Minors/ageless Blogs Dni

what’s thicker than water - pirate bakugou x witch f!reader

ch 1 / ch 2

summary - in a world where magic is formed by the bonds between humans and gods, love is the only pathway to power.

a/n: vaguely pirates of the carribean themed au, eventual smut, violence(phsyical), guns, piracy, witchcraft, allusions to past torture under suspicion of witchcraft, bakugou is simp who cant articulate his feelings. murder.mention of major character death(readers husband, offscreen)(not voodo or anything that feels weird and appropriative.) eventual smut.

minors/ageless blogs dni

wc: 6,644

The mast doesn’t snap, but smolders, bursting into flame at the top as the sea begins to toss the ship. Bakugou cocks his gun, pressing it harder against your forehead as the white light wraps around your bodies as the wind picks up.

“Calm the sea,” he barks, the light becoming blinding.

“Take the gun from my head,” you snap back. “Hecate doesn’t like to be threatened.” He looks at his crew, at the barrels starting to roll across the deck, and holsters his weapon. Almost immediately, the sea calms, and a gentle rain begins to fall. It’s not often that the deck of a pirate ship is silent, but as the streams of light connecting you and Bakugou fade the only sound is the slap of the waves against the hull. Without another word Bakugou grabs you by the hair and drags you forward, leaving you gasping in pain, scrambling to crawl behind him. You slide down the stairs, bruising your palms when you lose your balance. He kicks open the door to his bedroom and throws you on the ground.

“Start talkin’.” He snarls. “I wanna know how this shit works, where it comes from, everythin’. Right fucking now, and if you leave anything out I will tie your ass to our anchor, and throw you the fuck overboard.” You take a deep breath.

“Alright, alright, Captain.” You wipe your tears and he feels a twinge of unbidden remorse that he shoves down. He hands you his handkerchief, refusing to make eye contact while you dab at your face. There’s a knock on the door,

“Ah,” Sero calls, “Where too?”

“Open fucking ocean.” Bakugou calls. “I’ll be back soon.” He turns to you, pulling the chair at his desk out, and sitting down, leaving you kneeling at his feet. “Any minute now, dumbass.” You reach for your voice, and find it, somewhere, deep within yourself.

“M-my grandmother, she was engaged to a violent man, and on the eve of her wedding, was going to throw herself from the clock tower in her village.” Bakugou nods. “But at the last moment, Hecate appeared to her, and offered to take care of the man, and to grant her the power to protect herself, and two generations of daughters.” You look up at him, trying to read his perfectly neutral expression, seeing only tanned disinterest.

Keep reading

not your baby

warnings/tags: minors DNI, f. reader, DUB-CON/NON-CON, abo verse, yandere!Oliver (more like he's unsettling but yk), omega!Oliver, omega!reader, obsessive behavior, forced intimacy, manipulation, drugging, heat manipulation, set in the EPL, mentions of hair being run through (brief), appearances from other bllk boys, implied previous isagi x reader but they're platonic at the time of the fic, I'm still finding my footing on Oliver's characterization sorry about him LMFAO, these tags are not exhaustive word count: 13.4k summary: We are assigned roles but those are not without caveats. As predators cannot exist without prey, Oliver is learning he cannot exist without you.

Yoichi calls you in the middle of the day.

You’ve been staring at your code for the past two hours trying to figure out where it all went wrong so at first, his call is a welcome reprieve. Then he starts talking.

“Rin broke my nose.”

“On or off the field?”

“Off,” comes his disgruntled response. There’s a cacophony of noise in the background and you hear Yoichi hiss as someone presumably touches his nose. “Can you bring me one of my scent blockers?”

You quickly glance at your code and decide to cut your losses and shut down your computer. If it hasn’t been figured out by now, it won’t be figured out for a while. “Yeah. I’ll be there in twenty.”

You head over to his room and make a beeline for his bathroom. You rifle through his drawers until you find his scent blockers. He asked for one but you pocket the whole box.

It takes you longer than twenty minutes to get to the stadium due to traffic but you don’t rush as you walk in through the back. He won’t be able to play regardless.

A staff member leads you to the locker room and after a quick discussion with the assistant coach, she waves you in.

You make eye contact with Yoichi immediately, wincing at the dried blood on his lips and chin. You hold the box up wordlessly as you go to him, already pulling your sleeves over your hand to wipe at his face.

“They didn’t want to clean you up?” you ask, scrunching your nose as your sleeve drags across his skin.

“Wouldn’t let them,” he says moodily. He’s trying not to glower at Rin who is making a halfhearted attempt at remorse by standing in the vicinity of Yoichi. Rin shuffles to the side awkwardly when you give him your full attention. His pupils are blown out and his fingers tremble with his annoyance. He’s clearly still pissed at Yoichi but your arrival has forced him to act like a respectable alpha. And with the way he’s cautiously eyeing you, he probably fears triggering an early heat with how intense his pre-rut is.

The smell of it makes your stomach curdle.

You keep yourself from rolling your eyes in front of him. The education in every country is so bad it would be laughable if it didn’t cause such disturbances in general society.

“You okay?”

Rin’s surprised your question is aimed at him. “Yeah.”

“Rin’s love language is violence,” a deep voice teases, looping an arm around Rin’s shoulders. He tries to shake it off but the guy adds some weight to his hold and forces Rin to take it. His two toned eyes flick over to you, heavily-lidded with interest. It takes you a moment to connect the dots.

Oliver Aiku. Arsenal’s captain along with the national team of Japan. He’s an enigma to you out of all of Yoichi’s teammates.

Stupidly, all that crosses your mind upon seeing him is that he’s tall.

You have known this. Centre-backs are known for their height and strength. And yet, you are still caught off guard.

His smell is distinctly omega but his stature implies an alpha nature. He’s large and imposing, taking up more room than any omega you have ever met. He notices the tilt of your head. Tension briefly lines his shoulders but he forces a nonchalance to his stance. He brings his nose upwards and smells you. Even from this distance, you can see how his focus sharpens and his posture becomes more welcoming, a camaraderie solidifying between the two of you amongst all these alphas and betas.

If possible, his smile widens when he notices what you’ve given Yoichi.

You grimace at the dried blood now speckling your shirt. “You must love Yoichi a lot then.”

“Too much one could say,” Oliver says, earning an attempt at an elbow from Rin.

“Did they fit or is your nose too swollen?” you ask, bending down to look at Yoichi’s nose. They set the break though it still trickles with some blood.

He shakes his head. “It’s too swollen,” he says, wincing as he hands you the bloodied scent blocker.

Oliver intercepts you, tossing the half-used scent blocker to an open locker. It takes more of your focus than you will ever admit to not shy away from him. You know he’s an omega but you can’t shake off how his alpha-like appearance unnerves you. Surreptitiously, he wipes his fingers on Rin. “You came quick,” he says, looking down at you. Somehow, you get the impression you’ve let him down.

“I live to serve him,” you say seriously, pointing at Yoichi.

Yoichi stutters for a second and then groans. “Shut up,” he whines, rubbing his temples. “Did you drive here?”

You twirl your keys around your finger. “Unfortunately.”

“I’ll go with you. My head’s killing me.” He shoots a glare at Rin who raises his eyebrows at him.

“Did they check if you have a concussion already?”

“Yoichi’s too hard-headed for a concussion,” Oliver says. But Yoichi will do a lot for game time and you don’t know if he let them check him probably so you can’t trust his words if Oliver didn’t oversee the checkup. You nudge Yoichi insistently.

“They looked over him. He’s good to go. Except for the, you know, broken nose,” Oliver reassures you. You give him a brief dip of your chin before focusing back on Yoichi.

“Are they going to give you the black mask?”

An excited light enters Yoichi’s eyes. “I hope so. That’d be sick.”

“Maybe you’ll play better and have the fans wish you always had a broken nose,” you muse, grabbing his jaw and moving his head side to side. It’s going to be a shame when he covers his face.

“Think they’ll give me a nickname?”

“Egoist ain’t enough for you?” Oliver says, hands on his hips. Flutters erupt in your stomach. He’s uncomfortably good looking, you realize. The sort where self-consciousness begins to take shape. You leave it be. After all, you’ll either see Oliver enough to get used of his face or you’ll see him so infrequently, the twinge in your gut will be far and between.

It takes a few weeks for you to come to the conclusion that Oliver is kind of an asshole.

He’s friendly enough, more so than most people if you look at him objectively. But still, he’s an asshole nonetheless.

You think you’d like him more if he didn’t make your skin crawl.

Oliver introduces you to the rest of the team and their friends as Yoichi is making his way towards you from the entrance of the coach’s house. Oliver recites your name with a lazy grin and warns them to treat you nicely. You wave shyly at the amount of eyes trained on you, ready to sit down when Oliver continues.

“Though, imagine our surprise when Yo-chan,” you mouth the nickname, endeared, “Said he was moving in with a friend.”

The almost explicit implication doesn’t match the lack of curiosity in Oliver’s expression. But you can feel how the rest of Yoichi’s teammates wait with a baited breath for the confirmation of what they suspected.

You don’t bother to defend you or Yoichi. Their opinions are already set.

“It’s always good to have a familiar face whenever you’re far from home.” Your smile is strained.

“That is true,” he agrees. He elongates the last word as if he’ll keep going and your stomach sinks at the thought. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for why an alpha and omega live together without being a bonded pair.

Yet, Oliver backs off immediately. (His interest only ran as far as he deemed necessary for his team to have.) He seems to have only asked for the sake of the rest of the team and their loved ones. You marvel at how easily he can control the atmosphere and settle any doubts they may have had towards Yoichi. It isn’t common to see an unpaired alpha and omega in such close quarters after all.

“He’s nice, right?” Yoichi mutters in your ear, having finally made it to you. He’s too quiet for anyone other than you but Oliver shifts as if he can sense the compliment. His scent is affable and he sends a quick wink aimed in your direction. He’s got the type of charisma that has people drifting towards him without thought but a firmness that keeps others from coming too close.

And yet, something in your gut itches.

“I guess,” you say eventually. You look at Yoichi’s blue eyes and see the blind trust he holds towards his captain and you amend your statement. “He’s good for the team. A proper captain.”

“Our final wall,” Yoichi says proudly.

You don’t frown necessarily but it’s something close. “Is that his nickname?”

“Yeah. I mean unofficially. The god snake is his other one.”

Creativity is left to the midfielders it seems. “Start with that one. The final wall sounds stupid,” you advise.

“You don’t think it sounds sick?”

“He’s a defender so it’s kind of a given, no?”

He considers this. “I guess. It’s still cool though. Especially considering he’s an—” Yoichi’s mouth shuts.

You brush off the aborted comment immediately. “They usually play midfield,” you hum, regarding the nickname in a different light at the reminder. It’s hard to reconcile he isn’t an alpha given how imposing he is. You sound like a broken record in your own mind for having to be reminded of his secondary gender. That nickname has probably bolstered his image more than any other nickname could have in his position. “Fine. It is a cool nickname then.” Begrudgingly so.

“See? Oliver is cool. He was so intense during that U-20 game.”

“He played?” Yoichi’s made you watch the game a couple of times but most of the guys are a blur in your mind. “Did Sae involve him in any plays?”

Yoichi cuts you an unimpressed look. “Sae wasn’t the only player there.”

Sae was certainly the prettiest, however.

“He was the only omega,” you point out and then correct yourself, “Or so I thought.”

“I told you about Oliver!”

“Yeah but I didn’t know you meant him.” You jerk your thumb in Oliver’s general direction. “My bad.”

Yoichi stares at you and then laughs, shaking his head. “I think your nickname would’ve been ego breaker.”

“That’s so lame.”

He chuckles, steering you towards the snack table. “Sorry, I was late. Traffic got my ass.”

“What did coach have to say about that?”

Yoichi winces. “I have to run twenty extra laps next practice.”

“He’s intense.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.”

The party goes on and Yoichi leads you around. It’s clear to see he’s found a place in this team already. Joy radiates off of him as he introduces you to more of his teammates and coaching staff. You’re met with warm welcomes despite the somewhat frosty beginning. It takes a few teammates for you to find your footing and be able to joke around with Yoichi properly. After some time, he’s whisked away. There’s an apologetic pat on your back before you’re left to your own devices. With your skin prickling with self-consciousness, you sit on the couch and try not to look as out of place as you are. You’re replying to a text when you feel the couch dip beside you. A familiar scent tickles your nose.

“Yoichi abandoned you?” Oliver doesn’t give you a chance to respond before saying, “First, he’s late. And now he’s leaving you to the wolves.” He whistles. “That’s two strikes.”

Your tongue presses against the back of your teeth. Your irritation sparks but you douse it. He’s only making conversation, that’s all. “Three.” You hold up said amount of fingers. “He forgot to bring the wine.”

“Coach isn’t impressed by stuff like that,” he says and then grimaces. “Believe me. Some of the kids have tried.”

He’s not that much older than the rest of the squad but you bite back your smile. You incline your head in agreement. “But his wife would appreciate it.”

“Schmoozer, eh?”

“What can I say? I love to see beautiful women smile.”

That gets a proper laugh out of him. “Yeah, alright.”

Silence lapses between you two yet you don’t try to break it. You’d rather Oliver find someone else to talk to especially if this is for pity.

“You enjoying the party?” He shifts so the top half of his body is facing you. Something gleams in his eyes. “Did Yoichi send you that video? The one of him with the bicycle kick?”

“Oh yeah! He did. Did he show you it yet?”

Oliver shakes his head, earnestly looking at you. Immediately you start scrolling through your messages with Yoichi. He’s sent you countless soccer videos alongside mini vlogs of his training so it takes you longer to search for the particular one Oliver is asking about. He sits closer to you, thighs spread enough to encroach onto your space. His shoulder leans into you as he angles his head to look at your phone.

“Hm? Is that it?” he asks, pointing at the video on screen. A video that is clearly not the one of Yoichi he was asking about.

You’re overly conscious of the body heat that is radiating off of him. He’s so close you don’t want to move a muscle in fear of touching him more.

“Give me a second,” you say, trying to lean away in a way that doesn’t look obvious. But he follows you further into your space, going as far as to lean his head down close enough to almost rest his chin on your shoulder.

“Hi. Sorry to interrupt.” You look up to see a woman shifting on her feet. She sniffs the air delicately, a pleased little smile dimpling her cheek. You go a little slack jawed at her beauty. But your interest doesn’t matter as her eyes are not on you.

You inhale softly. Beta.

Risking a peek at Oliver, you see him smile an easy smile at her. There’s a certain amount of unspoken charm to him now, exceeding his normal amount. His posture shifts and you realize this is what Oliver looks like when he knows someone’s interested in him. His vested interest hasn’t been triggered yet but he knows how to play the game. And you suppose from your limited knowledge of him, this is the part he enjoys the most.

You don’t want to stick around for it. You don’t bother with a proper goodbye, not with the way she hesitates to continue talking to Oliver with you still there.

Yoichi is still with Hiori so you make an escape to the very nice patio you could never afford in this lifetime. Surprisingly, there is no one else out here.

Relief sags your shoulders. The air is balmy and weighted as if to remind you of how hard this all really is. Everything about London is so different you feel like a fish out of water. It’s been a few weeks but you are no closer to adapting to this environment than you were when you first step foot in this city. Yoichi has more friends than you realized within the English league. What are you even doing here?

“Fuck,” you mutter. You should’ve told Yoichi you’d come until he adjusted to London rather than move in with him.

You turn to see if Oliver’s made any progress with that beta. He’s smiling at her indulgently, head tilted as if he’s listening intently. But his eyes keep sliding towards your direction and his placid smile twitches each time he does so.

You bite on your cheek. He’s such a strange man. It’s a wonder Yoichi has him so figured out because you cannot get a grasp on him. And you keep failing whatever tests he’s concocted in his mind and it’s driving you up a wall calculating your words the way you are.

You scroll through your phone for a lack of something better to do, praying Yoichi puts you out of your misery and tells you he’s ready to go home.

“Oh.”

Flinching so hard you nearly toss your phone onto the ground, you whip around at the voice. It’s Rin.

He’s schooled his face into something neutral. He shuffles backwards and then decides you don’t own the patio and comes closer. Rin doesn’t stand by you but he lingers around you politely. It’s so reminiscent to how he acted when he broke Yoichi’s all those weeks ago you have to laugh.

Your throaty laugh startles him enough to narrow his eyes suspiciously at you. “I don’t bite,” you say.

He weighs the choices you’ve put into his hands and then faces you. “I know.”

“Hi Rin,” you say, enunciating the two syllables expectantly.

He repeats after you. “How are you?” His arms are crossed over his chest. The corner of your mouth twitches. Oh, it’s such a burden for him to make small talk.

