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when an elusive man known as “the curator” hires you under his organization of con artists, you know it’s for more than just your skill set. you accept his offer with motives on your own—find out just what his name is and expose it to his enemies to put yourself on top of the chain. but, as the two of you play a game of cat and mouse, you realize that that’s much easier said than done.
( 𝓷 )。 HAPPY SUNGHOON DAY EVERYONE AAAA!!!! hehe my baby i love him so so much~~ (> <。)♡ guys i literally wrote this all in one day, all in one sitting. i barely remember what happens in this fic because i blacked out ackkk,, i hope you enjoy my loves!! ♡
Nobody has every been able to figure out his name—not even you, and you had tried for the better part of half a year before giving up when all you got were cold leads after cold leads. It was like he was a ghost, or maybe air would be more fitting. He was nowhere and everywhere all at once. He ran the organization that had taken you in under its wing and he was the overseer of everything that happened within it. Nothing escaped past his watchful eye.
Well, nothing except for you. With a twenty million dollar ring on your finger and one of his jackets that you stole out of his closet. It was a nice, leather jacket too that kept you somewhat warm as you walked out into the night in nothing but it and a lacy pair of black panties that still had your arousal pooling in them. You've heard that he's been looking for you ever since, but you know a thing or two about slipping between shadows.
It's how you got your own name, after all—The Silhouette.
When you first got to the organization, the first thing they did with you was take you up to The Curator. He went over what your place in his whole dreamhouse was going to be, what part you would play to help him get what he wants, and—of course—a reminder that if you were to ever betray or try to double-cross the organization that you'd be dead quicker that you could apologize for it. It all went in one ear and out of the other as you leaned forward, plucked one of the lollipops out of the bowl on his desk, and unwrapped the wrapper that labeled it as strawberry. You crumpled the wrapper up in your hand and flicked it back at him as you stuck the lollipop in your mouth and got a good look at him.
He wasn't what you were expecting someone as elusive as his title and position suggested to look like. In fact, you were honestly surprised that you were seeing his face at all. You would've expected that they would've brought you in with a bag over your head and he would've been speaking through a voice modifier on a screen or something, but no. Here The Curator was in front of you, in the flesh and real. It didn't quite shake you, but it did make you wary on why he was so forthcoming.
The Curator was young, around the same age as you were—which lead you to believe that he wasn't the first "Curator" in his family line; perhaps his father or grandfather went by a different name, which you made a mental note of to look into further later—and you could tell that he took his work seriously and held himself with high regard. He wasn't dressed in a suit and tie, but he was still dressed rather formally with black, sleek dress pants, a white long-sleeved button down tucked into them with a dark red tie around his throat, and a navy blue sweater covering it all.
His black hair was styled enough that the long strands were out of his face but not slicked back and away from it. Your tongue moved around the lollipop, taking in the flavor before you swallowed it down, and his eyes dropped briefly to the way your lips parted and the lollipop slid tightly out of the constraint of your mouth as he waited calmly for you to speak. Eyes running along his features, you forced your brain to commit them to memory incase you needed the information of his appearance later.
Plump, pinked lips were almost pressed together, giving you an indication of the way he was feeling through the purposefully neutral expression he instead offered you. He had a slender nose with nostrils that flared at your unprofessionalism the slightest bit. A smile grew on your face as your eyes raised higher along his face and he watched you, There were two moles that contrasted against his skin prettily, one that sat on the side along the bridge of his nose and another on his cheek right below the center of his eye. When he turned narrowly to nod at the other guy who brought you to him, you noticed he had another by his ear. He turned back to you and his dark eyes met your analytical stare. You looked away from his gaze and finished your sweep of his face—thick brows the same black color of his hair that twitched as if he wanted to furrow them when your eyes left his.
You leaned forward towards his desk and let your elbows rest on the edge of it as you moved to the edge of your seat. The thin jacket you're wearing falls open and slips off your shoulder, giving him a perfect view of your cleavage on full display for him, but his eyes don't leave yours to look. Pointing the lollipop in your hand at him, you ask, "Now, do you do the dirty work when killing people? Or do you have guys for that?" Your head nods in the direction of the burly guy manning the door of The Curator's office, his hands pressed behind his back in perfect form. You sweeten your ask with a strawberry-flavored smile. "Y'know, con artist to con artist…" You stick the red lollipop back in your mouth and suck on it.
The Curator's thick eyebrow raises just a bit before he smiles back at you. It's a closed-mouth smile and it doesn't reach his eyes. You still can't decipher what the subtle look in his eyes is. "Well… con artist to con artist, lets hope that you never find out," is all he says to you. His voice is smooth, not too deep but deep enough that it would be easily recognizable. The smile falls quickly from his face.
The two of you stare at each other for a moment in complete silence and it was this moment when you knew that a challenge had just been enacted. You didn't know for what yet, but you'd know soon enough. Without looking away from you, The Curator says, "Big Man, take her to where she'll be saying." You don't make any motion that you were planning on moving. "Be mindful of the cameras," he adds to you, "my eyes are everywhere."
"Are you going to watch me?" you ask, voice low and sultry as the smile on your lips grows more around the lollipop in your mouth.
He tilts his head slightly and you finally figure out the look in his eyes. Behind his stony appearance he was analyzing you too. "I watch everyone," The Curator says, and his voice comes out the tiniest bit deeper. You hum, and take the lollipop out of your mouth again. You hold it out until it's just centimeters from his lips. Behind you, you can feel the weighted stare of "Big Man" on your back.
For the first time since walking into his office, you watch as the neutral demeanor of The Curator crumbles around the edges as he hesitates. You're still staring into each other's eyes, daring the other to look away first, and you refuse to move until he gives in to you. The first, hairline crack shoots through The Curator as he opens his mouth and leans towards your hand a little to wrap his lips around your lollipop. You stare at each other for a few seconds longer before he grabs your hand that's still around the soggy stick of the lollipop with his own. The smile slips from your face as you pull your hand from his and stand up from his desk, quickly turning your back to him now that you've gotten what you wanted out of this meeting.
"Come on, 'Big Man.' Lets go," you speak without looking back and Big Man opens the door for you. "Enjoy the show!" you throw behind you as you walk through it.
The door closes behind you and you start piecing together your plan as Big Man starts to take you up to the rooms. He's explaining how the room is temporary as they get your apartment together for you—which you know is easily code for bugging your apartment—but you don't listen to his words much. Instead, your mind races as you come up with a way to get what you want out of this and how everyone here factors into that.
Before you round the corner, you look over your shoulder finally. The Curator leans against the door frame of his office, watching you and Big Man walk away as he swirls your lollipop around his mouth. For the briefest of seconds, your eyes meet his again before the wall cuts the two of you off from each other and you see him with his walls down. The once subtle look that was swirling around his eyes like your lollipop in his mouth is now intensified without the barriers around it and, despite your better judgment, your heart picks up with it as you realize what it really was now that you know it wasn't wholly analytical—desire.
Your fingers run through The Curator's black hair before you grab onto some strands at his scalp to pull his head away from yours. His lips are pried off of yours, but the two of you are still connected by the string of saliva that refuses to give. His mouth tastes like the lollipops he's always sucking on from his desk, this time tasting of cotton candy. With his head still pulled back, The Curator looks at you through hooded, lust-filled clouded eyes. "Tell me to stop and I will," he murmurs, his lips reaching for yours again but you keep a firm hold on him. You didn't want him to, but you kept your traitorous mouth closed so you wouldn't speak the words.
His words were a repeat of the ones you breathed to him just months ago. It was during your search of trying to get any information about him, but of course you didn't. He was nowhere, nothing—he said so himself, but you couldn't accept that fact. So you did what you knew how to do best, you tried your hardest to seduce the information out of him.
The door to his office wasn't guarded, but through the frosted glass door you could see his shadow moving around. You got the tiny microphone ready in your palm as you walked towards it. When you pushed the door open and stepped in front of his desk, he didn't even look up from his paperwork. It was silent for a couple moments before he even addressed you. "Is there something you need, Silhouette?" he asks you as his pen runs across the paper. You watch as his quick handwriting appears until he flips to another page.
You quirk a brow at him at the lack of him using your actual name. You knew that he knew it—of course he knew it—so what was the point of him using your alias? It was probably the first thing that he found out about you, besides your skill set. It felt like another part of the unspoken game the two of you were playing—another challenge. It made you wonder if he knew just what you were up to, but the thought was pulled from your mind as quickly as you thought it. There was high probability that he did. After all, he has eyes everywhere.
It made you question the lack of a bodyguard at his office door now and the only logical reason that you could think of as to why was that he already knew you were going to come to him. You licked the top row of your teeth as you crossed your arms against your chest and looked at him. It was another challenge that he won—another part of the game.
You rounded his desk, startling him a little. The Curator pushed his lavish, wooden velvet chair back that resembled more of a throne than an office chair. It's wooden legs scratched loudly against the floor as he looked up at you finally. You sat down onto his desk in front of him, your body between his legs, not caring if you messed up his paperwork. You grabbed onto the edge of it and stuck on the microphone onto the underside of his desk, far enough that he wouldn't be able to feel it with a quick swipe. Tilting your head, you smiled big at him.
"What are you doing?!" he hissed at you, grabbing hold of the arms of his chair tightly. "Can't you see that I'm working?" You had to admit, he plays his part well.
You looked to the side to his monitor that was still on. On it was live feeds of places around the building. Every few seconds the feeds would change to different ones before they looped back to the beginning. Just as you looked over, the feeds flipped over to a very familiar room—the room that you were staying in. There were cameras pointed at every inch of your room, some hidden and some obvious like by the door. The feeds changed again until it was various angles of your closet, then the living space, until they flipped to your bathroom.
You hum as they changed to the hallway outside of your room where someone was walking down it. They stopped at a door a few doors down from yours and unlocked it with their keycard to go in. After there was no more motion detected, the camera feed looped back to the angle of your room that showed your bed. Your eyes flicked back over to The Curator. He didn't even look the slightest bit ashamed, he just continued to glare at you for disrupting him working. You realized he was waiting for you to say what you were doing in his office.
"Are these your eyes?" you ask him, leaning away from the monitor to face him fully again as the smile remained on your face. You weren't at all shocked that there were cameras in your room—not even in the bathroom—but you were a little shocked that he was watching them so openly while working. The Curator said nothing, just continued to silently seethe at you. You leaned back on his desk a little and crossed your legs, one of the heels that you wore hovering above his crotch. "You should've let me know you were watching, I would've gave you a little striptease or something," you say arching your back as you let your eyes flutter closed. Opening them again, the smile grew on your face as his tense jaw worked, you continue through a soft moan, "Do I ease your stress, Curator?"
"I did tell you I was watching," is all he responds. Your mind flashes back to the time you first met in this very office. "Be mindful of the cameras." He wanted you to find them, wanted you to know he was watching every angle of you. That no matter what you try to do, you couldn't hide it from him and his looming presence. He was at the top of this organization and you were beneath him. A pawn to be placed wherever he pleased.
The knowledge of it all did send pleasureful tingles up your spine, you couldn't lie. It made your legs tighten together more and turned you on. You took his white-knuckled hand and trailed it slowly up your thigh, your hand above his. Goosebumps flared up around where his hand touched your skin and his eyes moved up your body with your hands. When you edged closer to the bottom hem of your short black dress, you moved his hand closer to the inside of your thigh. "I can still give you that striptease if you want," you tell him lowly, bringing his hand further in with yours. The Curator pulls his eyes away from your hands and looks at you with that same dark glare. He desperately tries to hold on to his anger and annoyance, but you can see it slipping away from him the closer his hand gets to where your arousal lies. "Relieve you of all your stress…"
The Curator scoffs and pulls his hand away from yours like you're on fire when the tips of his fingers dip beneath the hem of your dress. You know you got to him with the way his Adam's apple bobs at his throat. "I want you to leave so I can finish this paperwork," he says sharply, his eyes still on yours. You giggle at him. He goes to move forward, bringing his chair with him, but you press a shiny black heel to his chest to stop him. The Curator freezes and you watch as his eyes move up your heel to your leg until they reach a view that is just out of sight for him. His eyes linger on the way your dress rides up from your outstretched leg before they then move up from it agonizingly slow until they meet yours again. If the two of you were wilder animals, the way that he looked at you would've let you know that he was the predator and you were the prey.
You tsked at him. "Only if you ask me nicely."
His brows draw together as you drop your heel from his chest and uncross your legs fully. You lean forward again so your faces are just mere feet away, waiting for one of you to close the gap, and you relish in the internal battle that he's having with himself that he's trying to hide from you. "Tell me, Curator, I'm so curious… What's your name?" you ask with a saccharine smile, honey dripping from your voice. You look below you at the papers on the desk—at least, at the information that your ass isn't covering. "Is it on these documents?"
You were toying with him, but you did want to know. Annoyingly, it wasn't. He signed the bottom of them with The Curator, much to your dismay. There was some information about some ring, though. You figured it was another heist for someone.
There was no use in hiding what you were in his office for anymore, what you were doing in this organization anymore. You didn't need him or his contacts, you could con people easily on your own. Besides, working with others was messy and you loved having the glory of the things you steal all to yourself. When you worked under someone it always got boring—you liked to be on top of them. Why would you do something that didn't get you what you wanted?
When he found you, he should've known this. There was no doubt that he looked into your past. The Curator probably knows you better than you know yourself. It was time you cut to the chase.
"Leave," he gritted out. His breathing was starting to become labored, more and more so the more he tried to resist himself.
"Why?" you pouted. "I thought we were talking. What, you don't want me anymore, baby?" You shifted on his desk. "You didn't say that when you were watching me." You nodded over to his monitor again as you glanced over to it. When you had first looked at it, all you focused on what the camera feeds flipping between different angles of your room. You hadn't even realized that the feeds of your room were all on a specialized channel with your actual name on it. The rest of the channels were common areas around the building, but yours was at the top.
"Does my channel mean nothing to you?" you ask teasingly as you slide off of his desk and further between his open legs. When you do, his legs spread open more, his body inviting you in despite his mind trying not to. You run your hands up the black long-sleeved button up he wore and stop at his collarbones as you lean into him more. "Are you annoyed with me? You can take it out on me, you know."
The Curator inhales sharply and you smile at him. Slowly, you climb on top of him until you're straddling him. You wrap your arms around his neck and move closer to him until your body is pressed against his. His hands fly off the arms of the chair and linger in the air where your hips are, a slight tremble to them. You look into his eyes as you grind your hips towards his, pressing yourself down hard into his lap. "Tell me to stop and I will," you breathe in a sultry low tone, only for his ears to hear.
There are people passing by his door, you can see the faint shadows of them as they do. The Curator's office isn't soundproof, at least, not that you can tell with a quick look around. Maybe you'll test that theory. If he realizes that it's still the middle of the day and anyone can come knocking, he doesn't mention it to you.
Instead, his eyes flutter closed for a brief second and he swallows down the sound he almost makes. Through his teeth, he asks, "What's your endgame?" His eyes open and your name falls from his lips after, his voice smooth. You lips part at the sound of it. The Curator's hands grab your hips and he inhales sharply again, this time knowing that there's no sense in hiding it from you when you're so close.
You move to the side of his face, your lips hovering over his skin as your smile spreads across your face. He tries to turn to you, but you grab his chin. Your breath fans along his cheeks as you face him again. You let your lips brush against his feather-light. It was your turn to ignore questions. "Yes or no?" you ask him in a whisper, and you speak the words as close to his lips as you can without kissing him.
The Curator hesitates. You think that he would've let you continue teasing him until he came back to his senses or until someone interrupted the two of you. Your taken aback when he slams his lips against yours, his hand sliding up from your hip to the back of your neck so you can't tease him anymore. You moan against his lips when you try to pull away and he doesn't let you, letting his actions speak his "Yes" for him. It was a shocking reminder of who The Curator is. How silly of you to forget about that in this bubble that you pulled him in to. If he wanted something, he takes it.
Its why you were here—he wanted you. You may have a part of him wrapped around your finger, but you could never forget that he had you clutched tightly in his hand.
You move your lips with his as he pulls your head back so your lips part at the pain of him pulling at your hair. He slips his tongue in your mouth and steals your breath as he kisses you harder. Only when your holding his shirt tight in your hand and moving your hips against his growing erection with fervor does he pull away from you. You gasp in a breath, but his mouth is against yours again before the oxygen can reach your lungs.
Hips staggering, your head spins as the lack of air hits you full force. The Curator digs his hand into your hip hard before he lets go of you fully and pulls his lips away from yours. The two of you breathe heavily together as you catch your breaths and stare at each other. The Curator leans back in his chair and rests his arms on the arms of the chair. His look darkens and you realize that you lost the challenge again. Your stare hardens, but both of you say nothing.
He had you right where he wanted you, on his lap, panting as you tried to catch your breath for more of him, and soaking his fancy dress pants as your arousal pooled in your panties and onto his lap with the way your hips moved. The Curator had tricked you. How foolish of you to think that you could come waltzing in his office and seduce information out of him. A smile grew on his face as he watched the realization spread across your features. He was called The Curator for a reason—why nobody knew who he actually was.
Three quick knocks sounded on the door of his office and bounced off the quiet walls. From the shadow, you could tell it was Big Man. You scoffed at him as you pulled yourself up off his lap. This was a set-up.
He stood with you and caged you against his desk. The Curator's lips brushed against yours and despite your better judgment you leaned forward more and pressed your lips against his. You tried to look away from him, but he brought his hand to your throat and let it linger there before smoothing it up to your chin to make you face him. It was a reminder that you weren't off the hook. "I'll call for you if I want reprieve," he says lowly. You push him away from you.
The seductive persona falls off of you like a second skin and you glare at him as you push off his desk. Your too-high heels dig into your feet when you stand fully and it makes you angrier. You stalk over to his office door, not bothering to give him any more of your time. "Silhouette," he calls after you as you open the door and come face to face with Big Man. Big Man's face is blank, but it's like you can feel the sympathy radiating off of him. The pity. You glare at him too, but he just moves to the side so you're able to step out of the office. You turn back to The Curator, furious. "Don't try to find out what my name is again—you never will. I'll have you killed for trying to look again. Treat this as your warning."
You smile at him, but it's more like baring your teeth. The Curator's demeanor is calm and neutral again as he works on his paperwork, his eyes focused on them as a lollipop stick pokes out from his lips. Next to him, your room flashes between feeds. "Make sure you keep a keen eye on those cameras," you spit out as you hold on to the door of the office tightly. "I want you to watch me."
He doesn't bother to look up. You spin back around to the entrance of his office and stalk out of it.
The Curator pulls you back to him as his trails wet kisses down your neck. He moves them southbound, kissing along your breasts as he makes he way down your stomach. When he reaches your soaked pussy, kissing your clit softly, his breath fans on your dripping arousal as he looks up at you through his dark lashes. "Yes or no?" he asks you, his voice coated in lust and desire. You could see it in his eyes too—he wanted to devour you. And you didn't think that you'd really be able to stop him as a soft moan pushes through your lips and he places feather-light kisses to your wet folds, skirting around where you needed him the most.
"Yes," you breathe out, surrendering yourself to him.
You and The Curator don't cross paths for about a month after he told you to stop looking into him or you'd be killed. The only contact the two of you had was the day after when you came up to your room to find an envelope taped to the outside of your door. Inside of it was a thin strip of paper with his handwriting on it of the words "Nice try." With that, the microphone you stuck on his desk was inside the envelope too. You flipped the piece of paper over to see if he wrote anything else, but of course it was blank. You stepped into your room that day with your middle finger in the air.
The day your paths did cross in person, you were lounging in your room on your bed bored out of your mind. Your mind lazily worked out your plan to figure out more about The Curator as your fingers itched to steal something. You were staring up at one of the camera, lost in your own thoughts. There was a knock at your door and you slid from your bed to see who it was.
Big Man stood on the other side and he didn't have to say anything for you to know that The Curator was calling for you. You sigh, "Give me a second to change." Big Man turns his back to your door as you close it.
You walk back into your room as you glare at one of the cameras. You know he's watching you, you can feel his eyes through the camera lens. He's probably leaned into his monitor, whatever paperwork he was working on abandoned on his desk as his cock gets heavy and starts to leak through his pants like the pervert he is. Well, you were going to give him a show.
You try to remember the hidden camera positions and turn your back to one of them as you face the big camera attached to one of the walls. You watch as what you were told was a stationary camera move to focus on you and you smirk. Grabbing the bottom of your silk, lacy slip dress, you slowly pull it up your thighs as you keep eye contact with the camera. You reveal your lacy black panties, making sure to look behind you towards the direction of the hidden camera, before you pull the dress off excruciatingly slow. You're braless, breasts on full display for him—which you were sure he's already seen by now—as you cup them and run your fingers along your perked nipples.
Looking behind you again, you hook your thumbs under the hem of your panties. You bend over so your ass points towards the camera as you start pulling them down slow too. The arousal of being watched drips out of you as you drag your panties down. You pull them halfway down your thighs before you let them fall to the floor. With a giggle, you grab your asscheeks and spread yourself open so he can see how wet you are at his stare. You weren't sure if there was sound connected to the cameras, so you refrained from going any further.
"Perverted asshole," you speak loud enough just incase he could hear you, as you walk over to your closet to get dressed.
Opening your door, you step out of your room to meet with Big Man and the two of you walk down to where The Curator's office was. The entire way there you could feel his eyes on you, watching you from all angles. The feeling only stopped when Big Man knocked on his office door and let you in.
You smiled when you looked over and saw his monitor shut off and held back your laugh. He was lucky he was wearing black dress pants today.
Sitting down in the chair at his desk, you raised your brows at him. The Curator was leaned back in his own chair, papers stacked in neat little piles in front of him on his desk. He moved his lollipop from one cheek to the other as he grabbed one of the pages without looking away from you and handed it to you. You snatched it out of his hand and scanned over it.
It was a heist. He wanted you to rob a jewelry store, basically. It was a beginner's job. Child's play. Did he really think this was all you were capable of, robbing some measly jewelry store for a cheap necklace and ring? You looked back up at him as you crumpled the paper in your hands and threw it at his face, scoffing. Annoyingly, he ducked, but there was a hint of a smile on his face as he looked down at the stacks of paper on his desk before plucking one from a stack and handing it to you.
"It's an upper echelon event. The host, Chou Tzuyu, is having a housewarming party for her recent purchase of a multimillion dollar mansion." You look up from the paper to The Curator with a raised brow. "I want you to be there," he says and his voice is almost soft. "In a room, Tzuyu has her jewelry on display. Each piece cost millions. Take whatever you want, but you must grab these two pieces."
He slides another piece of paper to you on his desk. It has two pictures printed out onto it, one of a beautiful diamond covered necklace with dots of rubies in it and the other of a radiant-cut diamond ring that had more diamonds glittering along it's intricately carved band. Your eyes widened at the pieces and a smile spread across your face. "What could you possibly need with these pieces?" you laugh in shock as you look at the images again.
"I'm going to sell them, of course," The Curator says simply.
You just shake your head, but read over the other piece of paper again. You weren't going to pass this up just because you were annoyed with The Curator. The half-baked plan forming in your mind could wait, you were going shopping. Not that he would let you pass it up, anyway.
"When?" you ask him, instead.
The Curator goes back to his paperwork as you joyfully daydream about all the new jewelry you're going to have soon. He talks around his lollipop, "Tomorrow night. I secured you an invite an hour ago."
You wanted to climb into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck as you kissed him, but you knew that was irrational. You pushed the want out of your mind. All he did was give you a job. Besides, you didn't want to give him what he wanted anymore—and you knew that he wanted you to embarrass yourself again. You kicked yourself for wanting to kiss him again. What was wrong with you? He wasn't any different from the other men that you seduced. So why couldn't you stop thinking about the way his lips felt on yours? Why did you want him to steal your breath away again? What made him stand out from the rest?
Instead of going through your own psyche on the matter, you chalked it up to his elusiveness. His mysteriousness lured you in to him. You wanted to break him open and see how he worked. You wanted to know his name. That was all.
"I'll get my outfit ready," you say evenly, trying to not seem too over the moon about the job you were offered.
You get up to leave, but The Curator stops you. "Oh, and Silhouette?" he calls. You turn in his direction and he waves you back over to his desk. You don't even think as you walk back over to him, your mind swirling with the event happening tomorrow. When you stand next to him, he looks up from paperwork and turns to you. You can't lie and say your heart doesn't pick up at his stare. "I told you I'd call for you if I wanted a show. Don't do that again."
You smile at him as his words go in one ear and out the other. You had just finally won one of the challenges. "Or what?" you ask, stepping close to him. This time, he doesn't feign being all flustered. "You'll punish me? Bend me over your desk?"
Before you even get to think about gloating over knowing he was watching you through his cameras, your face is being pushed down into the papers on his desk. He pulls your arms tight behind your back as he presses himself against your ass. Leaning down, he moves his lips to the shell of your ear. "I'll do more than that to you," he warns you in a whisper. You bite your lip as you turn to look at him.
He pulls you back up from his desk, your arms still tight behind your back as he holds you with one of his hands. "Do you promise?" you tease as his chest comes flush with your back. The Curator places his other hand down onto your stomach, right below where your belly button sat. He presses down hard onto the spot, and you don't need him to speak it to know what he's implying. Almost instantly, you can feel yourself soaking through your panties and you're sure that The Curator is aware of it with the way your dress bunches up around your hips.
