, puffy pussy gentle now, soothing the oversensitive folds.

“Still shakin’,” he murmured against your lips, smiling soft and filthy. “Still drippin’. Think you can take my cock now, sweetheart? Or you need me to eat this pretty cunt one more time first?”

Your answer was a broken whimper — hips canting up toward his hand, begging without words.

He chuckled low, dark and tenderly.

“That’s my girl.”

Toji had finally pulled his mouth off your wrecked pussy — lips swollen dark red, his chin still glistening with thick ropes of your slick and his spit that stretched and snapped every time he moved. 

He gave you one more slow, sweet savouring kiss to your sweet little lips before crouching back down between your trembling thighs for a second longer, just staring at the mess he’d made; your fat pussy mound all shiny and puffy, lips parted and drooling slow streams of cream down your ass, onto the already soaked sheets.

Your clit was a throbbing little pearl now — fattened up dark and glossy, peeking out like it was begging for one more touch even after two brutal orgasms. Your tight hole kept clenching on nothing — suckling air, pushing out fresh beads of gluey slick that made obscene wet sounds in the quiet room.

He groaned low, the sound ripping out from deep in his chest and he palmed his cock through his sweats again. Harder this time, giving it a rough squeeze that made the thick vein along the underside jump under his hand.

The front of the gray fabric was wrecked — a dark wet patch spreading from the fat, leaking tip, glossy pre soaking through in thick globs that clinged to the cotton like honey.

You saw the outline perfectly now; his fat fuckin’ cock all hardened up for you, swollen and heavy, curving slightly to the left, the round mushroom head so chubbed and probably flushed it looked angry.

“Fuck, look what you did to me, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice gravel-thick with want. “Got me so hard it hurts. Leakin’ like a faucet just from tastin’ this pretty cunt. You see how much pre I’m givin’ you? All for this messy little pussy.”

He shoved his sweats down slow enough to free himself, then kicked it off completely. His cock sprang out heavy the thick base dusted with dark curls of hair, shaft veined and ridged, fattened tip glossy with a fat pearl of pre that beaded at the pink slit and dripping slow down the underside.

It bobbed once, smacking wet against his abs, before he wrapped one scarred hand around the middle and gave himself one lazy stroke. More pre welled up — thick and clear — dribbling over his knuckles.

Your mouth watered. Your pussy clenched hard — sappy walls fluttering, clit jumping at the sight. You were so wet still — thicker now, gluey strands webbing between your lips every time your hips twitched.

Toji crawled back up your body, slow and carefully caging you in, under his broad frame. One thick forearm braced beside your head, the other hand guiding his cock down between your thighs. He didn’t push in…not yet. Just rubbing slow, filthy drags of that fattened round tip through your glossed folds.

The head was scorching hot — swelled up so big it parted your puffy lips easy, spreading them wide around the blunt crown. Your clammy, glued pussylips sucked at him, clinging wetly every time he dragged back, strings of your slick stretching from your hole to his tip like they didn’t want to let go. He nudged your clit with the slit, smearing thick pre over the aching bud — making it throb harder, making you whimper high and broken.

“Feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and mean-teasing as he rocked slow. “Fat fuckin’ cock all hardened up just for you.” Rubbin’ right through your glossy folds. “Y’er sweet little pussy’s kissin’ me back, suckin’ on the tip like she’s tryin’ to pull me in.”

You nodded — desperately, drool slipping from your open mouth again, hips canting up to chase more friction. Your clit was so achy, fattened and sensitive, every glide of his swollen head over it sent sparks shooting up your spine.

Toji chuckled, the sound breathless and dark — then pressed firmer. The round tip notched right at your entrance, stretching the tight ring just enough to make your hole flutter and suckle greedy around him. Not inside. Just teasing…just enough to feel how hot and wet and ready you were.

“Look how she’s grippin’,” he praised, eyes locked on where your pussy lips hugged the head of his cock — clinging, glossy, dripping. “Tight little hole sucklin’ like she’s starvin’. Fuck, baby, you’re so so wet. Drippin’ all over my dick before I even get in. Such a needy girl.”

He rocked against you slowly again, dragging that fattened tip up your slit to bump your clit, then back down to nudge your hole. Pre mixed with your slick, making everything slippery, obscene, the wet schlick, schlick, schlick filling the room every time he teased. Your clit throbbed harder, achy and begging, every time the ridge of his crown caught it just right.

“Toji…please—” Your voice cracked — high, pleading. “Need it… need you inside…”

He groaned, the deep rumble vibrating through both of you, then leaned down to kiss you lovingly, slow and sweet, his tongue sliding against yours while he kept that mean, teasing rhythm; fat tip rubbing through your folds, bumping your clit, nudging your hole, spreading you open without giving you what you craved.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips, voice wrecked with restraint. “Gonna tease this sweet pussy a little longer. Wanna feel how much wetter you get. Wanna watch this fat little cunt cry for my cock till you’re shakin’ and sobbin’.”

One big hand slid under your ass, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle. Now every slow drag had his swollen tip catching right on your entrance — stretching the rim, making your walls flutter desperate around nothing. Your clit dragged along the thick underside of his shaft, veins bumping the sensitive bud, sending fresh gushes of slick coating him.

“Feel how hard I am for you?” he rasped, rocking firmer. All his thick pre leakin’ “Just thinkin’ about sinkin’ into this tight, pretty cunt. You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby. So ready. But I wanna hear you beg a little more. Wanna hear how bad my good girl needs this fat cock stretchin’ her open.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders — nails digging into hard muscle, your hips rolling up frantically to chase his teasing. Slick squelching loud between you, gluey strands clinging to his shaft, dripping down his heavy balls that brushed your ass with every rock.

“Toji… please… fuck m’need you so bad —” You were babbling now, voice wrecked, drool slipping down your chin. “Want your cock… want it deep… please —”

He smiled slow, adoringly and mean, then kissed you again, deep and claiming — while his hips kept that torturous rhythm: fat fuckin’ cock rubbing slow through your glossed folds, teasing your achy clit, nudging your suckling hole, making you drip and clench and beg for the stretch you were dying for.

“Soon, baby,” he promised, voice thick with hunger. “Gonna give you every thick inch. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy so good you’ll feel me for days. But first… keep beggin’. Keep drippin’. Show me how desperate my sweet girl is for it.”

And he kept teasing, relentless — until your whole body was trembling, pussy clenching empty and greedy, clit throbbing achy and swollen, slick pooling under your ass in a sticky puddle while he watched you fall apart under his mean, loving touch.

Toji’s hips stilled for a second, his fat, glossy cockhead still notched right at your entrance, stretching the tight ring of your hole just enough that it fluttered desperately around him. Your clammy, slick walls were sucking greedily at the swollen tip, like your pussy was trying to pull him deeper even while fighting the stretch. He was so fuckin’ thick, the round mushroom head bloated and veined, ridged crown — catching on every soft fold as he pushed forward slowly, agonizingly slow.

You gasped high and sharp the sound cracking into a whimper — back arching off the mattress, plush thighs trembling where they were hooked over his hips. Your hole clenched hard on instinct — clammy, hot and so so tight it made his breath hitch rough in his throat.

“Fuck.. easy, sweetheart,” voice low and wrecked, one big scarred hand sliding under your ass to lift your hips just a fraction higher. “You’re grippin’ me like a vice already and I’ve barely got the tip in. So fuckin’ tight… this pretty little cunt’s never taken anything this big, huh?”

You shook your head — frantic little jerks — drool slipping from the corner of your mouth again as you stared up at him with glassy, pleading eyes.

Your clit still achy and swollen from his teasing, throbbing every time the base of his shaft dragged against it on accident. Slick poured out around his tip — thick, gluey strands coating the fat crown, dripping down his heavy balls in slow, shiny rivulets.