“I’m a little stressed out but you know.” By the blank look that enters his eyes, he doesn’t. Though, while it may be mean to think, Rin tends to have an empty look on his face whenever soccer isn’t involved. “How are you?”

“Fine.”

Silence fills the space between you two and after a while, Rin begins to face forward but you won’t let him off that easy.

“So you’re on loan?” you prompt, earning back Rin’s attention.

He nods. His lips thin as if he’s pouting but trying to hide it. “Sae figured I’d have an easier time grasping this system first and then playing for Real Madrid and coach agreed.” He tips his head upwards so he’s looking at the dark night sky. “And here I am.”

“Has it been good so far?”

The loan system is unfamiliar despite Yoichi explaining it to you every time you ask. You can’t wrap your head around playing somewhere for a season and then coming back to your original team. Is there no fear of swapping hidden tactics? Or leaking locker room exclusive secrets? Or worse yet, falling in love with a team you know you are destined to be at for only a short amount of time?

“I like here. Not more than I like it at Real Madrid but it’s fine,” he says.

“Is it for the full season or…?”

He drops his arms from their crossed state. A brief stint of regret makes his lips purse as he says, “Full season. Seemed stupid to go for only a couple months.”

If Rin hates it here, these next seven months will be hell. But if he falls in love with Arsenal, the end of the season will be brutal. You don’t think you could handle the uncertainty.

“That’s tough.”

“If it’s what it’ll take to be the best, I don’t care.”

You don’t know how Yoichi made it out of Blue Lock with enough of his sanity intact to masquerade as a functioning human being if this type of person is who he was surrounded with for months on end. You don’t doubt Ron’s love for soccer but Yoichi’s particular brand of intensity has you wondering if Rin will be devoured in a different way this time around.

So you pivot. “Your rut go okay?”

From Yoichi you know Rin had to go on a stronger suppressant. The stresses of moving teams and subsequently countries shifted his hormones enough to make him more susceptible to his pre-rut. Yoichi immediately started taking a higher dosage to mitigate a similar reaction and he’s been grumpy as a side effect. Rin is grumpy as his default so you can’t tell if anything has changed for him.

Rin is quiet for long enough you begin to wonder if you overstepped. Then he says, “It was fine. Standard.”

“I hope Yoichi’s is standard,” you mutter under your breath. You’re forcing him to do his own laundry otherwise.

“You take care of Yoichi during his?” Rin’s curiosity is mild but you’ve captured his full attention.

This must be payback for your earlier question. “Not anymore. It’s easier if we don’t blur those lines.” You leave it at that.

But it piques Rin’s interest further. Unconsciously, he leans towards you. “So you go to another alpha during your heat then?”

That makes your eyebrows raise. There’s nothing suggestive other than his wording but you take advantage nonetheless.

“Why? You offering?” you tease, laughing when Rin tenses up.

“I wouldn’t—shut up,” he snaps, turning away from you. But you don’t miss the way his ears redden with his newly cut hair giving way to the sight. You laugh harder. He set himself up.

“Relax, you baby. I don’t even like alphas,” you say.

“You don’t?” He doesn’t mean to sound like he’s accusing you of lying but distrust lies heavily between those two words.

It curbs your good mood. “Would you?”

“But biologically—”

“Technology’s advanced these days,” you cut in sharply. He’s young but not so young to be this ignorant. “Just because something is idealized doesn’t mean it’s the only correct way to deal with a heat.”

A charged quiet lies between you two. And then, “You’re right. I didn’t mean it that way but I guess there’s no other way it could be meant if I say it like that.”

You loose a breath. “It’s fine.” And then you peek at him. An admonished Rin is a little too irresistible even for you. “But if you are offering…”

He turns back around with a glare. “Don’t.”

You hold your hands up, a grin tugging at your mouth. “I’m just saying I wouldn’t mind,” you sing, faking a step back when Rin’s glare intensifies.

“Wouldn’t mind what?”

You both twist at the familiar voice. Oliver ducks his head underneath the door frame as he steps onto the patio. He’s got an impersonal smile you don’t think he realizes you can pick up on spread across his mouth.

“Rin as my heat partner.” “Nothing.”

If looks could kill, Rin would have set you on fire right about now.

“Okay, I’ll stop.” You yield. No wonder Sae can’t stop pushing Rin’s buttons. If he looks this cute with just a little poking, you think you’d do the same.

You go to share a teasing look with Oliver but to your surprise, he looks thrown off. He recovers quickly, that same impersonal smile pulling at the corners of his lips again, and he says, “Yo-chan’s looking for you, Rin.”

Oliver notices your slight pout and smirks a bit. “Guess you’re stuck here then.”

After a moment of staring, Rin nods at you guys before heading back into the house. He looks back, a small wrinkles between his brows before he shakes it off and disappears into the living room. You’ll give Yoichi some more time before you head out. You don’t think you can last much longer trying to scramble for conversation topics.

“Rin would be an awful heat partner,” Oliver says suddenly. “Selfish.”

The sudden comment forces you to let out a flabbergasted laugh. “And you aren’t?” Your eyes widen at the slip of tongue. That is not at all what you would have said if you actually too more than a second to think. “Sor-”

“I’m not,” he says after a moment. He’s not offended so his tone is very matter-of-fact. “I could show you if you want.”

His voice is lined with just the right amount of flirtatious to not make you feel stupid if you do say yes. But you can’t take a guy like Oliver seriously. His reputation precedes him and you’d rather go with what you’ve heard around than what you’ve heard from his friends when it comes to this aspect of his life. Not that Yoichi spends an incredible amount of time explaining those specific details but Yoichi is privy to an Oliver most do not get to know, you included thus far.

“Pass.”

“Oh come on, baby. I could show you a good time,” he says almost reflexively. The flirtatious note in his voice gives way to joking which you appreciate much more.

Though, the endearment tickles the wrong part of your brain. And your mistake is you don’t nip it in the bud immediately. He notices the way your shoulders raise up to your ears a bit at the pet name. And his smile broadens.

“Not your baby,” you reprimand. “What did Yoichi need Rin for anyway?”

Oliver blinks and then grins conspiratorially. “He didn’t. You just looked like you were giving Rin a hard time.” At your disbelieving raised eyebrows, he pats his chest. “I have a bleeding heart.”

He makes you giggle. It’s awful. And what he said is not even particularly funny. You just like the idea of Oliver coming to save Rin because you know Rin would rather eat his own foot than have someone swoop in to help him out.

“Captain my captain,” you recite mockingly, saluting him with two fingers. “It’s cute they all call you that.”

Oliver sucks in his cheek. “You think so?”

The respect Oliver has earned from his team is admirable considering how young he and the squad are. The older members defer to him as well without resentment, content to shuffle the responsibility over to him. “Yeah.”

He brings his hands up to rest on the back of his head. He’s so large his elbows dip into your space but only slightly so you don’t back away. The sleeve of his shirt tightens underneath the swell of muscle, seams straining. You quickly divert your attention to his face. Luckily, he’s focused on the sky, lip tucked underneath his teeth. He makes a sound of agreement but it lacks any substance.

“You don’t think so?” You can’t help to ask.

“No, it is nice,” he agrees, though he opts to not address the choice of word you used to describe it. His voices deepens into something wistful. “You just reminded me of something.”

You don’t ask for clarification and he doesn’t offer it. You don’t like him anymore than you did at the beginning of the night but you think you are seeing what it is Yoichi is talking about when it comes to Oliver.

Weeks pass and you see Oliver more often than you think you should.

You slip out of your shoes, nose wrinkling at the vaguely familiar scent floating from the living room. Peeking your head around the corner, you see a mop of dark hair and then you see the body it’s connected to.

Oliver sits languidly on your couch with his shirt half up his body. You eye the curves of his stomach and waist getting a grip on yourself and put your shoes in their proper place.

“Hey Oliver,” you say once you step into the living room.

He doesn’t startle, clearly having smelled you as soon as you walked in, and gives you an indulgent smile. His clean scent wraps around you in some semblance of comfort but it only serves to make your skin crawl at the casual intimacy he’s thrust upon you. But you work to control your own reaction, careful to keep your own scent from becoming bitter through sheer will alone. “Hope it’s cool Yoichi let me have the code,” he says.

Your eye just about twitches. Omegas are not plentiful so it makes sense why Yoichi assumes you would be okay with a fellow one flitting in and out of your home if he feels comfortable enough with Oliver. But the lack of heads up irks you. You also understand he feels a sort of kinship to Oliver, born from his Blue Lock game against him all those years ago, and assumes you won’t make a fuss as you aren’t ought to do.

Your tuck your bottom lip under your teeth, worrying the skin. Yoichi would be right to think that. You trust his instincts, but you trust your gut as well. And you don’t trust Oliver for some inexplicable reason.

“I mean, you have it now, so,” you shrug, neither an agreement or accusation.

He watches you and then he nods good-naturedly. “He said he’s gonna be late for dinner. Should we order something?”

Your teeth bite down harder on your skin. So he won’t be leaving any time soon. Fantastic.

“There’s a pho place down the road if you’re fine with that?” you offer hesitantly, hoping it’s a food he hates.

His smile widens enough to show his top row of teeth. “Sounds good. Let me know the name and I’ll order. My treat,” he adds unnecessarily.

It takes half an hour for the order to come. Oliver spends it trying to sneakily get you to join him on the couch to watch some reality show he’s been into lately. He’s frustrated with your denials by the time you have the bag in your hand. You cut him some slack and bring the food to the living room. Only then do you take a seat on the couch at a casual distance from him, curling up your legs and setting your pho on your lap.

“You find a heat center yet?” Oliver asks, sucking up some noodles.

You tap the container with your nails and then shake your head. Heat centers aren’t your preference and you say as such. Unlike Rin, he’s a fellow omega so you feel less guarded telling him this not-quite taboo.

He looks a little surprised. “You handle them yourself?”

Shrugging, you say, “Mine are pretty mild so there’s no need. If it gets really bad, Yoichi helps out but,” and you trail off, embarrassed you shared so much so without thinking. Aiming to shift the topic, you ask, “Do you usually use heat center?”

He chuckles and steals a piece of beef out of your bowl. Through a swallow, he says, “Nah, not really. We have mandated heats during the season so there’s no need. Yoichi said yours were pretty irregular so I was just wondering.”

You hide your grimace behind a spoonful of broth. Leave it to Yoichi to leave your personal business on the table. “Is it tough having your heats regulated like that?”

Oliver chews thoughtfully. From Yoichi you know that alphas can keep playing well into pre-rut. The idea is that the quickness to aggression stemming from the hormonal imbalance will aid in their game. The safety concerns do not matter as long as the league gets an explosive game out of the thinning patience of their alpha players and so certain precautions have to be exerted by the players rather than be regulated by the league. Yoichi tends to play with a mild scent blocker even at the cost of it affecting some of his playing style. One three-match ban was enough to keep him corralled.

There are so few known omegas in all of soccer, and especially in the English league, that you don’t think there are any leniencies when it comes to heats. A low grade preheat forced your old company to send you home in fear of inciting the alphas so you can’t imagine the league handles heats any better.

“It’s necessary,” he says finally, shrugging. “I guess I’ll find out if it was a bad call in a couple years.”

In professions like his, mandatory heats are a necessity though there isn’t much research to support they aren’t harmful. Summer break is when they’re allowed off whatever medications their medical team has deemed needed but those pitiful thirteen weeks aren’t enough to regulate their hormones.

You’d feel worse for him if he wasn’t getting paid millions to kick a ball around a field.

“That sucks,” you say but not without empathy.

“Could be worse. They could’ve banned us outright.”

It was only in the last twenty years omegas were publicized in the athletic world. Oliver is one of few who hasn’t hidden their secondary gender behind one more favorable.

“Could be better,” you sigh, pushing your bowl towards Oliver. You hate that he has to take his wins where he can scavenge them. “I guess having a schedule for them can be kinda nice,” you admit begrudgingly. Only in recent years have your heats stabilized enough to be expected at a similar time every two months.

“It makes life easier,” he agrees. Oliver abandons his empty bowl for yours. You will never have to worry about leftovers so long as you remain surrounded by professional soccer players.

“Mine used to be so irregular and so intense. It’s insane they let alphas play almost to their rut if those ruts are anything like what my heats used to be,” you say, leaning back on the couch. The league would rather be demolished than lose money in the name of player safety. You mentally shake your head. Those sick bastards.

Oliver chews on his food. He swallows and then says casually, “If you ever need a partner, just let me know.”

You’re so stunned you can’t speak. There’s a dry patch where your voice should be. He goes on, shifting his position to face you. “Doesn’t matter when. Promise.”

When he moves closer, the room feels terribly small as if dwarfed by this abrupt unsettling intimacy. He only needs to put his hand on the other side of your waist to trap you and it twitches as if predicting your train of thought. You wish he wouldn’t reach out his hand like that.

The front door bangs against the wall. You immediately jump off of the couch, uncaring of the bean sprouts you spill. Oliver’s hand drops atop of the blanket.

“You won’t believe what coach had me doing,” Yoichi whines, hand braced on the wall as he unties his shoes.

“What did he do?”

Yoichi launches into his story, scarfing down the pho in between complaints while you listen intently. His eyes bore into the side of your head when Yoichi’s attention drifts to the TV as he talks.

You don’t speak to Oliver for the rest of the night.

“Oliver comes over a lot,” you say unprompted.

Yoichi’s deciding between shin guards so it takes him a second to process what you said. He continues weighing each shin guard in his hand but glances at you, mouth turning up at the corner sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“You know, just because we’re omegas, doesn’t mean we’re gonna get along,” you say to Yoichi with a little more sharpness than is warranted. You close your eyes, wishing you could better keep yourself from taking your frayed nerves out on him.

His gaze drops to the ground and he nods. “I know,” he says, stamping down on his defensiveness. “I just thought it’d be nice if you had another omega around. There’s not many in the league and you don’t know anyone here.” He scuffs at the ground with his cleats. “I don’t want you to be lonely.”

Sticky affection clogs your throat for a moment. “I’m not lonely,” you grumble. But Yoichi sees right through you and reaches out to squeeze your hand. “I have you,” you insist.

“You do. But you should also have someone you can rely on that understands what I don’t.” He ducks his head sheepishly. “Oliver’s the one who told me to put that essential oil in your bath to help with your,” he motions towards your lower belly, “You know.” Yoichi’s been around the block enough to not be embarrassed but the reminder of how he ended up helping you out makes the both of you look to the side.

Whatever it was Oliver told Yoichi to mix into your bath did help tremendously even if it made you lightheaded with desire. You should thank him next time. “You’re right, I’m just being annoying.” Then you point at him. “He should start paying rent since he’s here all the time.”

“You don’t pay rent.”

“Do I make millions for playing with balls?” you point out, sticking out your tongue.

“You know I’m too dumb to do anything but kick a ball around,” he says, tucking his shinguard into his socks.

You mutter, “I’ve met some of your teammates. You are the last one I’d be worried about if you had a different career, believe me.”

He grins at you. “Good thing they’re pretty too, huh?”

“Beauty, brains, and brawn cannot all exist at once. You gotta pick two.”

“And your diagnosis for Rin?”

Your answer is instant. “Beauty.”

“Hiori?”

“Beauty and brains.”

“Oliver?” he teases.

“I plead the fifth.”

“That’s such a cop out.”

It’s the third time Yoichi’s late from work.

Your nose stings from the cold air. Last time, Hiori kept you company while you waited. Out of Yoichi’s teammates so far, Hiori has been the one you’ve taken an instant liking to. You’re hoping he’s stayed after again but with your luck, you should expect the worse of two evils.

Oliver tucks his phone into his pocket once he makes eye contact and begins to jog over to you. You quicken your pace to meet him in the middle, a question on the tip of your tongue he answers within the second you’re in earshot.

“Coach is talking to Yo-chan.”

“Ah,” you say, slowing to a stop in front of him. “I’ll wait for him then.”

“I’ll take you home. We can get dinner while we’re at it,” Oliver says easily.

You look towards the stadium doors, a refusal on your lips when Oliver gets one hand on your shoulder and one on the small of your back and spins you around. “It’s going to take a while and he said to tell you to not wait up.”

The obscenely casual touch sends goosebumps down your arms. The sleeves of your shirt scratch against the sensitized skin and you shy away from Oliver. He pauses when he notices you curl into yourself but he doesn’t take his hands off of you right away. His palm slides off of you slowly and then he brings his gloves to his teeth, pulling them off by the finger. He bends down until he’s eye level with you. He peers at your face with a strange look. “Your eyes are red.” He points at them and then lays his hand flat against your forehead. “And you’re warm,” he says to himself.