His hand inches down further, but stops right above where you're throbbing for him. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck and the way his expression remains neutral. His hold on your arms tighten and you moan a little as your shoulders start to ache. "I promise," he says at your ear.
The Curator lets you go and sits back down at his chair as he looks at you up and down. There's intense heat radiating off of your body and your chest heaves as you smooth down your dress. He watches as you pull your dress down over the peek of your panties and the wet spot growing on it. You sit down in his lap, but he just moves his arms around you as he continues to work on the stacks of paperwork on his desk. You lean over, making sure to rub your ass on his lap, and grab the papers he gave you. Twisting in his lap, you look at him and the lollipop sticking out of his mouth, but he just stares past you as he writes on the page in front of the two of you.
You take the lollipop from his mouth and his eyes flick over to yours. Coming closer, you brush your lips against his, not wanting to be the first one to kiss him again. He pulls away from you a little as another challenge, but you don't move closer again. The Curator waits for a moment and you can see the ghost of a smile on his lips as he closes the distance between the two of you and presses them against yours. You kiss him slowly, not yet wanting to let him take so much from you again. He obliges and you smile against his lips at the way his arms remain around you and on his desk.
Pulling away, you raise your brows at him smugly. Two victories in one day, what does he have to claim for himself? He captures your lips in a quick kiss again before turning away and working again. "Jay will be your plus one to the event," The Curator nods to the papers clutched in your hand. "He'll be talking to you tomorrow to go over all of the details you both need to make sure the night goes smoothly."
You had met some of the others, Jay included, the day you first got to the building. It was at lunch and after Big Man had showed you around your room. Jay went by Nightstalker, so you were told by the paper in your hand. A part of you was bothered by the fact that it was Jay going with you instead of The Curator himself. You didn't even know why. You knew that he rarely went on his own heists these days, instead opting to set them up for his clients. He only showed out when it was a particularly big heist and he wanted to be there to make sure everything went the way he wanted it to himself. Still, a part of you deflated at it and no matter how hard you tried to push the feelings away, they just kept coming back. Maybe it was the fact that you were sitting in his lap while he was working, maybe it was the cat and mouse game the two of you kept playing, or maybe it was the way he kissed you, but you knew you had to start pulling yourself away soon before you got too caught up in it all.
That was a mistake you were never going to make again.
"You taste like blue-raspberry," is all you replied to him as you stuck his lollipop in your mouth. You stood from his lap and moved towards the door, but he grabbed your wrist. You looked back at him, stupid for letting the hope swell in your chest.
The Curator's hand trailed down your wrist, his hand lingering in yours for a brief moment before he let you go. His eyes focused on the way you sucked on his lollipop for a second, his throat bobbing, before he turned away. You lingered next to him for a second, the hope crashing down into your chest, before turning and walking out of his office.
When you got back up to your room, there was a large box wrapped with a silk red ribbon sitting on your bed. You looked up to the camera, confused, before you pulled at the bow. You opened the box and inside laid a black dress with a note on top of it. Picking up the note, you recognized The Curator's handwriting. The note read: Try it on for me. You couldn't help the smile that grew on your face as you pulled the dress out of its box. You could tell that it was fitted and long, with a slit up the side and backless. Smiling up at the camera, you held the dress close to your chest as you read the note again, this time flipping it over to see if there was anything on the back. You were surprised when there was. I want to see how beautiful you look in it.
You stripped your clothes off again until you were only dressed in your black bra and panties. You grabbed the dress and brought it with you as you walked over to the bathroom. Before you did, you looked up to one of the cameras and mouthed "No peeking!"
When you got the dress on, you came out and walked to the full length mirror that was by your closet. You turned and looked at the backless feature as your hands smoothed down your body. You'd have to figure out a bra situation, but it was gorgeous. Your hands ran down to the slit down the skirt. It wasn't too long nor was the skirt too fitted. It looked absolutely perfect on you, and you knew that it was The Curator's doing. Turning towards the camera on the wall—even though you were sure you remember one in the mirror—you posed for him, silently asking him what he thought of it on you.
You heard a low whirring sound, almost imperceptible if the room wasn't dead silent, before his voice filled your ears. "I told you you'd look beautiful in it," he says, and there's something in the way his smooth voice glides over you that you can't quite catch. You turn back to the mirror and smile, not even worrying that he can see and hear you. Turning so you can see the open back again, you smile more as the fabric dips low on your hips, almost low enough to be scandalous.
"You just want to see me naked again basically," you murmur aloud. "But the fantasy is way more fun, isn't it. All eyes will be on me." He doesn't respond, but you can tell he has that ghost of a smile on his face right now. That's the point, you can almost hear him say. He never said getting the jewelry out of this event was going to be easy for you.
Turning to face the mirror again, your eyes catch on the new set of clothes in your closet. You run your fingers along them as you go to pull one of them out. Of course, they're all in your size. You smile more, moving back to the mirror as you held one of the dresses up to your body. "I didn't ask for these," you say to him, not sure if he's still listening. You weren't complaining though.
It takes a moment before you hear his voice again. You're looking over the way the black dress looks on you again when he voice rings out into the room. Somehow, it feels closer. Like he's actually in the room, standing behind you as he admires you in the dress he got for you to wear. "Take it off," he says lowly. You ignore him as you debate on how to wear your hair. The Curator speaks again, this time more firmly as his low voice gets gravelly. "Take it off."
You hide your smile as you twist in the mirror so you can see where the zipper is on the dress. You take it and pull it down the silky material slowly, the intricate black flower designs glittering in the light. He must've either forgot to turn the microphone back off, or he wanted to let you hear him, as you listen to the distinct sound of his belt coming undone. You hear his heavy breath as you let the dress slip off your body and onto the floor. "It's going to get wrinkled," you say, but you already know he doesn't care. He'd get someone to fix it later. You stand in front of the mirror in nothing but your lacy black bra and panties.
"The rest," he breathes out a single command. And you take them off too.
The sounds are low now, but you can distantly hear the wet sound of him spreading his precum down his cock as he curses under his breath. "Now go lay on the bed. Don't move from it."
You leave the large closet, giggling as you strut over to your king-sized bed. You slowly climb onto it, making sure your ass is in the air for him, as you crawl to the center of it and lay down on your back and pose for him. You don't give him all of the satisfaction, though. You keep your feet apart, but press your thighs and knees together so if he wanted to see a full view of you he would have to flip between different camera angles. You push your breasts together with one of your arms as your other hand rests beneath your belly button where his hand pressed into you earlier. It was clear what you wanted from him.
Through the microphone, you hear the way he groans at you and the smile on your face grows until you're beaming. "You're such a fucking tease," he tells you in that same low and dark voice. You just giggle, arching your back for him when you hear his mouse clicking and his hand moving faster.
"Says the pervert getting off by watching me," you shoot back. He moans under his breath at your words, the wet sounds from him growing. Neither of you care that your coworkers could potentially hear the two of you. In fact, you think it turns the both of you on more at how wrong it all is. You push you hand down further as you ask him flat out. "Do I turn you on?" He doesn't answer, but you hear his breathing pick up. Your back arches again as you eyes flutter shut and you moan his name. All you could think about in the moment is how much better this would be if you knew his actual name. If you were moaning that instead of The Curator.
It's almost like he can hear your thoughts, can physically see that half-baked plan get more and more solid as you moan for him more. "Open you legs for me and touch yourself," he breathes out in another command. You almost ignored him before he added: "And I'll give you a hint."
Your eyes open and you look up at the camera. Slowly, you spread open your legs for him and the light catches on your wetness. Your hand reaches between your thighs as you drag your middle finger through your folds and spread your arousal around. Your breath hitches as your finger rubs against your clit and your arm squeezes your breasts together tighter. You keep your stare on the camera as you add your ring finger into your toying before plunging them into your entrance, slow and deliberate. Over the microphone, you hear The Curator let out a low moan.
You fuck yourself with your fingers slow, moaning out about how good it feels. The sound of his hand jerks his cock faster and you wonder if he's still in his office in the presence of everyone or if he crept off to the security of his own penthouse apartment on the top floor. Your hips lift towards your hand and your fingers plunge into your wetness deeper as you moan his name again. "Come to me," you moan out. "Your fingers would feel so much better… Can reach so much deeper…" Your hips roll against your palm. "You would fuck me so good," you breathe out as you get yourself off more on the possibility.
Brows furrowing, your thighs snap shut as you moan out his name more, begging him to come to you—cum with you. You legs open again as your arms fall limp at your sides and your release drips out of you. The Curator's voice surrounds you your chest rises and falls heavily. "Stay just like that. Don't move a fucking inch." His moans pick up and grow louder, and you hear him fuck his wet hard cock into his hand faster, until the microphone suddenly cuts out.
You lay disappointed in the bed as you press you thighs together and sit up. Sliding from the bed, you move to the bathroom to go and take a shower as what you just did settles on you. The Curator won—again. He was never going to give you that hint. You let the shower water run as you grabbed a fresh towel and wash cloth.
"What are you doing?" he asks you, his voice breathy and staggered. It just makes you more annoyed with him at cutting you off from the best part. You ignore him and step into the hot water instead and harshly flick the curtains closed. You knew that there was a camera inside of the shower, but you just pretended that it wasn't there—that he wasn't there. Instead you let the water wash over you and rinsed the cum off the insides of your thighs as you lathered soap on your wash cloth and began washing your arms.
A few moments passed before you swear you heard the bathroom door open. You ignored the sound until you were jolting at the shower curtain being pulled back. You whipped around to see The Curator, your fearful eyes meeting his, as your mouth parted in shock. He stepped inside the shower with you, completely naked. "What the fuck?!" you shout, your eyes scanning him, but he turns you around before you can get a good look of anything besides his chest.
"Don't turn around," he tells you and his hands move to your hips as he moves closer to you. His lips kiss along the wet skin of your shoulders as he wraps an arm around you and takes the wash cloth from you hand. You try to get a look at him through your peripheral vision, but all you can see is his black hair. He runs the cloth down your back slow as he starts to wash you in silence.
Your mouth parts to open to ask him how he got inside your apartment, but it quickly clamps shut. He owns the building, it's not like it would've been difficult. He already had a copy of your keycard if his gifts were anything to go by. His thumb rubs circles at your hip, spreading around the soap that his other hand is washing you with. "Why?" you ask him instead.
It was such a general question. A Catch-22. You could be referring to anything, and you didn't elaborate as the question hung in the steamy air between the two of you. You were wary of giving too much of yourself to him too soon. But, it was like he was inside of your head. He spoke your own sentence back to you. "Tell me to stop and I will."
Despite what he told you earlier, you turned to face him. Your brows furrowed as you looked at him and tried to stop the emotions flowing through you from showing through your eyes. You wanted to sink down into the drain. You had rules that you had set in place and you were breaking every single one of them right now. You didn't even know his actual name. Yet, here the two of you were. With your eyes, you let yourself be vulnerable with him just this once.
The Curator pulled you close to him. "Eight letters," he says softly.
At first, you didn't understand what he was talking about. That was, until you remembered he said he was going to give you a hint about his name. He runs his wet thumb along your cheek. "My first name," he adds.
He looks into your eyes and whatever you find in his you're content with, for now at the very least. You think about leaning up to kiss him, but before you can even move he's pulling your body into his even more and catching your lips with his. The Curators lips are soft and slow against yours and he lets you set the pace the two of you go at. Your arms wrap around him.
When the two of you pull away, you realize that he gave you two hints instead of only one. You turn around and the two of you shower together as you think over it over and over again. Two hints instead of one. Instead of your usual cat and mouse game, in the confines of your shower the two of you play a different one—hold and share. And when you turn to look at him, motioning in silence for him to turn around so you could wash his back, a quiet thought grows in volume the slightest bit. You'd tell him anything he wants to know, do anything he wanted you to do.
You walk through the event on Jay's arm as you mingle with more guests of the night. You let Jay do most of the talking as you make a mental map of the mansion. And when you finally complete it, you excuse yourself to go "powder your nose". Thankfully, the event was nearly over when you slip upstairs past wine-drunk people in lavish clothing and open the door to where Chou Tzuyu displayed her jewelry. You mind runs quick as you think of how you were going to get the pieces out of this mansion, and your first thought goes to how you're going to have to change your dress.
Or, at the very least, layer something on top of it. Tzuyu's jewelry display was in the same room as her huge walk in closet, so you hurry into there as you glance over the sparkling pieces. You run your fingers through her fine fabrics until you land on a black sparkly cover up. It's sheer enough that your dress will still show through, but thick enough that it will hide the lumps of stolen jewelry in it. You snatch it off of its hanger.
Scurrying back out to the jewelry display, you ponder for a quick second on whether it would be worth it to lock the door, but you just full-send it. You walk about leisurely, making sure you eye each and every piece. Some of them were too garish for your personal taste, but others you plucked right up. You slid the daintier rings on your fingers and clasped some of the necklaces around your neck so they were hidden by the the high neckline of your dress. With the longer ones, you let them hang down your back as an accessory.
You rounded each and every glass case, choosing what you liked and scoffing at what you didn't. You remembered that you weren't here just for you, but that you needed to get the pieces The Curator told you to get. Stopping in front of one of the cases, your eyes landed on the necklace.
It was even more beautiful in person and you raised it up in the air with your fingers gently. A small gasp left your mouth as the diamonds glittered and the rubies sparkled. You clasped it around your neck so it was hidden by your dress, too. You found the ring next and the radiant-cut diamond was even bigger in person. You held it up to the light as you looked at the vines carved into the metal of the band, tiny diamonds pressed into it like leaves and flowers. You slid the ring on your ring finger and giggled as you held your hand out. This piece must've been a special one. It's a shame that Tzuyu wouldn't have it anymore. Instead of keeping it on your finger, you looped it around one of the necklaces you picked up next and hid it within your dress with everything else.
You pushed some bracelets onto your wrists and looped others around your necklaces too. With the earrings, you shoved them into your dress and tried to not move much. Only went you felt like you could barely move your neck did you leave the rest of the room alone. You moved to the mirror and made sure everything was mostly well hidden, and you let out a thank you to Tzuyu herself as your dress looked smooth and her cover up hid any unevenness. Stepping to the door, you peeked outside of it to make sure the coast was clear before slipping out of the room.
When Tzuyu came into her jewelry room in the morning, she was going to be in for quite the surprise. You had picked the place clean.
You walked downstairs and looked around at the guests before your eyes landed on Jay. You went to step towards him before an arm wrapped around yours. Looking over, Tzuyu stumbled into you as just gave you a slightly confused smile. "Sorry if this is a little straightforward, but… I feel like I've never seen you before." Her words slurred together a little and you forced yourself to keep cool. She laughed a little, taking another sip from her glass. "You're very beautiful," she complimented.
Thanking her awkwardly, you reply, "Oh, I'm just a plus one… It's a very lovely home you have!"
Laughing more, Tzuyu looked around before waving her hand in the air. "Oh, this place…" she didn't continue her sentence as her mind veered off into something else. "I hope I see you around again! We have to meet up for brunch tomorrow when everyone's not drunk." She laughs some more and you laugh with her as she calls out someone's name and stumbles towards them. You make a beeline to Jay and wrap your arm around his again.
"I'm feel quite weary," you say the code words as you look up at him and furrow your brows. "Are you ready to go, honey?"
With that, you and Jay slip out the door to the car that is waiting for you just a little down the large driveway. The driver takes off once the two of you are in, and you pat yourself down to make sure that you still had everything, especially The Curator's necklace and ring. You breathed a sigh of relief when you did.
"How much did you take?" Jay asks you in the light of the streetlamps. You look over and just smile at him. A smile blossoms on his own face and he just shakes his head and looks out of the window.
"But look at the way it sparkles in the light!" you say as you hold your hand out towards The Curator. "How could you sell something as pretty as this?"
He gives you a deadpan look as you marvel over the stolen ring on your finger. News about Tzuyu's stolen jewelry broke out a couple days ago and she was in shambles about it. Poor girl. The Curator sighs as he repeats the conversation with you again. "Why do you think I'm selling it."
The Curator was leaned against your headboard as you showed him—once again—all of the jewelry you acquired. You kept styling them in different ways and with different outfits, making him look at each and every one and tell you how beautiful you looked with it all on. And he did. Every single time. Only, now you didn't want to give him the ring you stole for him. It was too pretty and it fit on your finger too well. It would be a shame if it was picked apart and melted down for profit.
"Come on!" you pouted as you crawled onto the bed towards him, your jewelry making you glitter in the lighting. You straddled his lap and wrapped your hands around his neck. "Just look at it on me," you held up for hand for him to see the ring that he was oh-so-familiar with now. "It's perfect!"
He slid the ring off of your finger, sighing. You smile grew. "I'll think about it," The Curator tells you, but with his defeated demeanor you know that you've won him over. You kiss him so hard that the two of you nearly roll off of your bed. He tries to speak again, to tell you that it's not a definitive yes, but you keep pressing your lips against his until he finally takes the hint and shuts up. Instead, he pushes you down onto the bed and spreads your legs open with one of his knees as he roughly pulls the dress that was a gift from him off of you. You sparkle for him and he marks your body with his lips so you remember just who you sparkle for.
The Curator's yes or no question hangs in the air between you for a moment as his breath fans across your wet pussy. His hands grip your thighs hard and his fingers dig into your plush skin, but it only makes you breathe harder. This was the last step for you past the point of no return, and you wanted so desperately wanted to pull back from him and say you weren't ready to give in, but you knew you already have given in. You gave him all of you the moment the two of you started your game and tried to catch the other stumble. You stepped past the point of no return when you had let him shower with you and exchange secrets. There already wasn't any chance of coming back from this.
Complete devotion lied in his eyes, and the longer the silence grew, the more he just wanted to devour you and say your answer for you. Because he already knew what it was without you having to say it. He read it within the lines of your body that were becoming less blurred for him and felt it in the way your body reacted to his touch. It was obvious. So why did you keep fighting against it? Why did you keep hesitating to let him take you into his arms?
It was terrifying for you cause you knew that for The Curator you weren't only The Silhouette anymore. You were something more. Something he could grab on to. You didn't know how to handle it. Inhaling sharply, you dived in head first into the unknown with him and let him guide you to wherever he wanted to take you.
"Yes," you breathe out, surrendering yourself to him.
It had been months since that upper echelon event that you gained so much jewelry from. The Curator had sent you on a few more heists since then, and each one you went on was successful. As a reward, he would give you another piece of him, and in return the two of you would go a step farther as you opened up petal by petal.
This time, he had shown you who was outside of his title and position as The Curator and brought you up to the top floor of the building where he lived. He had his whole private entrance and everything. It was a wonder just how big the building was. The Curator has let you examine every inch of his penthouse apartment and smiled at you when you came up empty on clues that weren't the ones he had already given you. He trailed behind you as you searched like he wanted you to find something, like he was anticipating it. It only made you search harder as his words ran through your mind. Eight letters. My first name. You must've come up with a million different combinations of letters now and each of them were wrong.
In return for him letting you into more of him, for letting you nearly tear his home apart for the one answer that could have the whole building come crumbling down, you stripped yourself naked and laid on his bed to let him do anything he pleased to you. Your body was wholly his, and he treated you like a delicacy as his hands gently roamed every inch of your body.
The Curator kisses your clit again before he's taking the tip of his tongue and licking a stipe up your slit. You try to squeeze your legs together, but his buff arms hold you apart for the taking. He licks another stipe and collects your arousal on his tongue as he glances up and watches you. You're leaned up on your elbows, your face twisted into pleasure as he teasingly licks stripes up to your swollen clit. You grab at his duvet and take the fabric into your balled-up fists as your knuckles turn white. "Please," the plead slips out of your mouth and shocks you. Once it comes out, its like the whole dam you've been trying to hold back cracks open.
He smiles against your pussy as he latches onto it—another challenge won, and your back arches as he sucks your clit into his mouth and rounds his tongue around the sensitive bundle on nerves. The Curator's cotton candy taste still lingers in your mouth and it just makes you wetter as he loudly and unabashedly eats you out.
His tongue prods at your entrance until he's pushing it inside of you to taste you more. He moans against your pussy as he fucks his tongue into you, occasionally flicking it up to show your clit more attention. The Curator spreads you legs apart more and he pushes his face further into you. His tongue explores your folds as his nose rubs against your clit and sends shockwaves through your body. His moans reverberate through you and you can't help the way your hips try to buck up to meet his face.
He pulls away from your core, his mouth covered in spit and his chin dripping your arousal. The Curator looks at you that same predator versus prey look he once gave you so many months ago. You whined out his name, but he digs his fingers into your thighs harder until you looked at him. "Who do you belong to?" he asks you in a low and breathy voice.
Your heart hammers in your chest when your eyes meet his. He looked even more beautiful than the day you first met him. Your hips shift and try to reach his mouth again as you answer him. "You. I belong to you. Eight letters. Your first name."
As soon as the last sentence leave your lips, he's letting spit pour out from his mouth and trail down to your pussy. When it lands just beneath your clit, the warmness flooding you like cold water, you feel your brain turn to mush. The Curator rubs his thumb along your folds and spreads his spit around, before he's spreading you open more and letting his spit drip directly into your entrance. You moan loud at the feeling at your hands try to push down to offer yourself a bit of reprieve, but he pushes your hands away. He rubs circles into your clit again instead, making your breath hitch louder, before he pushes his thumb down into your entrance. You gasp as he moans out at the way your pussy wraps around just his thumb alone. "No matter how many times I fuck you, you're still so damn tight." The Curator repeatedly pushes his thumb into you and you let out a string of moans. "Do I have to keep you on my cock so your body finally recognizes what its made for?"
You nod desperately, more pleads falling from your lips as he pulls his thumb out of you. The Curator bends down and kisses your pussy again before he spreads it open. He wants to take a picture of it, of the way it flutters around nothing from just his touch alone, and frame it so he can plaster it all over his walls. He spits down on it again and smiles at the way your body shudders from the feeling and the way you arch your back more. "Use your words, baby," The Curator tells you. "Or else we can just stop here."
"No!" you beg him, your eyes flying open. He lets another trail of his spit trail down into your entrance and watches the way your eyes rolls back. "Please fuck me. Mould my body to your cock and never let me off of it. I want you so bad, please do whatever you want to me." You words come out scrambled and in a hurry. The Curator rubs his spit into you more as he smiles. You tasted just as sweet as his lollipops.
That gives him an idea as he pulls away from you, much to your dismay and whining. He grabs a strawberry lollipop from his table and takes the wrapper off. He sticks it in his mouth as he walks to you and traps your body beneath his again, then he takes it out and holds it against your lips. You open your mouth for him and suck on the lollipop gingerly, and The Curator is pulling it out of your mouth with a smirk. You lean up on your elbows as you watch him spread you open again and drag the lollipop through your wet folds. He licks his lips before he pushes it inside you slowly and lets out a small groan when it disappears. He does that a few times, teasing you, before he circles the lollipop inside of you and makes you see stars.
You gasp, shocked moans flying from your lips as you try to lift your hips but he holds you down by a hand on your lower stomach. You pressed your lips together tight as you swallow a whine. The Curator moves the lollipop inside of you faster until your pussy flutters wildly around it. You try to push his hand away, try shut your legs, but he has you exactly where he wants you and he's not letting you slip through his fingers.
Before you can even speak, a whimper pulls from your throat and your legs are trembling as you cum hard. The red lollipop still inside of you gets covered in it. Slowly, The Curator pulls it out of you as he sucks in a breath. "Look at how sweet," he says as he takes the lollipop and scoops up some of your cum with it. You can hear the smile in his voice, but you're too busy trying to catch your breath. "I bet you taste even sweeter now."
You look up just in time to watch him put the lollipop dripping with your cum back in his mouth, his eyes fluttering closed. Letting out a small whine, you grab onto his arm. His eyes open to give you a pointed look as he swirls the lollipop around in his mouth. Looking down, The Curator takes the rest of your strawberry-flavored cum on his fingertips and brings that to his tongue too. "I need to feel you," you breathe out. You hand moves over to where he erection was struggling against his jeans and you palm it needily.
Today was the first time you had seen The Curator in something other than fancy formal clothes. He wore medium-washed jeans with a simple t-shirt and a brown leather jacket over it when he had brought you upstairs. The jacket was abandoned somewhere now, but he still had the rest of his clothes on. He hovers over you as he smiles. "Where do you need to feel me?" he asks you, his fingers running through your folds and teasing your entrance. You grabbed onto his shirt tight. You knew that he wasn't going to go any farther until you let him win again.
Moaning against his lips that brushed against yours, you palmed more at his erection. "Inside, I need to feel you inside of me." You breathed the words for kissing him. He smiled against your lips as you started to unbutton his jeans and pull them down for him as his fingers sunk into you. You arched into his chest as his fingers pressed against your walls and spread the inside of your pussy open. He picked up his pace as he moved his fingers quick, the sound of your wetness bouncing off the walls of the room and splattering across his hand. You clutched onto The Curator tightly as your body tensed. "Please," you begged against his lips before kissing him lightly. Your breath was ragged, but you kept placing kisses on his lips until he was finally satisfied.