Toji groaned gutterally, his forehead dropping to rest against yours for a second while he fought not to just slam home. His cock throbbing hard inside that tiny stretch — veins pulsing against your clenching walls, pre leaking in fat drops that mixed with your cream and made everything even messier.

“Look at you tryin’ so hard for me,” he praised, voice soft and thick with adoration even as his hips rocked in tiny, teasing nudges. “Takin’ just the tip like such a good girl. Feel how she’s suckin’ on me? Fuck…your hole’s so tight and wet, baby. Grippin’ like she don’t ever wanna let go.”

He pushed forward another fraction — barely an inch more and your pussy resisted, walls fluttering wild around the fattened ridge of his crown. The stretch burned sweet — hot, the aching fullness made your toes curl and your nails rake down his broad back. A fresh gush of slick squirted out around him, coating his shaft, dripping onto the sheets in a sticky puddle.

“Haaah —Toji ” Your voice broke, high and wrecked, hips twitching up like you couldn’t decide if you wanted more or needed a second to breathe.

“Shhh, I got you,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth gently-sweet — tongue flicking out to catch the drool on your chin. “Doin’ so perfect. So so tight for me… gonna make it fit, yeah? Gonna stretch this sweet little pussy slow till she’s huggin’ every thick inch. You’re my good girl, my perfect, drippin’ girl. Just breathe for me.”

His free hand slid up your soft tummy, his palm spreading wide over the plushness there, fingers splaying to feel the way your muscles quiver under him. He rocked again — tiny, shallow thrusts that barely moved the tip in and out, just enough to let your walls flutter and adjust around the blunt head.

Every nudge made obscene wet sounds, — schlick- schlick-schlick — your slick squelching loudly around him, strings of it clinging to his veined shaft like they were trying to keep him buried.

“Feel that burn, baby?” he cooed, voice low and praising as he watched your face — eyes locking on every flutter of your lashes, every tremble of your lips. “That’s me openin’ you up. So tight it’s squeezin’ the cum right outta me… fuck, you’re leakin’ all over my cock. Such a messy, needy cunt. Love how she’s fightin’ me and still beggin’ for more.”

He pushed again — slower this time — watching with dark, hungry eyes as another inch sank in. Your hole stretched wider, your puffy lips hugging the thickest part of his crown, clinging glossy and white-knuckled around him. The stretch was obscene — your clit jumping every time the ridge dragged over it on the way in, fresh cream bubbling out to coat him.

“Haaah — fuck — there we go,” he breathed, thumb stroking slow circles over your lower belly where he could feel the faint bulge starting to form just from the tip and a little more. “Look at that… already makin’ a pretty little bump and I’m not even halfway. So fuckin’ tight, sweetheart. Takin’ me like you were made for it.”

You were sobbing softly now, broken little sounds as your hips canted up helplessly, trying to take more even as your walls spasmed around the invasion. Slick pouring steadily, thick and gluey — drenching his balls, soaking the sheets under your ass in a warm, sticky mess.

Toji leaned down and kissed you deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours while he kept those tiny, rocking thrusts. Just the tip popping in and out, stretching you open, teasing your clenching hole, making your clit throb against the veined underside every time he pulled back.

“Doin’ so good,” he whispers  into your mouth between kisses. “My sweet girl takin’ just the tip so perfectly. Gonna keep goin’ slow, gonna make it fit inch by inch till this fat cock’s buried deep where you need it. You feel how hard I am for you? How much I’m leakin’? All ‘cause this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she never wants me to leave.”

One more gentle push and another thick inch goes sliding in and your back bows, a moan ripping out loud and raw as your walls flutter wild around him. He stills again, letting you adjust, his forehead pressing to yours, breath ragged.

“Almost there, baby,” he praises, voice thick with restraint and adoration. “So so tight… but you’re takin’ me so good. My perfect girl. Gonna fill you up soon, m’gonna stretch this sticky hole till it’s huggin’ every veiny inch. Ahh — Just a little more… just breathe and let me make it fit.”

His thumb finds your clit, and circles over the swollen bud slow and gently while he rocks another inch in shallow, keeping you on that razor edge of stretch and pleasure. Slick gushing fresh with every tiny thrust — coating him, dripping down, making the slide just a little easier even as your pussy fights to keep him right where he is.

“Tell me how it feels, sweetheart,” he murmurs, kissing your tear-streaked cheek. “Tell me how full you are already… how much you need the rest.”

Your answer is a broken whimper, your hips rolling up desperately, pussy clenching hard around just the tip and a little more now.

“Need… need all of you… please, Toji —”

He smiles slow, filthy but so fucking tender, then kisses you again, deep and claiming while his hips started that slow, relentless push forward again.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps against your lips. “Gonna give you everything. Gonna make this tight little cunt take every thick inch till you’re cryin’ and comin’ all over me.”

And inch by torturous inch he keeps making it fit. Slow. Sweet. Praising you through every clench, every gush, every trembling stretch until your pussy finally starts to yield — walls fluttering open, sucking him deeper, greedily and wrecked and so so ready for the rest.

Then Toji’s patience snapped like a thin wire, a low growl rumbling deep in his chest as his big scarred hands clamped around your soft waist. No warning. No gentle coaxing. Just raw, starving need. He grabs your little body like it was his to manhandle, his rough palms digging into your plush hips, flipping you onto your side in one swift yank that made the mattress springs squeak protest.

“Fuck ah I-I can’t take it anymore,” he rasps, voice thick and wrecked. “Need to go deeper. Need this tight cunt stuffed full, m’gonna make her take every fuckin’ inch now.”

He drags you down the bed, the sheets tangling around your ankles, until your ass hangs off the edge just enough, cheeks jiggling from the rough pull. Your face mashed into the rumpled comforter — cheek smushing against the soft fabric, drool already pooling under your agape mouth.

One hand flew out on instinct, your fingers clutching the fluffy stuffed bear you keep on the pillow (the one with the little bow tie you’d had since middle school), knuckles white as you gripped it like a lifeline while your body arches helplessly.

Toji presses your legs together, his thick thighs pressing your plush ones tight, forcing your chubby little cunt to pucker even more obscenely. Your fat pussy lips squished together now, glossy and swollen, the plump folds mashed into one slick, puffy seam that barely parts for the fat pink tip still teasing your entrance.

The position makes everything tighter — your gummy walls clenching harder, clit trapped between those squeezed-together lips, throbbing achy and trapped against the pressure.

He lines up, his veined, thick cock — throbbing heavy in his fist — and pushes in.

No slow tease this time.

The fat crown spears past your puckered entrance with a wet, filthy pop — stretching those mashed-together lips wide around his girth. Your hole sucking greedily and clenching so tight it made his eyes roll back,  but he doesn’t stop.

Just keeps feeding inch after thick, veined inch into your poor stuffed cunt, the squeeze so intense it forces thick ropes of your gooey cream to bubble out around him, coating his shaft in shiny white strands that drip slow down your inner thighs.

“Haah… fuck — listen to her,” he groans, hips snapping forward harder now that the angle let him sink deeper. “This chubby little cunt’s cryin’ so loud for me. Squeezin’ like she’s scared I’ll pull out… but she’s suckin’ me right back in. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You wail high, lewd and broken, your cries muffled into the mattress — voice cracking every time his cock punches deeper. Never been fucked like this, with legs squeezed shut making your pussy feel impossibly smaller, every ridge and vein dragging slow and mean along your gummy walls.

Your fat lips puckering tight around his base — stretching thin and glossy, clinging desperately like they were made to mold to his shape. The pressure mashes your clit right against the thick underside of his shaft — rubbing it raw with every brutal thrust, sending sparks shooting up your spine until your toes curl hard.