“Am I?” you ask, bewildered. Your cheeks felt a little flushed earlier but you figured it was because you put too many layers on. You haven’t quite figured out how to manage the London weather yet.

Then he leans towards your neck, sniffing so close to you the tip of his nose caresses your pulse. Your heart jumps at the barely there contact but Oliver is already straightening up before you can scold him.

“I thought your heat wasn’t till the end of the month?”

“Huh?”

He sniffs the air again, face scrunching up. “You smell like preheat. It’s really faint but,” he says, confused, “Isn’t it too early?”

“Why do you know when my heat is supposed to be?” you ask suspiciously. You make yourself scarce whenever your heat approaches seeing as it can vary on the exact day. Some months, you even miss your supposed scheduled time by a week or two. Yoichi is one of a handful of people you allow around you when you’re more than suspecting of it coming up. A misplaced alpha can send you from a manageable state to something unbearable in a split second.

“Yoichi,” he says obviously. “He told me to keep an eye on you at the end of every month just in case.”

Your puckered mouth softens. While invasive and inconsiderate of your comfort, Yoichi is well-intentioned.

“I don’t feel anything,” you say, puzzled. Usually, there would be some discomfort between your legs and a noticeable ache in your lower back. But you feel remarkably fine if only a bit warmer than normal now that he’s mentioned it. “It’s probably something else.”

“No, it’s not,” Oliver says assuredly. His tone is final. “I can smell it.”

“Yeah, but you could also be smelling one that’s a week or two away.” You’re almost certain you are the only other omega Oliver interacts with on a regular basis so it’s not surprise he’s especially attuned to you. Though, you should give Oliver more credit for picking up on the slight shift of your scent given omegas are sensitive towards any minute changes in another omega. The confirmation of it is alarming however. Perhaps Oliver staying over so often and surrounding himself with your scent has signaled something to him.

He gives you a disbelieving frown. “If you say so. I think I have some stuff that helps keep it at bay.” He adjusts his duffel bag to pick through the pockets. Within moments, he produces a small pill bottle. He shakes it at you. “This will lessen the symptoms.” Digging through another pocket, he sucks at his teeth when he finds it empty. “I have one that delays it but I forgot it at home.”

Having taken the orange pill bottle from him, you roll it around in your hand. The pills are small, white, and harmless looking. Curiously, the label is blacked out. The cap is marked off with a green stripe but there is nothing to indicate what he’s given you is what he says it is.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Oliver freezes at the accusation. Genuine insult creases his mouth into a line. “What?”

You shove the bottle back into his duffel bag. A laugh catches in the back of your throat at his bafflement. You’re the one who’s baffled. “I’m not gonna take some random pills. You don’t even have these labeled.”

“Why the fuck would I lie to you?” He’s at a loss, glancing from you to the pocket you slipped the bottle back into. “What the fuck? These are my travel pills. We have to have them unlabeled in case I lose them.” Your suspicion doesn’t lessen so he relents. “Fine. Come over and I’ll show you what they are so you can look them up.”

“‘Preciate it but I’ll pass.”

You think he would be less shocked if you outright slapped him than he is at your adamant refusal. His jaw is ajar. “Dude, I wouldn’t—we’re both omegas. Why would I—” Oliver stalls, unable to finish a thought.

“I’m not saying you are trying to do anything. Besides, those probably won’t work on me like they’re supposed to.”

“But you’re not not saying that. You’re implying it.”

Anything that will come out of your mouth will make the situation worse so you stay silent. And it’s silence that follows you home as you drive back alone.

You’re sidelined for six days by an unexpected heat. It’s one that knocks you on your ass. Yoichi is concerned enough to actually offer taking off from training for a day or two to help you out. You shoot him down instantly. His position in the starting eleven is still up in the air and like hell you’ll let your heat keep him from securing his spot.

But then it happens again. Instead of your usual two month break between heats, you find yourself in the same position a mere four weeks later. Rather than you’re normal four days, your heat has now lengthened to last the full week. The effect on your body is immediate. It takes you a while to recover from the unforeseen shift in your heat cycle.

Yoichi puts a hand on your forehead worriedly. You sigh as coolness emanates from his palm. “You’ve been getting sick more often since we moved here,” he says, frowning.

Your eyes flutter shut and you press your forehead a little more insistently to his hand. He lets out an amused puff of air and starts running his hand through your hair, scratching at your scalp. “My hormones have been so sensitive lately,” you say sleepily. “They’re like a live wire.”

His hand pauses. “Do you think it’s because,” and he swallows thickly, “There are not a lot of omegas here?”

You open your eyes to level him with a scathing look. “I have friends outside of you, you know.” You wrangled your anxiety into something manageable and found some omega friends to commiserate with when life in London got too much. They were soothing company but did nothing to worsen nor alleviate your fluctuating hormones so you suspect the fault must lie with you. “It’s gotta be something else. Stress probably.” You heave out a weighted breath.

Yoichi clicks his tongue. “I don’t know,” he trails off, “You weren’t like this when we were in Germany.” You hear his unspoken worry. You had even less of a support system there.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say dismissively. “I’ll probably be back to normal in a couple months. Remember how long it took me to be normal after I got off of birth control?”

Yoichi makes a face at the reminder. “Shit, yeah, that was awful.”

“I’ll be fineeee. No need to worry your pretty little head.”

He goes back to scratching your scalp. “Look, I don’t want to leave you alone, especially since I’ll be having to fly back and forth for a while. Oliver’s injured so he’s out for a couple weeks. I can ask him to check up on you.”

Your answer is a resounding, “No.”

He frowns. “I thought you guys got along.”

You have skirted around telling him how pissed off Oliver has been since you last saw him.You aren’t quite ready to admit you did more than wound his pride, especially to Yoichi. He won’t approve of your scathing distrust for his captain given how unwarranted it seems to an outsider. “Doesn’t mean I want him taking care of me.”

He kisses his teeth. “Seriously? He’s probably better company than I am for this sort of thing.”

As much as his insistence that somehow your cure would be another omega irks you, you don’t want to fight. “Whatever. He’s injured anyway, you should let him rest. I’ll be okay.”

Yoichi eventually leaves to catch a flight after almost calling in to take a day off despite it being impossible for him to do so with his schedule. He nearly misses it with how long he lingers. He tucks you into his bed and makes you promise to at least text him every hour with an update. At your bleary stare, he sighs and mutters, “Forget it. I’m calling someone.” But you’re asleep before his words enter your ears.

Hours later, or so you assume, you wake up. It’s warmer now but the heat is external rather than internal. It’s a comfortable warmth that makes you want to sink into it further and so you do with a happy little sigh.

“Comfortable?”

Your eyes pop open. Yoichi’s blanket is up to your nose so it is his scent that filters through but you know that voice. Peeking over your shoulder, Oliver lays beside you. His head is held up by his hand with an amused smile. The sight of him muddles your already lagging brain so you ask, “Where’s Yoichi?”

Oliver’s smile dims. But he recovers before you can ask him what’s wrong. “He had to go to Spain. So you’ll have to make do with me,” he cajoles.

“Oh.” Right. He almost missed his flight before you fell asleep. “Did he make it already?”

His voice is flat as he answers, “Yeah. A couple hours ago.”

“Ugh, and he called you right after?” you whine with a scratchy throat. Yoichi didn’t even give you a chance to prove yourself.

Oliver continues to run his fingers up and down your back. You enjoy the soothing feel of his skin against yours before reality sinks in. “Why are you in bed with me?” you ask, scooting away from him. This is the type of strange behavior you can’t explain away with any rational though nor use his personality as an excuse for. Who the fuck did Yoichi entrust you to?

“You’ve been getting a lot of preheat symptoms lately,” Oliver says, ignoring you. He wipes away the sweat on your hairline. You tug your blanket closer to your chin, flipping over so you’re facing the wall instead. He laughs at your attempt to ignore him and instead, wraps himself around you. His legs are longer than yours and he throws one of them over you, pulling you to his chest and tightening said leg over your hip.

You want to blame him for why your heats have suddenly become irregular but you know you will sound ridiculous. This stuff didn’t happen before Oliver started haunting your home.

The caramel notes to his scent deepens as he buries his nose behind your ear. The comfort of another person is too strong for you to yell at him or bite at the hand that’s slowly inching to your waist. The latent buzz in your head slows to something manageable.

“All bite and no bark,” he murmurs affectionately.

“Shut up. Get out of my bed.”

“Isn’t this Yoichi’s bed?”

“Su cama es mi cama.”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes,” he says, chuckling.

“What’s his is mine.”

“Mm, still not right.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be helping?” You turn around abruptly to face him. Shooing at him, you gesture towards the door. “Go be helpful and clean the living room.”

He doesn’t move to get off the bed. Instead, he pulls you closer with his leg. “Want me to wear a maid costume while I do it, baby?”

“‘M not your baby,” you snap.

“You’re mine to take care of so,” he shrugs.

You squint at him. “You’re supposed to be injured. You need to take care of yourself first.”

He holds his hands up. “Doctor’s orders were to rest. So we should both go back to sleep.”

“You can sleep. I need to eat something.” Untangling yourself from the blanket and from Oliver’s hold, you get up. The world tilts and the edges of your vision blacken but you quickly steady yourself before Oliver can try and do something uncouth like carry you out of the room. He groans but gets out of bed as well.

“Yoichi ordered soup. It’s still in the kitchen.” He swings his head to look out your door and then waves his hand at you. “Get back into bed. I’ll bring it.”

You don’t need much convincing to crawl under the blanket. He laughs at your quick acquiescence, scratching at his stomach as he walks over to the kitchen. It doesn’t take long for him to come back. Multiple bowls are balanced on his arms along with a towel. He places the soup containers on your desk and sets one of your mixing bowls on top of your nightstand. Water sloshes dangerously close to the edge but he manages not to spill any. At your confusion, he explains, “A cold towel usually helps me out.”

It’s surprisingly thoughtful. “Thanks.” You dip the cloth into the icy water. A shiver runs through you as you place the wet cloth over the back of your neck.

He nods and then picks up one of the books cast aside on your table. It’s a fantasy novel you haven’t gotten around. He taps its spine to the edge of your dresser, kissing his teeth. “You hide your raunchier books or something?” He surveys your bookshelf, analyzing each of the titles with a quick eye.

You lean back on your hands. “No. They’re on my phone.”

“Don’t want anyone knowing what you’re reading?”

You shake your head. “More that it’s easier to read with one hand if it’s on your phone.”

It doesn’t compute until it does. Before he can respond, you make grabby hands at him. “Can you pass me the soup?”

You take the container from him. You wait for him to settle on the bed before balancing the bowl on his thigh. The warmth of the soup on your skin along with the slowly warming towel on your neck is bordering on overstimulation so you make it Oliver’s burden to bear.

“Want me to feed you or something?”

The way you consider it makes Oliver laugh. “You’re spoiled, huh?”

You scratch at your cheek, feeling a little sheepish. “A little bit. I’m used to being babied rather than doing the babying.”

“You baby Yoichi.” His voice pitches strangely.

You take off the wet cloth. He doesn’t have enough time to smooth out his frown. “You jealous?” you joke.

He takes the cloth from you and soaks it once more. With a hum, he wrings it out and places it back over your neck. The chilled water is less intense against your cooled skin but you flinch nevertheless. Flipping his hand over, he rests it on your skin. “If you took those pills I gave you, you wouldn’t be dealing with this. You keep getting sick because your heat’s unregulated,” he says pointedly.

“Aren’t those tailor made with you in mind?” you grumble. You weren’t expecting him to bring it up until after your heat passed.

“Not really. I have to be able to give them to another omega player in case something happens. So it’s specific but not that specific.”

The guilt that washes over you scalds you. “I didn’t handle that night well.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

It takes you a second to string together your words but Oliver waits patiently for you to find them. He’s unreadable but not unreachable. You swirl your spoon in the broth, watching as a whirlpool forms. “The first thing my mom taught me was to never trust anything anyone gives me concerning my heat unless it was from her or a doctor I knew. So I’m extremely distrustful to a fault. Like…it’s to my detriment.” Not that anything excuses you ripping Oliver’s head off for trying to help another omega. “Doesn’t mean how I chose to react is okay. I shouldn’t have ripped into you like that. I’m sorry.”

He lets you sweat for a full minute before nodding. “Okay.”

“We’re good?”

“Yeah, we’re good.” The words are soft, at odds with the almost violent intensity of his lidded eyes. Then he smiles, erasing what you think you saw so quickly you reassure yourself your heat addled brain is filling in spaces that do not exist. “Omegas gotta stick together, right?”

This is the first time you’ve visited Oliver’s apartment.

With the unusual resurgence of your heat cycle, you broke down and asked Oliver for some medical intervention. Yoichi tore into you when you finally admitted what you said to Oliver, appalled you could even think he would try to pull one over on you. His disappointment didn’t last long but remembering the sheer disbelief on his face sends shame sluicing through your veins. Which is why you are in front of Oliver’s door as if by taking the medication you so vehemently refused will absolve you of all sin.

It’s bad timing on your part seeing as Oliver is on the cusp of his preheat but he insisted on you getting some of his extra strength medications to tide you over until you can get an appointment with a heat doctor.

He opens the door. His face is flushed and there’s a pretty sheen of sweat on his skin. He’s without a shirt, a considerable amount of bare skin on display. You can’t help how your eyes immediately zero in on the outline of his half hard cock confined within his sweatpants but somehow you manage to flick your eyes back to his face in record time. His scent isn’t potent yet but it’s stronger than you’re used to. Saliva pools in your mouth as his scent works its way through your system. Something fierce begins to ache in your gums.

He ushers you inside and you slip off your shoes. You don’t have any time to look around before Oliver is crowding into your space.

“Can I borrow something of yours?” he asks quietly.

That question alone is enough to lift you out of whatever haze Oliver’s preheat has put you under. A refusal is on the tip of your tongue until you give his question some more thought. There aren’t many omegas in the league and you’re sure Oliver isn’t close to any of them given how he spends the majority of his time with his omega-less team. It’s natural he’d want something of yours. The relief his presence brought you still lingers so you concede.

Peeking over his shoulder, you see his laundry strewn on the couch. Assuming they’re clean, you nod your head towards them. “Swap with me.”

His eyes brighten and he nods. He goes to grab one of the shirts, allowing you to properly step into his home. With a cursory glance, you note that he’s organized and clean. His taste runs more on the neutral side which surprises you for some reason. He hands you a jersey, some worn out one from a training camp, and waits earnestly. You motion with your finger for him to turn around.

“Aw, no show, baby?”

You give him a withering glare. “Not your baby. Turn around.”

He obliges with minimal pouting. It takes him longer to drag his eyes away from you than it does for him to turn his body around but eventually he’s facing the wall. You quickly strip off your shirt and yank his spare jersey on. Predictably, it’s huge. It’s less comfy than you expected which is unfortunate.

“Here.” You hold out your shirt. He turns back around, grin nearly splitting his face in half. He doesn’t bother to hide the deep sniff he takes of your shirt.

You don’t think you need to warn him considering your scent is more of a comfort thing than something that will stoke his desire but you still sternly say, “Don’t jerk off on it.” At one point, you had to buy some cheap shirts and a value pack of underwear for Yoichi’s ruts so he’d stop using the actual clothes you wear as a cumrag.

Oliver’s eyes crinkle. “No promises.”

“Hilarious. Where’s the medicine?”

“All work and no play makes for a very sad omega.”

You push past him and say over your shoulder, “I don’t think that’s how it goes.”

He’s quick to follow after you. Yet his pace is casual, relying on the long length of his legs to keep you within reach. While you are planning to snoop around your immediate vicinity once he disappears to wherever to grab the medication, you want a glass of water first.

“Where do you keep the cups?”

“There’s a clean one in the sink.”

You find said glass and fill it up with the tap, wetting your dry throat. Sweeping the kitchen with your eyes, you scrutinize how bare it is. He has the bare essentials to make a functional kitchen but there is no personality to glean off of. The only intriguing thing is the line of pill bottles laid out on the counter. You don’t mean to read the labels but they catch your eye anyway. Oliver notices how you stall, transfixed by the medicine bottles lined up on his counter.

“They’re suppressors and inducers,” he says, coming up behind you. His hand brushes against your waist as he goes to pick up one of the glass containers. You flinch at the touch but he doesn’t move. He leans his free hand on the edge, bare chest grazing you and holds the medicine to his eye level. “It’s usually a shot I take but I opted for pills this time around.”