With one hand, he pulled his shirt off and tossed it off the the side. You watched him with your bottom lip between your teeth and blown out pupils. It must've been something about the way you looked at him, because once he got his jeans and boxers off he was flipping you over and pulling back your arms. You used the mattress to muffle your moan as he fully pushed his big cock inside of you with no restraint. He filled you up so much that you were almost scared he wouldn't be able to pull back out. The Curator pulled you up from the mattress by your arms and you lurched forward as he thrusted into you hard. "I thought we had a deal that you wouldn't hide those pretty sounds from me, baby."
It was less of a question and more of a warning as he pulled your arms behind you tighter. His hips slammed against your ass and your senses blurred. The sounds your bodies made and the way he made you feel was the only thing that you could focus on as you cried out his name. You could tell The Curator's actual name was on the tip of his tongue. You could feel the mystique of it hanging in the air between your moans as his grunts. Tears ran down your cheeks as each harsh thrust felt like heaven again and again. Your eyes rolled back to your skull and if it wasn't for him having a tight hold on your arms you would've fell face-forward into the mattress already.
He suddenly slowed he pace as your pussy fluttered around him and you cried out his name again through tears. The Curator chuckled behind you before using your arms to pulls to closer to his chest. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, teasing you and letting you know that at any time his arm can move up to your throat, and used his other hand to press hard onto your lower stomach. He fucked into you hard, one quick thrust after the other as he moaned into your neck. The staggered sound of his skin slapping against yours made you wet his cock more. "Can you feel me, baby? Is this what you wanted? Yes or no?" he breathes the last question in your ear almost sharply and you don't know how to tell him that it was forever going to be a yes with him.
"Yes, please," you moan out pleadingly. Before your words even fully got out of your mouth he had his big bicep wrapped around your throat and was cutting off your air supply. He pulled you closer to his chest and made you look up into his eyes as he brought back his brutal pace.
You were too fucked out to realize that his sudden change in softness was a warning in it of itself. Your brain was too hazy to see the fear around the edges of his dominating demeanor and in the way he held you close to him like you would leave now that you knew so much. Instead, The Curator told you to open your mouth and immediately you stuck out your tongue for him. He let his strawberry-flavored spit drip off of his tongue and onto yours—and you swallowed it all down eagerly. The lack of oxygen made your eyes squeeze shut as you tried your hardest to catch your breath around his tightening headlock. The whole exchange made you cum again as tears slid down your wet cheeks and your whole body went limp in his arms.
The Curator fucks it back into you, slow and deliberate as he pushes his own cum deeper inside of you with a moan against your lips. Lazily, you chase after his lips despite needing to breathe and he lets go of your throat so you can. Your inhale is raspy, but you don't care. The Curator lets you fall forward onto the mattress as he keeps your ass in the air for him. He pulls his cock out of you agonizingly slow and watches the tight stretch of your pussy around him and the way your body begs his to keep his cock inside of you. You clench down around him hard and The Curator is cursing under his breath as he pulls himself out of you fully and your mixed cum spills down your thighs and drips off your pussy. He watches it all and after he spreads you open more and he licks a stripe up your slit, the lollipop stick dragging along your skin teasingly.
After the two of you catch your breath, The Curator lays against his headboard and pulls you up and on top of him. Your back presses to his chest as he kisses softly against your neck. You lean into his touch as he grabs one of your thighs and spreads your legs open again. "The mirror on the wall," he whispers in your ear and together the two of you stare into the mirror at each other on the wall across from the bed. "I want you to watch yourself bounce on my cock."
The Curator takes his cock in his hand and rubs it through your folds until you're lifting your hips to help him slide into you. Your lips part at the way he disappears inside of you as a soft moan gives way. Placing your feet flat on the bed, you open your legs more and anchor your hands on his chest. He holds your hips as you roll them forward and watch the slow drag of his cock pulling out of you. But, more so, you watch his expression. All of his walls are down as he digs his head into his wooden headboard and squeezes his eyes shut. You roll your hips again, slower this time as you bring them in a circle. You pull a moan from his lips as he opens his eyes to look at you through the mirror. One of his hands inch closer to your sensitive clit. "Stop teasing," The Curator says, but you continue to rolls your hips slowly a couple more times just to spite him.
You lift your hips up and away from his as your pussy drags along his cock until just his tip is inside of you before you slam back down onto him. Your tits bounce in your face as his hold on you tightens and you both let out a moan. You smile at him through the mirror as you continue the same motions, this time faster in combination of the way you rolled your hips at the start.
You smile smugly at the way he breathed heavily beneath you and his hips rose to meet yours quicker. You tsked at him and told him to watch and be glad he was able to touch. The Curator just ignored your brattiness as he used your hips to make you bounce faster on his cock, his eyes never leaving yours.
Just before the two of you came again together, you pulled yourself off of him just as you came. Your release spilled down the tip of his cock and he cursed loudly in your ear. You brought one of your hands to his cock and pressed it against your folds as you rubbed your pussy against the tip of it. The Curator brought you back to his chest as his cock jerked in your hand. Ropes of his cum messed your pussy up even more and some of it splattered up your stomach. He moaned low against the shell of your ear and held you tight as more of his release dripped down his cock.
You giggled as you pushed his cockhead back inside of you and his cock slid into you so easily it was like the two of you were made to never part. You twisted around to captured his lips with yours, the kiss sloppy as he kissed any part of you that he could, and you giggled more against his lips when you tried to pull away from him but he pushed off the headboard to chase you.
His hands slid off your body as you leaned forward onto your elbows and met his stare through the mirror. Slowly, you pulled yourself off of his cock and his eyes latched onto the way your body tried to suck him in. Once he wasn't inside of you anymore, you spread your legs apart and arched your back so he could watch his cum drip down your thighs more. "Have I told you how much of a tease you are?" he asks you as his eyes take in every inch of your messy pussy. You laugh at him as you watch him through the mirror.
"Come on," you say as you crawl off the bed. He gets up and follows you to the bathroom.
That night, you manage to slip from The Curator's tight grasp on you and out of the bed. You're still naked, so you find wherever your black lacy panties escaped to and pull them up your thighs. You look back at The Curator in the bed to see that he's still fast asleep. Silently, you walk around his apartment for any more hidden clues.
You're deadly quiet in your endeavors as you look in more unconventional places—under sinks, on the inside of cabinets, underneath tables and chairs, and under some of the pretty rugs he had. You thought you found nothing and was ready to go back to bed with him, but you froze when you saw slight scratches on one of the wooden floorboards beneath one of the rugs you flipped up. A part of you just wanted to let sleeping dogs lie. None of it mattered to you anymore, not when the two of you were together. The Curator would tell you his name on his own time.
But, another part of you—a bigger part of you—desperately wanted to know what his name was. Not out of malice like you originally intended, but because there wasn't anything more intimate than speaking someone's name. It was the last step the two of you had to take together—the last step you needed to know him completely like he knew you. Your hand reached for it, but you hesitated again and it instead hovered in the air. You were torn.
In the quiet of the room, you whisper, "Tell me to stop and I will." Of course there was no answer, he was fast asleep. But, you still waited anyway. Before you could make up your own mind, your body was moving for you. You delicately pulled up the floorboard so it didn't make any excessive noise and you sat it down gently next to the opening. Inside of it was a small velvet box that sat alone. You reached down and pulled it out. When you opened it, the ring you stole months ago gleamed at you. You noticed that it looked a little different now. The Curator had gotten it engraved so it was more custom to your liking after to told him about the small, minute details that you didn't like. The set of the radiant-cut diamond was a little different and more intricate with the addition of two more tiny diamonds on the side of the main one cut in a trillion style.
It was absolutely gorgeous and a small gasp left your lips when you were suddenly putting it on your ring finger. Of course, it was a perfect fit. You held your left hand up in the air as your right hand covered your mouth. You looked behind you towards the hallway as tears formed on your lashline. Turning back to the box, there was a small note inside written with his handwriting in silver ink. It read: "Yes or no?"
It was obvious that he hadn't meant for you to find this. This was clearly a gift for you a little later down the line—a very special gift. Your heart thumped hard against your chest and sudden fear started to creep into your bones. The moonlight poured in through his glass windows and you noticed how the inside of the floorboard looked a little off. You stuck your hand inside of it again and moved aside the piece of matching wood that hid another secret compartment. Inside of it was a box of files that you pulled out.
As you flipped through the labels on them, you could feel your anxious heart in your throat as you began to regret your actions. What if The Curator never forgave you for this? What if this wasn't part of your cat and mouse game? What if he actually had you killed for this? Your mind raced back to the two of you in bed, his buff arm around your throat in warning. Fear settled into you deep as you realized you fucked up big time. But, it was already too late to go back now. Your fingertips stopped on the folder that read "Personal Documents." You pulled it out of the box and gingerly opened it with a trembling hand.
Everything was all there—his name, his birthday, his place of birth. Even how many pounds and ounces he weighed as a baby with hand and feet prints to match. The folder dropped from your hands and slapped loudly against the floor. You gasped, but quickly cut the sound off as you held both hands over your mouth. You went eerily still as you listened. There was no other sound but your breathing and after a few tense moments you let your shoulders relax a little. Carefully, you picked up the folder again and tested his name out on your tongue.
"Park Sunghoon," you whisper out into the darkness. It sounds unfamiliar at first, but the smile still eases it way onto your lips when your finished. "Sunghoon," you say again. Eight letters. My first name. You say it over and over, your voice getting quieter each time until you're unsure if the sound is coming out of your mouth or if it's just in your head. You giggle a little as you look down at the folder again. His birthday was soon.
Fear slams into you again and you let the happiness fall off of you as you close the folder and carefully place it back into its spot in the box. You place the box back into the floorboard and cover it with the piece of wood again like you never even notice that it was there. Instead, you keep the velvet ring box out as you move the floorboard back in place and flipped the rug back into position. You sat the box on the table, opened, as you looked around for a piece of paper and a pen. When you did, you wrote on it: Yes, always. Come and find me. You moved the velvet ring box a little so he held the paper down and took a step back from it.
The ring sparkled on your finger as you held your hand to your chest. You knew there was a chance that Sunghoon would never forgive you, that he would kill you, but that was a risk you were willing to take. All you knew was that you had to leave now if you wanted him to find you. A new game. But, you couldn't bear to leave without saying something to him. So you tiptoed back to his bedroom and slipped under his covers one more time.
Sunghoon's hands immediately found your body and in his sleep and he pulled you close to him again. You kissed his lips, seeing if he would stir but he barely did. You did it again and again until the hint of a smile pulled at his mouth and he hummed groggily at you, his arms wrapping around you tighter. Lower than a whisper, but just loud enough for him to hear, you ask, "Do you love me? Yes or no?"
"Yes," Sunghoon immediately responds in a sleep-filled voice. You can see him starting to doze off again, but he fights his sleep. Groggily, he asks you the same. "Do you love me?" He hesitates before he speaks the next words, almost like he's scared to know what your answer is. "Yes or no?"
Just as quick, if not quicker than him, you respond with a resounding, "Yes."
A sleepy smile breaks out across his face and his eyes barely crack open to meet yours in the dark. He kisses your lips before nudging your nose with his and falling right back asleep with the smile still on his face. You look at the ring glowing between the two of you on your finger. You knew that you had to leave now, but it ripped you apart to even think of leaving his embrace.
Once you knew he was back in a deep sleep, you gently kissed him again, this time making sure that he didn't stir. In that same hushed voice, you say against his lips, "I'll always love you, Sunghoon." His name brings a smile to your lips and its like his body unconsciously reacted to your voice saying it. You felt goosebumps raise on his arms like he hasn't heard his own name in a long, long time. You hoped that you got to speak it to him again, this time conscious.
Like the silhouette that you are, you slipped out of his bed again and morphed into the shadows. You lingered at his closet before you decided to take one of his leather jacked, a black one this time. Sliding it on, it covered your breasts and provided you just enough warmth to brace the cold. Your eyes caught the ring on your finger again, but you looked away. You picked up your boots and slid them on as you quietly walked out of Sunghoon's door, leaving everything behind.
When you walked out of his private entrance and into the cold with nothing but his jacket, your lacy black panties, and his ring on your finger you finally let yourself feel happiness. The smile broke out on your face and you laughed a little as you looked up the falling snow. You were the only one, besides himself, who knew Sunghoon's name—who knew everything about him. That was very special to you and you held it close as the snow covered your footprints.
Looking over your shoulder to the door, you waved at Big Man—the ring catching the moonlight as you did—as he guarded the door and let you walk out into the darkness.
A month passes and through the grapevine you heard of Sunghoon losing his goddamn mind when he woke up and didn't find you in the building at all, let alone his apartment. Your contacts say that he completely tore the place apart and gutted it looking for you. Went batshit crazy on everyone there and reminded them all just how dangerous he is. You heard that he told told them that they better find you before he did and you laughed at that knowing that no matter where you went, he was already halfway there to you. So you moved around from place to place in that month just to make him a little angrier. And you knew he knew it too.
For his birthday, you mailed Sunghoon a singular Polaroid. In the picture, you were naked. You could just barely see your teasing smile in it, but it was mostly of your ringed hand spreading your pussy apart for him. At the bottom, you wrote: Waiting for you… You didn't even think he realized it was for his birthday and not to mess with him. You think that he thought that you were toying with him more and making him go crazier. When you finally got in brief contact with Big Man, he told you how much of a bad idea sending that Polaroid was. But, you just laughed at him. Big Man told you that Sunghoon was on his way to you now, something about finding where the hotel you were staying at was. It didn't matter because by the time he got there you were gone anyway. Though, the thought of him always a few steps behind you turned you on.
You did leave a note for him with your kiss mark next to it. Are you having fun? You don't think Sunghoon was pleased to read it, but you know that his perverted self tucked it into his pocket regardless.
At the end of the month away from Sunghoon, your feelings only burned brighter. You only got more and more excited each time you looked over your shoulder and expected him to be behind you. The thrill of it all, and the thought of just how angry he truly was with you, made your thighs squeeze together. You debated on just staying in one place, but you liked the way he chased you around the world too much. Whether it was because Sunghoon loved you or wanted to kill you, you didn't care anymore. You just want to be in his arms again.
You let yourself admit that you really missed him. So you did what would anyone would do in your situation, you swiped a phone from someone off the street. You held it up and you took a video of you in nothing but his black leather jacket at you held it closed at your breasts so you flaunted your ring again. You moaned his alias, making sure that he didn't know you knew his name yet, as your hand dipped down to your thighs slow. "I miss you so much," you moaned more for the video as your hand stopped its descent and pressed down on your lower stomach. You captured it all. You chest rose and fell hard as you arched your back and moaned his alias more. "I want you here with me."
Cutting the first video off there, you pressed record again as you continued, this time not bothering to keep your secret. You angled the phone down and captured your fingers sliding through your folds as you breathed hard, the ring on your finger glittering on the insides of your thighs. Moaning his name, you pushed your fingers inside of you slowly over and over. "I can't hit the spot like you can," you breath out as your hips roll up towards your hand. "I need you to come here and reach it for me."
You fuck your fingers into your pussy faster and faster until you're crying out his name. "Please," you beg and you let out a string of moans as your legs shake. "Come and find me," you whine out before you suddenly gasp. A shockwave pulses through you and your body shakes as you squirt all over your hand. You shakily laugh a little as you pull your cum-covered fingers out of your dripping pussy and rub at your clit with them. You moan his name more as you help yourself come back down from your high, you legs squeezed together. "I can feel your hands on me still," you whimper out as you catch you breath.
Lowering the phone you record how messy you got yourself for him, spreading open your folds so he could watch your cum drip out of you. "I'm waiting for you," you breathe out, teasing him again as you get closer to your body and the ring.
You clean yourself up before you send the first video to him. He doesn't bother to ask who's phone you have or demand to come back to the organization. No, instead, Sunghoon sends you two simple text messages almost immediately when you know he sees the thumbnail of the video. I know where you are, followed by, Don't fucking move. And, of course, you pack up your things and get ready to leave.
Now, this is where you made a mistake and jeopardized your game of hide and seek. Instead of getting the hell out of Dodge, you lingered around the hotel in the shadows. Almost as soon as you slid into them he was pulling up in a luxury car. You didn't realize he was really just a few steps behind you—that he actually knew exactly where you were no matter where you were. It was just by pure luck that he kept on missing you. You knew it drove him crazy, being so close yet so far away.
Sunghoon steps out of the car and he was in a full tailored suit. His eyes scanned the shadows looking for you, but you were too good at what you did for him to notice you watching him. You watched as his jaw worked, and you know he felt your stare. He stepped inside of the hotel for a couple moments and you slid out of the shadows and watched him move inside from across the street. You could tell that Sunghoon was angry. He could barely hide it beneath his usual calm and neutral demeanor.
When Sunghoon stepped out of the hotel, his eyes immediately locked onto you. Despite him keeping his expression purposefully blank—besides the anger that radiated off of him—you watched as his tense shoulders sagged in relief and he inhaled sharply. You smiled at him, and he just angrily worked his jaw more. His eyes focused on the ring on your finger when you gave him a little wave and the way his leather jacket wrapped around you.
Sunghoon didn't say anything, didn't move. He instead stuck his hands into his pockets and stared at you blankly, waiting for you to cross the street and come to him after he spent all this time chasing after you. Another challenge. But, you didn't move either. Instead you fished out the phone from your pocket as he watched you across the street and sent him the second video. When you looked back up to him after it sent, Sunghoon still didn't move an inch.
You pointed to the phone and mouthed, "Watch it." You watched as he furrowed his brows at you, sighing, before pulling his phone out. You watched as Sunghoon immediately turned his volume down before pressing play and it made the smug smile on your face grow. He was going to be in for a shock when he listened to the audio when he was alone. You laughed a little and the sound carried with the wind as his eyes briefly looked up to you before immediately focusing back on his phone. His possessiveness made him miss a crucial detail and you couldn't stop how triumphant you felt.
You watched as Sunghoon's hand tightened around his phone until his knuckles were white and you were sure he was putting cracks into it. He looked up at you through his lashes before he angrily shoved the phone back into his pocket and you could tell he couldn't take it anymore. "Come here," he demands, his hard voice carrying. Your smile grows.
Wiggling the phone you stole in the air, you toss it in the street just as a car passes between you two. Sunghoon's collected demeanor finally breaks as he glares at you. He takes a second to look down at the destroyed phone before he's suddenly crossing the street towards you. You wait for Sunghoon to pick the phone up, already knowing that he's going to wipe everything it has on it onto a hard drive, before you turn around and scurry away from him giggling.
You hear him angrily call your name again and again, his voice rising when you don't turn around. Looking over your shoulder, butterflies explode in your stomach when he's just a few feet away from you. Quickly, you cross the street in front of a bus and leave him to yell your name from the other side. You don't look back again as you slip back into the shadows.
Your second mistake was thinking that Sunghoon was a few steps behind you when, in actuality, he was three steps ahead of you. You should've know that after your encounter he would've known where you were headed next. After all, he knew you like the back of his hand.
But, you were cocky. You thought you had slipped between his fingers and escaped once again. You thought the game was still on, not knowing that it ended as soon as he crossed the street to come after you.
You opened the door to your penthouse suite and threw the bags of stuff you bought down at the door. You stepped into the living room, the sunlight shining on your skin, as your mind raced with more ways to get Sunghoon mad. It was laughable how you didn't even make it two steps towards the floor to ceiling windows before a hand wrapped around your throat and pushed you up against the wall.
Sunghoon brought his hand further up your throat as he squeezed down onto it tighter. With other arm, he caged you against him against the wall. "A whole month," he says, eerily calm. "That's how long I've been chasing you around the world. A month."
Your brows furrow up at him as you struggled to breathe around his tight hold. If you were being honest, you didn't feel any remorse. The way his hand wrapped around your throat and stole the air right out of your lungs turned you on. You squeezed your thighs together as you soaked through your panties. Sunghoon was angry. Angrier than you have ever seen him—angrier than you think anyone has ever seen him. But his face was a mask of calm that had it all boiling under the surface. You smiled a little as you noted how he said chasing and not searching. It didn't help your case.
Sunghoon pushed one of his legs between yours. He was dressed in another tailored suit and it felt weird to see him in it when he's never worn anything this formal before. Especially not around you. His mouth brushes along the shell of your ear as he chokes you harder and listens to the way you wheeze around his hand in a broken moan. "And you're such a fucking tease, too. What did you think you were doing by sending me those videos?" he asks against your ear low, his voice still calm. You heard the tail end of his sentence that he kept quiet, and from someone else's phone. "What did you think I was going to do to you once I got my hands on you again?"
His knee spreads your legs apart more as you feel the fabric of his suit pants against your core. Sunghoon chuckles at you, but its humorless. He kisses along your jaw until he gets to your mouth and stops. He looks into your eyes as he raises his thick brows at you in question. You croak out another soft moan from his touch and your hands press against his abdomen before they drag down weakly to latch onto his belt. You struggled to breathe as your back arches off of the wall and towards him like a magnet. You look at him with big, watery eyes.
"A-Are you going to kill me… Sunghoon?" you manage to push out. His eyes widen the fraction of an inch as his hand around your throat loosens considerably. You breathe in deeply, your chest heaving, as the two of you stare at each other. You wanted to laugh so bad but you held it in. He didn't even listen to the audio, too consumed by his anger and his need to capture you that he probably forgot that audio was even connected to it when he watched it back. You watch as the goosebumps raise along his skin and his mask of calmness fall off. A flurry of emotions flash across his face faster that you can name them, all of them mixed with his anger. You raise your left hand and hold on to his arm that had his hand around your throat. Sunghoon's eyes drop to it.
You didn't notice it until the other day when you were drying your hands, but on the inside of the band he had your names engraved into it—your actual names. Sunghoon's hand moved from your throat to the back of your neck as he surged forward and kissed you hard. You felt him put all of his anger into the kiss, all of his frustrations.
It was less of a kiss and more of a final showdown between a wolf and a lamb. He devoured and chewed on you how he liked and you bore your soft underbelly for him to bite into next. Your teeth clashed against each other's and held your chin with this other hand so he could pry your mouth open and let his tongue explore it. You gave yourself to him willingly, and when you nearly passed out from the cut of air to your brain, he held you close in his loving arms. For the wolf always loves the sacrificial lamb.
"Are you?" you asked him softly as your eyes closed and you focused on breathing. When you opened your eyes again, Sunghoon looked at you like you were the famous piece he's been searching to steal for his entire life. You were the one thing that led him down this journey and he can end it happily now that he finally has you in his possession. You clutched onto his suit as you regained your balance.
Sunghoon brushed his lips against yours, wanting to kiss you again but wanting more for you to not pass out in his arms. He whispered against your lips, "I love you too much to ever kill you, baby. You know that." You giggled a little.
Of course you did. Why else would he chase you?
You slipped his phone of out of his pocket and held it up as you opened the video. You turned the volume all the way up and pressed play. Sunghoon's eyes snapped to it, his brows furrowing, and the first thing he heard was you moaning his name. You giggled more as his fingers dug into you and realization crossed his features. "You were too angry to even notice there was sound."
The sound of you fingering yourself plays between you until you hear yourself gasp in the video. Sunghoon watches it all, his eyes never leaving the screen as you show your body off. When the video ends and his dark eyes flick back over to you and your smug smile, and our smile grows more as you see that not all of the anger was suddenly gone.
Sunghoon turns you around so fast you nearly get whiplash. His hands hike up your dress with nimble fingers until they graze against your lace panties. Sunghoon doesn't even think as he rips them off of you and runs his fingers through your wetness. He moans against your cheek as he holds you tighter against his chest. Before you can even moan out his name he's fucking two fingers into you with quick precision.
You gasp as you try to move from him, but his arm just wraps around your waist tighter. Knees buckling, Sunghoon holds you up on your shaky legs as his fingers pushed deeper into your wet warmth. "Sunghoon," you moan out his name in exclamation as your head leans back against his shoulder. Short gasps escape from your throat as the two of you stumble backwards. Your hips move towards his hand on its own and soon you're writhing in his arms as you squirt all over the both of your legs and soak his hand.
You're dripping on the floor when he kicks your legs apart and keeps fingering you. All you can let out is echoey sobs as Sunghoon brings you to climax in the span of just over a minute. You cum all over his wet fingers and that's when he finally lets you stabilize yourself. You breathe out hard, looking up at him against his chest, as he breathes just as heavily as you do. Too late did you see that he was proving a point. Nobody can fuck you as good as he does—not even you. He was going to give you everything single little thing that you begged for in the month he chased you around. Sunghoon brought his cum-covered fingers up to your mouth and tapped them against your lips. "Taste how sweet you are," he whispered in your ear. You opened your mouth and let him place his fingers flat against your tongue and you swirled it around his fingers. Sunghoon pulled them out of your mouth slow.
He pulled your dress off in one quick motion and left you only in your heels as he pushed you over to the big windows. Your body pressed hard against the glass as he held your neck in place. With one hand, Sunghoon unbuckled his belt and pulled it out of his belt loops completely. He unbuttoned his suit pants and scooped out his leaking, hard cock and rubbed the tip of it through your arousal. "You drive me fucking crazy," he says as he watches your wetness spread along his cock.
"I know," you breathe out as you look down at the street below. You were too high up for anyone to really see you, but someone could if they truly wanted to. Sunghoon spread your legs open with his own. "I wanted to see how angry I could get you."