Toji loses it completely.

Big hands gripping your hips — fingers sinking into soft flesh hard enough to bruise, and he starts pounding. Deep, mean strokes that bottoming out with a wet slap every time his heavy balls smacks your clit.

Precum and your thick cream mixing into a frothy mess squirting out around his cock with every pull-back, dripping in sticky webs down your thighs, soaking the edge of the bed where your ass hangs off.

“Goddamn, look at this mess you’re makin’,” he pants, voice rough and praising all at once. “Gooey little pussy just spillin’ everywhere f’me. So fuckin’ cute how she’s creamin’ all over my dick… takin’ it so deep even when she’s squeezes this tight. My good girl…my filthy, drippin’ girl.”

Your cries turn desperate — muffled sobs into the stuffed bear you are clutching, tears streaking hot down your cheeks. Every thrust punches the air out of your lungs, his cockhead kissing your cervix mean and relentless, stretching your gummy walls wide around his veined thickness.

Your clit rubs mercilessly against him — trapped between those puckered lips, swollen and throbbing, building that coil tighter and tighter until your whole body shakes.

“Feel that?” he growles, leaning over you, his broad chest pressing to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours. One hand slides up to cup your soft tummy — palm pressing down so he can feel the bulge of his cock moving inside you. “Feel how deep I am, baby? Stuffin’ this chubby cunt so full she’s leakin’ like a faucet. Gonna make you come like this.” legs squeezed tight, clit rubbed raw and pussy stretched mean around every thick inch of his.

He snaps his hips harder, the angle perfect now, his cock dragging right over that spongy spot inside while his shaft grinds against your trapped clit. Slick squelches loud and obscene, wet slaps filling the room, your gooey cream frothing white at the base of his cock, dripping in thick strands every time he pulls back.

You shatter hard.

Whole body convulsing, walls clamping down like a vice around his pounding cock, milking him greedily as you scream into the mattress. Fresh gushes of slick squirting out around him, hot and messy, soaking his balls, drenching the sheets, making every thrust even sloppier. Your clit throbs wild against him — overstimulated and raw, sending aftershocks after aftershock rippling through you until your legs shake uncontrollably.

Toji groans deep and feral, his hips stuttering as your pussy sucks him in tight.

“Fuck… Aaah yeah, come on my cock, sweetheart,” he praises, voice breaking with how close he was. “Squeezin’ so fuckin’ tight… makin’ such a cute mess f’er me. Good girl, my perfect, pretty girl. Gonna fill this stuffed cunt up soon… gonna pump you so full you’ll be leakin’ me for days.”

He didn’t stop, Toji kept fucking you through it, with mean, deep thrusts that made your ass jiggle, made your cries turn hoarse and wrecked. His veined cock dragged slow and filthy through your fluttering walls — still so tight from your legs squeezed together and clit still rubbing helpless against him with every slam.

“Haah mhnm fuck…m’not done yet,” he rasps, hand sliding down to spread one cheek, exposing where you were stretched obscene around him. “Gonna keep, ah goin’. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy till she’s cryin’ for more… till you’re so full of cum you can’t move.”

And he did — pounding harder, deeper, meaner all while you clutched your stuffed bear tighter, face buried in the mattress, drooling and sobbing and coming undone again and again around his thick cock that finally fit all the way inside your chubby, gooey, perfect little cunt.

Toji’s hips roll in one long, deliberate drag — pulling back just enough that his thick, veined cock starts to slip free from your stuffed little hole. Your sloppy pussy doesn't want to let go. Gummy walls clenching down hard — squeezin’ greedy around every ridge and bump like they’re scared he’d leave you empty.

His foreskin bunches up soft and slick around the fattened base of his crown as he withdraws — pink tip glistening obscene with a thick coat of your cream and his own sappy pre, strings of it stretching taut between your puffy lips and his shaft before snapping wetly against your inner thighs.

You whine high and utterly broken, face mashed deeper into the mattress, your cheek smushed against the soft fur of your stuffed bear, fingers clutching the little plush thing so tight the seams strained. Drool still pooling under your slacked maw, soaking the fabric while your hips twitch back helplessly, chasing the stretch even as he teases you with the slow retreat.

“Fuck haah… listen to that,” he rasps, voice low and filthy-thick with awe. “This nasty lil’ pussy’s makin’ the sloppiest sounds just ‘cause I’m pullin’ out. Squelchin’ like she’s beggin’ me to stay buried. So fuckin’ greedy, baby.”

He didn’t let you go empty for long.

Right when the fat pink tip was almost out — your hole fluttering desperately around the ridge, he leaned over you again, his broad chest pressing hot to your back — and spat. A thick, heavy glob of spit landing right on your stretched entrance — hot and messy — sliding down the puffy seam of your mashed-together pussylips before dripping slow into the clenching ring still hugging his crown, the added slick made everything even nastier, your syrup-thick cream mixing with his spit, bubbling white and frothy where your walls gripped him.

Toji groans deep, a rumble that vibrates straight through you as he pushes forward again. Slow and mean, feeding every thick inch back into your pussy until his hips slapped flush against your ass, his balls heavy and wet smacking your clit trapped between those squeezed thighs. Your pussy sucking him in greedy — gummy walls fluttering wild, clinging so tight it made his eyes roll back.

“Haah…there we go,” he praises, hands clamping harder on your soft waist — fingers sinking into plush flesh like you really are his personal fleshlight, something soft and warm and perfect to use. “Takin’ me all the way again. Feel how deep I am, sweetheart?” His cockhead now kissin’ your cervix… — mngh "Stretchin’ this sloppy hole wide. God your pussy’s so fuckin’ good. So tight even after all that cream you just gushed.”

He drew back again slowly and torturous, watching the way your fat pussylips dragged along his veined shaft, clinging glossy and swollen, trying to keep him inside. Nasty lil’ squelches filling the room — wet, obscene pops every time he pulls out halfway — your syrup-thick pussy noisily protesting, cream bubbling out in thick white rings around his base, dripping slow down your inner thighs in sticky trails that soaked the edge of the mattress.

Your sobbing is muffled into the stuffed bear, your whole body trembling as he manhandles you deeper into the bed. One big hand slides up your spine — pushing your face firmer into the comforter, while the other grips your waist harder, yanking your hips back to meet every slow, punishing thrust.

He spreads your fat pussylips wider with his thumbs — peeling them apart even as your legs stay squeezed tight together — exposing the glossy pink inside where his thick cock splits you open.

“Look at her stretch,” he growls, voice wrecked with how good it feels. Your plump lil’ lips puckering so tight around him… huggin’ every veiny inch like she was made for his cock. “Fuck mhng baby, you’re ruinin’ me. This pussy’s too perfect… too sloppy… too fuckin’ tight.”

He bottoms out again, harder this time, his cockhead bullying deep until you feel that familiar bulge in your lower tummy, the faint swell under his palm when he presses down. Your clit rubbed raw against the underside of his shaft — trapped and throbbing — every drag sending fresh sparks through your overstimulated nerves until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

Toji didn’t speed up. Didn’t rush. Just kept that slow, deep pace — drawing back until only the fat tip stretched your entrance, then sinking all the way in with one long, filthy glide. Each pull-out made your pussy squelch louder — cream frothing white at his base, dripping in thick ropes — each push-in forcing more of your gooey slick to bubble out around him, coating his balls, soaking your ass cheeks, turning everything into a warm, sticky mess.

“God mhm feel that?” he rasps, leaning down to nip the shell of your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “How your pussy’s clenchin’ every time I try to pull out? Squeezin’ like she doesn't ever wanna be empty. My good girl… my perfect, drippin’ girl. Takin’ this thick cock so deep… makin’ such cute, nasty noises for me.”