You take the container from him and twist it around. There’s an innocuous sound of pills knocking against one another. It’s hard to imagine these pills are either strong enough to stop a heat cold or strong enough to induce a heat that will keep a player hormonally balanced for three months. They’re more normal than you expected them to look nor do they look like they will be lodged in your throat if you try to take them.

The miracles of modern medicine.

“Why pills this time?” you ask. You try to move away from him secretly but Oliver uses his other hand to pluck the bottle from you, placing it gently back on the counter. Then he steers you towards the living room, cutting an imposing figure behind you as he doesn’t let you try and weasel your way closer to the front door.

He hums. “Just felt like something different.” He’s close enough to you that you can feel the ripple of muscle as he shrugs. He’s huge and he never lets you forget it.

“Isn’t a shot easier?”

“Depends. I don’t really like needles.”

“Wow, Arsenal’s final wall can be defeated by needles.”

And then Oliver’s scent becomes intense, cloyingly so. You can’t resist the urge to bring your hand to your nose to block the smell but you try to play it off as rubbing your nose. He falters, resting his hands on your hips to center himself. Your gums ache once more. It borders on painful so you dig your teeth into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep you from doing something ridiculous like sink your canines into Oliver’s scent glands for a taste.

The taste of blood blooms on your tongue. The salt cuts Oliver’s sweetness. Shit, he’s supposed to be another day or two from a full fledged heat but that isn’t how he currently smells.

“Do you have everything you need for your heat?” you ask worriedly. You spin around, apologetic at how your shift in position makes him whine.

“Why? You offering to take care of me, baby?”

Your worries dissipate marginally at the pet name. “Not your baby,” you remind him. “I thought your heats were planned to the minute.”

“Forgot a dose last week,” he admits. You wince. That was when he was taking care of you.

“Sorry,” you say weakly.

“I’ll be fine. ’S not my first heat alone,” he says casually. “Unless…” And his fingers make indentations into your side. His pupils are blown out with predatory intent. You try to edge away from him to no avail. A drop of sweat slides from his jaw, splattering onto his collarbones and the thread snaps. Your resolve cleaves into two and both sides fall into the abyss.

He’s too close and you’ve let him get too close.

You are not overly sensitive to omegas but Oliver in heat makes you hungry. Swiping your tongue over the remnants of blood coating your teeth, you rip yourself from his tightening grip. You cling to the metallic taste as a lifeline.

“I’ll leave you to it. Have lots of fun. Bye!”

You forget your shoes as you escape. But you manage to keep your, and Oliver’s as a byproduct, dignity intact and that will have to be a worthy trade.

Slamming the apartment building’s door behind you, a cold shiver wracks your body that has nothing to do with the chilled London air.

Turns out, the medicine doesn’t help. In fact, you’re starting to suspect it makes you worse.

After Oliver’s heat finished, you went back to his apartment and took enough meds to last you at least two weeks if you spaced them out. You could only manage to take it for a week before the symptoms became too much for you. There is no one to blame but yourself relying on a quick fix rather than find a medication adjusted to your specifications.

“Captain!”

Oliver’s head swivels to the call, hand already going up in a half-wave at the white haired man heading over to him. He’s of equal height to Oliver with an astonishing amount of muscle. You don’t need to rely on your smell to know he is an alpha.

“He’s an ex-teammate,” Yoichi whispers in your ear as he nods at the guy.

“Ah. Small world.”

You were supposed to be going to watch a movie on one of Yoichi’s rare free days and somehow, Rin and Oliver were roped into it as well. Rin is the last one to arrive so you are all hanging out by the entrance.

The guy trails after Oliver, speaking quickly in a different language as Oliver rejoins the two of you. He’s easy on the eyes. Then his scent drifts to you and a near instantaneous nausea erupts in your gut.

His clunky scent stings your nose. He’s definitely an alpha. You migrate to Yoichi and Oliver, leaning a cheek against Yoichi’s arm to clear your head. His fruity scent is peppered with Oliver’s muted sweetness but you much prefer this to whatever it is the other guy has going on.

Oliver notices how still you have gotten and adjusts himself so he’s closer to you. With a few words, he’s able to dismiss the man and your head begins to feel clearer. But a wrongness continues to cling to you. Yoichi’s scent, while soothing, does not manage to ward away your discomfort.

Rin frowns when he sees how the three of you are huddled and heads over. “What’s wrong with you?”

Oliver waves him off. “Probably preheat symptoms,” he explains away lazily. Rin’s concern quickly morphs into discomfort and he tries to slink out of reach. His hands hover near you but his fingers close in slightly as if he doesn’t know if his touch will be welcomed. With a swiftness that stuns even you, you wrap your hand around Rin’s wrist and bring his pulse to your nose. His icy scent breaks through your cloudiness and the queasiness rolling in your gut begins to recede. “Not preheat,” you mumble. “That guy’s scent just makes me sick.”

“It did?” Oliver asks. A barely detectable hint of glee pulses in his scent.

You drop Rin’s wrist, disregarding his lightly scandalized expression. “That’s never happened before,” you say, more to yourself than as an answer. “I think I’m dying.”

“Shut up.” Yoichi flicks the back of your head. “Didn’t you start some new medication?”

You duck away from him which sends you directly into Oliver seeing as he is determined to be an immovable object in your path. “Nah, not yet. The doctor said I still need to wean off the meds I took from Oliver.”

“But you went cold turkey.”

“…yeah.”

“You’re an idiot,” Rin chimes in helpfully.

“I took them for like a week. It can’t be that bad.”

“You should listen to the doctor instead of doing your own thing,” he scolds. He even wags his finger in your face and you threaten to bite it.

“Come on dude, it was just a week,” Yoichi protests, smacking his finger away.

“You a doctor now?” Rin snaps.

“You don’t need to be a doctor to know it’s probably okay to can go cold turkey on a medicine you only took for a week.”

“Is your head just for show or is there actually a brain in there?”

Rin and Yoichi devolve into their usual arguing. Naturally, Yoichi gets in Rin’s face which leaves you and Oliver to the side like some discarded toys.

“Is it like this in the locker room?” you muse. Rin is one second away from shoving Yoichi’s face from his.

Oliver sighs but amusement twinkles in his eyes. “It used to be worse but now coach said they’re banned from talking to each other before games.”

“Not after?”

He slides out his phone and pulls up a video. Oliver rests his chin on your head, wrapping an arm over your shoulder to hold the screen in front of you two. After your mistake in visiting Oliver during his heat, he’s become much more blatant with his friendliness towards you. You don’t know how to put a stop to it and you fear it is too late for you to make a fuss, having let it become a norm. You try not to stiffen against his touch too noticeably. He scrolls through his camera roll before finding a video of Rin and Yoichi discussing the match, the streaks of sweat and dirt indicating this is after a game.

“Wow, they’re like puppies you have to run ragged to get some peace,” you laugh, zooming in on the disgruntled look on Rin’s face as Yoichi writes something in the air.

Oliver lets out of an amused puff of air and moves his head from atop yours. Instead, he tucks his nose into your neck, skimming the tip against your scent gland. The gesture toes the line of disrespectful and yet no one milling about bats an eye at Oliver. He takes a subtle whiff, tongue darting to lick the salt off your skin before he straightens up. The light warmth from the tip of his tongue renders you speechless. Your hand goes to your neck and you can’t even muster a glare as you try to reconcile that he just licked you in broad daylight.

“Did you jus—”

But Oliver cuts you off by drawing Rin and Yoichi’s full attention to himself, joining in on their now civil conversation. You’re left feeling like the odd one out as you try to make sense of what just happened. He licked you. He fucking licked you.

And when it’s your turn to contribute to the conversation you have heard none of, Oliver simply winks at you over Yoichi’s head.

You start to smell Oliver on yourself.

It’s noticeable enough you’ve begun to receive teasing remarks about it. Yoichi can’t stop laughing at how aggressively you deny the accusations, placating you with ‘mm hmms’ and ‘of course I believe you’.

The teasing is exacerbated by Oliver’s continued presence at your house. Without realizing it, you have started setting out a third plate whenever you make dinner. It’s gotten to the point where some of his training jerseys have made their way into your laundry. You’ve taken to throwing them in Yoichi’s basket to keep yourself from tossing them into the garbage.

It’s infuriating.

“Wanna watch a scary movie?” he asks, watching as you flick through the movies available. Somehow, despite you seating yourself on the very edge of the couch, Oliver has managed to corral himself into being right next to you. His arm is slung around your shoulder having dropped from resting on the back of the couch. He points at some slasher film in the guise of choosing something but it’s only to draw himself closer to you. He’s only just managed to get his thigh pressed to yours when you decide to move to the loveseat instead. He can cuddle Yoichi if he wants to be necking someone so badly.

It’s unfortunate you have to use his thigh as to prop yourself up and the second you push off of him, Oliver curls under your chest and drags you to him. His teeth scrape against your gland and you jump out of your skin. Your elbow ricochets off of his sternum sending an aching pain radiating up your arm and Oliver to the side. He clutches at his chest, more shocked than hurt by your reaction.

“Sorry,” you say automatically and then want to hit yourself.

“What happened?” Yoichi calls out, poking his head out from the kitchen. He’s toweling off his hands with another slung over his shoulder.

Oliver doesn’t acknowledge him. “Do omegas not do that here?” he asks. His eyes are wide with polite curiosity but he isn’t apologetic.

“Omegas don’t do that anywhere!” you say incredulously, bringing your hand to your neck. The skin is sensitized whether it be from your imagination or something Oliver has done.

Yoichi makes a dissatisfied noise. “Oh.” And then he ambles back into the kitchen, uninterested in what he’s deemed omega affairs.

But this isn’t an omega affair. This is something much more bizarre.

“It’s common in Sweden,” is what he offers at your accusing glare.

You don’t know anything about Swedish customs to disprove him so you must remain stewing in your irritation like some chastised child. “Don’t do it to me,” you order. You’re torn as to whether you should be pissed off or frightened by his nonchalance.

“Did it scare you?” he mocks meanly. His tone ices your core.

“Just…don’t do that again,” you mutter. Your stomach knots in on itself and you can’t stand to be here with this sick bastard a second longer.

Oliver seems to realize he’s overstepped into oblivion this time for he immediately drops the teasing cruelty for some derivative of repentance. “I’m sorry. I thought it’d be funny—”

“No, you’re completely right. It’s real fucking funny.” You don’t care if you draw Yoichi out by your raised voice.

Tears well up in your eyes. The frustration spilling out of you is overwhelming, corroding your rationality into hysteria. The sharp edges of the discomfort Oliver has forced upon you skins you layer after layer until all that’s left is a pile of shredded sanity.

You want to go home but this is your home. So you have to leave and force yourself to act as if it is your independence fueling the choice and not cowardice.

“Fuck, I’m leaving,” you say, grabbing your keys. Yoichi’s head is wildly swinging between you and Oliver. Their words are incomprehensible in the face of the blood pounding in your head. You’ve interrupted him but you don’t care to repeat yourself, shaking off Oliver’s hand as you head to the door.

You don’t remember getting in your car nor the drive to the hotel but you do remember looking in the rearview mirror and seeing a nick on your scent gland.

By the next morning, your skin is rubbed raw from how furiously you tried to wash away any traces of Oliver.

You no longer eat dinner at home. In fact, the only times you find yourself home are during Arsenal’s training or right before bed. No matter Yoichi’s pleas, you do not budge. And miraculously, your heats begin to stabilize again.

You link it to the stress you always brushed aside when it came to Oliver. You hardly see him anymore and that alone has done wonders in settling whatever discrepancies he caused in you.

A flicker of heat begins to warm your lower belly. Yoichi is visiting some old teammates in Germany for the weekend so you have a couple of your sex toys laid out on your bed charging. You never thought there would be a day you’d be so relieved feel your regular heat symptoms again. The insatiable horniness that has afflicted you these past few cycles had you worrying for your clit’s safety.

A knock on the door has you flinging your blanket over your toys before you realize how ridiculous you are being. You ordered groceries for the weekend and they must have already arrived. The delivery guy probably already left as soon as he knocked.

You open the door. You are only able to open it enough to know it is not your groceries outside.

“Wait.” And then there is a foot jammed between the door and the frame. You have half a mind to pull the door back and slam with your notably reduced strength just to hear him squeal. Preferably, you would also injure him enough to cause him to be benched for the next four games. But you are a nice person with a gentle heart and a fear of being sued so you keep the door where it is.

“We need to talk. I know you’re mad but it’s been weeks,” he pleads, “Please.”

“Okay.”

He waits. When you don’t move to open the door wider, he says, “Can I at least do this inside?”

“No. Say what you want to say and go away.”

He’s kept a polite distance, despite his foot blocking the door, but now he peeks into the opening. He’s about to speak when his nostrils flare.

Oliver doesn’t bother to keep up his polite facade and practically rips the door off of its hinges.

You stumble backwards, alarmed at his sudden flurry of movement.

“You’re in heat.” He says it as if it’s a shock, as if it’s something you should have informed him about.

“Oliver, you have to go,” you say, rubbing your temple. An ache is festering in you and you can tell it will tip into lust soon. And you do not want Oliver to have the privilege of hearing how you fuck yourself through your heats.

However, he doesn’t leave as you ask. Rather, he shuts the door behind him softly.

“Oliver,” you warn, taking a step back. Fatigue has begun to weigh down on you as your heat begins to spread. The simmering embers start to flame out and you can feel yourself become damp.

In a horrifyingly short amount of time, he’s cleared the distance between you two. He’s got your chin tipped upwards before you can make an attempt for your room.

Oliver’s kiss is both invasive and possessive as if he owns every inch of you. It’s a graceless one, born of need for substance than anything else. But he catches you with your mouth open, the beginnings of an argument on your tongue, and he must taste it for he swallows you whole. He kisses you deeper, practically fucking your mouth with his tongue.

The drag of his tongue is potent in the same way alcohol poisoning can be considered intoxicating.

He backs you into the couch, knees braced on either side of you. Oliver pulls back just enough to let you breathe but it’s a useless effort for he slips you out of your shorts in the next moment. The brush of his fingertips against your wet cunt steals all air from your lungs.

Your fight-or-flight instincts have abandoned you. The fear that should be jellying your knees has become conspirators with your increasing lust. The low heat simmering in your stomach is stoked into a roaring fire as Oliver’s weight pins you down.

His fingers slide in slowly underneath your underwear, testing how far you’ll let him in. You take him to the last knuckle, breath punching out of you when he crooks them. He pumps his fingers in and out of you leisurely and it feels like agony. Pleasure begins to spark at the base of your spine but only the sort that brings forth nothing satisfactory. The ache in you grows worse as Oliver’s fingers fuck you with brutal precision. His rhythm is steady and slow and aggravating. Your push your hips down but all Oliver does is laugh.

“Oliver,” you whine, raising your hips now to see if that’ll spur him into action instead.

His fingers still. You keen at the loss. “Mm?” He’s looking down at you through his lashes, mouth slightly open in awe at how easily you part for him.

You don’t want to ask so you settle with a quiet, “Please.”

“Use your words, baby,” he chides playfully.

Fury roils in your gut at his sadism but it soon dissipates into your overwhelming lust. A searing heat burns within you and you press a pitiful kiss against the corner of his mouth. Everything feels so unbearably hot you can’t stand it. “Please fuck me.” Your shame is hollow when you realize the plea doesn’t taste of betrayal.

His face blanks out before a delirious grin splits his face.

“You don’t know what you need, baby,” he shushes, slipping off his pants. “That’s why you need me.”

Even in your heat-addled brain, you defy him. “I don’t.”

And for an ungodly moment, nothing exists save for the feel of Oliver’s cock against your clothed entrance. “Not before,” he concedes, catching your underwear at the sides and pulling down, “But you will.”

247 notes View Post

maboiisuga

5 months ago

GOOD AND PLENTY; K.B

witchy tip

➤ scattering basil around the house will attract money into your life

1. super tenaci

m.list

164 notes View Post

maboiisuga

3 years ago

so so so so good!!!! :,)

sweet lies [02]

His lies were way too sweet – and you were too addicted to make him stop.

cw. explicit smut, slight body worship, public sex, dirty talk, praising, toxic megumi, fwb dynamics, slight angst, body marking, sukuna bullying megumi, age gap, scratching, mentions of oral (m receiving) and mutual masturbation, the traditional unedited fic

note. choose your fighter, megumi or sukuna 😈 also UHM do you guys want me to make the ending angsty or fluffy? i wrote out two versions so LOL let me know what you think! we’ll get more of the megumi scenes on the next chapter though~

series masterlist | 01 | 02 | 03

Sukuna isn’t kidding when he said he’ll have you unable to walk by the end of this.

You’ve lost count of how many times you guys have fucked.

