#1 i always felt out of place in but something in a project was so upsetting that it set me back like years in my performance fright and now

[transannabeth]

-

[heejamas]

OUT OF TUNE ˖ 🎙◞⋆ (part 2)

pairing: producer!beomgyu x producer!femreader part 1 // part 2 // part 3

summary: you and beomgyu have been at each other’s throats since day one at HYBE. both of you are producers, both of you are talented, and both of you absolutely refuse to lose to the other. whether it’s competing for the best demo, fighting over studio time, or bickering in team meetings, everyone knows one thing: you and beomgyu cannot stand each other so, of course, your boss decides to put you two on the same project—producing ENHYPEN’s next album. together. as in, sharing a studio, making creative decisions, and not murdering each other in the process. and suddenly, the tension isn’t just about work.

genre:  enemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, slow burn, angst with a good payoff // w/c: 26k // warnings: not proofread, MDNI!! smoking (reader and beomgyu smoke), drinking, angst, jealously, overworking characters, making out, petnames, dry humping

author's note: you guys loved part 1 so much that i decided to drop part 2!! i wasn’t originally planning on posting this so soon, but all the love and reactions made me wanna share it with you asap. hope you enjoy <3 READ PART 1 HERE //

out of tune's playlist <3

The night was quiet, but Beomgyu’s mind wasn’t.

It had started with a question. A simple, stupid question that he never should have asked.

Waiting for your boyfriend to pick you up?

You had blinked at him, caught off guard, before letting out a soft laugh—so casual, so oblivious to what you had just done to him. "Yeonjun? No. God, no. He’s just—" You shook your head, still smiling. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Beomgyu had scoffed, looking away before you could see how tightly his jaw had clenched.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that you weren’t with Yeonjun. It didn’t matter that you had laughed, like the thought had never even crossed your mind.

And yet, by the time he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment that night, exhaustion was settling deep into his body, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He rarely did these days, not properly, anyway.

The hallway to his apartment was quiet, dimly lit, the familiar flickering of the overhead lights casting long shadows against the walls. It wasn’t a bad place. Spacious, modern enough. But it felt empty.

As soon as he stepped inside, he tossed his bag onto the couch and went straight to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. His shoulders ached from hunching over his desk all day, his head heavy from staring at screens for too long.

Still, instead of going to bed, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his call log. His thumb hovered over the contact labeled Mom, but for some reason, hesitation rooted him in place.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to her. It was just that… sometimes, it was easier to pretend things were fine when he didn’t hear how tired she sounded. Still, after a few moments, he forced himself to dial.

When she picked up, her voice was soft, laced with the kind of exhaustion that came from being sick for too long. "Gyu-yah."

His chest tightened. "Hey, Mom."

"You’re calling late," she murmured, a small smile in her tone.

"You’re awake late," he echoed his earlier words to his brother.

She chuckled lightly. "Guess it runs in the family." Another beat of silence. "You’ve been working a lot, haven’t you?"

Beomgyu leaned against the counter, closing his eyes briefly. She always saw right through him. "Yeah. Big project."

"Hm. And how’s that going?"

He exhaled, rubbing his fingers over his temple. "It’s—" He hesitated, searching for the right words. "Harder than I thought."

"Isn’t it always?"

He huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah."

His mother’s voice softened. "What’s making it difficult?"

Beomgyu rolled his shoulders, shifting against the counter. He could lie, say it was just the usual stress of production, deadlines piling up, expectations weighing on him. That was part of it, sure. But there was something else. "She’s… challenging," he admitted before he could think better of it.

A pause. Then, amusement slipped into his mother’s voice. "She?"

Beomgyu regretted his wording immediately. "I meant the project is challenging." His mother hummed knowingly, and somehow that was worse than if she had outright called him out. He sighed, tipping his head back. "It’s just—I don’t know. I’m used to working on my own. Or at least, if I do work with other people, I don’t have to think about them all the time."

"All the time?"

He gritted his teeth. "Not like that."

His mother just laughed softly, as if she had already heard this story before. "That means they’re good, doesn’t it?"

Beomgyu scoffed. "More like they piss me off."

"That’s the same thing sometimes." He rolled his eyes, but a small, unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Does she make your job harder?" his mom asked after a moment, more thoughtful now.

Beomgyu exhaled slowly. "She makes my job better."

It was the truth. And he hated that. Because you did. Even when you were annoying, even when you were frustrating, even when you made him want to slam his head against the mixing console, you still made the music better.

And that should be the only thing that mattered. Should be.

His mother hummed softly, as if she could hear everything he wasn’t saying. "Some people just have a way of getting under your skin," she murmured. "And sometimes, that’s not a bad thing."

Beomgyu didn’t respond to that. Because he wasn’t sure he liked where his thoughts were heading. After a while, he let her rest, hanging up the call and tossing his phone onto the couch. He should go to bed. But instead, he found himself standing in his kitchen, staring at the dark city skyline through the window, mind circling back to the same damn thing. To you.

To the way you had looked at him earlier, confused by his mood. To the way your voice had softened when you told him you weren’t having a good day. To the way you had laughed at the idea of being with Yeonjun, so casually, like it wasn’t even a possibility.

He didn’t know why that last part stuck with him the most. And he really didn’t like that he cared enough to wonder.

And now, standing in the middle of a crowded party, staring at you across the room, he realized: You had never really left. You were looking at him. Even with the haze of alcohol buzzing in his system, even through the blur of shifting bodies and flashing lights, Beomgyu felt it—sharp and unmistakable. The way your eyes found him, held him, even for just a moment. The way your expression flickered, unreadable, like you were trying to piece together something that neither of you had the words for.

And for the first time that night, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to smirk or swear. Because he liked it. He liked that you were looking. He liked knowing that, no matter how much you fought him, no matter how much you denied it—there was something there. But then, you looked away. Like it hadn’t meant anything. Like he didn’t mean anything. And something twisted deep in his chest, hot and sour. So, naturally, he did what he always did. He let his mouth run before his brain could catch up. "But don’t worry," he said, voice light, almost lazy, but aimed with precision. "I don’t care either way. After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker." The words landed exactly how he intended. He saw it—the way your shoulders tensed, the way your lips pressed together. The way something flickered in your eyes, so fast that if he blinked, he might’ve missed it. Then he smirked. Just a flash of teeth, just enough to make your stomach twist. And before he could second-guess himself, before he could let the alcohol-fueled honesty catch up to him, he turned on his heel and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, head spinning, caught between wanting to kill him and— No. You weren’t even gonna finish that thought.

You let out a slow, frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. You needed to get out of your own head. You needed a drink. And after that, you needed Yunjin.

The party was still buzzing when you stepped back inside, the room warm and crowded, laughter spilling over the music. You spotted her near the bar, leaning against the counter, drink in hand, mid-conversation with some guy you didn’t recognize. You marched straight up to her, grabbing her wrist.

“I need to talk to you.” Yunjin barely had time to react before you were pulling her away from the noise, past groups of people, through the doorway leading to one of the quieter lounge areas.

Once inside, she gave you a look, raising an eyebrow as she took a slow sip of her drink. “Damn. No ‘hey, how are you?’ Not even a ‘you look great tonight, Yunjin’?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Not now.”

She studied you, then smirked knowingly. “This is about Beomgyu, isn’t it?”

You stiffened. “No.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, completely unconvinced. “Go on…”

You exhaled sharply, slumping onto the couch, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Yunjin sat beside you, kicking off her heels, posture casual. “Alright, let’s hear it.”

You hesitated, staring at the floor, feeling strangely vulnerable all of a sudden. It took a few seconds before you found your voice. “I—” You stopped, frowning. “I don’t even know what I feel right now. I’m just… frustrated.”

She hummed. “At him?”

“At everything,” you admitted. “At this whole fucking project. At the way he gets under my skin so easily. At the fact that—” You cut yourself off, clenching your jaw.

Yunjin, sharp as ever, caught it immediately. “At the fact that what?”

You hesitated, gripping the edge of your seat. “I want his approval.” The words came out quiet. Frustrated. “I don’t know why. I just—I hate how much I care about what he thinks. Every time we work on something, I catch myself waiting to see how he reacts. Like, I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I don’t need him to validate me, but then—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “But then he does. And it fucks with me.”

Yunjin listened, her expression unreadable. “Do you want his approval?” she asked. “Or do you want him?”

Your head snapped toward her. “What?”

She shrugged, completely unfazed. “I mean, you’re so worked up over him, and yeah, some of it is because of work, but…” She tilted her head, giving you a look. “Is that all it is?”

Your stomach twisted. “Yes,” you said immediately. Yunjin just stared at you, unimpressed. You crossed your arms. “It is.”

Silence. Then she smirked, slow and knowing. “Liar.”

You groaned, shoving your face into your hands. “Oh my god, shut up.”

She laughed, nudging your foot with hers. “I mean, come on. This whole thing screams unresolved tension. You two have been circling each other for months, pretending you’re just rivals when clearly there’s more to it.”

You lifted your head, glaring. “There isn’t.”

“Okay,” she said, amused. “So if he kissed you tomorrow, you wouldn’t think about it for the rest of your life?”

Your brain short-circuited so violently that you actually choked on air. “What—”

Yunjin grinned. “Exactly.”

You scowled, but the damage was done. The thought was already planted in your head, unshakable. Beomgyu, close. Beomgyu, leaning in. Beomgyu, looking at you with that stupid, unreadable expression of his before—

Nope. You refused to entertain this. You grabbed her drink, downing the rest of it in one go, ignoring the way she laughed at you. “I hate you,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t,” she teased. “But you do have a thing for Beomgyu.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Shut up.”

“Denial isn’t a good look on you, babe.”

You groaned, sinking further into the couch, your mind an absolute mess. Because no matter how much you wanted to deny it, Yunjin wasn’t completely wrong.

The music pulsed through the party, deep bass reverberating in your chest as you let yourself sink into the moment. The weight of the conversation with Yunjin still lingered in the back of your mind, but you shoved it aside, focusing on your friends instead—on the warmth of Yeonjun’s arm slung over your shoulder as he dramatically belted the lyrics to whatever song was playing, on the way Taehyun shook his head at him, on Hueningkai laughing so hard at something that he nearly dropped his drink. You let yourself get lost in it.

And then, eventually, the night began to wind down. People started leaving in waves, slipping out the doors in pairs or groups, laughter and goodbyes trailing after them. Your own friends were still lingering, but you were exhausted, drained from the long week, from the constant push and pull inside your head.

You needed sleep. You told them as much, earning dramatic protests from Yeonjun that didn't want to leave with you, a teasing “boring” from Yunjin, and an understanding nod from Taehyun. Hueningkai just patted your shoulder. "Get home safe," he said, voice warm.

Near the entrance, just a few feet away, Beomgyu stood against the wall, shoulders tense, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even pretending to enjoy himself. He was just there, like he had been standing in that same spot for too long, stewing in whatever storm was brewing behind his unreadable expression.

And he was looking at you. Even in the dim lighting, even from across the room, you could feel the weight of it—heavy, unwavering, pressing against your skin like static before a thunderstorm. There was something sharp in his gaze, something unsettled. Irritated. His jaw was tight, his fingers flexing slightly against his bicep, like he was holding something back. But from what? From you?

The noise of the party faded into the background, drowned out by the heavy thrum of your own heartbeat. You didn’t know why you were still standing there. You didn’t know why the sight of him like this made something twist sharply in your stomach, something restless, something uneasy.

You exhaled sharply, breaking the moment before it could turn into something you weren’t ready to name. Without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked out of the party.

You didn’t know what you felt.

But whatever it was, you hated it.

Just like you thought you hated Beomgyu.

You woke up feeling like absolute shit.

The kind of headache that pounded behind your eyes, the kind of dryness in your throat that made you regret every decision from the night before. You groaned, burying your face in the pillow, willing the pain to go away.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

Memories from last night filtered into your mind slowly, fragmented, like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit together at first. You remembered the warmth of the alcohol in your veins, the steady bass of the music vibrating through your chest, the feeling of actually having fun for once—until you saw him.

Beomgyu.

You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could make the memory disappear.

Beomgyu, drunk and loose-limbed, flashing you that easy, lazy grin that made your stomach flip before you could even process why. Beomgyu being nice, too nice, his words softer than usual, his teasing edged with something warmer.

And then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. The shift. The way his smile dimmed when he saw you talking to Yunho. The way his fingers curled slightly around his drink, his jaw tightening just enough for you to notice. The way his gaze darkened, cold and distant again.

And right before he walked away, he had turned to you with that unreadable look in his eyes, that frustrating mix of amusement and distance, and had said— "After all, like you said… I’m just your coworker."

Your stomach twisted. You threw the blanket off you, forcing yourself to sit up, because if you laid here any longer, you were going to start throwing things.

The apartment was dead silent, except for the faint sound of someone snoring in the living room. You got up carefully, wincing at the headache that pulsed through your skull, and padded out of your room. Yeonjun was passed out on the couch, one leg hanging off the side, his face smushed into a pillow. You sighed, grabbing the nearest blanket and draping it over him.

Then, as you turned toward the kitchen, you nearly tripped over two bodies sprawled out on the floor. Hueningkai and Taehyun. Both dead asleep, Kai using a hoodie as a pillow, Taehyun curled up in the most uncomfortable-looking position you had ever seen.

You stared at them for a long moment, then sighed again, rubbing at your temples. You needed coffee. You needed out of this apartment. That's why you decided to grab coffee somewhere else.

It was still too early for the world to feel real. The streets were quiet, the sky dull with that soft, overcast light that only came on hungover Sundays. You wrapped your jacket tighter around yourself as you pushed through the doors of the coffeeshop, craving caffeine more than you had ever craved anything in your life.

You were so focused on getting to the counter that you didn’t even notice him at first.

"So we really had the same idea, huh?" You blinked, turning toward the voice. Soobin was sitting at a corner table, hoodie pulled up over his messy hair, looking just as wrecked as you felt. His iced coffee sat half-finished in front of him, condensation dripping down the sides.

You stared. "Holy shit. You look like hell."

He scoffed. "Thanks. You’re glowing this morning."

You snorted, finally ordering your drink before sliding into the seat across from him. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

Soobin hummed. "Didn’t expect to be here. But I woke up with a headache from hell and figured coffee might bring me back to life."

"Same." You took a slow sip of your drink, wincing as the cold hit your stomach. "Last night was… a lot."

Soobin huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Some more than others."

You narrowed your eyes. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He just smirked, shaking his head. "Nothing. Just… Beomgyu was in rare form last night."

You stiffened slightly. If Soobin noticed, he didn’t mention it. "That drunk?" you asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Drunk enough to be nice," Soobin mused. "Which, you know, is when you should be really concerned." You huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Soobin watched you for a moment, something thoughtful in his expression. "You know," he said eventually, stirring his drink with the straw, "he’s not as much of an asshole as he tries to be."

You raised an eyebrow. "Could’ve fooled me."

Soobin chuckled. "Yeah, he’s good at that. But—" He tilted his head slightly, studying you. "—he respects you."

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe that. You knew Beomgyu took you seriously, he wouldn’t compete so hard with you if he didn’t. But respect wasn’t the word that had been echoing in your head since last night.

Soobin leaned back in his chair. "And maybe he likes your work a little too much."

Your heart skipped, just once, just enough for you to feel stupid. You forced out a scoff, shaking your head. "Right. Sure. That’s why he spent half of the night treating me like shit."

Soobin’s smirk barely twitched. "I never said he handles it well."

You stared at him, trying to figure out if he was messing with you. But there was nothing teasing in his gaze, just knowing amusement, like he had already seen how this story played out before you even knew what page you were on.

You hated that. You hated that something about it made your stomach twist.

So, you stood up, grabbing your order. "I need to go before you start giving me life advice."

Soobin grinned, unfazed. "See you Monday, then?"

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, already heading for the door.

But even as you stepped out into the cold air, the caffeine still not fully kicking in, Soobin’s words stuck with you. Maybe he likes your work a little too much. Whatever that meant, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

The walk back to your apartment was slow, the cool morning air doing little to clear the fog still lingering in your head. The coffeeshop bag swung gently at your side, filled with coffee and a few pastries, not because you were feeling particularly generous, but because you knew the three idiots waiting for you would need it just as much as you did.

When you finally pushed the door open, the apartment was still a disaster.

Yeonjun was awake now, sprawled across the couch in the same position you had left him in, scrolling through his phone with half-lidded eyes. Taehyun and Hueningkai were still on the floor, looking like they had barely moved.

You let the door shut behind you with a soft thud, and all three of them flinched.

"Jesus," Yeonjun muttered, rubbing his face. "Not so loud."

You rolled your eyes, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. "Brought coffee. If any of you die, it’s not my fault."

Hueningkai groaned, blindly reaching for the bag without sitting up. "You’re an angel. A mean one, but an angel."

Taehyun sat up with effort, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Where’d you go?"

"Coffeeshop," you said simply, grabbing your own cup before sitting on the arm of the couch. "Needed air."

Yeonjun stretched his arms above his head, then let them drop dramatically. "Did we ever figure out what happened to Yunjin?"

"Yeah," Taehyun answered, taking a sip of his drink. "We got her home safe. She passed out halfway there."

"Typical," Yeonjun muttered, shaking his head.

Hueningkai yawned. "We were too drunk to go back to our own places, so we crashed here. Hope you don’t mind."

You shrugged. "I figured. You were taking up half my floor." You shook your head before speaking again. "Ran into Soobin there, in the coffeeshop."

That got their attention. Hueningkai snorted. "Damn, everyone had the same idea."

"Yeah," you mused, stirring your straw through your drink. "He looked just as bad as me. Maybe worse."

Yeonjun hummed. "He drank a lot last night."

"Yeah," you agreed, then took a slow sip of coffee before adding casually, "But he said Beomgyu was worse." You expected some reaction. A laugh, a sarcastic remark, maybe even an exaggerated groan. What you didn’t expect was the subtle way Yeonjun and Taehyun exchanged glances. You frowned. "What?"

Yeonjun exhaled, setting his drink down. "Nothing—just…" He hesitated before continuing, "after you left, Beomgyu and Yunho got into it."

You blinked. "What?"

Hueningkai nodded, chewing slowly. "Yeah. Not, like, a full fight or anything. But they were arguing. And it wasn’t friendly."

You sat up slightly. "Over what?"

Yeonjun shrugged. "No clue. Heeseung and I stepped in before it got worse, but they were both pissed."

Your mind raced, replaying the night. Yunho had been fine when you left, normal, flirty, acting like he always did. And Beomgyu? Beomgyu had been weird. The shift had been so sudden, one second he was being nice, playful, softer than usual. The next, cold, distant. And now, apparently, he had also picked a fight with Yunho. None of it made sense.

You drummed your fingers against your cup. "What did Yunho even say?"

Taehyun shook his head. "Dunno. But whatever it was, Beomgyu hated it."

You scoffed lightly. "So what? He was already pissed at me."

"Was he?" Yeonjun asked, raising an eyebrow.

You frowned, opening your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Because, honestly? You didn’t know. He had been acting off all week, distant and unreadable. And then last night, he was the opposite, warm, teasing, close. And then, again, the shift, cold. Your head hurt just thinking about it.

"I don’t care," you muttered, standing up and stretching. "I’m taking a shower. If you guys are still here when I’m done, I’m kicking you out."

Taehyun smirked. "Love you too."

You rolled your eyes, but as you walked toward your room, the weight of Yeonjun’s words lingered. Whatever it was, it clearly got under Beomgyu’s skin. But why did that matter? And why the hell did you care?

The car ride to work on Monday was quiet, but not in a peaceful way.

Yeonjun was dropping you off like usual, his music playing softly in the background, but you weren’t really listening. Your thoughts were elsewhere, circling, looping, pulling you into an endless spiral of what the hell is going on with you and Beomgyu.

You had spent the entire Sunday trying not to think about him.

Trying not to think about the way he had been so warm, so teasing, so himself, until he wasn’t. Trying not to think about Yunho, about their argument, about the way Beomgyu looked at you when you left.

And yet, here you were, staring out the car window, still thinking about it. Because now you had to see him again. And you had no idea which version of Beomgyu you were going to get. The smug, infuriating one who lived to push your buttons? The cold, distant one who had barely acknowledged you all week? Or the version from the party, the one who looked at you like he knew exactly what he was doing to your head?

Which was exactly why you didn’t want to talk about this. Because if you said it out loud, then it would feel real. Instead, you just turned back toward the window, watching as the HYBE building came into view.

You made it to your studio without seeing Beomgyu. Thank god.

You hadn’t even realized you had been holding your breath until you shut the door behind you, exhaling slowly. The last thing you wanted was to run into Beomgyu in some awkward hallway moment, trying to pretend like everything was fine when clearly nothing was.

So you did what you did best. You threw yourself into work.

The hours slipped by, your fingers moving almost mechanically over your keyboard, your mind hyper-focused on mixing, arranging, tweaking. It was easier this way, easier to pretend that nothing had changed, that your work was all that mattered.

You didn’t see Beomgyu once. Not in the hallway, not in the break room, not even in the usual spaces where he always seemed to be. Maybe he was avoiding you too. You tried not to care. Tried not to think about it.

But then, just as the day was winding down, just as you were finally about to pack up and go home, there was a knock at your door.

You frowned, pushing your chair back. "Come in."

The door swung open, and standing there, looking as serious as ever, was Baekhyun. "Hey," he said, stepping inside. "Got a minute?"

You straightened slightly, your pulse kicking up for no reason at all. "Uh… yeah, of course."

Baekhyun shut the door behind him before turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, calm, neutral, but with a weight behind his eyes that made your stomach churn. You had a bad feeling about this.

"Listen," he started, crossing his arms. "I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else."

You swallowed. "O…kay?"

Baekhyun exhaled, then said, "Beomgyu dropped out of the project."

The words didn’t register at first. You just blinked at him, waiting for him to say something else. But he didn’t. Because that was it.

You sat up straighter, confusion flashing across your face. "What?"

"He asked to be reassigned," Baekhyun clarified. "You’re the sole producer now."

Your stomach dropped. "He what?"

Baekhyun sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t about work. His excuse was weak as hell. He just said he ‘wasn’t the right fit for the project’ and left it at that."

You stared at him, your brain struggling to process. Beomgyu, who never backed down from anything, had quit? Beomgyu, who had spent the last few weeks going head-to-head with you, challenging you, pushing you, had walked away?

Just like that? Your pulse roared in your ears. "Why?" you demanded.

Baekhyun shook his head. "I have no idea. And honestly, I don’t have time to figure it out. The album still needs to get done, and now it’s all on you."

You barely heard him. Because all you could think about was him.

The way he had been acting all week. The way he had been acting at the party. The argument with Yunho. The distance. The sudden shift. And now this.

Beomgyu didn’t just quit. Not unless there was a reason. But what the hell was it?

Baekhyun sighed, checking his watch. "Look, I have to run, but if you need anything, let me know."

You nodded stiffly, barely registering as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. And then you were alone. Alone with the news. Alone with the confusion. Alone with the sharp, twisting feeling in your chest that you refused to call anything other than frustration.

Your brain spiraled. Your hands clenched into fists against your desk, your pulse hammering in your ears. Beomgyu quit? Just like that? Without saying a word to you? Without even giving a proper reason?

It made no sense. None of it made sense. You sat there, staring blankly at your screen, but you weren’t processing anything. All you could think about was him.

You exhaled sharply, pushing back from your desk. You weren’t going to sit here and let your thoughts drive you insane. If he wasn’t going to come to you, then fine. You’d go to him.

The building was nearly empty. Most people had already gone home, leaving only a few scattered producers and trainees still working. The silence felt heavier somehow, like even the air itself knew something was wrong.

You walked straight to his studio first. Locked. No lights inside. Empty.

Your jaw tightened as you turned away, moving faster now. Fine. Maybe he was in the break room.

You checked there next, stepping inside and scanning the area. Nothing. Not even a half-finished cup of coffee or an abandoned snack, things that always seemed to be left behind whenever Beomgyu was around.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You were already walking before you had fully decided to, heading down the hallway toward the smoking area outside. You shoved the door open, stepping onto the dimly lit balcony. The cold air bit at your skin, but you barely noticed. Because the space was completely empty. He wasn’t here.

You let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through your hair. Where the hell was he?

After a few more seconds of standing there uselessly, you turned back around, forcing yourself to accept that you weren’t going to find him tonight. Maybe he had already gone home. Maybe he had been home this whole time, avoiding everything and everyone. Maybe you were wasting your energy trying to chase after someone who clearly didn’t want to be found.

Defeat sat heavy in your chest as you trudged back toward your studio, exhaustion sinking into your bones now that the adrenaline had faded. You should just let it go. Just let him go.

But when you stepped inside your studio—

You froze. Because there he was.

Sitting in your chair, arms resting on the desk, staring at you like he had been waiting. Like he had known you’d come looking. He had that look on his face. That stupid, pathetic, guilty expression—like a kicked dog, like he knew exactly what he had done, like he was bracing himself for the storm he knew was coming.

You shut the door behind you harder than necessary, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. Beomgyu swallowed, his hands tightening slightly where they rested on the desk.

"Listen—"

"Listen what?" Your voice snapped through the air, sharper than you even intended, but you didn’t care. Because after everything, this was what you got? A half-hearted listen? No. Not happening. You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "Go on, Beomgyu. I’d love to hear it."

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, rubbing his palms against his jeans before leaning forward, elbows on his knees. His gaze flickered up to meet yours, hesitant, cautious. "I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustration leaking into his voice. "It wasn’t working."

"What wasn’t working?" you demanded. "Because from where I’m standing, the only thing that wasn’t working was you deciding to disappear without saying a damn word to me—"

"Would you just let me talk?" Beomgyu snapped, his voice cutting through yours.

You froze. He never raised his voice at you. Not like this. Not with something heavy sitting behind it, something too close to something real. You set your jaw, arms tightening over your chest. "Fine. Talk."

He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "You think I wanted to leave the project?"

You blinked. "You literally did."

"Yeah," he snapped. "And maybe if you weren’t so stuck in your own head all the time, you’d realize why."

Your stomach twisted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Beomgyu scoffed, pushing himself up from your chair. "It means," he said, voice low, controlled, "that I warned you about people you let in in your life, and you didn’t listen."

And there it was. The shift. The argument that had started as one thing—the project, his sudden absence, your frustration, suddenly becoming something else. Your hands clenched at your sides. "This is about Seungcheol?!"

He let out a sharp laugh, running his tongue over his teeth. "Wow. Look at that. You do listen sometimes."

You took a step closer. "And what exactly is your problem with him?"

Beomgyu’s jaw ticked. "My problem," he muttered, "is that you’re so damn naive sometimes—"

"Excuse me?"

"You think everyone is exactly what they show you," he continued, voice rising slightly. "You think people don’t have their own reasons for the things they do, for why they pay attention to you—"

You felt something sharp crawl up your throat, something dangerously close to real anger. "And why the fuck does that matter to you?"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched, just for a second, just enough for you to see it. And then, just as quickly, his face hardened again. "It doesn’t," he said flatly.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Right. Got it. So, you threw away an entire project, left me with all the fucking work, because you suddenly don’t care?"

Beomgyu’s hands curled into fists. "I left because I knew this was going to get messy."

"It’s already messy, Beomgyu!" you exploded. "You made it messy! I thought we were a team—I thought, for once, that maybe you weren’t just trying to be better than me, that maybe we actually worked well together, but no—of course not, because you had to fucking run the second it got complicated—"

"Are you even hearing yourself?" His voice was sharp, eyes blazing. "Do you really think I left because of the fucking project?"

You opened your mouth—then shut it. Because, no. You didn’t believe that. Not for a second. Because if this was just about work, then Beomgyu would’ve fought harder. He always fought harder.

Your breath was shallow now, your heart racing against your ribs. There was only a foot of space between you.

You could hear his breathing, sharp, uneven. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he was fighting the urge to do something. And you could feel it, how the air between you had shifted, thickened into something neither of you knew how to name.

This wasn’t just about work. This wasn’t just about Yunho, or Seungcheol. This wasn’t just about Saturday night. It was about everything. But neither of you were ready to say it. Neither of you knew how.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. "Then why did you?"

His jaw clenched. "I told you—"

"No," you cut him off, stepping even closer, your anger outweighing your restraint now. "You didn’t. You keep talking in circles, Beomgyu, but you haven’t told me shit. You just keep—acting like I’m supposed to read your fucking mind."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Because you don’t get it!"

"Then make me get it!" you snapped.

His eyes flashed, dark and burning. Then, suddenly—

"You drive me insane."

The words hit the air before he could stop them, before you could process them, and for a second, the room froze. Your breath caught.

Beomgyu’s lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it out loud. His chest rose and fell unevenly, like he had been holding onto those words for too long, like they had just ripped their way out of him.

You felt your stomach twist, your skin heat, your pulse roar in your ears. Because he wasn’t looking at you with anger anymore. He was looking at you like you were something dangerous. Like you had the power to ruin him. Like you already had.

"Ever since we started this fucking project," he continued, voice rough, "I haven’t been able to think straight. I go home, and I still hear your voice in my head. I wake up, and I’m already wondering what kind of mood you’ll be in, if we’re gonna fight, if we’re gonna work, if—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It’s you. It’s always fucking you."

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. This, whatever this was, it had been bubbling under the surface for so long, hidden under sharp words and competition and a rivalry neither of you had ever actually needed.

"You fucking ran." Your voice was quieter now, but not softer.

Beomgyu’s brows pulled together. "I had to."

"No," you countered, stepping closer. "You wanted to. Because it was easier than—than whatever this is. Because you can’t handle anything you can’t control."

Beomgyu let out a sharp breath, tongue running over his teeth. "You think I’m the only one running?" You hesitated. That second of hesitation was all it took.

Because then, suddenly, Beomgyu’s fingers curled around your wrist, not pulling, not forcing, just grounding, and you felt the warmth of his skin burn into yours. "You tell me to stop running," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper now. "Then tell me to stay."

Your heart nearly stopped. The challenge in his tone, the weight behind it, felt like stepping off a ledge. You stared at him, your throat tight, your head light, your pulse a fucking mess. Because this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This wasn’t the plan.

And yet, your fingers tightened slightly around his. Barely, just enough for him to feel it. Just enough for something inside him to snap.

You barely had time to process it before Beomgyu moved.

His hands found your face first, warm, calloused fingers cradling your jaw like he needed to hold you in place, like he was afraid you’d pull away before he could do what he had been holding back for too long.

The space between you disappeared, and then his lips were on yours.

The first press was firm, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if you’d kiss him back, if this was something he was allowed to take. But then you gave in. A sharp inhale, a slight tilt of your head, the way your fingers fisted into his hoodie, yanking him closer. That was all he needed. Because once Beomgyu realized you weren’t stopping him, that you weren’t pushing him away, he lost it.

The kiss got harder, deeper, his lips parting against yours as his hands slid from your jaw to your waist, fingers gripping your sides like he was pissed off—at you, at himself, at the entire world for making him wait this long.

You made a sound against his mouth, but it wasn’t protest. It was frustration, relief, disbelief that this was even happening. Because fuck, he kissed like this? Hot and desperate and messy, like he had been waiting for this for longer than even he was willing to admit. Like he had no idea where to put his hands because he wanted to touch you everywhere.

You felt his teeth graze your lower lip, just barely, just enough to make you gasp, and he took full advantage of it, deepening the kiss, pressing himself into you until your back hit the door behind you.

All you could process was him, his lips, his warmth, the way one of his hands slid up, fingers curling around the back of your neck, angling your head so he could kiss you even deeper, even dirtier. Your fingers dug into his hoodie, tugging him forward, not willing to let him have all the control. He groaned at that.

A soft, frustrated sound that sent a thrill through your body, because you had never heard him sound like that before, had never imagined that you could pull that sound from him. And then, just when the heat between you had grown unbearable, just when his hands started to wander, gripping at your waist like he wanted to pin you there forever—

You both realized what was happening. Realized that this was you and him. That this was real. That this wasn’t something either of you could take back. So you pulled away first. Barely, just a few inches. Just enough to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips, his hands still gripping your waist like he couldn’t let go. Your chest heaved, heart hammering so loudly you swore he could hear it. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you could. Because whatever line had been there before? You had just obliterated it.

His breath was uneven, and the silence between you both stretched longer than either of you had anticipated. The air in the studio felt thick now, charged with something neither of you quite knew how to handle.

Finally, you broke the silence. Your voice came out rough but firm as you looked at him. "You… you can’t just walk away."

Beomgyu’s hand twitched at your waist, his grip still there, like he was trying to hold onto something real in the middle of all the chaos between you two. His lips parted, but he hesitated, like he wasn’t sure what to say next.

"You want me to stay?" he asked, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than you expected. "You really want me to stay?"

You swallowed hard, a knot forming in your throat. It wasn’t that simple. But then again, it was. "I do," you said, your words coming out with an honesty you couldn’t take back.

The air seemed to crackle around you both, and Beomgyu finally let go of his tight grip around your waist, but not completely. He just let his hands fall to your sides, his touch lingering as though he was afraid of pushing too far.

And there it was. The line had been crossed. The weight of your words hung between you, settling like something inevitable. Neither of you moved, but there was something different now, something undeniable that shifted in the space you shared.

Beomgyu’s eyes softened for the first time, he leaned in again, his hand gently cupping your cheek this time, as though he was finally allowing himself to believe that this wasn’t just another fleeting moment, another mistake. His touch lingered for a moment longer, his hand soft on your cheek as though he were afraid that if he moved too quickly, everything would fall apart. His eyes searched yours, the intensity of the moment hanging between you, thick with unspoken words. His lips parted slightly, as though he was going to say something, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

For a long moment, all that was heard was the sound of your breaths, his shaky, yours quick. But then, just as quickly as he had leaned in, Beomgyu pulled back.

The change was immediate. His hand dropped from your cheek, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something almost… regretful. You could feel the tension in his body shift, a quiet storm brewing in him that you couldn’t quite understand.

"Beomgyu…" you started, but before you could get another word out, he turned away from you.

Without a word, he walked toward the door. Your chest tightened, confusion and frustration flooding your senses as you watched him move. You didn’t know whether to call out, to beg him to stay, or to just let him go and pretend that this whole mess hadn’t happened. But no matter what, you felt a pit in your stomach, a weight you couldn’t shake off.

Beomgyu reached for the handle, his back still to you, and for a brief second, you thought maybe he would say something—anything. Maybe he would explain himself, finally tell you what was going through his head. But instead, he opened the door. The sound of the hinges creaking was like a cruel reminder of what was happening.

He stepped outside, and for a heartbeat, the door remained open, leaving you to watch him through the gap. His expression was unreadable, his body stiff. Then, without looking back, he closed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the room like the finality of everything.

And just like that, you were left alone.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you sat down, staring at the door, still hearing the faint click of it locking in your mind. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. It felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, leaving you floating in the aftermath, unsure of what had just happened. What had changed? Why did it feel like you were left with nothing?

Everything was so… messy. You had never felt so raw, so exposed, and yet, Beomgyu had walked away without a single word. The silence that filled the room now was deafening. You wanted to scream, to shout, to demand answers, but all you could do was sit there, trying to make sense of it all.

Had you been wrong to ask him to stay? Did you push him too far, too soon? Or was this all just another part of that complicated dance you two had been doing from the very start?

You didn’t know. All you knew was that the studio felt emptier now, quieter. And Beomgyu… Beomgyu had walked away. The silence in the studio was suffocating.

You sat there, unmoving, eyes still locked on the door even though Beomgyu was long gone. Your hands were trembling in your lap. The lump in your throat tightened, and before you could stop it, a sharp, broken breath escaped you. Until the tears spilled over, hot and relentless, blurring your vision and burning your cheeks.

You sucked in a shaky breath, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. You never cried over shit like this. Not over work. Not over him. You hated this. You hated feeling like this.

You blinked rapidly, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, but the tears wouldn’t stop. Your breath came out in uneven gasps, the weight in your chest growing heavier by the second.

You needed to leave. Your fingers scrambled for your phone, your vision still blurred with tears as you unlocked it and pulled up your messages. You barely even thought before typing.

[you]: can you pick me up The response came within seconds.

[yeonjun]: on my way. stay there.

You let out a shaky breath, gripping your phone like it was the only thing keeping you from completely unraveling.

The second you slid into Yeonjun’s car, the dam broke.

The moment the door shut behind you, the sobs you had barely been holding in ripped out of you, raw and unfiltered, shaking your entire body.

Yeonjun didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t push. He just reached across the console, one hand on your back, grounding you. "Hey, hey, hey," he murmured, his voice low and calm as he rubbed small circles. "I got you, okay? Just breathe."

You shook your head violently, pressing your palms into your eyes, trying, and failing, to stop crying. "I—I don’t—" A sharp inhale, a choked-out sob. "I don’t even know why I’m crying."

Yeonjun let out a soft breath, like he already knew that was a lie. You sucked in another shaky breath, leaning your head back against the seat, staring up at the roof of the car. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. Yeonjun just drove.

The car was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional sound of your sniffles as you tried to get your breathing under control. Yeonjun didn’t say anything right away. He didn’t press, didn’t demand answers. He just waited and held your hand while he drove. Slow, steady, like he had done this a hundred times before. Like he knew you needed the silence before you could find the words.

And when you finally did, your voice came out small. Tired. "He quit the project." Yeonjun’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. "I don’t—I don’t get it," you said, shaking your head as you wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. "I was working all day, and then Baekhyun came in and just dropped it on me like it was nothing. Like it was some casual decision Beomgyu made, and now I’m just supposed to deal with it—"

Yeonjun exhaled sharply. "Wait. He just left? No warning? No explanation?"

You let out a shaky breath. "Nothing. I—I went looking for him, but he wasn’t anywhere. Then when I finally gave up and went back to my studio, he was just there, like he had been waiting for me or something." Yeonjun frowned, but he didn’t interrupt. "And I was so fucking mad," you admitted, voice thick with frustration. "I just—I don’t understand him. He always has to push my buttons, always has to act like he doesn’t care about anything, but then he turns around and does this. Like it means something, but then he—he just—"

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut, your chest aching. "And then he kissed me," you whispered.

Silence. Yeonjun inhaled slowly. "What?"

Your hands clenched in your lap. "I don’t even know how it happened. We were yelling at each other, and it just—it happened."

Yeonjun didn’t respond right away. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, his brows furrowing as he processed what you just said. "And then what?" he asked, quieter now.

Your throat tightened. "And then… he left."

Yeonjun let out a slow, controlled breath. "What a dick." You let out a weak, wet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well, I mean it." He tightened his grip on the wheel before exhaling, forcing himself to soften.

Then, carefully, he reached over, his fingers curling around your knee, grounding you. "Hey." You sniffled, not looking at him. Yeonjun’s voice was softer this time. "Did it mean something to you?"

Your breath caught. Because, fuck. It did. It did, and you hated that. You let out a shaky exhale, running a hand over your face. "I don’t know," you lied.

Yeonjun hummed like he didn’t believe you for a second. He didn’t push, though. Instead, his thumb rubbed slow, calming circles into your knee. "Look, Y/N… I don’t think Beomgyu ran because he didn’t care. I think he ran because he does."

Your chest ached. "Then why not just fucking say that?"

Yeonjun sighed, turning onto your street. "Because people are dumb. Men are dumb. And Beomgyu’s spent years convincing himself that he doesn’t care about anything. You think he’s just gonna wake up one day and admit that he cares about you?" Your breath stilled. Yeonjun just shook his head. "He’s an idiot. That’s all it is."

You let out a weak laugh, leaning your head against the window. "Yeah," you murmured. "That makes two of us."

Yeonjun pulled into your apartment complex, shifting into park before turning to you. He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched you carefully, his eyes warm and steady. Then, gently, he reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "You’re not an idiot," he murmured. "You just care too much, and you’re scared."

You scoffed. "No shit."

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. He let that sit for a second before shaking his head. "You know what I think?" Yeonjun hummed, thoughtful. "I think he’s scared, too."

You stiffened slightly. "He didn’t seem scared when he left me standing there."

"Yeah?" Yeonjun mused. "Then why did he leave at all?"