His hands tighten on your waist — using you like he owns you — pulling your hips back to meet every slow, punishing thrust while he grounds deeper, letting the fat crown drag over that spongy spot inside until your cries turn hoarse and wrecked.

Your stuffed bear was crushed against your chest now, your fingers white-knuckled and face buried so deep in the mattress you could barely breathe around the drool and tears.

He spat again, a thick glob landing right where you were stretched widest around him — watching it slide in, mixing with the mess until everything was even slicker and messier.

“Not stoppin’,” he promises, voice low and filthy-sweet. “Gonna keep fuckin’ this little pussy… till she’s cryin’ and cumin’ again. Till you’re so full of my cum you can’t move, doll Till every time I pull out you’re squirtin’ that syrup-thick cream all over me.”

One more long, slow drag out and your pussy noisily protests with wet, lewd squelches, then he sinks back in deep, bottoming out with a wet slap that made your ass jiggle, clit grind hard against him, walls fluttering wild around every thick, veined inch of his.

“Haah…fuck t-there’s my girl,” he groans, kissing the back of your neck soft and filthy. “Takin’ it so good… makin’ me lose my fuckin’ mind. Gonna keep usin’ you just like this… slow… aah… till you’re nothin’ but a creamy, shakin’ mess for me.”

And he did, he kept that torturous rhythm, his hands bruising your waist, cock stretching your sloppy hole wide, foreskin bunched… slick, spit and cream mixing into the nastiest mess while you clutch your stuffed toy for dear life, sobbing his name into the mattress, pussy clenching greedily and wrecked around his thick cock that owned you completely.

Toji’s hips stayed buried deep, his thick cock throbbing hot and heavy inside your stuffed pussy, every veiny inch hugged so tight by your gummy walls that pulling out even an inch felt like fighting gravity. But he didn’t need to thrust right now.

Not when he had you exactly where he wanted; face-down, ass-up on the edge of your bed, legs squeezed shut, chubby pussy lips puckered and swollen around the base of his shaft like a glossy, creamy ring.

Your pretty little hole was still fluttering around him — suckling greedily on every ridge, even after the last brutal orgasm ripped through you, leaving your thighs trembling and slick dripping in slow, syrupy ropes down the insides of your legs.

He leaned over you, his broad chest pressing hot to your back, sweat-slick skin sliding against yours, until his scarred lips brushed the shell of your ear.

One big hand stayed clamped on your soft waist, fingers digging possessive bruises into plush flesh, while the other slid down between your squeezed-together thighs.

Rough callused fingertips found your puffed-out clit immediately — swollen, fat and glossy from all the rubbing, peeking out from between those mushed puffy lips like a needy little button begging for more.

“Fuck haah… look at this messy thing,” voice low and wrecked with hunger. “So puffed up… so gooey and sappy from comin’ all over my cock. Can’t even hide how bad she wants it.”

His fingers started moving in filthy, lazy circles right over your swollen bud. Not fast. Not rough. Just slow, perfect rubs that made your clit jump and throb under the pad of his middle finger.

He smeared your own thick cream around it — mixing it with the frothy white ring still clinging to his base — making every glide slicker, hotter, nastier. Your pussy clenched hard around his buried cock in response — walls fluttering wild, milking him greedy even though he wasn’t moving yet.

You whimper high, the broken sound muffled into the stuffed bear you were still clutching like it could save you from how good it felt. Drool soaked the plush's fur, tears streaking hot down your cheeks, whole body shaking as those filthy circles kept coming — round n’ round, a slow pressure that built the ache back up fast.

“Haah… m’can’t stop touchin’ you, baby,” he groaned against your neck, nipping the soft skin where he’d already left dark bruises. “Even if I tried… fuck, this little clit’s too perfect. So fat and slippery… jumpin’ every time I rub right here.”

He pressed firmer, his middle finger circling tighter now, thumb hooking under to spread your puffy lips just enough to expose more of that sensitive pearl.

The motion dragging his cock the tiniest bit inside you — barely a rock, just enough to let the fat crown nudge your spongy spot while his fingers worked your clit relentlessly. Fresh slick gushed out around him, thick and syrupy — coating his hand, dripping down his wrist in warm rivulets that soaked into the sheets.

Your hips bucked back helplessly, your ass jiggling against his pelvis, trying to grind into his touch even as your pussy clenched tighter around the thick intrusion splitting you open.

Every filthy circle sent sparks shooting straight up your spine, your clit throbbed so hard it hurt in the sweetest way, walls spasming around his cock like they were trying to pull him even deeper.

“Goddamn…ya feel that?” he murmured, voice thick with praise and filth. “How your cunt ’s grippin’ me every time I rub this pretty clit? Squeezin’ like she’s beggin’ for more even though she’s already stuffed full. My good girl… my perfect, drippin’ mess. Look how she’s leakin’ just from my fingers. So fuckin’ sensitive.”

He sped up just a fraction, circles turning tighter, faster. The pad of his finger flicking quick over the swollen tip of your clit before smoothing back into those slow, filthy loops.

Your cries turned desperate, hoarse and wrecked, sobs muffled into the bear as your thighs shook harder, pussy fluttering wild around his cock. Thick cream bubbled out with every clench — frothing white at his base, dripping in sticky strands that clung to his heavy balls.

Toji groaned deep and feral, his hips finally rocking once, a slow, deep grind that dragged every veined inch along your gummy walls while his fingers never stopped. The dual sensation punched the air out of your lungs, clit rubbed raw and throbbing, cunt stretched wide and filled to the brim.

“Can’t get enough of touchin’ you,” he confessed, voice breaking with how wrecked he was. “This puffed-out little clit… so gooey and sappy… jumpin’ under my fingers like it’s alive. Fuck…baby, you’re gonna come again just like this. Gonna make this fat pussy squirt all over my hand while I’m still buried balls-deep.”

He pinched your clit gently, rolling it between thumb and finger, then went right back to those filthy circles, smearing more of your cream around the swollen bud until it glistened obscene under the fairy lights. Your whole body seized, your back arching hard, ass pressing back desperately against him, your narrow walls clamping down like a vice around his thick cock.

“That’s it ahh…come for me again,” he praised, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and ragged. “Let me feel this pussy milk me while I rub this pretty clit raw. My sweet girl… my filthy, pretty girl… gush for me, baby. Show me how much you love it when I can’t stop touchin’ you.”

One more tight, filthy circle pressed hard right over the tip and you shatter.

Whole body convulsing, pussy clamping down brutally around his cock, walls fluttering wild as thick spurts of slick squirted out around him, hot and messy — soaking his hand, drenching his thighs, pooling warm under your ass on the already wrecked sheets.

Your clit throbbed helplessly under his fingers, overstimulated and raw, sending aftershock after aftershock ripping through you until your legs gave out completely.

Toji didn’t pull his hand away. Just kept those slow, soothing circles, gentler now — petting your puffed-out clit through the tremors while his cock stays buried deep, throbbing hard inside your fluttering, creamy cunt.

“Haah…fuck…there’s my girl,” he sighs, kissing the back of your neck soft and filthy. “Comin’ so hard just from my fingers… makin’ such a cute, sloppy mess. Can’t stop touchin’ you, baby. Not when this little clit’s still jumpin’ for me… not when your pussy’s still grippin’ me like she never wants me to stop.”

He rocked once, letting you feel every thick inch while his fingers kept circling lazy, keeping you right on that overstimulated edge.

“Gonna keep goin’,” he promises, voice low and wrecked with adoration. “Gonna keep rubbin’ this pretty clit… keep fuckin’ you slow… till you’re cryin’ and squirting again. Till you’re nothin’ but a shakin’, creamy mess for me. My perfect girl… my filthy little thing… all mine.”