Sunghoon laughs humorlessly again as he lines his cock up to your entrance. "Really?" he asks, but there isn't any sarcasm like there should be. He thrusts hard into you and your breath fogs up the glass as you get pressed against it more. Sunghoon keeps a hand on the back of your neck as he lifts up one of your legs high in the air so his cock can fuck into you deeper. "And how angry do you think I am?"
He doesn't give you time to answer as his long cock fucks up into your sweet spot relentlessly. You moan in shock against the glass as you press your hands against it for support. You can just barely see his reflection, but you can tell he's watching the way your pussy sucks him in. Your body thrusting against the glass fills your ears along with the wet and quick drag of his cock along your walls and his hips hitting hard against your ass.
Your arousal splatters against the glass with how fast Sunghoon is fucking you, and you moan out his name and ball your hands up on the glass as you struggle to keep your head clear. He just presses his hand against your throat harder and hikes your leg up higher. Sunghoon presses himself against your back as his voice floats into your ear. "If only we were back at the organization. I'd have a million different angles of how you're falling apart on my cock right now." He chuckles again, but it lacks the warmth. He takes his hand off your neck and you press your cheek to the glass as you watch him pull out his phone and hit record.
Sunghoon hands the phone to you and his hand returns to your neck, his fingers squeezing it as the next words come out of his mouth gravelly. "Record yourself."
You barely heard him through your loud and unashamed moans, but your body obeyed his command instantly. You held the phone away from your face as you angled it down to catch the way Sunghoon roughly fucked into you. Your body and hand shook hard as your cum splattered down to the floor from his quick thrusts and you cried out his name into the glass. Sunghoon looked over at the phone screen and moaned into your hair as he presses against you more and fucks into you harder. You arch your ass towards him as your legs felt weak. "I-I can't…" you whined as the camera angled lower and the tears blurred your vision. It all felt too good, you couldn't take it anymore and you knew he was just getting started with you.
"Keep recording," Sunghoon hissed in your ear as he pulled your body off the glass and turned it more to his phone. You whimpered his name as you got both of your bodies in full view of his phone camera. He smiled at you through it, all teeth and fangs, and he spoke lowly, "Don't you ever dare try to run from me again. I will always find you."
✉️ ⦂ i’m so fucking tired and exhausted i wrote this fic for no joke 20 hours straight. no sleeping, no eating, nothing just locked in unbelievably and somehow made it through… goodNIGHT. sunghoon better not ever question my love for him…
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jason never really took care of himself after dying. his body was so hopelessly out of rhythm, everything slightly wrong and out of place. his bones creak underneath his skin, his muscles, which had nearly rotted and decayed, could never quite figure out how to relax. sometimes he’d forget to breathe, or blink, the actions no longer involuntary, and before you? he didn’t have it in himself to care. his health had fallen to the least of his worries.
but you were always so worried about him. you noticed things about himself he hadn’t even realized, how he winced when he chewed with the left side of his mouth, how he squinted at street signs whenever you went on walks, how his muscles were always tense until you massaged them into relaxation. you pointed them out, pouting whenever he’d shrug it off. to him, it was nothing, he was used to the pain, the inconvenience; he didn’t consider his own wellbeing important enough to pay any mind to.
to you, it was torture. watching the man you loved so dearly treat himself with so little care had you ruined. all you wanted for him was happiness and safety, for him to have what he had given you so freely, what he guarded himself from so intensely. he didn’t realize how much you cared until he noticed how much you finally pushed him to treat himself better.
“i scheduled you a dentist appointment.” you said, matter-of-factly setting down a few documents in front of him begging his patient history. he looked up to you, eyebrow raised, entirely confused. you answered his question before he could even think to ask it. “you wince when you chew.”
he wouldn’t say no to you. despite his disdain regarding the idea of a check up, he went. you came with him, fiercly speaking a language of medicine he didn’t understand. when he left the dentist, you gave him a lollipop. “i’m not five.” he ate it anyways, savoring the taste between strawberry-stained lips as you drove him home.
he stopped noticing when you made him appointments to get shots, or when you subtly slipped the card of a dermatologist behind the picture of you he kept in his wallet. he started actually caring about what he did to his body— gut health and all that. yes, he was jacked, his body had been built like a machine ever since it had patched itself back together in the lazarus pit, but he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a piece of fruit.
he didn’t realize how much better he felt until dick pointed it out for him. “you got glasses?” he asked, pointing to the thick black frames that sat on the bridge of his nose.
he nodded. he does wear glasses. he has silver caps on two of his teeth. he has a nice layer of body fat covering his muscles because he eats three well-balanced meals a day. he has a standing appointment with a chiropractor every other wednesday at two, and another with a therapist on mondays at one. he gets a checkup every six months and goes to the dentist every four, he’s been to the dermatologist three times in two years, he has all of his shots up to date, he takes vitamins in the morning and he sleeps at least five hours every night.
he cares about himself. he puts effort into making sure he stays healthy— and at first it was for you. only for you, to ease your constant worry about him. but now it’s second nature, your guiding hand has healed him, made him want to stay alive and healthy and whole, not for just you, but for himself.
the moment the realization washes over him of just how much you’ve given him, he rushes home and tells you in no less than a thousand ways just how grateful he is to have your love.
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
Those kids would by dying before you do.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
The chill that shot down your spine wasn’t from the air outside. It wasn’t from the gust of wind that harshly blew past you.
You believed you were keeping a good poker face but you clenched your jaw, which had his smirk growing.
“If I remember correctly, you told me to come unarmed and alone.” His gaze shifted to your waist, raising a brow. “And you are armed and with friends.”
Glancing off to the side with an annoyed roll of your eyes, you removed both hands from your pockets and shrugged.
“I told you to come unarmed and alone, Kihyun. Never said I would.” You hummed, eyes falling back on him. “Why did you even agree?”
Kihyun crossed his arms, not moving an inch closer. “Call it a show of good faith. With you reaching out the way you did…Let’s say that it wasn’t on my bingo card for the year.”
“Can’t hear anything, but you know the signal if you need help.” Yunho’s voice was faint in your ear, barely louder than a whisper with the whoosh of blood going past your hearing. He gave you a simple hand signal in any case of you needing help or an out…
You sighed the anger in your chest out through your nose.
“You gain nothing from this war, Kihyun.” You needed to get to the point of this meeting, wanting to gain more information if you could. “You could take down all of us, but someone, some group, will be there to take you down. Do you plan to go against Psy? You already know all of this, so what’s the point?”
“The point, Y/N, is to have fun and to get rid of one enemy, but in this case…a few.” Kihyun made a move to stop closer and you straightened your shoulders and back. “One less group in our way to the top, starting with SVT. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”
“I’m getting real bored of the constant ‘we are going to kill all of SVT and friends’. Your point means jack shit if someone is always after MX. What point do you have if you are always on the run? Better yet, what has been any point of taunting me, hurting Jongho, and mocking me? You make zero sense. If you won’t tell me and you want to be one, two, even three steps ahead, fine, but we won’t let you win. Revenge and status, the ego boost and personal gain, will ruin you all.”
You stood firm, unafraid, as Kihyun continued to approach, stopping a foot before you. His smirk didn’t falter, your stare never broke, the air thick with murderous tension. His gaze bore into yours, analyzing, evaluating, finding flaws and fears. You saw all the bite and vengeance in his eyes, the chaos and malice. You hoped he’d see the flames and conviction you were willing to let loose come hell or high water.
“Things are always happening around us, whether you like it or not. The question then becomes…” Kihyun paused, leaning in enough to whisper in your ear. “How will you react when everything starts? I’m curious…Will you be quiet and calculated? Or go out with a bang? I’m dying to know the answer.”
You had to stop yourself from reaching for the gun just as he took one large, dramatic step back. His hands slid into his pockets, continuing to back up one step at a time away from you.
“Until we meet again, Mouse. Prepare for war.” Turning on his heels, Kihyun ambled the way he came, slowly disappearing into the night.
No one moved from their hiding spots until Wooyoung called out that Kihyun was in his car and driving off. Your eyes stayed on the directon he left, even breaths calming the wild emotions in your chest, only looking away when Gahyeon and Yunho stepped up to your sides. In your peripherals, the others appeared, looking between one another, unsure who should speak first given the situation.
“Yo,” Wooyoung jogged over from the direction his vantage point was, bag slung over his shoulder. “How’d it go?”
You dropped the tension in your shoulders, trying to wipe the image of Kihyun from your mind and the ferocious rage you felt out of your system. All eyes were on you, knowing they were too far to properly hear any of the conversation.
“Whatever they have planned…” You let your eyes roam between their analytical gazes, feeling the bile burn the back of your throat. “It’s starting soon and I have a really bad feeling about it.”
You didn’t catch a wink of sleep that night at DC house.
Gahyeon, unsurprisingly, passed out almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, but your eyes couldn’t stay shut long enough to drift into sleep.
Seeing Kihyun…after everything he had done to you…you had mixed emotions. When you saw him on video, he wasn’t some big evil villain in front of you that could hurt you, he was just your enemy that you’d do anything to bring down. In person though? He was your greatest fear, one breath away from dragging you back down into the dark and sucking the soul from your body one torturous method at a time. You were angry seeing him, ready to rip his throat out, but part of you was so scared that you were afraid your legs would give out. Gahyeon offered to drive you both back since your hands were shaking so much, which you didn’t notice until she pointed it out.
You heard the rest of Dreamcatcher come home not long after you settled, light footsteps going to and fro down the hallway, doors shutting withsoft clicks before the quiet came once again. For most of the hours, your eyes stayed fixated on the endless white ceiling, only to watch the sun rise through the semi-sheer curtains, letting the sun warm your bones once it hit your skin.
At the first sound of life within the house, you rose from bed and snuck out of the room, making your way downstairs to see where anyone was gathering. Minji, Handong, and Yubin were found sitting at the kitchen island, mugs in hand and heavy bags under their eyes. Minji was dressed to the nines in a red pinstripe tailored suit while the other two looked like they were barely alive in pajamas.
“Morning,” You called out as you shuffled closer, hearing quiet grunts and groans and similar greetings. “You guys are up early after getting back late.”
“Don’t remind me, if I didn’t have a deposition so early I’d still be in bed.” Mingji let out a loud yawn, one followed by three from the rest of you. “Oops.”
“Girl, did you even sleep? You look as bad as the rest of us.” Handong pointed your way as Yubin showed you how to use their fancy, complicated coffee maker. “Looking like shit.”
You scoffed, feeling the women’s eyes on you as you made your coffee. “Couldn’t fall asleep, but ‘Hyeon is sleeping enough for the both of us I think.”
“She better get her ass up soon, we have a shit ton of fittings and alterations today and I need all hands on deck.” Siyeon, despite the late arrival home, had a pep to her step, heading straight to the fridge. “And I forgot to order more energy drinks so we are out of all of them, fuck me.”
“That’s what happens when you survive on them, dude. Maybe try hiring someone to help with your workload so you don’t die before your thirty-fifth birthday.” Handong rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee.
You sat beside Yubin, drink in hand, and hoped the caffeine would be enough to get you through the training you had soon.
“She is too much of a perfectionist to hand her work off to anyone.” Yubin added, making you and Minji snicker. “Remember when she didn’t sleep for nearly three days to finish our outfits for that one party? She could hear colors from how much Red Bull she drank.”
“And I still made us look good, bitch, now shut up.” Siyeon sent a glare Yubin’s way then made her way towards the exit and into the rest of the house. “Time to wake up the princess.”
“Mouse, any plans for the rest of the day?” Minji turned her attention to you, head tilted to the side. “Maybe take me up on my offer for my executive assistant position at the firm?”
You nearly choked on your drink while laughing, watching a large grin bloom on her face. “You really just want to fuck the guys, huh?”
“Immensely, it’s too fun watching them scramble with jealousy over you, especially Joshua and Seungcheol. Jeonghan is just there for the fun of it to help mess with them.”
“Making my relationship harder every day, Minji.” You sighed, downing the rest of your coffee. “I have a training session with Mingyu and Wonwoo soon so I should probably gather my stuff and head out. After that, maybe a nap and making dinner for the guys.”
When you got your things from Gahyeon’s room, she gave you the tightest hug, keeping you cradled in her arms for a few moments. She had a knowing look in her eyes but only wished that you had a good day and to reach out if you needed anything. The last of the women bid you a goodbye, shouting out that a real ‘girls night’ was needed after everything was said and done.
Much like the drive the previous night, it was quiet, tense. There was this tightness in your chest that hadn’t gone away all night, and the coffee you drank didn’t magically erase the dread inside.
Will you be quiet and calculated? Or go out with a bang?
It had to mean something. Kihyun wouldn’t say it so specifically unless it did.
Mingyu and Wonwoo were waiting for you in the ring of the fight club when you arrived, ushering you off to the locker room to change. Even just getting into your workout clothes had you questioning why you didn’t cancel the session, you weren’t feeling right mentally, but you needed to be ready in any condition to fight, just in case.
Though Mingyu was a gentle giant most days, he was the one that pushed you the hardest in training. On the first day of training, you signed off on one thing; letting him provoke your anger to help manage it and focus on what was important; regulating your breathing, finding a weakness, and keeping a step ahead if you could. His words were sharp, sometimes even ruthless as you hit the hand pads Wonwoo wore.
“You are slow, again.” It was the third time he pointed it out when Wonwoo easily knocked you on your ass. “You aren’t going to protect shit if you fight like that.”
Typically, you could handle the provoking, could ignore his words to keep your mind steady.
Today though? You couldn’t fully control anything.
Your breathing was harsh, unsteady, and Wonwoo took advantage of the haze that shrouded your focus to get you on the ground. The first time he dropped you, he swiped your leg from under you since your center of gravity was off from what he said. Mingyu poked fun at you which set off the internal furnace of anger.
The second time, both of them made a comment after you misstepped and whiffed a punch and you fell over.
“Weeks of training and this is all you have to show for it?” Wonwoo’s eyes had narrowed while Mingyu shook his head.
“Seriously? This is ridiculous, Mo. What has all the training been for if you can’t stay on your feet?”
You took a break between the second and third fall, watching them whisper to each other like they were plotting your demise. They kept looking over as you chugged some water, trying to ease the irritation and find your head again. You couldn’t settle your brain, let alone your heart. Every small technique from counting down from one hundred to deep breathing didn’t help at all. When you thought you were okay, you got back into the ring the third time, fell to your ass, and Mingyu opened his mouth, you were done.
“God, shut the fuck up!” You yelled, eyes full of fire when you looked at him, taking a step back when you got to your feet. “I get it! I suck! Would you lay off for two fucking seconds?!”
Bewilderment passed Mingyu’s face and his eyebrows furrowed at your outburst. “Mouse-”
“No, Jesus Christ, I can’t god damn think!” Tearing off the wraps around your hands, you wasted no time jumping out of the ring and gathering your bag. “I’m done, I’m going-”
“Mouse, are you-” Wonwoo tried to speak but you cut him off as well.
“I’m fine! Just leave me alone!”
You left in a flurry of emotions, a mix of anger, regret, and shame. An apology was necessary but if you turned back, you’d punch one of them in the face, which you didn’t want on your conscience at the moment.
You did hear a quiet ‘What the hell was that?” as the door shut and you stomped to your car.
Taking a second to calm your breathing, you didn’t want to go home. Knowing they would tell the rest sooner or later. You didn’t particularly want to be around people for a while to simmer down, worried about another outburst, but no place came to mind.
So…you drove, sometimes going around in circles, sometimes long stretches of the highway or carefully down winding back roads. Besides Kihyun plaguing your mind, there were a million different scenarios of what possible ways this fight could start, who could get hurt first based on their outing schedule, who is more face fronting. Too many options to dwell on, too many pieces of your heart.
After two hours of mindless driving, you were feeling better but still strung up, the tension in your shoulders causing a headache. You pulled over on the side of the road, digging through your bag to find your phone.
{Mingyu 10:21 AM}
Sorry for pushing you too far. Please let me know you are okay. Please.
[Foursome]
{Shua 11:15 AM}
Gyu told us what happened, you okay?
{Cheolie 11:15 AM}
Just let us know when you get home or if you need anything.
You had three missed calls from Jeonghan and, surprisingly, one from Jongho with a voicemail.
“Uh- Hey Mouse…Jeonghan called Hongjoong to ask if I heard from you, something about you not acting like yourself. Um…god this is weird.” He whispered that last part before continuing. “I’m at ATZ’s place, no one should be home for a while if you need a place to hide I guess. I’ll text you the house code just in case. Bye.”
You sank down in the driver’s seat, rubbing your hands over your face, sighing out heavily. Running away wasn’t healthy, you knew that, but it felt better than feeling all your emotions, talking about them, and all the lying. Maybe Jongho wouldn’t ask too many questions, maybe he would…
It took you an hour to get back to the city, pulling into the garage of ATZ’s penthouse building. You took the elevator up alone, starting at the mirror-like four walls, seeing your haggard reflection glaring back.
Jongho was sitting in the living room alone, legs kicked up on the coffee table as he scrolled through his phone. He didn’t jump when you cleared your throat to announce your arrival, but his eyes were full of relief. He led you to his room when you asked to take a shower and change, only saying you were covered in dried sweat and internal depression.
When you joined him on the couch after, curling up with your legs under you, Jongho held out a hand for you to take. When you stared at said appendage in confusion, he nudged you once, twice a little more harshly until you slowly took his hand and laced your fingers together and your heart seized a little.
“Wanna talk about it?” He held your hand tightly, leaning his head back against the couch. “Or just sit here?”
“Talking about it means you’ll need to lie more, Jong, I can’t ask you to do that.”
He snorted before chuckling low. “Well, I’m asking you to talk and to trust me so go on.”
“I asked 99 line minus Chan to stand watch while I spoke to Kihyun.”
Glancing over, you watched his face twist before he chuckled again. “Yeah, I figured that out. Yunho had been brooding for days but never had a good enough excuse and the others weren’t subtle about their whispering.”
“It’s like I got punched in the gut when I saw him in person again. I was scared but so angry, like…I could have killed him without blinking an eye type of anger. He, and I’m guessing all of MX, see this like a game and we are the chess pieces they can move about the board. It’s all revenge and power with very little actual thought I think. I couldn’t sleep, then I was training with ‘Gyu and Wonwoo, and I snapped, I couldn’t control my anger and I left. Drove around for two hours until I saw my calls and messages.”
“Did the driving help?”
“Mostly. I needed space to think, collect myself, and now I feel so unprepared for what is coming our way. ‘Will you be quiet and calculated? Or got out with a bang?’ That part when he spoke to me sticks out.”
Jongho raised his head, frowning as he looked at you now. “The hell could that mean?”
“Dude, so many fucking things. I can’t wrap my head around it whatsoever. I feel like I’m losing my mind and it’s why I feel unprepared. MX is so unhinged that literally anything is possible with them, even the impossible. Whatever they have planned…fuck us I guess.”
He gave your hand a squeeze. “We’ll get through this together.”
“Shit, we better. Got me all sorts of fucked up.”
“And you should apologize to Mingyu.”
“Motherfucker, can I have one internal conflict before I move onto another? I felt so bad earlier but I would have beat him up if I stayed a minute longer.”
“You know, a way to a man’s heart is-”
“Finish that sentence, Jongho, and you’ll learn a way to a man losing his front teeth is from my fist.”
You stayed at the ATZ penthouse until you felt levelheaded enough to go home. Jongho had put on some movie and sat in silence beside you for as long as you needed. His hand never left yours, grounding you to the reality that you were alive and okay, that you were ready for the next steps. Jongho walked you down to your car even when you insisted it was fine. He grumbled like a toddler that he had nothing else to do and needed the exercise, which was minimal since he still used the elevator with you.
“What can I do to make up for this?” You murmured to yourself, drumming your fingers against the stirring wheel. “Apology, yes…Maybe Jong was right about food…”
Then you remember Seungcheol’s texts from your time unconscious.
Mingyu has been desperately trying to get your pot pie recipe right but whatever you do to it just hits different.
You detoured to the grocery store, rushing through the aisles, filling the cart with enough to feed a small army a lot of pot pie, along with ingredients to make ice cream sundaes. Before you left for home once again, you texted Mingyu and asked if he could meet you at your apartment along with him telling the guys to be there in two hours for food.
Whether he listened or not wasn’t confirmed until you parked and he was pulling into his usual spot. His eyes were bright and hopeful when he waddled over, curious at your summons.
“I’m sorry for earlier.” You sagged your shoulders, seeing his eyes go undeniable soft. “You didn’t deserve that outburst, neither did Wonwoo.”
“It’s okay, Mo. We all have bad days, we were all just worried when you didn’t reach out for a while after leaving. I’m assuming you want to make it up to me?” His grin was toothy and playful.
You started to pull bags out of your front seat, holding some out for him to carry. “Would teaching you how to make my pot pie and ice cream do that?”
“And making enough for everyone?”
“That is my other apology for disappearing and being weird as fuck recently.” Your arms were full of bads, along with Mingyu’s. “This is going to be a lot, plus left overs.”
“Good! Then we can stop ordering take out for a bit and focus on some actual cooking.” With your car unloaded and locked, you followed him up to your home, letting him ramble about his day after you left. He didn’t need to say that the others were a little restless with you out on your own, but his comments that not much got done gave you the answer.
Mingyu was more than helpful in unpacking all the foods and laying them out. He followed behind you to the first guest room closet and pulled your grandmother’s recipe out, preserved in a clear, plastic sheet protector. He explained how he tried to make it while you were comatose, over and over, trying different add-ins to match yours but nothing truly worked.
“The original recipe you found while I was out cool was one I found online and wrote down, it wasn’t Gigi’s. She used MSG, smoked paprika, and cayenne.” You handed him the page, letting him read over it. “Gigi also swapped out the heavy cream for chicken gravy.”
“She sounded like a food visionary.” Smiling warmly, Mingyu placed the recipe down gently on the kitchen counter as if it was a precious artifact. “Shall we get cooking?”
The shame and guilt from earlier was still there in your chest, but slowly ebbed away as Mingyu and you cooked. He followed every step of the recipe, along with your guidance, completely, putting on some music to fill any quiet space. Mingyu hummed and danced about, enjoying the time, and you joined in some, swaying to the beat. With everything in the oven, the both of you got to cleaning the mess that was made.
Minghao was the first to arrive, letting himself in without much care. He had a bag with two bottles of wine in hand, placing them on the long dining room table.
“Smells good.” He wandered over to the kitchen island where you were still cleaning with Mingyu, “Need help?”
“No,” you shook your head as Mingyu loaded the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. “Just waiting on it to cook. You are early though, everything okay?”
You grabbed him a wine glass and a corkscrew, watching him shuffle back to the table. “I’m fine, slow day for me. I came early to check on you.”
“Oh…”
Mingyu tossed the hand towel he had on the counter, a grin on his face. “I think the cooking helped, nothing like a family recipe being shared.”
You grabbed yourself a glass and took a seat at the table, feeling Mingyuu’s eyes follow your every move. “Sometimes my anger gets the better of me. Been working on it, but it was a bad day.”
“And I’ve forgiven her! She is a lot less mean than most of you when you are having a bad day.” Mingyu plopped down beside the other man.
Minghao studied you a second time, opening the wine bottle slowly before pouring each of you a glass. “Any major triggers?”
“Lack of sleep.” You took a sip of your wine quickly, sighing through your nose. “Usually one of my main ones, but I thought I was okay until training started, which…we all know how that went.”
“Hm.” Minghao tipped his glass back for a sip and you instantly knew he didn’t fully believe a thing you said. “Can I set the table since you’ve cooked? Soonyoung said he and Chan are picking up appetizers, which could mean pizza rolls or actually appetizers.”
“I’d be fine with pizza rolls.” You snickered, glad for the change of subject. “But unless they are gourmet, I don’t think they will go with the pot pie.”
“If you drink enough, it won’t matter.” Mingyu took the bottle and waterfalled some wine into his mouth.
“Why are you like this?” Minghao scrunched his nose in disgust, taking the bottle away. “This is good wine, asshole, don’t be fucking classless.”
“Very good wine indeed.” Mingyu grinned and stood when the door opened, Soonyoung, Chan, Seokmin, and Vernon stepping inside, loud conversations with containers and bags in hand.
Things moved relatively quickly, the table being set by many hands, appetizers in a wide range of types set out (Vernon was proud to say he got mozzarella sticks), and more bodies filling your space. Joshua and Cheol helped you and Mingyu get the pot pie pans from the oven, nearly dropping one in the process. While they cooled enough to not be molten lava hot, you managed to pull Wonwoo aside for an apology, but he put an arm over your shoulder and brushed the attempt aside, patting your arm gently. He muttered quietly that it was water under the bridge, as long as you agreed to some intense training to make up for it.
Whenever there was a chance, Jeonghan was holding your hand or his hands were on your waist, standing behind you, even when you were trying to get food to the table. His eyes were more prying than Minghao’s, which you couldn’t blame him since you ignored his calls and never reached out after.
As most SVT dinners went, the homey energy never slowed, with three hefty pans of food being passed around and the alcohol getting downed, you remembered how much you missed the dinners at home.
Your boys kicked the rest out as the thing started to wind down, some stumbling out while the more sober ones helped the drunk ones.
You stood at the bathroom door, leaning against the doorframe, watching Jeonghan, Joshua, and Seungcheol get ready for bed, day clothes tossed about and idle conversation.