Keep reading

3K notes View Post

maboiisuga

1 year ago

Cardigan - John Price x F!Teacher!Reader

Part 1: It Starts In A Bar

summary: your friends take you out to a local pub when you would much rather be grading assignments. a/n: hello! big surprise, me writing for john price! I don't know how long this will be, but I definitely have a general idea of where I want this to go. I hope y'all like it!

thank you @lethalchiralium for dragging me into the clubhouse kicking and screaming LMAO

Why did they pick this place again?

Ah, right. “It’s a hometown pub, a staple to the community,” they said. That was clear from the couple dozen men and women, ranging from middle-aged to elderly, scattered about, and a few younger folks peppered into the crowd. It wasn’t run down by any means, just…a dive. You mindlessly picked at the peanuts and pretzels in little bowls, elbows perched on the edge of the sticky table, for hours. You chatted and occasionally laughed at the stories they shared about their homeroom students and the shenanigans the other grades got up to. You’d been teaching year thirteen for a while, students taking their A-levels in history.

It was supposed to be a quiet evening, spent with a stack of papers to grade, surrounded by glowing candles scattered around your apartment accompanied by soft white string lights stretched across the ceiling. Instead, your friends somehow managed to drag you out of your cozy home to a dark dive in town. You loved them dearly (really, you did), but you had a routine. Your ideal Friday night wasn’t in a damp bar.

Your kids could be challenging at times in their late teens. They occasionally cause trouble, known for getting into fights, interrupting class, or bringing drama into the classroom. Nevertheless, you’d never had a set of students that was more than you could handle. They turned their work in on time and were always nosy about your personal life, which – much to their chagrin – was uneventful. Your love life was stale, to put it nicely. And your friends tried everything in their power to set you up on dates, every single one striking out miserably. It didn’t feel natural to meet some guy at a restaurant for a blind date.

One of them talked about themselves the entire time, barely letting you get a word in. The next ordered about three more drinks than you and a meal that cost twice as much as yours but demanded you split the cost of the date. You were all for splitting the bill but on the first date? Not a good impression.

The rest were uninteresting and immemorable.

“Seriously? You haven’t been on a date since – Oh, what was his name again?”

“Zachary,” you pointed out, taking a long sip of your drink. “You should know; you set up the date.”

“I know, I know. I didn’t realize he was such a bore one-on-one.”

“Thanks for that, by the way. Loved talking to myself for two hours.”

You all laughed at the memory, starting to finish drinks and gather belongings. “Let’s get to the next spot to find you a man!”

Bar hopping was the absolute last thing you wanted to do, but you knew better than to resist. It would all be over much faster if you just went along. Your companions were much quicker on their exit, considering the nearly-full drink that you felt like you just bought, and they were already moving on to the next dig. You threw the rest of your drink back, flinching as the big gulp of alcohol burned down your throat, and hurried to catch up with them. You took one of their outstretched hands, giggling as they just about pulled you into the circle exiting the pub–

“Excuse me, miss!” a deep voice called out. You’re not sure why, but you turned, feeling like the man was calling out to you. Your assumption turned out to be correct, and a tall, dark-haired man with a beard and a soft smile approached you. “Sorry, you left this.”

He held your cardigan to you. You must have abandoned it in your haste.

“Oh! Thank you so much. That’s kind of you,” you said, taking the garment back and draping it over your forearm. “I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached,” you added, tapping your temple with a soft chuckle.

“Quite alright.” Behind you, an elbow nudged your spine; you barely caught yourself from making a face and snapping at whichever acquaintance decided to egg you on. “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but it seems you’re heading out.”

He certainly was handsome. His beard was well-groomed, just like his hair. It looked like he went to a barber fairly recently. He even dressed well, in a cream, ribbed polo tucked loosely into his jeans. Dark chest hair peeked out where the top two buttons were undone. It was an enticing offer…

“Um, yeah, but….” You looked over your shoulder and met expectant glances. Some looked like they were about to bust apart at the seams with glee, which made you roll your eyes. Clearly, you wouldn’t be missed. “I could hang for a little while longer.”

The man's smile grew, and his stance shifted to open a path toward the bar. “Are you sure? Y’don’t have to,” he amended, his hands in his pockets. His energy was warm and soft but still masculine. He held a confidence that not many people carried, at least not the men you’d been on dates with recently. And the Liverpool accent? Maybe things were starting to look up.

“No, no, I honestly need another drink.” You flashed your teeth back to him, folding your arms over your chest with your sweater in hand.

“In that case, after you.”

Before taking his arm, you realized you’d yet to even ask for his name. “Thank you…?”

“John.” John’s right hand hovered before you and he flashed his bright teeth. His hands were clean, nails neatly trimmed. Although, one nail bed was bruised.

Man, he’s pretty for a grown man.

“Y/N,” you replied with an easy grin. He kept a steady hold on your gaze, carefully examining the bright twinkle they held. You didn’t know it, but John had just returned from a long mission. One that had left him yearning for a shower, a haircut, and somebody to come home to. He’d never had anything to look forward to and stay alive for; no affection or comfort after a rough assignment, no one to care for and spoil.

And he wanted that.

“A surname to that, John?” you asked, sliding your hand through the loop he created with his elbow. Holy shit, he was strong. Your hand rested on the soft but well-built muscle of his bicep. You figured he must have a labor-intensive job, or he goes to the gym frequently. John didn’t seem like the type to spend hours at the gym in his spare time, so you went with the first option. You’d keep that in mind when making small talk later.

“John Price.”

“Very regal name.”

John scoffed but laughed nonetheless. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

John couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were unbelievably bubbly, especially for interacting with a stranger who only gave back your forgotten cardigan. He’d been watching you from his spot at the bar, laughing with your friends but zoning out every once in a while. He was no stranger to giving himself a mental break, particularly in a hectic environment like a packed bar on a cool, Friday evening.

“I’ll call you when I need a ride!”

You and John watched the giggly group exit the pub, happily waving as they piled into a cab. You waved back with your free hand, your other palm still pressed against his warm skin. They didn’t embarrass you too badly, thank god. You met John’s eyes, a dark color twinkling with mischief.

“Your friends seem chipper.”

“I’m so sorry. They’re just happy to see me talking to a man.”

“Oh? Is that right?” he chuckled, nodding to your previously held table. John broke away briefly to retrieve his unfinished drink and denim jacket from the bar.

You followed his lead back to the booth, attempting to keep control of the flush you felt beginning to heat your cheeks. “They’ve set me up on many an unfortunate date. Not saying I don’t get along fine on my own, but–”

“It’s rough out there?” he finished, sliding into the cushioned seat across from you. When you nodded in return, John smirked. “Believe me. I get it. My career makes it difficult to find time for much of anything.”

“Yeah, well, I have sixteen kids.”

The man sputtered, choking on what looked to be an old-fashioned. Possibly a bad joke, but it was such a great opportunity; you were feeling frisky, and you couldn’t help the giggles that erupted following his reaction. “I teach history for year thirteen.”

“Oh, thank Christ.” John wiped the cocktail off his lip with the back of his hand, shaking his head at your laughter. “You had me going there. Five minutes into our date, and I’ve made a mess of myself.”

You quirked a brow. “So this is a date?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, I would consider it light conversation. Getting to know each other.”

“That’s a date.”

“Mmm, I’d say it’s more casual than that.”

“I’m not looking for casual, love.”

You paused, examining his calm demeanor. He didn’t seem cocky, but honest, a welcome change to the pattern you’d observed over the last few months. None of your dates had been so bold as to know what they want and make their intentions clear. Especially not so quickly. It was refreshing.

“Me neither.”

“Good.”

You both sat in peace, pausing your conversation for the waitress. You ordered another drink, as promised, and folded your hands on the tabletop, fingers laced. “So, what do you do, John?” you asked, tapping your thumbs together.

“I’m in the military.”

You paused, expectantly waiting for him to continue, only to be met with silence.

“Care to elaborate?”

He tutted once with his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth. “I would love to, but I can’t.”

Interesting. Normally, resistance like that would be a red flag. On the other hand, his job could be “classified” or whatever is said in the movies. No alarms went off in your mind; your intuition told you that John was trustworthy, so you let it go. The pretty brunette dropped your new drink off and another for John.

“I can tell you that I’m a Captain.”

“So you have pretend kids too?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he hummed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. A slight tinge of the citrus notes from the expressed orange peel wafted across the table. John’s laugh was distinctive, chesty and rumbly, inviting. “Of course. Mine are bigger, though, I’m sure.”

“Oh? They’re not scrawny little soldiers?”

“No. One’s almost two meters tall.”

“Jesus. How many?”

“Five. Gaz, Ghost, Soap, Alex, and Farah.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait to meet them.”

“Likewise.”

You fussed with your hair for about the thousandth time in your bathroom mirror and huffed when it wouldn’t settle right. John was to meet you in about fifteen minutes. Knowing him, that meant he would be buzzing up to your apartment any second. You’d been on a few dates and knew his date habits pretty well. If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late. You had been out to dinner, grabbed coffee once or twice; you even grabbed an ice cream. So, it was a surprise when John suggested a trip to the museum. It didn’t seem like his thing, but you weren’t about to turn down a trip to the history exhibit.

As you expected, a familiar BZZT BZZT reverberated through your flat, signaling his arrival. The first time he picked you up, you let him into the building without using the intercom. You tried explaining that the speaker broke and your landlord had yet to fix it (shocker), but John wouldn’t hear it. You could have been letting in a random creep pressing buttons until some tenant unlocked the door. He insisted on creating a little system, so you would know it was him downstairs and not a kidnapper. From then on, he always rang the bell twice.

You gave up on your hair, switched the light off, and paged him in. Your unit was on the first floor (which wasn’t ideal), so it only took John a few seconds to reach your door. When you heard a knock at your door, you peered through the peephole (as promised) before unlocking the deadbolt, revealing a very well-dressed captain. John’s hair was a bit shaggy, but it suited him well. Your heart fluttered helplessly at the bright smile that appeared when he laid eyes on you, his gaze obviously taking in the sight before him.

It was a weeknight, and you didn’t have time to change between school and your usual errands. You threw a plaid skirt, thigh-high socks, and loose sweater together; just a sliver of skin showed between the top of your socks and hem of your skirt. You felt underdressed compared to John, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

“Hi,” he said, leaning to kiss your cheek. “You look lovely.”

“Same to you. You always clean up well.”

“If you saw the state I’m usually in at work – you’d understand why.”

John kept a watchful eye to make sure you turned both locks for your door before guiding you outside to a waiting taxi with a hand on the small of your back. He held the door to your building and the car open for you. The drive was short, but the weather was starting to catch a bit of a chill, and you didn’t want to walk too far.

Ever the gentleman, the captain followed closely behind you up the steps to the gallery. Even if he weren’t perceptive, with years of experience reading people, he could tell you were excited to be there; however, he wasn’t so experienced in the ‘romance’ department. John honestly couldn’t even remember the last time he visited any museum, let alone a dedicated history exhibition. But when he suggested it and assured you that he would have a good time, he was only being partially truthful. Secretly, the man just wanted an excuse to listen to you talk. What better place to bring you than an exhibit where he knew you would talk his ear off for hours?

You slowly worked your way through each exhibit, explaining some pieces you recognized and their significance to the period; at displays you weren’t familiar with, you both quietly hovered closer to the title cards, reading through the description. While that kind of date wasn’t John’s usual cup of tea, he was glad he planned it; it helped him figure out how to slow the fuck down and try to be normal outside of a military setting or a pub.

His breath nearly stuttered every time you laid a gentle hand on his arm and drew his attention to the next section, beaming as you animately but quietly pointed out the tiny details in a Renaissance painting hung on the wall. The man couldn’t help but stare at how your lips curved at every syllable, wide eyes glued on the intricate scene portrayed. John hadn’t spoken much so far aside from the occasional affirmation that he was listening; he was very much in his head, unsure if you were excited to be there with him or just excited to be there. But, standing in front of the big painting, you went quiet. You met his gaze, and his lips pulled into a lopsided grin, which you returned before you both shifted back to the artwork. It was peaceful, absorbing the atmosphere and just existing together. Suddenly, John was jolted out of his reverie by the feeling of something brushing the side of his palm.

You were itching to hold his hand all night but were too nervous to take that leap. What if he rejected you? That wasn’t likely after so many dates, but still. Your nerves got the better of you for the better half of the self-guided tour. Regardless, you had managed to work up the courage, cautiously grazing your pinky against his wrist and hand before wrapping it around his. You didn’t look away from the illustration, but he did, moving to you, then down to your hands.

He simply stared for a moment, surprised but positively giddy at the same time. Surely enough, John took your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and leaning just a bit closer to you. He could stand there forever, basking in your warmth and energy, the sound of your voice sinking into his every thought–

“Oh no,” you said, breaking the silence. You looked up at him worried, wrinkles forming between your brows. “I-I’m sorry. I was teaching again.”

He immediately gave you a reassuring squeeze, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Don’t be. I like hearing you talk.” Jesus, did he have a way with words. He liked hearing you talk? With that accent, he could spew nonsense, and it would still draw you in. But hearing John Price give you compliments and praise? Flattery? You were a goner. “Tell me more about the next one?”

As if he could get any more fucking perfect.

“Okay.”

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maboiisuga

6 months ago

sure thing – part two.

pairing: yang jungwon x f reader

genre: coworkers au, underground boxer jungwon

part two word count: 10.8k

warnings: swearing, descriptions/depictions of physical violence, blood and minor injuries, jealousy, a bit of a love triangle I'M SORRY, a kiss or five

note: aaaand here's part two! thank you to everyone that left a comment/reblog on part one. this is the conclusion to the story. suffer with me while we daydream about blonde boxer jungwon and enjoyyyyy ♡

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

An employee in the marketing department of a large company, your days are filled with poorly worded emails, unrealistic deadlines, and passive aggressive friendly reminders from your superiors. On a particularly awful afternoon, a chance encounter with a coworker from the programming department down the hall is the first thing to make you smile in weeks.

But the more you uncover about Yang Jungwon and his mysterious injuries, flimsy excuses, and always occupied Friday nights, the more you begin to realize that you really don’t know him at all.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

PART TWO

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

It’s been a while since you felt anything but dread opening your work inbox.

Monday morning, however, the first message that greets you is a reminder of a time when you did. When you used to keep your email tab open just in the hopes that a certain programmer would send you messages about a jammed printer for you to reread a dozen times.

This time, though, excitement is the last thing you feel. It’s curiosity, more than anything, combined with an urgent need to know what the hell happened between your date and your coworker, that has you clicking on the message.

From: yangj@vesselsoft.co

Subject: Printer Issue

Good morning, ___.

I hope this message finds you well. I am currently trying to resolve an ongoing issue with the workroom printer and was hoping you would be able to provide some input at your earliest convenience.

Thank you in advance,

Jungwon

Part of you wants to archive the message without responding and let him simmer in your rejection.

But spite has never held much weight against curiosity, and despite your better judgment, you soon find yourself walking towards the shared workroom.

As expected, it’s already occupied. This time, however, Jungwon is leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. The printer, just as you suspected, is in perfect working order.

There’s a fresh bruise on his forehead, and this time, you don’t wonder where it’s from. It makes sense now. The bruises on his knuckles. The cut on his cheekbone. His seemingly intimate knowledge of head injuries that one fateful Monday afternoon he found you in this very room.

They’re all the result of his hidden hobby, you suppose.

As soon as you enter, some of the rigidity seeps out of his stance. Immediately, his arms fall to his sides, expression softening. “___,” he whispers, like he can’t quite believe you actually came.

Where he softens, however, you cage up.

“You have one minute,” you tell him.

“One minute?” He echoes, brow creasing in confusion.

“One minute to explain what happened Saturday night.”

Jungwon sighs. “I’m sorry. Really, I… I shouldn’t have reacted like that.”

You don’t say anything. An apology is appreciated, yes, but it’s not an explanation.

With your silence, Jungwon continues, “I was just… caught off guard. I didn’t expect to see you there, and especially not with him.”

He pauses for a moment, biting at his lower lip. “Look, ___. I know it probably isn’t my place, but I don’t think he’s being honest with you. Jay isn’t the person that you think he is, and–”

Your scoff cuts through his words, stopping him in his tracks. “That’s funny,” you interrupt. But humor is the last thing on your mind. “He said the exact same thing about you, you know. But it has to be bullshit. I mean, what could have possibly happened in middle school that two adults with jobs are still hung up on a decade later?”

Jungwon’s lips part in surprise. “He told you about middle school?”

“Why?” you prod. “Is there something to know?”

But now you’re at a stalemate, neither of you willing to disclose what exactly you know.

