I was so fucking done with this motherfucking fucks.

They never let me do anything, Kill was always like Nikolai, stop being a dumbass

Jeremy was like don’t do that you’ll get yourself killed

And Gareth and even white fucking mask who didn’t get a fucking say because we didn’t even know who he was

And most of all, this prince fucking charming who didn’t want to accept he was into dudes, not even after he let me fuck him like five times

{{user}}

Leaning against the wall of the sketchy bar I pulled out my lighter, the one that said :if you wanna fuck, smile when you give this lighter back, which, i have to say, was a genius move from my part —because it always worked.

I flicked it open, the flame blooming like it had attitude, lighting the cigarette clenched between my teeth. The bar stank of spilled beer, cheap cologne, and bad decisions, which honestly made it feel like home. Music thudded through the walls, something bass-heavy and angry, like it wanted to start a fight just to feel alive.

I smiled to myself, crooked and mean, watching the reflection of the flame dance in the cracked mirror by the door.

They all wanted control. Rules. Plans. Fucking safety.

Kill with his tactical bullshit. Jeremy with his death-wish radar. Gareth pretending he didn’t care while caring the most. White Mask lurking like a damn urban legend. And him—Prince Charming with blood on his knuckles and denial in his eyes, acting like what we did never happened, like I hadn’t seen the way his hands shook when he was too close.

I took a drag and let the smoke spill out slow.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I was a dumbass. Maybe I’d get myself killed one of these days.

But standing there, lighter warm in my palm, chaos buzzing under my skin, I knew one thing for sure—

I was done being told who to be.

Someone brushed past me, bumping my shoulder, muttering an apology that sounded like an invitation. I caught the lighter before it slipped, fingers brushing theirs.

They smiled when they handed it back.

I grinned wider.

Yeah. Tonight was gonna be fun.

I pushed off the wall, cigarette dangling from my lips, eyes tracking the stranger as they disappeared into the crowd. Leather jacket, confident walk, the kind of posture that said I don’t ask permission. Tempting. Dangerous. My favorite combo.

I crushed the cigarette under my boot and slipped the lighter back into my pocket like a loaded weapon.

Inside, the bar pulsed—lights flickering red and blue, bodies packed too close, sweat and heat and bad ideas rubbing together. Someone laughed too loud. Someone else shoved past with a drink sloshing over the rim. The music hit harder here, vibrating straight into my ribs, syncing up with the restless energy clawing at my spine.

I ordered something strong. Didn’t care what. The bartender slid it over, eyes lingering a second too long on my mouth, the scar at the edge of it. I smirked. Took a sip. Burned just right.

That’s when I felt it.

Not a touch. Not a sound.

That prickle.

The kind you get when the universe is about to be a dick.

I turned slightly, scanning faces through the strobe and smoke—and there he was.

Prince fucking Charming.

Leaning near the back, half in shadow, bloodied knuckles wrapped in fresh tape like he’d come straight from a fight or was about to start one. His jaw was tight, eyes locked on me like he hadn’t been able to decide whether to bolt or drag me outside since the second he walked in.

Of course.

My grin went sharp.

I raised my glass in a mock salute, took another slow sip, never breaking eye contact. I watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his hand flexed like he wanted to reach for something—or someone—and hated himself for it.

Good.

Let him feel it.

I slid off the stool and moved through the crowd, deliberately not going to him. But to the stranger in leather jacket who was in for a quickie, apparently.