You frowned, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"

Yeonjun sighed. "Think about it. If Beomgyu was just messing around, if this was just another game to him—he wouldn’t have left. He would’ve stayed. Would’ve laughed it off, made some cocky comment, pretended like it meant nothing." Your stomach twisted. Yeonjun turned toward you, his expression softer now. "But he didn’t, Y/N. He ran."

You let that sink in. Because maybe Yeonjun had a point. Maybe Beomgyu leaving wasn’t just some asshole move. Maybe he had been just as freaked out as you. The thought made your chest tighten all over again.

Yeonjun reached over, squeezing your hand once before letting go. "You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. He gave you a small smile before reaching over, pulling you into a hug. "You’re gonna be okay," he murmured against your hair. "I promise."

You let out a shaky breath, gripping onto him a little tighter. You weren’t sure if you believed him. But for now, you needed to. You sighed, leaning back against the seat, exhausted. But even as Yeonjun turned off the car, even as you sat there, trying to steady yourself, one thought wouldn’t leave your mind.

Beomgyu had run. But what the hell was he running from?

The question rattled in your mind, looping over and over as you stepped into your apartment, your limbs heavy with exhaustion.

You barely remembered saying goodnight to Yeonjun. You barely even registered the moment you locked yourself in the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the scalding water.

Steam filled the space around you, thick and hazy, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in your chest. You tilted your head back, letting the water soak through your hair, tracing down the curve of your spine. Your breathing was still uneven, your mind still too loud.

You were supposed to be fine. It wasn’t a big deal. So what if he had kissed you? So what if he had left? You and Beomgyu had been dancing around each other for years—this was just another part of the cycle.

Right?

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply through your nose. Then why does it feel different this time? Your fingers curled into fists.

You could still feel his hands on your waist, his breath against your lips. Could still see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes right before he pulled away. Could still hear the sound of the door clicking shut as he left.

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to push the memory away. You weren’t going to do this. You weren’t going to sit here, overthinking every second, every glance, every fucking thing about Beomgyu.

So instead, you stayed under the water until your skin was raw, until the ache in your chest dulled into something you could ignore.

And despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the weight in your head—you managed to fall asleep. But you woke up feeling like your body was still stuck in yesterday.

Your limbs were sluggish, your mind groggy, and the second you remembered why, your stomach twisted unpleasantly. You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face, trying to will yourself back to sleep.

But outside your door, you could already hear Yeonjun moving around the kitchen. You forced yourself out of bed, padding into the living room to find him standing by the stove, frying eggs like he actually knew how to cook. You frowned. "What are you doing?"

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder. "Making breakfast."

"You don’t cook," you pointed out.

"Yeah, well, desperate times." He nodded toward the table. "Sit."

You sighed but obeyed, rubbing at your temples as you slumped into a chair. A minute later, Yeonjun set a plate in front of you, eggs, toast, and a coffee. You blinked. "You’re really committing to this whole overbearing best friend thing, huh?"

Yeonjun smirked, plopping down across from you with his own plate. "You love it."

You rolled your eyes but took a bite of the eggs anyway. They were… passable. Yeonjun watched you carefully between bites, waiting. You sighed. "I will be fine, you know."

He hummed. "Yeah, I know." He took a sip of his coffee, then added, "But are you fine right now?" Your fingers tightened slightly around your fork. You didn’t answer. Yeonjun just sighed, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "You don’t have to be fine yet, Y/N."

Your throat tightened. So instead of answering, you just nodded, pushing your food around your plate. Yeonjun didn’t push. Just let you sit there, existing, until you finally managed to eat something.

When it was time to leave, he drove you to work again, filling the silence with easy conversation, talking about his projects, making fun of bad drivers, anything to keep your mind off of what was waiting for you at HYBE.

But the second you stepped out of the car, the weight returned. The anxiety crept back into your bones. Because today, you had to see Beomgyu. And you had no idea what was going to happen.

You made it to your studio without running into him. You didn’t know whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

But instead of sitting there, drowning in your own thoughts, you pulled out your phone. Your fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before you typed.

[you]: taehyun, i need to talk to you [taehyun]: About what? [you]: just… when you have a second. come by my studio [taehyun]: Be there soon.

You exhaled, setting your phone down. You didn’t know why you needed to talk to him. But right now, Taehyun felt like the only person who could give you some kind of clarity. And clarity was exactly what you needed.

It didn’t take long for Taehyun to show up. You barely had time to fully gather your thoughts before there was a soft knock at your door, and then he was stepping inside, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, head tilting slightly as he studied you.

"Alright," he said, shutting the door behind him. "What’s up?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Because now that he was actually here, you weren’t sure where to start. Did you tell him about Beomgyu quitting? The fight? The kiss? Did you tell him about the way your heart had completely fallen apart when Beomgyu walked out of that room?

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. "This is stupid."

Taehyun raised an eyebrow. "Well, now I definitely wanna hear it."

You shot him a dry look, but he just crossed his arms, waiting. So you told him. Everything.

How you found out that Beomgyu had quit. How you had gone looking for him. How he was already waiting for you when you got back to your studio. The argument and then… And then the kiss.

Taehyun listened carefully, barely reacting at first. Just nodding, humming occasionally, letting you spill everything you had been holding in since last night. And when you finally finished, slumping back into your chair with a deep breath, he exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You guys are exhausting."

You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Tell me about it."

Taehyun was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. "He’s an idiot," he said. You blinked. "He is," Taehyun repeated, sitting on the edge of your desk. "Beomgyu is… complicated. He’s impulsive, and reckless, and sometimes he doesn’t think before he acts. But he’s not bad, Y/N."

You frowned, shifting in your seat. "I never said he was bad—"

"You didn’t have to," Taehyun interrupted. "You’re pissed, and you should be. He left you with an entire project and just disappeared. That’s a dick move."

You scoffed. "Glad we agree on that."

"But," Taehyun continued, leveling you with a look, "you also know that if this was just about work, he wouldn’t have left."

You stiffened. Because, yeah. You did know that.

Taehyun sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look… I’ve known Beomgyu for a long time. And I can tell you one thing for sure—he’s confused as hell about you." Your stomach twisted. "Beomgyu’s not used to… feeling things like this. You know him—he jokes, he messes around, he acts like nothing ever really matters to him. But this? You? This is probably the first time something has actually gotten to him in a way he doesn’t know how to handle."

You looked away, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of your desk. "He looked at me like…" You hesitated, searching for the right words. "Like he regretted it."

Taehyun hummed. "Maybe he did." Your heart sank. Taehyun must have noticed your expression, because he shook his head quickly. "No—not like that. Not in the I wish I never kissed her way. More like… Fuck, what did I just do?"

Your breath hitched. Taehyun leaned forward slightly, watching you carefully. "Y/N… if Beomgyu didn’t care, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have pulled away. He wouldn’t be acting like this at all."

You swallowed hard. "Then why didn’t he just say something?"

Taehyun sighed. "Because he’s a coward."

You blinked. "Wow. That’s blunt."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "Someone has to say it."

A short silence stretched between you, the weight of everything still settling in your chest. And then, Taehyun’s voice softened slightly. "I know you want to see him." You inhaled sharply, but before you could argue, he continued. "But you won’t," he said simply. "Not for a while, at least."

"What do you mean?"

Taehyun rubbed the back of his neck. "I overheard Baekhyun talking to some of the staff this morning. Beomgyu asked for a week off before getting reassigned to another project." Your stomach dropped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. Taehyun hesitated. "He’s not ot gone. Just… off the grid for a bit."

You swallowed hard. A week. You had a week without him. A week to focus on work. A week to stop feeling like this. A week to—

To what? Forget about him? Pretend none of this ever happened? Pretend that the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely flipped your world upside down?

You clenched your fists in your lap, nodding stiffly. "Okay."

Taehyun studied you for a moment. Then, finally, he sighed and reached out, squeezing your arm. "You’ll be okay," he murmured.

You let out a shaky breath, forcing a nod. "Yeah."

But as he walked out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts, one thing was clear. You weren’t sure if that was true.

The first day without Beomgyu was easier than you expected.

Maybe because you were still fueled by frustration. By anger. By the exhaustion of the past few days. It was easier to channel all of that into work, to drown out the silence with layers of sound, synths, drums, melodies, anything to keep your mind occupied.

You convinced yourself that you didn’t need him here. Didn’t need his input, his annoying commentary, his stupid smirk when he knew he was right about something. And for a little while, you almost believed it.

But then the second day came. And the third.

And by Wednesday, you realized just how much space Beomgyu used to take up, physically, mentally, emotionally. The studio felt different without him. Too quiet.

You had spent so long being annoyed by his presence, by the way he was always around, always making some offhand comment, always pushing your buttons just because he could. And now it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. Like the silence was mocking you. You tried to ignore it.

Tried to focus on the album, on the endless meetings with Baekhyun about tracklists, on your studio sessions with the Enhypen members.

Jake had mentioned that they were excited about the project. Jungwon had suggested a few ideas for the second track. Heeseung had even sat with you for over an hour, working through some of the melody transitions.

It was good. The work was getting done. Everything was moving forward. So why did it still feel like something was missing?

By Thursday, Yeonjun had stopped asking if you wanted to talk about it. At first, he had tried, little things, subtle attempts to get you to open up.

"You seem really focused on work this week," he had mused over dinner on Tuesday. "Trying to distract yourself?" You had rolled your eyes, shoving a bite of food into your mouth just to avoid answering.

By Wednesday, he had simply given you a long, knowing look before sighing. "Okay. I get it. You don’t want to talk about it."

And you didn’t. Because what was there to say? That you missed him? That you had caught yourself glancing at his empty chair during meetings? That every time you pulled up a demo, you could still hear his suggestions in the back of your mind? That you had started a dozen text messages, only to delete them before even finishing the first word? No. You weren’t going to do that.

You weren’t going to let Beomgyu live rent-free in your head while he was off doing whatever the hell he was doing.

So by Friday, you had convinced yourself that you were fine. That you were moving on. That you had finally, finally stopped thinking about him. At least, until you walked into your studio that morning.

And saw the letter sitting on your desk.

At first, you thought it was just another memo from Baekhyun. Or maybe some notes from one of the Enhypen members. But then you got closer. And you saw his handwriting.

For a moment, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the folded piece of paper like it might disappear if you blinked. Then, cautiously, you stepped forward. Your fingers hesitated before reaching for it. The paper was slightly creased, as if he had folded and unfolded it multiple times before finally deciding to leave it here. No greeting. No explanation.

Just one simple sentence, scrawled in messy, familiar ink.

i think this fits for track 1

Your heart pounded in your chest as your eyes flicked down to the lyrics below. And the second you started reading, your breath caught.

Just the two of us, getting deeply moonstruck Oh, you make me go crazy over you, you, baby Let me hold you close, I want to feel you until the end of the night Fly this night above the rising moon Crazy over you, you, baby We can take it slow Moonstruck in ecstasy

Your fingers clenched around the edges of the paper. This wasn’t just a song suggestion. This wasn’t just another track for the album. This was Beomgyu, talking to you the only way he knew how. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Because, fuck. You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what this meant. And now, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do about it.

You sat at your desk, gripping the paper so tightly it was a wonder it hadn’t torn yet. Your eyes kept flicking over the words, tracing the messy, slightly smudged ink of his handwriting. Moonstruck.

You read the lyrics again. And again. Each time, they felt heavier.

I'm so intoxicated, getting more and more into you, baby

What the fuck was he trying to say? You tried to rationalize it. Maybe he had written it before everything that happened. But that didn’t make sense, did it?

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie as your mind looped back to that night. The way he had kissed you. The way he had run. And now, instead of an explanation, instead of a conversation, he left this? A song?

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to push it aside. If Beomgyu wanted to talk in lyrics, fine. You would make sure they were heard.

The Enhypen members were already lounging around their practice room when you arrived. Sunghoon was sprawled on the couch, lazily scrolling through his phone. Jungwon and Jay were flipping through notes on the album’s concept. Jake was throwing a crumpled-up piece of paper at Sunoo, who swatted it away with an exaggerated groan.

The second you stepped in, Heeseung perked up. "Oh, hey, you’re here. What’s up?"

You inhaled deeply, clutching the paper in your hands. "We have a song."

That got their attention. Sunghoon sat up properly. Jay leaned forward, brows raising. Ni-ki, who had been half-asleep in the corner, immediately straightened, eyes flicking toward you.

You placed the lyrics down on the table. "It’s called Moonstruck," you said, keeping your voice steady. "Beomgyu wrote it."

A beat of silence. Jungwon blinked. "Wait. Beomgyu?"

You nodded stiffly. "Yeah."

Jake leaned in, scanning the paper. "When the hell did he even—?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, arms crossing over your chest. "But it’s good. And I think we should use it."

They didn’t argue. Instead, they took the next few minutes carefully analyzing the lyrics, murmuring about which parts fit their vocal tones best.

"Pre-chorus has to be Ni-ki and Sunghoon," Jay noted, nodding to himself. "Their voices will carry this section perfectly."

Ni-ki grinned. "I do sound good under moonlight."

Sunoo groaned. "God, shut up."

Jake chuckled, shaking his head. "The first verse has a nice flow. Maybe Heeeseung and Jay can split it?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that works."

As they discussed vocal distribution, you quietly worked on the arrangement, playing with some of the melodies on your laptop. And as much as you hated to admit it, the song was beautiful.

The harmonies, the depth, the longing in the lyrics—it all weaved together into something intoxicating. Something that felt like Beomgyu. And, more terrifyingly, something that felt like you and Beomgyu.

You poured yourself into it. Every ounce of frustration, every unanswered question, every lingering moment of that damn kiss, you put it all into the music. If Beomgyu wanted to communicate this way, then fine. You would answer him in the production.

By the time the first rough demo was put together, the entire room had shifted. The members listened intently, nodding along to the beat, already humming harmonies under their breath.

And when the final note played, Heeseung let out a low whistle. "Okay," he muttered. "That was… insane."

Jake leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. "This might be one of the strongest songs on the album."

Ni-ki grinned. "It’s sexy."

Jungwon rolled his eyes. "It’s romantic, you idiot."

Sunghoon smirked. "Both."

You stared at the screen, fingers still hovering over the controls, heart pounding in your chest. You had lost track of time, lost yourself in the production, in the process of turning Beomgyu’s words into something real.

Heeseung stretched his arms over his head, glancing over at you. "How the hell did this come together so fast?"

You hesitated. Then, before you could think too much about it, the words tumbled out. "Because Beomgyu wrote it."

The room fell quiet for a beat. You swallowed, suddenly feeling exposed under their stares. You ignored the pointed looks, turning back toward the screen.

You had done what you needed to do. You had taken Beomgyu’s song and made it something real. And yet, as you sat there, staring at the lyrics again, one thought lingered.

This was his way of talking to you. But when—if—you finally saw him again… Would he have anything else to say?

The weekend arrived quietly, slipping in like a breeze through an open window. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to exist outside of work, outside of the chaos, outside of the constant hum of him in the back of your mind.

You spent Saturday sprawled across the living room floor, limbs tangled with Yunjin’s as she attempted (and failed) to beat Hueningkai in a Mario Kart tournament.

"HOW is this fair?!" she screeched, gripping the controller like it personally offended her. "This little shit has been in first place for the entire race—"

"Skill issue," Hueningkai mused, barely sparing her a glance as he executed yet another flawless turn.

Taehyun cackled from his spot on the couch. "Face it, Yunjin, you’re bad at this game."

"You’re supposed to be on my side!"

"I would be," Taehyun said easily, taking a sip of his soda. "If you were winning."

Yunjin let out an exaggerated wail, flopping back onto the floor in defeat as Hueningkai crossed the finish line with ease. You laughed, stretching your legs out, your shoulders relaxing in a way they hadn’t all week.

This was nice. No tension, no overthinking, no lyrics folded neatly onto your desk like an unanswered question. Just this. Just them.

Yeonjun, who had spent the afternoon attempting to make cocktails, only to get tipsy himself after "taste testing" every single one. Hueningkai, who had somehow convinced everyone to build a fort in the living room, resulting in a half-collapsed mess of blankets and fairy lights that no one had the energy to fix.

Taehyun, who had made it his personal mission to bother you at all time, poking your cheek, stealing your hair tie, purposefully messing up your playlists just to get a reaction out of you. And Yunjin, who was now lying dramatically across your lap, still mourning her loss. "I hate this game," she mumbled into your hoodie.

"You say that every time you lose," Yeonjun reminded her, nudging her foot with his own.

She groaned. "Because I do."

You chuckled, resting your head against the couch cushions. For the first time in days, your mind felt quiet.

Maybe Beomgyu was just a phase. A storm that had come and gone, leaving only a few stray raindrops behind. Maybe by Monday, you would go back to work and it wouldn’t hurt anymore. Maybe.

It wasn’t until Sunday night, when the apartment had finally settled into silence, that something shifted. Everyone had gone home. Yeonjun had retreated to his room, muttering something about a deadline he had been procrastinating. And you were alone.

The weight of it settled over you slowly, like an old sweater you hadn’t worn in years but still fit perfectly. You weren’t sure when you reached for your guitar. Hadn’t even realized you were doing it until you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, fingers ghosting over the strings. It had been a while.

Too long since you had written something for yourself. Too long since you had let yourself sit in the mess of your own emotions, instead of tucking them neatly into productions meant for other people’s voices.

You plucked a few chords aimlessly, letting the melody come to you naturally. Something soft. Something slow. And then—without meaning to—you started to hum. A tune that wasn’t meant for the album. A tune that wasn’t meant for anyone.

The words slipped out like a confession, too quiet for anyone else to hear. You didn’t even think about them. You just sang.

Your fingers stilled. The room felt too small. You closed your eyes, exhaling through your nose. And then, with trembling hands, you picked up a pen and started to write. Not because you wanted to. But because some things were too heavy to carry in silence.

The first chord rang out soft and hesitant, barely louder than the steady hum of the city outside your window. You pressed your lips together, fingertips finding the familiar weight of the strings, the slightly worn frets beneath them.

And then, you started to sing.

This is the first day of my life Swear I was born right in the doorway I went out in the rain, suddenly everything changed They're spreading blankets on the beach

The words came slowly, carefully, like they had been waiting for you to let them out. Your voice was quiet, almost unsure at first. But as the melody settled into you, as the lyrics unfolded with each passing chord, something in your chest loosened.

Yours was the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you And I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been But I know where I want to go

Your breathing evened. Your fingers moved more fluidly. And suddenly, it wasn’t just a song anymore. It was him.

The memories bled into the music, uninvited but unavoidable. The late nights in the studio, the sharp bickering that always gave way to something deeper. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he knew you, like he saw through every wall you had ever built and wasn’t afraid to push past them.

So if you wanna be with me With these things there's no telling We just have to wait and see But I'd rather be working for a paycheck Than waiting to win the lottery Besides, maybe this time is different I mean, I really think you like me

The realization settled slowly, creeping in like the soft glow of headlights through your window. You missed him. Not just as a producer, not just as a coworker, not just as the person who had spent years getting under your skin.

You missed him. His presence, his voice, the way his eyes flickered with something unreadable when he looked at you. The way you had always convinced yourself that the tension between you two was nothing but competition.

But now? Now, as you sat here with a guitar in your lap and a song that tasted like confession on your tongue, you weren’t so sure anymore.

The words hung in the air, delicate and fragile. And for the first time in weeks, you stopped running from the truth. It wasn’t just a rivalry. It wasn’t just frustration. It wasn’t even just a stupid, fleeting crush.

You liked him. And that was terrifying.

The car ride to work felt different today.

You weren’t as anxious as last week, your chest wasn’t as tight, your hands weren’t as clammy, but there was still something unsettled in you, something quietly nagging at the back of your mind.

Because today, Beomgyu was coming back.

And you had no idea what that meant. No idea which version of him you’d be facing. No idea if he’d pretend like nothing had happened, if he’d be cold again, or if he’d acknowledge it, that stupid, reckless, earth-shattering kiss. Or, if you'd even seen him today.

The HYBE lobby was already buzzing with early-morning energy. You kept your head down as you made your way toward the café, deciding that you desperately needed caffeine before facing the rest of the day. When you stepped inside, the familiar scent of espresso and vanilla filled the air, the quiet hum of conversation washing over you like white noise.

You spotted Taehyun near the counter, casually scrolling through his phone as he waited for his order. "Morning," you greeted, sliding into line beside him.

Taehyun glanced up from his phone as you slid into line beside him. "You’re here early," he remarked, taking a sip of his coffee.

You shrugged, adjusting the strap of your bag. "Figured I’d try something new. Maybe if I start my day with caffeine instead of stress, I’ll live longer."

Taehyun smirked. "Doubt it. But I respect the effort."

You hummed, stepping forward as the line moved. "What about you? Thought you weren’t a morning person."

"I’m not," he admitted, stuffing his free hand into the pocket of his hoodie. "But some of us have obligations."

You snorted. "Right." You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reached for your phone. And just as you unlocked it, a notification popped up at the top of your screen.

[baekhyun (HYBE)]: meeting on the 18th floor. 10 minutes.

Your stomach twisted slightly. Taehyun must’ve noticed the shift in your expression because he raised an eyebrow. "Everything good?"

You exhaled, locking your phone and slipping it back into your pocket. "Yeah. Just got called into a meeting."

He hummed, sipping his coffee. "Just you?" You nodded, grabbing your drink from the counter. Taehyun studied you for a beat before smirking. "Well. That’s suspicious."

You shot him a flat look. "Everything is suspicious to you."

"And yet, I’m usually right." Taehyun smirked. "Good luck, warrior."

You shot him a dry look before turning to leave. But as you made your way toward the elevators, your chest tightened slightly. You weren’t nervous. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

But the moment the elevator doors slid open, your breath caught in your throat. Beomgyu was already inside.

He stood toward the back, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the veins in his forearms. His dark hair was slightly tousled, messy, like he had run his hands through it too many times this morning.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

You hesitated for half a second, debating whether you should just wait for the next elevator, but then Beomgyu’s eyes met yours. And you couldn’t run. Not again. So, stiffly, you stepped inside.

The doors slid shut behind you, and the silence pressed in like a heavy weight. You swallowed. Beomgyu said nothing. You could feel him there, standing just a few feet away, but he didn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the doors in front of him, his entire body wound tight.

The tension was unbearable. So, stupidly, you spoke first. "You’re back."

His lips pressed together slightly. "Yeah."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. The elevator climbed higher, the numbers blinking above the doors, but the silence remained.

"I saw the tracklist update," Beomgyu said, voice even. "You kept Moonstruck."

Your breath hitched. For the first time since you stepped inside, he looked at you. And suddenly, you were back there. Back in the studio. Back in the moment he kissed you like it meant something. Back in the moment he ran.

You swallowed hard, gripping your coffee cup like it could anchor you. "Yeah," you said, keeping your voice steady. "It’s a good song."

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered, just briefly, just enough for you to see something shift. But he didn’t respond.

The elevator slowed. And before either of you could say anything else, the doors slid open. 18th floor. You stepped out first, pulse hammering against your ribs. But just before the doors shut behind him, you heard Beomgyu exhale a quiet—

"See you around."

And fuck. You were not ready for this.

Your legs carried you toward the meeting room, but your mind was still in that elevator. Moonstruck. He had noticed. You didn’t know why that made your stomach turn. Why it sent a hot, prickling feeling down your spine.

You had convinced yourself that the song was just work, just another track, just another piece of the album puzzle. But hearing him say it? Knowing that he knew?

It made it real. And the way he had looked at you when he said it, like he was waiting for something. Like he wanted an answer. But you didn’t have an answer. Because what were you supposed to say?

You inhaled sharply, pushing open the door to the conference room. And the second you stepped inside, you regretted it. Because sitting at the table, next to Baekhyun, was Seungcheol.

His eyes flicked up to yours immediately, and his lips curled into that same knowing smile he had given you at the HYBE party. "Ah," he mused. "Finally, our star producer has arrived."

Your stomach twisted. You forced a polite smile, slipping into the seat across from them. You had no idea what this meeting was about. But suddenly, you had a feeling it was going to be a lot.

You sat down, adjusting your posture, trying to ignore the sudden unease creeping into your chest. It wasn’t like you had anything against Seungcheol, he had always been perfectly pleasant whenever your paths crossed.

At the HYBE party, when Baekhyun introduced you, he was polite, curious, asked questions about your work that felt genuine. A few days later, in the hallway, he reinforced that same interest, saying he wanted to learn more about your creative process, that he admired what you were doing. It made sense, he was HYBE’s creative director, after all. It was his job to connect with the producers.

But then he happened. Beomgyu. With his endless stubbornness, his unwarranted judgment, his obvious disdain for Seungcheol.

He didn’t trust the guy. And he made that very clear, not just at the party when he interrupted your conversation, but later, in the hallway, with the way he threw out casual, cutting remarks, as if it was obvious that Seungcheol had ulterior motives.

You had ignored him. Because Beomgyu was always like that, poking, provoking, saying things just to get under your skin. But now, sitting across from Seungcheol, watching the way he smiled at you, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long, something inside you hesitated. And that was when you realized, that voice in my head isn’t mine. It’s Beomgyu’s. The thought irritated you. You didn’t need him planting ideas in your mind. Seungcheol had done nothing wrong.

He had never been inappropriate, never crossed any lines. If you were uncomfortable now, it was only because Beomgyu had convinced you that you should be.

Seungcheol leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on the table. "I was really pleased when I heard you’d be leading the production on your own," he said, his voice smooth, effortless. "I think you deserve it—this is a great step forward in your career."

You blinked, keeping your expression neutral. Something about the way he said it bothered you. Because the truth was, you hadn’t minded producing the album with Beomgyu. He was a good producer. One of the best, actually. And despite all your frustrations with him, you couldn’t deny that the work had been better when he was there.

You licked your lips, choosing your words carefully. "I never had a problem sharing the workload," you replied smoothly. "Beomgyu is incredibly talented. The album was going really well with the two of us working together."

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. Instead, he just smiled a little, as if he had been expecting you to say that.

Next to him, Baekhyun, who had been flipping through some papers, glanced up. "Beomgyu’s decision to leave was personal," he noted, sensing the tension. "He requested to be removed. It had nothing to do with the quality of your work together."

You nodded, but Seungcheol simply let out a quiet, almost amused chuckle. "That sounds like something he’d do," he murmured, almost to himself.

You frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

Seungcheol met your gaze, tilting his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "He’s impulsive," he said simply. "Always has been. He doesn’t handle things well when they don’t go his way."

Your jaw clenched. Something about the way he said it bothered you. It wasn’t what he said—it was how he said it. His tone was too calculated, his words too deliberate, like he was trying to implant something in your mind without directly stating it. And maybe you were being paranoid, but it almost felt like he was waiting for a reaction from you.

You kept your face carefully blank, but you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out. "Or maybe he just had a valid reason for leaving," you said, keeping your voice light but firm. "Whatever it was, he’s one of the best producers here. He always delivers, and he knows exactly how to handle pressure when it matters."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, like he was mildly surprised by your defense. But instead of pushing, he just smiled again. "If you say so."

Baekhyun cleared his throat, flipping to another page. "Anyway, now that you’re leading the project, we need to finalize some decisions about the album direction. We have to lock in arrangements before we move forward with recording."

You nodded, relieved that the conversation was shifting back to work. The meeting had gone on longer than expected. You had been so focused on the album’s direction, discussing arrangements and potential changes to the tracklist with Baekhyun, that for a moment, you managed to forget about Seungcheol entirely.

Until you didn’t. Because at some point during the discussion, as you were leaning over the table, flipping through some production notes, Seungcheol’s hand landed on your arm.

Not aggressive. Not too much. Just enough. Enough to make your shoulders stiffen, enough to make your fingers freeze mid-page, enough for that cold, uncomfortable feeling to creep down your spine.

It was subtle, an easy touch, light pressure on your forearm as he leaned in slightly. "I really admire how dedicated you are," he murmured, his voice smooth, casual. "It’s rare to find someone so talented and hardworking."

Because now, you saw what Beomgyu saw. Maybe he had been dramatic. Maybe he had been exaggerating. But Seungcheol was flirting with you. And for the first time, you couldn’t ignore it.

You swallowed, keeping your eyes on the papers in front of you, pretending not to notice the way his fingertips lingered a little longer than necessary before he finally pulled away.

This was work. This was a meeting. You weren’t going to make a scene. You shifted slightly in your chair, tucking your arm out of reach, nodding stiffly. "Thanks," you said, your voice carefully neutral.

If Baekhyun noticed anything, he didn’t react. He simply continued walking you through the album structure, his focus locked on the material in front of him. But your focus was gone. Because now, every single word out of Seungcheol’s mouth sounded different.

When he agreed with your ideas, it wasn’t just professional, it was deliberate. When he smiled at you, it wasn’t just friendly, it was calculated. And Beomgyu’s voice, the one you had sworn you wouldn’t listen to, was ringing in the back of your head, loud and unshakable.

You should be careful with him.

By the time the meeting wrapped up, you were exhausted, not from the work, but from everything else. You had barely finished stacking your papers when Seungcheol stood up, stretching his arms with an easy smile. "Well," he said, buttoning his blazer, "this was productive."

You hummed noncommittally, hoping that was the end of it. But as he reached the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder at you. "Oh, and by the way—" You looked up. "The invitation still stands," he said, that same smile playing on his lips. "You should drop by my office sometime. I’d love to go over more of your work."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. Before you could respond, he was already walking out, leaving you alone with Baekhyun. The second the door shut, you let out a slow breath, pressing your fingers to your temple.

Baekhyun sighed, setting his notes down. "Alright," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I know that look. What’s on your mind?"

You hesitated for half a second before deciding—fuck it. If you didn’t say something now, you were going to explode. "Look," you exhaled, straightening. "You’re my boss. I respect you. I like working with you. But I need to be honest—"

Baekhyun raised an eyebrow. "Go on."

You licked your lips, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "That whole meeting just made me really uncomfortable."

His expression shifted slightly, his features smoothing into something unreadable. "Because of Seungcheol?"

"Yes." You didn’t hesitate. "It’s not just today. It’s been happening for a while. I didn’t want to make assumptions, but now I—" You shook your head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t know. The way he talks to me, the way he acts… It doesn’t feel like it’s just about work."

Baekhyun didn’t answer immediately. He watched you carefully, considering your words before finally sighing. "Yeah," he muttered. "I figured as much."

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

Baekhyun rubbed his temple. "I had a feeling this might happen eventually. Seungcheol has a reputation—he doesn’t always separate work from… other things."

Your stomach sank. "So it’s not just me," you muttered.

Baekhyun hesitated before shaking his head. "No. It’s not just you."

You exhaled, leaning back in your chair, processing. Baekhyun watched you for a moment before continuing, his voice lower now. "Listen, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If he makes you uncomfortable, I’ll back you up. But I also know how these things can be tricky, so… what do you want to do?"

You stared at him. You hadn’t expected that. You hadn’t expected someone to actually ask. You swallowed, gripping the edge of the table. "I just… I just want to do my job."

Baekhyun nodded. "Then that’s what you’ll do."

And for the first time that day, you felt like someone was actually listening. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face. "Honestly… I didn’t want Beomgyu to leave the project."

Baekhyun leaned back in his chair, watching you closely. "Yeah, I figured."

You hesitated for a moment before continuing, choosing your words carefully. "It wasn’t perfect, working with him. We fought a lot. We had different approaches. But the album was better when we were both on it. And now, I don’t know… it just doesn’t feel the same."

Baekhyun hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against the table. "You know," he started, "when he asked to leave, I thought it was weird too."

Your brows furrowed. "Weird how?"

Baekhyun exhaled, tilting his head slightly as if trying to recall the exact conversation. "For starters, the excuse he gave me was bullshit. He said he just had ‘other priorities,’ but it didn’t add up. He didn’t have anything urgent lined up. He wasn’t being reassigned yet. If anything, he was in the perfect position to stay on the project."

Your stomach twisted. "Then why did he do it?"

Baekhyun studied you for a moment before answering. "Because of you."

Your breath hitched slightly. "What?"

"He told me you were the perfect person for this album," Baekhyun said simply. "He said that if anyone deserved to take full control of it, it was you. That you understood the vision, that you had the best instincts for the sound, that this was your project."

You blinked. Baekhyun smirked slightly. "He also said he’d still be available if you needed anything���which was interesting, considering he was insisting on stepping away."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. "So… he didn’t leave because I was in the way."

Baekhyun raised a brow. "No. He left because he thought he was."

Your chest tightened, your fingers clenching slightly over your notebook. Beomgyu thought he was in the way? That didn’t make sense. That wasn’t how this worked.

You had spent years competing with him, matching his energy, pushing yourself to outdo him the way he pushed himself to outdo you. You thought he saw you as a rival, as someone to challenge, someone to beat.

This didn’t sound like someone trying to win. This sounded like someone stepping aside. And suddenly, for the first time since that damn kiss, you wondered— Had you misunderstood everything?

The meeting wrapped up soon after, but your mind was far from settled. Baekhyun left first, offering you a knowing look as he walked out. Seungcheol was already gone, thankfully, leaving the room feeling a little lighter.

You stayed behind for a moment, fingers tapping restlessly against the table, thoughts still tangled in everything Baekhyun had just told you. Beomgyu thought he was in the way. He stepped back because of me?

The idea felt foreign, almost ridiculous. But the more you sat with it, the more you replayed every interaction, every lingering glance, every almost-argument that dissolved into something softer. Maybe it wasn’t ridiculous at all.

You exhaled sharply, pushing the thoughts aside as you gathered your things and made your way back to your studio. By the time you stepped inside, something had already shifted in you. Because for the first time in days, you wanted to write. Not because of deadlines. Not because of expectations.

But because something inside you was begging to be let out.

You locked the door behind you, took a deep breath, and crossed the room, fingers reaching for the guitar propped against the wall. It had been there for a while, untouched, gathering dust in the chaos of everything else. But the second your fingers curled around the neck, something inside you settled.

You didn’t know why, but you wanted to record this song you wrote on Sunday night. First Day of My Life. You knew it wouldn’t fit the album. It was too raw, too stripped-down, too honest. It wasn’t meant for Enhypen’s project—it wasn’t meant for any project.

But still. You adjusted the mic, positioned the guitar properly, and pressed record. And then, you played.

Your fingers moved over the strings carefully at first, but then muscle memory took over, and suddenly, it was effortless. The chords flowed easily, filling the quiet studio, wrapping around you like something safe, something familiar.

And then your voice followed. The words came soft, steady.

“Yours was the first face that I saw…”

You thought about the way he looked at you when he didn’t think you’d notice. The way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but never did.

“I think I was blind before I met you.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you kept going, pouring yourself into every note, every word. The melody washed over you, unfiltered and vulnerable, and for the first time in a long time, you weren’t thinking about what came next.

You were just feeling. And when the last chord faded into silence, you opened your eyes slowly, exhaling shakily. You sat there for a moment, staring at the blinking red light on the recorder. Then, without hesitating, you saved the file.

You stared at the tape sitting on your desk. And it stared back.

You had written a post-it, your handwriting slightly messier than usual, because your hands had been shaking when you wrote it.

wanted the opinion of the best songwriter i know.

Your stomach twisted. This was stupid. It was so stupid. And yet, you grabbed the tape before you could overthink it.

The hallways of HYBE were quieter now, most people already heading out for the evening. You didn’t know where Beomgyu was, but you hoped, prayed, that he wasn’t in his studio right now. Because you weren’t ready to see him. Not yet.

Your footsteps were light as you reached his studio door. It was closed, the small light inside turned off. Empty. Good. You slipped inside quickly, ignoring the way your heart was pounding against your ribs. You set the tape down gently on his desk, smoothing the post-it out with your fingers. And then you stepped back. You stared at it for a moment longer, your pulse hammering in your ears.

He might not even listen to it. He might throw it away. He might ignore it completely. But still, you left it there. And as you walked away, your chest felt lighter. Because for once, you weren’t running. You were giving him a chance.

You were late.

Not catastrophically late, but late enough that you were definitely pushing it. Yeonjun had texted you when he woke up, asking why the apartment was unusually quiet, only for you to send back a half-panicked “I overslept, don’t judge me” before practically rolling out of bed.

You hadn’t meant to stay up so late the night before. But lying there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single second of the last few days in your mind?

That was apparently more important than sleep.

By the time you rushed into HYBE, coffee was your only priority. You barely had time to breathe as you dodged people in the hallway, some of them calling your name, others trying to get your attention.

"Y/N, do you have a second?" "Hey, I sent you that file, did you get a chance to look at it?" "Oh, Y/N—can you check in with the Enhypen team later?"

The words blurred together, the weight of everything pressing against you as you nodded, mumbled vague acknowledgments, and kept walking. Because, in the end, none of it mattered. Not right now.

Not when the only thing on your mind was getting to your studio and catching your breath before the day swallowed you whole. You reached your door, exhaled sharply, and pushed it open.

And froze. Because there, sitting casually in your chair like he belonged there was Beomgyu. Holding the tape.

Your stomach dropped. The scene was so eerily familiar that for a split second, you thought you had hallucinated it. The way he was slouched slightly in the chair, the way his fingers turned the tape over slowly, like he was still processing it.

The way his dark eyes flicked up to meet yours, and how, in that exact moment, you saw it. You saw the feeling written across his face. Soft. Open. Maybe even a little wrecked. You sucked in a sharp breath and, without thinking, shut the door behind you. A beat of silence passed.

"You wrote this," Beomgyu murmured, his voice quieter than you expected.

It wasn’t a question. You swallowed hard. "Yeah."

His fingers tightened around the tape slightly. "Was it for the album?"

You shook your head. "No. It doesn’t fit the concept. I just… wanted to record it."

Beomgyu exhaled, slow and measured. "It’s beautiful."

The words hit you in a way you weren’t prepared for. You blinked. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t throwing in a sarcastic remark, or a smug smile, or anything that would make this easier to brush off. He just meant it.

And it made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, gripping your coffee cup a little tighter. "You listened to it?"

Beomgyu nodded, still looking down at the tape. "Twice."

Your breath hitched. "Twice?"

His lips twitched, just barely. "Maybe more." You let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking your head. A pause. "What made you write it?"

Your fingers curled slightly over your cup, heat pressing into your skin. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t. You licked your lips, shifting your gaze to the floor for a second before looking back at him. "I don’t know. I guess I just… needed to."

Beomgyu studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze settling over you like something heavy. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, he says: "It felt like something you needed to say."

Your heart stumbled. Because maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe you were hearing things that weren’t there. But the way he said it, like he understood, like he knew.

Beomgyu’s fingers drummed lightly against the tape, his gaze flickering between you and the guitar leaning against the wall. The silence between you felt fragile, like if either of you moved too fast, it would shatter. Then, without a word, he reached for the guitar. You raised an eyebrow as he adjusted it on his lap, fingers testing the strings before looking up at you again. "Pass me the chords?"

You hesitated, but eventually nodded, grabbing a piece of scrap paper and jotting them down quickly. When you slid it across the desk toward him, his fingers brushed yours as he took it, sending something electric up your spine.

Beomgyu studied the chords for a moment, then started playing. Slow, tentative, like he was feeling out the song in his own way. And before you even realized what you were doing, your lips parted—

"This is the first day of my life…"

The words came out softer this time, more intimate. You weren’t just singing anymore, you were sharing something. Beomgyu kept playing, his eyes locked onto you now, his expression unreadable.

"Swear I was born right in the doorway…"

You swallowed hard, voice faltering slightly when you saw the way he was looking at you. Like there was something he wanted to say. But he didn’t. He just kept playing. And so you kept singing.

"Yours was the first face that I saw… I think I was blind before I met you."

Something shifted in the air. You weren’t sure if it was you, or him, or just the weight of everything that had been left unsaid between you two for so long.

But for the first time, it felt like neither of you were trying to fight it.

When the song finally came to an end, the last note fading into silence, Beomgyu exhaled slowly, letting his fingers rest against the strings. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it—

"I’m sorry."

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden softness in his voice. "For what?"

He looked down at the guitar, running his thumb absently over the wood. "For dropping the album."

Your chest tightened. "You didn’t have to," you murmured. "I never wanted you to."