And he did, his fingers never stopping those filthy circles, cock grinding deep and slow, turning you into a drooling, trembling puddle while your stuffed bear stayed clutched tight in your shaking hands, soaked with tears and drool and the endless proof of how good he made you feel.

Toji’s cock was buried to the hilt, his thick-veined base flush against your swollen puffy lips, heavy balls pressed hot to your clit like they belonged there. Your little fat pussy was stretched obscene around him, your gummy walls parted wide, clinging desperate to every ridged inch like they’d forgotten how to close.

You were gaped already, your poor hole fluttering open every time he stayed still too long, the rim puffy and flushed dark pink, glistening with thick layers of your syrupy cream and his endless pre. Slick dripping steady from where you were joined, slow, sticky ropes that clung to his shaft, webbing down to his balls, pooling warm under your ass on the wrecked sheets.

Shaking, your whole body trembling, face still mashed into the mattress, drool soaking the stuffed bear you clutched like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your cries had turned hoarse, soft and wrecked whimpering every time his cock throbbed deep inside, nudging that spongy spot that made your toes curl and your tummy quiver.

He groans low, the sound ripping from his chest like it hurt to feel how tight you still were even after all the pounding, big scarred hands gripped your soft waist harder, his fingers sinking into plush flesh, holding you exactly where he wanted while he started to pull out.

Slow.

Agonizingly slow.

The drag was filthy, every veined inch sliding free with wet, obscene schlicks that filled the room. Your pussy lips dragged along his shaft, puffy and glossy, clinging greedily like they didn’t want to let go. The fat pink crown caught on your rim, stretching it wider one last time before popping free with a lewd, sucking pop.

Your hole gaped open immediately, pink and wrecked, fluttering helplessly around nothing, thick strings of cream stretching from your entrance to his dripping tip like obscene bridges before snapping wet against your inner thighs.

“Haah…fuck…look at that,” he said disbelieving,“This little hole’s gaped so pretty for me… still clenchin’ like she’s missin’ me already. So fuckin’ sloppy, baby. Drippin’ everywhere just ‘cause I pulled out.”

You whimpered, hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the emptiness even as your walls fluttered wild. But Toji wasn’t done teasing.

He lined up again, the fat tip nudging your gaping entrance, smearing thick pre over the stretched rim, then he pushed.

Deeper.

Harder.

One long, brutal glide that sank every thick inch back inside until his hips slapped flush against your ass, cockhead bullying past your cervix, stirring your guts up in that dizzying, overwhelming way that made your eyes roll back.

You felt him everywhere. Hot, heavy fullness stretching from your stuffed hole all the way up like he was rearranging you from the inside. Your tummy bulged faintly under his palm when he pressed down, feeling the outline of his cock moving deep, claiming every inch of your soft insides.

“Fuuuck…there it is,” he growled, hips grinding slow circles now, letting you feel him throb against your deepest walls. “Feel me in your throat, sweetheart? Stirrin’ up your guts… makin’ this pretty pussy taking me so deep she’s cryin’. My good girl… my perfect, stretched-out girl.”

Your cries turning guttural and raw, sounds muffled into the bear as he starts thrusting again, long punishing strokes that pull almost all the way out every time, only to slam back in deeper, harder, stirring your insides into a gooey, creamy mess. Slick squirting out with every pull-back, thick and white-frothed, coating his shaft, dripping down your thighs in warm rivers that soaked everything beneath you.

Then his thick thumb found your tight puckered asshole.

He didn’t ask…Didn’t tease.

Just pressed the blunt pad right against your clenched ring — hot, callused pressure that made your whole body jolt. Your hole fluttering instinctive, tight and untouched, trying to push him out even as your pussy clenched harder around his pounding cock.

“Shhh…relax for me, baby,” he murmured, voice low and filthy-sweet against your ear. ‘m'gonna plug this pretty little hole too. Keep you so full… till you’re shakin’ and sobbin’ for me.”

He pushes in so…so carefully, his thick thumb breaching the tight ring with a soft pop. The stretch burning sweet… the foreign fullness made your back arch hard, ass pushing back desperately onto both intrusions. Your asshole clamping down greedily around his thumb, sucking him into the first knuckle, while your pussy flutters wildly around his thick cock, walls spasming so hard it milks another thick spurt of pre deep inside you.

“Haah…fuck y-yeah,” he groans, thumb sinking deeper, and a slow twist of his thumb... has your hole clenching and fluttering around him. “Takin’ my thumb so good… tight little ass huggin’ me just like your pussy. Feel that? Both holes ngh stuffed f-full”… his cock stirrin’ your guts, thumb pluggin’ up your pretty asshole. “You’re mine, baby. All fuckin’ mine.”

He starts moving — thumb rocking shallow in time with his deep thrusts, cock slamming home every time his thumb pushes in, pulling out together in a filthy rhythm that makes your whole body rock forward into the mattress. Your clit rubbed raw against the sheets now — trapped and throbbing — every grind sending fresh sparks through your overstimulated nerves until tears streamed hot down your cheeks.

Your cries were nonstop, hoarse, wrecked sobs into your stuffed bear, your body trembling violently as he fucked you deeper, thumb plugging your ass, cock stretching your gaped pussy wide. Slick gushing with every thrust, thick, creamy ropes squirting out around his base, soaking his hand where it worked your plugged hole, drenching the bed in a warm, sticky puddle.

“God…look at you,” he praised, voice breaking with how close he was. “Takin’ everything… Such a good girl… my girl. Gonna make you come like this… gonna feel you milk me till I’m pumpin’ you full.”

He ground deeper, thumb twisting slow inside your tight ass, bulbous cockhead bullying your cervix, stirring everything up until the pressure coiled unbearable in your belly.

“Come for me, baby.” he says softly, lips brushing your tear-streaked cheek gently.

One more deep, brutal thrust, thumb sinking to the base, cock slamming home fully and you shattered.

Whole body convulsing, pussy clamping like a vice around his thick shaft, asshole fluttering wild around his thumb, clit throbbing helpless against the friction. Thick spurts of slick squirts out around him — hot and messy — soaking everything as you scream his name into the bear, tears and drool mixing on the sheets.

Toji goes all breathless, hips stuttering as your walls milked him ruthlessly.

“Fuck...yeah…take it, baby,” he pants, grinding deep through your orgasm. “Gonna come… gonna fill this pretty little cunt… gonna plug you so full you’ll feel me for days.”

And with one last deep thrust, thumb buried in your ass, cock throbbing hot and heavy inside your stuffed, creamy hole he starts to spill. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooding your gummed walls — pulse after pulse — stirring your insides even more as he keeps grinding slow, keeping you plugged front and back while you shook and sobbed and came undone completely around him.

And Toji Zenin still wasn’t done touching you.

Not by a long shot.

Toji finally eased his thumb out of your twitching little asshole, slow and careful, letting the tight ring flutter shut with a soft, wet sound that made your whole body shiver one last time. His cock slipped free next, his thick length dragging along your ruined walls until the fat crown popped out with a lewd, sucking pop.

A hot gush of cum followed immediately, thick, creamy ropes spilling from your gaping pussy in slow, obscene waves, dripping down your inner thighs, pooling sticky and warm beneath your ass on the already-soaked sheets.

You were trembling, completely spent, limbs heavy and breath coming in shaky little pants, face still buried halfway into the rumpled comforter with drool stringing from the corner of your swollen lips. Your stuffed bear was crushed, forgotten against your chest, fur matted and damp from tears and spit and everything else.

Toji didn’t move away.

He rolled you gently, almost tenderly — onto your back, big scarred hands sliding under your soft thighs and waist to lift you like you weighed nothing. He settled between your spread legs again, kneeling tall over you, sweat-glistening chest heaving while he looked down at the absolute mess he’d made of his pretty girl.