After another beat, Jungwon sighs. “Look, I’m not trying to tell you what to do–”

“Could have fooled me.”

“But I just want you to be careful, okay? It’s… it’s important to me that you’re safe.”

“Safe?” You scoff. “It was a boxing gym. I don’t know why you’re acting like I was trying to push my way into the ring with you.”

“You don’t get it–”

“No.” You throw your hands in exasperation. “I don’t get it. But you’re not explaining it to me. You’re just being evasive and acting like I’m the one in the wrong. So unless you actually have something of substance to say, I’m done having this conversation.”

“____…”

Already halfway to the exit, the sound of your name is lost on you. It’s bad enough that Jay has yet to reach out to you since last night. You absolutely do not need Jungwon bringing this issue into the office as well.

As if on cue, your phone dings with an incoming message.

Half expecting to see a virtual string of apologies from your coworker, you’re mildly surprised to see a different name instead.

You were right about the apologies, though.

Jay: I’m sorry about last night. You were right about deserving an explanation and I want to give you one. I think this is a conversation we should have in person. Are you free Friday night for dinner?

Friday night. Two nights from now. It’s soon enough that you won’t have to stew in resentment, but will give you both the time and space you need to think.

It doesn’t take you long to consider, but you do wait another long minute before giving him the satisfaction of responding.

You: I’ll plan on Friday.

…..

Friday morning comes with a vengeance.

Already teeming with nervous energy at the prospect of your upcoming date with Jay and the conversation that is sure to ensue, you’re a bit of a mess by the time you arrive at work.

Hair windswept, outfit mismatched, lipstick slightly smudged, you already know you’re in for a long day at the office.

But when you arrive at your desk, you find something that softens the blow, just a bit.

Grace, ever the instigator, is already learning over your cubicle by the time you notice it.

“Whew,” she whistles appreciatively. “Someone’s pulling out all the stops.”

And she’s kind of right. The bouquet sitting front and center on your desk is massive. Overflowing with seasonal flowers that already emit a pleasant fragrance even from where you stand. The vase itself it’s gorgeous, too.

Imbued with a myriad of colors, it reminds you a bit of a stained glass window on a sunny afternoon.

Reaching for the small note tucked at the top, you open the envelope with slightly shaky fingers.

___, it reads.

I wish I had more to give you than an apology, but I’ve been told that flowers are a sure thing when it comes to brightening someone’s day. I hope these are able to do that for you.

– J

Frowning, you read it once. Twice.

Jay has already apologized for the incident from a couple of nights ago, and the timing of this second apology seems odd, given your plans for tonight.

You’re left to stand in your own confusion for a moment longer before a text message vibrates your phone in your pocket.

Reaching for it, the flowers suddenly start to make a lot more sense.

Jay: I am so sorry, but I have to reschedule our plans for tonight. It completely slipped my mind, but my sister’s baby shower is tomorrow morning, and I’ve been voluntold to help set it up. I promise to let you know as soon as I can when I’ll be available

Jay: And again, I am so, so sorry

Sighing, you put your phone back in your bag. You can’t blame him. Not really. His sister’s baby shower is undoubtedly an important event, even if the timing is rather unfortunate for you.

Grace, blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil, is still gushing about your flowers. Turning to you, she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. “So, what are those for? Got a hot date this weekend?”

You sigh, recently canceled plans still dampening your mood. Deciding there’s no harm in telling Grace your woes, you say, “I wish. Jay just had to cancel on me for tonight.”

“No.” Grace gasps. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think she was personally affronted. “He better have had a good excuse.”

“He did,” you admit. Unlike someone you know. “Family stuff.”

“Ah,” Grace nods. “I suppose that’s acceptable. Have you rescheduled?”

Frowning at the message you have yet to answer, you shake your head. “Not yet.”

“Mm,” she hums, sensing your disappointment. “I’m sure something just came up at work, and he’ll get back to you soon.”

“Yeah,” you nod hollowly. “I’m sure he will.”

You: I understand. Is there any chance we could meet Saturday evening or afternoon? It’s important to me that we talk about it soon.

It’s not as if you expect an immediate response. Like you, Jay is probably at work for the day. Busy and drowning in deadlines and assignments. Maybe even stuck in a meeting.

But thirty minutes pass. And then an hour. Two.

And your message is still completely unanswered.

The more time that passes, the harder it becomes to shake the funny feeling that starts to build in your gut. It builds and builds and builds, all the way until closing time.

And Jay still hasn’t texted you back.

That’s annoying enough all on its own, but there’s something else that just isn’t adding up.

You can’t quite put your finger on it, the thing that’s bothering you so much. But even as you make your way towards after clocking out for the day, something still doesn’t sit right with you. Opening your message thread again, you reread Jay’s last text.

Jay: … my sister’s baby shower is tomorrow morning, and I’ve been voluntold to help set it up.

Sister’s baby shower.

That’s what’s been bothering you. Because unless Jay’s sister is just finishing the shortest known pregnancy in human history, he’s lying to you.

You remember it now. The first time Grace mentioned Jay to you. She had just seen him for the first time since he moved back home.

At his older sister’s baby shower.

Sitting in your car, you scoff out loud in disbelief. The ice he treads on has been dangerously thin since your run in with Jungwon at the boxing gym, and he had the audacity to lie?

Part of you wants to catch him in it. For your own confirmation and for the satisfaction of not letting him get away with trying to pull a fast one on you. But you need an excuse. Some reason to seek him out and find him where he isn’t supposed to be.

Racking your brain, you try to think of a plausible explanation for turning up at his house tonight.

Still sitting in the parking lot, a car turns past you, headlights shining in through your windshield in a way that makes you squint.

In a way that reflects off of the tiny piece of metal jammed in the crevice next to your cupholder. Frowning, you reach down, tugging at it until it’s freed from its confines.

You’re not sure what divine forces are working in your favor, but you make a mental note to properly thank them later. Because clutched between your fingers is Jay’s missing ring. The one that he’s been looking for since he messaged you about it last week.

It’s perfect, you think. An absolutely perfect excuse to drop by his house, even if you should be under the impression that he’s not there at the moment.

Turning the piece of jewelry between your fingers, your eyes catch on an inscription on the inner band. Squinting, you can just make it out.

2013.11.13 King Pen

You’re pretty sure the numbers are a date. November 13, 2013, to be exact. But King Pen. You have no idea what that is.

It sounds like it could be related to boxing, maybe. Pulling out your phone, you do a quick online search.

The results that flood your screen are mostly generic, nothing that gives you any real leads. You try a few different search combinations, including the date and finally, the name of your city.

That does send an old article to the top of your search results. Something published in a local newspaper in 2007.

Clicking on the link, you scan the article for anything relevant.

Samuel Kang, one line towards the beginning reads, shared his plans to open a boxing gym right here in the city. Although there are other similar gyms in nearby towns, this would be the first gymnasium dedicated solely to boxing in the area.

You skip down a few more lines.

When asked if he knows what he’d like to call his project, Kang just smiles and nods his head. “King Pen,” he tells us. “I plan to call it King Pen.”

You frown. Your earlier search is proof enough that King Pen never came to fruition. As a final attempt at getting some answers, you type Samuel Kang into the search bar instead.

This time, the first article that pops up does carry an air of familiarity. Clicking on it, you confirm your suspicion.

Samuel Kang, as it turns out, never opened a boxing gym called King Pen. But he did open one called Kang’s Gym.

Looking through the photo gallery, the weightlifting equipment appears to have been in much better shape in 2008 than it was a couple of weeks ago. But even though the paint was still bright and the training pads were fully intact, it is undoubtedly the same exact gym.

There’s no reason for you to go there now. If anything, you should just drive straight to Jay’s house. But something still doesn't sit right with you.

Why does Jay’s ring say King Pen instead of Kang’s Gym? Especially since it’s dated five whole years after the gym opened under its actual name.

Besides, the gym is on your way to Jay’s apartment. If anything, it’s just a quick pit stop. A confirmation that you’re not going crazy.

Putting your car in drive, you set the ring on your passenger seat and drive out of the parking lot.

It’s already dark by the time you’re pulling into Kang’s Gym. Switching your car off, you remove your key from the ignition.

Your automatic headlights still illuminate the strangely full parking lot in front of you. Frowning, you wonder why so many people are here. Even the night that you came with Jay, the parking lot wasn’t nearly this full, and yet, most of the boxing rings inside were occupied.

Stepping out of your car, you close the door behind you softly. You’re not sure why you’re overcome with the urge to tiptoe. It’s not like you need to sneak around. You’re not doing anything wrong, after all.

But the whole thing feels strange, has you on edge. You make it only a few steps before your eyes land on a familiar car.

“Sister’s baby shower, my ass,” you whisper out loud to no one. Unless she decided to celebrate her new child at a run down boxing gym, Jay is absolutely lying to you. Because that’s his sleek black car, right in front of you. You’d recognize it anywhere.

And a few rows down, you confirm your other suspicion. You’ve never seen him drive it, but you have seen that particular navy blue SUV in the office parking garage before. Jungwon. You’re sure it’s him.

For a moment, you hesitate. It might be easier, cleaner, to just take a picture of Jay’s car and send it to him. After all, that would get your point across clearly enough. Especially if you block him afterwards.

But he’s been evasive about everything related to this place since he first brought you here. And he’s not the only one.

Eyes falling to Jungwon’s car, you decide that catching Jay in a lie isn’t the only thing you want to do tonight.

You want answers.

So the picture you take of Jay’s car remains unsent for now. Instead, you hike your bag a little further up your shoulder and continue walking in the direction of the gym.

Nearing the door, you brace yourself to be met with the large crowd that surely waits inside. Judging from the parking lot, this place must be near full capacity. But as you push through the unlocked door, the gym is completely and entirely empty.

Eerily so.

All around you, workout equipment and boxing rings sit untouched, devoid of life. There isn’t so much as a sound to disturb the uncanny silence.

Frowning, your brow creases in deep confusion. Nothing about this makes any sense.

But you didn’t come all the way here to add to your pile of questions. Instead, you push forward, past the rows of boxing rings towards the locker room where Jay left his bag a handful of nights ago.

It feels wrong to open the men’s locker room. But if no one is here, then surely it couldn’t hurt. Warily, you start to crack open the door, inch by inch.

The locker room, to your unending puzzlement, is just as empty as the rest of the gym.

You’re about to turn back to search the rest of the gym when you notice it. Just across from you, behind the first set of empty lockers. There’s another door.

It’s probably nothing, you tell yourself, even as your feet carry you closer and closer. It probably just leads to a storage closet or a boiler room or–

Pushing the door open, the first thing you’re met with is sound.

Voices. Loud voices. Lots and lots of them. In your surprise, you drop the door, and it clicks shut again.

Immediately, the sound stops. Plunged in silence again, it’s all you can do to not gasp.

Soundproof, you realize. It’s soundproof. And not just the locker room. The entire gym was dead silent until you opened this door.

This time, when you push it open, you expect the cacophonous cheers that greet you. You’re still too far away to make out what anyone is saying. Right now, it all blends into a wall of sound.

Vision is of little help, too. The only thing you see when you open the door is a staircase. In the low light, all you can tell is that it leads down.

Hoping that you’re not currently making the stupidest decision of your life, you place one tentative foot on the first step. Follow it with your other foot. And then you let the door close behind you, plunging you into complete darkness.

Immediately, a surge of panic claws at your throat. The lack of light, combined with the sheer volume of cheers and shouts, is enough to have you crawling in your skin.

Reaching blindly for the door handle behind you, you decide that sending Jay a picture of his car will have to be satisfying enough. But no matter how hard you try to twist the doorknob, it won’t budge.

No. No.

You’re trapped. Effectively locked in.

As the reality of the situation sinks in, you feel the pit of your stomach begin to drop.

Part of you wants to just stay in place, wait for whatever’s going on to end and hope that a stroke of luck will set you free. But then another thought occurs to you.

What if this is the only entrance?

You don’t know how many people are down there, but if the sound and parking lot are anything to go by, it’s a lot.

You’re sure that Jay and Jungwon are among them, but still…

Both of their warnings start to come back to you.

“He’s not who you think he is…”

“I just want you to be careful…”

“It’s important to me that you’re safe…”

Is this what they were talking about? Is this why Jungwon was so angry with Jay for bringing you here? Not because he didn’t want you to see a boxing gym, but because that’s not what this place is at all?

The more you mull it over, the more it starts to make sense.

Still submerged in darkness, you decide that the only way you’ll confirm anything is by moving forward. Slowly, you reach for your phone, turning the flashlight on its lowest setting.

Keeping it clutched in your hands in case you need to shut it off at a moment’s notice, you begin to walk, descending down the staircase.

After two flights on uneven steps, you start to see a light in the distance, a clue that you’re getting closer. And with every step you take, the voices only get louder and louder.

On the third landing, you’re given two choices: continue down the stairs or move into a hallway that stretches to your left. Deciding that staying as far away from the crowd as you can is likely your best option, you opt for the hallway.

You’ve barely walked a few feet when you nearly stumble into a wall. It’s not the end though – just a corner. The light from your phone confirms that the hallway takes a sharp turn.

Following it, you come to another door. This time, you’re even more hesitant. There could be people on the other side.

Pressing your ear against it, the only thing you hear is the same scrambled shouting, the same boisterous crowd. It’s hard to tell for certain, but you don’t hear anything that makes you think there’s someone waiting on the other side.

Slowly, carefully, you begin to open the door.

The sudden light is nearly blinding. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust, but once they do, your mouth drops open.

You were right, thankfully. The small room you enter is mercifully empty.

But it’s also lined with windows that give you a direct view into the room one level beneath you. Jaw dropping, you take in the scene below.

There must be at least five hundred people crammed into the stands that encircle the room. All of them are on their feet, shouting jeers and cheering with equal fervor.

And in the center of it all is a boxing ring. On the side that faces you, bold letters give it a name:

King Pen.

It’s empty for now, but you’re only left wondering for another handful of seconds before a middle aged man steps into the center, microphone in hand. With an open palm, he gestures towards the crowd, commanding them to listen.

Whoever he is, he holds weight here. With the flick of his hand, literally, the room all but falls silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says into the microphone. “Next up is the fight we’ve all been waiting for.”

He pauses for a moment as more cheers and shouts fill the room.

“I hope your bets are placed, because these two always manage to surprise us. Please welcome our first challenger to the ring. Back to the city for the first time in years, it’s Jaan!”

But it’s not Jaan. Or at least, it’s not someone you know as Jaan.

No, it’s Jay. The same Jay that took you to an art exhibition and convinced you to try sweet coffee instead of your usual bitter black. The same Jay that flirts with you over text and whispers sweet nothings in your ear after a long day of work.

The same Jay that lied to you about why he had to cancel your date tonight.

The crowd has barely died down when the man presses on, “And your second challenger, the reigning champion… Please give your warmest welcome for Jakah!”

The alias booms around you, echoing through the room. And of course it’s him. Of course Jakah, the reigning champion, is someone you used to think would have trouble hurting a fly.

Someone you thought embodied gentleness, patience, with every ounce of his being.

But no matter how badly you want to deny it, no matter how much the cognitive dissonance wars inside your brain, it’s him.

It’s Jungwon who enters from the other side of the ring.

“Now, remember,” the man addresses the audience again. “Cheer for your favorite. Scream at his opponent. And don’t forget our golden rule: in the King’s Pen,” he begins.

“Anything goes,” the audience shouts back in unison.

Anything? Your heart falls from your throat to the pit of your stomach. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Jay is here, that he lied to you, that he’s fighting Jungwon.

Taking a closer look at the ring beneath you, you notice the odd, rust colored stains that nearly cover it.

Blood, you realize after a sickening moment. The ring is covered in blood stains.

It makes sense, suddenly, why King Pen didn’t appear in any search results. Why this entire place is completely soundproofed. Why Jungwon wanted you to stay far, far away.

This isn’t a sparring match. It’s a duel.

One where, like the audience just affirmed, anything goes.

As the man steps out from the center of the ring, Jay and Jungwon start to circle each other, fists raised in anticipation.

Even from a distance, you can see the tight coil of muscle in their shoulders, the way their bodies prepare for the inevitable fight.

“Say it with me now, folks,” the man booms, now standing on the side of the ring.

“Three.” Jay’s eyes narrow, fists rising an inch higher.

“Two.” Jungwon flicks a stray strand of hair out of his eyes.

“One.” You feel your last bit of breath whoosh out from your lungs.

“Fight.”

It’s like a dance, you think. A sickening, deadly dance that you can’t look away from no matter how much you want to.

Despite your lack of knowledge, it quickly becomes apparent to you why this is the main event of the evening.