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "I thought… I thought you’d work better without me."

You frowned. "That’s not true."

Beomgyu hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly. "I didn’t want to leave you alone." He inhaled sharply, like he was steadying himself. "But I didn’t want my feelings to get in the way."

Your breath hitched. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. Slowly, carefully, you asked— "What feelings?"

Beomgyu tensed. For a second, he looked like he wanted to say it. Like he might say it. But then something closed inside him. His shoulders stiffened, his fingers gripping the guitar a little tighter. And when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. More distant. "It’s hard for me."

You furrowed your brows, confused. "What is?"

Beomgyu swallowed, looking down. "This. Talking. Saying things out loud." His lips pressed together for a moment before he let out a soft, humorless laugh. "It’s easy to write about it. To turn it into lyrics. To make it rhyme and feel poetic and beautiful."

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "But when it’s real? When it’s not just a song?" He shaked his head. "In real life, it’s harder."

You stared at him, heart twisting. Because this was him. This was Beomgyu without the smirks, without the teasing, without the carefully crafted walls. And for the first time, you realized, maybe this wasn’t just difficult for you.

Maybe he didn’t run because he didn’t care. Maybe he ran because he did.

Your heart pounded, your throat felt tight, but you forced yourself to breathe, to steady your voice. "What did you mean by that?"

He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Beomgyu let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Come on, Y/N."

There was something in his voice, frustration, exhaustion, something too tangled up in itself to pull apart. You frowned. "I don’t want to assume."

"Right," he muttered. "Because assuming things with me has always worked out so well."

Your chest tightened. "Beomgyu—"

"I—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then finally, finally, looked up at you. And god, you hated the way it made your breath catch. The way his eyes, dark and searching, made you feel like you were standing at the edge of something.

Like if you took one more step, there’d be no turning back. But before you could say anything—before he could say anything—the door creaked open.

Both of you turned at the same time.

"Hey," a familiar voice broke through the tension. "Think I left my pen with you earlier."

Seungcheol. His voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and unexpected. He stepped inside, eyes flickering between the two of you, taking in the scene—the guitar in Beomgyu’s lap, the tape on the desk, the way neither of you seemed to be breathing.

You turned toward the doorway, blinking as he leaned against the frame, his usual easy confidence settling into the room like he belonged there. Beomgyu’s entire posture shifted. It wasn’t obvious, no clenched fists, no outright glare, but you saw it anyway. The slight stiffening of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled subtly against the guitar.

You exhaled, stepping toward your desk. "Yeah, I think you did."

Seungcheol grinned. "Knew it."

You grabbed the pen and handed it to him, your fingers barely grazing before he pulled away. "Thanks, sweetheart," he said, easy, casual. "See you later."

And just like that, he was gone. The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was worse than before. You turned back to Beomgyu, and immediately knew something was off. He put away the guitar, his arms crossed, expression unreadable, but his jaw was tight. "You going along with him?" His voice was sharp, cutting.

You frowned. "What?"

"Seungcheol," Beomgyu said, eyes locking onto yours. "You going along with his shit?"

Your frown deepened. "No. What the hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "I told you not to trust that guy."

"And I didn’t," you snapped, "I just gave him back his damn pen."

Beomgyu’s jaw clenched, his frustration spilling out in waves. "Yeah? Well, maybe you should know what your old friends are saying about you before you act like I’m being dramatic."

You stared at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, like he was trying to decide if he should even tell you. But then, his eyes darkened, and whatever hesitation he had burned away. "You remember Yunho?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course you remembered Yunho. Beomgyu didn’t wait for your answer. "After you left the party, he came up to me," he said, voice tight. "Started making conversation—asking if I worked at HYBE, shit like that. And then, out of nowhere, he says he knows Seungcheol."

Beomgyu watched your reaction closely, but he didn’t stop. "And then, Yunho tells me he used to fuck around with you," he continued, voice growing harsher, "but dropped you because, in his words, you were ‘too desirable.’"

You flinched. Your fingers curled into your palms, nails pressing against your skin. "What?"

Beomgyu let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. And apparently, Seungcheol’s been waiting for his turn. ‘Dying to get a piece,’ is what he said."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Your heart pounded. "You’re lying."

Beomgyu’s gaze snapped to yours, sharp, furious. "I fucking wish."

You felt sick. But Beomgyu wasn’t done. "And then," he continued, voice low, "this motherfucker—this piece of shit—starts talking about how he doesn’t go for ‘girls who get around’ because he has standards." Your breath hitched. "That’s what he called you," Beomgyu said, voice flat. "A girl who gets around."

A sharp, ugly silence settled between you. Your pulse was roaring in your ears, rage and humiliation coiling together in your stomach like poison. "You fought him."

Beomgyu scoffed, shaking his head. "No. We talked."

You frowned. "Talked?"

"Yeah," he said, jaw tight. "He was acting like he had some kind of moral high ground," Beomgyu went on, voice sharpening. "Like he wouldn’t go for a girl who’s ‘too easy’—but oh, Seungcheol? Seungcheol was dying for a chance with you. And the way he talked—" Beomgyu exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "It pissed me off."

You swallowed hard, something ugly and bitter crawling up your throat. "So what, you argued with him?"

Beomgyu’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. His expression darkened. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Act like it doesn’t bother you," he snapped. "Act like it’s nothing when people say shit like that about you. I know you, Y/N."

Your breath caught. Because he wasn’t wrong. But you weren’t about to admit that. The air between you crackled with tension. His expression flickered. You should’ve let it go. Should’ve walked away. But something about the way he was looking at you made something snap inside you.

You shook your head, frustration burning beneath your skin. "You’re exhausting," you muttered, voice sharp. "One second you’re quiet, then you’re nice, then you’re picking fights, then you act like I’m just some coworker—"

Beomgyu’s expression flickered, something dark flashing in his eyes. "You think I treat you like that?"

"You tell me, Beomgyu," you snapped. "Because I have no fucking clue what you want from me."

The words hung in the air like a threat. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. "Don’t act like you don’t know," he said, voice rough. "Act like this is just me playing games—like I’m trying to play with you just for fun."

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Aren’t you?"

Beomgyu’s entire body tensed. "Are you serious right now?"

"Yes, I’m fucking serious!" You took a step closer, rage bubbling up from every place you had been shoving it down. "You kissed me, Beomgyu. And then you disappeared for a fucking week. No texts, no calls, nothing. And then you show up at work like it never happened—like I should just be fine with that."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "It wasn’t like that."

"Then what the fuck was it like?"

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging slightly at the strands, like he was trying to pull himself together. "I needed time."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Bullshit."

Beomgyu scoffed. "Oh, so now I’m the bad guy?"

"You’re not the fucking victim," you shot back. "You don't get to kiss me like that, make me think—"

You cut yourself off, biting down hard on the words before they could spill out. But it was too late. Beomgyu was already looking at you like you had just punched the air out of his lungs. Like he knew exactly what you were about to say.

The air between you was too thick, too charged, suffocating and electric all at once. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "You think I don’t fucking feel it too?" His voice cracked slightly, rough and raw. "You think this is easy for me?"

Your breath caught. "Then why do you keep running from it?"

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, something desperate in his gaze. "Because I don’t know what to do with it!"

Silence. His confession settled between you like an exposed wire, dangerous and crackling with heat. His jaw clenched, like he hated admitting it, like he hated feeling this much. But then, his expression shifted, morphing into something sharper, something wrecked.

"Fuck, Y/N," he muttered, voice strained. "You don’t get it. You don’t fucking get it."

"Then make me get it!" you yelled, frustration boiling over. "For once in your goddamn life, just say it!"

Beomgyu’s breath hitched. For a second, he didn’t say anything.

"Because I can’t fucking want you this much and still pretend it doesn’t matter!"

Your entire body locked up.

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, chest heaving, his eyes dark and so fucking serious it made your stomach flip. "I can’t—" He dragged a hand over his face, voice lower now, wrecked. "I can’t pretend that this thing between us doesn’t fucking kill me every time I try to ignore it." Your heart was a wildfire in your chest. Beomgyu let out a sharp laugh, one that sounded more like frustration than amusement. "I don’t know how to fucking want you without ruining everything else."

The words hit harder than they should have. The words hit harder than they should have. Because that was it, wasn’t it? That was why he ran. Why he pushed, pulled, disappeared, came back. Why he kissed you and then left.

Because he wanted you. But he didn’t trust himself with you. The realization sat heavy in your chest. And for the first time, you saw it, the fear beneath the anger, the hesitation beneath the frustration.

Beomgyu didn’t just want you. He was terrified of wanting you. And you didn’t know what scared you more. The fact that he was afraid. Or the fact that you weren’t.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was stretched too thin, humming with something neither of you knew how to control. Then, Beomgyu exhaled, deep, uneven. His gaze flickered downward, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wanted to reach for something but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

"I’m sorry," he said.

The words were quiet, but they landed with the weight of something long overdue. You swallowed. His lips parted, then closed. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head slightly, like he didn’t even know where to start. "For kissing you," he murmured. "For leaving. For not talking to you for a week like a fucking coward." His jaw clenched. "For making you think that it didn’t mean anything."

You stared at him, heart pounding. "And did it?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Beomgyu lifted his gaze then, something wrecked behind his dark eyes. "You already know the answer to that."

Your breath caught. He was looking at you differently now. Not with frustration, not with hesitation, but with a kind of certainty that sent heat curling in your stomach.

Then, before you could even process it, he took a step back. "Come with me," he said.

You blinked. "What?"

Beomgyu turned, already heading toward the door. "Come on," he repeated, glancing back at you. "I wanna show you something to prove it."

Something in his voice made your pulse jump. Still, you hesitated. "Show me?"

He didn’t answer. Just held the door open, waiting. And for some stupid, unexplainable reason, your feet started moving.

The walk to his studio was silent. Not tense, not uncomfortable, just charged. You could feel it, the way he was holding something back, something big. His pace was quick, purposeful, like if he didn’t move fast enough, he’d lose his nerve.

When you reached his studio, he pulled out a keycard and swiped it, unlocking the door before stepping inside. You followed hesitantly, eyes flickering over the dimly lit space.

Beomgyu didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he walked over to the soundboard, pressing a few buttons, adjusting the controls. A small red light flickered on in the recording booth.

Your stomach flipped. "What are we doing?" you asked, voice quieter now.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "I want you to hear something."

And then, he pressed play. A soft, melancholic guitar filled the room. Your breath caught immediately. You recognized it before he even started singing. Moonstruck.

But it wasn’t the version you had heard before. It was him. Beomgyu’s voice. Low, warm, just slightly raspy—vulnerable.

Your mind had barely caught up to the fact that he had recorded this himself when he spoke again. "I think you know why I wrote this," he said, voice quiet, steady. Your head snapped toward him, but he wasn’t looking at you.

He was looking at the recording booth. And then, he moved. Slowly, purposefully, he reached for the door handle and pushed it open, nodding his head for you to follow. "Come here."

Your pulse stuttered. You should’ve stopped. Should’ve said something, anything to break whatever the hell was happening right now. But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind you.

Beomgyu pressed a button near the panel, locked. He finally turned to face you then, and, fuck, he was close. "I don’t want anyone interrupting this time," he murmured.

Your breath caught. The air inside the booth was thick, the music still playing softly through the speakers. Beomgyu took another step forward, and this time, you didn’t move away. "You know what this song is about," he said, voice lower now.

You swallowed hard. "Beomgyu—"

"You know," he repeated, softer.

You couldn’t breathe. Because he was right. You knew. You had known since the first time you read the demo, since the first lyric. This was about you. And now, standing here, locked inside a booth with him, his voice bleeding through the speakers, warm and raw and real, you had never been more aware of it.

Beomgyu reached up then, fingers barely grazing your wrist. Not pulling, not pushing. Just there. A question. A hesitation. You didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. But suddenly, there wasn’t space between you anymore. His hand slid up, over your wrist, your forearm, until his fingers curled gently around your jaw. Your lips parted slightly, breath uneven, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Beomgyu’s gaze flickered down to your mouth. And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t messy, just slow, lingering, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. His fingers curled tighter against your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss, to let himself drown in it.

And you let him. Because right now, nothing else mattered. Not the past, not the fear, not the things left unsaid. Right now, there was only this. Only the music, still playing softly in the background. Only him.

The kiss deepened before you even realized it was happening. Beomgyu wasn’t hesitant anymore. He wasn’t uncertain, wasn’t holding back, he was in it, pressing into you with a kind of desperation that made your head spin. His fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your face just the way he wanted, his lips parting against yours, taking.

Your back hit the wall of the recording booth, and he was on you in an instant, one hand braced against the panel behind you, the other sliding down, grazing the side of your neck, the bare skin of your arm, like he needed to feel you.

You barely had a second to breathe before he kissed you again, harder this time, almost rough, a low sound slipping from his throat as you pressed up onto your toes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

"Fuck," he muttered against your mouth, voice already wrecked. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

Your breath hitched. "Then why did you run?"

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, his fingers tightening around your waist. "Because I’m a fucking idiot," he murmured, pressing another kiss against your jaw, then lower, dragging his lips along your neck. "Because I didn’t know if you—"

You cut him off, pulling him back to you, kissing him harder, more insistent. Beomgyu groaned against your lips, his body pressing flush against yours now, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, hiking it up against his hip. His touch burned, warm and firm, like he needed you closer, needed to close the space that still existed between you.

"Tell me to stop," he muttered, his mouth trailing down, lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Tell me to stop, and I swear I will."

You swallowed hard, fingers digging into his back. "I'm not telling you to stop."

That was all it took. Beomgyu made a low, almost guttural noise, like something inside him had just snapped. The next kiss was different. Messier. Hungrier. His hands were everywhere, sliding up under the hem of your shirt, skimming over bare skin, gripping your waist tight enough to leave bruises. Your body arched into his touch, your breathing uneven, heat pooling deep in your stomach as his fingers dug into your hips.

"Say it," he muttered against your lips, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite place. "Say you want me, too."

You let out a shaky breath, barely able to think. "I want you, Beomgyu."

He groaned, pressing his forehead against yours for a split second before kissing you again, slower this time, but deeper, like he wanted to drown in it. Then, suddenly, his grip tightened. He lifted you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the small ledge of the booth, your legs wrapping around his waist, his body slotting between your thighs like it was meant to be there.

Your pulse roared. He was so close now, every inch of him pressed against you, his breath uneven, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the skin just above the waistband of your jeans. "You drive me fucking insane," he muttered, his lips brushing over yours between each word. "I can’t think straight when I’m around you."

You barely had time to process that before his mouth was on your throat again, biting, sucking, dragging his lips down and down and down. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, his hips pressing forward on instinct. The friction made you gasp, your legs tightening around him. "Shit," Beomgyu swore, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your breathing was uneven, your body burning, your skin thrumming with heat where he touched you. Then, slowly, Beomgyu lifted his head. His gaze met yours, dark, unreadable. His hands flexed against your waist, like he was trying to ground himself. "I don’t want to fuck this up," he murmured, voice strained. "Not with you."

Your chest ached. Because he wasn’t saying I don’t want this. He was saying I don’t want to ruin it. Your fingers traced lightly along the back of his neck, your breathing still shaky. "Then don’t," you whispered.

Beomgyu swallowed hard. "I’m trying." He was still close. His forehead was still resting against yours, his hands gripping your waist, his body pressed between your legs like he wasn’t ready to pull away yet.

Your breathing was uneven. So was his. And then, like some invisible force snapped between you, his lips were on yours again. This time, there was no hesitation. He kissed you like he had been starving for this, like he was finally letting himself have what he had wanted for so long. His fingers dug into your waist, pulling you against him, his body heat swallowing you whole as his mouth moved against yours, deep and urgent.

You gasped slightly when he tilted your chin up, angling the kiss deeper, his tongue teasing against yours just enough to make your stomach tighten.

You felt like you were burning. Everywhere he touched, everywhere he pressed, lit up. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair, tugging just enough to make him let out a low, almost desperate sound against your lips. His hips pressed forward, instinctive. "Beomgyu—" you breathed against his mouth, barely able to think.

"Mm?" He didn’t stop. Just kissed along your jaw, down your neck, biting down lightly at the sensitive skin there before soothing it with his tongue.

A shiver ran down your spine. "We should—"

He kissed you again, cutting off your words, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you steady against him. "Say it later," he muttered, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. "Say it after I kiss you again."

And then he did. Harder this time. Deeper. Your body arched into his without thinking, heat curling in your stomach, your hands gripping onto his shirt to keep yourself steady. You could feel everything. His heartbeat, heavy and uneven against your chest. The way his fingers flexed against your skin like he was trying to memorize the way you felt. The low, unsteady sounds he made every time you moved against him, every time you kissed him back just as desperately.

It was too much. You broke away first, chest rising and falling, trying to catch your breath. Beomgyu didn’t move. He stayed close, lips still brushing against yours, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Your fingers were still curled in his hair. His hands were still gripping your waist.

"We should stop," you murmured, forcing the words out before you lost your grip on reality completely. "Beomgyu, we’re— We’re at work. It’s not even noon."

Beomgyu let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fuck." He still didn’t move. You could see it, the way his jaw clenched, his eyes flickering over your lips like he was debating whether to listen to you or keep going anyway. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against your shoulder for half a second before stepping back. "Yeah." His voice was strained, rough. "You’re right."

The air felt thin without him against you. You took a slow breath, trying to calm the racing of your pulse, trying to ignore the way your body still buzzed from his touch. His fingers brushed over your thigh before he pulled away completely, straightening his shirt, raking a hand through his hair.

You slid off the ledge, steadying yourself as you smoothed out your clothes. "I should get back to work," you muttered, voice still slightly breathless. "The album—"

Beomgyu gave a humorless chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah. Right. The album."

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked at each other. Because you both knew, work was the last thing on your minds right now. But still, you turned toward the door, reaching for the handle. "I’ll see you later," you mumbled.

Beomgyu hummed in response, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah."

You pulled the door open, and then, just as you were about to step out, his hand caught your wrist. Before you could even process it, he tugged lightly, just enough to make you turn back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against your lips. It was barely a second. Barely anything. But it hit you like a fucking meteor. He pulled away just as quickly, his eyes flickering over your face, watching your reaction. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Because what the fuck was that? Not the heat, not the urgency, not the kind of kiss that made your head spin and your knees weak, but something softer. Warmer. Something that made your stomach tighten in an entirely different way.

Beomgyu’s lips quirked upward slightly, like he could see the way your brain had short-circuited. "Go work," he murmured.

You blinked. "Right." And then, without another word, you turned and walked out, your heart still pounding.

You spent the rest of the afternoon in your studio. Hours passed. You barely noticed.

The only thing grounding you was the music, the way it pulsed through your headphones, the way it filled every inch of your studio. The way it made everything else, the tension, the heat, the weight of Beomgyu’s touch, fade just enough for you to breathe.

Your fingers moved instinctively, layering melodies, adjusting levels, smoothing over instrumentals. Every track you touched felt electric, the ideas spilling out of you faster than you could process them. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, you let it take over.

The hours blurred together, stretching into one long, unbroken moment of creation. A new beat took shape, fast, sharp, pulsing with urgency. You molded it into something heavier, something alive. You adjusted the bass, the synths, the vocal layers, adding a deeper texture, something that ached in all the right ways.

Then another track, smoother, melancholic, intimate in a way that made your chest tighten. You let the guitar linger in places it normally wouldn’t, let the reverb stretch out just enough to make it feel like the song was breathing.

Another, this one bold, unrelenting, filled with heat and confidence. It demanded attention, crackled with something fierce. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Your eyes flickered to the screen as the tracklist took shape in front of you:

XO (Only If You Say Yes) Your Eyes Only Hundred Broken Hearts Brought The Heat Back Paranormal Royalty

A solid foundation. A damn good foundation. By the time you finally leaned back in your chair, exhaustion was creeping in, settling into your limbs, but there was a different kind of satisfaction sitting beside it. Because you had done it. Most of your work was done. And maybe, just maybe, you had needed this. The music. The escape. The chance to turn everything swimming in your head into something real.

With a deep breath, you saved the files, powered down your setup, and began gathering your things. Your jacket, your bag, your phone, shoving everything into place as you checked the time. Late.

The sun had already set by the time you stepped outside. The air was crisp, the streets quieter now, the city humming with the distant sounds of life. You exhaled, adjusting the strap of your bag over your shoulder as you turned toward the metro station.

And then—

"You took your time."

Your steps faltered. Beomgyu was waiting. Leaning against the side of the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his head tilted slightly as he watched you.

Your brows furrowed. "What are you doing here?"

Beomgyu smirked. "Told you I had until the album dropped for you to change your mind."

You blinked. "Change my mind about what?"

His smirk widened. "About getting a drink with me."

You stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, pushing off the wall, stepping closer. "You spent the whole day in that studio. You need a break."

Your lips parted slightly, caught between irritation and something closer to amusement. "And you decided you’d be the one to provide it?"

Beomgyu shrugged. "Obviously."

You shook your head, exhaling. "I was planning to go home."

"Okay," he said easily. "You can still go home."

You frowned. "What?"

"After one drink," he clarified. "Then you can go home."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head again. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," he mused, rocking back on his heels, "you’re still standing here, considering it."

Your jaw clenched. Because he wasn’t wrong. The exhaustion was still there, but so was something else, something that made you hesitate, something that made you want to say yes. Beomgyu noticed.

And so he tilted his head, lowering his voice just slightly. "Come on, Y/N. Just one."

You stared at him for another long moment. Then, before you could stop yourself, "Fine."

Beomgyu smirked, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he led the way. "You know," he mused, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, "you’re a lot more fun when you don’t overthink things."

You scoffed. "I’m not overthinking anything."

He grinned. "Then why do you look like you’re already regretting this?"

You huffed, shoving your hands into your jacket. "I’m not."

Beomgyu just hummed, like he didn’t believe you, but didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, he turned down a quieter street, leading you toward a bar tucked between two buildings, a cozy-looking place, warm light spilling from the windows, the scent of grilled meat drifting through the air.

You hesitated. "This is where we’re going?"

Beomgyu glanced at you, amused. "Why? You don’t like barbecue?"

Your stomach growled at the thought. You sighed. "I do, a lot."

He just smirked, pushing open the door. Inside, the atmosphere was just as inviting as the smell. Low, warm lighting. Laughter. The quiet clinking of glasses. The faint crackle of meat sizzling on the built-in grills at the tables. It was comfortable. And you hated that it made you relax a little.

Beomgyu led you toward an open table near the back, sliding into the seat beside you instead of across from you, leaning back like he had done this a thousand times before. Which, knowing him, he probably had. "You come here a lot," you muttered, glancing around.

He grinned. "I have good taste."

You rolled your eyes. A server appeared, and Beomgyu barely had to glance at the menu before ordering beef short ribs, pork belly, a few side dishes, and two cold beers.

You raised an eyebrow. "Ordering for me now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, tapping his fingers against the table. "You like barbecue. You like beer. I connected the dots."

You leaned back, crossing your arms. "What if I suddenly decided I hate all those things?"

Beomgyu smirked, resting his chin in his hand as he looked at you. "Then you’d be lying." You narrowed your eyes at him.

The beers arrived first. Beomgyu picked up his glass, tilting it slightly toward you. "To finishing most of the album in one day."

You huffed, clinking your glass against his. "To having nothing better to do than drag me to a bar."

Beomgyu just grinned before taking a sip. The beer was cold, smooth, the kind that went down easily after a long day. And as much as you hated to admit it, this, the warmth of the place, the comfort of the food, the quiet hum of conversation around you, felt nice.

You set your glass down, glancing at him. "Alright," you muttered. "You win. This isn’t terrible."

Beomgyu smirked, leaning in slightly. "High praise coming from you."

You scoffed, taking another sip. "Don’t get used to it."

And then, the food arrived. Plates of sizzling meat, steaming side dishes, the aroma so good that your stomach twisted with hunger. Beomgyu grabbed a pair of tongs, flipping the short ribs on the grill, moving with too much ease.

You eyed him. "You really come here a lot."

He smirked. "Told you."

You sighed, watching as he expertly cooked the meat, barely thinking before reaching for the lettuce wraps, stacking up the perfect bite, then placing it in front of you. Your eyebrows lifted. "Are you seriously making me food right now?"

Beomgyu shrugged, sipping his beer. "What, you want me to feed it to you, too?"

You scoffed. "I can make my own wrap, Beomgyu."

"Yeah, but I already did it." He nodded toward the plate. "So eat."

You rolled your eyes but took it anyway, biting into the warm, flavorful wrap. You weren’t sure if it was the exhaustion, the hunger, or the fact that Beomgyu was sitting so close, watching you eat with an amused expression, but something about this moment made your chest feel too full. You pushed the thought away.

"So?" he asked, watching you chew.

You swallowed, setting your chopsticks down. "It’s fine."

He snorted. "You are so bad at compliments."

"No," you corrected, taking another sip of beer. "I just don’t like boosting your ego."

Beomgyu grinned. "Too late for that."

The conversation flowed easier after that. The second beer turned into a third. The food disappeared, leaving just the sound of clinking glasses, the occasional glance that lingered too long, the way your shoulders brushed when you leaned forward to reach for something.

Somewhere between another drink and another teasing remark, you realized something: You were having fun. And Beomgyu knew it. His smirk never wavered, his eyes never left yours for too long, his voice never dropped that teasing lilt that made your pulse stutter more than it should. And maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was just him.

But as you sat there, half-listening to him ramble about some ridiculous story, you realized, you didn’t really want the night to end. And by the time the last plate had been cleared and the third beer had been emptied, you were warm all over. Not drunk. Just loose.

The world felt a little softer around the edges, your limbs lighter, your thoughts slower but comfortable. Beomgyu, across from you—no, beside you, because he had sat next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world—was in the same state, his body relaxed, his usual sharp-edged energy dulled by alcohol and good food.

You tapped your fingers idly against the table, staring at the condensation on your glass. "So," you muttered, "you never told me—what do you think of the album name?"

Beomgyu blinked, then frowned slightly, turning his head to look at you properly. "What album name?"

You exhaled, stretching your arms over your head. "The one Baekhyun’s thinking about. ‘Files of Romance.’"

His reaction was instant. Beomgyu made a face like you had just told him the worst news imaginable. "Nah, not my personal taste."

You raised an eyebrow. "You hate it that much?"

"Hate is a strong word—" he paused, reconsidering. "—but yeah, I fucking hate it."

You laughed. "Why?"

Beomgyu turned in his seat, facing you fully now, one arm resting on the back of your chair. "Because it sounds like some 2010 Wattpad fanfiction. ‘Files of Romance’—what is this, a collection of love letters? A secret diary? An unfinished manuscript?*"

You smirked, tilting your head. "It’s poetic."

"It’s cheesy," he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip of beer. "Okay, then what would you call it?"

Beomgyu hummed, thinking for a moment. Then, he looked at you. And something in his gaze shifted. His smirk faded, not completely, but enough for you to notice the way his expression softened slightly. "Romance: Untold."

The words settled between you like something heavy. Your fingers stilled against your glass. "Untold?"

He nodded. "Because that’s what this album is, isn’t it? All these songs, all these stories—" he tapped his fingers against the table, voice dropping slightly. "It’s about things people don’t say out loud. Feelings left unsaid. The in-between moments, the things you can’t admit, the things you only let yourself feel when no one’s looking."

Suddenly, this wasn’t about the album anymore. Beomgyu wasn’t looking at you like a producer talking about work. He wasn’t critiquing an idea, wasn’t just throwing out another title. He was talking about you and him.

Your lips parted slightly, heart picking up speed. "That’s…" you hesitated. "That’s actually not bad."

Beomgyu grinned. "Not bad? Come on, admit it—you like it."

You exhaled, shaking your head. "You’re impossible."

"And you’re predictable," he countered easily, taking another sip of his beer. "You act like you hate everything I say, but deep down, you know I’m right most of the time."

You scoffed. "Most of the time?"

"Mm-hmm." He leaned in slightly, his smirk turning just a bit more smug. "Like right now."

Your eyes narrowed. "Beomgyu—"

"Say it," he murmured, voice lower now, the playful edge still there but thicker, like something else was creeping beneath it. "Say you like the name."

You exhaled sharply, pressing your lips together. He was so annoying. But also, he was right. You sighed. "Fine. It’s… a good name."

Beomgyu smirked, triumphant. "See? I always win."

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip. "You don’t always win."

"Pretty close to always," he teased, nudging your leg under the table. "And anyway—" his gaze flickered over you briefly before settling on your lips. "I get the feeling you like it when I win."

You swallowed, shifting in your seat, trying to ignore the way your skin felt hot under his gaze. "You’re drunk."

Beomgyu smirked. "Tipsy."

"Same thing."

"Not even close." His fingers tapped against his glass, his smirk lingering. "You just don’t wanna admit I’m fun outside of work."

You snorted. "Fun is a strong word."

"And yet," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "you’re still here."

He wasn’t wrong. You could’ve left at any time. You could’ve said no to this drink. You could’ve cut this conversation short the second it started feeling like more than just talking. But you didn’t. And now, sitting here, so close to him, so aware of every movement he made, every glance, every shift in his voice, you couldn’t pretend that it was just because of the album anymore.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to look away. "We should probably head out soon."

Beomgyu hummed, like he knew exactly what you were doing but didn’t feel like calling you out on it. "Yeah, yeah."

Neither of you moved. Instead, he let his arm stretch across the back of your chair, fingers tapping against the wood in a slow, easy rhythm. "Romance: Untold," he repeated, more to himself now. "Yeah. I like it."

You exhaled. "Me too."

And somehow, you knew, this wasn’t just about the album. This was about you and him. The story neither of you had told yet. But one that, deep down, you both knew was already being written.

The night air was cooler now, a crisp contrast to the warmth still buzzing under your skin from the drinks. The street outside the bar was quiet, only the occasional car passing by, headlights flickering against the pavement.

Beomgyu stretched his arms over his head, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Alright, let’s get you home."

You raised an eyebrow. "You’re not driving."

"Obviously not," he said, rolling his eyes. "I’m not a fucking idiot."

You let out a breathy laugh. "So what’s your plan?"

Beomgyu tilted his head, smirking. "Gonna take the subway with you."

You blinked. "You don’t have to do that."

"I know." He started walking. "Come on."

You hesitated, but ultimately followed, falling into step beside him. The subway station wasn’t far. The streets were quieter here, the hum of neon signs flickering against the damp pavement. It felt… nice. Comfortable. Like the two of you had slipped into something easier than usual.

The train arrived just as you stepped onto the platform. You both boarded, sliding into a seat near the back of the car. "So," you mused, resting your head against the window. "Tell me something I don’t know about you."

Beomgyu hummed, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Something good or something stupid?"

"Good," you said. "And don’t say something obvious."

Beomgyu smirked, tapping his fingers against his knee. "I’ve wanted to do music since I was ten."

You blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah." He leaned back, gaze flickering up toward the train ceiling like he was remembering something. "I used to listen to my older brother’s CDs all the time—Nirvana, Radiohead, The Strokes, My Bloody Valentine. I’d sit in my room with those shitty little wired headphones and just obsess over the sounds, the production, the way the lyrics hit different when you were alone in the dark."

You tilted your head, watching him. "I never took you for a rock band guy."

Beomgyu scoffed. "What, you think I only listen to industry shit?"

"I mean… kinda."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Wow. The disrespect."

You laughed. "Okay, okay. What’s your favorite album of all time?"

Beomgyu exhaled, tapping his fingers against the seat. "Damn. That’s hard."

"Come on," you nudged his knee with yours. "You’re a music guy. You have to have a number one."

He thought for a second. "‘Loveless’ by My Bloody Valentine."

Your brows lifted. "Shoegaze?"

"Shoegaze," he confirmed. "That album changed me."

You smirked. "Oh, so it’s that serious?"

"It’s life-changing serious," he said. "I mean, listen to ‘When You Sleep’ and tell me that shit doesn’t make you wanna dissolve into the floor."

You chuckled. "Okay, fine. I’ll listen."

"You better."

The conversation flowed easily after that. Beomgyu rambled about different albums, breaking down the exact moment he fell in love with certain sounds, which producers he admired, which live performances made him feel something real.

And you listened. Really listened. Because even though he talked a lot—too much, sometimes—this was different. This was Beomgyu talking about the thing he loved. And it made you want to know more.

By the time you reached your stop, the train car was nearly empty. The streets were quieter now, the air even cooler. Beomgyu walked beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his usual smirk still tugging at his lips. And then, without warning, his arm slung over your shoulders.

You stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"

Beomgyu grinned. "Relax. You looked cold."

You scoffed, but didn’t pull away. "You just wanted an excuse to be annoying."

"And?" he teased. "Is it working?"

"Always."

Beomgyu chuckled, squeezing your shoulder lightly before letting his arm stay there, draped over you like it belonged there. And, for some reason, you let it. By the time you reached your apartment building, the air between you had shifted again, lighter, charged, something humming just beneath the surface.

Beomgyu turned to face you, his smirk softer now. "Well, that was fun."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You admit I’m fun now?"

"I didn’t say that." He grinned. "I said that was fun."

You rolled your eyes, stepping toward your door. "Whatever."

But before you could reach for the handle, Beomgyu caught your wrist. You turned. And suddenly, he was right there. Closer than he had been all night. The teasing was gone from his face. His eyes flickered between yours, his fingers still wrapped loosely around your wrist. And then, he leaned in. Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was giving you time to stop him.

But just as his lips were inches from yours, the door swung open.

"Well," Yeonjun’s voice rang out, amusement laced through every word. "What do we have here?"

Your stomach dropped. Beomgyu’s entire body went rigid. Yeonjun grinned, stepping onto the porch, holding a tied-up trash bag in one hand. "I was just taking out the garbage, but this is much more interesting."

You groaned, pulling away from Beomgyu instantly. "Yeonjun."

"What?" Yeonjun feigned innocence, looking between the two of you. "I didn’t know we were having late-night meetings outside the apartment."

Beomgyu exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Great timing, dude."

"I try my best." Yeonjun smirked. "So… are you gonna kiss, or should I give you some privacy?"

"Yeonjun, I swear to God—"

"Alright, alright, I’m going!" He held up his hands, stepping off the porch with a laugh. "But we will be talking about this later, Y/N."

You shot him a glare as he disappeared down the walkway, humming to himself. The second he was out of earshot, you huffed. "Unbelievable."

A beat of silence passed. "So…" Beomgyu shifted, glancing at you. "Where were we?"

A slow smirk tugged at Beomgyu’s lips. His head tilted slightly, his eyes flickering down to your mouth, just for a second, just enough for your breath to catch. He was waiting. Waiting to see if you’d push him away, if you’d roll your eyes and disappear inside, if you’d cut this tension off before it turned into something real.

But you didn’t. And that was all he needed. Beomgyu took a slow step forward, closing the space between you with the kind of confidence that sent your heart slamming against your ribs. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant for only a moment before he tilted his chin down, leaning in. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t urgent or rough or anything close to what you had before. It was gentle. Soft in a way that made your stomach flip, slow in a way that made your knees feel weak, like he had all the time in the world to memorize the way you felt beneath his lips. Beomgyu wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t taking. He was giving. And you let yourself take it.

Your fingers curled against the front of his jacket, tugging slightly as you kissed him back, sinking into the warmth of it, the quiet rightness of it. Beomgyu let out a soft sound against your lips, half a sigh, half a laugh, before tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make your stomach tighten.

His hand came up, brushing against your cheek, fingers tracing the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to remember this. Like he had wanted this for too long. You could feel his smile against your mouth, feel the way his fingers flexed slightly, like he wanted to pull you closer but was holding back.

And then, someone cleared their throat. Loud. Pointed. Beomgyu stilled for half a second, then pulled back, blinking like he had just been shaken out of something. Slowly, almost painfully, you turned toward the sound.

Yeonjun. Standing in the hallway. Arms crossed. Smirking. "Really?" he mused. "Right outside the door?"

Your stomach dropped. "Yeonjun—"

"You guys didn’t even wait five minutes after I left?" he continued, shaking his head. "Damn, Beomgyu. You work fast."

Beomgyu groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "For the love of God—"

Yeonjun just grinned as he stepped inside. "Don’t let me stop you. I was just coming back."

You wanted to die. You wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole. Beomgyu exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before taking a small step back, running a hand through his hair.

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the way your skin burned. "I should go inside."

Beomgyu looked at you, his expression unreadable for half a second before he smirked. "Yeah. Probably."

You hesitated. "Goodnight, Beomgyu."

He tilted his head. "Goodnight, Y/N."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in one last time. A quick, teasing peck against your lips. Barely a second. Barely anything. But it sent your stomach spiraling.

Then, before you could even react, he turned toward the stairs, shoving his hands into his pockets. "See you at work," he called over his shoulder. And with that, he disappeared.

The second the door shut behind you, your back met the wood, and you let out a sharp breath. What the fuck just happened? Your fingers hovered over your lips, the ghost of Beomgyu’s kiss still lingering, the warmth of his touch still burning on your skin. Your heart was still racing, your mind still spinning, and—

"Oh, this is so good," Yeonjun’s voice cut through your spiral, full of glee.

You groaned. "Please. Shut up."

author's note: i hate to do this… but we’re getting a part 3. there was just too much to fit into this chapter, and things are about to get tense next time. if you want to be on the taglist for the next part, let me know in the comments!

ALSO i wrote this fic way before beomgyu even announced PANIC 😭😭 so pls go give him all the love bc he looks AMAZING the song is perfect and i swear the beomgyu i wrote is the same beomgyu who wrote panic did i just win????? 😭💘

taglist: @czennieszn @iyoonjh @shycreationdreamland @beomsdoll @whatblop @cbgtopia @enhaloveeee @hyunj00 @jnysaln @woncheecks @soobinslvr13 @kejingken @v1shwa-xo @yeovnjin @c1eod1n3 @etherealid7 @naeyerys

part 1 // part 2 // part 3

[shy9-29]

Project: Park Sunghoon

“she fell first, he fell harder,” - enhypen campus series

୨ৎ After their first date, you and Sunghoon slowly built something real—filled with quiet moments, lingering touches, and kisses that spoke louder than words. He never said much, but every look, every smile, and every soft “I love you” proved he was all in. ✉️ wc. 3.1k - quiet 박성훈 x talkative yn | READ PART 1 FIRST

🏷️ @fancypeacepersona @k1ttyjwon @m1kkso @enjakey @motherscrustytoenailclippings @dearestdreamies @wonuziex @jendeuke-bae @haerni @koizekomi @mariegibeau @sheseung @httpenhoon @sievenderz @rikifever @skzenhalove @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @bloomiize @starnaris @pinknjm @marimariiisblog @blckorchidd @doririsstuff @tobiosbbyghorl @aeminju @blueserpent1 @aheewonenthusiast @katarinamae @aheewonenthusiast @rhinoracha

The conversation lulled back into the quiet rhythm of the evening, the soft clinking of silverware and distant chatter from other tables filling the gaps. You found yourself lost in the peacefulness of it, the unexpected calm that came with being with Sunghoon. It wasn’t like the dates you had imagined, with awkward silences or forced attempts at conversation. No, this felt… different. Comfortable. Still a little new, but not uncomfortable.

And then, almost out of nowhere, Sunghoon spoke up again.

“So… how’s your dad?” he asked, voice low but sincere. “I know you were rushing the other day because of him… is everything okay?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you were taken aback. Sunghoon wasn’t the type to dig deep into personal matters. At least, you didn’t think he was. But here he was, asking with a kind of quiet concern that made your chest tighten.

You smiled faintly, trying to push down the little wave of worry that always seemed to hit whenever you thought about your dad. “Yeah, he’s doing better. It was just a scare, but he’s stable now. Thanks for asking.”

Sunghoon nodded, his gaze soft as he listened intently. It was strange—how even in his silence, he somehow made you feel heard. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said quietly.

You couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, his genuine care reminding you of just how much he had been paying attention. Even when he wasn’t speaking, he was listening. It wasn’t something you were used to. The way he saw you—fully and quietly—was starting to feel more like a gift than anything else.

There was another pause between you two, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind. It was the kind that came with understanding, with trust. And just as you were about to say something, Sunghoon caught your eye and gave you a small, reassuring smile.