Your pussy was wrecked, lips puffy and dark, gaping open just enough to show the creamy white mess inside, clit still swollen and flushed, twitching with aftershocks. Cum leaked out in lazy pulses, mixing with your own slick, running in glossy trails down your perineum.

But his eyes softened when they reached your face.

All tear-streaked cheeks, glassy eyes, puffy lips still shining with spit.

“My pretty girl,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked but so fucking gentle now it made your chest ache.

He leaned down slow, his big heated body blanketing yours without crushing you and cups your face in both rough palms. Thumbs brushed away the fresh tears clinging to your lashes, smearing them gently across your flushed skin.

Toji didn’t pull out.

Not even a little.

He stayed buried to the root, his thick, heavy cock throbbing slow and deep inside your stuffed cunt, every veiny inch hugged so tight by your gummy walls it felt like your pussy had forgotten how to exist without him filling it. The fat pink crown was pressed right up against your cervix — hot, insistent pressure that made your tummy flutter every time his heartbeat pulsed through the shaft.

Cum was already leaking — thick, sticky ropes of it flooding your insides from the last brutal spill, so much that you could feel the warm, syrupy weight of it pooling deep in your guts, pressing against your walls like liquid heat.

Your poor hole was gaped just enough around his base, puffy lips stretched thin and glossy, clinging desperate to the thickest part of him like they were scared he’d slip free. But he wasn’t going anywhere, he just held you there, his hips flush to your ass, one big scarred hand splayed wide over your soft tummy so he could feel the faint swell where his cock and all that cum was making you bulge ever so slightly from the inside.

“Shhh… just like this, sweetheart,” he murmured low against the back of your neck, lips brushing damp skin in soft, lazy kisses. “Just cock warming. No more fuckin’ right now. Gonna let this pretty pussy soak in every drop I gave her… keep her nice and full, yeah?”

You whimpered — soft, a wrecked little sound muffled into the stuffed bear still clutched tight to your chest. Your whole body was trembling, overstimulated, oversensitive, thighs quivering where they were still squeezed shut and held down beneath his weight.

Slick and cum mixed into a warm, sticky mess between you, dripping slowly out around his base in thick, pearly strands that clung to your inner thighs, soaking the sheets in a warm puddle that smelled like sex and him and you all tangled together.

He shifted then, just a tiny rock of his hips, not thrusting, just enough to let his cock stir the cum inside you. The movement made a wet, filthy squelch, your walls fluttering greedy around him, milking another thick bead of leftover seed that oozed deeper into your guts.

You felt it, hot and slippery coating every inch of your gummy insides, threatening to drool out if he moved too much, but he didn’t. He just held you closer — arm banding around your waist, palm pressing firmer over that soft little bulge in your tummy like he was proud of how full he’d made you.

“Look how cute you are,” he whispered, voice rough and tender all at once. “Face all flushed… droolin’ on your lil’ bear… pussy so full of my cum she’s practically purring. My pretty girl… my perfect girl.”

He turned your face gently with scarred fingers under your chin, tilting you just enough so he could lean over your shoulder and kiss you slow. Soft at first — scarred lips brushing yours, tasting the salt of your tears and the cherry gloss long smeared away. Then deeper, tongue sliding lazy against yours, swallowing every tiny whimper you gave him while his cock stayed perfectly still inside you, just throbbing, just warming, just owning.

You moaned into his mouth, a soft and needy sound as another warm trickle of cum leaked out around his base, sliding slow down your puffy lips. Your clit still swollen and achy, brushed the underside of his shaft with every tiny shift, sending little aftershocks through your core that made your walls flutter and clench around him again.

“Haah…fuck — there she goes,” he groaned against your lips, kissing you deeper, filthier. “Clenchin’ so sweet even when she’s just holdin’ me. Feel all that cum sloshin’ around inside you? So warm… so sticky… gonna keep it all plugged up in there till it’s leakin’ out slow outta you.”

His free hand slid up and cupped the side of your face, thumb stroking slow over your tear-streaked cheek while he kissed you again and again. Forehead pressed to yours now, breath mingling hot and ragged, his green eyes dark and soft as he stared down at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute like this,” he murmured, pressing another soft kiss to your forehead — lingering, reverent. “All hugged up on my cock… pussy threatenin’ to drool my cum everywhere but still grippin’ me so tight. My good girl… my sweet, stuffed girl. Just stay like this for me, yeah? Let me keep you warm… let me feel how full I made you.”

He rocked once, barely a movement, just a slow grind that stirred the thick load inside you without pulling out. More cum bubbled out hot and slippery coating your puffy lips, dripping slow down to where your clit throbbed against him. You whimpered high and broken — hips twitching instinctively even though you were too spent to chase anything.

Toji shushed you gently, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth again in soft, endless kisses.

“Just this. Just me inside you… keepin’ all that cum nice and warm where it belongs. My pretty girl… my perfect little thing… all hugged up and full for me.”

He wrapped both arms around you then, pulling your soft body back flush to his chest, cock still buried deep, still throbbing slow, still leaking the last drops into your stuffed, creamy pussy. Forehead kisses rained down, soft, sweet and lazy in the best way, while he held you close, letting you feel every heartbeat through his shaft, every warm pulse of cum settling deeper inside you.

“Stay just like this,” he whispered one last time, lips lingering on your forehead. “My cute, sweet girl… mine.”

And he didn’t move.

Just held you there — thick cock warming your poor, gaped, cum-stuffed pussy while you trembled and whimpered and clung to your bear, face buried in his neck, soaking in the sticky, overwhelming heat of being so perfectly, completely full of him.

Toji’s arms locked around your waist like steel bands, scarred hands splaying wide over the soft curve of your lower belly, fingers digging in just enough to bruise the plush skin as he yanked you down hard, with no warning. No slow descent. Just raw, possessive force that slammed your dripping pussy all the way onto his thick, throbbing cock in one brutal, claiming drop.

The stretch hit like lightning — your poor gaped hole, forced to swallow every last veiny inch at once, walls parting wide around the fattened girth until his heavy balls slapped wet against your clit and the fat pink crown punched right up against the deepest part of your cervix again.

You felt it everywhere — hot, overwhelming fullness stretching from your stuffed entrance all the way up into your guts, making your tummy bulge visibly under his palm where he pressed down firmly to feel himself buried inside you.

“Haah…f-fuck — there it is,” he growled low against the shell of your ear, voice wrecked and deep, breath scorching your neck. “Takin’ every thick fuckin’ inch, sweetheart. All of it. No more teasin’. Just my cock stuffed deep where it belongs.”

Your cry ripped out raw and broken — high, desperate wails muffled into the crook of his shoulder as your body jolted from the sudden depth. Your gummy walls fluttered wild around him, clenching helpless. Spasming like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to push him out or suck him deeper.

Slick and leftover cum from before gushed out around his base in thick, creamy ropes,frothing white at the stretch, dripping slow down his heavy sack in warm, sticky trails that soaked into the sheets beneath you both.

He didn’t let you adjust. Just held you there, impaled, trembling, your  pussy clenching greedily around the full length of him — while one hand slid up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back gently but firm so he could see your face.

Tears streaked hot down your cheeks, lips swollen and parted in endless soft whimpers, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth again like you’d forgotten how to swallow.

“Look at you,” he says proudly, green eyes dark and blown with hunger as he stared down at where your puffy lips were stretched thin and glossy around his base — clinging so tight the rim looked almost white-knuckled. “My pretty girl takin’ everything… pussy so full she’s shakin’. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?” His cockhead kissin’ your womb and stirrin’ up all that cum he already pumped in you.