“Jihoon needs to change how those crates are stacked or get a label maker because I couldn’t find shit in there.” Cheol huffed, pulling back the comforter and sitting down. “Like, seriously, how does he find anything in there?”
Joenghan shrugged, pushing his hair back, the strands having grown longer and longer by the day. “He probably doesn’t, but as long as shit is found, oh well.”
“You okay, sweetheart?” Joshua’s attention was on you, followed by two other sets of eyes landing on you.
“I’m fine, I wanted to apologize for everything today. I ignored you three and you shouldn’t be ignored just because I’m in a mood and needed a while to cool off. I’m sorry for that.” You stepped over, standing at the foot of the bed. “Communicating is hard when you spend most of your life doing things on your own.”
Each of their faces softened and it did something to your chest, small reminisces of smiles on their lips. Joshua pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, comforting and loving.
“I think we were more worried you’d get into an accident at some point with how fast Wonwoo said you were going at some point.” Cheol joked and you leaned back, away from Joshua in his arms, hearing him and Jeonghan snicker.
You thunked your head onto Joshua’s chest, “I zoned out hard, and now I’m hoping we could put on a movie and go to bed.”
“UH, before that,” Jeonghan hopped over, standing behind you to pull you to his chest, a smile on his face. “Can you never ever do that shit again? Do you know how awkward it was to call Hongjoong to talk to Jongho?”
“I know, I’m sorry-” A kiss was placed on your cheek by him before Joshua kissed the other. “I promise I’ll at least reach out to let you know I need some space so I’m not MIA.”
There was a sound of movement and Cheol’s arms encapsulated the three of you before pulling you down onto the bed in a heap. There was a wide grin on his lips, happy to have the three of you in his arms even if Shua and Jeonghan complained about an elbow or limb in the ribs or an uncomfortable fall.
“I say we watch an action movie!” With any lingering tension broken by the oldest, a groan came from one of the other two.
“Hey, I’ll take action over romcom like you picked last time, Han.” Joshua scoffed, pulling you with him out of Seungcheol’s grip.
“It wasn’t that bad.” You countered.
Cheol clicked his tongue. “Everyone was asleep by the first half hour.”
“Seungkwan said it was good!”
“Seungkwan is a fucking sap!”
“Just pick a movie before Joshua picks a horror movie again please.” You rested your head on the aforementioned man’s shoulder. “I’d like to sleep tonight.”
A soft, pained sound woke him, along with the whisper of Jeonghan’s voice. At first he thought he was dreaming, eyes still closed, but when Jeonghan started again, he knew he wasn’t.
“Mouse?” Jeonghan sounded tired, much like how Joshua currently felt, confused even.
Eyebrows furrowed together, Joshua cracked his eyes open, seeing it was still dark within the bedroom. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust and turn over to face them.
“Stop-” The pained sound came from her, but he took Mouse in, she was still asleep.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and she moved, twitched to be exact. Sweat beaded from her forehead, slowly running into her hairline on either side of her face. Jeonghan was sitting up, concern in his eyes as he gazed at Joshua, unsure of what to do. Cheol made a sound, finally waking up as her murmuring got louder.
“Let me go-” Mouse kicked out her legs, head thrashing side to side.
Reaching over, Joshua flicked on the bedside lamp quickly, illuminating the room. His heart was racing and Seungcheol’s tired eyes were wide with worry, gaze flicking to the grip she had on the blanket, so tight it turned her knuckles white. With the light on, he could see the sheets around her were soaked with sweat, sticking to any exposed skin.
“How long-” Seungcheol started but Jeonghan cut him off.
“She was moving around a lot which woke me up a few minutes ago, but then she started talking.”
“Mouse.” Joshua tried to rouse her, raising his voice some, shaking her shoulder, but she flinched, actually flinched, skin hot to the touch. A pit landed in his stomach, heavy and panicking.
She thrashed again, tearing welling up in the corners of her eyes then sliding down the sides of her face. “Don’t-”
Jeonghan went to reach for her, another attempt to get her up, but her body jerked and she screamed at the top of her lungs, arms and legs lashing out to keep things away. Joshua and Jeonghan got hit as they tried to stop her, shouting her name. Mouse kept screaming, desperately trying to get away in her sleeping horror, begging and pleading to not hurt her before her eyes snapped open.
Joshua was holding one of her wrists while Cheol had her legs and Jeonghan the other arm. She shot up, trying to rip her limbs away with a shout to let her. Hands instantly left her body and she rushed off the bed, falling to the floor on her hands and knees, hyperventilating. He moves towards the edge with the other two, watching her entire body shake and twitch, perilously quick intake of deep breaths. Her nails were clawing into the thin carpet, knuckles white and sweat dripping onto the floor.
No one spoke even if they wanted to, which Joshua knew he wanted to. His mind was racing, wanting to reach out and help but didn’t know how in this situation. Clearly physical touch was out the questions, reminding him of when she first came home-
“Mo,” Joshua started, keeping his voice low, cautious. “Mo, were you back there? Back where they took you?”
The full body shutter and the shaky breath she pushed out was answer enough.
Moving slowly, Joshua got off the bed, giving Mouse a wide berth before kneeling a few feet in front of her. “I need you to look around and see where you are, sweetheart, please.”
With her head hung low, it took a few seconds for her frantic eyes to look around the room as he asked. She was no longer gasping for air, but her breathing was still sharp intakes and shaky. Her hands loosened from the grip on the carpet and whatever strength she had faded suddenly, falling onto her side then rolling onto her back. Mouse laid there limp, eyes unconfused as she stared up at the ceiling. Thankfully she wasn’t shaking anymore but a sheen of sweat still covered her skin.
Joshua’s eyes met Cheol’s and Jeonghan’s, the latter looking close to crying and the former was chewing on the inside of his cheek. They looked down at Mouse, glad she at least was awake and breathing.
“Do you want a shower?” She nodded. “Cold?” A shake of her head. “Hot?” A second nod.
Seungcheol was off the bed first before Joshua could stand, carefully making his way to the bathroom to turn on the shower and get things ready for her. Han was going towards the closet, more than likely getting a fresh set of clothes, seeing as the fabric was soaked and clung to her.
“Sweetheart, do you need help getting up? Or can you do it yourself?”
The question hung in the air, both Seungcheol and Jeonghan standing at the bathroom and closet doorways respectively. Mouse cleared her throat a few times, short puffs of air leaving from her nose. Her eyes shot back and forth on different parts of the ceiling before she spoke.
“I need help.” Was all she managed, trying to push herself up but her arms shook.
Joshua moved towards her, scared to spook her, and placed a hand in her to see her reaction. First she flinched away, a sound of discomfort leaving her, but she squeezed his hands as a start. He told her he would lift her up which she agreed to, and she was tense when he got his arms under her. Mouse leaned her head onto his shoulder once he stood, staying silent as he went into the large bathroom. Seungcheol stood by the shower, fresh towel in hand, while Jeonghan set her clothes on one side of the sink’s counter and grabbed bandages for her brand.
He placed her down on the sink counter, holding her up as he undressed her and Jeonghan covered her burn with waterproof coverings. Her hands were balled into fists and she shivered or flinched at each touch. Though he was there to help, Mouse got off the counter on shaky legs and made the short few steps to the shower, the door held open by Cheol. Steam plumed around her as she stepped inside and he shut the glass door behind her.
Slowly she sank to the floor, back pressed to the wall and slid down the wall, knees being drought to her chest. The three watched for a moment before Joshua nudged them out to give Mouse some privacy, leaving the door ajar.
“What the fuck?” Jeonghan whispered, picking at the skin of his lips. “I haven’t heard her scream like that since she woke up.”
“Night terrors. Remember when Chan used to have them?” Seungcheol sighed, sitting on the head of the bed and dropping his head. “She’s never had a night this bad. Never screamed in her sleep.”
Joshua leaned against the wall beside the bathroom, tired but wide awake with sleep not coming anytime soon. “I’m confused as to why, but the mind is a weird thing, maybe something she did or saw triggered this?”
“But a trigger causing something this bad?” Jeonghan started to pace, antsy being an understatement. “That would have to be a fucking big thing, like seeing MX or something.”
“She wouldn’t do that.” Both Joshua and Cheol spoke, and Joshua felt a headache coming on.
Seungcheol suddenly raised his head, keeping his voice low. “We all agree she was lying about whatever was happening with Gahyeon, right?”
“I need to wake up Wonwoo, what time is it?” He moved towards the nightstand to find his phone, groaning low. “Fuck, it’s three AM, but I need an answer, I’ll be back.”
Seungcheol was out of the apartment not a second later, leaving Jeonghan and Joshua with their jumbled thoughts. They stared at one another, the sound of the shower still running in the background. There was a sudden understanding behind Jeonghan’s eyes.
“He is going to track her phone.” Jeonghan’s words sat stale in the air.
Joshua assumed as much, it would be the only explanation of why he needed to wake the computer nerd up at three in the morning. It didn’t feel right, breaking her trust and privacy – the tracking was there for safety in case of emergencies, but things weren’t adding up, which he agreed with. If the tracking showed them she was at the DC house all night, great, but then Gahyeon’s phone needed to be checked, even other members of the 99 line if she was dumb enough to do something sketchy.
“Go check on her.” Jeonghan ran a hand over his face then pointed to the bathroom door. “I can’t trust myself right now to not lose it.”
Joshua stepped in, going towards the shower, but Mouse hadn’t moved much. She was bright red on any space of skin he could see, but her head was leaned back against the wall and her eyes were closed.
“You alright?” She didn’t flinch when he spoke, simply nodding in response. “Do you want to come out?”
“Not yet.” Mouse spoke softly, but still heard over the pelting of water, opening her eyes. “I can get out when I’m ready, Shua, go back to sleep.”
Joshua’s face twisted, not liking the answer but didn’t want to fight based on how drained she looked. “We’ll be up, call us if you need anything.”
Jeonghan was changing all the bedding when he left the bathroom, rumpled sheets and blankets on the floor. He was quiet, moving meticulously to get it done, silence in the air. With nothing to do and draining energy, Joshua helped, keeping an ear open for either the shower or Sungcheol's return.
By the time the bed was properly made, the shower turned off. Neither he nor Joshua rushed in, letting her collect herself before emerging. Her skin was still red but the flush wasn’t from the panic and she wasn’t shiny with sweat. Mouse looked between them, hugging herself.
“I’m going to call my therapist in the morning.” She tried to reassure, shuffling towards the bed. “Thank you for helping me.”
“Of course, my love.” Jeonghan stepped towards her and she nodded when he reached out, hands hovering near her waist. He sighed in relief as he took her gently into his arms. “Are you feeling better? Need anything?”
“Some tea would be nice.” She glanced between the two of them, a frown between her brows as she looked to Joshua then about the room. “Where is Cheol?”
“He…went to get something upstairs, ice cream I think, in case you wanted it.” Jeonghan spoke and Joshua was slowly getting his phone to text Cheol to grab their ice cream on the way back. “Remember that you ate it all?”
She took a second to nod her head, shoulders dropping. “ Can I still have some tea?”
“For sure, you go lay down in bed and we’ll get it.”
Jeonghan busied himself with getting her into bed while Joshua took the old sheets out of the room, going to the kitchen to start the kettle, grabbing a mug and some chamomile tea. The other joined him after Cheol responded with a thumbs up, both learning against the counter.
“Why is he taking so long?” Jeonghan whispered.
Joshua rolled the idea he had earlier in his head, rubbing the back of his neck before sighing. “My bet is to check all of 99 line locations from the other night. If Mouse was going to do something, she would be smart enough to not do things alone.”
“True, but I hope nothing comes of it and this is just a fluke.”
When the kettle started to whistle, Jeonghan jumped at the opportunity to prepare Mouse’s tea. Seungcheol opened the front door quietly, ice cream in hand and a look of relief on his face. Jeonghan excused himself to give her the tea, returning just as quick.
“Well?”
“Wonwoo said her phone was at DC all night. A quick call to Hongjoong showed 99 line at a bar then home, as they said they were doing, and Siyeon said Gahyeon was home too during that night.”
“That’s good, right? That she was there?”
Seungcheol made a face at Jeonghan’s comment. “Yeah, but if she is still lying, what is she lying about?”
“Let it lie for now, with how everything is, lies will come to light sooner or later.” Joshua yawned, sending the other two in a fit with him. “I’m not going to be able to sleep but I at least want to be comfortable while exhausted.”
Ha...hahaha....I've been putting this off because i've been busy af.
Master List | Prev | Next
[New Group Chat Created]
{To FAFO 7:36 AM}
Whatever I say here stays between us.
Understood?
It took only a few moments for one person to answer, seeing how early it was. You could barely sleep, especially with the lump of boyfriends in your bed, so you snuck out of your room early to sit in the living room and write your text.
{ChangBeef 7:37 AM}
Why isn’t Chan here?
{To FAFO 7:38 AM}
He can’t know this, and I need help, but NO ONE outside of this chat can know.
If you don’t think you can keep a very big secret, leave the chat.
{ChangBeef 7:38 AM}
O she serious
Uh, yeah i’m listening
No one will probably be up yet
{HoHoYunHo 7:39 AM}
I’m alive
vaguely.
{To FAFO 7:39 AM}
I’m going to wait until everyone is up and checks in before I continue.
Both Changbin and Yunho sent thumbs up in response, letting things lay while waiting for the others within 99 line to wake up. You set your phone side for now, closing your eyes to relax for a few moments, coffee needed.
The second step within your plan was done, at least the reaching out part, and you had to wait for anything else. You were somehow less nervous than you were the previous day, but given that you did the hardest part already with contacting and speaking with Kihyun, this was the easiest part. You hoped Kihyun thought you were naive, not expecting you to bring your own weapons and group for protection. Maybe he had you under a microscope, always watching, already a step ahead, but you weren’t going alone, that was never the plan.
“You’ve been having trouble sleeping the last few nights.” Jeonghan’s soft, groggy voice brought you back from your thoughts, the couch dipping beside as he sat down. He was quick to curl up beside you, blanket pulled off the back of the couch and wrapped around him. His head rested on your shoulder and one peek showed his eyes were barely open. “Something on your mind?”
“It’s nothing, Hannie. Just typical overthinking.” Understatement. “And I’m sorry, you guys are personal heaters and it’s way too hot in bed sometimes.”
“I vote to kick Cheol out. He is the furnace.” He pressed his face into your neck, breath tickling your skin. He wasn’t wrong though. “And kick Shua out for the fun of it.”
“You just want me all to yourself.” You rested your head against his, closing your eyes to bask in the moment. “This is the greed they talk about in the bible.”
“If I was a seven deadly sin, I’d definitely be greed.”
You couldn’t help the snort that left your throat. “I disagree, try sloth.”
“I’m not that lazy, love.” He lifted his head from your shoulder, a weak, tired glare narrowing his eyes.
“I can name plenty of times when you are. Last week you begged to stay in bed all day because you wanted to ‘vegetable out’ and not do anything.”
“I had a long day at work the day before.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but you didn’t believe it.
“And you slept twelve hours, but pop off.”
Jeonghan once more pressed his face into your neck, tossing the blanket over you to share. “Whatever…”
With no immediate messages, you related before your boyfriend, knowing the exact moment he fell asleep again by his calm, even breathing. You didn’t move out of fear of waking him, the most sensitive sleeper of your boyfriends.
You rested your eyes but didn’t fall back to sleep, easing the worries of 99 lines’ reactions.
You’d have to guess that a few would be on board right away, definitely Wooyoung, Yeonjun, and maybe Changbin. San, Yeosang, Mingi would probably agree, but would hesitate. They would follow the majority. The only two that would need the most convincing would be Gahyeon and Yunho, but the point blank ‘I’m doing this whether you like it or not’ could swing them.
Kihyun couldn’t be trusted to follow the rules you set so you wanted enough people and gun power just in case.
Shuffling feet came from down the hall, two pairs from the different rhythms in sound. Cheol and Joshua came into view over Jeonghan’s head, clothes rumbled and bleary eyed from sleep. They both gave small waves, but beelined for the coffee maker. Quietly they made their drinks, the sound and smell enough to wake Jeonghan, freeing you to get a cup to wake up the rest of your brain.
From Joshua’s small talk, morning conversation, they all had things they needed to finish up today, praying it wouldn’t take forever. He and Jeonghan needed to work at Pledis, while Cheol would be heading out somewhere with Wonwoo and Vernon about half an hour outside of town. Today was more of a front business day, the latter three were going to a newly built warehouse to see if it was worth buying to expand the prospects of Pledis. If things looked promising, they’d start the purchasing process, but had a few others around that area they could walk through and see.
None of them were in a rush to get ready, making breakfast, lazing around. You enjoyed the domestic aspects of it all, homey even, as Joshua and Cheol split the duties to make breakfast. Jeonghan took charge in setting the table, ushering you away to grab drinks instead of helping him. Breakfast was full of laughter, conversation never ending even when the food was all gone. It was sweet, calming in the endless mess that spiraled in the world.
Though the morning was lovely, Seungcheol got a message that Wonwoo and Vernon were outside, setting Joshua and Jeonghan into motion to get ready. The master bathroom and closet were a whirlwind of clothes and morning pampering as they got ready, leaving you to sit and watch happily from the bed.
What? You’d never pass up an opportunity to see all three of your significant others half naked.
With quiet goodbyes and sweet kisses, they were out the door, leaving you to your own devices while you waited for any sign of life from the new groupchat. It wasn’t too long before the knowing chime came.
[FAFO]
{SanKitty 9:16 AM}
Here
{Wooooooyoung 9:17 AM}
Bitchass woke me up, I’m getting Sang
{HoHoYunho 9:17 AM}
Mingi is up and I can fill him in.
{Gahoney 9:19 AM}
Stop waking me up bro
{YeonJUN 9:20 AM}
Woo, stop calling me
{ChangBeef 9:21 AM}
I think everyone is here
{Wooooooyoung 9:22 AM}
ATZ present, Sang is awake, we chillin
Taking a breath, seeing everyone’s check ins, you sank into your couch, fingers flying over the keys.
{To FAFO 9:23 AM}
Before I start, does anyone need to leave?
With a quick, resounding no, you continued on.
{To FAFO 9:25 AM}
First, to repeat, nothing can be said outside of this chat, I’m serious.
Second, the reason I made this chat is because I need you guys to come with me as protection while I meet with Kihyun.
{HoHoYunho 9:25 AM}
ARE YO UFUCKING CRAZ Y
THIS IS YOUR WORST IDEA TO DATE
NO
NO ONE AGREE TO THIS
{Wooooooyoung 9:26 AM}
Fuck it, im in
{Gahoney 9:26 AM}
DON’T FUCKING AGREE TO THIS, WOOYOUNG
This is a suicide mission
Yeah…you predicted this.
{YeonJUN 9:27 AM}
Better to be there then her going alone tbh, i’m down
{To FAFO 9:27 AM}
I was going to go alone if no one agreed so, there is that.
{HoHoYunHo 9:28 AM}
This is the stupidest idea. WHY would you willingly meet the person that orchestrated your kidnapping and torturing???????
{SanKitty 9:28 AM}
Okay, well now that she said she is gonna do it even without us, Yeosang and I are in.
And now I see why we can’t tell Chan.
{HoHoYunHo 9:29 AM}
Absolutely NOT. I’m not letting you agree to this.
{To FAFO 9:29 AM}
1. Why? Because I am sick of him taunting me, He’s been doing it for weeks
2. Because I need to show that I am not afraid of him or MX anymore
3. Its in two days, grant street park, midnight, but i have zero trust so that is why i’m asking for your help.
{ChangBeef 9:30 AM}
Whose cars are we taking?
It took some time to get an answer back from Yunho, especially with Wooyoung play-by-play texting that he pulled ATZ’s 99ers into his room to whisper-yell at them. Gahyeon kept trying to talk you and everyone else out of it, listing every possible way it could go wrong, but no one was listening. San and Changbin, even Mingi who showed up sometime between the chaos, playing Devil’s advocates.
{HoHoYunho 9:45 AM}
Fine, but if anything goes wrong, i’m telling you I told you so and you have to tell all the groups leaders involved.
{To FAFO 9:46 AM}
Deal. Now back to Bin’s question: Whose driving?
With Gahyeon finally submitting to helping you, now that she had no one on her side, the planning came.
Yunho and San suggested you drive there yourself to make it seem like you came alone, while the rest of them showed up earlier to set up in their spots. Yeosang sent a picture of the park’s satellite image for hiding spots and where it would be best for you to stand. San brought up Wooyoung being ‘on the building across the street’ which prompted the latter to send a voice message of ‘Of course I’m being the sniper! Who do you think I am?’.
You let them decide the strategy of protection, only looping back in when ‘alibis’ needed to be figured out. Gahyeon got you to agree (not that it was hard to agree) to saying you’d be spending the night for a girls night, you would still stay over after, but it got you away from SVT. ATZ would say that they were going to have a 99er night where they could go out freely without Hongjoong or Seonghwa questioning anything. Changbin and Yeonjun were the easiest to get out since they were solo in their group, which they could make something up on the fly if needed.
Mingi brought up everyone wearing ear pieces to stay in communication, which you commented was overboard, but Yunho shot down your dismissal. ‘This way or no way’ was his argument, something you couldn’t easily go against since you wanted their help.
The ‘what ifs’ that crept into your mind got squashed with each and every safety precaution put in place, no stone left unturned in the planning.
For once, you felt more thoroughly prepared for the start of a war.
“Gahyeon invited me to DC house tomorrow for a girls night so I’m going to spend the night there.”
Jeonghan had been distracted since he left for the warehouse earlier in the day.
“Cheol, did Mo seem okay to you earlier?”
Dropping the papers he definitely wasn’t reading, Jeonghan turned to face Seungcheol. The head leader raised a brow, shrugging his shoulders, which annoyed the hell out of him.
“No, she seemed fine to me, why?”
This idiot. He held that thought in, near silently drumming his fingers on the table.
“Nothing, nevermind,” Cheol hasn’t been with her long enough to see her tells.
Seungcheol tsked, leaning back in his chair while crossing his arms. “You are getting snippy, don’t go and brush this off. Fess up to what’s got you distracted.”
Across the way, Cheol held Jeonghan’s stare, both too stubborn to back down. He saw the way Cheol’s jaw tightened, expecting an answer to the inquiry.
“I think she is lying to us about going to DC’s place tomorrow.”
The accusation hung heavy in the air, a flash of confusion passing Cheol’s eyes.
The door to the office opened, breaking the tension momentarily as Joshua and Seokmin stepped inside. They looked between Jeonghan and Seungcheol, sensing something as they secured the door shut.
“Are you guys going to fight?” Joshua scoffed, but a cheeky smirk filled his features. “Should we leave?”
Before Jeonghan could deflect, Seungcheol started to speak, motioning to him.
“Han thinks Mouse lied to us this morning about having a girls night with Gahyeon tomorrow.”
“Thanks, asshole.” Jeonghan snapped, mouth twitching in annoyance. “You didn’t need to tell him-”
“Hey, she spoke to me too in the convo this morning. I deserve to know if you think she is lying.” Joshua chastised, stepping towards the two. “I don’t think she was lying.”
“Same here.” Cheol butted in, but Seokmin snorted, trying not to laugh.
“Well, did you see any of her tells?”
The youngest and oldest of the leaders of the trio whipped their gazes to Seokmin, eyebrows furrowed together. Jeonghan rolled his eyes, flinging a hand out to the youngest in the room, as if to make his point.
“Thank you! They can’t see them.” His words only made Seokmin laugh now.
“Mo has tells?” Joshua’s question was more pointed to Seungcheol, who was equally as surprised.
You’ve got to be-
“Everyone has tells, even if you don’t think you do. You start to pout or your leg bounces when you verbally lie and you can’t hide a good hand in poker because your lip twitches when you try to hide a smirk. It’s why we don’t play cards with you because we can run you dry from your tells.”
“I do not-”
“Nah, he is right, you actually do.” Joshua cut in. “Wait, Min, how do you know her tells?”
Seokmin looked at him as if asking if he was serious. “Dude, really? I worked with her for, like, two years, could see right through her, of course I know them.”
“She does this hand thing.” Jeonghan raised a hand, tapping his ring finger and thumb together over and over. “Both hands, but she tries to hide it.”
“And her eyes get shifty, like, won’t make eye contact” Seokmin added, now pulling out a chair to sit. “She also speaks way too sweet, does that make sense?”
Jeonghan sighed with relief, glad someone in the room saw what he did. Joshua and Cheol, though, didn’t seem fully convinced.
Seokmin knocked his knuckles on the table, frowning. “You two have never noticed it?”
Shaking his head, Seungcheol frowned. “No, now I’m running through conversations in my head but nothing comes to mind outside of today, I guess?”
“Oh, and she sounds really scattered on the phone, like, panicky.” Jeonghan adds.
That had Cheol’s eyes widening, gaze roaming over the three of them.
“The other day, I called her and she said she was getting coffee with Jongho. Then I asked her if she was busy since I was taking everyone to dinner and she didn’t sound right, like you said, kinda scattered, saying she just had a lot on her mind.”
Silence fell over the four of them, eyes darting between one another in question.
“Yesterday she was up really early and said she had a lot on her mind, but she…wasn’t lying then.” Jeonghan added, lifting his hand to pick at the skin of his lips. “But now I’m wondering what she is thinking about.”