“Really, though,” he added, his voice still soft but with a hint of something else—maybe a little relief. “If you ever need someone to talk to… you can always talk to me.”

Your heart did a small flip at the sincerity in his words. You were so used to talking to Stella, Sunoo, and everyone else about your dad, but Sunghoon was different. The way he said it made you feel like he meant it—really meant it.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you simply nodded, your own smile gentle. “Thanks, Sunghoon. I appreciate it.”

For a moment, the quiet between you two didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Instead, it felt like something you could both share—slowly, surely, one moment at a time.

So that’s what you did.

Through the summer, all you did was talk. You talked about everything—stupid things, serious things, things you hadn’t even realized were weighing on you until he looked at you with that quiet patience that said go ahead, I’ll be here. And he listened. Always listened. Sometimes he’d raise an eyebrow and hit you with a dry, borderline judgmental “really?” that made you laugh too loud, but that was about the most dramatic reaction you’d get from him. Still, it was enough.

You found yourself gravitating to his place more often than not. Not because you didn’t love being at home or with Stella or Sunoo—but because Stella had a very bad habit of inserting herself into every single moment between you two. One time she handed Sunghoon a fake engagement ring “just in case,” and you were still recovering from the secondhand embarrassment.

So Sunghoon’s apartment became a quiet little bubble of peace. Your peace.

And the first time you stepped into Park Sunghoon’s place, it was—

Wow.

Minimalist. Clean. Not overly sterile, but everything had its place, its vibe. Warm light spilled across soft gray walls and wooden floors. His bookshelves were filled with neatly organized psychology books, a random snow globe collection you absolutely did not expect, and a few faded photo booth strips tucked into the corner of a corkboard. The air smelled faintly of fresh laundry and cedar.

You just stood there in the doorway for a second, blinking. “This is… not what I expected,” you said slowly, toeing off your shoes.

Sunghoon, already heading to the kitchen, raised a brow. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Skater boy chaos. A dark cave. You, sleeping on a mattress on the floor with no bedframe.”

“Why does everyone think I live like a stray cat?” he muttered.

You grinned and dropped your bag on the couch, already making yourself at home. “Because you have the personality of one sometimes.”

And he just shook his head, fighting a smile, and disappeared into the kitchen—where you would soon follow, probably talking his ear off the entire time.

Just like always.

Things with Sunghoon were… slow. Like, glacial.

It had already been a month since that first date. A full four weeks of library meetups that turned into late-night takeout on his couch, shared playlists, accidental naps beside each other, and you—talking more than ever. He’d always listen, always be there, sometimes with that unreadable expression, sometimes with a hidden smile, and sometimes with those rare but deadly one-liners that made your heart do weird things in your chest.

But the most you’d gotten?

Hand-holding.

Once.

And even that felt like a fever dream. You were walking back to his place late one night after getting boba, and the streets were quiet in that eerie way—dark, empty, too still. You weren’t scared-scared, but you had clutched your tote bag a little tighter and stepped a little closer.

Without saying anything, Sunghoon had just… reached over and grabbed your hand. Not in a dramatic way. Not even in a nervous way. Just calm and casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your brain had short-circuited.

You remembered staring at your joined hands like it was some foreign object. His palm was warm, fingers longer than yours, steady and grounding. And then—just as quietly—he kept walking like nothing happened. He didn’t even look at you.

He didn’t let go until you were standing outside his apartment.

And that was it. That one time.

No kisses. No cuddles. No “are-we-actually-dating” talk. Nothing.

Just you, absolutely losing your mind alone in your room later that night, texting Sunoo and Stella in all caps like, HE HELD MY HAND I REPEAT CONTACT HAS BEEN MADE.

Meanwhile, Sunghoon texted you:

let me know when you get home safe

And then: and charge your phone next time. it was at 2%.

Classic. Park Sunghoon.

A boy who listened. A boy who cared.

A boy who was driving you insane.

It had been brewing for days.

Maybe even weeks, if you were being honest. That quiet, crawling frustration that came with almost. You were always almost touching, almost kissing, almost something more than whatever this slow-burn nightmare was.

And tonight? Tonight was your villain origin story.

Because Park Sunghoon stood in his kitchen, sleeves rolled up, black apron tied around his waist, casually stirring ramen like he didn’t just look criminally attractive. The dim kitchen light hit the curve of his jaw way too well, and his glasses kept sliding down the bridge of his nose in a way that should’ve been illegal.

And there you were—sitting on his counter like a pathetic little extra in your own love story, watching him exist and trying not to explode.

You crossed your arms. Uncrossed them. Crossed them again.

He looked up, noticed your silence, and cocked his head slightly. “You okay?”

That did it.

“No,” you said, sharp and sudden.

He blinked, surprised. “No?”

You hopped off the counter, suddenly filled with chaotic, unhinged bravery. “No, Sunghoon. I’m not okay. I’ve been coming here for weeks, we talk, we eat, you touch my hand once like we’re in a coming-of-age indie movie and then go right back to acting like we’re not clearly into each other—are we into each other? Actually, screw it. What are we?”

The room fell dead silent.

Sunghoon froze with the ladle halfway out of the pot, his lips parted slightly like his brain was buffering.

You stared at him, heart pounding in your throat, adrenaline burning hot in your cheeks. “Seriously. I need to know. Because I can’t keep doing this ‘slow burn friends but maybe not but maybe yes’ thing. I’ve been patient. But I’m not a psychic. I can’t keep guessi—”

And then he kissed you.

No warning. No slow build. Just one hand cupping your jaw as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours, effectively shutting you up mid-rant.

You froze. Breath caught. Time stopped.

When he pulled back, his voice was quiet, steady. “There. Does that answer your question?”

You blinked at him, stunned silent for the first time in your life.

He raised an eyebrow. “You were saying?”

You swallowed. “I—um. I don’t remember.”

He gave a rare, satisfied smile and turned back to the stove. “Good. Want eggs in your ramyeon?”

You stared at him. “You’re so lucky you’re cute.”

He didn’t look up, but you heard the smile in his voice when he replied—

“I know.”

Sunghoon wasn’t great with words. He never had been.

You’d picked up on that early—how he’d go quiet when things got too serious, how he’d watch you more than speak, how his feelings lived in the way he looked at you rather than the things he said. But you didn’t mind. Because somewhere along the way, you realized that with him, silence wasn’t cold. It was safe.

And instead of talking, Sunghoon kissed you.

You slipped on Sunghoon’s hoodie, the fabric swallowing you whole. It was too big—way too big—but it felt comforting, warm, and somehow, it smelled like him. The way it hung off your shoulders, the sleeves so long that you had to roll them up just to use your hands, made you feel oddly protected, like you were wrapped up in his world.

You walked into the living room, ready to hang out, when you saw him sitting on the couch. His eyes flicked over to you, immediately catching the sight of you in his hoodie. His gaze lingered, and for a moment, the usual silence between you two seemed to stretch just a little longer than usual.

Then, without a word, Sunghoon stood up, the space between you two shrinking rapidly. His hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, and his fingers lingered along your jaw.

And before you could say anything, he kissed you.

It wasn’t slow or hesitant. It wasn’t soft and shy. It was urgent, like he’d been holding back for too long. His lips were warm, sure, confident as they pressed against yours, the weight of his kiss pulling you closer, making you forget about the awkwardness that had once lingered between you two.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, soft but intense. “You look better in my hoodie than I do,” he muttered, voice low, as if the kiss had left him breathless.

You blinked, still reeling from the sudden kiss. “What?”

He kissed you again, just as quickly, cutting off your words. When he pulled back this time, he gave you a small, teasing smile. “You just look… good. In general. Always.

You couldn’t find words. All you could do was smile back, your heart pounding in your chest.

As time went on, Sunghoon started to shift, just a little. He still wasn’t exactly a fountain of words, but something had changed between the two of you. Maybe it was the way you both learned each other’s rhythms, the comfortable silence that stretched between you two like a blanket that fit just right.

At first, it was small things. He’d sit a little closer to you on the couch. His hand would brush against yours in a casual, almost absent way, but his fingers would linger, just long enough for you to feel the quiet weight of his touch. Then, one evening, when you were watching something, he simply leaned his head onto your shoulder. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even acknowledge it. He just rested there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You froze for a moment, unsure how to react. But the longer he stayed there, the more you realized how much you liked it. It wasn’t anything grand or over-the-top. It wasn’t even that much of a gesture in the grand scheme of things. But to you, it meant everything.

The next time you were sitting on the couch, reading something on your phone, he just draped his arm around your shoulders. Not asking for permission, not needing to say anything—he just did it. And when you didn’t pull away, he leaned in and kissed the top of your head, soft and fleeting, like he was testing the waters, seeing if you were okay with it.

And when you didn’t flinch, when you didn’t pull away, he started doing it more. He’d rest his head on your lap, your thighs, without so much as a word. Sometimes, he’d even tug you closer to him, wrapping his arms around your waist in an almost possessive way, but it wasn’t controlling. It was just him, wanting to be close. Wanting you to be close.

But even as he became more clingy, more affectionate, he still didn’t talk much. He didn’t need to. His actions were louder than his words ever could be.

You’d find yourself lying next to him, his arm around you, his chest pressed against your side. His breathing was steady, calming, and even though he didn’t say much, you could feel his presence in a way that words never managed to convey. And even in that quiet, you knew something was growing between you two. Something that was deeper than just hugs or casual touches.

It was the way he would lean into you when you were watching a movie, or the way he’d sneakily grab your hand when no one was looking, or the way he’d wait for you at the door when you were running late, without making a single sound, just quietly waiting for you to be ready.

And somehow, with every little moment, he became more yours. Even without speaking much, he was opening up to you in ways that were enough to make your heart swell. He was showing you that he cared in his own quiet way, and you didn’t need anything else.

It was a peaceful evening, and you were curled up on the couch with Sunghoon, your head resting against his chest. He hadn’t said much the whole night, but that was nothing new. Instead, the comfort of his presence, the warmth of his body against yours, and the sound of his steady heartbeat were more than enough. He was always like this, quiet but present, and in that silence, you found a kind of understanding that words could never quite capture.

You’d been texting Stella earlier, and she’d mentioned she was staying at Sunoo’s for the night. They were just friends, so you weren’t too concerned, but you did wonder why they hadn’t planned to stay out longer.

Either way, it was just you and Sunghoon now, and you didn’t want the night to end. You felt safe and content with him, wrapped up in his arms on the couch. The two of you were practically fused together, your legs tangled, his arm loosely draped over your waist.

You couldn’t help but feel a little giddy, like this was the moment you’d been waiting for. It wasn’t grand gestures or loud declarations—it was just the quiet comfort of being with him. You nestled in closer, the soft fabric of his hoodie brushing against your skin, and for once, you didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with words. You were happy just being.

But then, a loud noise from the front door jolted you both out of your little bubble. You lifted your head just in time to see Stella and Sunoo walking in, both looking a little surprised to see you and Sunghoon on the couch together.

“Wait, you guys are here?” Stella asked, her eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon, her voice tinged with confusion. “I thought you were… well, you know… doing your own thing tonight?”

You quickly sat up, realizing you must’ve looked a little too comfortable, probably too couple-y for them to walk in on. “I thought you were staying at Sunoo’s,” you said, trying to play it cool, but your cheeks were burning a little.

Sunoo, ever the curious observer, raised an eyebrow. “You two look like you’re about to fall asleep here. What’s going on?”

Before you could respond, Stella held up her phone with a sheepish grin. “I forgot my charger. Sorry for the interruption.”

You quickly glanced at Sunghoon, feeling a little awkward now that the moment had been interrupted. But when you looked at him, he was still calm, relaxed, as if nothing had changed. He just gave a small shrug, his usual quiet self.

“No problem,” he said simply, not really fazed. And somehow, his easy-going response made everything feel a little less awkward, even as Sunoo and Stella exchanged curious glances.

Stella dropped her bag by the door, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Well, we’ll just leave you two to… whatever this is,” she said with a wink before grabbing her charger off the counter and heading upstairs with Sunoo.

You couldn’t help but laugh nervously as Sunghoon adjusted himself on the couch. The quiet between you was familiar, comfortable again, and though the moment had been interrupted, you knew the night was far from over. With Sunghoon, it never felt like things were rushed. Everything just seemed to fall into place when you were together, no pressure, no expectations.

You snuggled back into his side, and this time, the quiet between you felt even more peaceful than before.

The room was quiet again, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Stella and Sunoo moved around upstairs. You had long since settled back into Sunghoon’s side, your body finally succumbing to the fatigue of the night. The warmth of his body and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest were so comforting that you couldn’t help but drift off, your head nestled against his shoulder.

You were dead to the world, completely asleep and oblivious to anything around you, but it wasn’t long before you started to feel a little… off. A weird sensation on your cheek made you stir, and when you wiped it away in your sleep, it was then you realized what had happened. You had dropped—right onto Sunghoon. You were drooling.

Your heart raced in your sleep, but you didn’t know why at first, until you heard a chuckle. A small, teasing sound that broke through the haze of your sleep.

“Y/N,” Sunghoon’s voice was soft, but playful. You could feel his fingers gently tapping your cheek, as if waking you from a pleasant, yet embarrassing slumber. “You’re drooling on me.”

You woke up with a start, eyes wide and hands flailing in panic, but all that happened was you flopped backward and accidentally bumped into the couch cushion.

“Wh—what?” you stammered, still half asleep, your face heating up in embarrassment as you realized what had happened. “Did I—? Oh my god, I did, didn’t I?”

Sunghoon was trying to hold back laughter, the sound of it bubbling up in his chest as he watched your sleepy confusion. You could see his lips twitching, the smallest of smirks threatening to break free.

With a mischievous glint in his eye, Sunghoon grabbed a pillow from the couch and swung it lightly at you, tapping your forehead. “You’re so cute,” he teased, his voice dripping with a mock-seriousness that you weren’t used to hearing from him.

That was all it took. You were suddenly wide awake, blinking furiously as you registered what had just happened. Sunghoon, the usually quiet and reserved Sunghoon, had playfully hit you with a pillow. And you were going to absolutely not let that slide.

You grabbed the nearest pillow you could find, your eyes narrowing in on him. “Oh, you did not just do that!” you said with mock indignation, then swung it at him as hard as you could.

Sunghoon yelped, stumbling back as the pillow made contact, and you felt a rush of satisfaction. But, in true Sunghoon fashion, he quickly recovered, a smile now fully breaking across his face as he held up his own pillow in defense.

The two of you continued to swat at each other, laughing and playing around. You’d never seen Sunghoon so open, so carefree. Every time your pillow connected with his arm or side, he’d laugh, his deep voice resonating through the room, and every time you missed, you’d both burst into even more laughter.

It wasn’t long before the two of you were sprawled out on the couch, still catching your breath between giggles. The soft sounds of your laughter filled the room, more natural, more in tune than you’d ever imagined it could be. For once, it felt like you weren’t just friends—you were something more, something that made the moment feel like it could last forever.

Sunghoon, who had been quietly watching you, his smile wide and unguarded, finally relaxed back against the couch, his arm slipping around you again. There was a beat of silence between you two, and then, unexpectedly, Sunghoon spoke.

“I love you,” he said, the words soft but undeniably real.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. The air seemed to shift, and for a moment, everything around you went quiet. The confession hung in the air like something both fragile and precious, and you didn’t quite know how to respond at first.

You looked up at him, your heart thudding in your chest. Sunghoon wasn’t usually so open, so this sudden vulnerability caught you off guard.

“I love you,” he repeated, his voice a little quieter this time, but just as certain.

A smile spread across your face, warm and real. “I love you too,” you whispered back, feeling your chest tighten in the best way.

And just like that, the awkwardness you thought might remain between you two vanished. You didn’t need to say anything more. Your hands found each other, your fingers intertwining naturally as you both settled back on the couch, the world outside forgotten.

You didn’t need grand declarations or dramatic gestures. With Sunghoon, it was enough that you knew—he loved you. And you loved him.

enhypen campus series

[ghostlyferrettarot]

🏷️Lets go Shopping! Pick a Picture:🧥👜🥾 What makes you irresistibe🧥👜🥾

•Pile 1 •Pile 2 •Pile 3

❗️This is a collective reading, take what resonates and leave the rest❗️

✨️Paid Services ✨️ (Natal charts and tarot readings) Open!

🫧Join my Patreon for exclusive content!🫧

👾If you like my work you can support me through Ko-fi. Thank you!👾

👽Masterlist👽

Pile 1:

You have an intense and captivating aura, i feel a lot of mistery around you (as weirds as it sound pile 1!). I feel like you are someone who doesn't reveal itself completely; there is a quality in your energy that makes others' feel like they have to make an effort in order to get to know you, which creates this sense of constant facination towards you. I almost feel a siren type of energy coming from you. Instead of seeking attention, you just do you, and mind your own business, and that really intrigues others. You could also read others with ease and connect on deep emotional levels with others, people always want to find out more about you. You could also have a really unique aesthetic, many may really like the way you style yourself and how you hold yourself. People can be captivated by small details about your image, such as your gaze or the way you move, you seem like a very graceful person in general. . You also have the ability to create a unique environment through your words, making people feel drawn to your way of thinking, to your unique perspective on the world. There is something captivating about the way you make others laugh, and that definitely adds to your charm. Extended reading on Patreon: 👀Who has their eyes on you?👀

Pile 2:

Your irresistible charm comes from your radiant energy and self-confidence. You have a light that is not only seen, but felt, people can feel your presence, it's like the energy in the room changes when you arrive. Your energy is like a magnet, and people feel like they want to be around you, the charm that you radiate so naturally. There's something about your smile as well, I feel like you have a really beautiful one; I also feel like your makeup may really suit you and others love it. People are drawn to the way you make them feel, you manage to make everyone feel good just because you carry yourself and the way you speak with confidence. You are very skilled at reading people and knowing what kind of joke or comment will make the situation lighter and more fun. Good humor is one of your strongest skills, and your carefree energy is one of the things that makes you irresistible ;). Extended reading on Patreon: 👀Who has their eyes on you?👀

Pile 3:

What makes you irresistible is your authenticity. There's this serenity that you radiate attracts people because it makes them feel comfortable and accepted just as they are. You don't question your worth or try to impress others; you are simply yourself. I feel like you are someone really down to earth, who sees the beauty in the simple things in life, and others really admire this quality of yourself. I also feel like you are someone who sees the small details that others wouldn't notice, you truly listen and care. What makes you irresistible is the sense of calm and security that you offer others. You are a safe space for those who need peace and someone to trust. Your ability to be authentic and the way you connect with others from a place of acceptance and understanding is what attracts people the most. The peace you project and your ability to inspire confidence make everyone around you feel at ease, and that's one of the reasons why you're so irresistible. Your ideas and creative project could also resonate with so many people, I feel you are someone who makes a big impact on other people's lives; wow this is a really powerful energy pile 3! Extended reading on Patreon: 👀Who has their eyes on you?👀

✈️ 🛍️ 📸 🎧 🎫Thanks for reading and tell me if it resonated ✈️ 🛍️ 📸 🎧 🎫

[c0n-fus3d]

𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝙰 𝙱𝚘𝚢.

(Older!Powder x fem!reader)

I'm sorry but I finished ep 1 of act 3 and had to write this to get my emotions out about ekko and powder being a thing in an alternative reality bcz just RAHHHFHSHEHSHHS my gay ass is crying (no offense to the timebomb shippers, you do you!! If you like this that's cool💪💪) ENGLISH ISN'T MY NATIVE LANGUAGE, IF I MADE SOME SPELLING MISTAKES I'M SORRY ALSO SPOILERS FOR ACT 3!!

Warnings: uhhh just angst, mostly angst, this is for my girlies who might be feeling the same

༺ღ༒ ༺ღ༒ ༺ღ༒ ༒ღ༻

You've always liked Powder, every since you were kids, and still when you are teenagers.

Their was always something about her. The way she made the most creative inventions, the way she always seemed to have some sort of spark in her eyes. Her laugh, her hair, her eyes, it's hard for you to explain the feelings you have towards her.

You knew the way Vi's death was heavy on her, you could see that with the days, and soon years that came after. You we're always trying to be there to support her, make her feel a little better. You gave her space when she needed it, and we're there for her when she needed you the most.

And then there was Ekko.

You never hated Ekko, you 𝙙𝙤𝙣'𝙩 hate Ekko. he was a good guy, you got along with him. He was around Powder nearly just as much as you we're, maybe even a little more. When you were around Powder, he wouldn't take long to show up as well. You didn't mind.

But you couldn't deny that you we're jealous of him, of Ekko. The way he charmed his way into Powder's heart over the years. With his sketches, ideas, personality, kindness and understanding. You wanted what him and Powder had as if what you already had wasn't enough for you. You could see the way she looked at him, how 𝙝𝙚 looked at her the same way.

You often wished it was you instead of him. You try to forget about your jealousy, push it asside. You try to push your jealousy and selfishness asside, keep everything natural between you three. But it got harder and harder the more time went on.

Ekko has been acting strange recently, or at least that's what Powder told you. How he 'seems not to remember anything' and how he says these things about how in a dream her and Vi we're completely different. You noticed yourself too, how he was more around then usual. You assumed it was because of his project or whatever.

Now you find yourself here, on the dance floor in the last drop. Inventions around you everywhere as music and colorful lights fill the bar. You look into the crowd, trying to spot Powder. It took you a whole 5 minutes to finally spot her, but to no suprise, Ekko was there. On the dance floor, with her. Dancing together to the beat of the music like it was just the two of them. You tried to move your eyes away from the sight, let them be happy and together. But the jealousy ate you from the inside out, this all just left a bitter taste on your tongue. It all got so overwhelming so quickly, so you decide to leave the place before you explode and do something stupid.

So you decide to go out to Powder's little Hideout for now and go back once you've cooled down. You look at the massive invention across the room, stunned as fuck how they made this. You don't want to pay too much attention to it though, so you continue walking through the massive space before sitting down in front of the small memorial that Powder made for Vi.

You lighten the place up before just.. Sitting there. You sigh, looking at the picture sat on the desk. Vi always knew you had a thing for Powder, she always encouraged you to tell her how you felt. Whenever the situation was on your mind, you'd go here. You'd talk, like she was still there. Because to you, she was. To everyone, she still was. Now wasn't any different, you talked about what has been going on recently. With Ekko, Powder, and everything else.

"I just.. Don't know what to do, I know I'm supposed to be happy for them.. Ekko is a great guy, a-and if they become a thing, I'll be fine with it but.. Theirs this voice in the back of my mind that just doesn't seem to go away.." You groan, your head in your hands as you thought for a moment.

You knew you couldn't hide your feelings forever. If Powder wasn't going to feel the same way towards you, you might as well tell her what you've been feeling all this time. Just for an answer, a yes or a no. Anything. If she didn't feel anything as well then at least she'd know.

"I'll tell her, tonight. Like you always wanted me to do.. I'll.. I'll get this over with, okay? For you."

You found yourself walking back towards the last drop, but then you see Powder, going in the direction of what you knew to be the place where Vi always took her to. So you decided to follow.

If only you weren't blind enough to see Ekko walking along with her.

You climbed up to the place, heart racing in your chest as you tried to think about the things you could say. Your mind was running a million miles and you tried desperately to calm your nerves.

You we're finally gonna do it, you we're gonna tell her how you feel.

But just as you nearly reach the top, you see her. And Ekko.

Their kissing.

In front of your eyes.

Your heart dropped, hope that you knew was useless in the end shattered as you saw the image.

Wrong fucking timing. You stood there, frozen in time before quickly getting out of there. Trying to hold back the tears that we're threatening to fall.

She likes Ekko. She only likes Ekko. It was never you. Not in childhood, not in teenage years.

She likes a boy. That boy.

Your not that boy, and for now, you had to live with that.

You we're never going to being the one kissing her. It was always going to be him in the end.

[fishbonex]

Sharp thoughts 1/2

Mel Medarda x fem!reader

Summary: Your friendship with Mel slowly begins to crumble.

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, suggestion of sexual acts.

Word Count: 1K

ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.

Mel was easily the best person you had ever met in your life. She was a spectacle in every way. Having her as your friend was comforting and opened many doors for you as an scientist and researcher.

Life seemed good for you, using a high-tech laboratory, with access to everything a scientist could want and thanks to Mel, contacts with several investors who might be interested in your work.

Unfortunately, Mel Medarda was too much for you.

You didn't notice when your heart started to swell when you thought about her, before you realized it, you could no longer think about her without letting out a sigh. Everything about her was... too much.

The delicate face, the graceful way she moves, the constant tinkling that is present due to her gold jewelry, the voice that seems to embrace you when she speaks to you.

You began to find yourself looking forward to her visits to your lab, or to going to see her in her luxurious quarters. This was why you worked so hard, because you loved your research, and so you had something interesting to show her. A reason to see her.

With that in mind, you stayed late in the lab, finishing a report on your latest research. You were going to show it to Mel and as a councilor, she was supposed to read it and debate whether or not to take your study to the next Council meeting.

Scanning quickly to make sure everything was okay, you stood up with a satisfied sigh. Mel's quarters weren't that far away.

You left the Academy building and walked quickly until you reached the large building where Mel's apartment was. Elora wouldn't be there at this time, and Mel had once said that you were welcome to visit her at any time. You entered the elevator and soon arrived in the lobby of the luxurious apartment. Feeling strange about the silence, you thought about calling her, but stopped when you thought you heard something. A sigh.

A moan.

You turned your head, towards where you knew Mel's suite was. You could have heard wrong, you were almost sure of that when you heard it again.

It was her voice. You were sure of it. Then she moaned again. A name this time. Jayce.

Jayce. Jayce Talis.

Your heart sank and your breath caught for a moment, until you realized you were invading her privacy. You turned and left, trying to do as little noise as possible.

You didn't see Mel for the next few days, not because you were trying to avoid her, but because you were busy working on something for Heimerdinger, and she was also working a lot, apparently.

That's why you were slightly startled when the door to your lab opened and the click of her heels was heard, followed by her melodious voice.

"Working so hard that you didn't have time to come see me?" she asked with a slight laugh in her voice. It irritated you.

"What do you mean?" you tried to focus on the project on your desk.

"I heard about the research you did, and that you gave it to Heimerdinger. Why didn't you bring it to me, like always?" she walked over to you and leaned against the desk.

"He was the first counselor I met when I finished, then." you lied, feeling the bitter taste in your mouth.

"Oh, so that's how it is." she let out a playful chuckle. "I thought we had an alliance."

Her presence felt too close, but you swallowed hard and lifted your face, meeting hers.

"Sorry, I just don't have much time to look for you." you sounded more irritated than you wanted.

Her relaxed expression faltered and she straightened her posture. "Hey, I'm just kidding." she brought one of her manicured hands to your forearm.

"Sorry." you shook your head and looked back at the notes on your desk. "I'm just... really annoyed with work."

"We all are. When you have some free time, why don't you come over to my place? I painted something new, I think you'll like it." she offered softly.

You nearly melted at her offer, the earlier irritation almost forgotten, “Sure, I’d love to.”

So that night you took the path you knew so well. The surprise this time wasn't as unpleasant as the last. Jayce was there again, lying down, his head in Mel's lap. She was comforting him about something. An intimate and tender moment. You turned around and left again.

Well, this time you were avoiding her. Leaving the lab at times when you knew she would visit you, avoiding the council building and staying away from her apartment. Elora even came to you, notifying you that Councilor Medarda wanted to see you, but you politely said that you were very busy.

Your irritation worsened when she appointed him as an advisor. It was at that moment that you knew you would never reach her level, no matter what you did.

Your favorite place to be away from the lab was the fountain in the park, with the purple leaves blowing in the wind. That's where you found yourself at the moment, absentmindedly playing with a pen in your hand, waiting for the time to pass.

"You told Elora you had too much work to take the time to see me." the velvety voice spoke from behind you, slightly irritated. "You don't seem very busy right now."

You turned your face to see her standing there, close to the bench where you were sitting.

"Counselor Medarda." you greeted politely. "Forgive me for the misunderstanding-"

"What joke is this?" she said more irritated than before, her serene face distorting into an angry expression. "What's gotten into you?"

"I have to work, Councilor, I'm afraid I'm not the richest woman in Piltover." you hinted. "I can't afford to lose my sponsorships."

"I work too, and at work I don't have many friends. That's why I value the few friendships I have." she walked up to you. "Like yours."

"Oh, you don't have any friends?" you scoffed. "And bed partners?"

"What?" she took a step back, her expression faltering.

"That's exactly what I witnessed when I went to you to deliver my research, counselor." you replied irritably. "But don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

Mel was silent, standing there as you walked back to your lab.

[harrywavycurly]

Sunburnt & Smitten Part 1: Book Boyfriend

Part 2: Here

CW: jealousy, touch of angst, language, clinginess, long haired harry(some of y’all need this as a warning lol).

A/N: This is part 1 of a 2 part collab with @cloudyluun all about clingy Harry with a touch of angst due to his silly jealousy! Also this is unhinged because Harry is unhinged when jealous! Enjoy babes!☀️

Tag List: @umadirectioner @styleswithaseaview @sunflower-tia @tulips4harry @gmikaelson @fangirl509east @howling-wolf97 @outofthisworl-d @namoreno @blckburd @sassamanda77 @maudie-duan

Summary: While on vacation you indulge in a new book leaving Harry feeling a bit neglected making him resort to doing something that shocks even him in the end☀️

Harry lets out a sigh as he sits down on the edge of the bed facing the wall of windows that allows him the perfect view of the ocean as the boat makes it way towards the little secluded beach he intends on spending the next few days at with you by his side. Seeing as the whole reason he really planned this little get away was because during the course of your year long relationship Harry hasn’t felt as if he’s gotten to spend any real quality time with you due to the band’s hectic schedule but now that they are on a break he wants to spend as much time with you as possible before jumping headfirst into a project of his own. So far his plan has worked perfectly, the two of you have been nearly inseparable since you stepped foot on the boat and he’s thoroughly enjoying all the cuddles and the freedom of being able to kiss you whenever he wants without the fear of anyone seeing or having to make it a quick little peck before he’s rushed off somewhere.

Today is the first day since the start of the trip that Harry actually found himself waking up alone, normally he wouldn’t find it that odd considering you’ve always been an early riser and when he’s off on a holiday Harry has been known to enjoy sleeping in a bit but something about waking up alone after so many days of being woken up by you leaving little kisses along his jaw or gently tickling him by running the tip of your finger up and down his sides has him feeling a little off.

Now Harry knows very well that he’s clingy, it’s something he has tried to get a firmer grip on ever since meeting you but in this very moment as he stands up and walks over to the sliding glass door that leads to the deck with the lounge chairs and covered table where breakfast is served, he can’t be bothered to try to control it. A smile slowly works it’s way across his face as he tries to slide the door open as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb you once he sees you lounging on a chair with your sunglasses on and a book in your hand.

All he wants in the moment is his good morning kiss, so as he walks down the two steps to the deck he quickly pulls his hair up into a messy bun before sliding his sunglasses on all while you seemingly appear unaware of his presence. But just as he’s about to take the final step that would have him standing next to your lounge chair you look up from your book and turn your head so you can give him a smile as you slide your sunglasses up into your hair.

“Good morning how did-” Your words are cut off by Harry placing a hand on the back of your chair as he leans down and presses his lips against yours in a kiss that leaves you slightly breathless when he pulls away.

“Woke up all alone.” He pouts making you reach a hand up and cup his cheek as Harry playfully pokes out his bottom lip in a dramatic frown before leaning in for another kiss. “Didn’t like it.” He admits when he pulls away making you let out a light chuckle at his dramatics while he just turns his head so he can give the inside of your palm that’s resting on his cheek a kiss.

“I’m sorry I woke up early and didn’t want to bother you so I came out here to get some sun and start my new book.” You explain as Harry stands up but doesn’t let go of your hand that was just on his face.

“What’s this one about? Or shall I ask who are you shagging? Another hockey star? A cowboy? Or maybe it’s another vamp-”

“Excuse me sir this one is actually about a regular dude named uhm-Raymond? Oh no it’s Ryan-”

“You don’t know the name of the man your fictional self is fucking? Baby that’s not a good sign.” You roll your eyes as Harry brings your hand up to his lips so he can place little kisses over your knuckles.

“I know his name it’s Ryan he just hasn’t been in it that much. I’m only on chapter,” You lift up your book so you can see where you left off. “Three so there’s still a lot left for me to get through and this is only book one there is I think three or four in this series.” Harry just nods as you give him your reasoning as to why you weren’t fully sure if the main character’s name was Ryan or not.

“And what does this normal dude named Ryan do for a living that’s so juicy it needs three-”

“Four. There’s four books.”

“Forgive me love.” He says apologetically as he messes with the ring you have on your index finger. “What does this Ryan bloke do that requires four books to tell his story?”

“He’s a wall street banker of some sort that needs to find a wife because he wants to become CEO of his father’s company but he can’t until he’s married so his mom sets him up with-”

“Wait a minute you mean to tell me your normal dude is actually an extremely wealthy man who needs an arranged marriage?” Harry’s eyebrows are raised as he slides his sunglasses up into his hair with his free hand while you try to tug your hand out of his grasp so you can go back to reading but Harry isn’t having it as his hold on it tightens just slightly.

“Well I meant normal as in he’s not an athlete of any kind or some sort of supernatural thing.” You explain making Harry chuckle as how riled up he’s managed to get you in such little time.

“Ah okay well allow me to let you get back to your story then while I go have some coffee.” Deciding to give you a few moments of peace he smiles as he leans down and gives your lips a few greedy pecks before pulling away and reluctantly letting go of your hand.

“Love you.” You shout as you watch him begin to walk away letting you get comfortable on the chair and open your book so you can get back to reading.

“Love you too.” He says with a smile over his shoulder as he heads to the table near the sliding door that leads to the main bedroom.

Two hours. That’s how long Harry has been staring at you read about this Ryan fellow who isn’t even real but has somehow has managed to hijack his whole morning. What started with Harry wanting to give you some space to enjoy your new book got extended when he got an unexpected phone call from his mom, but that only lasted ten minutes and when he hung up he was fully prepared to drag you onto the lounger that was made for two people but that plan didn’t work out when he walked out onto the deck and heard you laughing at something you just read. And while Harry wishes it was him that was making you laugh he didn’t have it in him to just snatch you out of your moment of literary joy because this is a vacation after all and you deserve to enjoy yourself.

But that was how he felt before the ten extra minutes turned into two whole hours of him having to endure you smiling and giggling at a book that Harry knows is mainly just porn with a bit of plot. He’s done everything in his power to take up as much time as he can, he’s had his coffee, even went as far as ate a full breakfast and laid out in the sun for a bit to see if he could catch a mid morning nap but it was useless because his eyes would shoot open the moment he heard you make even the smallest of noises. So as he sits across from you in his own lounge chair, mentally counting down the minutes until the boat arrives at the private beach he is also contemplating ways to get your attention off of this fake Ryan and onto him, your very real boyfriend.

“Oh..wow.” The sound of your voice oozing with amazement has Harry’s eyes darting over to your face as he sits up in his chair. He turns his head to face you and when he watches you place your book down on your chest as you let out a dreamy sounding sigh Harry can’t help but toss his sunglasses onto the side table that’s between your two loungers in a frustrated huff.

“You okay over there?” He asks as he notices how flushed your cheeks are. After a few moments of silence Harry raises an eyebrow and clears his throat making you jump a bit as if you didn’t even realize Harry had been sitting there.

“Huh? Did-did you say something?” You stutter making him roll his eyes as you sit up, grabbing your book so your thumb is keeping your place between the pages.

“I asked if you were okay but clearly you’re a little more than just okay.” Harry gestures to your flushed cheeks making you glare at him as you slide your sunglasses back down to cover your eyes. “Ryan can’t be that good you need to be doing all that giggling and-and feet kicking and what was that sigh just now? I mean-”

“Harry…” You sit up fully so you can turn your head and get a better look at him.

“What?” He snaps as he crosses his arms over his chest that’s only covered by a short sleeved button up shirt he didn’t bother to do a single button on.

“Are you jealous?” You question making Harry let out a scoff. “Because if you are-”

“I am not jealous of Mr. Wall Street.” He corrects you making you just rub your lips together as you nod, all the while Harry refuses to even glance in your direction because he knows the moment he does he will be done for and you’ll know that he’s in fact full of shit because he is jealous of this Ryan character who has managed to take up all your attention and the most annoying part of it all is the man is just made up of a bunch of words on a page for crying out loud.

“Then what’s wrong? Why are you all pouty?” You ask trying to pry the information out of him little by little, with a heavy sigh Harry finally tilts his head so he’s looking at you.

“You’re letting this Ryan asshole take up all your time while I’m just over here with no one to cuddle with.” You don’t mean to laugh, honestly you really don’t mean for the giggle to slip out and the moment it does you want so badly to be able to take it back because it makes Harry’s eyes go wide as he quickly tosses his legs over the lounger and stands up.

“Harry I’m sorry really-”

“It’s funny is it? Having your boyfriend sit here wanting nothing more than to cuddle with you while you drool and sigh over someone who’s not even real?” Before you can even react Harry is on top of you making you let out a squeal of surprise that gets muffled by the weight of him on your chest, where your book is still resting.

“Oh my god.” You mumble as you try to move under him but Harry just rests his head on your shoulder and wiggles himself between your legs, his feet are dangling off the lounger but he really can’t be bothered to care because he finally is as close to you as he’s been craving all morning.

“Just want some cuddles.” You roll your eyes as you’re finally able to slide your hands and book out from underneath him as his arms worm their way around your middle.

“You’re so dramatic.” Harry ignores you as he places a kiss to the side of your neck as your arms go around the tops of his shoulders. After a few minutes you hear him let out a sigh and you can’t help but smile as one of your hands begins running up and down his back while the other one holds open your book, wanting to just finish the chapter you’re currently in the middle of before putting it away for the rest of the day or at least until Harry falls asleep later in the evening.

As Harry watches you gather your bag of essentials for the beach day the two of you have planned he feels a sense of accomplishment wash over him as he notices the absence of a book about a certain wall street banker. He gives you a smile as he walks by and out towards the deck to grab his hat, having left it on the lounge chair the two of you had a very nice long cuddle on earlier after he was left with no choice but to practically tackle you and even then he knew you were reading but you assured him you were done with the book for the day since you finished your chapter that had been full of all the juicy steamy bits.

But the thing about Harry is that while he is very aware of his clinginess, he’s not often that aware of his jealous tendencies so when he turns around and sees you shoving the book into the tote bag it doesn’t fully register with him that the emotion he feels coursing through his veins is nothing more than a healthy dose of jealousy. Because he doesn’t really know why you wanting to read about another man while spending time with him bothers him so much but it does, and he can’t help it. Normally Harry wouldn’t care that you’re enjoying a new book series, he loves that you like to read even if it is mostly romance novels with the occasional poetry book tossed in here and there. It’s just that he’s never once been in this situation before where he feels as if he’s fighting for you against someone he can’t beat because they simply aren’t real, because in his mind how is he supposed to compete with a wealthy banker who can probably bend over backwards in bed like a gymnast and lets his mother pick his wife for him? He just doesn’t know how to handle it.

So of course he doesn’t handle it well.

At all.

“What’s this?” Harry’s voice makes you jump and let out a nervous chuckle as he appears next to you in the bedroom. You follow his eyes and see what he’s staring at in the tote bag.

“It’s my book? We are going to the beach.” You answer as you place the tote down on the bed so you can turn and head into the bathroom to grab the sunscreen. “People read at the beach Harry it’s very normal.” You explain making Harry roll his eyes as he chews on his bottom lip. His hands are balled into fits at his sides as he glares at the cover of your book and just as you reappear back in the bedroom something overcomes him and he snatches it out of the bag and takes off onto the deck.

“This stupid fucking book.” He mumbles to himself through gritted teeth as he storms over to the very end of the deck.

“Harry what are you doing?” You shout as you follow him out onto the deck while his grip on your book tightens so much he’s causing it to begin to roll up on itself as if he’s rolling a newspaper to swat at an annoying fly.