Where Jay is sheer, brutal strength, Jungwon is all evasion. He moves with the agility of an athlete, the lightness of a dancer.

He makes it look easy, the way he ducks beneath carefully timed swings and always seems to predict what Jay will do next.

But even dancers stumble sometimes.

You can’t help it, the gasp that slips out when one of Jay’s punches lands true. You watch, horrified, as Jungwon staggers backwards, adding to the crimson stains on the floor of the ring.

Slightly dazed, he brings the back of his palm to the broken skin along his cheekbone, assessing the damage. When he brings it in front of his face, it comes back red.

Jay takes no pity on his opponent. Following his retreat, he aims for another bruising blow. This one hits Jungwon just beneath the ribs. Echoes around the makeshift stadium with a dull thud you hear even from your hiding place.

Again, Jungwon’s sure steps falter.

The rise and fall of his chest is rapid as he struggles to catch his breath. But when he looks up again, there’s a fire in his eyes. Pure, unadulterated hatred that permeates the scant distance between him and his rival and sends a shiver down the length of your spine.

Not one to take things lying down, Jungwon takes advantage of Jay’s momentary lapse in focus.

His fist connects with the bridge of Jay’s nose with a sickening crunch. Head falling backward, the immediate flow of blood is gruesome. It drip down his chin, landing on the floor beneath him in an arrhythmic pattern.

There’s little grace to it now. Gone are the remaining fragments of inhibition as both boys put away their judgment and leave the rest to instinct.

It’s messy, sloppy, angry.

They’re so close; it’s hard to tell which blows come from who. Hard to tell whose wounds are multiplying faster, whose blood is falling more freely.

And then, just when you think you can’t stomach watching any longer, it’s done.

It’s so fast. You can’t quite be sure how it happens. But one second, both boys are standing, and the next, Jay is flat on his back, Jungwon hovering above him.

Still, the crowd is silent. Everyone’s eyes are on the ring.

Jay is down. Trapped beneath his opponent, it’s clear to you who the victory is. But then you remember the words the crowd chanted at the beginning of the fight.

Anything goes.

Your stomach twists with nausea.

Even from here, you can see the tension that still strains the muscles along Jungwon’s back. The rigidity of his shoulders.

For a moment, you think he’s going to do it. To strike again, even though victory is already in his hands.

You see his lips move with words you can’t hear. Beneath him, Jay remains stoic. There’s still fight in his eyes, even if it’s been drained from his body.

Jungwon’s mouth moves again.

This time, Jay nods. It’s a tiny movement, barely perceptible. But it’s enough.

With an agitated flair, Jungwon stands again.

Blood is still dripping from his face, his knuckles. Sweat covers his body, drenches his hair.

He’s won, yes, but the expression on his features is not one of satisfaction.

ARound him, the audience begins to boo, throwing jeers and insults like extra change. They were hoping for more than a fight. They were hoping for cruelty Jungwon isn’t willing to give.

Without a second glance back, he turns and leaves the ring.

Still reeling, you nearly jump out of your skin when the handle on the door to your room begins to turn.

If you had a stronger grip on your sense of logic, you would do something. Try to hide. Scramble to think of an excuse for your presence.

The door opens before you do any of it.

“Oh,” Heeseung says, eyes widening as he finds the room already occupied. And then it registers with him who exactly is already occupying said room. “Oh,” he repeats. “He is not going to be happy about this.”

…..

Heeseung’s fist rings out against the door in three sharp raps. For a moment, silence is the only response. And then–

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Uh,” Heeseung glances at you sideways. “I think you should open the door anyway.”

“I’m serious.” Jungwon’s voice is pure ire. “I’m not doing this with you right now, Heeseung.”

“Okay,” Heeseung concedes. “But I really still think you should open the–”

“What?”

Jungwon’s glare lands on his friend before his gaze slides to you. Immediately, his features slacken in surprise. “Oh.”

And it’s stupid, foolish, naive. But the first thing you feel when you see him standing on his own two feet is pure, unadulterated relief.

He’s injured. It’s obvious from the wounds that line his face and the way his breath is still shallow in his chest. But he’s okay.

He’s here and he’s in front of you and he’s okay.

“Yeah,” Heeseung repeats. “Like I said, I think you should–”

“Go away.”

“What?” Heeseung balks. “Where am I supposed to–”

“Away,” Jungwon reiterates, eyes still locked on you.

Heeseung is sulking, but he follows Jungwon’s command regardless. And then it’s just the two of you.

You both speak at the same time, near identical questions overlapping with one another.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Why are you here?”

A beat of silence passes. Another.

As if he is suddenly remembering your surroundings, Jungwon looks around you, a new urgency in his gaze. You don’t know what kind of consequences places like this carry, but common sense tells you it’s best that you’re not seen. “Come in,” he opens the door a bit wider, giving you space to enter.

You shouldn’t. He hasn’t lied to you, not exactly, but it’s not like he’s been particularly honest either.

And coworkers don’t owe you the truth or the nitty gritty details of their lives, but it’s been a long time since Jungwon and you treated one another like coworkers. No matter what you want to call it, the relationship that you’ve built between conversations in the workroom and email threads and kind gestures in the office feels a lot more like friendship. Or at the very least some iteration of it.

So you’re not mad at him for keeping this from you, not really.

But other emotions are swirling in your gut, and you don’t know what to do with them. Most of all, you’re worried. For his safety. For his wellbeing. For him.

Obeying his command, you step inside the small room. You hear the door click shut behind you.

Looking around, there isn’t much to see. It’s a locker room, essentially, designed for one person. There’s a counter to your left with a small first aid kit and a chair in the far corner of the room.

A gym bag, Jungwon’s you assume, rests next to it.

And, of course, there’s the two of you.

Glancing up, you take a look at him. A long, real look.

He’s wearing the same clothes he entered the ring with. A white athletic shirt that moves with him, gives his long, lean muscles space to move. To flex and contract with every shallow breath.

He’s still just as gorgeous as always, even with a split lip and a nasty cut that spans the length of his temple. Even with the bruising that’s already begun to discolor his near flawless skin.

Sighing, you nod towards the chair behind him. “Sit down.”

“What?” Confusion draws his brow downward, and he hisses in pain at the movement.

“Don’t tell me your illegal fights have ruined your hearing too.”

“What? No.” Jungwon shakes his head. “My hearing is perfectly fine, I mean.”

“Then sit.” You glance pointedly at the chair again. “Down.”

This time, he doesn’t try to argue. You watch from your periphery, frowning at the slight limp in his left leg as he walks toward the chair, easing himself down.

Reaching for the first aid kit on the counter, you bring it with you as you move across the room.

Your steps are slow and even. They carry you all the way to the far corner, until you’re forced to stop.

Standing above Jungwon, your lips pull into a tight line as you begin to assess his injuries. Hesitation might be wise, but you can’t find any of it left in you.

Your movements are sure, gentle but firm. Hands sliding to his jaw, you adjust his face slightly, turning the gash on his temple towards the light. It’s an echo of the way he examined you in the workroom, long weeks ago.

This time, it’s him that’s easily manipulable underneath your touch.

“What are you doing?” He whispers.

Your hesitation is gone, but so is your patience. “Don’t talk.” Jungwon’s lips fall shut. He’s pliant in your hands as you adjust him.

Reaching for the kit, the first thing you pull out is antiseptic cream.

“This might sting,” you whisper.

“It’s okay,” he assures you. But he hisses at the contact all the same. “Doesn’t even hurt,” he lies through gritted teeth, forcing a smile.

If he’s trying to be funny, his attempt at humor is lost on you.

Gaze still narrowed in concentration, you busy yourself by cleaning the worst of his wounds first.

As you move from his forehead to his lip, you don’t think you imagine the sharp inhale he draws between parted lips.

“It stings?” You ask him.

“Just a bit.” You feel the ghost of his whisper against your fingertips.

You look up for a moment, and you find his gaze already locked on yours. It takes a significant portion of your willpower to stop yourself from reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes.

It feels wrong, even if you call it friendship. Even if you and Jay never discussed exclusivity.

Your heart is fluttering, and that’s what makes it all seem so illicit.

With no small amount of effort, you force your eyes down again. Standing above him, your fingers move from his face to his hands. His wrist clasped in your fingers, you sink to your knees in front of him.

Jungwon swallows audibly.

Pulling his hand closer, you examine the series of shallow cuts, of angry, violet bruises that line his knuckles. With another long sigh, you reach for the cream again, applying it generously before carefully wrapping it in a bandage.

After giving the same attention to the other hand, you lean back, assessing your handiwork.

For a moment, neither of you moves. You’re still kneeling in front of him. He still sits above you.

And then, after a breath of hesitation, one carefully wrapped hand finds its way to your face.

Gently, with a touch so light you hardly feel it, he lays his open palm against the expanse of your cheek. Cradles it.

He whispers your name, and you can’t find it in you to look up.

“I don’t…” you trail off, not sure how to communicate the swirling mix of emotions simmering just beneath the surface. “I don’t want to be mad at you.”

“But you are,” Jungwon assumes. He accepts it, and he doesn’t let it change anything. His hand is steady against your cheek. His thumb starts to draw small circles, just under your earlobe.

“I’m not,” you correct. “But this isn’t…” again your words die. It’s frustrating, the way you feel like you can never be straightforward with him. The way you always feel like you have to navigate through subtext and half truths and partial reveals just to get a point across.

“But you don’t owe me anything right now.”

His thumb stills against your skin.

“We’re coworkers,” you continue. “We’re just coworkers, so it doesn’t matter if you fight in illegal boxing matches. You don’t have to worry about what I think of it, and I don’t have to be mad at you for it.”

You do look up at him, begging for a bit of his understanding. “You can be evasive with your excuses and reject all of my invitations. We can meet by chance in the workroom on Monday afternoons, and none of it ever has to mean anything. Neither of us ever has to feel anything about it.”

“But,” Jungwon whispers.

“Yeah,” you nod. Your cheek slides easily against the soft skin of his bruised hand. “But.”

Jungwon is silent for a moment, eyes darting between both of yours. Then, tentatively, he asks, “Are you mad at him?”

He doesn’t say Jay’s name, but the venom he wraps around the word is all you need to know who he’s talking about.

You shake your head, eyelids fluttering. “We’re coworkers.” You reiterate the boundaries he’s always maintained with you. “You don’t get to ask me that.”

Jungwon’s hand slides to your neck, thumb tracing the length of your jaw now. “And if I want to?”

You shake your head again. You can only give him so much on a silver platter. If he wants anything to change, he’ll have to find a bit of his own bravery. “That’s not the question you need to ask me.” Looking up at him, you draw another line. “And not tonight.”

You’ve both been through enough. Heightened emotions rarely lead to good decisions, and the last thing you want is his indecisiveness. His impulsivity.

Quietly, you stand, his hand falling from your face as you rise to full height in front of him.

His eyes look wider from this angle, from above. Even shinier than usual. No matter how many boundaries you draw or how many ways you deny him, he’s someone that’s hard to say no to. Hard to walk away from.

Steeling the last remnants of your resolve, you manage to look him in those dark, sparkling eyes when you tell him, “Good night, Jungwon.”

“Good night, ___,” he whispers to your retreating silhouette.

Closing the door behind you, you barely have a moment to catch your breath before a voice interrupts your wandering thoughts.

“You like him, don’t you?”

The gasp you give is out of shock more than anything. And the “What?” you ask is a knee jerk reaction.

“Yang.” Jay materializes from his position in the darkness, jerking his chin towards the door behind you. “You like him.”

Immediately, you find yourself on the defense. Even if you’re just delaying the inevitable, it’s cagey when you tell him. “We work together.”

Jay just looks at you. “My favorite color is green.”

“What?”

“Sorry,” Jay’s tone is flat. He’s not annoyed, but he’s coming close to it. “I thought we were stating irrelevant facts.”

With a sigh, he drags an open palm down his face. “I know you work together. But you like him, too," he sighs again, reading the horror in your expression. Mostly due to the fact that he read you like an open book when you thought you were keeping your feelings close to the chest. “I’m not… mad. It sucks, but it’s not like I was honest with you either. I’m sorry, by the way, for lying about tonight.”

It’s too much to process, all at once. Your head is swimming and your heart is pounding.

It was a shitty thing to do, yes, but–

“You don’t have to say sorry–”

Again, Jay doesn’t let you finish. “I’m not saying sorry because I have to. I’m saying it because I am. I like you.” He’s so honest. So blunt with his feelings. He makes things so easy. “I like spending time with you. I think we both know that’s not enough anymore,” he casts another meaningful glance at the door behind him. The one that leads to Jungwon’s locker room, “but it’s still true.”

“I…” you trail off, unsure what to say. He’s not wrong. In fact, he’s all but hit the nail right on the head. With deadly accuracy.

Heeseung was the one that found you, that brought you to Jungwon, but still.

It’s not Jay that you checked in on fist. It’s not Jay whose wounds you just cleaned. It’s not Jay who you’re thinking about now.

Like he said, it sucks, but it’s still true.

Jay has bruises, too. Has cuts that line his knuckles and his jaw. He’s here because he’s part of an illegal underground boxing ring. He lied to you about it.

But you just… you’re not mad at him about it. And that’s the final nail in the coffin.

Jay just looks at you for a moment longer. For the third time, he sighs. “You’re really gonna make me do this part too?” He inhales, steeling his resolve. “Okay, then. ___, I think we should–”

“I think we should stop seeing each other,” you finish for him. You can give him at least that much. “I had a great time getting to know you, but I think we want different things right now. I wish you all the best. Really, you’re a great guy, Jay.”

He is.

“I mean it.”

You do.

“Thank you, ___.”

He means it too.

When Jay walks away from you, his shoulders are straight and his head is high.

You feel a lot of things, as you watch his retreating figure.

But no matter how deep you search, regret isn’t one of them.

…..

Monday morning brings with it a distinct sort of dread.

Partly because it marks the beginning of another long week. Mostly because going back to the office means potentially seeing him.

If you’re honest with yourself, you’re not sure if you’re ready for that. If you’re ready to face the feelings you’ve been forcing down for months and the potential fallout they may bring with them.

So, when you open your inbox first thing in the morning, an unreasonable request from your supervisor isn’t the thing you’re most afraid of finding.

Jungwon, however, isn’t planning to stick to old routines. When he seeks you out, he does it in person.

Grace’s eyes are anywhere but on her own work when he walks through the door of the marketing department half past ten.

“___,” he breathes.

The wounds on his face are already fading, hardly even noticeable. You wish you could say the same for the turmoil raging inside of you. You can’t decide if you want to throw your arms around his neck or tell him to fuck off.

In the end, you just look at him blankly.

“Can we…” he trails off, visibly frustrated. He isn’t sure how to do this either. “Can you help me with something? In the workroom. I think the printer is acting up again.”

The printer is fine. You used it five minutes ago.

But he’s not asking you to help him with work or the printer or anything else. He’s asking for a bit of your time, a fraction of your understanding.

It’s messy. It has so much potential for heartbreak, for complication.

But he’s here and he’s looking at you like your answer means the world to him. Like he might forget how to breathe if you don’t say yes.

So, with a rising bout of uncertainty, you tell him, “Let’s go take a look at it.”

The printer, just as you suspected, is in perfect working order. Jungwon doesn’t even spare it a second look.

Instead, he closes the door to the workroom behind you. And then he says, “I started boxing when I was a kid. I think I was eight, nine maybe.”

“What are you–”

“Just listen,” Jungwon begs. “Please.”

You want to protest. You’re not sure why, but the urge is strong. But after a moment of warring with yourself, you finally nod, giving him permission to continue.

“It was just a hobby. Something to keep me busy on long afternoons when both of my parents were working in the restaurant my family owned. But I kept at it, and they could see how much I enjoyed it. By the time I was ten, my mom enrolled me in actual classes.”

Jungwon smiles, reminiscing on the tidbits of a happy childhood. But then his smile starts to falter. “A few months later, my grandpa died. It wasn’t a surprise exactly, but it did have some unexpected consequences on the business. My family started to struggle. With money, more than anything.”

He sighs, and your heart hurts for a past version of him, too young to make sense of all of the sudden changes in his life. “I had to quit taking lessons. I kept practicing on my own, though. And when I started middle school, there was a free boxing club I joined. I met a lot of my friends there. Heeseung, who you met the other night, along with a few others. I also met Jay.”

Jungwon’s lips pull into a line. “I didn’t hate him. Not exactly. He was nice enough, and we had a lot in common. But he had everything that I wanted. Money, mostly. His family never had to worry about it. He could take private lessons and always had all the nicest gear. He didn’t flaunt it, but I noticed. And I envied him for it.”