He rocked his hips once, a slow grinding roll that dragged every ridge along your fluttering walls without pulling out. The motion made a wet, filthy squelch, your stuffed pussy protesting the fullness even as it clenched harder, milking him greedy. More thick cream bubbled out — syrupy and white — coating his shaft, dripping down to where your clit throbbed helpless against the veined underside.

“Nngh…Toji —” Your voice cracked,hoarse and wrecked, nails raking down his broad back again, leaving red trails over hard muscle. “S’too much… s’too deep —”

“Shhh, I know, baby,” he murmured, scarred lips brushing your tear-streaked cheek in soft, filthy kisses. “Doin’ so good though. Takin’ this fat cock like you were made for it. Feel how your pussy’s grippin’ me? Squeezin’ like she don’t ever wanna let go. My perfect girl… my sweet girl.”

He pulled you down harder, another sharp yank that seated him impossibly deeper, crown bullying against that spongy spot inside until your back bowed, thighs trembling violently around his hips. Your clit grinding raw against his pelvis — swollen and achy — every tiny shift sending sparks shooting through your core that made your walls flutter and clench harder around him.

Toji groaned deep, the guttural sound vibrating straight through you, then wrapped both arms around your waist, crushing your soft body to his chest. One hand slid down to cup your ass, fingers spreading the plush cheeks wide so he could feel where you were stretched obscene around him, while the other pressed firm over that faint bulge in your tummy, thumb stroking slow circles over the spot where he could feel himself moving inside.

“Fuck…look at this,” he breathed, voice thick with praise and filth. “My cock makin’ a pretty little bump right here… fillin’ you up so good you can see it. Gonna keep you right here… just like this”… Cock-warmin’ you deep while he kisses your sweet mouth.

He tilted your chin up, scarred thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, then claimed your mouth in a slow, filthy kiss. Tongue sliding deep, tasting the salt of your tears and the cherry gloss long gone, swallowing every broken whimper you gave him while his cock throbbed hot and heavy inside your stuffed pussy.

No thrusting. Just deep, possessive grinding — tiny rolls of his hips that stirred the thick load of cum already flooding your cunt, making it slosh warm and sticky against your walls.

You moaned into his mouth, soft needy sounds, as another warm trickle leaked out around his base, sliding slow down your puffy lips to where your clit pulsed against him. Your pussy clenching helpless and fluttering wild — threatening to drool more of that creamy mess if he moved even a little, but he didn’t. Just held you impaled, full, trembling, while he kissed you deeper, tongue fucking slow into your mouth in the same lazy rhythm his cock was grinding inside you.

“So fuckin’ cute,” he whispers against your lips between kisses, forehead pressing to yours, breath mingling hot and ragged. “All hugged up on my dick… pussy so full she’s shakin’. My pretty girl… my perfect little thing… takin’ everything I give her. Gonna stay just like this… keep you warm and stuffed… let you feel everything while I kiss you stupid.”

Wanting to feel you constantly, he kept pressing soft kisses to your forehead, then your temple, to your cheek and your mouth again — endless, filthy affection while his arms stayed locked around you, cock buried to the hilt, cum sloshing warm and sticky deep inside your gaped, creamy pussy.

“Mine,” he murmured one last time, lips brushing your forehead in a final, claiming kiss. “All fuckin’ mine.”

And he didn’t move.

Just held you there, thick cock warming your stuffed, trembling pussy, while you whimpered and clung and soaked in the overwhelming heat of being so completely, perfectly taken.

The room had gone quiet except for the soft hum of the ceiling fan stirring the thick summer air, fairy lights flickering lazy gold across the rumpled sheets like dying embers. You were out cold — completely fucked-out and boneless, face half-buried in the crook of Toji’s neck, one arm slung loose over his chest, legs still tangled with his like you couldn’t bear to let go even in sleep.

Your breathing had evened out into those slow, deep little puffs that made your lips part every exhale, drool already pooling at the corner of your mouth onto his collarbone. Cute. Wrecked. His.

Toji hadn’t moved much since he’d pulled you down onto every thick inch and held you there, his cock still buried deep, warming your cum-stuffed pussy while the last pulses of his cum settled heavy and hot inside you.

Your walls kept fluttering around him in tiny, sleepy spasms — soft little squeezes that milked another lazy bead of seed from his tip even though he wasn’t thrusting anymore.

The mess between you was obscene; thick ropes of cum and your syrupy cream leaking slow out around his base, coating his heavy balls, dripping in warm, sticky trails down your inner thighs and soaking the sheets beneath your ass in a cooling puddle that smelled like sex and salt and him.

He stayed like that for a long while, his arm banded around your waist, scarred palm resting possessive over the faint swell in your lower tummy where his cock and all that cum made you bulge just enough to feel under his hand.

Every time you shifted in your sleep, tiny and little unconscious rolls of your hips, your pussy clenched tighter around him, gummy walls sucking greedy like even unconscious you didn’t want him to leave. It made his cock twitch — still half-hard, still leaking the last sluggish drops into your overflowing heat.

Eventually the ache in his thighs and the way your breathing had gone soft and even, told him you were really gone, deep in that post-orgasm haze where nothing existed but warmth and fullness and him.

Toji exhaled slowly through his nose, a low satisfied rumble in his chest, then started to move.

Careful. So fucking careful.

He slid one big hand under your thigh, lifting it just enough to ease the angle, while the other stayed splayed over your tummy, thumb stroking slow circles over that soft pudge like he was soothing you even in your sleep. Then he pulled.

Slow…

Inch by torturous inch.

The drag was filthy, your poor gaped hole clinging desperate to every veiny ridge as he withdrew, gummy walls fluttering weak protests around the retreating thickness. Slick and cum made obscene wet sounds, soft schlicks and squelches that filled the quiet room, thick white cream bubbling out around his shaft the second he started to slip free.

Strings of it stretched taut between your puffy lips and his glistening cockhead — snapping slow and wet against your inner thighs as he kept pulling.

When the fat pink crown finally popped free with a lewd, sucking pop, your hole gaped open, pink and wrecked, fluttering helpless around nothing. A thick gush of cum followed immediately — hot, sticky ropes drooling slow out of your stretched entrance, sliding down your ass crack in pearly trails, pooling warm under you on the already soaked sheets. Your clit, still swollen and flushed, twitched once at the sudden emptiness, a tiny bead of cream clinging to the tip like a pearl.

Toji stared, breath catching rough in his throat at the sight of his cum leaking from your used little pussy. So much of it. Thick and white and endless, proof of how deep he’d fucked you, how full he’d kept you. Your pussy looked ruined in the prettiest way — lips puffy and parted, hole still trying to clench shut but too stretched to close completely, just drooling his load in slow, obscene pulses.

“Fuck,” he breathed voice low, wrecked, almost reverent. Toji finally took a long inhale, eyes locked on the sight. His pretty girl’s pussy all sloppy and leaking his cum like she couldn’t help it even asleep. Fuck… it made his cock twitch soft against his thigh, already half-interested again for just looking.

He leaned down slow and carefully…not to jostle you too much, breath fanning hot over your sensitive skin and pressed the softest, filthiest kiss right to your swollen clit. Gentle. Worshipful.

Lips barely brushing the swollen bud…a warm, lingering press that made your hips twitch tiny in sleep, a soft whimper slipping from your throat. He kissed it again…slower, tongue flicking out just once to taste the mix of your cream and his cum still clinging there. Salty-sweet messy and perfect.

“My pretty girl,” he whispered against your pussy, voice so low it was more breath than sound. “Took me so deep… kept me warm all night. Look at you leakin’ my cum even when you’re sleepin’. So fuckin’ cute.”