“You said you were done for the day.” He snaps as he turns so he’s facing you, his hair blowing around in the wind for some reason makes him look even more upset as he holds your book up.

“Well yeah but I like to read at-” Your words get cut off by Harry letting out a loud annoyed scoff.

“Yeah well try reading it now.” And with one quick motion you watch your book fly out of Harry’s hand and go over the side of the boat. Before either of you hear it make the smallest sounding splash you can see the regret instantly hit as Harry’s eyes go wide and his face loses all its color. He looks at his now empty hand before slowly looking back over to you and when he takes a small steps towards you all you do is take two steps backwards, away from him.

“Baby I’m-”

“You’re an asshole.” Your words make him stop in his tracks. “That’s what you are.” Harry watches you turn around and go back inside and when he hears the sliding door slam shut and then lock he can’t do anything but run his hands through his hair and let out a sigh of frustration because you’re right, he’s an asshole.

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part seven)

warnings ; they’re speaking through sex again :’( slight choking, slapping (it’s one time!), they talk through the entire sexual encounter except she’s just being a bitch and so is he, unprotected sex

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; three things. 1) i may have taken it too far. 2) midnight rain by tswift should be your preferred song for this chapter. 3) this is actually the longest part of tpod. idk where we took a left turn chat but we did. i swear i didn’t mean to make this part as solemn as i did but as we near the end of tpod (tears.), i felt like it was only right to understand oc at her core so here’s the result of that. also — to understand where i got jungkook’s backstory with his parents from, this tiktok is a good place to start!

playlist here

series masterlist here

No one warns you that the final stretch is the most brutal. That success feels just as suffocating as failure when the entire world is watching.

The campaign is nearly done. Months of work, endless negotiations, photoshoots, and strategy meetings all culminating. It’s the moment where everything either clicks like a symphony or combusts in front of the entire fashion world.

Your inbox has been a battlefield. Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing, notifications piling on top of more notifications until it feels like your brain has been rewired into a crisis-response machine. There’s always something, always someone asking, demanding, needing. Your calendar bleeds red with the words URGENT. FINAL. APPROVAL NEEDED. Stores in Milan are delayed, Tokyo wants new creative, LA’s billboard specs aren’t matching the mockups.

Every second is accounted for, every breath calibrated. Still, it’s not enough. There’s not enough hours in the day, not enough you to go around. You take passion in every single project you’ve ever spearheaded — and no, it has nothing to do with the fact that Jeon Jungkook has some entanglement with your priorities.

Every single frame, every image of Jungkook’s face stretched across Times Square, across Paris, Seoul, London, has to be perfect. It has to work.

You really should be relieved this is all coming to an end shortly. Each campaign you work on gets more tedious, takes more out of you mentally, but somehow this time the relief makes it nowhere near your brain.

The strangest thought keeps entering your consciousness, and you have trouble shaking it out — you can’t tell if you’re more afraid of it ending or it continuing forever.

When this campaign ends, so does everything else. The excuses. The built-in justifications for why he’s still around. There’ll be no more moments where his thigh brushes yours and he pretends not to notice. No more mornings on set where he leans too close and murmurs “Did you sleep?” like he didn’t spend the night in your bed.

The truth is louder than every thought you’ve had in the past week. The problem isn’t that you’ve slept with him.

It’s that you haven’t stopped.

Every spare moment, every sliver of stillness not swallowed by meetings or mayhem or managerial fires, you spend with him. It started innocently enough; one night, when you couldn’t sleep and had downed two bottles of apple soju alone in your hotel room, you knocked on his door and asked if you could sleep in there. Technically, you could blame it on soju and loneliness and ‘he was just there’.

But then it happened again… and again. And now it’s every night.

In his hotel room, where his bedframe slams against the walls multiple times before you have to yell at him to stop it before the people next door hears.

In his trailer, where you tell yourself you’re just checking on wardrobe or last-minute adjustments (even though clothes have never been part of your job description), only to end up with your skirt bunched around your hips and his cock pounding up into you.

In your hotel room, where he shows up unannounced, backs you against the wall, and makes you forget why you ever built walls in the first place.

You keep having to tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. You can’t stop insisting it’s just sex. Just stress relief. Just bodies crashing into each other because neither of you have time to feel anything else.

You’re a terrible liar, always have been. You could never even get away with sneaking an extra rice cake as a kid; your mother would take one look at your face, at the twitch of your mouth or the way your fingers fidgeted with your sleeves, and sigh like she was exhausted by how transparent you were. You’d try to deny it anyway, cheeks flushed, the truth practically dripping off your skin. She’d just shake her head and say, “Don’t lie if you can’t carry it.”

With Jungkook, it’s not just twisted idea of sexual release anymore.

He brushes the hair off your face when he thinks you’re asleep. His fingers trace idle circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to move. He lingers around you, waits for you.

It’s not like you’re any less guilty. Your hands find him without thinking. Your head always fits perfectly on his chest. Your breath evens out the second you hear his voice.

You hate that this messy, reckless, undeniably complicated situation has somehow become a place you seek out, a weakness you swore you didn’t have.

For all the chaos, all the pressure, all the madness of a global campaign hanging by a thread, he’s the only part of it that feels like breathing.

You’re already two coffees deep and three interns down by 10 a.m. The first one had emailed you a question you answered in the kickoff deck. The second brought you the wrong mockup. The third called you ma’am.

Your phone hasn’t stopped vibrating since sunrise, updates from 4 different countries, each ping a reminder that the final rollout is less than a breath away. You can practically hear the plastic peeling off the billboards, the glass being polished on storefront displays.

You haven’t eaten or even blinked. Your brain is a latticework of numbers, dates, time zones, PR contingencies, and the endless, echoing drumbeat of what if it all falls apart.

You’re seated at the long glass table in the Calvin Klein Seoul office, surrounded by executives from three continents. Stylists, art directors, logistics leads, all of them watching you click through the final rollout deck you spent all night walking through, dressed in Jungkook’s oversized t-shirt, while he had watched you with a little glimmer in his eyes . You’re walking them through the launch cadence, slide by slide, one city at a time. “And when the Seoul flagship hits its first 24 hour mark, we immediately cue the social media team to drop another teaser—”

The wooden door creaks opens. You don’t dare look up. You can already feel it, that little shift in the air, the flicker of attention from the far end of the room, executives perking up at the sight. Something in your chest tenses before your brain catches up.

The person doesn’t interrupt or make a sound. They slide into the room like smoke under a door, low-profile but impossible to ignore.

Without a word or so much as a glance at you, you realize Jungkook sets something down beside you. It’s a paper bag, small, folded once at the top. No label. No note. Just… placed at the edge of your space like it belongs there.

Your words catch mid-sentence. Your mouth stays open, but your voice doesn’t follow.

You keep talking. At least, you think you do. The rest of the sentence escapes your mouth, but it doesn’t sound like you anymore. Because then your gaze snags on him in your peripheral vision; black hoodie, Calvin Klein embroidery at the sleeve, hands in his pockets like he’s some kind of sniper, and your nerves flare like firecrackers in the pit of your stomach.

He moves slowly behind the row of seated execs, ducking his head slightly in polite apology, brushing past some stylist from Paris and the campaign director from London.

You stare down at the bag as if it’s a live grenade. Somehow you already know what’s inside. The shape gives it away. The crinkle of the wrapper when he set it down. The faint, familiar scent.

You only mentioned it once a few days ago.

Late at night, half-asleep, your cheek pressed to his chest, his tattoos warm beneath your fingers, you were tracing one lazily when you said it, half a joke, half a memory. Something about how your mom used to buy you honey-butter rice crackers from a specific stall near Jagalchi Market. You hadn’t had them in years. You didn’t think they even existed anymore. You also didn’t think he was listening.

Certainly not enough to track them down, to bring them here, to drop them beside you in a boardroom full of Calvin Klein power players like it was nothing. Like this isn’t about to ruin you in ways you don’t have the language for.

Because now, your voice is gone, stomach is in knots and your heart is doing something stupid and traitorous in your chest.

You force yourself to keep going, click to the next slide, pretend that your hands aren’t shaking. Pretend you’re not unraveling, one honey-butter memory at a time.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Your hotel room in Korea is technically five-star; minimalist, modern, all black slate and cool steel, with blackout curtains that seal out the city and a minibar stocked with items that probably cost more than your old New York rent.

But tonight, it feels lived-in.

Your heels are discarded near the entryway, blouse tossed over the arm of the chair without a second thought. The table is cluttered with evidence of your unraveling; printouts, lipsticks without caps, a mangled pen you’ve been chewing to death all week. Three water bottles, none of them finished. A wrinkled Post-it with the wrong font code scribbled in your own handwriting. A half-eaten package of the honey butter cookies you and Jungkook shared a few moments earlier. You can’t remember when the room got like this. You just know it reflects some incredibly disorganized part of your brain.

And in the middle of it all, there’s Jungkook. Or rather, you, under him.

Jungkook’s mouth is warm against your skin, dragging slow along your neck, his lips parting slightly as he kisses the hollow just beneath your collarbone. The mattress dips under his weight, one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding down the curve of your waist, fingers splayed. You arch into him before you can stop yourself, chest rising to meet him.

He hums low, the sound buzzing where his mouth meets your skin. “Stress looks good on you.”

You don’t even open your eyes. “Shut up.”

He chuckles quietly, his nose nudging just under your jaw, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Your eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded and already dizzy. “..For what?” you manage to get out.

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, dark eyes glittering. “Your snack.”

God, there it is again. That stupid flutter. That microscopic internal panic. That ache in your chest you keep calling indigestion.

You groan, dropping your head back into the pillow. “You can’t do that.”

His brow lifts, completely unbothered. “Do what?”

You shove at his shoulder playfully, “You know what. You can’t just bring me something like that, not in front of the team.”

He blinks with wide-eyed innocence. “Why not?”

“Because it’s—” you flail, exasperated, “weird. It’s unprofessional. It’s—”

“It’s not like I kissed you in front of them,” He shrugs.

Your mouth drops open. “Jeon Jungkook.”

He grins, his even stupider bunny teeth poking out with no remorse. “Wait, should I have? I can schedule it for tomorrow if that’s easier for you.”

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious. I could do a casual peck in the meeting room. Or, I don’t know, something soft and respectful, like neck biting.”

Your hand flies up to cover your face, laugh muffled against your palm, already hating how much he’s getting to you. “You are the worst.”

“And yet, here I am,” he says with a shameless grin as he lowers his mouth to your collarbone, brushing it with a kiss that feels deceptively light. “Feeding you. Stressing you out more. What a catch, huh?”

You don’t laugh at that. The truth is, you’re still thinking about it. The snack. The paper bag. The quiet way he placed it beside you like it was nothing, like it didn’t detonate right there on the boardroom table, splitting something open inside you so violently it still hasn’t settled. It could’ve been nothing, could’ve been a small, forgettable passing gesture. And for a moment, it was. Until suddenly it wasn’t and it was the idea that he’s noticing you, listening to you, remembering.

You’re not sure anyone ever has before.

You can’t want that. You’ve spent your entire career making sure you didn’t need that.

His mouth is on you again, trailing lower. Warm lips, slow kisses, fingertips slipping beneath the wire of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

You feel yourself slipping again. The thread you were holding onto, gone. His touch undoing whatever discipline you had left.

And then, as if he can hear the chaos in your head, he murmurs against your ribs, “You’re thinking too loud again.”

“You’re being too annoying,” you snap, though it comes out weaker than intended, barely hanging on to its own conviction. What a comeback. Are you 5? Is this a playground? Is your crush really biting your collarbone while you pretend it’s not affecting you?

He hums against your skin, teeth grazing before he bites, your spine curving into him involuntarily. His mouth keeps moving, lower now, and you pathetically keep talking.

It’s not in full thoughts or arguments that matter. Just stray words, loose complaints, flung into the air between shallow breaths and the rising ache in your throat.

“You’re not funny,” you murmur, voice barely there as his lips ghost along the slope of your ribs.

“Never said I was,” he mutters back.

“And I still think you shouldn’t have brought that snack—”

“Mmhm.”

“It’s weird,” you go on, even as your fingers curl in the sheets, “It’s too thoughtful. You don’t get to do that.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious, Jungkook, you—”

“Baby,” he says, and the word lands like a spark. “Shut up.”

You blink at him, not because it’s crude or sharp or surprising — he’s said worse to you in moments less intimate — but because it works. His hand slides up your side, fingers spreading across your ribs like he’s calming you.

“I’m trying to kiss you,” he whispers, mouth brushing beneath your breast now. “And you’re out here giving a speech.”

Your jaw drops at him, and you stare, half-shocked, half-infuriated. “You are so—”

But the sentence breaks apart in your mouth before it can land, because you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You’re too wired on the cocktail of adrenaline and intimacy and all the feelings you’ve been swallowing down like pills you can’t afford to miss.

You opt for the kindergartener route you have going for you, and shove him. He barely has time to react before you’re pushing him onto his back, straddling him, arms folded tightly across your chest like you’ve just declared emotional war.

He looks up at you from the mattress wide-eyed, hair a mess, lips pink and swollen from the trail he’d been tracing down your body.

“I’m grumpy now,” you announce, “And it’s your fault.”

Jungkook pauses in his tracks, and then he laughs. It’s a real expression, cracking open the air between you like it’s never carried tension at all.

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “You think this is funny?”

“I think,” he says as his hands slide slowly up your thighs, “you’re so hot when you’re pissed off.”

You scoff, but you don’t move. “You think everything I do is hot.”

“Because it is.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

Lightly, his thumbs press against your skin, steady and unrepentant. “Especially when you’re annoying.”

Your pulse is roaring in your ears, and his hands stay exactly where they are. It’s almost like he’s waiting for you to lean in, waiting for whatever version of you breaks first.

Before you can stop them, your lips twitch. “Fine,” you roll your eyes, the words dragging reluctantly out of your mouth. “Maybe I do talk too much.”

He grins ridiculously wide and so outrageously beautiful it makes your stomach twist in protest. “Told you.”

You roll your eyes again, but it’s half-hearted now. You’re already caving. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jungkook tilts his head, eyes still locked on yours, like he’s enjoying every second of this unraveling. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “It’s already there.”

And then you kiss him again, desperately in a way you’ll hate yourself for later. It’s full of every word you won’t let yourself say, every truth lodged somewhere between your chest and throat, caught like a warning. Because if you keep talking, you’ll say too much. And if he keeps listening, really listening, he might hear it.

You kiss him like it’s the only way to shut yourself up.

You’re still straddling him, knees digging into the mattress, hands sliding up over his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt that’s too soft, too in the way, too much when all you want is skin and something to grip onto when the rest of your world keeps spinning.

His mouth moves with yours, not in a hurry at all. Yet for some reason your lips cannot stop flapping even as he kisses you like he’s trying to teach you silence.

You mutter between breaths, the words slipping out faster than you can catch them, strung together by nerves and some long-forgotten version of logic. Half-formed thoughts. More pointless complaints. The last flailing attempts to keep control in a situation where you’ve already lost it.

“You’re so annoying,” you mumble, teeth grazing his bottom lip as your lips move against his.

He laughs into the kiss warmly “Is this foreplay?”

“Want it to be?” you murmur, already leaning in again. Your mouth finds his like it’s been waiting all day (Mostly because it has.)

He hums lowly, tongue dragging down the sharp line of your jaw. “We could at least make it original,” he whispers, and you feel his teeth brush your pulse point.

“You make everything complicated,” you breathe out, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, your nails dragging slightly over the skin of his stomach.

“And you,” he says, “make everything dramatic.”

You pull back enough to shoot him a look, the kind that could kill if your blood wasn’t already on fire. “You kiss me with that dirty mouth?”

Jungkook smiles infuriatingly and raises his arms without a word. You yank his shirt off in one swift motion and toss it aside like it’s offended you just by existing.

He’s bare beneath you; golden skin, lean muscle, smooth lines and sharp edges. He’s the kind of stunning that should get less shocking with time, but it doesn’t. No matter how many times you’ve seen him like this, it still stops you for a second.

Looking at him like this, laid out beneath you, like you’re the one with the upper hand, it does something to you. His thumbs stroke slow, lazy circles into your skin, gentle in a way that feels unearned.

“You’re staring,” he says softly.

“I’m thinking,” you retort a little too quickly, fingers dragging over the center of his chest.

He raises an eyebrow, waiting. “Thinking about what?”

You shrug, playing it off like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs. “About how stupid you are.”

And he laughs again, head tipping back, throat exposed. “You know,” he says, still catching his breath, “most people find better ways to compliment me.”

You shut him up with your mouth, kissing down his neck, biting lightly at his collarbone, your hands moving with purpose now. He groans, his hips twitching beneath you, but he doesn’t stop you.

But even with his body under yours, even with your hips beginning to grind slowly into his lap, even with all that heat simmering between your thighs, your thoughts won’t quit. They spin like a storm behind your eyes.

You actually have no idea what the fuck you are going to do when, in a short amount of time, you kiss goodbye whatever this is between you and Jungkook.

This arrangement, this twisted little thing you swore was temporary and physical, has spiraled into something else entirely.

You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to know better. Actually, you do know better.

But how do you walk away from the only thing that makes sense when everything else is spinning? How do you stop when his hands are on your waist and his mouth is stealing the air from your lungs and the only time you feel like yourself is when you’re pressed against him like this?

Now it’s going to be a bitch to walk away from. Somewhere between “just this one time” and the fifth time you woke up in his arms, it stopped being casual. Somewhere between a breathless fuck in his trailer and that stupid paper bag left beside you in the middle of a meeting, it became a cautionary tale for everything you’ve ever believed in.

And for just a second, you wonder if maybe this is what being alive is supposed to feel like. It’s a thought you shove down the moment it surfaces, because god, how cliché. How humiliating. You’ve spent your whole life rolling your eyes at that exact kind of sentiment. At those stupid American rom-coms where the grand romantic arc begins with a spilled coffee and ends in a rain-soaked confession at JFK. You’ve never been that girl. Never wanted to be. You don’t believe in fate or big love declarations at airport gates. You believe in cause and effect, in strategy.

You barely notice when his hand finds the clasp at the back of your bra, his fingers moving deliberately slow like he knows what it means for a woman like you to let someone like him this close to something soft.

The straps slip off your shoulders, snag at your elbows, then fall. Somewhere between the edge of the bed and the frayed edge of your sanity, it’s gone.

You’re bare on top of him now, and his eyes are on you, trailing over every inch like he can’t decide where to look first.

And then because you’re an idiot with a long-standing habit of self-sabotage, you open your mouth again

“So,” you start, “how many girls have you done this with on a press tour?”

He stills, hands pause on your waist. His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing, like he’s trying to make sense of the sudden shift. “I’m sorry,” he deadpans, confused. “What?”

You blink down at him. “You know. Girls on your team. Staff. Stylists. Whoever.”

His brows lift slowly, the beginning of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s weighing whether to be amused or offended. “You want to talk about this,” he murmurs, “right now?”

His hands move again, this time sliding up your front, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts before cupping them fully. The way he touches you is infuriatingly natural, clearly enjoying the contradiction of you scolding him while arching into his hands.

“I just think it’s a valid question,” you reply, which would sound far more convincing if you weren’t already tilting your hips forward.

He raises a brow. “While you’re straddling me? Shirtless? After kissing my neck two minutes ago?”

You glare, unamused. “Answer the question.”

Jungkook sits up slightly, bringing your bodies flush, his chest against yours, his lips brushing the curve of your collarbone as he speaks.

“If I did…” he begins, mouth skimming the edge of your shoulder, “would you be jealous?”

You scoff, but the sound lacks any real bite. “I just want to know what kind of PR nightmare I’ll be cleaning up next.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not.” You clarify.

“You are,” he exhales, his mouth now at your throat, “And it’s adorable.”

You want to fight back but his lips are moving down your chest. His teeth graze the swell of your breast, and then tongue follows. Argument folds in on itself. Brain goes brrr.

Whatever the answer was, it doesn’t matter. Right..?

You slide off his lap just long enough to push your skirt down, the fabric gliding over your hips and slinking down your legs in one smooth motion. It falls to the floor, pooling quietly beside his forgotten shirt like it’s grateful to be dismissed.

You’re back on top of him, barely even clothed, one flimsy thong on your body, saying things you shouldn’t say in a voice that sounds dangerously close to jealousy.

“I mean,” you murmur, your hips shifting enough to feel him through the frustrating layers still separating you, “it wouldn’t surprise me.”

He tenses beneath you, but you keep going because you’re already too far gone. “You’re always surrounded by women,” you continue, even as your fingers curl into his shoulders. “Stylists… assistants… makeup artists practically sitting in your lap. All of them obsessed with you.”

His grip on your thighs tightens. “And you…” you breathe, eyes locked on his as you roll your hips once, “you like being adored, don’t you?”

Jungkook’s eyes are half-lidded, his mouth parted like he wants to answer, like he might, but the words never quite make it out.

You don’t even know why you keep talking. The longer you speak, the more ridiculous it sounds. The more foreign it feels coming out of your mouth. You don’t recognize yourself like this — you are not inherently petty or insecure. You know damn well who you are.

You don’t need the answer to any of this. Because he already gives you everything else. When you rock your hips again, his breath stutters. His hands slide up your sides, fingertips skimming your ribs like he doesn’t know whether to stop you or pull you closer. You brace your hands on his chest, breath halting in your throat.

He exhales sharply as if he’s been holding it in since the moment you climbed back onto him. “Jesus,” he chokes, head tilted back, throat working as he swallows hard.

He still hasn’t touched you the way you want him to. Still hasn’t said the thing you’re almost certain is sitting right there on his tongue.

Your thighs tighten around his waist without thinking, your arms wrapping around his neck like your body’s already decided you’re staying, even if your mouth is still trying to fight its way out.

God, your mouth. It’s still poking at bruises that might not even be there.

“I mean, I’m sure they all throw themselves at you,” you speak against his jaw, your lips brushing the curve of it “You’re famous. You’re pretty. You walk into a room and girls practically trip over themselves to be noticed. Of course they want you.”

“And I bet you let them,” you whisper, quieter now. “I bet you don’t even have to try. Just one look and—”

“Okay,” he says finally. “Where are you going with this?” It’s not a snap, more of a low, tired rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.

You freeze, arms still looped around his neck, “Your dick’s been inside me, Jungkook. God forbid I be curious.”

He exhales slowly like he’s not sure whether to laugh or call you out again. Instead, he reaches for his waistband, shoves his pants down far enough to get them off with your help, your hands sliding down his thighs, helping even as the tension between you simmers.

He shakes his head, lips twitching with disbelief. “So, what, should I start asking about your history too?”

You shrug, eyes locked on his, your legs bracketing his hips again like the conversation isn’t tearing you open. “I’m an open book,” you say, voice too calm to be sincere. “Ask me whatever.”

His hands find your waist, fingers gripping tighter now, your clothed core dragging over the thick line of his cock through his boxers, and the sound he makes isn’t quite a moan but it’s not far off.

“Yeah?” he tilts his head back, eyes dark. “You fuck other guys like this, then?”

You don’t answer with words. You respond with another slow grind, as the weight of what’s really being asked sinks into the silence between you. “I could,” you say, the lie slipping out so fast it almost convinces even you.

The truth is actually laughable. You haven’t had a good fuck before Jungkook, not in months. Not since that work trip to Dubai, when you let some stranger talk his way into your hotel room after a rooftop dinner and two glasses of wine you barely tasted. It was fine, technically. He was attractive, charming enough, said all the right things. You came. You faked it the second time. You deleted his number from your phone the next morning.

And yet, that dude still texts you sometimes when he’s bored and nostalgic. The thought makes your stomach turn.

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe to win. Maybe to deflect. Maybe because if you keep reaching for the upper hand, you won’t have to admit how far beneath him you already feel.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t shift right away. He inhales, sharp and deep through his nose like he’s swallowing back whatever instinct is clawing its way up his throat.

“Yeah?” he says, almost calm. “Are they here right now?”

Before you can answer, his hands are on your waist, pushing you back enough to slide you out from under him a little. He shoves his boxers down with a kind of frustrated urgency, his cock springing free and slapping hard against the taut line of his abs.

You already know what kind of sex this is going to be. The kind where no one says what they mean. The kind where jealousy and resentment and desire all tangle into something loud and wordless. To put it very nicely, he’s going to fuck the attitude right out of you.

But you’re past the point of caring. You’re on a blind rampage now, the dam cracking wide open, and whatever damage comes next, you’ll deal with it later.

“We can call them up if you want,” you snap, teeth bared in something that’s not quite a smile.

He wraps a hand around his cock, stroking slowly, eyes locked on yours with a look that is so far from the man who brought you your favorite childhood snack in a paper bag. “Let’s fucking do that, why don’t we?,” he growls, as his hand moves up and down, “Call them up right now. Let’s see if they fuck you as good as me.”

You kick your panties off, flinging them somewhere toward the foot of the bed without a second thought. There’s this self-destructive little ache that lives just beneath your skin, the one that wants to push him until he snaps. That sadistic little part of you that’s already soaking wet from how far you’ve pushed him, and how much further you plan to go.

He asked a question earlier you have to ponder: Is this foreplay? It has to be. Because if it’s not, then what the hell is it? A psychological experiment? An Olympic sport in emotional repression? Some new form of torture designed specifically for overachieving women with control issues and a deeply repressed praise kink?

Either way, it’s working. Your body is humming, your brain has turned into jell-o, and your dignity is already halfway to hell. So yeah. If it’s not foreplay, it’s a very convincing impersonation.

“Hm,” you hum as you settle over his lap again, letting your fingers graze his chest for balance. “One time, this guy had my legs on his shoulders, I nearly had my feet on the wall behind me.”

The lie drips from your tongue like a challenge. His jaw flexes at the words,pressing the tip of his cock against your folds, dragging it through your slick. You both moan in an unrestrained, ugly, desperate fashion.

“Oh, really?” he grits, dragging the head of his cock through your wetness again,“Didn’t we do that two nights ago?”

You bite your lip, fighting a whimper that threatens to shatter the act. “Did we?” you murmur, dumbfounded, “I don’t remember.”

You’re playing with fire. You know it. The look in his eyes is a warning — you’re as good as dead.

“Don’t worry,” he growls, his voice scraping over your skin like sandpaper, his tip circling your clit, “this is just my nighttime shift. Probably gonna call Jennie tomorrow. It’s been a minute.”

He’s hit something raw now, a nerve buried so deep beneath your indifference, you didn’t even know it was there. Because you don’t care about Jennie. You don’t. You’re not even sure if they ever actually fucked. Maybe they did. Maybe they didn’t. They probably did. Right?

Why wouldn’t they?

They looked close enough together. Seemed to be the kind of comfortable that doesn’t just happen unless you’ve seen someone naked or nearly naked or laughing in your hotel bed at two in the morning.

You moan involuntarily as the head of his cock slides over your clit, the friction sparking between your hips that makes your fingernails dig into his shoulder. “Y–Yeah?” you gasp as your body clenches around nothing. “Is she as good as me?”

“Sometimes,” he fires back. He presses in, just the tip. Your mouths both fall open like it’s instinct. “You play your cards right tonight,” he grits, breath hitching as his fingers bruise into your hips, “and I’ll bump you up to my number one option.”

You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to sob into his shoulder and tell him you’re sorry, even though you don’t know what for.

You feel so full and he’s barely inside you. “Hnnh, fuck,” you exhale, trying to blink through the haze. You’re bleeding pride and panic and can’t let him win, so you say the worst thing possible. “You know,” you bite your lip to restrain another moan, “we’re thinking of doing another idol for the next campaign.”

His eyes narrow into hateful little slits.

“Might go with Mingyu.”

You twist the knife all the way in. “He’s fucking hot.”

You feel his body go still, every muscle wound tight.

You don’t even know why you said it. You just remember reading something on a gossip site once, some stupid headline about the ‘97 line’ and how close they all were. You don’t really get it. Also don’t really care.

“Yeah?” he grits out, the words slipping between clenched teeth, “Fuck. You’re a real bitch sometimes, you know that?”

His head falls back for a beat, jaw tight, breath ragged. “Why are you doing this to me?”

It’s not a threat or even anger. He’s genuinely asking, vulnerable in a way you’re not ready for. You’ve taken it too far, and you know it.

You always know it, right before you feel the consequences.

You sink down fully onto his cock, guided by the firm, trembling grip of his hands on your waist. Your body jolts from the stretch, from the violent relief of finally having him inside you again.

Jungkook fills you slowly, inch by inch, and your walls flutter around him tightly. You’re already clenching around him when he speaks again,, every word punctuated with a thrust that makes your body seize and your mind go white. “Talk all you want about other guys,” he growls, thrusting up into you again, harder now. “But we both know—” another thrust. “it’s my cock you keep coming back to.”

You try to say something, but nothing comes out. All you can offer is a moan, your head falling back as your hips roll against his, matching his rhythm even as your body trembles from how much he’s giving you.

The only sounds left are incoherent — some cock-drunk babbles and gasping praise neither of you have the presence of mind to translate. But somehow, he feels deeper tonight. His eyes open, and when they meet yours, something inside you stops.

“I don’t care about anyone else,” he says like the words are being torn out of him. “I’ve never — fuuuck — looked at anyone else the way I look at you. Not one fucking person.”

That sentence shouldn’t make you want to hurl but it does. Not because it’s some grand ideology , or because it’s unexpected, but because for the first time in your life, you believe it. No one’s ever looked at you like that before, not even your ex, not even the men who promised things they never meant. No one’s ever made you feel like you were the only one in the room, like you were something chosen. It’s not the thrusts or the stretch or even the way he holds you that finally breaks you; it’s the quiet, devastating truth of being seen.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasps, head pressing into the pillow, jaw clenched trying not to cum too fast. “Still so tight.”

His hand drags up your thigh, then curves around your waist again. “Always feel so fucking good around me,” he gasps.

“This pussy,” he rasps, voice fraying as he thrusts up into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs, “was fucking made for me. Say it.”

The words hit like a pulse between your legs and you swear you feel your brain glitch. You blink down at him, completely drunk, lips parted, a blissed-out smile threatening the corner of your mouth. You don’t even bother pretending to hold back. “Yours,” you whisper breathlessly, “All yours, Jungkook.”

He makes some satisfied move and your rhythm builds with every roll of your hips, every grind that forces him deeper, and then you’re bouncing, chasing friction like a madman. Your arms wind around his neck, dragging him up, chest to chest, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear as your body fucks him with all the fire you’ve been holding in. Every wet snap of skin echoes through the room loudly.

“Shit, baby,” he chokes, hands slipping down to grab your ass.

You grab his jaw, fingers firm, forcing his face back to yours. “Don’t you dare fucking look away from me.”

His eyes fly open, drowning in black. He stares at you, and your hips move faster, sloppier now, thighs burning. You can feel him twitching inside you, every nerve in his body pulled tight and shaking. “You promise there’s no one else?” you murmur, voice even as it splinters at the edges from how fucking good he feels.

He groans like he’s dying, as if the question alone might undo him. “Fuck, baby no,” he gasps, nodding so fast it’s practically frantic. “You’re it. You hear me? You’re the only one who fucks me this good. And I’m the only one who knows how you like it.”

You lift yourself the entire way off his hardened length, and then slam yourself back down, squeezing around him just to watch his face go slack, mouth falling open in a silent curse. “That so?” you tease, “You swear I’m the only one?”

He shudders beneath you, hands everywhere now, “No one else,” he groans, “There’s no one else.”

He pulls you closer, foreheads pressed, skin slick with sweat. There’s nothing between you now. Not pride or distance or a single lie.

Your hips find a rhythm that borders on reckless. It leaves no room for thought, only sensation. You only feel the stretch of him inside you, the way he fills you so completely it’s a miracle you can still breathe.

“You look so good like this,” he grits out, his fingers sliding up the column of your throat, “Can’t even hold back anymore, huh?”

You really can’t. You’re past that now. There’s no pretending anymore. There’s no compartmentalizing the way he makes you feel from the way he’s already carved himself into every part of you that was supposed to stay untouched.

His mouth brushes your ear, hips snapping up into yours with a sharp, brutal slap that makes your whole body jolt. “What were you saying about those other guys?” he pants, teeth grazing your skin. “Because your pussy says otherwise.”

Your head drops forward with a whimper, fingers clawing at his shoulders, tangled in his damp hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

“Shut up,” you gasp. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, panic and pleasure all tangled up together, no way to pull them apart now.

Before your mind has a chance to pause your actions, you slap him. A quick, sharp smack across the face. Not enough to hurt.

It doesn’t deter him, not even a little. If anything, it makes him grin harder, all flushed and delirious like you just did him a favor. His hand at your throat tightens slightly, encouraging your worst instincts.

His tongue drags across his lower lip, catching on the silver ring that gleams when the light hits just right. “Feels so good, Jungkook,” you choke out, voice dissolving into air.

“No one else,” you manage, the sound soft and shaky, like it’s been dragged from the pit of your chest and barely survived the journey. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

The admission slips out before you can stop it, suddenly too exposed under the dim lights in your room, and it’s immediately followed by a cry when his hips slam up into yours.

“I want to cum,” you gasp, the words tumbling out as your back arches, nails embedded into his shoulders. “I want to cum so bad.”

Jungkook’s grip at your throat softens, thumb brushing along the line of your jaw, “Say that again,” he begs, pleading.

You hesitate long enough to panic. Your heart’s in your throat, your brain’s short-circuiting, and suddenly you have no idea which part he means. But you’re not about to repeat the one that sounds like a confession. You default like you always do and dodge the feeling that has bloomed in your chest like an unwelcome old friend.

“I w-want to cum,” you repeat, lips trembling. It’s quite embarrassing how quick you wither from his touch. He’s fucking you in earnest now with deep, relentless thrusts that make your whole body shaking from the sheer force. Your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips, hands grasping for anything solid — his shoulder, the back of his neck, the sweat-damp strands of hair curling at his nape.

And then he’s just pouring unholy words into your ears and it’s somehow the sweetest noise you’ve heard all week. “You feel that? That’s mine. Every inch of it. Every fucking inch of your pussy… mine.”

“Jungkook!” you practically scream, his name tumbling out like a broken prayer. You try to say more, but nothing actually forms. His head drops against your shoulder, mouth open against your skin, breath coming in short, uneven bursts.

“I know,” he speaks into your skin, cock plunging so deep you swear you feel him in your stomach. “I know, baby. Cum with me. Please, just like that.”

Your body is on fire, everything pulling tight at once. Your nails are buried in his shoulders now, deep enough to leave marks he’ll have to explain later. “Jungkook, fuck, aah, I—“

And then you’re falling down… down, crashing somewhere in your sheets. Yet the only image that flashes, all you can think about is those honey-butter cookies. The ones your mom used to bring home in paper bags. The first time you tasted them, you remember thinking: this is the best thing I’ll ever feel. Somehow, this feels like that again. Like safety. Like sweetness. Like something you weren’t supposed to have but got anyway.

You cum with a cry that tears straight from your throat, body seizing around him so tightly it drags a broken grunt from his chest. The release is blinding, back arching so sharply it feels like your spine might snap, your limbs useless and numb, your mind nowhere and everywhere at once. Blood roars in your ears, heart pounds similarly to a war drum, arms locked around his neck like you might float away if you don’t hold on.

He tries to move, to roll off you like he’s already thinking about cleanup or consequence, but you tighten your grip — arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist — locking him in place with the kind of desperation you don’t even bother hiding. You want him to stay. In you, on you, with you. Your hearts are thudding so hard it feels like they’re trying to break through your ribcages just to reach each other, like even now, even here, it’s still not close enough.

You know you’ll have to get up soon, do all the very normal, very unsexy things: pee, breathe, pretend like this didn’t mean more than it was supposed to.

Not yet, though. Not when your body still feels warm from the inside out. Not when he still faintly tastes like honey butter.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Busan looks different when you return with everything you once swore you needed to prove.

The sea still stretches wide, unbothered by your ambition. The wind still catches at your clothes the same way it did when you were a little girl except now the fabric is designer, and your heels leave imprints in sand that once knew you barefoot.

It’s just another set. Another location added last minute to an already bloated campaign schedule.

It wasn’t even supposed to be part of the rollout. But Jungkook asked for it, a final shoot in the city that made him, to be plastered all over the country like a love letter. He said it with that easy comfort of someone who’s never needed to run from the place that raised him.

You couldn’t argue with him.

The second your feet had hit the boardwalk, you felt it. It was a slow, gnawing ache in your chest, the kind that smells like sea air and old wood and guilt.

You haven’t seen your parents in months. Haven’t spoken to them, either. You run through the excuses you gave yourself in your head, ready to recite them at a moment’s notice — too busy, too tired, too afraid.

Now, here you are, back in the city that built you, standing in the middle of a place that should feel like home. It couldn’t be far from that demented word.

You’re the most successful stranger this town’s ever seen.

Jungkook glows under the sunlight, dressed in pale denim and soft white cotton as he leans against a sea-worn railing, the camera clicking in frantic bursts around him.

You haven’t said much today, barely offered any notes. The comments to the stylists have been short, distracted, your arms crossed too tight across your chest as you chew the inside of your cheek raw.

He smiles for the lens, shifts his weight, lets the wind lift his hair just enough to catch the light, but his eyes keep drifting. Away from the camera, past the crew. Back to you, again and again. You might need to call him out for his staring problem.

You don’t want to explain why your stomach’s been twisted since you got here, why the smell of sea salt and tteokbokki stalls makes your chest go tight, why your parents are twenty minutes away and still have no idea you’re here.

So you keep your arms crossed and your eyes moving from the ocean, to the clouds, to a rusted street sign you swear you used to pass on your way home from school. You’re just not that girl anymore, the one who used to run barefoot across this boardwalk and dream of anything bigger.

Still, when the stylist asks you to step in while she goes to the bathroom and adjust Jungkook’s collar, you hesitate. It feels oddly domestic, despite being surrounded by over ten crew members.

And then you’re in front of him, fingers brushing the edge of his shirt, smoothing the fabric back from his skin. His neck is warm beneath your touch, flushed from the sun or the attention or maybe from the way your hand lingers a second too long. You can’t tell if it’s the wind that makes you shiver or the fact that you’re touching him.

“You good?” he murmurs, meant only for you.

You look up, caught off guard, your hand still near his collarbone. His eyes are already on you, steady and far too gentle for someone who’s supposed to be your problem.

In that second, you swear he knows. Nothing to the extent of the constant inner turmoil your brain is under, but that he watched the way your eyes keep flickering back to the sea and has deemed you mentally unstable.

You don’t say anything. You nod too fast, like that makes it casual, like that makes it fine, and step back like you didn’t just give yourself away.

For the rest of the shoot, his eyes keep drifting back to you, thankfully not in a way that gives him away. It’s more in that quiet, insistent way that makes it impossible to ignore.

Later that night, the world finally shuts up.

The shoot’s been over for hours. The lights are packed, the cameras wrapped, the team scattered across Busan in waves of laughter and secondhand adrenaline, spilling into barbecue joints and neon-lit bars.

You told them you were exhausted from the travel, that you wanted a reprieve in the form of a good book and your mattress.

You’re a better liar than your mother thought you were.

You’re here instead. Barefoot in the sand just beyond the edge of the hotel’s private beach, your heels abandoned somewhere behind you, your white button-down rolled to the elbows, a half-drunk bottle of soju dangling from your fingers like an afterthought. The wind nips at your cheeks, and the ocean keeps moving, loud and endless and entirely uninterested in you. The sky stretches above you like black velvet, stars painting the horizon.

You stare out at the waves as they crash against the rocks, steady and relentless. You let the sound fill the hollow space in your chest where something used to be.

Your phone is off. Your mouth tastes like salt. You haven’t cried, not really, but your throat burns like you’ve been swallowing it all day.

You don’t even register him at first.

“Drinking alone? Brutal.”

You flinch visibly and immediately curse yourself for not hiding better, for letting your guard slip when you’re this close to falling apart.

You turn your head, slow and unwilling. He’s standing a few feet away, hands stuffed into the pockets of a hoodie, his hair still a little windswept from the shoot. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are soft in that way you’ve come to dread, uncomfortably observant.

Tiredly, you exhale, and look back at the sea. “Not right now, Jungkook.”