“Where is she right now?” Seokmin started to pull out his phone, probably ready to call Mouse.
“I think she is with Jihoon today. Training first then she wanted to go to Ruby.”
With all eyes on Joshua, Jeonghan pursed his lips, only to open his mouth with a confused tilt of his head. “That will be the first time she is going to Ruby since we found her.”
“I said the same thing when she told me but Mo said she’s seen the surveillance videos and just wanted to take a peek.” Joshua went on, running a hand through his neatly styled hair, ruining whatever gel was in it. “Then Jihoon butted into the convo and said he’d teach her how to mix drinks and she thinks she is going to be unstoppable now.”
“Give me a sec.” Seokmin dialed the phone, placing a finger to his lips to keep everyone quiet. And putting the call on speaker phone.
“What do you want, loser?” Mouse sounded out of breath, sucking in a harsh breath. “Jihoon is killing me here.”
“Sounds like it,” Seokmin spoke smoothly, humming quietly. “Han told me you were going to DC house tomorrow, and here I was going to ask my best friend to dinner.”
“Oh- Uh, yeah, it was a last minute thing.” There it was, the unsteadiness in her voice. “Gahyeon uh- texted me last night and begged me to come over tomorrow. You know, since we haven’t hung out in a while and all-”
Seokmin didn’t look too convinced, just as Jeonghan did. “Damn, I get to miss girls night? Unfair.”
“I think she said we are just having a chill night so…not missing much, yeah. Can you let me go? ‘Hoon is giving me the death glare and I need to shower before I go over to Ruby with him.”
“Alright, be safe.” Mouse hung up on him quickly after that and Seokmin set his phone down. “Yeah, she is definitely lying about something.”
“Okay, I will agree that she sounded suspicious.” Seungcheol’s face twisted. “Mo has been different since she came back to us, we know that. If she is lying, fine, but she wouldn’t do anything that would hurt us, and she probably has a really good reason why. Let’s cut her some slack.”
Jeonghan couldn’t deny that Cheol was probably right, at least not to his face, that would feed into his ego too much. Seokmin and Joshua seemed to roll the words over in their heads, probably agreeing that Cheol was actually right. Mouse did change that day she woke up, but a lot of things had changed. The lenses they all once looked through had gotten clearer, more honed in on what was needed rather than what was wanted.
“I vote to not say anything for now.” Jeonghan hummed, “At least until we have to. But that means it stays between us.”
“I’m with you, each of us have lied to one another before so we can’t have a double standard now.” Joshua nodded, getting his phone out. “Anyways, can we talk about what Seokmin and I came here about?”
“It hasn’t changed much since you were…here last, prior to…yeah, you get it.” Jihoon flicked on the lights to the club, stepping aside to let you inside.
Ruby hadn’t changed at all since you were last inside – well, prior to them finding you would be a better way to remember. You glanced around the unchanged space, same tables, same chairs, and it didn’t pull any morbid emotions. Your feet brought you to the middle of the dance floor, where your body once laid broken and unconscious, remembering how everyone looked on video that day.
“I asked Cheol if we should sell it. The club. Ruby.” Jihoon walked behind the bar, starting his prep to get everything up and running for the evening and night ahead of them. “He told me it wasn’t his decision, it was mine to make, but I wanted to know what you wanted.”
“I don’t remember ever being here. I only learned I was here when Wonwoo told me.” You saw yourself on the floor, tied up in the thick, red ribbon. “What you do here…I don’t think it’s my decision to make either. Ruby was and is your passion, don’t let me being found here hinder your ability to keep your passion thriving.”
Jihoon stopped his opening prep, hands hovering over the next station he needed to get to. There was that semi-blank look on his face, like he was searching to say the words riddling his head.
“I was ready to shut the doors forever the day we found you. I told the staff we were closing for a few days when I was here cleaning up everything, top to bottom, not just the floor. Told myself that when you were awake that we’d talk about it, but when I saw how messed up you were, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. We just opened like normal and tried to lead normal days.”
“Then we just moved on…Cheol and I didn’t talk about it and it felt almost wrong, like keeping this place open would hurt you more but you got help and showed so much…courage and determination.” He continued, going back to his work, moving about the bar. “And hearing you say that today puts a lot into perspective of how much you have overcome.”
You walked over to the bar, leaning on the counter top where he was closest. “This got a lot more depressing than I was hoping.”
That earned you a scoff from Jihoon, but half of his mouth was quirked up in a grin. “Yeah, well, excuse me for being a little emotional with you asking me to take you here after so long.”
“I never want any of you to give things up because of what has happened. I never want my presence in your life to get in the way of what you want.”
“You’re like a too supportive sister that got dealt the shit hand.”
You threw your head back in laughter, hearing him laugh along with you. “I mean, dude, I am. Joining the mafia and getting kidnapped-slash-tortured. I’m a walking bad movie.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Jihoon continued on with his set up, motioning for you to get behind the bar. “Now let’s teach you to mix so I can have another bar hand when we are busy.”
“Yes sir, boss man.”
Jihoon, though not the easiest teacher to follow, did teach you a lot of drinks to mix. Sometimes he just…muttered and spoke way too fast for you to follow, which was weird since Mingyu talked way faster…
You messed up multiple times, sometimes over pouring to the point of making yourself cringe at the taste, which got you both laughing. To your relief, there was a large notebook type binder with all the drinks they could serve based on the ingredients and even some specialty ones for events they held. He timed you for a few simple drinks that you knew, wanting to see how fast you could go and how accurately you could serve a mixed drink. You could confidently say you only messed up two of the ten he had you make, and attributed it to your party days in college, even if he didn’t believe you. You did fire back that they were the two most complicated.
While he was impressed with your skills that you continued to say came from your college days, he only agreed to let you mix drinks when they were desperate for another set of hands.
“Maybe when I know you won’t constantly waste my money we can get you a full time position.”
“So never?”
“Eh, one day, maybe I can have Lex train you, she’s the manager-”
“At Serenity, yeah, I’ve met her.” You hopped onto a stool, leaning back against the bar counter. “Sona has a-”
“I’ve been telling Lex to get with Sona for two years. They are so down bad for each other.”
“Really?!” You turned quickly to face him, gitty with excitement. “So they both like each other and won’t say anything?”
Jihoon’s lips turned up into a smirk. “Yeah, sounds like your fucked up love story with Cheol, minus him being a moron and all. So maybe more like you and Josuha. I heard Lex talking to someone else at Serenity that she had a crush on Sona but neither will do anything. They need to buck up and do something because they are gross with their heart eyes everyone sees but them.”
“I say we team up and get them together.”
“Bro, I am staying out of that shit, I already have enough drama in my life with your relationship BS and the war we got coming at us.”
“That’s fair, I’m definitely gonna meddle when we make it out of everything alive.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.” He cleaned up the mess from your quick lesson, shrugging his shoulders. “But keep me updated.”
“Oh, obviously, dude.”
You showed up to DC house just before dinner, greeted at the front door by Gahyeon, her arms crossed firmly over her chest. She had that angry, disappointed look in her eyes, knowing she was ready to voice her opinion once again.
Not that she hadn’t done that in the new group chat since agreeing to help you. Every couple of hours she’d send either voice messages or texts of her distaste for your meeting. Your personal favorite was the voice memo of her ranting for nearly five minutes of everything that would go wrong. Half her words were unintelligible and Wooyoung laughed at her.
“Still can’t talk you out of it?” She closed the door behind you, sighing deeply through her nose.
“Nope, things are already in motion and the guys are prepped.” The house was quiet, not a hint of background in the large mansion. “Anyone else here?”
“No, they all had stuff to attend to, but I bailed since I am dealing with your stuff.” There wasn’t any venom in her words. “You’re buying dinner, I deserve a manicure, and you owe me a spa day once everything is over, got it?”
“Well, seeing that all my money is from SVT…SVT‘s bank account is at your service. And Sona gifted me a spa package for four people for Christmas so we can use that.”
“Four?”
“She suggested you, which I already planned on bringing, me, Sona, and her not-girlfriend-girlfriend, Lex.”
That got her interested, stern expression turning buttery soft with glee. “Tea?”
“Girl, so much tea, it’s been steeping for years apparently.” You followed her up to her room, dropping your overnight bag on the floor and sitting down on the bed. “‘Hoon said he has known for two years that Lex liked Sona but is too much of a pussy to say anything, and it’s the same for Sona, even if I keep teasing her about it.”
“Useless lesbians.” She shook her head, falling back on the bed. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Me? I’m going to either get them to confess or I’m locking them in a room until they fuck or fight, maybe both.”
Laughter filled the air, lighting up the slight heaviness that worried your heart. “Then watch, two weeks after they get together, they will be moving in together.”
“Is that really how fast lesbians work?”
“It’s a stereotype, but not a false one.”
“Fascinating.” Falling back onto the bed beside her, you stared up at the ceiling. “What are we ordering for dinner?”
You handed over your card without hesitation when she held her hand out, phone in her other hand. She took her time ordering, definitely a lot by how long she took and the smirk when she pulled her phone away so you couldn’t see. She relented in telling you that she did get fun sheet masks for after your meeting and ice cream, plenty of it (and more for the others whenever they get back, ‘sharing is caring’ she said). When food arrived, it was a very, very special meal of food from a dinner not far from DC house; Fries, chicken tenders, mozzarella sticks, and so much more piled into the fridge for the others later. She said that the manicure was on hold until further notice.
You passed the time with TV and food, cleaning up the mess even if she tried to help. Gahyeon texted the chat, asking if everyone was getting prepared and ready, knowing they’d need to be there sooner than you. There was an agreement that Changbin would be picking her up and getting into position. You’d be left at DC house alone, anxiously waiting. Your gun and holster were currently tucked away under the passenger seat of your car, two magazines loaded in case of a shoot out.
Gahyeon and you didn’t talk about it, even if it was clear she wanted to. Instead, she did the thing she did best, she talked about clothes and designs, showing you different fabrics, drawings, and mock ups she and Siyeon were working on. Though there were no new events planned by Psy, the two had ideas to cover any and all themes and then some. You asked when either of them had the time to do all of it, only having a ballpark guess of how much time it took, and she shrugged. Any time she had a free moment, she was sketching and doodling, while Siyeon tended to sew and piece items together late into the night when she couldn’t sleep.
Changbin showed up an hour and a half prior to your meeting with Kihyun, slipping into his car. Before they left, he passed you a small in-ear device to keep in contact with them once you arrived and burner phone, while she tossed a set of house keys your way. Though you still had time, you locked up the house and sat in your car, staring out the front windshield into the night. Slowly, you strapped the holster on under your jacket, extra clips at your side. The weight was good, protection and common sense.
Your new burner phone buzzed not long after, notifying you that everyone was in position and waiting. The in-ear comms device you were given was pressed into place, no chatter heard with the distance between you and the group.
When you were ready to leave, you made sure all your ‘i’s were dotted and ‘t’s were crossed, gun secured, phone in hand, and nerves in check, then you moved. You kept the radio off, letting the silence of the drive guide you through your hesitation.
Parking on the desolate street of the park, it took a moment for you to collect yourself and get out of the car. Quiet static filled your in-ear, then a voice.
“Mo just showed.” Wooyoung’s voice was low, his tone of any usual playfulness. “No sign of him, ten minutes to midnight.”
“I got eyes on Mouse’s car.” San chimed in next, whispering. “Mo?”
Raising a hand to your ear, you pressed down on the small button in the device Changbin showed you. “I’m here, going to get into position in a sec.”
Turning off and stepping out of the car, you adjusted your large jacket to cover your holster, glancing around the area. No one was on the street, you couldn’t hear a soul aside from your own breathing.
Though the street lights were on, Grant Park had enough tree cover in the outer edge to keep it relatively dark at midnight, even with the moon high. The daytime noise of people was gone with the sun, leaving with you a murmur of wind and anticipation. You couldn’t see any of your friends but you knew vaguely where they would be based on the plans made.
You stopped in the middle of the park, tucking your hands into the jacket pockets, listening for anything.
“Don’t look, but coming up from your left, Mo.” Wooyoung warned and you didn’t move, keeping your gaze ahead until you heard the footsteps.
Seeing Kihyun for the first time in person since you were taken knocked all the air from your lungs. He sauntered over slowly, hands up in faux surrender before opening his jacket to show he had no guns or weapons on or in his waistband. You didn’t do the same,only turning to face him, letting out the breath you were holding.
Kihyun stopped nearly ten feet from you, that sly, unsettling smirk on his face. His eyes roamed your figure once, only to meet your eyes.
“Mouse,” You fists clenched in your pockets as he spoke, “It’s good to see you again, in person.”
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Hii I love your content! Was wondering if you could write about svt 14th member having a crazy and dangerous male sasaeng that breaks into her hotel room when they’re on tour?
Intruder in the Dark | Seventeen x 14thMember | angst
The night in Beijing was eerily quiet. The tour had been exhausting, and the entire Seventeen team—members and staff alike—were fast asleep in their hotel rooms. Y/N had passed out almost instantly, exhaustion washing over her as soon as she lay down. The dim glow of the bedside lamp flickered slightly, casting soft shadows across the room.
Then came the noise.
A soft click. The unmistakable sound of a door handle turning. It wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the night, it sent a strange shiver down her spine. Half-asleep, Y/N assumed it was just one of the boys. Maybe Woozi had misplaced his key card again, or Mingyu had come to steal snacks. It wouldn’t be the first time.
She turned onto her side, pulling the covers up, too exhausted to even check. But the sound didn’t stop. The door creaked open, slow and deliberate. Y/N’s brows furrowed. That was odd. The guys didn’t usually hesitate like this. They just barged in, announced themselves with little regard for volume, and left just as chaotically.
Something was wrong.
The air in the room shifted, a presence thickening the atmosphere. Y/N’s heart began to pick up speed. She held her breath. Maybe it was just staff. But no—staff never entered unannounced in the middle of the night.
The door clicked shut.
And then, footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Too cautious to be anyone familiar.
Fear gripped her, ice-cold and suffocating. Her breath hitched as she squeezed her eyes shut, feigning sleep, hoping—praying—that whoever it was would just leave.
But they didn’t.
The footsteps approached the bed. Closer. Closer.
A dark silhouette loomed over her.
And then, a voice.
“I finally found you.”
A nightmare come to life.
Y/N’s eyes shot open, and she froze in horror. The man standing before her was no stranger. She had seen that face before—too many times. The same twisted, obsessive eyes that followed her at airports, at venues, lurking in the shadows, always watching. A sasaeng.
Her sasaeng.
She gasped, scrambling backward on the bed, panic crashing over her in waves.
“No—No, no, no—”
The man grinned—a slow, sickening curl of his lips. “Shh, don’t be scared. I’m here now.”
Her stomach churned. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be real.
She did the only thing her body allowed her to do.
She screamed.
Loud. Desperate. Terrified.
The man lunged, his hand clamping over her mouth. “Shh—”
Y/N thrashed wildly, clawing at his arms, kicking at him with every ounce of strength she had. Panic fueled her, adrenaline surging through her veins. She bit down hard on his hand, tasting blood, and he yelped in pain, yanking his hand away.
She screamed again. “MINGYU! SEUNGKWAN! JOSHUA! HELP!”
The hallway outside was silent for a moment. Too long. Too terrifyingly long.
Then—
Footsteps. Rushed. Heavy.
The door burst open with a deafening bang.
Seungkwan and Joshua were first, eyes wide with alarm. Their gazes darted to the scene—the trembling Y/N, the sasaeng inches from her, the sheer terror in her expression.
“GET AWAY FROM HER!”
Joshua lunged first, shoving the man back. But the sasaeng fought back, pushing Joshua off and taking a wild swing. Chaos erupted. Seungkwan yelled something incomprehensible, grabbing the nearest object—a lamp—and hurling it at the intruder.
It shattered on impact, sending the sasaeng stumbling.
Y/N scrambled off the bed, her entire body shaking. She bolted towards the door, but before she could reach it, the man recovered, grabbing her wrist in a bruising grip. She screamed again, her voice raw, as she tried to wrench herself free.
Then, another voice.
“LET HER GO.”
Mingyu.
A second later, Mingyu barreled into the room, eyes blazing with fury. He didn’t hesitate. He tackled the sasaeng, sending them both crashing to the floor. Fists flew. The sound of knuckles connecting with flesh, grunts of pain, the scuffle of limbs.
The other members poured in. Security wasn’t far behind.
Outside in the hallway, Jeonghan, DK, Vernon, Dino, Woozi, Hoshi, Wonwoo, Jun, The8, and S.Coups had already been startled awake by the noise. Vernon, still groggy, frowned and asked, "Is that Y/N?"
And just as he spoke, the door to her room flew open, and Y/N came running out, tears streaming down her face. Without hesitation, she fell into the arms of the remaining ten members, shaking uncontrollably.
“What happened?” Jeonghan asked, voice laced with concern. “Are you hurt?”
“Someone broke into my room,” Y/N sobbed, gripping onto them. “A sasaeng. Mingyu, Seungkwan, and Joshua are fighting him—”
They didn’t need to hear more. Without another word, DK, Vernon, Dino, Hoshi, and Jun stormed into her room, faces set with fury.
S.Coups and The8 sprinted downstairs to get security, while Jeonghan, Woozi, and Wonwoo stayed behind with Y/N, holding her tightly as she trembled in their arms.
It took three guards and the entire force of Seventeen to restrain the sasaeng. He thrashed, screamed, but he was overpowered. Staff members called the police. The man was dragged away, his crazed eyes still locked on Y/N as he disappeared down the hall.
And then—silence.
Later, as Y/N sat on her bed, still shaking, she whispered, “I don’t want to be alone.”
Mingyu, standing beside her, nodded without hesitation. “You won’t be.”
He lay down next to her, staying alert, but as she curled up beside him, he gently ran his fingers through her hair. Slowly, her breathing steadied. And then, a soft sound—a tiny, barely audible snore.
His heart clenched. Grief. Rage. But also relief.
She was safe.
After the rest had left, they gathered outside her door, whispering angrily about what had just happened.
“We can’t let this happen again,” Hoshi hissed.
“This was way too close,” Jeonghan murmured.
“The security in this hotel is a joke,” S.Coups growled. “How did he even get in?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Wonwoo said coldly. “It won’t happen again.”
Dino, still visibly shaken, suddenly sat down right outside her door. “I’m staying here tonight,” he declared. “No one gets past me.”
No one argued. Instead, they each took turns pacing, talking about reinforcing security, making sure Y/N felt safe, and ensuring something like this never happened again.
his voice is shy but steady. “i miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.” ⸻ the lost in translation couple.
📖 pairing. xu minghao x interpreter/translator!reader.
📖 word count. 4k.
📖 genres/includes. romance. established & secret relationship, quotes & excerpts from letters to milena, hints of long distance, google translated mandarin & japanese. this is an offshoot from my longer fic, lost in translation, but it is not necessary to read that before this. title from the song umuwi (eng tr: 'to go home') by never the strangers.
📖 footnotes. turned twenty-something today and figured the best way to celebrate it with a soft hao fic ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ shoutout to viv for planting this idea in my head!!!
Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow.”
One night, you slipped a book into Minghao’s bag before he left for tour—a tender gesture that said more than any text could. When he returned it weeks later, you found the pages marked, underlined, little notes scrawled in the margins in his tight handwriting.
Since then, it’s become your ritual: a different book every month, passed back and forth between hotel rooms and airport lounges, sentences stitched with the weight of two voices instead of one.
This month, it’s Kafka’s Letters to Milena. The spine already softened by your hands, now passing through his. Minghao’s highlighter bleeds faint yellow across the thin pages, his neat characters slanting in Mandarin, sometimes Korean, sometimes both. He doesn’t always translate for you. You think he likes watching you puzzle it out.
Tonight, you’re curled against the window of the hotel room, the hum of traffic muffled by glass. Minghao’s in the shower, and you’re leafing through the book when a highlighted line catches your eye:
Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.
You press your thumb against the words, rereading them until they blur. He had drawn a small star beside the passage, his unspoken way of saying look closer. It isn’t lost on you that he chose this line—this question about time, about endings.
When Minghao emerges, hair damp and curling at the ends, he finds you still staring at the page. He tilts his head, towel slung around his shoulders. “Found something?”
You nod, tapping the margin. “This one.”
He sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours. The warmth of him seeps through the fabric of your pants, steady and grounding. His eyes flick down to the passage, then back up to yours, searching. “Too dramatic?”
“Too honest,” you answer softly.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The air is filled only with the distant city and the faint drip of water from his hair onto his collarbone. You wonder if he feels the weight of secrecy more than he lets on—every smile measured, every glance rehearsed. You’ve hidden this part of your life from his group, from the company, from everyone who might turn your closeness into a problem.
Sometimes, you think it’s easier for you. You’re used to working behind the curtain, unseen. But Minghao lives on stage, in cameras and spotlights. You wonder if keeping you a secret leaves him restless at night, if he ever regrets it in the stretches of travel.
He nudges your shoulder gently, pulling you back from thought. “Why that look?” he prompts.
You shake your head, but your voice betrays you. “Do you think it’s taking something from you? Hiding us like this.”
Minghao doesn’t answer immediately. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers brushing yours where the book rests. His silence is not avoidance; it’s the pause he always takes, the one that makes you feel like his words are chosen as carefully as his brushstrokes.
Finally, he says, “I think it gives me something, too. These little spaces no one else sees. Our own book. Our own pages.”
You swallow, the line in Kafka’s letter echoing in your chest. If only the world were ending tomorrow.
Minghao closes the book, but keeps your hand under his. “Time is strange,” he muses. “Sometimes it feels like too much. Sometimes like none at all. But when I’m with you…” He trails off, then smiles faintly. “I don’t want to reckon with it. I just want it.”
The hotel room feels smaller for it, but safer too. You don’t say what’s knotted in your throat—that secrecy may be its own kind of ending. Instead, you tilt your head onto his shoulder, letting silence stand in for the answer you don’t know how to give.
Minghao’s arm comes around you. His hair still smells faintly of shampoo, his skin warm against your temple. In that heartbeat, time doesn’t matter. Not the flights, not the rehearsals, not the lies by omission. There is only the margin notes between you; the book closed but still breathing with your words.
I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.
You aren’t there for every stop. It depends on who the company sends, who’s available, who draws the short straw. Sometimes, weeks pass without your name appearing on the list, and you make do with texts and late-night calls, with his annotations waiting like crumbs across pages.
But you’re lucky tonight. Lucky that it’s you, loitering backstage with your headset dangling around your neck, your job for the first half of the concert already done. Safety reminders doled out. Ments transposed to the best of your ability.
The stage lights are a dull roar from where you stand, muffled by the walls, the crowd’s energy bleeding through like static. Technicians pass by in a flurry of headsets and clipboards, and you tuck yourself into a corner with the monitor, half-watching Minghao move like smoke, sharp lines dissolving into fluidity. He is all precision on stage, but you know how easily that polish dissolves once the curtains close.
You’ve opened the book again. Kafka feels almost inappropriate here, his letters trembling in your hands while bass shakes the floor and cheers rise like waves. You trace his words with the tip of your pen, underlining slowly as if you could anchor them: I long for you; I who usually long without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you. The words thrum in your chest, oddly in sync with the rhythm leaking through the walls.
“Working hard?” His voice startles you before his presence does.
Minghao slips in through the curtain, already halfway out of his jacket, a stagehand trailing with another in hand. He smells a bit of sweat and cologne, and there’s a streak of glitter caught on his jawline, catching the dim backstage light.
You snap the book closed too fast, clutching it to your chest. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on your quick change?”
“Multitasking,” he says lightly, eyes flicking to the book still in your grip. His smile is a little breathless, but it’s warm around the edges. “Did you underline me?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Kafka. Not you.”
“Same thing.” He takes the fresh jacket, shrugs it on with practiced efficiency, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. The corners of his mouth tug upward, like he’s savoring the private joke no one else will ever catch. You can feel the tether of it pulling tight between you, even as people dart around, too busy to notice.
You roll your pen between your fingers, willing your pulse to even out. “He says he longs without longing,” you say, reaching for a joke. “Don’t think that’s you.”
Minghao pauses, hands busy with fastening buttons. “No?”
“No. You’re terrible at pretending you don’t care.”
That earns you a quiet laugh, breathy and quick, the kind he only ever gives when he’s off stage. He steps closer, just enough that the book is trapped between you and him. His fingers brush yours as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, careful, fleeting. The gesture is nothing to anyone else, but to you it feels like a line drawn across the page. Another annotation only you will understand.
“Then maybe I’ll underline it too,” he murmurs, his tone more intimate than the rush of seconds should allow. “So you don’t forget.”
You’re caught between answering and not, torn by the proximity of his voice and the sound of the crowd screaming his name. A heartbeat later, the stage manager calls it too, sharp and urgent, breaking the spell.
He pulls back, already turning, the mask of performer sliding neatly back into place. The jacket straightens on his shoulders, his posture resetting into something larger than life. But before he slips away, his hand lingers for a second on the back of yours, grounding and gone all at once, like he’s leaving you with the same highlighted star he leaves in the margins.
You look down at the underlined words again, the pen still resting where his fingers brushed yours. On the monitor, Minghao bursts back onto the stage in his new costume, a perfect illusion of poise and sharp edges. You’re still holding onto the warmth of him, tucked between paper margins and fleeting touches, the memory of his voice humming beneath Kafka’s lines. Even with the crowd’s roar vibrating through the walls, the longing has a certain gravity on its own; something deliberate, something you carry alone in the wings.