Looking back at you, he continues, “Heeseung was the one that found the King Pen. He was like me, in a way. His family didn’t come from money. We were young, too young, but we were good. We made them money, so they let us fight. Jay found out and wanted in too. It didn’t matter that he didn’t need the prize money. He just wanted to prove that he was better than us. That he was the best. It was me and him in my very first championship fight. He won, and I hated him for it.”

The ring, you realize. Jay’s ring that he dropped in your car. It was a championship ring.

Jungwon looks down at his hands. The bandages that you put there. “He moved away once high school started. We didn’t keep in direct contact or anything, but I always heard about him. Jay and his international boxing titles. Jay and his new sponsorship deal with a major boxing gym. It just added fuel to the fire that was already there. Made me resent him more, even if it wasn’t his fault.”

No matter how you spin it, you can’t imagine any of that was easy to deal with. Especially as a teenager.

“With him gone, though, I started to make real money fighting. Good money. I lied to my parents and told them I got a part time job. Moving cargo so that they wouldn’t be too suspicious when I came home with bruises.”

Jungwon flexes his fingers. “Boxing became my saving grace. I could give a good chunk of my earnings to my family, and the rest of it, I saved. It put me through university. Let me earn my programming degree.”

You understand him a bit more, then. Why he never seemed annoyed by his job. Why even things like jammed printers never seemed to get to him. He’s thankful for where he is. Has nothing but gratitude for his job when he earned it with years of his own blood, sweat, and tears.

“I have a steady income now, but it’s just… hard, I guess. To let that part of me go. And if I’m honest, part of me has always been afraid too. I mean, my parents had a steady income until they didn’t, you know? I like knowing that even if something happens here, I’ll still be able to support myself. And them.”

It makes sense. It does.

“And then Jay came back.” Jungwon scoffs. “He’d barely been in town for a full twenty-four hours when he showed up at Kang’s with all of his fancy gear and asked to be added to the roster for the next round of fights. And then he showed up there with you and I… I thought I was actually going to lose it.”

Even now, Jungwon’s shoulders are visibly tense. “The actual gym is usually fine, safe for outsiders, but still. He shouldn’t have risked your safety like that. He should have known better. And I…” Jungwon trails off again.

You don’t think you’re imagining the slight tinge of pink that starts to color his cheekbones.

“I was already having a bad enough time with the fact that you were seeing someone. When it turned out to be him, I just… Well, you know.”

Jungwon takes a deep breath in, releases a long exhale.

“I don’t like making bets, and I don’t like situations I can’t predict. Things I don’t have control over. I guess that’s part of the reason why I always liked boxing so much. In the ring, I feel like I have a say in what happens. That even if I lose, it’s because I didn’t move fast enough. I didn’t think quick enough. Things I have control over. Things I can get better at.”

Jungwon looks at you. “I hate guessing. I hate having to wonder. I like sure things.”

His chest is rising and falling a little faster now. Your breath is just as shallow.

“What are you saying?” you ask him.

“I’m saying that I don’t just want to be coworkers with you. I want you to be mad at me for fighting in illegal underground boxing matches.” Jungwon’s gaze is imploring, pleading for your understanding as his eyes search yours. “I want you to call me when the printer jams and when you have a hard day and when you want someone to go to a stupid work event with you on a Friday night.”

He takes a step closer to you, and you feel your spine press against the door of the workroom.

“I want you to be a sure thing,” he breathes, “even if everything about you – the way I feel about you, the thoughts I have about you, the things I want to do to you – have always felt out of my control.”

“Oh.” Your voice is small. Your mouth is dry. Caged in against the door, words are suddenly a hard thing to come by.

“Oh,” Jungwon echoes. “Is that a yes?”

He’s even closer now. Nose brushing against yours, he interlaces the fingers of his less injured hand with yours, reaching up until your hands are intertwined above your head.

“No,” you shake your head.

“Mm,” Jungwon hums, and you feel the vibration travel the length of your spine, settling somewhere deep, just beneath your navel. His lips brush against the corner of your mouth when he asks, “It’s a no, then?”

Again, you shake your head. Trapped in his embrace, the movement is tiny, restricted. Sends goosebumps scattering across your skin everywhere the two of you are touching.

“An oh is just an oh,” you tell him. “This is a yes.”

There isn’t any distance to close. Just pressure to add. He accepts it willingly, even if the sudden contact against the still broken skin of his bottom lip has him releasing a hiss through his teeth.

It’s a discomfort he gets over quickly. His other hand, the one not currently tangled with yours, relocates to the curve of your jaw before he’s doubling down, pain all but forgotten as his lips part against yours.

A repeated motion. A rhythm that’s stilted at first but starts to feel natural the longer you continue.

Over and over. Again and again until the action starts to feel useless. Until you’re not quite sure where his breath ends and yours begin.

You’re in the office workroom, pressed against the door, and the printer is starting to beep in protest.

You’re sure you’ll be thoroughly embarrassed when you inevitably leave long minutes later with mussed hair and swollen lips and a certain programmer trailing behind you that can’t contain his self-satisfied smile.

But for now, you get what he means. It feels good. It feels like relief, to finally know where you stand with him.

So instead of worrying about what your supervisor will think of your mussed collar and smudged lipstick, you pull him down a little firmer by the back of the neck, fingers tangling in the hair along his nape.

You sigh into his mouth, and the fervor he returns with leaves you well and truly breathless.

And for once, it feels like a sure thing.

…..

epilogue

Jungwon: SOS

Jungwon: Babyyyyyyyy

Jungwon: I know you’re reading my messages

Jungwon: PLEASE ___ I really need your help

You: I’m BUSY what do you need

Jungwon: The printer is jammed again

You: And what do you want me to do about that? Call maintenance

Jungwon: Oh please

Jungwon: Last time I called maintenance they sent a guy that couldn’t tell A4 from A3 this is not the job for them

Jungwon: Plus they don’t have the magic touch like you

You: Literally what are you talking about

You: The last time I tried to fix the printer, I broke it so bad it was out of commission for two whole weeks

You: The entire floor was mad at me

You: I had to buy Grace coffee every day for TWO WEEKS

Jungwon: PLEASEEEEEE

Jungwon: Just try once and if it doesn’t work I’ll call maintenance

Jungwon: I promise

You: …

You: FINE

You: On my way

Tucking your phone back into your pocket, you sigh. The workroom door opens with little resistance, but as soon as you step inside, you frown.

Jungwon, for starters, is nowhere to be seen.

And the printer, at least from first impressions, appears to be working just fine. Completely jam-free.

You’re not left in the dark for long. A moment later, the door opens behind you.

Tumbling in like an overexcited kitten, your boyfriend looks all too enthused to be dealing with a supposed jammed printer.

Gesturing towards the machine in question, you frown at him. “What were you talking about? The printer is perfectly f–”

He cuts you off with the press of his lips against your own, pushing you backwards until you run into the printer, spine arching against the copier tray.

“Jungwon,” you protest once he finally lets you up for air. “It’s like you want HR to start a case against us. You have got to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He feigns innocence, even as he leans in again for another long kiss.

“Mm,” you mumble, breaking free again. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Faking printer emergencies as an excuse to make out. We’re at work.”

Jungwon leans back, but the only thing he uses the space for is to let himself scan you from head to toe. Biting his bottom lip, he runs a set of fingers through the hair that falls across his forehead. “You know, you’re a really terrible liar.”

“I’m not ly–”

“If you actually wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t fall for it every.” He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Single.” The top of your cheekbone. “Time.” The corner of your mouth.

And you hate to admit it, but he kind of has you there.

“Whatever.” You pout, but he just uses it as an excuse to plant another long kiss on your pursed lips. “I’m serious, Jungwon,” you tell him, even if you’re just as breathless as he is, despite the fact that you’re actively pulling him in by the back of his neck. “This has to be the last time.”

“Mm,” he smiles against your lips. “Sure thing, ___.”

…..

outtake — seven months ago.

The tinted window of Jungwon’s secondhand car is hardly an ideal mirror, but he’ll have to make it work.

Giving himself a final once over, he straightens his already immaculate tie. Tugs at the collar of his button down shirt so that it lays just a little bit nicer, the edges of the folds just a fraction of a millimeter sharper.

Bending slightly, he smooths down his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. Catching his reflection again, he suddenly has second thoughts about the version of himself that he sees.

Bleaching his hair had seemed like a good – no, great – idea a few weeks ago. But now, dressed in business casual and about to begin his first day at a new job, doubts start to swirl through Jungwon’s mind.

What if they don’t think the blonde is professional enough? What if it breaks some kind of unspoken dress code?

He knows it doesn’t break the actual, company mandated dress code. Mostly because he’s already read through the handbook.

Twice.

With annotations.

Frowning slightly, Jungwon tilts his head to the side. He’s gotten pretty good with concealer, but there’s still a faint purplish tint that sits just along the edge of his jaw.

It takes a decent amount of effort not to wince at the memory. Sunghoon had gotten him good that day.

Jungwon forces his shoulders to relax. Forces himself to take one big breath in. Release it out slowly.

He has no reason to panic. He went through the same, brutal rounds of interviews as everyone else and was deemed to be the most qualified candidate. He graduated summa cum laude in the same field he’ll be employed in now.

And it’s not like anyone’s going to be looking at his face close enough to notice any slight discoloration. Or, at least, he doesn’t think they will.

To be honest, he’s not really sure how this whole thing works. Office jobs, no matter how many online forums he’s scoured and articles he’s read, are still a bit of a mystery to him.

He hates it. Hates feeling out of his depth and ill prepared. Hates knowing that he’ll have to ask too many questions and stumble through tasks until he gets the basics down.

But part of him is excited too.

He did it. Standing in the parking lot of an otherwise rather unremarkable company, it hits him all at once.

He actually fucking did it.

All those nights in the ring. Every bruise, every scar, every drop of blood. Every saved penny, every skipped opportunity.

They landed him here. An 8 to 5 office job that isn’t flashy or anything special from the outside, but to him, means the world.

He’ll have it all: a steady salary, a place to be in the mornings, coworkers to notice when he’s not around. It’s not much, but it’s his.

So, with one last deep inhale, Jungwon turns away from his car window and tracks a steady path on even footsteps towards the front door.

And a handful of hours later, when Terry from accounting is still talking his ear off about his son’s latest hockey match in the doorway of the staff kitchen, Jungwon’s heart gives an unsteady lurch.

“Hey, Terry,” you nod in acknowledgement, entering the kitchen in search of an early afternoon refill for your empty coffee mug. “Hey, oh.” Your eyes meet his, lips parting. Your words die when you realize you don’t know what to call him. When you realize you’ve never actually seen him before.

And it’s not like Jungwon has never seen a pretty girl before, but – oh.

Oh.

Dressed in a rather simple, work approved ensemble, hair loose around your face, there’s nothing specific that he can pinpoint. All Jungwon knows is that there’s something about you that makes him want to keep looking.

“Jungwon,” he supplies, a bit breathlessly.

Behind him, Terry is still regaling the details of his kid’s game-winning goal.

Eyes locked on him, a beat of heavy silence passes. And then –

“Hi, Jungwon.”

Your eyes. He thinks it must be your eyes. Or maybe your lips. The delicate curve of your cheekbone. His gaze can’t decide where to land.

“Hi,” he manages.

Eyes sliding over his shoulder to Terry, you release a small, amused breath. “Hey, Terry?”

Stopping mid sentence, the middle aged man turns to you. “Oh, hi, ____. How are you?”

___. Jungwon thinks it suits you. A pretty name for a pretty girl.

“Just fine, thanks.” You flash him a quick smile. Just a bare hint, and Jungwon feels his knees getting a little wobbly beneath him. “But I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“Of course,” Terry nods a little too enthusiastically. Fifteen years at the same company, and he’s the kind of person that still jumps at the opportunity to be needed. Helpful. Jungwon thinks it’s kind of sweet, even if he wishes the man’s gift for brevity in storytelling could be a bit more apparent.

“You know the printer in the workroom?”

Terry nods.

“It’s jammed again,” you frown, the slightest hint of a pout pulling at your lips. Jungwon can’t quite find it in himself to look away from the movement. “Do you think you could take a look at it for me?”

Terry beams. “Of course! I’d be happy to.”

And then it’s just the two of you.

“He means well.” You smile again, softer this time. Like you’re discussing an inside joke only the two of you know about.

Jungwon is suddenly finding his breath a difficult thing to maintain.

“Does the printer do that a lot?” He finally manages to ask. “Jam, I mean.”

“All the time.” You roll your eyes. “You’d think a company raking in this much profit would have the cash to spare on a new machine, but no. This entire floor is just ill fated to suffer” There’s an air of humor to your words, a slight hint of teasing, even if Jungwon thinks there’s an undercurrent of truth to your words.

You smile again. Teeth tugging at your bottom lip, Jungwon can only describe your expression as slightly devious. “It’s not jammed now, though.”

His brow furrows. “It’s not?”

You shake your head. “I was given the gory details of Terry’s son’s soccer game yesterday. Trust me, I saved you a headache and an extra thirty minutes.” You wink at him, and Jungwon really, really hopes the sudden heat in his cheeks doesn’t look as obvious as it feels.

“I think it was a hockey match, actually.”

“Oh.” You pause for a moment, considering. “Right.”

A moment of silence passes. Another. Jungwon has never minded the quiet, but he’s not quite ready for this interaction to end. Suddenly, he feels like he’s scrambling for something to prolong it.

“Thank you.”

Your brow furrows. “For what.”

“The extra thirty minutes and the absence of a headache.” Jungwon taps two fingers against his temple. “I appreciate it.”

“Ah,” you smile, and this time it’s a bit brighter, wider. Jungwon, not for the first time today, thanks his lucky stars that he was accepted for this position. That it landed him here, sharing a staff kitchen with someone like you. “Anytime.”

He hopes you mean it.

And when you turn away from him a few moments later, original mission to refill your coffee remembered, Jungwon looks up at the ceiling with his eyes screwed shut and takes a long, much needed breath.

“Jungwon,” you turn back. Luckily, he’s just returned to a more natural standing position.

“Yeah?”

“It’s nice to meet you. Don’t let this place get you down too quickly.” You wink again. Jungwon does his best to keep his features neutral. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, even though you’ve already turned back to the coffee machine. “Sure thing, ___.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

note: and we're done! thank you for reading! and thank you for bearing with me and the fact that this unfortunately had to be split into two parts. I hope you enjoyed this story, and as always, I would love to hear any thoughts you have. all the best ♡

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maboiisuga

1 year ago

(1) ONE MISSED CALL ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

summary. You work for an anonymous phone sex business on campus, and you would have never guessed that your first client would be the Atsumu Miya—the most popular guy on campus who sits three seats ahead of you in calculus. And you're pretty sure he doesn't even know you exist. | wc. 11.5k+

cw/ tw. college au, phone sex, mild hurt comfort, miscommunication, fraternities, nerd reader (also reader wears glasses), strangers to lovers, mild angst, intended for 18+ readers

pairing. atsumu x fem!reader

an. bringing this back to tumblr because I'm adding an epilogue:3 pink divider by @/saradika reblogs are appreciated!

MASTERLIST

✢ Chapter One

You get your first caller, and you expect it to be more uncomfortable than it is.

✢ Chapter Two

After weeks of phone calls, you get to know Atsumu, which makes pretending a little more difficult

✢ Chapter Three

Things get even more difficult when Atsumu needs help with his homework before his next game, and who better to help him than the class tutor.

✢ Chapter Four

The truth always finds a way of coming out.

✢ Chapter Five

Atsumu confronts you.

✢ Chapter Six [Epilogue]

You knew he had a twin, but you didn't think you'd mistake him for Atsumu or that he'd pretend to be his brother and let you sit in his lap in front of his brother's friends.

satorini—please don't copy, paste, or translate.

246 notes View Post

maboiisuga

1 year ago

pairing. nakahara chuuya x fem puppy girl reader

synopsis. struggling with your sense of humanity and prone to losing to higher instinct, you and chuuya share more than one'd think. though he's never thought of himself as fit for an owner or a partner, that fateful night chuuya becomes both.

current wc: 7.3k

warnings. nsfw (parts 3 & 4). minors & ageless blogs do not interact. mentions of past trauma, abuse & canon typical themes, not too dark/angsty though i promise!, hybrids & appropriate pet names/vocabulary, collaring, reader goes into heat, slight dom/sub themes, switch!chuuya, more tba! please mind individual chapter tags & warnings ❥

notes. eeee first proper bsd fic!! i'm so very excited :3 i'm still getting a hang of my characterization of chuuya but i adore the boy too much. . . also happens to be my first hybrid fic on here so i hope you enjoy the ride <3