There’s a moment of silence, an unfortunately long one. It stretches enough to feel intentional, like it could tip either way. The waves speak for you, crashing steady and loud, giving you something to focus on that isn’t him.

But he doesn’t leave. He sinks down beside you with an exhale, arms draped over his knees, shoulders slouched in that unbothered way he gets when he’s just existing.

Without turning, you tilt the bottle in his direction. “You want?”

He takes it without a word, drinks, passes it back. The glass clicks softly between your fingers.

“Your jaw was locked all day,” he says, almost thoughtful. “Didn’t yell at a single photographer. Honestly kind of alarming.”

Technically, he’s not wrong.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “That’s poetic.”

He shrugs, “I’ve had time to study the source material.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s lazy. The waves fill the space again, stretching wide between you, all sea breeze and salt and unspoken memories filling your brain.

After a moment, he glances sideways. “You okay?”

It’s a simple inquiry. One of those questions you’ve answered all week with a nod and a forced smile and some bullshit about sleep deprivation.

Tonight, it lands differently.

You keep your eyes on the ocean. On the white spray hitting the rocks again and again “Just tired,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You’ve been carrying this whole thing.”

You blink, caught off guard by the gentleness of it. “Not alone,” you answer automatically, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek, “I have a team.”

“You don’t let them carry it the way you do,” he says. “You hold it like if anything goes wrong, it’s your name thrown in the dirt.”

He’s not wrong. Your whole life has been defined by approvals, by acceptance. Admitting it just doesn’t come as naturally to you as you like.

You tip the bottle back again. The soju doesn’t burn as much now. Slides down easy. Maybe it’s because of the cold numbing of your lips or the ache between your ribs. The waves crash ahead of you, rhythmic and unbothered. The seafoam bursts white against the dark curve of rock, and somewhere beneath all of it, something small gives way.

The words slip out before you even realize you’re speaking.

“There used to be this one stretch of beach my sister and I would sneak off to when we were kids.”

Jungkook shifts beside you, but thankfully says nothing in response.

“It was maybe ten minutes from where we lived. Nothing fancy. Mostly local. Never crowded.”

You don’t know why you’re saying it. Why you’re letting the words drift out like this. Why your lips won’t keep still.

“We didn’t have swimsuits. Not real ones, anyway. We used to cut up old t-shirts and tie them with elastic bands, like we were designing our own line or something.”

You almost laugh at the fond memory. Your sister was somewhat of a eccentric kid, always dragging you along on journeys your mother didn’t want to put a stop to as she cried over bills overdue on the table, as your father drank himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t bare to dig himself out.

You glance down, dragging your thumb along the green glass of the bottle, your hair catching in the wind, brushing against your mouth almost to remind you you’re still here.

“One summer we went every day,” you murmur. “Took leftover rice balls, bruised fruit, whatever we could sneak from the kitchen. Sat on a plastic mat and swore we were queens of the coast.”

Another sip, let the silence settle over the story like a tide pulling back.

“I remember the sand being warmer than this,” you say after a moment. “And the wind smelled different. Less like salt, more like sugar.”

You’re not really sure you want a response from him. This isn’t something that needs fixing. The bones in your jaw tighten, as if that might be enough to keep everything else from slipping out.

Jungkook shifts a little closer. The wind picks up around you, sharp and briny, curling through your hair and catching on your shirt. Somewhere behind you, far beyond the sand and the silence, the city is still awake. But out here, it’s just water and breath and the kind of quiet that makes your skin feel too thin.

“Do you know when the last time I spoke to my sister was?”

Your eyes stay fixed on the shoreline, glazed and distant. Kind of hoping the sea might offer a version of the truth that hurts less.

“Or my parents?” you add.

You let out something that resembles a laugh but comes out dangerously close to a sobbing gasp.

“Five months ago,” you say.

The wind shoves harder at your shoulders, like it’s trying to force the words back into your chest, but it’s too late. They’re out now. Floating in the space between you, real and impossible to take back. “I’ve declined every call.”

“I keep telling myself it’s because I’m too busy,” you murmur, eyes still locked on the waves. “That I’ll call tomorrow. That it’s not the right time. That I’ve got too much going on.”

“But the truth is…” You breathe in slow. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

It slips out like seawater, salty and sharp and heavy. You don’t know why you said it. Why you’re saying any of this. Why the silence next to him feels like the safest place you’ve had to fall apart in years. Why the words keep showing up uninvited, too heavy to hold and disgustingly honest to bury.

Your career was built on knowing when to shut up. Spent years learning how to compartmentalize, how to file grief under “later,” how to turn pain into something manageable. Now your ankles are in the sand, shoes discarded, spilling your family guilt to Jeon fucking Jungkook.

“I think I’m the worst daughter in the world.”

You half-expect him to laugh at you, or say something about how this is above his pay grade with his position in your life as the dude you fuck. Or try to fill the silence with a joke or a solution or whatever it is people usually offer when they don’t know what else to do.

The problem about it all is you can’t erase the image from your mind of you and your sister playing on the beach, who wore dresses made from seaweed and had dreams sculpted in the shape of seashells. Now, you’re just the girl who ran. The girl who hasn’t called home. The girl who isn’t sure if there’s anything left to run back to.

You swipe at your cheek even though there aren’t any tears yet. The threat of them is there, high in your throat, burning at the edges.

And in the back of your mind, there’s a voice. Your own judgmental one. Why are you telling him this? Why does it feel easier to say it here, now, to him?

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, low enough that the waves almost swallow it whole. “I didn’t talk to my parents for a while either.”

You freeze, fingers tightening instinctively around the neck of the soju bottle, eyes locked on the ocean even as your focus fractures. Tide foams white at the edges of your vision, but it’s his words that drown you.

Jungkook keeps his gaze trained straight ahead, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you. “It wasn’t some big dramatic fight or anything,” he says, almost as if he’s still deciding if it’s worth saying out loud. “No ultimatums. Just… time and my pride. Too many excuses that felt valid until they didn’t. And then suddenly it’s been two months, and calling starts to feel harder than not calling. Because if you do, you’ll have to explain why it took so long.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your chest.

“I love them,” he continues, “They know that. But when the whole world starts looking at you a certain way, it’s hard to go back to just being their son.“

He looks down, brushes his hands together absently, and sand is clinging to his palms. “I think part of me thought I’d disappoint them just by being… myself.”

You stare at him blankly. Finally seeing him clearly for the first time.

There’s a man underneath it all, a man who’s known guilt. A man who’s run too far and too fast. A man who is still, somehow, trying to figure out how to come home to himself.

Something inside you twists like the nauseous thrum after one too many drinks on an empty stomach.

He looks over at you then, and the moonlight catches across his face. You can see it now, the weight he’s still carrying as he tries to make room for yours.

“You’re not the worst daughter in the world,” he says. “You’re just a girl trying to survive.”

Throat is tight, chest tighter, and head feels like it’s slowly filling with static. But the worst part, the part you weren’t ready for, is the way your heart aches not just for yourself but for him.

He inhales slowly, eyes still fixed on the ocean ahead, “I saw them again,” he goes on. “After everything, after the time apart.”

“My mom made all this food,” he smiles without humor. “Like it was Chuseok or something. I think I cried before I even got my shoes off.”

He glances down at the sand, his tone softer now, afraid of breaking whatever’s holding this moment together. “And I remember thinking… no matter how far I go, no matter who I turn into, there’s still a place that’ll wait for me that doesn’t care about the stadiums or what the numbers say.”

“I knew I had to come home,” his final line delivers like a punch straight to the nose. “Not just for them. For me.”

You don’t fight the tear that slips down your cheek without permission or preamble. No wiping it away or any acknowledgment of it. Saltwater on skin.

“I feel so lost,” you whisper so quietly it barely counts as sound.

Jungkook already knows that saying ‘okay’ wouldn’t help. The wind threads through your hair like a ghost of comfort. You literally don’t know why you’re still talking. Why you’re letting the softest, most wrecked parts of yourself spill out here at his feet, under this sky.

Yet, he hasn’t flinched and somehow he’s the only person who hasn’t asked you to be anything but exactly who you are right now.

Jungkook hasn’t touched you the entire time which makes you feel like a basket case. He’s supposed to be making some remark about how your tits look great in your top, or trying to grope you through your pants. He’s choosing instead to let you break without rearranging the pieces to make them prettier.

You take another sip. The bottle’s gone warm now, bitter at the bottom.

“Maybe it’s time to call them.”

His advice doesn’t come with weight or warning. It lands like a paper cut and it stings in a way that makes you go still. “Not because you owe them anything or because it’ll fix everything. Just… because it might fix a part of you.”

Saliva trickles down your throat like molasses. Your hand tightens around the bottle, your knuckles pale where they catch the moonlight, as if holding onto something will stop the rest of this. “And maybe,” he continues, talking more to the sand than to you, “… maybe, they’re waiting. They’re probably scared to try again or say the wrong thing. Scared to lose you completely.”

You hate the way your chest clenches at that. Hate the calm in his voice, the certainty in it.

Hate how he says it like he knows something you don’t, something you’ve spent too long trying not to think about.

You wipe at your face with the back of your hand. Another tear slips free anyway, trailing down your cheek before you can catch it. You drink to chase it down, hoping the burn will swallow the emotion with it.

“You don’t know them,” you retort.

“You’re right,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t.”

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard it stings. “And you don’t know me.”

The silence that follows feels like a dare.

“I’m starting to.”

Your throat closes around it, tight to speak. You stare at the waves again, vision swimming, heart caught somewhere high and trembling in your chest. Shoulders tense like your whole body’s trying not to fall apart under the weight of being seen.

“Why are you right about this?” It’s not really a question. Not one that needs an answer.

Jungkook shrugs, “High chance I’m not.”

“What would I even say to them?” You expect yourself to start crying harder as you imagine the look on your mother’s face when she swings open the wooden door that divides you two, but instead you let out some strangled breath.

And then, with that same quiet certainty that’s been threading through everything he’s said tonight, he replies. “Hi is a good start.”

You huff a laugh, if you can even call it that. There’s nothing bitter in it, not really, just the frayed underside of someone who hasn’t let herself admit how much she wants something to feel easy again.

You turn back to the water, and in what feels like days or maybe weeks, you let your shoulders fall. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Before you realize what your body is doing, you shift.

Slowly, almost cautiously, your head finds his shoulder.

His hoodie is soft where it meets your skin, worn cotton and faint woodsy notes of his cologne. He stiffens for half a second, long enough for you to wonder if you should pull away. But then he exhales, and you feel it beneath your cheek as he settles.

You close your eyes. It’s the first thing you’ve done with him that isn’t laced with tension or a good fuck or something to prove. Like something steady beneath your feet for the first time in months. You’ve spent your whole life staying ready. Even in bed with him, you’re still half-armored, still controlling the pace, the narrative, the exit plan.

Your mind is spiraling. This man, who you swore was just a complication to manage, another name on a campaign, has somehow managed to see more of you tonight than most people ever do. It almost feels like the first real thing you’ve had in a long time.

For a moment, you let yourself wonder what he’s thinking. Then you really don’t have to wonder as his voice slides into the quiet.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if you keep drinking that, I’m going to have to carry you back to the hotel.”

You scoff against the fabric of his hoodie, breath mingling in the cotton. “Please. I’ve survived four week campaign launches on three hours of sleep and a melted protein bar. I think I can handle a little soju.”

“You’re really bad at accepting help,” he says, not unkindly.

You don’t miss a beat. “You’re really bad at minding your business.”

Jungkook takes the bottle from your death grip on it. “You know that’s mine,” you mutter, not bothering to move.

“You offered it earlier,” he snickers, not looking at you.

“That was out of pity. You looked cold.”

The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts the bottle back and takes a sip. “Mm,” he hums, swallowing. “Tastes like judgment and unresolved emotion.”

A snort exits your body at that statement, and without thinking too hard about anything else, you reach for him, loop your arm through his. You curl into his side, your fingers sliding into the bend of his arm.

Your heart pounds harder than it should. This touch, it’s nothing like what you’re used to.This isn’t about sex or dominance or who will give in first.

Your pulse hammers as you stare at the waves, trying to calm yourself. You’ve had his hands all over you. You’ve kissed him until your mouth went numb. You’ve slept in his bed and cursed him and come undone beneath him.

He leans his head slightly toward yours when he says, “You’re not what I expected.”

You gulp. “What did you expect?”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “I honestly don’t know.”

Waves answer for you, their rhythm steady, the only constant in a night that’s shifting under your feet. You take another drink from the bottle he passes back, let your hand stay exactly where it is.

The bottle moves between you two so many times you lose track. When it’s empty, you reach for the rest of the pack you bought and open the next one. And… then another. Neither of you keeping tabs nor trying to.

You’re too warm now to feel the breeze. The moon hangs low and heavy over the water, dim and pregnant. The waves shimmer beneath it, silver and restless.

You’ve stopped talking about work and pretending this warm feeling that’s spread from your scalp to your toes isn’t nice. Now it’s smaller things.

Jungkook tells you about his first performance in elementary school, how he nearly threw up behind the curtain, convinced he’d forget all the words. How he still remembers the way it felt when the crowd clapped at the end.

You tell him about your first pitch meeting in New York, how your voice shook the entire time and your hands wouldn’t stop sweating, but how you walked out with the deal anyway because you refused to let anyone doubt you twice.

You go back and forth like that. Fragments of lives neither of you meant to offer up but somehow keep giving.

Somewhere in the middle of his story about failing his first math test twice — both times for forgetting to put his name at the top — you look at him.

It nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

The curve of his mouth when he’s laughing. The way his hands move when he talks, animated and careless. The soft gleam of the light catching on his earring, on the slope of his lashes, on the faint scar on his cheek that you’ve never noticed before. His hair’s messy from the wind. His hoodie’s rumpled. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol.

You must be drunk. You have to be drunk.

Because… god…. he’s beautiful.

Jungkook’s always been hot. You’re well aware of how women all over the world fawn over him. But now he’s just for you under the stars.

You don’t plan it or think much.

You just lean in and kiss him.

His mouth is soft when it meets yours, a little tentative at first. You’re already tilting your chin just so, letting your fingers curl tighter around his arm. He smells like fabric softener and salt, like sea air clinging to his skin and the faint trace of cologne you’ve only ever caught in passing but could recognize even in a lineup. He tastes like soju and mint, like laughter, like stories shared too easily under moonlight. And when he kisses you back, slow, more certain now, you don’t dare hesitate to let the bottle drop from your hands onto the sand, cupping his other cheek with your palm.

Reluctantly, you pull away, your warm fingers still pressed into the side of his face. Your breath whispers against his mouth, “Why did I just do that?”

Corners of Jungkook’s mouth tilt slightly, “I don’t know. But.. if you do it a second time, I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, biting back the smile that threatens to give you away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, “You’re the one kissing me under the stars. Kind of romantic, no?”

You exhale a laugh. Then kiss him again while holding your breath because you don’t want to say anything else.

And the next day, when you drive twenty minutes to your parents’ house in Busan, you don’t realize how tightly you’ve been holding your breath since that kiss until the street comes into view.

The building looks smaller than it used to. That’s the first betrayal.

Smaller, duller, drained of the larger-than-life scale it once carried when you were a kid staring up at it like it could swallow you whole. The bricks are paler now, bleached by time or guilt or maybe just too many summers. The gate still creaks and the third step wobbles beneath your weight like it remembers you.

Everything is exactly the same. Which is somehow so much worse.

You stand there longer than you should, keys cold in your hand, thumb pressing into the metal like if you just hold it tight enough, maybe the anxiety will dissolve. It doesn’t. You try to rehearse something. An opening line, a reason, an apology but your brain’s playing static. White noise and old echoes and the blood-rush sound of your own name when it used to be shouted across this lawn.

You think of Jungkook. “Hi is a good start.”

So you knock.

The door opens too fast. No time to brace, no time to breathe.

Your mother with a breath caught in her throat. A wrinkle at the corner of her mouth you don’t remember being there. Eyes you’ve spent half your life trying to forget and the other half trying to see again.

You almost forget to say hi.

She looks older somehow. Smaller than you remember. Her hair is pulled back the same way it always was, her apron dusted in flour like she’s been baking something just to pass the time.

She stares at you for a second, silent and wide-eyed.

You ditch the practiced words. Yoy say something else that finally breaks you.

“Eomma.”

You don’t even make it another second before the tears hit you full force. You move with muscle memory, and when your arms wrap around her, she’s already there catching you.

She smells the same. Feels the same too.

Her hands move across your back in rhythmic circles, pressing comfort straight into your skin. Erase the ache of every voicemail you never returned, every text you left hanging, every birthday you pretended didn’t sting.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and her voice breaks around it. “I missed you so much.”

You nod into her shoulder because your mouth doesn’t work right now. Because your throat is tight and your eyes are flooding and your voice gets caught somewhere behind all the guilt. But the words come out anyway, muffled and wet against the fabric of her shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to come back.”

She pulls you in even more like she’s trying to fold you into herself, as if you’re something she’s been trying to find her way back to, too. She just gives you the one thing you were never brave enough to ask for.

Grace.

Faint footsteps are heard in the background. You lift your head barely to see your sister.

She’s in the doorway like she’s not sure she’s allowed to be here, with those same wide eyes, hands pressed to her mouth.

“Unnie?”

It’s all she says.

You nod, and that’s all she needs before she’s hurtling toward you, flinging her arms around your waist like she’s trying to make up for every time you didn’t answer her call. Her hug is messier, less practiced yet hits you just as hard.

You laugh. You actually do, right there between the sobs and the apologies and the second-chance hugs. Not because anything’s fixed or that the damage is undone.

It’s just that there’s too much love in the room to hold without spilling.

You dig into your bag with trembling fingers, reaching for the one thing you knew would make her smile. You hand her the photocard. Jimin, smiling on glossy paper.

She gasps like you’ve handed her a diamond. “No way.”

“I bribed someone at the top,” you tease, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t have to,” She hugs the picture tight to her chest.

“I wanted to,” you say, and you mean it.

Time ticks differently that day, a clock you weren’t expecting to miss. There’s too much food, stories told fast, many emotions that rise and fall without warning. You cry again, laugh more, and sit on the same couch you once did with textbooks and chipped nail polish, listening to your mother fuss over your appetite and your sister’s loud music.

Though it isn’t perfect, though there are still things left unspoken and walls to slowly disassemble, it feels like a beginning.

When you finally climb back into your car that evening, parked just down the street where the air smells like dried seaweed and laundry, you sit in silence for a long time. The engine doesn’t start. Your hands don’t move.

You think of Jungkook again faintly.

You realize then and there: you don’t feel so lost.

You feel grateful.

And maybe a little unsteady, knowing that Jeon Jungkook, the cockiest, most infuriating, most impossible man you’ve ever met, was the one who handed you the courage to come home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs @magicalnachocreator @wisebouquetbarbarian @futuristicenemychaos

[thedensworld]

Run Devil Run | c.sc (Teaser)

Pairing: Incubus Seungcheol! x reader (feat. Incubus Jeonghan)

Genre: Supernatural romance au!

Type: fluff, angst, smut (mdnil!)

The New Project – Yoon Jeonghan

You tapped your nails against the rim of your cocktail glass, eyes scanning the dimly lit bar. The air was thick with conversation, laughter melting into the soft hum of jazz playing in the background. It was a Saturday night—which meant one thing.

Yoon Jeonghan would be here.

You had done your research. Jeonghan was a creature of habit, a man who lived in effortless perfection—too beautiful, too charming, too untouchable. A top actor with a face that could launch a thousand headlines, yet somehow, he had kept his name scandal-free.

Your client wanted that to change.

Your task? Get close. Make him fall. Break him. And then, hand over the evidence that would turn his flawless reputation into ruin.

Simple enough.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted him. Jeonghan. He was exactly where he was supposed to be—leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped loosely around a whiskey glass, eyes half-lidded as he listened to a friend’s story with an amused smirk.

A smirk that could ruin lives.

You tilted your head, exhaling slowly. Showtime.

Step one: get close to him.

You adjusted your posture, subtly angling yourself toward him without making it obvious. Not too desperate, not too disinterested. Just enough to place yourself in his periphery.

You ordered another drink, the bartender setting it down just as Jeonghan’s gaze flickered to you. It was a brief glance, barely a second long—but you felt the weight of it.

Good.

Step two: make him fall.

Jeonghan was used to being chased. Women fawned over him, men admired him, and yet—you wouldn’t do either. That was the trick.

So, you didn’t approach him.

You didn’t stare.

Instead, you let him notice you.

You exchanged fleeting glances, offering just the right amount of smile before looking away. A game of push and pull. Just enough to spark curiosity.

Then, the inevitable happened.

He came to you.

“You seem familiar,” Jeonghan mused, sliding into the barstool next to you. His voice was smooth, effortless. The kind that made people want to listen.

You blinked, feigning mild confusion. “Do I?”

He tilted his head, studying you, his smirk deepening as if he had already figured something out. “No,” he said. “But I wanted to see what you’d say.”

Clever.

You exhaled a soft chuckle, tapping your fingers against your glass. “And what did I say?”

Jeonghan took a sip of his drink, eyes gleaming. “Exactly what I expected.”

Step three: Play Him

Once Jeonghan took the bait, everything fell into place.

You met him at the bar twice more over the next few weeks, carefully weaving your way into his world. You weren’t too available, nor were you too distant. The perfect balance of interest and mystery.

You learned things.

1) His manager covered up rumors before they could spread.

2) He was always seen alone, yet never truly alone.

3) He didn’t mind attention, but he chose who got too close.

That was the trickiest part. Jeonghan was too smart. He knew when someone wanted something from him.

So you gave him exactly what he needed instead.

Fun. A distraction. Something to keep him entertained.

And in return, he let you in.

Close enough to stage a few things.

A photo here, a misleading encounter there. The illusion of scandal began to take shape.

Step four: leak the scandal

You sent the carefully crafted photos and fabricated “witness accounts” to your contact. The headlines would come soon enough.

“Yoon Jeonghan: Serial Womanizer?”

A carefully edited narrative. Just enough truth to be believable, just enough ambiguity to make people question.

And just like that, the job was done.

Or so you thought.

Because the next time you walked into the bar, someone else was waiting for you.

Not Jeonghan.

Not your client.

Choi Seungcheol.

And from the way he looked at you, dark amusement curling at the edges of his lips, you knew—

You were in trouble.

[jennzworld]

"You understand... don't you?"

Solivan Brugsmansia x GN!Reader

TW: Sol, stalking (from both Sol and reader), mentions of torture if you squint, somnophilia mentioned, Sol admits to jerking off at the thought of you, Reader admits to planning abduction, NSFW, dark themes (kinda), no pronouns mentioned, making out, dry humping

a/n: I haven't played too much of TKATB, but I get the gist of it, also didn't feel like writing too much smut, that'll be a separate post, also way shorter than I expected

White is you, Green is Sol, Crowe is purple, Pink is Brittney... Everyone except you and Sol get 1-2 lines in a flashback

MINORS DNI ‼️ or do, idc

It was sunny out and you dreaded waking up to another day of hell. You shower, get dressed, eat, and get the fuck out.

Leaving the house, you made sure to take your keys, wallet, and phone, which was actually charged this time..

"I'm not forgetting anything right?"

You look around your apartment, making sure nothing is left or out of place, when your eyes catch the window, or rather, the window lock.

"I've really gotta replace that, I swear I already did... whatever"

You brush it off and leave, making sure to lock the door on the way out. You make your way to Olympieus University, the corrupt college you still manage to attend.

Of course, walking to class, the first person you see is Crowe, your "best friend", but you fucking hate him. Well- not hate, but you really don't like him, romantically at least...

You had your eyes on Sol, the kid at the back who sketches in his book. Solivan Brugsmansia was his name, and he was the hottest fucking guy you've ever met. He stayed to himself, and you've caught him looking at you once or twice.. I mean, yeah you'd catch him, you stared at him lots, shamelessly too.

It wasn't until your art teacher paired you two up for a project that you'd finally have the chance to talk to him! You hurried and made your way to the back, not worried about the stares of the other students who wondered why you were so eager to sit with the weird guy.

Solivan smiles as you sit with him, you look so happy and eager to work with him that it melts his heart...

"Hey Sol, it's me again!"

"Yeah, hey Y/N..."

The both of you chat it up for a bit while starting the project, it was simple. Make portraits of eachother and make sure it looks right, not that serious.

Especially for you.

Little did Sol know, you've been watching him for awhile, and not just in class. It wasn't your fault, he was just so fucking amazing, you wanted to know what his life was like! No harm in that, right?

Wrong.

That's what your mother said to you. It was junior year and you liked this person, so much so that you followed them around a lot, sometimes without their knowledge. It was a habit you tried to desperately grow out of, but you just couldn't. It felt... out of your control.

Sol sits across from you in your apartment, as you both agreed to finish off the project at your place.

Perfect for you, wasn't it?

"Okay, I'm done. I think it looks nice"

"Yay! Lemme see!"

He hands you the paper as his face turns a light shade of pink. He looks away, the sketch was so accurate you wanted to kiss him right then and there. But, as tempting as it was, you held back.

Just like you always did.

"You like that guy?"

"He gives me bad vibes, Y/N"

"Don't involve yourself with him"

"I just don't want you to get hurt"

They all said the same thing.

Did you know something was wrong with him? Yes.

Did you do anything about it? No.

Why? Because you're the same.

"Y/N?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry..."

"Did you uhm... Did you like it?"

"Of course, Sol, I love it!"

You smile and give him a hug, thanking him for the portrait before starting on his. You sketch his face shape carefully, this was the only time you actually had a reason to stare at his face. He was the most beautiful person you've ever laid eyes on, you swear it.

A few hours had passed and the portraits were looooong forgotten.. You had somehow ended up in Sol's lap, grinding down on him while he kissed you feverishly.

Your hands planted on his shoulders, one of his hands on your waist, the other cupping your face as his tongue slides into your mouth. His whimpers and whines hitting your ears doing nothing but making you more aroused and you move your hips down harder, faster.

"Fuck... Y/N you're sooo good to me~"

You can obviously tell how good you are to him, judging by the fucking monster he has in his pants. Showing your appreciation, you lean down toward his neck and bite down, hard.

The pornographic moan he let out was heavenly.

"You're such a f-fucking good boy, a-aren't you Sol~?"

"A-all for you, baby~"

Nearing release, you smash your lips onto his again, going as fast as you possibly can with his assistance. You let out reluctant whines and whimpers as you get closer and closer to tipping..

An eye rolling, back arching, tongue lolling orgasm hits you like a freight train as Sol holds you closer to him, clinging to you like a vice.

"I've been dreaming about this, about us, for so long... and we finally made that happen"

"Really now? Been fuckin your fist to me or something?"

You laugh, only half expecting the answer that comes after.

"If I said yes would you be mad?"

"No, I guess I have secrets too..."

"Like what?"

"I've been stalking you."

You say it so bluntly his eyes widen, as if he hasn't been doing the same thing!

"Well, guess we're on the same page. I've kissed you in your sleep..."

"So you're the reason my fucking window lock is broken!

You smack his chest before smushing his cheeks together

"You owe me 25 dollars!"

He just laughs before rolling you both over on the couch, his green hair falling over his face.

"That's nothing, I've got it"

"Looks like my plan of throwing you in an abandoned warehouse wasn't useless after all."

"Wow, you really beat me to it huh?"

You both end up finishing your projects at 2am... Sol does stay the night and you both surprisingly don't dread the next day.

Tags!

@rado-brisingr @whitneysslut @its-atsui-bitch

I only tagged adults, I'm not tagging minors, but idc if you read. Just make sure to like it.

[avr1lxoxo]

Brushstrokes — S.R.

————————————————————————

————————————————————————

💐 - fluff

spencer finds peace watching you pursue your passions (artist!reader)

cw; fem!reader, established relationship, kinda clingy spencer, not proofread

an; i promise im getting to the requests 🙏 i have stuff written for them but i just wanted to write something quick and cute to refresh my brain. i really enjoyed writing this one, so lmk if you wanna see more!

————————————————————————

Your apartment was one of Spencer's favorite places to be. It always smelled something of coffee and the warm scented candles you had a habit of buying, and it was decorated exactly how he'd imagine your mind.

He loved how, in the mornings, the sun shone through the window above your bed and let its rays fall perfectly on your desk, as if to highlight whatever project you were working on. Like it knew how beautiful it was – how beautiful you were as you projected your heart into your work.

Spencer had just gotten home from a rough case the previous night, so, of course, you let him stay with you. You didn't mind as he slept through a portion of the day. You knew he needed it.

He finally began to stir when the clock was due to hit 1:00pm. His messy and tangled hair falling over his closed eyes as he tried to reach for you, but soon realized you were nowhere to be found. With this realization came the initial panic, but he soon calmed as he heard music coming from the other room.

Given a few moments, your bedroom door creaked as he left the room. His clothes hung loosely from his body and he hadn't even bothered to put his glasses back on like he usually would after he woke up.

Spencer spotted you quickly, sat at the table with an array of colors and papers and brushes gathered around you. You also hadn't bothered changing into real clothes, evidenced by the paint-stained shirt he had seen you wearing last night.

You turned to him as he sat next to you, a soft smile spreading on your face as you saw his tired expression.

"Hi," you said. "Feeling better?"

"I was never feeling bad," Spencer responded, wrapping his arms around your waist as he let his head fall onto your shoulder.

You leaned your head into his. "But you didn't have a good day."

Spencer only hummed in response, pressing a soft, gentle, and sleepy kiss to the skin of your jaw. He didn't feel like arguing, especially knowing you were right. He just didn't know you meant it like that.

His gaze followed the stroke of your brush as you got back to work, painting on the petals of the flowers he had gotten you on your anniversary. He loved the way you captured their softness and the life within them.

You let him rest on you. This was something that happened often – maybe not exactly this, but Spencer sitting with you in comfortable silence as you painted. The same way you'd sit with him as he did paperwork or when you would read together, him waiting for you to catch up on the page before he flipped it. You worried that it annoyed him since he read so fast and you didn't, but it never did.

His fingers toyed with the stitching of your shirt, running along it as he closed his weary eyes again. He could imagine what you were doing. He didn't need to see it happen. He could feel it in the way he felt your arm move. The image of the flowers sitting on the table in front of you ingrained into his mind. It was a bit of a game to him to see how accurate he was in his guess of where you were in your art.

"Are you hungry?" You asked, breaking the silence after a few more moments.

Spencer thought about it for a moment before shaking his head softly. "No, not really."

"I have some coffee if you want some," you said. "It's on the table right there."

He lifted his head from your shoulder, straightening himself out a little bit before he reached for the mug. He sighed softly as the warm liquid hit his mouth. You took your coffee the same way he did, although he knew you could drink it any way. Sometimes, he wondered if you made it differently when you were with him, knowing how he liked it best so he'd like it the same (if not more, since you made it) when he took a sip.

"I really like that," he said, nodding towards your painting. "It's pretty."

"They're pretty," you responded.

"Did you start it today?" He asked.

"I sketched it out last night, but I started painting it this morning."

Again, Spencer hummed. Silence took over once more as he leaned back against you.

"I love you," he spoke softly after another few moments.

"I love you too, Spence." You smiled.

It took another hour or so for the painting to be finished, but Spencer didn't mind and neither did you. When it dried, you signed your name and made Spencer sign his with a little heart and the date. That was another thing you did sometimes. You painted and drew things he gave you fairly often, flowers being the most common, and for those ones you always had Spencer write his name with yours. It made him happy to feel included, even if he didn't take part in the actual creation of the art.

[sweetimpurity]

I Think I'll Keep You 5

a/n: Thank you again for your patience! I hope you guys enjoy and the next chapter is already underway and will come very soon! And some more art and bots coming out as well so look out for that!

w.c.: 10.2k NSFW MINORS DNI

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5

“...accurate and efficient methods of decoding… further aiding us in understanding… um… complicated genetic codes… pushing preservation and conservation. Uhh… yeah.” Miguel sighs, sitting up in his seat and peering over your arm as you type away on his laptop. Sitting at a table in the middle of the library during tutoring hours. Your fingers typing for him as he speaks what he wants written. He can’t type. Not with his right hand totally out of commission. So he’s come to your open tutoring hours. And now you have a student to work on so you can get paid and he can get help with his work. It’s Saturday and the two of you have been practically connected at the hip for the past two days.

You woke up beside him yesterday afternoon after that late night emergency room run. Lazily, sleepily taking the rest of the day slowly. Walking across campus to get food since all you both ate the whole night was a few pieces of candy. Smiling and talking, shoes splashing in shallow puddles along the concrete. A refreshing feeling having moved on from the mess of the last few weeks. The bubble has popped. That bubble of sex and ignorance that felt so great for the both of you. Sitting in the dining hall, among the hardwood and tall, ancient windows of your old university; looking over the school grounds turned fall shades and the autumn breeze blowing in through the window. Trying to talk about anything that won’t add any more stress or tension. No talk of friends, or family, not even school. Really just talking about whatever comes into your mind. And the conversation is just so easy. It’s different to spend time with him outside of the dorm room. It didn’t happen very often before. A lot of your conversations were pillowtalk. It’s different talking about the other parts of your life that don’t take place right after doing the deed. Miguel is funny. And he’s a good listener when his mind is clear and he’s focused on you. Only you. 

Feels like things are going back to normal. Well not how it was before. A new normal. 

“I think it sounds good… it’s a little awkward in the intro still but we can fix it up later…” You assure him, fixing a few typos and reading it over. The library is nice and quiet as always. You didn’t have any other students come this afternoon so you have time to focus on this and help Miguel since you know he can’t really do it himself right now.

“I don’t know… feels like I’m missing something. I’m gonna include the research but it doesn't feel like enough.” He sighs, leaning his elbows on the table, pushing his frames further up the bridge of his nose and looking over the notes in his hand. His knee is bouncing under the table and you can feel the vibrations of it in your seat. He’s applying to the Alchemax grant program. A huge grant with a long essay to go with it, multiple letters of recommendation and a personal profile piece. Tens of thousands of dollars for his research project. And he’d basically be an intern there. Able to use their facilities and labs to complete the job and create a brand new study of his own. It would start right after graduation and almost definitely lead to a great job at Alchemax Industries. He sighs, leaning back in his seat, draping his arm over the back of your chair. 

“You okay?” You hum, observing his clearly distressed behavior. His knee bouncing, his brow furrowed, the sighs. He looks over at you, in your eyes. Don’t lie. “Yeah I’m fine… just… want to get this right.” 

You nod. Knowing that’s not all there is to it. But accepting it for now. “Well, maybe you should include some of your… personality…traits…” You suggest with a small smile, knowing that it will be like pulling teeth with him, clasping your hands in your lap and looking over at him next to you. 

“Like what. I mean… Tyler knows me. He’s the one that told me to apply.” [Tyler Stone. President and Ceo of Alchemax Industries.] He sighs, pushing his glasses up on his head, his dark curls becoming a little messy with the metal pushed through them, and rubbing the sides of his nose with his fingers. The ache of wearing his glasses for a while when he usually doesn’t like wearing them at all. But he’s worn them more often the past few days. He can see you more clearly now.  

“Yeah but he’s not the only one who’s gonna be working with you or deciding if you get the job or not. You want people to know who you are… know the kind of person you are. More often than not, that’s more important than the research when it comes to something like this. I mean, you’re not just applying for a grant, you’re applying for a job…” You explain kindly. He looks up, in your eyes, his eyes raking over your pretty face. He loves feeling like he can be close to you again. He loves feeling like he knows what’s going on in your head. Or maybe that’s just his need for control seeping in. Like venom in warm blood. Just sitting next to you like this. Even if he hasn’t so much as kissed you since everything went down. It’s only been nearly two weeks but it feels like an eternity. He wants to so badly. But he reminds himself that this is how things are right now. He messed up and he’s getting a second chance. He won’t take your forgiveness for granted. “Yeah, you’re right.” He admits, dropping the graphs and charts on the table.

“Maybe talk about family… inspirations… personal goals. People like that kind of stuff. People also want to know that you can be a part of something bigger than yourself…” You say, fingers brushing over the keys and ready to type what he says. “Uh…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, trying to pull this out of his brain. He doesn’t really want to talk about his family. Doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction of being considered inspiration. But his upbringing and his parents’ names alone have opened a lot of doors for him in the past. His fingers fidget on the back of your chair, catching a few strands of your hair, playing with it so softly that you don’t even feel it. And he watches the side of your face to make sure you don’t notice, your eyes focused on the computer screen. Curling the strands around his finger and getting lost in touching you. Hanging on desperately to this morsel of touch. Knowing he probably shouldn’t but he just can’t help himself.

“I guess… we could say I grew up watching my parents with their business. But that’s more… financial services. When I was born, OLI was just taking off and now… I’ve watched them build it into what it is today.” He explains. You keep typing, writing it down in the notes to keep it straight. You can hear the sigh in his voice like he hates to be talking about it. You don’t know why. Mostly because he’s never spoken about this before. But if he’s applying for such a big opportunity then it’s important to include.

“OLI, I’ve heard of that, I think…” You look over at him, unsure what that stands for but you know you’ve heard that acronym before, or maybe you’ve seen it somewhere? 

“O’hara Legacy Investments.” He says with a nod and sigh, a level of disdain in his tone. He leans forward, his mind still on this essay. On beefing it up with info that might secure him this grant. Even though he’s confident his connections will get him in. There’s always a chance things might not go his way. He wants to prepare for every possible outcome. He hates to feel out of control. You stop typing. That sounds like investment banking. Like the kind of thing that makes people billionaires. 

“Is that the… that tall building downtown?” You ask, looking over at him and he nods, a blank stare in his eyes as he’s looking down at the research notes. “Your family runs that?”

“Yep.” He sighs, not offering more information so you don’t ask for more.

“Okay sooo… how would that influence your work at Alchemax?” You prompt, trying to veer back on course. You can tell he’s losing steam, you’ve been at this a while. 

“So I guess it’s not really the same as what I would be doing at Alchemax but… Watching how that runs… how many people it takes to keep something running like that. I guess something about leading teams of people working towards a goal…” He keeps thinking out loud and you keep typing, interpreting his words into organized notes and ideas. “So.. maybe about you as a leader? You think you can be a good leader…” 

“Yeah. I think so… and soccer, we could include that too.” He says, perking up and sitting up a bit straighter. Although the topic of soccer does bring his anxiety levels up a bit. Watching you type while playing with a piece of frayed material on his cast. “Yeah, captain of the soccer team, sports is always something they want to hear. If you’re a leader… organizer. And coming from SU especially, they love to see it.” You agree, typing and compiling the thoughts that come to mind. “And to know you can work in a team…” 

Miguel nods. Feeling relieved that you’re able to help him with this. He did all the more technical notes for it over the past few weeks. Organized lots of thoughts and data to start the writing process. Then he broke his fingers and that put a wrench in the process. It’s due next week and without you he’d be screwed. But it works out sort of perfectly, and a little selfishly, that now he’s spending more time with you because of that. “I think also…” 

He starts. You look over, ready to type whatever he suggests. “I’m an older brother too… that’s… I don’t know…” He mumbles. You find yourself smiling. “I feel like… maybe being a leader in that way is different.” 

“It’s very different, yes…” You nod, looking back at the laptop screen, a smile dancing on your lips. “Maybe something about… protecting… looking out for those that are important to me. Or being a good role model I guess…” He sighs. Thinking. About Gabriel. About you. Pretty much the two most important people in his life. I guess I haven’t been a very good role model as of late. 

“Loyalty… role model…” You say and nod. Typing those words in the compilation of notes you’re making in the margins. His knee is still bouncing.

“I also think you’re very passionate…” You say. He looks over at you, the side of your face, watching you type more things in the notes. Trying to create a section of his essay that can portray him as not just another applicant. “I think I’m just generally angry… I don’t really think before I do things…” He scoffs, shaking his head and leaning forward, his arms on the table, his head resting down on his forearms, looking at your pretty face from this angle. You grin and nod, giving him a look. “Yeah but we don’t have to include that… passion works…” 

He laughs through his nose, blinking softly and admiring your face. Watching your pretty eyes, the light of the computer screen reflecting in them, making them especially sparkly. It’s quiet for a moment, just the clicks of keys and fingertips. He thinks, reflecting on all that’s happened in the past few weeks. That thing with Dana keeps coming to mind. That was really a moment of lost control. Is that the passion you’re talking about? That he loses control and can’t get it back until it’s almost too late? He worries about that. Not remembering most of it because he was so angry. It sort of feels like a dream. Especially since he fought with you right after that and then everything went right to shit. 