I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones.
The book arrives by post in a padded envelope, its corners softened by travel, the adhesive tape dulled with fingerprints. His handwriting is scrawled across the return label, small and neat, the way he always writes when he wants to leave no trace.
You sit at your desk with a pair of scissors, cutting carefully along the edge so as not to harm what’s inside. When Letters to Milena slides into your hands, it feels heavier than when you last held it, as if the distance between you has seeped into the paper.
You leaf through the pages with anticipation that edges toward unease. The ink of your own notes greets you first, familiar in your hand. But then you see the fresh streaks of highlighter that aren’t yours, the color bright against the fragile page. Your stomach churns when your eyes catch on the newest passage:
Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.
You press the book shut too quickly, the words still rattling in your head. Fear. The word echoes again and again until it almost loses shape.
Fear of everything, even of speaking. Kafka turns it into poetry, but still it unsettles you. You stare at the closed book for a long while as if its cover might offer clarity. Instead it lingers, a weight at the edge of your desk and your thoughts. You find yourself drifting through the day with half your attention pulled elsewhere, glancing at your phone as if the device could bridge time zones faster than they allow.
By evening, your patience has worn thin. You keep checking the clock, waiting for that overlap when it’s late enough in Europe, early enough in Korea. When the screen finally brightens with his name, you answer too quickly, the book already lying open beside you.
Minghao’s image flickers into view: hotel lamplight soft behind him, his hair pulled back loosely, his face carrying the faint exhaustion of travel. Still, his eyes brighten the moment they meet yours. “You got it?”
“I got it,” you say, lifting the book to the camera. “But I also got this.” You tap the margin of the highlighted section, unable to hide the note of worry in your voice. “You’ve been marking fear. Over and over. What are you trying to tell me, Hao?”
His brows lift, a small crease forming as he leans back in the stiff hotel chair. The wallpaper behind him looks muted and impersonal, a space not meant to hold anyone’s secrets. He runs his hand slowly through his hair, a gesture you recognize as stalling. “You always read too closely.”
“That was the agreement,” you remind him gently. “We promised to read closely. To listen, even in the margins.”
A silence follows, long enough that you think the connection might have faltered. Then he exhales, and his words come thoughtful, unhurried. “I do feel fear. More often than I say. Before I step on stage. After. In the quiet moments when I wonder if we’ll be found out, or if I’ll slip during an interview. Sometimes I fear I’m losing time, or wasting it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m… enough for you.” The last line is hushed, fragile, nearly consumed by static.
Your protest is immediate. “Xīngān, don’t—”
He interrupts, his mouth curving into the faintest smile, one that doesn’t erase his seriousness. “It isn’t only fear. Kafka had it right. Fear and longing are woven together. Fear is what happens when you want something so badly you can’t bear to lose it.” His eyes drop for a moment, then rise again, slower, braver. His voice is shy but steady. “I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.”
The words stop you. Not because they belong to Kafka, but because they come from him, spoken into the distance that separates you. They rest in your chest heavier than any annotation.
You bring the phone closer to your face instinctively, as though narrowing the frame might collapse the distance. “Say it again.”
Minghao laughs, embarrassed, but the sound is warm. He dips his head, and when he speaks, the words come softer, like a secret. “I miss you.”
He says it in all the languages he knows. I miss you. Wǒ xiǎng nǐ. Aitai. Na—(he stutters, laughs again)—namimiss kita.
The litany of fear feels smaller now, shadowed by the longing that fills its place.
Written kisses don't reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.
You admit, in quieter hours, that you miss him more often than you say. It’s a dull ache threaded into your days, but you don’t want to press it into him when you know how thinly he’s stretched. His work comes first, and you remind yourself of that each time you hesitate before typing something too heavy into your phone. Instead, you cling to the subtler things: the covert book exchanges, the hidden messages between Kafka’s lines, the way a highlighted phrase becomes its own kind of confession.
Tonight, you’re curled on the couch with Letters to Milena open across your knees. The apartment is still, only the trill of the refrigerator in the background. Your highlighter pauses over a line that is simple, almost plain, but it lodges itself in your chest:
I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.
You underline it slowly, the neon ink bleeding slightly into the page, as if to make sure the words will not vanish. Then, you angle the book beneath the lamp and take a photo. Your thumb hovers for a moment, but you send it anyway. A small risk. A small ache disguised as literature.
The reply comes quicker than you expect, your screen lighting up in your hand. His text is short, the sort of promise that steals your breath: I can make that possible.
You frown in confusion, already typing back a question, when the sound of your doorbell cuts through the apartment. The sharp chime echoes once, twice. Your heart stutters. For a split second, you think it’s impossible. You’re still holding your phone when you cross the room.
When you open the door, he’s standing there.
Minghao, hair tucked under a cap, mask pulled down around his chin, suitcase at his side. His eyes crease at the corners when he smiles, soft and sure, like he’s been waiting for this moment as long as you have. Home from their tour two days earlier than expected.
You don’t speak at first. You only reach, pulling him into the doorway, into the apartment, into you. His laugh is muffled against your shoulder as the door clicks shut behind him, and you feel the words you’d just underlined still pressed into your chest—him, his weight, his nearness—an answer in real time.
The door is barely shut before you’re kissing him. It’s clumsy at first, teeth knocking, your breath catching from how quickly you’ve pulled him in. The suitcase tips over in the entryway, forgotten, and all you know is the press of his mouth against yours, warm and insistent. You taste the faint trace of mint on his lips, the kind he always chews when he’s nervous.
Your fingers twist into the fabric of his jacket, tugging him closer, and suddenly you’re aware of how frantic you must seem. The realization makes heat rush up your neck. You break away, just barely, whispering against his mouth, “Sorry, I’m—I’m acting too much like I missed you.”
Minghao’s laugh is low, and he leans in again before you can step back. “Good,” he says simply, the word brushing your lips. His hand comes up to the side of your face, thumb tracing along your cheekbone. “Because I missed you more.”
Your protest dies as he kisses you again, slower now but deeper, his body angled into yours until your back finds the wall. You shiver at the press of his weight, the steadiness of his touch. He murmurs between kisses, “Do you know how many times I thought about this? About you opening the door like that?”
You shake your head, eyes closing as his lips graze your jaw. “Tell me.”
“Every night on tour,” he admits, his voice hushed but steady. “Every city, every hotel, I wanted this more than sleep. More than anything.”
His hands slip beneath your sweater, fingertips brushing your waist. The touch makes you gasp, your own hands curling at his shoulders. You try again to apologize, to laugh it off, but he silences you with another kiss, gentler this time, lingering.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “Don’t hide how much you want me,” he whispers. “It only makes me want you more.”
The apartment feels smaller now, warmer, as if the book you left open on the couch has come alive in the room. The highlighted words are no longer an ache on paper, but a promise made real in his arms.
Yours, (now I'm even losing my name - it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)
Your bedroom is quiet except for the slow rhythm of your breathing, bodies still pressed close in the warmth you’ve built together. Minghao’s fingertips trace idle patterns across your arm, absentminded yet full of intent. You’re tucked into him, half-drifting, when his voice breaks the silence.
“I have something for you.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing with a sleepy smile. “We had a rule. No gifts.”
His lips twitch, not quite a grin but close. “You’ll like this one,” he insists.
“Minghao,” you warn softly, already knowing you’ll lose. “Rules exist for a reason.”
He pouts, exaggerating it just enough to make you laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “So you’ll break one for me?”
You groan, burying your face against his shoulder before sighing. “Fine. But only because you look ridiculous right now.”
Satisfied, he slips out of the sheets and crouches by his bag. You sit up slowly, pulling the covers around you, still wrapped in the languid ease of afterglow. From where you’re perched, you watch him rummage through his things until he returns with what looks like a mess clutched in his hands.
You raise a brow. “This is your big surprise? Trash?”
He climbs back onto the bed, depositing the stack into your lap. “Look closer.”
The pile is uneven, papers of every kind: receipts with ink smudged from being folded too long, hotel stationery with tidy lines of Mandarin, napkins with hurried scribbles, boarding passes with notes scrawled between the numbers. Each slip carries his handwriting, sometimes neat, sometimes rushed, but always undeniably him.
Your chest tightens as you pick one up, smoothing the creases. The words are simple: a thought he had in between shows, a memory of you sparked by something small, an I miss you crammed into the corner of a page.
“Minghao…” Your voice is brittle now, ringing with disbelief. “You wrote all of these?”
He leans back against the headboard, watching you carefully. “Everywhere I went,” he says slowly. “Whenever I thought of you. I didn’t always have time for long messages, so I wrote them here. Figured they’d get to you eventually.”
You flip through the stack again, the weight of them heavier than any gift he could have bought. Your throat feels tight, but your smile is soft. “You know this breaks the rule worse than anything,” you tease.
He shrugs, a small, boyish smile finally breaking through. “Then I’ll break it again if it means giving you this.”
Minghao falls asleep quickly, his head sinking into the pillow the moment his breathing evens out.
You linger in the dark, sheets tangled around your legs. The small stack of papers rests in your lap, flimsy and uneven, but heavy with meaning. His letters, if you can call them that. It feels like a trail of breadcrumbs, a secret map charting every place he has carried you with him.
Some lines are simple, almost offhand, written in hurried Korean as though he was afraid the thought would slip away before it reached the page: 오늘도 네 생각만 했어.
(Today, I thought of nothing but you.)
Another, scratched on the back of a café receipt, reads: 너 없이 공연 끝나도 완벽하지 않아.
(Without you, even after the performance, it doesn’t feel complete.)
Others are playful, designed to make you roll your eyes and laugh, written in Mandarin with crooked smiley faces or little hearts: 你是我见过最美的麻烦。
(You are the most beautiful trouble I’ve ever met.)
On hotel stationery, his handwriting drifts, tired but warm: 我希望你在这里, 我想靠着你睡觉。
(I wish you were here. I want to fall asleep leaning against you.)
There are the English ones, blunt and almost childlike in their candor. “If you were here I wouldn’t even care about the jetlag.” Or, “Do you know you’re the only reason hotels feel lonely?” Another one trails off into half a sentence, as if he was interrupted: “Sometimes I think I’ll run out of ways to say I miss you, but then—” and it ends abruptly, just ink pressed too hard into the paper.
You turn page after page, each one a different version of him. Restless, playful, poetic, exhausted, ridiculous. There are lines that read like journal entries, lines that sound like prayers. The kind of words that aren’t rehearsed for interviews, aren’t polished for public view. They’re raw, unguarded, as if he trusted the page with the versions of himself he can’t show anyone else.
By the time you reach the end of the pile, your throat feels tight, and your eyes blur with tears you blink away too late. These aren’t Kafka’s words, or Milena’s, or any poet you’ve ever underlined together. They’re his. And somehow, impossibly, they’re yours too.
Behind you, Minghao snores softly, the sound uneven but gentle, already claimed by sleep. You glance back at him, hair falling across his cheek, lips parted in exhaustion, his whole body surrendered to rest. The sight makes you ache with something that feels too big for a single word. You slip out carefully, trying not to disturb him, and settle at your desk. The lamp casts a muted golden glow over the scattered letters, the inked fragments of him spread wide before you like constellations waiting to be named. The pen feels heavy in your hand, the highlighter uncapped and poised beside it.
You take a deep breath, the quiet of the apartment pressing close around you. Then you lean forward, ready to begin, ready to answer him.
To underline what matters most, to annotate where his words meet your heart, to write into the margins everything you couldn’t say over the phone. To respond in full, piece by piece, to the love he has laid out for you.
you think minghao is already asleep by the time you lay down beside him, body finally relaxed after such a long, hectic day.
your hair is a bit damp from how hot the shower was, but you don't mind - and you know that neither does minghao. in fact, as you make yourself comfortable on the bed, you feel one of his arms wrapping around your torso, pulling you closer to his chest.
"you changed your lotion."
it isn't a question, but it's not a full statement either; it's as if minghao has commented on something in his sleepy state. you even doubt if you have actually heard him, but then he lays his lips on the back of your neck, nostrils breathing in your scent.
you did in fact change your lotion to a new one.
"you like it?", you ask him, a soft smile on your lips.
minghao only hums, telling you he did. you think you hear him mumble something like 'it's good', but right after you hear his soft snores in your ear, and you know he's back in dreamland again.
summary: everyone knows about the red string of fate: a delicate thread tied at the base of the pinky finger, something that connects you with your soulmate. your one perfect person. your other half. so why do you have thirteen strings?
word count: 880
warnings: mentions of self doubt and bad familial relationships.
a/n: this is it! epilogue has been long overdue mostly bec I felt the series was pretty much wrapped up already, so this is just a bonus little thing to give it a conclusion. thank you to everyone who read it and supported it, I really enjoyed writing it, despite how self indulgent it is! i hope to write more ot13 stuff in the future, nobody really does the found family trope like them xx
series masterlist
There’s music playing very softly in the background, but no one is paying much attention to it. It’s mostly there for vibes, and it really sets the mood, along with the soft and teasing chatter of the members as they scurry around the backyard, pushing plastic tables together, setting plates on it, gathering chairs. Mingyu is on the grill, as per usual, still trying to warm it up enough to start searing meat.
You’re sitting on the back porch step, watching it all happen, nursing a beer. It’s ice cold in your hand, and even though the weather is a bit on the cooler side, especially because of the sun setting, it feels nice when you feel the cool liquid run down your throat. You hum along with the song, trying not to snort when Hoshi restarts counting plates for the third time because Seungkwan keeps interrupting him. Wonwoo is already half dozing in one of the chairs, trusting that cooked food will get to him somehow.
You never imagined that you would see all thirteen of your soulmates in the backyard of your childhood home. But here you are.
It was Jeonghan’s idea, actually. They needed a place to cool down and lay low, rest up before comeback season starts again. When he first brought it up, he fully expected you to say no.
Over the last two years of living with your soulmates, you had unlearned a lot of behaviours that were instilled in you since childhood, making you realise your own biases and how you were conditioned to view yourself and your soulmate bonds a certain way. That had inevitably strained your relationship with your mother, who was still stuck in conventional thinking and unable to understand how thirteen soulmates worked. You had reduced contact by a lot, but Jeonghan was trying his best to prod you towards rekindling the relationship. The members helped you so much with it. All of them have fairly balanced ways of thinking about the world, and their perspectives help a lot.
These last two years have truly felt like a dream. Your job went completely remote, which you think is Fate’s way of confirming that you should be with your soulmates at all times. You fly with them when you want, sometimes, though you like the comfort of your home. It’s your own private bubble, where you can all be raw and real with no additional barriers. There’s a quiet harmony in the way you all function together, and after all this time, it’s very easy to be in tune with everyone else.
On your one year anniversary, they presented you with a promise ring matching their own. You bawled like a child when Seungcheol slipped it onto your pinky finger, resting just above your red string, and you have not taken it off for a single second since that day. You know your finger is dented, a paler patch of skin just under the ring, but it feels like a safety bubble for you, an oath for a wonderful future. And you can never let that leave you.
For the last few months, you started to really work on yourself and your endless self doubt, induced by fear from your early childhood days. To be fair, your mother was really trying as well. She took an interest in getting to know the boys, who were always so kind and warm over the phone with her. Seungkwan in particular loved to claim that ‘mothers loved him’, talking to your mother while you pretended to gag in the background. You know she missed you terribly. And that barrier was slowly cracking. You wouldn’t mind if it fell through completely.
And so here you are now, watching everyone chip in to set up dinner in the backyard while your father carried out heaps of meat from the kitchen, Seungcheol hot on his tail with even more of it. You’re not surprised. Any amount of food you have bought would absolutely be housed down, no questions asked.
Your mother appears in the back door of the kitchen, shuffling outside. You give her a smile and she joins you on the step, sighing as she sits. You both watch everything for a little bit, Mingyu nodding enthusiastically as your dad tells him exactly what will make the meat melt in his mouth when he eats it, Seokmin complaining that the ramyeon portions are too small, and Minghao insisting that Seokmin won’t die if he eats a little less ramyeon for one day. Jihoon looks like he’s done with everyone’s bullshit already, but under the table, his foot is tapping along with the music.
“I’m glad you came. All of you.” Your mother says, and you hum, heart warming as the song turns sweeter, calmer.
“I’m glad we came too.” You respond.
Jeonghan is slicing watermelons already, on the far end of the table, and from the distance, his eyes meet yours. He gives you a wink, pursing his lips in a kiss. You try not to grin too madly, giving him a playful roll of your eyes. Your heart is so full that it feels like it might burst apart. Into thirteen pieces. One for every part of your soul.
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summary: everyone knows about the red string of fate: a delicate thread tied at the base of the pinky finger, something that connects you with your soulmate. your one perfect person. your other half. so why do you have thirteen strings?
word count: 3k
warnings: fem!reader, swearing, angst if you squint, fluff, smut, nsfw, unprotected sex, sub!seungkwan, voyeurism, masturbation, oral (fem!receiving), drinking and hangovers
a/n: next chapter will be the last! and probably an epilogue, by the looks of it. i thought it would be best to let everyone know, since it’s cruel to build anticipation but for a continuation even though it’s an ending
series masterlist
The longer you spend time with your soulmates, the more you learn that there is more to the bond than you previously thought.
It has been months since you entered their lives, and the system you felt you weren’t a part of seems to have molded itself to accommodate you. Like ivy, growing along a certain path, creeping slowly over stone walls to make itself home. You feel like you’ve found your niche among so many different personalities and habits, and to their credit, the boys have been nothing but wonderful in return. Your doubts melt away as time passes, reassured by their love and attention. How can you doubt, even for a second, your place in their hearts when their actions say resolutely otherwise?
Junhui shows you a very specific technique that sets your heart at ease.
“If you look at the strings on your finger,” he holds up your hand. You know he can’t see your red strings, but he fiddles with your pinky finger anyway. “you can squeeze a string with your hand and feel something through it.”
You are quizzical, but hesitantly do what he says. The index finger of your opposite hand brushes over a string before you pinch it between your thumb and finger, waiting. Something sizzles through your fingertip, and you feel something deep in you, like intuition almost, that it’s Mingyu’s string. You give Jun a surprised look. He nods, smiling.
“You can tell, can’t you?”
You keep squeezing it, mouth dropping into an ‘O’ when you feel unusually relaxed, almost drowsy.
“Is Mingyu asleep?” You ask.
Jun hums affirmatively.
“Wow.” You breathe. “That’s- wow. I’ve never heard of that before.”
“Isn’t it so cool?” Jun fiddles with the strings on his own finger, unseen by you. “It makes things so much easier for me.”
You understand what he means. Jun isn’t the most expressive of the members, and he sometimes struggles with intimacy. You can see how this would make everything much simpler for him, instead of letting his negative emotions fester.
“No one told me about it either.” He confesses. “I just like playing with the strings and I discovered that you can feel your soulmates like this.”
You nod. “I’m about to abuse the hell out of this.”
He laughs, but you really mean what you said.
Over the next day and a half, you feel through all the strings, pinpointing which belong to which member. Some you can trace when they are nearby and you can see the connected strings. Others, you can tell by pinching at them. You can feel the joy coming from Seokmin when he plays the guitar, or how focused Jihoon is when he is in the studio. Minghao is relaxed, Seungcheol worries a lot, which is natural for him.
Vernon is…… troubled.
You don’t know why. You try to pinpoint the exact feeling, but all you can tell is that he is anxious about something. There is an unknown worry festering in his mind, but you see no signs of it when he’s puttering around the house.
Vernon is a calm person. From the very start, he was a very easy presence to be around. There is something very relaxed and friendly about him. He doesn’t judge, he doesn’t doubt. He is extremely go-with-the-flow, and getting along with him felt as easy as breathing air.
So this newfound unease in him makes you hesitant, wondering what is up with him. Until you feel Seungkwan’s string, and realise he is bathed in growing irritation. Even worse than Vernon’s. Is it linked? Did something happen between them?
Naturally, you take the problem to Seungcheol.
“I’ve felt it too.” He confesses, pulling his headphones off and pausing his game. He runs a hand through his hair and turns in his chair to face you. “Honestly, it’s best to let it play out. There’s a good chance it was a small argument. They’ll get over it.”
You hum, not convinced. “I know. But Hansol is a calm person even after arguments. He isn’t totally fazed by them. This feels different.”
Seungcheol appraises you silently. “Do you really think this is more trouble than usual?”
You nod. Seungcheol sighs.
“Look, intuition in soulmate matters is almost never wrong. If you think this can cause damage, I say you follow the intuition.”
And so you do. The next day, you find Vernon on the balcony, headphones on and staring at the view. When you sit next to him, he tugs them off, giving you a smile.
“Did something happen with you and Seungkwan?” You ask. You know there’s no point in beating around the bush. Vernon doesn’t like riddles and indirect hints. It’s best to keep things straightforward with him.
He sighs. “You can tell?”
“Of course I can tell, Hansolie. You haven’t stopped overthinking for the last two days. And Seungkwan is walking around like he stepped into someone’s shit.”
Vernon snorts before shaking his head. “He’s frustrated.”
“He is. Any idea why?”
Vernon side-eyes you, and you can see the back of his neck flush pink. “You really wanna know?”
That makes you frown, and you turn in your seat a bit. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s about you.”
You gape at him, frozen still. It’s about you? Why? Did you do something? Did you say something to Seungkwan?
“What did I do?” You wonder aloud.
Vernon purses his lips, and you can tell that he is getting fidgety. “It’s more about what you didn’t do.”
You blink. “Tell me.”
Vernon seems to be choosing his words. “When was the last time you spent some time with him?”
You scowl. “What do you mean? We made breakfast together this morning.”
Vernon rolls his eyes, turning to give you a look. “Not that kind of spending time.”
Something in your brain clicks when you catch the meaning behind his words. You flush a bit, pouting, thinking back on how many days it’s been since you and Seungkwan were together in bed. Realisation floods you as you count back. You sigh defeatedly.
“Damn.”
Vernon hums and runs a hand through his hair.
“He feels neglected? And he told you about this but not me?”
“You know him.” Vernon replies. “He always doubts himself but he doesn’t want to burden anyone else with his overthinking. He told me because he wanted to know when was the last time we slept together, and he asked me not to say anything because he knows you have shit to do and can’t always keep track.”
You feel guilt gnaw at you as you process Vernon’s words. You know that having thirteen soulmates and equally giving all of them attention is hard, but you also know that this system was designed to work. Any mistake in it is purely on you. Vernon watches you carefully before reaching out to squeeze your hand.
“Hey,” his voice is soft. “This isn’t your fault.”
You sigh and feel your shoulders slump. “It kind of is.”
“It isn’t. And that’s why Seungkwan didn’t say anything to you. This is a very common thing to happen. All of the members struggled with dividing time at first. You can’t beat yourself up over this. It takes time to adjust.”
“I don’t think I can use that excuse anymore, Hansol. It’s been months.”
He cracks a smile. “Do you know how long it took for Seungkwan and Chan to get along? Myungho and Jun used to fight almost every day. Some of us are still scared of Seungcheol.”
You snort.
“What I’m trying to say is,” Vernon continues. “This isn’t a race or a competition. Everyone has their own pace. You walked into this life after being on your own for a very long time. So it will take more to adjust. Seungkwan knows this. That’s why he would rather vent his frustrations out to me than make you worry.”
You feel warmth in your chest. “That’s very considerate of him.”
Vernon nods. “He cares for you more than you can imagine.”
You smile, utterly grateful, both to Vernon and Seungkwan. When you leave Vernon on the balcony once again, you have a stiff resolution in mind on making it up to Seungkwan. You find him on the couch in the living room, watching some variety show on the TV while he rubs moisturiser on his hands. You drop next to him with a loud sigh, and he shoots you a smile before turning back to the screen.
“Do you wanna go out for dinner?” You ask, taking the tube of cream from his lap and smelling it. It’s fresh and citrusy, a little acidic, but you like it. It’s very Seungkwan.
He purses his lips in that cute way he does, contemplating. “What do you have in mind?”
“Anything you want. Let’s just leave the house and see.”
You know Seungkwan likes spontaneity, and you’re banking on his bubbly side to help you two find a great place to eat once you two have done enough goofing off for the evening. And it’s exactly what happens. Seungkwan thrives on this kind of stuff, going out for walks, talking your hearts out, taking great pictures under the sunset and finding a cute little food cart to eat off of, sampling little treats. The night is colder once the sun goes down, and every part of your body cools except for the hand intertwined tightly with his, still warm as anything thanks to his touch. Seungkwan shines bright under the street lights, flustered when you compliment him and sassy when you egg him on. He’s your perfect compliment, bringing out a side of you that works so well with him. That’s the great part about having so many soulmates, every single facet of your personality is explored to its depths, and you feel like you have more substance to you than you ever thought was possible in the past.
By the time you and Seungkwan get back home, both of you have flushed cheeks from the sweet aftertaste of soju in your mouths, and you know both of you are at least a little tipsy. It’s late, and you’re sure that everyone is either asleep, or getting ready to do so. You put your finger to your lips, making an exaggerated shushing sound that has Seungkwan sealing his lips shut, but you can see the mirth in his eyes. Nothing is even that funny, but for some reason, both of you can’t stop laughing.