Scarred lips brushing the sensitive bud, gentle and lingering, his tongue flicking out once to taste the mix of your cream and his cum clinging there. You whimpered in your sleep, a soft, needy little sound. Your hips twitched forward instinctively even when unconscious, thighs trembling once before settling again.

One more kiss, open-mouthed this time…lips sealing soft around your clit for a heartbeat, sucking the tiniest pull that made your thighs tremble before he let go. 

Toji smiled against your pussy…slow, dangerous and so fucking tender, then kissed higher; one soft press to your puffy mound, another to the soft dip of your lower belly where the bulge was slowly fading. 

“Fuck… gotta move, baby,” he rasped, voice gravel-thick with leftover lust and something softer underneath. “Your dad’s gonna be home soon. Can’t leave you lookin’ like this… all fucked-out and leakin’ me everywhere.”

He didn’t let you wallow in it.

He moved careful, almost gentle, sliding off you and scooping your limp, trembling body into his arms like you weighed nothing. Your legs dangled uselessly; your head lolled against his shoulder; your ruined pussy leaked a slow, sticky trail down his abs as he carried you to the tiny attached bathroom.

He set you on the edge of the tub softly with utter care, then ran warm water over a clean washcloth. No rough scrubbing. Just slow, careful wipes, dabbing away the cum and slick smeared across your inner thighs, between your ass cheeks, over your swollen mound. He was thorough, gentle thumbs parting your puffy lips just enough to clean the creamy mess still oozing from your gaping hole, wiping slow circles around your clit until you whimpered and twitched.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing your forehead while he worked. “Gotta get you all clean… can’t have you drippin’ all over the place when your dad walks in.”

When you were as clean as he could get you, skin still flushed and sensitive, pussy still puffy and tender, he carried you back to the bed. He stripped the worst of the soaked sheets (bundling them into a ball to deal with later), flipped the comforter over the damp spot, and tucked you in slowly, pulling the soft blanket up to your chin, smoothing it over your trembling body like you were something precious.

He knelt beside the bed for a long minute, just watching you, then leaned down and pressed a final, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. Slow. Drooly. Tongue brushing yours one last time like he was memorizing the taste.

He pulled the rumpled sheet up over your body, tucking it around your shoulders gentle and careful, like you were something precious he didn’t want to break even though he’d just spent hours fucking you… making sure your shoulders were covered, your bare feet hidden under the blanket.

He smoothed a hand over your soft tummy, feeling the faint bloat still there from how full he’d left you and then leaned down to kiss your forehead too. Long, tender press of scarred lips.

“My good girl,” he whispered against your mouth, forehead resting against yours. “Took me so fuckin’ well… let me ruin you so pretty… now sleep, yeah? I’ll handle the rest. You just stay tucked in and dream about how full I made you.”

He kissed your forehead again, soft and possessive, then stood.

You watched through heavy lids as he pulled on his sweatpants (still stained, still smelling like sex), grabbed the bundled sheets, and slipped out the door quiet as a shadow.

The room smelled like him.

Like cum and sweat and summer heat.

Your pussy still ached, emptier… now but throbbing with the memory of how thick he’d been, how deep, how much he’d filled you.

You curled tighter under the blanket, legs pressing  together to keep the lingering warmth inside and drifted.

ಇ.author's note: reupload from @/torusbabe

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The living room was lifeless when you first came here. Yoongi’s deteriorating mental health, the tension between the castle mates and a lack of familial bonding left most of the castle in a state of neglect. Nothing was dirty or rundown, just vast of love, care and life. An empty shell too big to fill. Until you all found your home here one by one, and the castle breathed in the growing bond. Taehyung brought out his paintings and with it colour, you brought plants and with it life, Jungkook brought games and therefore laughter, and Jimin brought a keen eye for interior design and with it comfort. And Yoongi, well, Yoongi healed and brought safety.

It seeped into each nook and cranny of the castle. The rundown, actually rundown, attic was repaired and turned into a cozy magic studio for practice as well as decently sized apartments for guests. Hoseok as well as Seokjin and Emma live in them whenever they are around. It is nice when they are because it makes the castle even livelier.

You lie down on the unoccupied side of the couch with a sigh, poking Jungkook’s feet with your own. He reacts by poking you back.

You sigh again. How mundanely boring and yet it brings you a great sense of contentment.

 You aren’t alone on the sofa for long, as Taehyung snuggles into you.

“You are sighing a great deal. What is the matter, sweetest?” he asks in his signature soft voice, kissing your cheek.

“Nothing, just a little bored.”

“Mhm, boredom. I see, a terrible fate indeed.”

“Yeah, but it’s alright. I think a person should have boring days. We’re living a time where we’re constantly exposed to stimuli. It’s good to let the brain reset.”

“I see boredom in a new light. A chance to reset, what an important thing boredom is.”

“I agree. Although, if it lasts more than one day, I get a little restless.”

“Me too.”

“Are you getting along with the painting?”

“Indeed I am. If everything goes well, I shall be finished with it this week.”

“That’s nice. We can hang it in castle somewhere. You have to decide the place.”

“Oh no. No, it is just a simple sketch. I do not wish to hang it.”

“Alright, your call. Do you think that the rain will stop?”

“Mhm, I could not tell you. The sky is rather dark, so I assume it will continue for quite a while longer.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

You enjoy these types of moments with Taehyung. You can talk with him so easily and it reminds you what was it that made you fall for him.

Jungkook shifts on the sofa, taking off his headphones.

“Yoongi’s back”, he says even before the mentioned is in the living room.

Jimin lowers his quill, you and Taehyung look at the door. 

“Hey”, Yoongi, packed with boxes and hair slightly damp, announces his presence.

“Hey, hyungie. Did you get everything?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need help with putting them away?”

“No, thanks. I want to do it alone.”

“Alright then.”

He nods and leaves the room. 

“Huh? Did you fight earlier?” Jimin asks, unaware of Yoongi’s need for personal space.

Jungkook seems a little confused as well. He is used to Yoongi’s deadpan way of talking, but this felt different. 

“No. He said that he is not feeling very social today”, you explain, relaxing Jungkook with it.

“Going grocery shopping is the best idea then”, Jimin says sarcastically, “the grocery store is social hell.” 

“I think it’s relaxing.”

“That’s because you’re insane. Grocery shopping is concentrated stress.”

“If you say so”, you say and settle back against Taehyung. He welcomes you with a cuddle, earning himself a smooch on the cheek. 

“I really like your eyes”, he says, tracing your face.

“A compliment out of nowhere?”

“Yes. It was impossible to keep inside.”

“You’re a cutie.”

You and Taehyung begin to giggle and snicker again while Jungkook returns to his music and Jimin pretends not to be bothered by the PDA. He cannot stand it, but knows that it makes Taehyung happy. He doesn’t want to take away his best friend’s happiness.

Time passes which you spend in cozy harmony and then Yoongi returns. 

He is carrying a cardboard box, calling attention. 

“What’s that?” 

“I had reasons why I wanted to be alone today.”

“Really? Is it something upsetting?”

“No, it’s something good. I hope.”

He sits down on the rug in front of the sofa and puts the cardboard box down. You all join him on the floor, gathering around the box and features soaked in curiosity. 

“What’s that?” you ask.

“Something for you.”

“For me?” 

“Yeah and kinda for everyone. It’ll make sense.”

“Alright?”

“Open it.”

You pick up the box and try to shake it.

“Don’t!” He stops you loudly. “Just put it down and open it carefully.”

“Oh, okay. Did you get me a bomb or something?”

“Open it.” Yoongi bites his nails, knee bouncing up and down nervously. He makes you feel nervous too. You open the box carefully.

Meep!

The smallest kitten stares back at you. Black fur, green eyes and a small antenna tail, it can barely stand on two legs to climb the walls of the box. You all gasp in delighted surprise.