All he knows is that Dana made it back to his dorm. He knows for a fact nothing happened. He wouldn’t have wanted it anyway because he despises her and she was drunk off her ass. But she did lie on his bed. Her perfume was all over him. And he remembers standing over her and wanting to make her hate him. Just so that she would leave him alone. That’s a level of anger he never wants you to witness, or anyone really for that matter. It scares him a bit now to think of it. All he knows is that if you think he’s loyal, he’ll be loyal as a dog. If you think he’s passionate, he’ll be a raging, burning fire to keep you warm. You think he’s anything, he’ll be that. If you want him to be. 

He fidgets with the fray on his cast. Coming off the blue material. His gaze caught on the little cursive “mine” you wrote. That night in the drug store. When you were both so deliriously tired, sitting in the middle of the floor. Having this on his arm is like a reminder. Or a promise. That maybe you’ll be his or he’ll be yours again. He’ll just have to be patient. His thumb brushes over the word, like making sure the letters won’t fall off, making sure they’re stained into the blue permanently. Do you even remember writing this? He thinks. Or were you so tired it feels like a dream? His bouncing knee still vibrates against your chair. 

“Anything else for today? We did a lot…” You ask, looking over at him. Bringing him out of his thoughts. “No, I think that’s good, thank you… but maybe next week we can finalize things and you can help me edit it?” He asks hopefully. “Yeah definitely, I’ll block out some time for you…” 

He nods, sighing and pulling his glasses off his head. Folding them up in his hand and collecting his papers. You just save the document, debating in your head the words on your tongue. Closing the laptop so he can pack it up in his bag. 

“So… you wanna tell me what’s stressing you out?” You ask, turning in your seat to face him and leaning your elbow on the table, head in your hand. He stops what he’s doing, putting down the stack of notebooks. “You can read my mind…” He smiles. 

“No, you’ve just been bouncing your knee against my chair for the past hour.” You sigh, smiling soft but sympathetic at him. His shoulders slump. “Oh sorry…” He shakes his head, feeling embarrassed for being so obvious, pinching the bridge of his nose in his fingers. 

“It’s okay… Is it the grant? I think your essay will be good enough…” You hum. Noticing all of his distress and not wanting him to be freaking out over something he’s already spent so long working on. “No it’s not… I… I’m really glad you can help me with it. Thank you… I’m just worried about the game tomorrow…” He nods. And it dawns on you. “Ohh…”

“I actually should get going… have a meeting with the coach. Figure out how we’re gonna pull this off…” He sighs, getting up from his seat to gather his things. He’s been wracked with anxiety about the game ever since putting two and two together that he’s out for the next few weeks. It’s against the rules for someone to play with a plaster cast on and he’s nowhere near getting that removed. So the team will have to supplement him. 

“You’re not gonna play are you? You shouldn’t… not with your hand like that.” You insist, watching him get up, pulling on his jacket precariously with his one working hand. He can hear the concern in your voice. “I can’t. It's an instant disqualification… so I have to talk to Coach and maybe I’ll just assistant coach tomorrow, I don’t know…” He sighs, knowing it’ll be a struggle for the team to play without him. And they very well might not win. This is a university proud of its win streak so far. 

“If it hurts, let Coach know… you don’t have to do anything that’s uncomfortable.” You advise softly. Wanting him to be comfortable. Always. That look of care on your face makes him feel a little warm. Making him feel a little soft and fuzzy inside. He can’t remember ever being worried over like that. He clears his throat, trying not to let that feeling get to him too much, shoving his laptop in his bag and zipping it up. “I will… don’t worry about me…” 

He says it but he doesn’t really mean it. Although he doesn't want you to be anxious; he definitely doesn’t need to inflict any more emotional pain on you, he’s done more than enough of that over the past few weeks… he does want you to care. Or it’s more like… once he realized you actually do care, now he doesn’t want to lose that. 

“Just be careful… I know you’ll do well and the team will be fine…” You smile gently. Clicking your pen and watching him getting ready to leave. His bag slung over his shoulder. “Thank you… yeah I just need to chill.” He sighs, moving his hurt hand around absentmindedly to soothe the ache. “Well… the feeling you’re having just means you care. It’s a good feeling, even though it’s scary…” 

He looks in your eyes, down at where you’re still sitting. Feeling struck by your words. You’ve always been so good at that. You always know exactly what to say when he needs to hear it. He hopes to do the same for you one day. If only he can figure out how you manage to do it every time. He just nods in thanks, a renewed sense of relief inside. 

“Dinner later?” He inquires, brow raising as he’s starting to walk away. Walking backwards away from the table, his eyes on you the entire time. 

“Sure, I’ll meet you there…” You rest your head on your hand, watching him go from where you’re sitting. Watching that look on his face. A sort of satisfaction in that he’s leaving but already thinking about when he gets to see you next. He nods. Turning towards the library doors and smiling to himself, making his way out. Sneakers tapping on the hardwood floors of the academic building, sparing you one last glance. Finding your eyes still on him. A stupid sort of giddy feeling in his chest. Lopsided grin on his lips as he leaves the library.

“O’hara! Dude.” Peter’s voice brings him out of his flurry of thoughts. Watching his friend march down the rest of the hall to him. “Where you been? You disappeared again…” Peter chuckles.

“Oh yeah I‘ve just been… busy in the lab and stuff… and my application.” He lies. While it’s true he has been working on his application and piles of homework, he’s also been actively avoiding all of his friends ever since your fight. Unable to handle even the slightest of social interaction. His mind set on you and only you. But he won’t tell Peter that. 

“Dana said you were being crazy or something…” Peter huffs, his brow quirked in disbelief. Miguel’s heart starts to beat a little harder at that. Did Dana tell everyone what happened? Or her version of what happened? “What did she say?”

“Well… she’s kinda implying that you two hooked up after the party last week…” Miguel’s eyes widen at that news. It’s just not true. But that seems to be the story everyone believes so far. “MJ thinks she’s full of shit bu-"

“She is full of shit.” Miguel sighs. Pinching the bridge of his nose. Or trying to with his cast. It was a foolish thing to give into his anger and take Dana back to his dorm. But he didn’t sleep with her. He’s not surprised though that she’s spreading that rumor around. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

“Shit, what happened?!” Peter flips, looking down at the cast engulfing Miguel’s forearm to the tips of his fingers. Looking at the seemingly broken hand, his eyes scanning over Miguel as a whole. Feeling like he has no idea what’s going on with someone who’s supposed to be his closest friend. “I broke my wrist but it’s fine, doctor says it’ll be fine even without surgery.”

“It’s fine?! What about the game?” Peter asks in panic, running a hand through his previously neat light brown locks. It’s against policy rules to play with a hard plaster cast for the safety of the other players and teammates. But Miguel’s the captain, their top offense and shooter. 

“I’ll be on the sidelines and Miller and Durante can take care of it.”

“It’s Princeton, Miguel. We’re gonna get fuckin’ smoked out there…” Peter huffs, going on and on but Miguel just shakes his head, feeling that anxiety rising again. The anxiety you were able to dampen only moments ago. “I know it sucks… I know. But those new drills have been helping… I’m gonna talk to coach.” 

“Alright… but Marco and Santiago need to get their asses in order before tomorrow. I’m not playing defense because they can’t pay attention to the fucking ball.” 

“I know, I know…” Miguel sighs and nods. Knowing this is all bad timing. They’ve been preparing for this game for a while now and it’s a pretty big spectacle. The stands will undoubtedly be full to the brim. It makes him tense and anxious to think about.

“Okay…” Peter huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Well, text me what Coach says…” He sighs, lifting his fist. Their knuckles colliding as he’s starting to walk off to where he’s going. “No more disappearing…” Peter chuckles, looking back as he starts walking down the hall, pointing a finger at his friend. “Yeah, yeah…”

“Alright, I’ll see you later.” Peter says with a nod, his hands in his pockets as he rounds the corner, walking into the library. Miguel sighs, feeling that tension, that tomorrow might not go well and it’ll be all his fault. Because he can’t do more to help the team he’s supposed to be leading.

He jogs down the stairs, down another hallway and outside. The fall breeze and smell of the trees and crisp autumn air flows past his cheeks, blowing back the little curls by his ears. Hunching his shoulders up when the brisk air cools his neck, pulling his collar up and walking across the commons to get to the athletic building on the other side of campus. To meet with Coach about the game plan for tomorrow. 

“Come on guys, one more time!” Miguel calls out to the team. Dressed in his uniform, dark blue and silver stripes, school colors with the Sterling University crest on his arm, a C on his chest. Number 99 on his back. Cleats and his cast to match. It does suck he has to miss out on actually playing but he does a lot of assistant coaching as captain anyway so it’s nothing he’s not used to. Coach Dean is talking with the referees anyway. Schmoozing on the sidelines, convinced it’ll earn them less whistles through the game. 

Miguel sighs, anxious, shaking his head and directing his attention to the mobs of people filling the stands. The sun is setting, the field lights coming on and a slight chill filling the air. A buzz with that too. College soccer fans here as well as lots of students from both universities. People are excited. The team is excited as well as anxious without Miguel playing beside them. Knowing they’ll have to supplement him being out. Miguel huffs, stretching his arms and wincing slightly at the remnants of ache in his wrist, his breath fogging in the cold air.

“Come on… si yeah! ¡Mantén la posesión!" He shouts from the sides, watching the team warming up with the drills and keeping order, following them up and down their half of the field. “Marco!¡Sigue presionando! Call for it!" A mix of Spanish and English naturally leave his lips. Dark eyes follow their form and technique. Keeping everyone in order. They’re doing really well as always. But Miguel would prefer perfection. “Good! Alright break!” He shouts.

The team all relaxes, sighing in relief and collecting on the sidelines near the bench. Some passing the ball back and forth. The goalie is doing some technique in the practice nets with Durante and Miller. Others glancing at the opposing team warming up on their side of the field. “Marco, you’re gonna break you’re fuckin’ ankle doing that. Keep it light, it doesn’t have to be so fast. Slow down and go through the steps, alright?” Miguel instructs calmly, grabbing a ball and demonstrating on the turf by the benches. Marco nods, wiping his brow with the edge of his jersey. 

“Just like that… keep it loose and look at Miller, he’s the one you’re paying attention to. Don’t look at Durante, he’s gonna be looking at Miller for that pass down the field. But that was still good, keep it up..” 

“There’s a lot of people here…” Peter comments, squirting some water into his mouth, catching his breath. Miguel walks over from helping Marco, standing beside his friend and looking out at the people in the stands. It’s a little more than they’re used to. Little intimidating considering this stadium seats thousands of people.

“It’s a big game…” Miguel huffs, grabbing his water bottle. Wish I could fucking play… he thinks. Glancing at Coach, still talking to the refs near the midline. They have a little while before everything starts.

It’s the end of the first half and it’s been a good game so far. Princeton is good but so is Sterling. They’d be better if Miguel was on the field to help them. He finds himself getting frustrated on the sidelines, disagreeing with the refs calls and calling out to his teammates, trying to lead and instruct. The whistle blows and the team finally relaxes. Panting and walking over to the sidelines. 

“They’re fast…” Marco pants, plopping down on the bench to catch his breath. “We have to be faster… but we’re holding our own…” Miguel says, hands on his hips and looking over the team, trying to keep the edge from his tone. He’s here to lead, not berate.

“You good?” He sees Peter covered in grass stains. Peter’s the one that’s been scoring pretty much all the goals so far. Princeton’s defense is good. It’s one of those games where no one’s going to score very many goals, it’s all about making sure the other team doesn’t get too close. “That was really good, keep doing that. And if it works better for Marco to go up the right side, then do that.” Miguel says. 

“I will… they’re so fuckin fast…” Peter pants, grabbing his water bottle and squirting some in his mouth. Breathing heavy through his nose. The team takes a few minutes at halftime to refuel and plan for the second half. Peter and Marco will have to be smart about the next plays. They’re down by two and the other team just keeps getting closer and closer. 

“I got a girl in the stands…” Peter says with a lopsided smile, still out of breath, spraying some more water into his mouth. “Yeah?” Miguel’s brow quirks at that information. He knows Peter has a lot of girls around him and friends that are girls. Makes sense, he’s very smart, an athlete, loud and the life of the party. Everyone always trying to get a piece of him. Not a foreign concept to Miguel himself. Miguel grabs his water bottle too, raising it to his mouth. “Who is she?” 

“Her name’s y/n…” 

What?

“...yeah you should meet her… she’s really pretty and smart and funny...” 

What?

Peter keeps talking, tossing a ball to someone else across the bench. Not even registering the look on Miguel’s face. Like shock and something else. Something Miguel himself can’t put a finger on. And Miguel can only half listen to Peter’s words. “She’s head of the tutoring club… did I tell you I started doing that? Dude, I’m getting paid to do some freshman’s homework and get course credit. It's like the easiest shit in the world…” Peter laughs, talking on and on. 

Miguel doesn’t understand. It’s like his brain can’t process this. Staring at Peter silently and waiting for him to say it’s a joke. But how could it be a joke?

“She’s riiiiight… there-” Peter turns, pointing at the stands. Turning stiffly, Miguel looks out to where he’s pointing. His dark eyes searching the stands and looking for your face. Hoping to see some stranger who happens to have the same name as you. But no. It’s you. 

He watches your gaze snap onto them, seeming surprised to have both their attention now. How did he not notice? You’ve been here this whole time, sitting nearly 15 rows behind him and he didn’t know? But Peter knew?

He can’t help that his immediate reaction to seeing you is relief. Seeing you up there and he just wants to smile. Wants to disappear with you and forget this stressful game. You’re like… his best friend in the whole world. But then that relief is quickly quelled when he realizes Peter is the one who invited you, he’s the reason you’re here. 

Miguel huffs. Nearly getting hit in the face when Peter starts waving at you. Stepping back and trying to make sense of this. There you are, waving back their way. What is this? He wonders. Unable to help the scowl that appears on his face as he observes Peter waving. What is this happening that he doesn’t know about or had no idea could even happen? Another bubble has popped and he didn’t even know it. 

He looks back up at you. Your eyes looking his way. But are you looking at him or are you looking at Peter? He hates that he can’t even tell. He hopes it’s him but it’s too much distance to know for sure. He just holds up a hand weakly. Waving at you. Feeling like an idiot, a total fool. And here Peter is waving at you, thinking Miguel doesn’t even know who you are. Fuck.

“Alright boys! Let’s huddle up!” Coach yells, coming over to the bench and motioning for everyone to come over. Peter moves to head over, gently kicking a ball on his way. And Miguel can’t help but keep glancing at you. Feeling self conscious. You’ve been watching him and witnessing all of this, this entire time? He didn’t even know you were here and half of the game had already been played. And all he’s done is stand on the sidelines while Peter played big shot scorer. 

Your hands wave at him, mouthing something he can’t make out. His brow knitting together as you try to communicate something to him before Coach snaps again. 

“O’hara!” 

His eyes snap to the team huddled by the bench. Taking long strides to get over there. But his mind is a mess. He didn’t even know you knew each other. 

The second half, the rest of the game, it’s hard for Miguel to focus on coaching. He’s watching the team play but it’s like a delayed reaction in his mind. Like his body is here but his brain is trying to tap into some invisible signal stretching from you to him. Peter scores again and Miguel flinches at the sound of the stands erupting. Cheering and echoing through his head. Pounding the sides of his skull.

He can’t help but glance your way every chance he gets. But every time he’s able to spot you in the sea of colors and foreign faces, you’re looking at the ball on the field. Which is always in Peter’s possession. And he can’t focus on anything except what he doesn’t know. What he can’t control. 

…

“Wooooo!” Marco hollers, the team gathering in a huddle on the field and celebrating their close victory. They won, but it was a tough game. Miguel stares almost blankly as the team all slaps hands and says good game. And by the time he snaps out of it, turning to find you, the stands are already emptying out and you’re gone from your seat. 

“O’hara!” The team shouts, bringing him out of the mess of thoughts. The players crowding him in celebration on the sidelines. Cheers and loud voices. Talking about moments in the game, highlights, certain techniques that had Princeton on their toes. All in all it was an exciting match and Peter was definitely the savior, scoring more goals than anyone and making the game. And Peter is all smiles. 

The team heads back to the locker room. Showering and warming down from the game. Miguel stands at his locker. His new locker since the punched in door wouldn’t close properly on his old one. Pulling off his jersey carefully with one hand and hanging it up. Wiping down his broad chest with a towel and hearing Peter with some of the boys walking in from the showers. His movements slow, brow furrowing, grabbing his change of clothes and pulling a tank top on, the black material bunching down his toned abdomen against his deep skin. Listening to Peter’s voice. 

His mind races. Since when did you two become such good friends? And why wouldn’t I know you were coming to the game when I saw you all day yesterday? Does Peter know that? Does Peter know we spend countless hours together? Does Peter know we have this deep connection that I’m actually working really hard to repair? He ought to. 

He listens to Peter’s conversation, as if waiting for him to say your name to confirm he’s talking about you. But he can’t make it out all the way. Something about a party, something about his car, something about the game. He watches the rest of the guys leave the locker room. Peter walks by with the guys and he just subtly, silently glares as they pass, not noticing him. pulling his hoodie on and shutting his locker gently. Pulling his phone off the charger and slinging his sports bag over his shoulder, walking out. 

He slumps down the concrete steps, the hallway leading to the exit doors, opening out to the athletic parking lot. Raking a hand through his hair, his mind a mess. He’s not used to feeling so beaten down after a game. They won, he should be happy. He should be glad. But he just feels indifferent. Or he just really needs to see you. 

When the door swings from someone else leaving, he catches a glimpse of you through the opening. The bright lights from outside assault his eyes as the door swings again. Seeing you for just a moment. Just a split second. Talking with Peter against the fence. He stops. What is he walking into? What’s about to change? You’re gonna be there right when he goes through that door. He stands in the dim concrete tunnel, feeling his heart race. He doesn’t like this feeling. This is the loss of control.

“Miguel!” Peter smiles, making you turn to look back. And there he is, walking out the door. You want to just run into his arms and tell him how great he was. Even though he didn't get to play he still coached very well and played his part in the victory. But Peter is talkative and gets in there before you can. And you don't really want to interrupt when he's talking with his friends. Since this is the first time you've been around his friends with him. 

“We’re gonna get drinks, you have to come” Peter says, ushering Miguel over to where you’re standing. “This is y/n… y/n this is Miguel” 

“Yeah we know each other.” Miguel says immediately. Not a hint of a smile on his face. He’s annoyed with Peter. Annoyed that it’s not a known thing. He wants it to be known that you two are an item. Or… that there’s something going on… he’s not even sure of at the moment. At least that Peter should know to back off. “Oh cool, so drinks?” 

Miguel’s a little astonished with how easily Peter just brushed that off. Eyes flicking between you two and hoping to god you don’t accept the drink invite. But he bites his tongue. Friends. Really good… friends. 

“Uh… I don’t know, I’m kinda tired…” You sigh. Part of you not wanting to go since it’s not your normal scene but a bigger part needing to go so you can feel like you’re really one of Miguel’s friends. Not someone he has to hide. That you can get along with them and be a part of his life. That’s all you want to prove to him. 

“Come on… please?” Peter pouts. And Miguel wants to scream. Trying to tell you with his eyes that he doesn’t want to do this. Not right now. Maybe later when he’s had time to mentally prepare himself. It doesn’t help that you look adorable right now. In your Sterling Uni hoodie with a scarf to keep warm. He doesn’t want to do this. He’d rather just go to dinner. Like always. Talk for hours and maybe even fall asleep talking in your dorm like always. Not this. Please not this. 

His eyes burning a hole right through you, trying to communicate it without using the words since he can’t right now, not with Peter standing right there. Part of him wants you to come and show you off. The other part of him wants you all to himself, not wanting to share you with anyone. But he’s trying to be better. Trying to control himself rather than try to control everything else around him. 

“It would be fun, right Miguel?” Peter asks, bringing him out of his thoughts. He wants to say no. Wants to say fuck no and disappear, taking you with him. But he can’t do that now. So he just nods stiffly, forcing a smile. Almost painfully. “Yeah… come…” 

Your eyes light up and Miguel knows he’s done for. “Oh great!” You smile and Peter is instantly excited too. Talking about how great it’s going to be and how many people will be there. Miguel’s heart is pounding, seeing how easily Peter was able to get you to come. How Peter is smiling and looking at you. A sense of dread filling his chest.

It’s the usual bar. The college bar around the corner from campus where the sports teams usually congregate after a game. Or the general student body on a Friday night. Loud music and conversation, the place is packed. Football and UFC playing on the multitude of TVs hanging in the place. The team filters in all acting like they own this place. Playing pool and getting drinks, talking to girls in corners and at the bar. It’s a crazy night at least for you. Miguel’s seen nights like this before, but this time you’re here. And he won’t let you out of his sight. Even as people talk to him, trying to strike up conversation and catch up. Since everyone knows who he is and knows his name. He still keeps his attention focused on you. He doesn’t care about anyone else in this bar tonight. 

Drinks flow the second everyone is in there, laughter and loud voices, trying to be heard over the music. Miguel keeps his arm barred at your side to help get you through the density of people. Like a shield to make sure no one bumps into you. Not wanting you to be too claustrophobic or crowded. Staying nearby until you find two seats at the bar miraculously. As you sit down, Miguel quickly scans the room. Looking for one face in particular. No sign of Dana and he can relax a tiny bit. Sliding into his stool seat beside you. 

He sits down, watching how you observe the place, looking a little out of your element here. It’s clear you’re not a party girl. You’re a smart, intelligent tutor and it shows. It would almost be comical if Miguel didn’t have a fierce determination to protect you in this place. 

He leans over, getting closer to your ear to be heard over the noise. The smell of your shampoo mixed with your perfume, so close and familiar, filling his senses and almost making him dizzy. His mind flashing with moments of you in his bed. Your body under his and his face buried in your soft sweet smelling hair. He’s the only one in this bar that knows what you sound like when you come.

“Drink… Do you want a drink?” He asks, trying to be heard over the noise, his cheek brushing against yours. Pulling back to hear your response. “Yeah! Whatever is fine…” You smile, trying to speak over the chaos of people and stimulation. A bit out of your element but doing fine. Excited to be here with him and feel like you’re fitting into his world. 

He gets the bartender's attention, ordering you just a beer in a bottle. He doesn’t know if you’d want anything fruity, not that this crappy bar would have anything that good anyway. He’s never drunk with you before. He slides it over to you, watching you take a gulp and smile. You’re so out of your element here. He sighs. A swell in his chest. 

Even though he would normally be drinking a couple beers himself, he just has water in front of him. He wants to stay relatively sober. Enough to keep watch over you and make sure no one else talks to you. “Oh, I thought you were gonna get the same thing…” You chuckle, leaning your elbows on the bar and watching him sipping his water from a plastic cup. 

“Someone needs to be responsible for all these people right?” He chuckles. As captain of the team he actually does feel that responsibility. To keep people in line since he knows they’ll listen to him. “And I need to be sober if I’m carrying you out of this place drunk off your ass…” He jokes, teasing you. 

“I’m not getting drunk tonight, no way. No thank you…” You sigh, shaking your head. Looking down at the label on the bottle in your hand. Then your eyes dart around the crowded room a few times. He just looks at your face. You’re so pretty. Especially pretty in this low light. 

“Well how is the beer at least? I know it’s not something sweet but it’s probably the best thing they have here.” He huffs, keeping his eyes on you, studying you. He’d love to just be all over you and show people that you’re his. But you’re not right now. You’re his friend and that’s the boundary you both set. He’s trying his best to uphold that after his mistakes. “It’s fine… I don’t ever drink much anyway so I’m not picky…” 

He nods. Learning more about you all the time. The two of you have never been out to a bar or club before so this is all brand new. He can see how you’re a little nervous in this place. It’s not your usual hangout spot and he can tell. “Yeah, this place is pretty chaotic tonight…” He comments, looking around then back at you. “You’re okay though, right?” 

“Yeah I’m fine…” You smile. Clasping your hands in your lap. He’s attentive, more recently than ever. It’s true that he’s become like your best friend over the last month and a half. Even though it hasn’t been that long, it’s felt like a lifetime. And with how much time you spend together, it still feels like he separates you from a lot of the other parts of his life. Friends, family, everything else. You spot Peter across the way standing with some people. The only other person you even know in this place. 

Miguel follows your gaze over towards where Peter is and he can't help but wonder why you're looking at Peter or what you're thinking. He looks at the group of people around him, recognizing teammates and classmates, but notices Peter in particular.He tries to remain cool, looking back at you. "He's a great friend… isn't he… "

He says it with a little bit of annoyance in his voice, thinking about how you two have gotten really close as friends and he didn't even know it.

"Yeah he's really sweet," You smile, not really noticing his expression. You want Miguel to know that you can get along with his friends too and you can be a part of his life. "He's funny…"

His brow twitches just a bit. He doesn't know how to feel about the fact that you two are friends in and out of the tutoring club. And that you’re calling him sweet. And funny. He knows how charismatic and charming Peter is, knowing he could get any girl he wants. "He always gets the girls…  he's quite the flirt…" He mumbles.

"Oh really?" You smile and scrunch your nose up, looking back at Peter and seeing that yes, there are many girls around him right now. And he must be very popular with the girls, you think. You hadn't really noticed that Peter was a flirt but you think he's charming. Maybe you're just so focused on being his friend to prove to Miguel you can be part of his friend group.

Miguel can feel his patience slipping. How you seem so oblivious to the fact that Peter is a huge flirt and that Peter was flirting with you earlier when he invited you to the bar. But he's been Peter's friend for years, of course he knows the girls flock around him. It just annoys him that you’re completely oblivious to it. He watches you watching Peter across the room, trying not to let it show on his face how frustrated he is.

"How's your hand?" You ask, taking a sip from your bottle. Gesturing towards his cast in his lap. Trying to talk over the noise in the room. The topic change gives him some relief. Grateful to think about something other than the image of Peter taking you home tonight. He lifts his hand, flexing a few fingers. "It's fine. Doesn't really hurt much right now. It's a good reminder to not lose my cool again… "

"Yeah, that locker room hates to see you comin’…" You joke with a smile. Shaking your head. Punched his locker like some guy in a movie.

Miguel can't help but smile, knowing you’re referring to him punching the front of his locker like a crazy person. He sighs, knowing it was stupid and a loss of control. "That locker had it coming though…"

You laugh at his words, his eyes lighting up watching your head throw back a bit. The fluttering sound of your laughter carrying slightly over the noise in the room and hitting his ears. He wants to make you laugh like that all the time. Make you smile like this every day. And  Peter works his way through the room over to the bar. 

"There you guys are! I thought I lost you…" Peter's face lights up when he gets closer, excited to see his best friend and you, the pretty tutor. He stands behind both your chairs putting his hands on the backs of them. Miguel’s eyes flick back-and-forth between you two. You're still oblivious. Smiling at Peter like you don't know what he's doing. Every instinct inside of him telling him to make Peter back off. But he's trying to be better for you. Trying not to lose control or act impulsive. 

"Spending the night bragging, are you?" You smile and tease Peter lightly. Leaning over the back of your chair. He did score a lot of the winning goals tonight. Peter laughs and loves any attention from you. Miguel can only listen and watch this interaction between the two of you. It's like a nightmare come to life. And he's feeling claustrophobic in this crowded place with all these people. He just wants to take your hand and go back to campus, go back to your dorm, go back to the library.

"Well you all played very well…" You hum. Looking between the two boys. You can't help but notice Miguel’s body language. Thinking he must just be upset that he didn't get to play because of his cast. But he did very well on the sidelines. 

"Peter here was especially on his game today. Princeton is tough…" Miguel says with tension in his tone, finally joining in on the conversation. His eyes flicking between the two of you but landing on you mostly. Watching your reaction to Peter's words.

"It's all in the foot work really. Reading the opponent… Gotta think about 10 steps ahead." Peter says with a grin, in his element. Miguel has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. As much as he loves Peter, he wants him to fuck off right now.

You giggle softly at Peter's joke and his obvious love for attention. Loving the way you can so casually hang out with Miguel and his friends for the first time ever. Miguel clenches his jaw, sipping his water and trying to keep his cool. You take a sip of your beer finding it's the last one, putting the empty bottle back on the bar. It seems both boys take notice. 

"Can I get you another? "Peter asks, His eyes lighting up.

“Um…" You're thinking. You don't really do this that often and you're finally getting to hang out with Miguel and his friends. What the hell… "Sure!"

Peter flashes that charming smile at you and Miguel can feel his control slipping again. Now he's buying you drinks? 

"I got it." Miguel suddenly says, waving to the bartender for another round. If anyone's getting you drunk tonight, it's gonna be him. So he can make sure you're okay. “Okayyy…” Peter huffs softly, raising his brow at Miguel’s rivalry. But Miguel doesn’t care. Grabbing the fresh cold beer bottle and sliding it over the bar in front of you. Looking back up at Peter, a stern expression on his face. 

Over the next hour and your next two beers, Peter just won’t go away. He’s practically hanging on your chair, talking to you about whatever. And because you’re so nice and sweet you just keep giving into him. Smiling at Miguel too like you want him to be in on the conversation. But it just makes him feel worse somehow. Is he really losing you to Parker? Is that how this is gonna go? 

“So… you guys are like best friends?” You ask, your words slightly slurred, cheeks pink and flushed. You’re tipsy and Miguel’s watching you like a hawk. Your beer shined lips as you smile up at Peter. So damn cute and pretty. “We are… best friends…” Peter says in a cocky way. Grabbing Miguel’s shoulder and shaking it a few times, a beer in his other hand. Miguel might be the only sober one in this place and it’s getting annoying. 

He fidgets with the same fray on his cast, pulling on it and pulling on it. Watching you talk to Peter. Forcing a smile when you look his way. It’s getting unbearable. Eyes flicking around the crowded room and just wanting to get out of here. 

“One more round?” Peter asks and Miguel groans internally. You’re both drunk, everybody is drunk and he just wants to get you back somewhere it’s safer. Peter gets to chatting loudly with some other people down the bar.

“Do you wanna leave?” You lean over, getting closer to Miguel, right up to his face and he just gives you a soft look. Admiring your pretty flushed features. He can see you’ve been having fun. “No, I’m good, we can stay if you want…” He hums gently. 

“Don’t lie, Mig…” You whisper, barely loud enough for him to hear over the noise. And his brow knits together, hearing the nickname, your soft warm voice, wanting to reach out and brush your hair back, kiss your pretty pink lips. Anything. “I’m a little tired…” He admits. And even in your tipsy state, you know it’s time to go. 

“Let’s go then… it’s too loud…” You sigh, a distracted Peter now talking loudly with Marco and Miller down the bar. Relief, Miguel thinks. He does really want to make sure you get back to your dorm okay. 

…

“Wai-I ‘ave a question…” You slur, hanging onto him and pressed up against his chest as he’s trying to get you over to bed. His big strong arms around you and it feels so good, feels so right. What you’ve been missing all this time and now it just feels like everything is perfect and everything is good and… and your tongue still tastes like beer and… and he smells so good. 

“Yeah, what's your question?” He asks so soft and gently. His voice is like smooth melted butter mixed with sweet brown sugar. Bringing you over to your bed and sitting you down on the edge. Making sure you don’t topple over. “Hold still, I’m gonna take your shoes off…” 

“D’you think… that… um…” You sigh, the alcohol clouding everything making you instantly forget what you were about to ask him. But the thought is mixing around your brain just waiting to come out. After all, it’s all you were thinking about all night. “M-my shoe is stuck”

“I know, I’m trying to get it off…” He sighs, unable to stop the smile when he hears your little whine. You are pretty cute like this and he likes helping you. Kneeling down in front of you and taking your shoe onto his knee to undo the laces, slipping it off.

“Do you think that… all your friends… that they like-like it?” You sigh, wiggling your toes in your socks as he slides your shoe off. His hands on your calves, absentmindedly caressing up and down, having you in his hands like this is too good to pass up, but he looks up at you at your question. His brow furrowing, wondering what you mean. “Do they like what,-?” He almost called you baby right there. But stopped himself. Maybe it’s just being like this with you right now. Being close and finally being needy for his help, needing him in any way. Or the way you seem so soft and fragile right now he just wants to protect you. 

“That they like me…” You sigh. Pushing a hand through your hair and he pulls your other shoe off, your feet freeing and legs dangling off the side of the bed. 

He looks up at you, piecing together your broken sentence. Do his friends like you? Peter? 

“Like P-peter… does Peter like me?” You ask and his expression goes serious. Swallowing thickly and setting your shoes to the side. He knows the answer. He knows that Peter obviously has a thing for you. It’s becoming more clear you have a thing for him too. 

Miguel straightens back up, standing over you and listening to your drunken rambling. Your mumbles. “Cuz I think Peter is really nice and I think you and I can be friends… and I can be friends with your friends too…” 

He doesn’t understand what you mean. Towering over you and feeling so blocked up. Like he’s miles away from where he wants to be with you. He wants you to want him. Not think about Peter. 

“Uh… I think Peter likes you, yeah…” He mumbles. Looking down at your face. The way it lights up and his heart falls. “Really? So we can all be friends?” 

His heart hurts, looking in your eyes. So confused, not knowing what to think. But wishing he could just kiss you right now and make your thoughts stop. Or to fill your thoughts with him. If he kissed you right now would you forget Peter ever existed? If he kissed you right now, if he laid you down and pumped into you until you were a crying trembling moaning mess like all those times before, would you forget Peter and think about him again? 

“I’m sweating…” You huff, moving to get up off the bed and his arms come to steady you. “Woah woah slow down, sweetheart…” The words ooze off his lips. His hands guide you before you reassure him you can walk. He huffs, watching you walk over to your closet. He sits down on the edge of your bed, head in his hands. Feeling pathetic and so lost. Not even knowing what to do at this point. Has he actually lost you for good? Will he actually only ever be your friend now?

You’re sweating, pulling at the material of your hoodie and ripping it off over your head. Slipping your pants off and sighing in relief. Standing in your panties and bra by the dresser and looking for some comfy clothes. Your mind filled with the thoughts of being Miguel’s again. You’re friends with his friends like any girlfriend would be. So what’s stopping him? What’s stopping both of you from just being together again? Since you’ve proven to him, you can fit in. 

“Miguel…” You hum, his head coming out of his hands and looking up at you. Eyes widening seeing you in just your underwear. Gulping thickly. “Yes?” He whispers. Like beckoning to your call. Like a plea for you to just put him out of his misery already. 

You walk over to him, trying to half haphazardly pull on a big t-shirt. His hands unable to stop themselves, coming up to help pull the material down. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing. This all just makes him feel somehow worse. Your body taunting him, teasing him with everything he needs and no way to get it. 

Your hips slot between his legs, standing between them and getting closer. Fingers clenching into his shirt and smashing your lips against his. His fingers splay out, shock and surprise. His eyes wide and heart seemingly stops. You’re… kissing him… you…

Heavy breath through his nose and his eyes flutter closed. Kissing you back, feeling your eager tongue tasting like alcohol come into his mouth. Letting it swirl against his lips and his tongue. His big hands snaking around you, holding you for the first time like this in so long. You gasp and hum against his lips and a chill goes down his back. He must be dreaming. 

But your hands go to his chest, pushing him back on the bed, and he’s so weak to you. His back hitting the mattress. He wants this so badly. Wants you more than anything in the entire world. You climb on top of him, clambering over his body, sitting on his abdomen and leaning down to kiss him again. 

“Wait-”

He’s silenced by your lips, trying to be dominant and licking into his mouth. You never did that before. That was always him. But right now it’s like you’re hungry for him in the exact same way he was hungry for you all this time. 

“I need you…” You whisper, pulling back from his lips with a smack. His eyes wide and breath heaving. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and yet it’s not right at all. “No baby… you need to go to sleep… you’re drunk…” He whispers, feeling so weak, his hands running up your warm bare thighs, like medicine. His cast is slightly scratchy on your thigh. Finally your body on his, your warmths feeding off of each other. 

“No please… say you want me, please you have to, don’t you want to?” You whine. Leaning over him and kissing his cheek, burying your face in his neck. He’s speechless. Doesn’t know what to say or think. He thought you were done all this time. He thought you were pining after Parker. 

“I want you… I do want you…” He whispers before his mind can even think. His hands falling from your thighs and flat on the bed. It feels wrong to touch you this way. His love for you overshadows his own selfish need. You won’t remember this in the morning. 

You won’t remember this in the morning. 

“I love you…” He whispers. Into your hair. Choking back a lump in his throat. 

“Mm?” You groan, pushing yourself up drunkenly on your hands, your hair dangling into his face under you. 

“Nothing…” He whispers. Swallowing thickly and wrapping his arms around you again. Pulling you to his chest and hugging you. Keeping you there, knowing you’ll pass out in a few minutes anyway and he can tuck you into bed safe and sound. 

To be continued…

Reblogs and comments very much appreciated!! Let me know what you think or your theories!

Taglist (thank you my sweets 🍬) :

@miguels-cock-piercings @queerponcho @club-danger-zone @bossva @softcrayon

@nommingonfood @bruhhvv

@jessies-unrelagated-thoughts @mauvecherie-writes @haveclayeveryday @kimivixen

@jadeloverxd @chiikasevennn @mvlanchqly @resident-cryptid

@x0tw0d57 @vampyboys @miguelspriscilla

@francesca-the-1st @migueloharasbbm @razertail18 @laysmt

@tojiragdoll @maiyart @wazawazooo @mun-2996 @marshhbs

@curious-randomlr @safixiovi @daddyfroglegs @theplaid-wearingmoose @reader-1290

@yeanika @elysiumsangel @rinnako @mangoslushcrush @twwcs

@izakopanyi2 @migueloharasoulmate @slut4oscarissac23

@miss-loomis @genny101

@aphinthestars @webshooterrr9 @m4dyy

@jdbxws @roserfz27 @ohara-whore @oharaslove @daisy-artfield

@mooreaey6yem @peachey-pie @migueloharacumslut @pxtched

@yougavemeyourheartyouknow @julia4today

[hotheadedhero]

Reach, Retry, and Requital

AN: Almost a year after its initial publishing date, we finally have a part two omg. Better late than never, ay? XD Now the boys can finally make up for their mistakes

Part 1

Bay Turtles x Reader

Leonardo

Not much time had been wasted after talking to Splinter, springing into forthright action, the weight of those shared words settling into his chest. His father always had a way of cutting through the noise, of seeing the core of the matter with unsettling clarity. Leo knew what he had to do. He had to talk to you, truly talk, not just attempt to ambush you in the kitchen while you grabbed a quick snack, not just exchange polite pleasantries while you pass each other in short, fleeting beats. He needed to carve out a moment, a real moment, where he could lay bare his disarray and, of course, his regret.

Finding you was the first challenge. You were a ghost in the lair these days, flitting from room to room, always busy, always surrounded by others. It was like you were actively avoiding him, which, let's be honest, you were. He had figured that out long ago.

Finally, he finds you in the dojo, assisting Donnie with calibrating some new training equipment. The sight of you, focused and determined, sends a fresh wave of longing crashing over him. Despite the initial urge that had him barrelling in search of your person, he lingers in the doorway, watching you for a moment. The way the low light catches in your hair, how you laugh at something Donnie said. Small things - insignificant things - but they were yours, and he suddenly realised more just how much he missed them.

Donnie notices him first, offering a small, knowing smile before excusing himself with a mumbled, "Gotta check on Mikey's pizza-making experiment.” A lame, half-thought-out excuse, but the deliberateness of it isn’t missed by his brother. “Good luck, you two."

As he migrates from the dojo, Leo moves in just a couple paces. "Hey," he begins, trying to keep his voice casual, but the nervousness is palpable. "Can we talk?"