You tiptoe through the empty living room, dim because of the lights turned off, and Seungkwan swaying behind you. On the first stair, you already bump your toes, cursing as your knee hits a step and causes pain to zip through you. You can hear Seungkwan snort, and you whip around to shush him again. He grabs your arm tightly, gesturing for you to lean on him as you go upstairs.
“What the hell are you guys doing?”
You yelp, jerking harshly, and colliding with Seungkwan’s back. He grunts as he stumbles back as well, and both of you hit the floor, you cushioned from the fall by Seungkwan’s body. He groans when you both hit the floor, and you can’t help but laugh again.
“You’re so mean.” He whines.
“You guys okay?” Vernon asks, trudging down the stairs. He is wearing a loose T-shirt and grey sweats, and in your inebriated state, your eyes shoot straight down to his crotch.
“Vernon-ah,” Seungkwan slurs from under you, wrapping his arms around you and sitting both of you up. His face nuzzles into your neck from the back, and you can already feel him hardening under you. Something zips through your core.
“Hm?” Vernon hums, reaching down to help you up and off Seungkwan. He pouts at the loss of contact, cheeks flushed high and hair messy. You giggle at him, but let yourself lean against Vernon, hand gliding over his chest and stomach. He tenses, looking at you with amusement and confusion. Seungkwan watches you two, eyes heating up.
“Come on.”
You don’t know when exactly you end up in Vernon’s room, climbing eagerly on top of Seungkwan as he lays back on the bed and runs his hands down your sides. He squeezes and prods, feeling every part of you, cold hands slipping under your shirt to feel your bare skin. His lips are hurried and desperate against yours, and both of you are barely sucking in tiny morsels of air in between clashes of tongue and teeth. You can taste the soju on him, sweet and warm, and it makes you feel a bit dizzy. You can feel the mattress dip next to you both, and when you pull away from Seungkwan to take a big gulp of air, you see Vernon against the headboard, head rolled back, eyes half open, stroking himself over his pants lazily.
Seungkwan is too focused on leaving tiny bites all over your neck, sucking on the skin until he’s satisfied before moving to the next patch. You sigh at the feeling, Vernon wiped from your mind as you focus on the man under you. You missed him, truly, and you realise why he was as frustrated as he was.
You don’t even undress. In the blur of pleasure, lust and desperation, you are pushing your pants off, unzipping Seungkwan’s jeans until he is free from the confines of clothing, and sinking down on him until he is filling you up to the base, jaw going slack at the feeling. You see the exact moment Seungkwan’s eyes roll up, fingers digging so hard into your hips that it is bound to leave marks. You feel warm with the weight of him inside you, as if an itch has been scratched, but you feel desperate for more. Your movements are short and frantic, wanting to feel him slide in and out of you with that delicious burn. You lean down to place your hands on either side of his head, undulating your hips until Seungkwan releases a broken moan under you.
“Feel good?” You gasp, and Seungkwan nods frantically, hips bucking up in harmony with your choppy movements. Your head pulls up again, eyeing Vernon, who now has his hand shoved down his sweats. You watch the movement, noticing how he moves his hand at the same time and speed as your hips. You feel your lips tick up in a smile.
“Hansolie,” you coo. “Does it feel good?”
Vernon only breathes out a shaky sigh, blinking heavily. You speed up, and his hand speeds up too. He curses.
“Think you can hold out?” You challenge him, and you can hear Seungkwan whine and groan under you, groping your breast with one hand, pinching at your nipple through your shirt. You sigh and turn your eyes back to him.
He’s a wreck. His face is shades pinker than usual, eyes hazy and unfocused, but hands active, running over every part of you that he can reach. He’s breathing heavily, lips parted to pull in great gulps of air, and his lips are swollen from kissing you earlier. Sweat shines on his forehead and makes his hair stick to his skin. He’s so pretty under you that you can’t help but clench hard, feeling that familiar knot tighten in your core.
It’s only a few more drops of your hips later that Seungkwan is shuddering, head thrown back, moaning loudly as he empties himself in you. You can hear Vernon curse and hunch forward, free hand clenching as he reaches his high. You watch both of them, feeling hot all over, continuing to move until Seungkwan is gripping you tight to still your movements. You almost yelp when he flips you over and pulls out, still breathing heavily as he slides down your body, hands on your knees so he can spread your legs more. You feel fingers run through your sweaty hair, looking up to meet Vernon’s eyes. He runs his tongue over his lips, and your eyes track the movement. At the same time, you feel Seungkwan’s hit, wet tongue meet your neglected clit. Electricity zips up your spine.
“Your turn.”
……………………….
When you wake up the next morning, your limbs are heavy and sore. You stay motionless, blinking hard to clear the sleep from your eyelids. You turn your head just enough to see Vernon asleep behind you, lying on his back like a mummy. Your lips tick up in amusement, and you let yourself stretch, feeling a few joints pop.
You find Seungkwan in the kitchen, standing over the coffee machine with swollen, barely open eyes. You give him a kiss on the cheek, which he barely registers, before you open the refrigerator to rifle through it.
Breakfast is easy and quick to make, and you find yourselves on the kitchen island with two cups of steaming hot coffee and some warm oatmeal. You don’t think you can stomach much else after the horrendous amount of eating you did last night at different food stalls. Seungkwan dips a spoon into your oatmeal to take a few bites, but mostly sticks to just coffee.
“I talked to Vernon yesterday.” You begin, and he blinks at you. “About you, and how you’ve been feeling lately.”
Seungkwan sighs and stares into his coffee. “I told him not to mention it.”
You hum. “But you can see why he did, right? He was trying to help you. And he clearly did.”
You nudge him teasingly, trying to lighten the mood. He rolls his eyes but smiles anyway, and you settle back into your seat.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, you need to communicate with me, Kwannie.” You continue. “Do you remember how mad you were when I came home crying and wouldn’t tell you what was wrong?”
Seungkwan pouts. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
You shake your head, reaching up to scratch affectionately at his scalp. He leans into the touch.
“I love you.”
He smiles, pressing a tender kiss to your wrist in return.
summary: everyone knows about the red string of fate: a delicate thread tied at the base of the pinky finger, something that connects you with your soulmate. your one perfect person. your other half. so why do you have thirteen strings?
word count: 4.3k
warnings: fem!reader, swearing, SMUT, nsfw, unprotected sex, this shit is so filthy oh my god, oral (m and f receiving), voyeurism, threesome, squirting, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk: praise and degradation, so much mention of bodily fluids, mentions of exhibitionism, edging and orgasm denial, sub!dino, jeonghan is a freak but we been knew, so is joshua
series masterlist
Lee Chan thinks there might be something wrong with him.
For one thing, he can’t stop staring at you. But that’s not really the worst offense. The other members stare at you, too. Their gazes are heated as they run over you, likely imagining all the stuff they want to do to you. Or have already done. He knows that for a fact too. He has heard you through the walls, the slap of skin on skin, your gasps and moans as you were brought to another high.
He has spied the bruises on your hips when your shirt rides up just so, and he wonders who put them there. Or the marks dotting your neck and chest. You don’t really hide them around the house, which makes sense. Why should you? The people who put them there are the only ones who will see them. Chan is happy you feel this comfortable. It had taken a while to get here. He’s glad you’re opening up to the members one by one.
But none of that is the issue here. The issue is that Chan isn’t one of those members yet.
He doesn’t know what’s stopping him, really. It’s not like he doesn’t want it. Quite the opposite. He wants it so bad it makes his head spin and his knees buckle. He thinks about it late at night, when he’s lying alone in his bed and staring up at the ceiling until he is so painfully hard that he can’t help but shove his hand down his pants for a little relief, eyes closed as he imagines your pretty face twisted with pleasure.
Jeonghan tells him to just do it. You are their soulmate after all. There’s no judgement here, no malice. And Chan knows you care for him. You make him his favorite meals sometimes, or help him clean up around the house. He still remembers things as simple as convenience stores runs with you that always end up with both of you doing something goofy and laughing your asses off. Just the memory of it makes a ghost of a smile cross his face. But this? This is different.
How the hell is he supposed to tell you that he wants to bury his face so deep in your cunt that he can no longer breathe?
Of course, he can phrase it more tactfully. But that is the basic crux of it. He wants it so bad that it makes him a little dizzy just thinking about it. The thought of your thighs surrounding his head, caging him in as he devours you is so tempting that he spaces out sometimes while at work. He has earned more than a few grumbles from staff. He knows he needs to do something about it before this thing seriously affects his work. He’s heard stories before about how resisting your soulmate isn’t healthy at all. He worries it’s happening to him already.
Today is his day off. A rare thing, truly. Some members have flown out for activities, some are in the studio. For the first time since you entered their lives, it is just you and him in the house. If there was ever a time to do something about his problem, this is it.
You’re lounging on the couch with him in what you had deemed was a “lazy day”, which apparently also meant that you were wearing the tiniest shorts he had ever seen under a shirt so oversized that they made it look like you weren’t wearing shorts at all. That doesn’t do anything good for Chan’s already delusional fantasies, and he ends up focusing more on how you breathe next to him than anything on the screen.
“Hey-” His voice catches when he looks at you. You stare back, expectant. Chan blinks.
“What’s up?” You prompt him after a few seconds of silence, lips slightly pursed. His eyes shoot down to them, unable to help himself. You’re close enough to catch it, no matter how fast he looks back up, and Chan wants to die when he sees the realization dawn on your face.
“You want something, Channie?” God, this is humiliating. His dick is already twitching. He prays to god that you keep your eyes on his face and not his lap, where it is rapidly swelling and likely clearly visible in his sweatpants.
“Yes.” He manages to breathe out. You shift closer, and he admires how bold you’ve gotten about this. The members really helped with your confidence, it seems.
“What do you want?” You whisper, and you’re so close that he can feel your breath on his lips. His brain feels muddled, and he tries not to go too cross eyed at the feeling.
“I wanna eat you out so bad.” He blurts.
You clearly aren’t expecting that, because he can feel you go stiff at the suggestion. His face bursts in flame, and he scrambles to defend himself.
“I’m sorry! Really, such a weird thing to say just like that. I didn’t mean- well I did, but that was-”
“Okay.” He freezes.
“You- really?” He wonders if he sounds as nervous to your ears as he does to his own. He looks at you closer, at how your pupils have dilated a bit, and you’re biting on your bottom lip too. His dick twitches again.
It’s not even two minutes later that Chan is on his knees in front of the couch, his head buried between your legs, shirt pulled up to your stomach and shorts pushed to the side as his tongue runs greedily through your slit. You’re already whimpering above him, and Chan almost moans into you himself. He grips the inside of your right thigh with his left hand, pushing it up so he can watch as your lips open up for him. It’s a sight so erotic that he suctions his lips over your clit, sucking hard until your back is arching off the couch cushions. One of your hands has found its way to his hair, scratching against his scalp in such a way that it sends shivers down his spine, your other hand scrambling against the tough material of the couch for purchase. Chan can’t help it, he reaches up to intertwine his fingers with your free ones, because he wants to feel even closer to you despite having his head trapped between your thighs.
He licks and sucks with an enthusiasm that he hadn’t mustered up for anything in quite a while. He knew it from the start, he was right. You taste divine, and he never wants to detach himself from you, ever. Your scent is already going to his head, he already has sweat building up in his hairline. He bucks up into nothing, revelling in the way his cock weeps for any kind of contact, but is denied in favour of making you feel so good. And you are feeling good, as your gasps and cries get higher and higher, your grip on his hand and his hair tightening.
Chan uses his free hand to snake between your legs too, angling his lips to focus solely on your clit so that he can slip two fingers knuckle deep inside you at the same time. It makes you gasp and squeeze his head tight between your legs, and Chan imagines this is what heaven feels like.
“Maybe,” you gasp, voice sounding wrecked. Chan takes pride in the fact that he did this to you. “Maybe we should go inside. Someone- someone could walk in.”
The thought almost makes him cum. The image of one of his members entering the house to see you on the couch, face flushed and mouth open to let out moans, legs spread wide and his head working over your weeping cunt as you say his name. He grips your hand tighter, licks and sucks you harder, silently saying he wants to continue right here. And he doesn’t know if you agree to it too, or if you just lost your mental faculties completely, because you don’t suggest it again. Instead, you buck into him sharply, using your grip on his hair to guide him to another angle that has you keening. He lets you, eager at the possibility to please you even more than he currently is.
When your movements get more erratic, when your hips push into him more sloppily, he knows you are close. He keeps going, his pace never changing, fingers curling into you to press insistently into your gummy walls, tongue moving rapidly back and forth over your clit until you are gasping and arching deep, legs kicking a bit as you cry and moan into him. Chan drinks up every last drop you give him like he is in the middle of the desert. He doesn’t stop until you’re whining and pushing his head away.
He eases his fingers out of you as gently as he can, watching how shiny your skin is from the sweat, how unfocused your eyes are. When he sits next to you on the couch again, you give him a lazy, satisfied smile that has him feeling giddy and horny at the same time.
“Your turn.” You giggle, swinging your leg over his lap to straddle him.
……………………………….
The idea of sex wasn’t something you entertained very much in your life before this.
Sure, you’ve thought about it. You’re still human. You were curious about it when you were young, and about your own body. Your soulmate train of thought would take you there sometimes. You had some underwhelming experiences in college. Sex just became an afterthought at some point. You were so focused on finding your soulmates, so focused on the fear of never finding them at all and living your life alone, that you hadn’t really given much thought about what would happen after you did find them. Emotionally? You thought about it to the point of paranoia. Sexually? You had completely dismissed it.
Maybe you should have given it more thought. Because it seems like the boys sure did.
Seungcheol loves bending you in half, spearing his cock into you while whispering in your ear about how badly he wanted this for years. Wonwoo is less rough with it but just as firm, and he is amazing with his fingers. Mingyu is a walking anomaly, gentle with his words, but a night with him guarantees that you can’t walk the next day.
Jeonghan…… you can never place Jeonghan. Because Jeonghan is completely unpredictable.
Your first time with him was gentle and intimate, but every encounter since then has felt unusually intense, like he’s testing you. He never does anything that you are uncomfortable with, but he also has the uncanny ability to make any sexual deviance feel so hot that you can’t possibly resist him.
You will let him edge you for hours, to deny you orgasm over and over again until you are past any sense, but when he gets you there, it’s the most incredible high you have felt in your entire life. You let him pinch both your cheeks hard between his thumb and index finger, until your lips are childishly puckered, as he mocks you about how desperate you are for his cock. And it makes you weep, how much it turns you on when he treats you like this. Because while it feels so special when Jeonghan is gentle with you, there is a thrilling euphoria that comes when he is cruel to you in bed.
The first time he took a really daring step was when he edged you just before you left for work in the morning, but he didn’t let you cum. Instead, he pocketed your panties and sent you off. You spent the entire day with your heart pounding, knowing you were wearing nothing under your tight, pencil skirt. And you were on edge, just wanting to get back home to him for some relief.
Jeonghan was so happy with you that he made you cum six times that night, until you were pleading that you had no more left to give, until you had soaked the sheets and his hand up to his wrist. You slept for eleven straight hours afterward.
Jeonghan always amped it up after that. Dirty texts in the middle of a work meeting, brushing his hand dangerously close to your panties under a public dinner table. He once fingered you to orgasm in the backseat of his car in broad daylight, one hand covering your mouth so you wouldn’t make any noise.
Needless to say, there is really nothing you can put past him.
So it shouldn’t surprise you when, on one random night, you’re on your knees in front of him on his bed, head bobbing up and down over the length of his long, throbbing cock, that he doesn’t even flinch when the door suddenly opens. You jerk back with a gasp, eyes meeting Joshua’s wide ones.
“Oh, my bad.” He smiles, despite the absurdity of the situation. Your mouth just opens and closes like a fish. You hear Jeonghan sigh.
“It’s okay.” He’s breezy about it. You feel a hand slide into your hair on the back of your head before he nudges it forward a bit.
“Come on angel, back to work.”
You look at him with wide eyes. “But- Joshua’s here.”
Silence.
You shift, glancing back at the man who was now leaning casually against the doorway. Jeonghan sighs.
“She has a point. In or out, Shua. Don’t linger in the doorway.”
You watch in disbelief as Joshua steps inside and closes the door gently shut behind him. Then, he takes a few steps to the left, sitting down on the desk chair that is facing the two of you on the bed. Jeonghan gently nudges your head forward again.
Your lips connect with the stiffness of his shaft, and your tongue peeks out to lick at it instinctively. Jeonghan hums in approval, and you look up at him. His dark hair falls over his eyes, but you can see the way his stare is burning holes into yours. Watching, assessing, trying to gauge if you’re okay with this.
This is new to you. While you’ve slept with all of them, somehow the thought of two at once never crossed your mind. But thinking about it now makes your already wet pussy clench miserably hard, and your skin feels tingly. You’ve had Jeonghan, and you’ve had Joshua. The thought of both of them together makes you feel dizzy. You wrap our lips around the tip of Jeonghan’s cock and suck, and you can see Jeonghan’s smile widen.
“Good girl.” He coos. “God, you’re so fucking good, baby. Dirty little thing. You want Shua and me at the same time? I’m not surprised. Greedy little slut, can’t be happy with just one, can you?”
You nearly whimper at the whiplash between his praise and his degradation, fists clenching hard so you won’t touch yourself to relieve the pressure between your thighs. You know Jeonghan wouldn’t approve, and you are so horny that the thought of pleasing him is tunnel visioned into you. You’re unbelievably turned on at what he is suggesting, amplified by the fact that you feel the heavy weight of Joshua’s stare burning a hole through the side of your head.
“Do you suck Shua off like this?” Jeonghan continues, leaning back on his hands and enjoying the view of you sucking on his cock like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. Your mouth is too full to reply, so he addresses the man in question as well.
“Does she?”
“Yup. Takes it like a champ.”
It’s the first time he’s spoken since this started, and his voice sends a jolt up your spine. You feel Jeonghan’s hand wind through your hair once more, pulling you off him with a wet plop. You gasp.
“Show me, angel. Go to him.”
It takes a minute for your brain to make your body move, but then you’re turning, crawling on your hands and knees to where Joshua is sitting. Both men curse under their breaths at the sight. You briefly wonder how you are doing all this. Instinctively? Does some animal part of you just know what to do? You don’t have the time or the capacity to think on it, because you stop in front of Joshua, hands reaching up to unbutton and unzip his jeans. He helps you pull his cock out from his boxers. He’s already fully hard, and you tongue at the bead of precum gathered at the slit on top before you are sliding his cock into your mouth all the way down to the base with no hesitation. Jeonghan already primed your throat, you don’t need to adjust.
He moans, soft and low, but his eyes don’t leave you. His breaths get heavier as you rock your head back and forth, acutely aware of how different he feels in your mouth right after Jeonghan. It’s such a filthy thought, but it only makes more liquid leak out of your poor, neglected pussy.
Joshua doesn’t keep his hands off you like Jeonghan does. He grips your hair close to your scalp, guiding you up and down on his length. You let him, pliant under his touch, relaxing your throat so he can slide in as much as he wants. Your nose brushes his navel. He holds you there for a few seconds before pulling back to let you breathe.
You can hear Jeonghan shift behind you, hyper aware of his every movement, of the fact that he is watching. You feel a gentle hand on your arm tug you up. You’re unsteady on your feet, legs slightly numb from kneeling for so long. You can feel warmth on your back, nearly jolting when Jeonghan’s lips close around the shell of your ear, brushing your hair away with one hand.
“Stop us any time.” He whispers.
You ease at his consideration, but you wouldn’t dare stop him. Not when he continues to pepper kisses down the left side of your neck while Joshua stands up to do the same to the right side. You look up at the ceiling, lips parted and jaw slack, as you try to cope with the onslaught of sensations. You’ve never felt this pleasantly overwhelmed, sandwiched between the two men you find so, so sexy, all their attention on you.
Your hands are moving, running over Joshua’s torso, tugging at his shirt until he gets the hint and tugs it off. His jeans go next, until he is left completely naked. Your clothes are quick to follow his, and when you turn around to do the same to Jeonghan, you feel him grind against your ass, grabbing handfuls of your breasts from behind and sucking a bruise into the junction of your shoulder and neck. Jeonghan kisses you hard, sucking the breath from your lungs, and you are drowning in them again, the tug and pull of their hands all over your body. Your mind is slipping away again, nails digging into Jeonghan’s shoulder and Joshua’s hair.
Joshua guides you forward, lays you gently on the bed, coaxing your legs open so he can look at the mess between your legs. He whistles low.
“Poor baby. You want this so bad, don’t you?”
You nod furiously, bucking your hips up. He doesn’t make you wait, jerking himself a few times before sliding deep into you in one stroke. You sigh in relief, reveling in the sensation of his cock dragging over your needy walls. Your eyes nearly roll up when he pulls back to immediately thrust in again, setting a fast and hard pace. You’re glad for that, because you really don’t have it in you to take teasing.
Something pokes at your cheek and you turn your head to the right. Your mouth opens instinctively for Jeonghan to slide his cock in, trying to relax your jaw while your body takes a pounding. It’s more difficult than it looks. You can’t focus on working your mouth over him because Joshua’s cock feels so good sliding in and out of you, but Jeonghan doesn’t seem to mind. He’s more focused on watching your body get treated this way.
“You ever made her squirt?” You hear him ask. Joshua makes a sound of denial. You don’t squirt easily. And Jeonghan is the only one who has made you do it so far.
“I’m about to give you a gift then, Shuji.” His tone is playful despite the circumstances you’re in, and you know his intent is anything but a joke. You feel him place his hand on your lower stomach, and you realise what he wants to do, pulling your mouth off him quickly. You hear him say something inaudible to Joshua, and seconds later the angle shifts and you cry out when his cock hits more of an upward angle, deeper than before.
You shriek when rough fingers find our clit, rubbing harsh circles into it, other hand pressing down on your lower stomach. You gasp and nearly choke on your words, babbling as you feel the familiar intense build that only Jeonghan, and now Joshua, can pull out of you.
“Come on, angel. Make a mess all over Shua.”
And you do, a little more pressure, a few more hard thrusts, and you are flying off the handle, vision going dark as you feel the coil snap. You can hear the movements getting wetter as you ride your high, but all noises fade as you wail through your orgasm. You can’t even register when Joshua’s thrusts get more erratic and when he finally cums, because your body is buzzing, gasping huge gulps of air in, trying to stay afloat. You distantly feel warmth invade your insides as Joshua spills into you, and you can hear him moan.
“That was so hot, what the fuck.”
Jeonghan giggles as Joshua pulls out, groaning before collapsing on the bed beside you. You blink, your vision swimming, trying to catch your breath. You whine when you feel hands pull your legs apart, and Jeonghan clicks his tongue, a tone of disappointment under his voice.
“Poor baby. Can’t even keep Shua’s cum inside you.” His hands grip your knees harder and you feel the mattress dip as he shifts closer to you.
“It's okay. I’ll help you.”
You whine when Jeonghan’s cock invades your insides. The sound is just pornographic. Between your own juices now soaking the sheets and your inner thighs, as well as Joshua’s cum, Jeonghan doesn’t find it difficult at all to breach you. He has plenty of lubrication. You moan weakly as something twinges inside you again at the sensation of him, the tip of his cock pressing into your sweet spot just right.
“Hannie, I can’t-” You choke out, teary eyes looking up at him. Joshua shifts beside you, turning to his side to face you, head held up by his hand, peering down at you. Your face feels hot, no doubt flushed, and you’re covered in sweat, tears and hickies. You don’t have it in you to feel even slightly ashamed under his gaze.
“Yes, you can.” Jeonghan coos, still thrusting languidly. He doesn’t speed up, just enjoying the feeling of you, the wet squelching as cum leaks out of you, a white rim around his shaft as he slides in and out. The sight is so hot that he nearly cums on the spot.
“You won’t be a good girl for us?” Not me. Us. And god, you’re so desperate to please them, it almost makes you weep. You don’t realise you’ve actually shed a tear until Joshua is kissing it away, sliding a hand down your stomach to rub gently over your clit. There’s barely any traction because of how wet you are, and the touch feels only like gentle stimulation.
They keep going like this, Jeonghan fucking into you slowly and lazily, nibbling on your earlobe and whispering sweet nothings in your ear. Joshua rubs over your clit with pressure that is barely there, attached to your other side and running his lips over the skin of your neck, biting the tiniest bit every now and then.
You don’t know how long you keep going, it feels like eternity before your walls are twitching again, back arching into Jeonghan as you gasp and shudder through you high, this one like gentle waves washing over you, pulling you underwater along with them. Jeonghan speeds up a bit just at the very end before shuddering and emptying himself inside you, hands gripping tightly at your hip to anchor himself. He moans so sweetly into your ear that the sound alone almost prolongs your orgasm. You squeeze every drop out of him, basking in the feeling of his cum inside you, the weight of him slowly softening. When he pulls out, you whine.
He chuckles in your ear, flopping down next to you. Joshua arranges your limbs, closing your legs and turning you to the side so you face away from him. He spoons you, sighing and relaxing behind you, burying his head into the back of your neck. You face Jeonghan, both of you staring at each other as you catch your breaths. Easy smiles stretch across your faces.
“You’re amazing.” He says. You giggle and shake your head.
“I love you.” You don’t shake your head this time. Instead you smile and tug at his arm to pull him closer.
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