You stiffen slightly, your hands stilling on the control panel of the automated training dummy you had been working on. In all honesty, you’d like to go back to working on it and keep your mind away from the turtle who is awkwardly approaching you. Being dismissive of what he has to say, of him entirely, may be seen as calloused but the mere sight of him gets your system all up in a tizzy. All it does is remind you of the conversation that put this wedge between you in the first place.

You turn back to the project, a carefully neutral expression on your face. "About what, Leo?" The bluntness stings, and it’s a stark reminder of the distance that has grown between you two.

"About... us. About what happened..." He trails off, unsure how to articulate the jumbled mess of emotions swirling inside him.

You sigh, a sound that holds a strange mixture of weariness and resignation. "I thought we made our positions clear. You're a ninja, you have responsibilities. I understand that, and you made it abundantly clear how you feel about relationships. The last thing I want is to be a distraction."

A poor choice of words on his part. A remark by the very same brother who left, from a much prior altercation, rings in his head. Does he really know so little about feelings? The insensitivity of what comes out of his mouth before he can think about the ramifications? A hand smooths over his face as if trying to wipe away the idiocy and rid himself of his past discretion. This must have been how you felt, your side of the street. He thinks he knows why you’ve been so distant - understands why it had to come to such drastic measures in the first place.

"You already distract me." The words just kind of blurt out, quiet and raw.

And your expression softens, just a fraction, and he clings onto that flicker like some sacred wish. You try to battle the urge, but ultimately, you fall prey to it and crane your head back over to look at him. He’s still some distance away, not daring move until you give him some sign or reason to, and his stance tells you all you need to know. Yet, you can’t ignore the hurt. Your hurt. The hurt you’ve been feeling all this time.

"Leo," you say softly, "I care about you - I do - but I need to protect myself as well. I can't…” You take a heavy breath, reserving the tremble that tries to knock you down. “I can't be someone's second choice, someone's maybe-someday."

He finds that opportunity he had been looking for, steps closer, his gaze locked on yours. "You wouldn't be. Not anymore. I was wrong.” Another foot forward, still tentative in case it’s too close for your comfort. “Give me a chance to prove that I can be more than just a man of responsibility, that I can be the kind of person you deserve."

Silence hangs in the air, thick and heavy, and Leonardo reckons that he could probably wave his katana around and feel some resistance were he to try. He can see the unrest in your eyes, a battle between caution and hope. Each tick of the clock is a deafening reminder of what’s at stake: his atypically loud mind, both of your feelings, a relationship altogether, even just trying to reclaim the old one.

Eventually, you speak, your voice barely a whisper. "I... I don't know. I just don't know."

It’s not a no, but it isn’t a yes either: a small glimmer of hope for the glass-half-full positioned individual, but he can’t say whether he’s on grounds for that junction or not. For now, perhaps he could take it. The middle of the seesaw, going in neither direction, having to wait for an affirmative. Either that or you’re just keeping him suspended in uncertainty before you deliver the final blow. He would probably deserve it.

Just when he thinks it might well and truly be too late to rectify his unjust, you speak again, “I’m not gonna regret this, am I?”

If it wasn’t for the soft curve of your lips pointed up in his direction, he’d be solely focused on the sombre tone of your question. A glimmer of hope. It was there after all. He isn’t completely out of the dog house but it’s a start, as good a start as any.

Matching your smile, he finally closes the gap between the two of you and kneels. “Not as much as I’ve regretted turning you down in the first place.”

Leo will be the first to admit it’s corny but sounding a little cheesy is worth it to hear the light snort it gets out of you. Playfully, you roll your eyes and lazily push him away. If not anything else, he’s just missed being this close to you without you feeling the need to bolt from his presence. It would take time, but he’ll prove to you, and himself, that he’s worthy of another chance. He has a lot of work to do, and he’ll do it. For you.

Raphael

Raph pushes past Casey, not saying another word, just twisting and launching himself into the night, the anger directed squarely at himself. The adrenaline is pumping now as he bulldozes his way towards your apartment, fuelled by a potent cocktail of guilt, self-loathing, and a fierce need to atone. If not for the chance to make something of these feelings, at the very least he needs to apologise for the way he acted.

The trek through the city feels longer than usual. Every shadow seems to mock him, every stray sound amplifies his dread. He vaults over rooftops, his movements driven by a desperate urgency until, finally, he reaches your place. He hesitates atop the building just opposite yours, his hands pressing into the ledge. He suddenly feels unsure of himself. What is he going to say? How can he possibly undo the damage he’s caused? He needs to think about this carefully if he wants to avoid blabbering like an incomprehensible idiot.

Whilst mulling it over, he spots your silhouette inside, cleaning up from dinner, if he has to guess. You’re busy with your idle tasks but he can see the tension radiating off of you in waves. Raph's heart clenches. Tense because of him, no doubt, and if Casey knows that he made you cry, it’s likely his brothers know too. That would explain their assistance in keeping you out of reach. If he can commemorate his family for anything, it’s for protecting you, even if it’s from him as much as that fact burns. You’re a beautiful spirit who gets along with most of anyone, and he had treated you like the very joke he thought you were playing on him. Thick-headed irony. He could berate himself with all the names under the sun, but that isn’t going to get him anywhere. He just needs to take that first step forward. Do something about it.

But despite being no stranger to making amends for his behaviour, this feels different. If he gets in a fight with one of his brothers, they always forgive each other eventually. That’s what families do, it’s part of the description, but this is you. Even if he lays out everything, will you forgive him so easily? Can he forgive himself?

The pacing comes to a halt, and he huffs quietly. It’s just like a bandaid - he needs to rip it off. He doesn’t want it to seem as though he’s ensnaring you in the comfort of your own home, somewhere you can’t escape from, but he also doesn’t know when or where he’ll get an opportunity alone without his brothers forming a protective barrier around you.

Raph jogs on the spot, smacks his face a couple times, does the few things he can think to do to psyche himself up before easing himself onto the fire escape and tapping on your window. The sound almost makes you jump, but you’re quick to open it up for him. He barely has a chance to lousily mumble your name when you hurriedly pull him in. Wrecked nerves and distancing aside, the last thing either of you needs is a neighbouring wanderer spotting a man-sized turtle hanging from your window.

The moment he’s inside, you shoot the blinds down and whip your attention towards him. “Raph, what are you doing here?”

Maybe it’s because you were so quick to pull him in, or the concern where he thought he’d be met with fear, but the breath in his lungs suddenly abandons him. The floor groans beneath his restless feet as he fidgets back and forth, although barely surpassing an inch with each movement. For a cold-blooded creature, he’s almost certain he’s working up a cold sweat, but he’s here now. There’s no point in drawing this out any longer than it has to.

“I came to apologise for what I said. How I acted.” The tense fingers at his sides clench further. “I didn’t know I made you cry, and I’m sorry. You didn’t- don’t deserve that. Not ever.”

This isn’t enough. It’ll likely never be enough at this rate. Each word out of his mouth doesn’t feel sincere, doesn’t make up for or even come close to truly demonstrating how sorry he is. Everything is solely meant but he knows he needs to knock down some more walls before you can see, genuinely see just how much he regrets himself. Your stare hones in on him expectantly, and his head rolls over his shoulders, trying to alleviate the knots in his neck.

"Truth is, I was scared. I thought there was no way you could actually feel that way about me. A freak." He winces at the words, hating how they sound out loud, but he misses the way your brows hood over your eyes, keeping his on the floor.

He takes a deep breath, the sensation barely lukewarm against his chest. Somehow, he feels smaller than you at this moment despite his hulking figure. All you can do is watch him, studying his posture, the lines etched into his face, the way his hands are balled into fists at his sides. Remorse warring with his stubborn pride; unequivocally contrite and vulnerable in a way you’ve rarely seen.

He hates how he dismissed your feelings, how he rejected your attempt at admitting yourself to him, how he ignored the pull of his own heart towards you for the sake of stupid self-preservation. If he had even given himself a glimmer of belief that you could feel some kind of way about him, neither of you would be in this mess. But he’s getting too caught up in the ‘whys’ when he should be focusing on the simple matter that what he did, what he said to you was completely unjustified.

"Look, you don't gotta forgive me. I ain't even expecting you to say nothing. Just know that I'm sorry I yelled and that if I could go back and do it again..."

His lips press shut to save himself from adding to this already sappy display, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t had anything back yet. You’re weighing something up - probably something big. He's just waiting for you to lash out, to fling back the fire he had so unceremoniously bestowed onto you. Befittingly, give him a taste of his own medicine. Instead, he hears your feet shift away from him, the sound strangely loud in the small space, followed by a quiet creak and some shuffling. When he risks a glance in your direction, you’re on your couch, a hand laid out on the neighbouring cushion.

"Here, let me tell you something.” You gesture for him and, warily, he sits beside you, the unsuspecting pillows gasping beneath his weight. “Don’t get me wrong, the yelling was a touch excessive,” you lightly laugh, downcast, “but I wasn't necessarily upset about that. I was upset because you didn't believe me. Raph, why in the world would I ever lie or joke about something like that?"

"You ain't bein' serious," he breathes out, marginally humoured, predominantly pained. "Look at me."

"I'm looking,” you retort quickly. “What's the problem, hm?"

He had a whole set ready, he swears, but the way you look at him instantly shuts him up. Never in all his years did he think that someone so beautiful could gaze upon him with such endearment, such adoration, though you’re mostly creased up with this stern glower. He doesn’t have an answer for you. All he can think to do is latch onto this thread and run with it.

"Does that mean… we can give this a shot then?" he asks quietly.

"On one condition," you barter, and the soft hand to his cheek almost makes him crumble.  "I know that head of yours works in funny ways, but I would never lie to you. Okay? Have faith in my word." 

Raph searches your face for any doubt, any sign that the dumb parts of his brain can possibly pick up to beat himself down again, and when he sees none, he slowly smiles. "I think I can do that."

You grin back only to get all pinched. “And one more thing.” You flick the space between his eyes and he blinks frantically from the sheer audacity alone. “Call yourself a freak again and I’ll have your head.”

He points a glare down at you, but it’s threatless. He can’t fight the tug on his lips with your scrunched face beaming up at him, nor does he want to with this fresh breath, this sense of a new start. There may be some rocky terrain to overcome, but just knowing that you see him for more than what he is on the outside is enough for him.

Donatello

Donatello spent the next several hours poring over Vern's advice, scribbling frantic notes on his datapad. Vern’s "field experience," as Donnie had so generously put it, seemed to revolve largely around retaining a smarmy bravado, casually nonchalant, half-attentive one-liners, pretending to be more confident than he is, and questionable fashion choices. He had suspected that this advice would be a mixed bag of dubious strategies, but there were still some surprisingly insightful points. He sifted through the static, disregarding about 90% of it, isolating the core principles: communication, understanding, and most importantly, acknowledging the other person's feelings. Easier said than done when he wasn't even sure what your feelings were.

The next few days were a blur of nervous energy and thorough planning. He felt like he was deciphering a complex algorithm, one where the variables were emotions and the output was… a date? He still wasn't entirely sure. He needed something subtle. Something that would resonate with you. Something him. He considered presenting you with a meticulously coded program designed to optimise your favourite hobby, but dismissed it as too nerdy, even for him. He then thought about building a miniature robot that would follow you around, showering you with compliments, but that bordered on creepy. None of these ideas seemed to feel right.

He was a disaster. A romantically inept, highly intelligent disaster. The truth is, he’s paralysed with fear of messing this up. He’s a genius when it comes to technology but the book of love is a series of intricate formulas he can’t seem to crack.

Days turned into a week, filled with agonising internal debates and discarded plans. He noticed you even less now, afraid that you'd see the turmoil in his eyes. He'd catch glimpses of you laughing with Mikey, strategising with Leo, or even helping Raph with his sai sharpening; each encounter a painful reminder of his own inaction.

Finally, he decided that the best course of action was to go with his gut. He was a scientist, after all. He'd treat this like an experiment: observe, analyse, and adjust his approach as needed. He started by paying closer attention to your interactions with the others: the way you'd patiently explain things to Mikey, the strategic insights you'd offer Leo, and the way you'd subtly tease Raph to ease his tension. He realised that you valued connection, humour, and intelligence. Armed with this admittedly very basic data, he devised a plan. A low-key, Donnie-esque plan.

One afternoon, you’re sitting at the main table of the kitchen, sketching something in your notebook alone, and he sees his chance. Taking a deep breath, he walks over, clutching a small, metallic object in his hand. His feet shuffle, suddenly forgetting all the carefully crafted lines he'd memorised.

"Hey," he greets, his voice a little higher than usual.

You look up, eyes clumsily shifting around before landing on him again. "Uh, hey, Donnie. Something I can help you with?"

He swallows, watchful of your uneasiness, but presses on nonetheless. "Actually, I wanted to show you something."

He holds out his hand, revealing a small, beautifully crafted origami crane, made entirely from thin wafers of aluminium, circuits and wires. A lot of his craftsmanship typically focuses on practicality and efficiency rather than aesthetic appeal but he knew he had to work on that for this particular occasion. If he were to say so himself, he’s rather proud of the outcome.

"Oh." Not exactly the reaction he was hoping for, and the perturbed cross of your brows only racks his nerves that much more. “You made this?”

He nods, cheeks flushing slightly. Whether it be from bashfulness or embarrassment, he can’t tell. “I was experimenting with conductive materials and, well, I thought you might appreciate it."

Considering how the last couple of months have been, you’re not entirely sure what you should say. A gift? Something that he made for you? He appears to be evasive of the true nature but you’re suspecting that he specifically made this with you in mind. It doesn’t do much to subside your confusion, but you can tell he’s hanging by a thin string for your reaction. Gradually, you take the crane, turning it over in your hands. It is rather pretty. You still can’t quite figure out why he’d do this but he may just threaten to split at the seams if you don’t say something more.

“It’s… beautiful.”

Donnie feels as though he can breathe again, encompassed by this wave of relief. "Thanks," he mumbles, looking down at his feet. "I also wanted to say, it's been weird without you around my corner lately." He rushes the words, tripping over his tongue. "I mean, I miss your visits."

You chuckle softly, sadly. "I miss them too. I just thought you were busy, and maybe... I was making you uncomfortable."

His head shoots up, baffled. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, you know-” You gulp, your positions suddenly shifting. “That time I... I was just rambling, wasn't I? It's fine. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Bothered me? What are you talking about?" he asks, brows furrowing behind his glasses.

He replays the last conversation in his head, cupping the base of his skull like he’s trying to physically reach for it, stop it from escaping him. The last time you were in his lab, what had happened? It goes over a couple more times until suddenly dropping on him like a ton of bricks; the awkwardness, the slight stutter in your tone, the inelegance in how you held yourself.

He had been completely oblivious.

"Wait, are you saying...? I didn't..." he stammers, face burning with mortification. "I had no idea."

He wants to disappear, to crawl into a hole and never emerge. How could he have been so dense? He completely misinterpreted the situation and, in doing so, has probably ruined everything.

"Donnie," you utter softly, placing a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Really. It was probably my fault for being so vague. Besides," you continue with an upturned lip, "maybe it's good that you didn't get it. Now you have a chance to do this properly."

"Do... do what properly?"

You laugh, a light, airy sound that makes his stomach flip. "Ask me out, silly. If you want to, that is." You bite your lip, the apprehension evident in your eyes.

Donnie's mind races. Vern's advice, the meticulous notes, the carefully calculated plans - it all flies out the window. He had to of accounted for all the outcomes of this conversation he could possibly conceive but he hadn’t anticipated this. That being said, your encouraging smile gives him new strength and he knows that all he needs to do is be himself.

"Yes," he affirms, his voice finally steady. "I would really like that. To... to ask you out. Properly." He pauses, then adds with a shy smile, "Maybe we could analyse the properties of bioluminescent algae? Or just get pizza. Whatever you want."

With a scrunched grin, you giggle. “Both sound good.”

Rest assured, the algae and pizza had soon become forgotten prospects when you find yourself in Donnie’s little corner after so much time, and he may or may not have admitted to seeking advice from the last person you’d suspect to get this ball rolling. It gets a good set of laughs out of you. As far as dates go, it’s a nice way to get back on track and ultimately the first of many more to come.

Michelangelo

With April's blessing - if you could call it that - Mikey felt a lightness he hadn't realised he was missing. It wasn't just the weight of unrequited affection, but the weight of stifled curiosity, of ignoring a pull that had been steadily growing stronger. He still cared deeply for April, but it was a different kind of caring, a comfortable devotion that he now understood as friendship. However, there’s still a surge of tension meddled in with the determined certainty. He bounces on the balls of his feet, his orange mask tails flapping as he bounds to seek you out. He knows that waiting any longer will only amplify his anxiety. He needs to talk to you, explain himself, and, hopefully, salvage what he had so carelessly thrown away.

He starts by looking for you in your usual spots: not in the kitchen, no sign of you in the dojo, and you were definitely not by the TV. He even checks the garage on a whim, thinking you might be tinkering with one of Donatello's inventions. Nope. The only place he could assume you’d be is back home, but that’s a problem for two reasons: it’s daytime, and there’s no guarantee you’d even open the window for him were he to turn up. All he can do is wait until you next bless the lair with your presence, but Mikey hasn’t always been known for his patience. He tries to fill the time with various activities, whether that be fiddling with his drums, attempting to break the pinball machine’s high score again, flicking through various channels on the TV, and so on.

This barely kills an hour.

Suddenly, a thought strikes him and he jumps up from the couch, making a grab for his skateboard. Maybe he could roll between the main entrances in a subtle attempt to “accidentally” bump into you. That way he can guarantee having the space to talk alone. Perfect. He throws his board down and bursts out of the lair, the grimy air surprisingly refreshing. Even if he still has to wait for your arrival, he can at least practise some new moves in the process, though he wouldn’t be practising for long. He’s halfway down the primary sewer line when he spots you, and all of the planned one-liners just disappear.

Even in the dinge of underground New York, you look beautiful, the dust motes dancing in the air and catching the glint of the flashlight in your hand. He takes the leap upon seeing you, quite literally hopping off his board and jogging into the last traces of momentum. In your surprise, you tread a couple of steps back, and he consciously keeps a respectable distance. He remembers how close he used to sit, how easily he’d tease and nudge, and diffuses under the shot of guilt - the hurt in your eyes when he'd previously bumbled around April like a lovesick puppy. How could he have been so blind? So oblivious? He'd been so caught up in a childish crush that he'd completely disregarded the person who truly understood him, who always had his back, who would make him laugh until his sides ached. The person in front of him, now tentatively avoiding his gaze like a stranger. Crap, he was meant to say something. How long has he just been standing here staring at you? Too long, it would seem. Your head tilts with another uncomfortable glance at the floor, and you pivot to walk around him.

"Wait.” He spins on his heel, watches you stop, and it dawns on him just how incredibly awkward this is. "Uh, look, I messed up. Big time. I thought we could just go back to being friends, but I was wrong. I didn't realise how much what I said would hurt you. I was so caught up in- well… never mind. The point is, I hurt you and I'm really, really sorry."

You still make no effort to face him, but you speak, cool and even. "Apology accepted."

It wasn't the response he'd hoped for or even the response he envisioned. He'd expected anger, maybe a lecture, but this detached acceptance feels worse. It highlights the chasm he's created between you both.

"I know an apology isn't enough,” he pushes on. “I get it if you don't want to hang out with me anymore, or play games, or anything, but I miss you. I miss laughing with you and just... being around you." He pauses, gathering his courage. "And I realised something else too: I was so busy looking in one direction, I didn't see what was right in front of me. I didn't see… how amazing you are."

Shoulders hunching, you scoff. "Please, Mikey. Spare me the flattery. It's not going to change anything."

"It's not flattery!" he insists, his voice rising defensively. "I mean it. I really do. This is how I feel.” Mikey’s hand takes a helm on his board and he holds it to his plastron. "Seriously, I was an idiot and I'm hoping, maybe, just maybe, you can find it in your heart to give me another chance. Not as a friend-friend, unless that’s what you want, but as something more."

He holds his tongue from everything else that wants to sputter out, reduced to watching the back of your head and praying for a sign. Aside from the occasional drip or muted whir of cars above, there’s a low, rhythmic thrumming in his ears, growing louder, beating against the inside of his skull mercilessly. He swears his heart must have jumped into his throat. It sits on pause for a short moment when you finally look at him, your eyes searching, and he sees a flicker of something other than indifference: a spark of hope veiled by uncertainty.

"Mikey, this is... a lot to take in."

"I know," he replies sincerely. "I just need you to know how I feel. I'm not expecting you to say yes, or even forgive me right away. But please, can we at least try?" He reaches out, his hand hovering tentatively near yours, waiting for your permission to touch. "I know I don't deserve it, but I'm asking for a second chance. Please, just tell me what I can do to make things right."

His bright blue eyes plead for an understanding. He’s not sure he’s ever wanted something so badly in his life. Not like this, and the wait on your behalf only punctuates that for him. Your gaze wanders up, expression unreadable. The sparkle in your eyes is still there, but it’s flitting like a dying ember.

"It's not that easy, Mikey," you say softly. "You broke my heart, you know? And even if I wanted to go back to the way things were, I don't think I could. Not completely."

Mikey’s heart sinks. He's already ruined everything, hasn’t he? The thought is a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and deflated.

"But," you continue, a hint of a smile playing on your lips, "I also miss you, and I'm a sucker for a sincere apology, so I'm willing to try. But you have to understand, this won't be the same. Not for a while, anyway."

A lifting deliverance, so intense it almost brings him to his knees. "Anything. Anything you want. Just tell me."

You smile a genuine, beautiful smile that lights up the dim sewer tunnel. "Okay, I get automatic dibs on the last slice of pizza for the next month."

"Deal!” He grins, answering without hesitation. “Anything for you."

Mikey knows it will likely take a whole lot of scrubbing to rebuild what he had broken, but he’s ready. More than ready. He finally sees what he’s been missing, and he isn’t going to let it slip away a second time. The possibility of something more than friendship still flickers in the back of his mind, but for now, he’s content to start with the pizza.

[mattsobvimyfav]

unknown

Y/N has always played it safe—balancing her job as a pediatric nurse, and her careful lifestyle. But one night out with her friend, Jordan, changes everything. When she meets Matt and Chris—two dangerous, enigmatic brothers—she’s drawn into a world she doesn’t belong in. But the more she resists, the harder they pulls her in.

p.2 pt. 3

chapter 1

Boston in the early summer has a certain charm—sunlight reflecting off the Charles River, the distant hum of traffic blending with the laughter of people enjoying the warmth after months of bitter cold. It’s home, familiar and comforting.

At twenty-two, I’ve checked off one of the biggest milestones of my life—graduating nursing school. Now, I’m officially a pediatric nurse at one of the best children’s hospitals in the country, something I’ve worked tirelessly for. My days are filled with tiny hands gripping mine, sleepy smiles, and moments of both heartbreak and hope. It’s exhausting, but I love it. Every shift reminds me why I chose this path—to help, to heal, to be there for the little ones who need it most.

When I’m not at the hospital, I spend my time buried in books, or going out shopping with friends, But if I’m not reading, chances are, I’m with the family I’ve worked for since I was eighteen.

The Moore family hired me as their nanny fresh out of high school, and somehow, four years later, I never left. Their two kids—Owen, now five, and Ella, two—have become like little siblings to me. I’ve been there for scraped knees, school projects, and bedtime stories, and even with my busy schedule, I can’t bring myself to give it up entirely. Their parents understand; they know I care too much to walk away completely.

My life is a carefully balanced routine—nursing shifts, nannying, the occasional days with friends, and nights spent curled up watching my favorite show or reading my favorite book. And yet, despite how full my days are, there’s a small part of me that wonders if I’m missing something.

Thursday night was another long one. I worked the second shift from 7 PM to midnight in the respiratory section of the children's hospital, a place where the air always seemed just a little heavier. The unit was full—kids battling asthma flare-ups, pneumonia, and RSV, their small chests rising and falling with labored breaths.

My first patient of the night was a five-year-old girl named Lily, who had been admitted earlier that day with severe asthma. Her mother hovered anxiously by her bedside, asking a million questions as I checked Lily’s oxygen levels and adjusted her nebulizer. I did my best to reassure her, keeping my tone calm and steady. It wasn’t lost on me how terrifying it must be to watch your child struggle to breathe.

After Lily, I moved on to a toddler with RSV, his tiny frame looking even smaller beneath the tangle of tubes and wires. His parents had stepped out for a quick break, so I sat with him for a few minutes, rubbing small circles on his back as he dozed in and out of restless sleep. Moments like these made the exhaustion worth it—being able to offer even the smallest bit of comfort.

The night continued in a blur of vitals checks, medication rounds, and hushed conversations with worried parents. Around 10:30 PM, I grabbed a quick snack from my bag, savoring the brief moment of stillness before heading back into the harsh reality.

By the time midnight rolled around, my feet ached, and my body begged for sleep. But as I clocked out and stepped into the cool Boston air, I felt something else too—gratitude. For the kids who fought so hard, for the parents who loved so fiercely, and for the privilege of being there to help, even in the smallest of ways.

It was now Friday morning, and I can already feel the excitement bubbling up inside me. The week has felt so long, but today is all about taking a break with my friend, Jordan.

I get up, stretch, and head to my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. After a moment of hesitation, I grab my white cardigan. Underneath, I slip on a black cropped tank top that I know goes with pretty much anything. Then, I pick out my favorite khaki mini skirt. I pair everything with my white converse.

I grab my phone, scroll through a few messages, and decide to head out early. The morning air feels nice, so I make my way to the front steps of my apartment and sit down, legs crossed. It’s quiet outside, the kind of peaceful stillness you only get in the morning. I take a deep breath, enjoying the calm.

I’m just scrolling through my phone when I hear the sound of an engine approaching. Looking up, I see Jordan’s bright blue Jeep Wrangler coming down the street, turning the corner as it makes its way straight to me.

I smile as she parks, rolling down the window. "Ready for our girl's day?" she calls out, her grin already spreading across her face.

"Always," I reply, jumping to my feet, grabbing my bag, and heading over to the Jeep.

I hop into the passenger seat of Jordan's Jeep. She pulls away from the curb and grins at me, her hands gripping the wheel.

"So, what’s the plan for today?" I ask, turning to face her.

"First stop for breakfast. Then, I need to make a quick pit stop, then go shopping" she says with a mischievous smile.

I raise an eyebrow. "A pit stop? What are we talking about?"

Jordan just shrugs, her grin widening. "You'll see. But first, we need food. I’m starving."

I laugh, the anticipation building as we head to our favorite café in town. It’s a little spot that serves the best avocado toast and strong coffee, perfect for getting our day started. We pull into the parking lot, and I can already smell the rich aroma of fresh coffee drifting out as we walk in.

The café is quiet, the morning rush already over. We grab a table by the window, and Jordan places our usual order—avocado toast with eggs and two iced lattes. I don’t mind—she always knows exactly what I’ll want. As we wait for our food, we chat about the week, and was in the middle of telling her about my patience last night when I noticed a couple of people at a nearby table glancing over at us.

Jordan notices too and raises an eyebrow. "What’s going on? You seem a little tense today."

I shrug, "I don’t know. Just feels like people stare at us sometimes."

She smirks. "Y/N, we clash pretty hardcore. I mean, look at us."

I roll my eyes, though I know she’s right. I can’t deny it—there’s something about the way I carry myself that screams "basic good girl." and she’s the blueprint definition of grunge.

Jordan nudges me, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Relax. They’re just looking. Let them." We both laugh just as our food arrives. 

"Alright," Jordan says as she sips her coffee, "after we eat, I’ve got to make that stop."

After breakfast, we slide back into the Jeep, the warm feeling of a good meal still lingering. 

"Get comfortable," she tells me, glancing over with a half-smile. "It’s gonna be a little bit of a drive."

I nod, still curious about the “pit stop” she mentioned earlier. The roads blur by as we drive through neighborhoods I don’t recognize, the buildings getting more worn down as we leave the busier parts of town. Finally, she pulls up in front of a rundown house on the edge of a quiet street. The place looks like it’s seen better days—paint peeling off the siding, the yard overgrown with weeds. 

Jordan parks the Jeep and sends a quick text, her fingers flying across her phone. I glance at her, feeling a strange unease settle in my chest.

"Who are we meeting here?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Jordan looks at me for a second, the serious look returning to her eyes. "Just stay calm. It’s no big deal, I swear."

We wait in silence for a moment before the door to the house creaks open. Two guys, who look nearly identical, step out onto the porch. They’re dressed in baggy sweatpants and wife beaters, they glance to their left and right before walking over.

Jordan rolls down her window as one of them heads straight for her side of the Jeep. The other boy makes his way to my window, giving me a once-over before leaning against the door.

"Hey" Jordan says coolly, and I watch as they exchange a few words. I can’t make out everything they’re saying, but I know it’s about weed. I always knew Jordan smoked but she had never brought me to pick up her supply.

The guy by my window with dark hair and a cocky grin—glances at me, sizing me up. "Who’s this pretty little thing?" he asks, his voice smooth and a little playful.

Before I can respond, Jordan cuts in sharply, her voice low but firm. "No, Matthew. She’s off-limits. She doesn’t belong in your world."

I blink, a little taken aback by the way Jordan says it. The guy, Matthew, chuckles darkly, clearly not bothered by her words.

"Relax, Jordan. It’s just a question," he says, leaning closer to my window. 

Jordan gives him a hard look. "No, Matthew. Hands off. She’s not for you."

The other boy who’s been standing by Jordan’s side, smirks. "C’mon, Jord, let us meet the girl," he says, his voice more playful than Matt’s. "What’s the harm?"

Jordan shakes her head firmly. "No, Chris," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

I watch the two boys exchange looks, their attention flicking between Jordan and me. I start to put their names to their faces: Matt with the easy grin, and Chris, who seems like he’s having too much fun with this.

Matt suddenly turns his attention back to Jordan. "You hear about that party tonight?"

Jordan sighs, her expression softening. "I’ll be there," she says.

Before I can ask her anything, the deal wraps up, and Matt gives Jordan a nod, Chris handing her something small. The air seems to shift as everything falls back into place.

"Let’s go," Jordan mutters, her foot hitting the gas as the Jeep speeds off.

As we drive away, my mind is buzzing with questions. I glance at Jordan, who’s still focused on the road, I can’t keep quiet anymore.

"Who were those guys?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual, though I’m definitely curious. "Matt and Chris."

Jordan lets out a small sigh, and I can tell she’s debating whether or not to tell me more. Finally, she speaks up.

"They’re triplets," she says, her tone a little more serious now. "They have another brother who lives out in LA. The three of them—Matt, Chris, and Nick—are big-time dealers. The kind of guys you don’t mess with unless you really know what you're doing."

My eyes widened a bit, the weight of her words sinking in. I always knew Jordan was in the know, but hearing this side of her world feels a little... overwhelming. "Wait, so they’re like legit drug dealers? And you hang out with them?"

Jordan glances over at me. "Yeah, but don’t get the wrong idea. I know them from way back. They’ve always been around, but we keep it casual. I don’t get too deep into their business. I keep my distance."

I nod slowly, "And their brother in LA, is he in the same line of work?"

"Yeah," Jordan confirms with a slight shrug. "That’s just the way they roll. You’ll get used to it."

I don’t know if “used to it” is something I want to get, but I keep my thoughts to myself. My mind drifts to what happened earlier. The way Matt kept eyeing me.

"So, what about tonight?" I ask, my curiosity getting the best of me. "The party Matt mentioned. Are we going?"

Jordan’s hands tighten on the wheel, and I catch a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. "You’ve never asked to go to a party before," she says, almost as if speaking to herself. "It’s always just been my thing. You’ve never really been interested in it."

I raise an eyebrow. "Well, there’s a first time for everything I guess."

My heart beats a little faster at the thought of stepping into that world, but then I catch a spark of excitement in Jordan’s voice. She’s got that fire in her eyes.

"Okay," I say, biting my lip nervously but also feeling the pull of curiosity. "Let’s go get me a new outfit."

Jordan flashes me a grin, her excitement matching mine. "Perf. Let’s go shopping."

A few minutes later, we pull up to a little boutique in the city. It’s not too far from where we were, but it feels worlds away from the rundown house we just left. I follow Jordan inside, the bells above the door jingling as we walk in. The place is packed with clothes—bright colors, edgy designs.

"Alright, pick something that’s revealing and sexy. You’ll wanna fit in.’" Jordan says with a wink. "You need something bold. You can’t show up in the same vibe as that avocado toast and cardigan look."

I laugh at the little stray she threw my way "Okay, okay. Let’s see what you’ve got in mind."

We spend the next hour in the boutique, Jordan practically dragging me from one rack to another, pushing me to try on things I never would have considered before. She pulls out a black corset top that looks a little daring, with intricate lace detailing and a structure that feels way more bold than anything I’d normally wear.

"You’re going for something sexy tonight," Jordan insists, tossing it at me. "Trust me, this will make an impression."

I hold it up to myself in front of the mirror, considering it. "Are you sure this is my style?" I ask, a bit unsure. The corset is tight, the cleavage daring, and the fabric feels both delicate and bold all at once.

"It’s not," she urges, giving me a knowing look. "That’s the point."

I give in and head to the changing room. When I slip into the corset, I’m surprised by how good it actually feels on—tight in all the right places, highlighting my waist in a way I didn’t expect. I step back into the main area, and Jordan’s eyes widen.

"Okay, okay, you look amazing," she says, nodding approvingly. "Now, let's get you some jeans to go with it."

I follow her to the denim section, and after a few minutes, I grab a pair of light-wash, wide-leg jeans. They’re flowy, a little more relaxed than the jeans I usually wear, but they somehow seem like the perfect balance to the corset’s structured look. I hold them up next to the top, and Jordan gives an exaggerated thumbs-up.

"Yes! These are perfect" she says. "This is how you’ll fit in."

I grab them, along with a pair of mini black heels that match the edgy vibe we’re going for. They’re simple but have just enough height to make me feel confident, without being too much.

When I step out of the fitting room in the full outfit, Jordan looks me over, a grin spreading across her face. "Girl, you’re ready. You look hot."

I laugh nervously, standing in front of the mirror. "I don’t even know if I can pull this off... but I kind of love it."

Jordan raises an eyebrow. "You’ve got this. Trust me, I’ll be by your side the whole night."

"Alright," I say, taking a deep breath. "Let’s do this."

After we finish shopping, Jordan insists on stopping by a few other places. We grab lunch, then swing by a beauty store for some makeup essentials.

"Trust me," she says, tossing a tube of mascara into the basket. "We’re going all out tonight."

By the time we’re done, the day has flown by. We’re laughing and chatting about random things, and the excitement I felt earlier is turning into a nervous energy that I can’t quite shake. Every now and then, my mind drifts back to the conversation about Matt and Chris.

When we finally get back to Jordan’s place, she pulls into the driveway with that same determined look she’s had all day. “Alright, babe, it’s time.”

I stare at her, my heart doing a little flip. "Time for what?"

"Time to get ready," she says, hopping out of the Jeep before I can say anything else.

I grab my shopping bags and follow her inside, my pulse picking up pace. Jordan leads me to her room, which is filled with a mix of clothes and half-open drawers. She’s already pulling out a few items, and I can’t help but laugh nervously.

The next few hours feel like a whirlwind. Jordan’s apartment is a crazy mess as we rush to get ready. 

“Okay, sit down,” she orders, motioning to the chair in front of her vanity. I do as I’m told, watching her rummage through a drawer filled with makeup products. “Let’s make sure you look amazing tonight,” she says with a grin.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror, still not quite used to the corset top and the wide-leg jeans. The outfit is bold, daring, but I can’t help feeling like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. Still, Jordan seems so confident in it, and I trust her.

She starts with my face, prepping my skin with some kind of serum and moisturizer she swears by. I close my eyes and let her work her magic, her hands light but sure as she applies the base, blending everything seamlessly. My skin already looks smoother, more even than it usually does.

“You’re gonna love the foundation I got for you,” she says, swiping a brush across my cheeks. “It’s got this glow to it—makes your skin look like it’s glowing from within.” She finishes with a dusting of powder, setting everything in place.

I watch as she moves to my eyes. “We’re going for sultry, babe. Just big huge lashes,” she says, applying a thick coat of mascara, making my lashes look long and voluminous.

“Open your eyes,” she says with a smirk as she steps back to admire her work. I glance in the mirror and can’t believe how much my eyes pop just from mascara. 

Jordan then turns her attention to my lips. She picks up a pink lip liner, carefully lining the edges before putting on a pink tinted lip gloss

I smile nervously. I’m not used to this kind of attention. My usual look is… nothing. I’ve never done lip gloss or anything like this before. But tonight, I feel like someone else. 

“Now for your hair,” Jordan says, pulling me from my thoughts. She grabs a curling iron, giving me a teasing grin as she begins to curl my hair in loose waves. The heat feels strange against my hair, but the result is incredible—full, bouncy curls that make my hair look effortlessly voluminous. She finishes with a little hairspray, just enough to hold everything in place without it looking stiff.

By the time she’s done, I’m sitting there, staring at my reflection in awe. The outfit, the makeup, the hair—it’s like I’m looking at a completely different version of myself. The girl in the mirror looks confident, daring, ready to take on whatever comes her way.

Jordan steps back, inspecting me one last time. “You look incredible, Y/N. Trust me, no one’s going to be able to take their eyes off you tonight.”

I swallow, my heart racing. “Are Matt and Chris going to be there?” I ask, almost hesitantly.

“Absolutely,” she says, giving me a wink. “and you're absolutely staying away from them.” She finished with a straight face. 

I giggle at her firmness. Jordan grabs her own outfit, pulling on a leather jacket and running a hand through her hair as she heads for the door. “Alright, You ready?”

I cheer a little, feeling the rush of nervous excitement flood over me. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Jordan’s Jeep rumbles down a dark road, the streetlights becoming fewer and farther between. The neighborhood looks eerily similar to the one we were in earlier today—rundown houses, cracked sidewalks, I shift in my seat, glancing at Jordan, but she looks completely unfazed, focused on the road ahead.

When we finally pull up in front of a house, my stomach twists. It’s a large, old place with chipping paint and music blasting from inside. There are people lingering on the front porch, passing around drinks and cigarettes, their laughter mixing with the heavy bass of whatever song is playing.

Jordan throws the Jeep in park and turns to me. “Alright, listen,” she says, her voice firm. “Stick with me, have fun, but stay away from Matt and Chris. Got it?”

I roll my eyes, unable to hide my curiosity. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

She gives me a knowing look before hopping out of the car. I follow, as we make our way up the front steps and through the open door.

Inside, the air is thick with smoke, the scent of weed and something else I can’t place. The place is packed, people spilling into every room, music vibrating through the floors. Jordan walks in like she owns the place, immediately getting daps and side-hugs from a few guys as we move through the crowd.

“Jordy!” A girl with long, dark braids grins and pulls Jordan into a hug. “I didn’t know if I’d see you tonight.”

Jordan smirks. “Had to make an appearance. Thought I’d bring my girl Y/N with me.” She pulls me forward slightly, and I suddenly feel all eyes on me.

The girl gives me a once-over and smirks. “Cute. You don't really look like you belong here, though.”

Jordan just chuckles. “Last I checked, you're not the one who makes the calls around here, thanks for your opinion though!”

I laugh nervously, as the girl looks me up and down again before scoffing and walking away. Jordan hands me a red solo cup filled with something that smells strong. “Drink up,” she says with a wink. “It’ll help you loosen up.”

I take a sip and wince at the burn, but I don’t complain. The warmth spreads through me almost instantly, and suddenly, the party doesn’t feel as overwhelming. Jordan keeps introducing me to people—some friendly, some giving me lingering looks that make me shift uncomfortably. But with each sip of my drink, I relax a little more.

An hour or so passes in a blur of music, dancing, and conversation. At some point, Jordan disappears into a crowd of people near the stairs, leaving me standing alone in the living room. My cup is empty, and the warmth in my chest is starting to fade, so I decided to get another.

Making my way to the kitchen, I squeeze past groups of people talking and laughing. The kitchen is slightly less crowded, but it’s still buzzing with energy. I grab a bottle of some kind of alcohol, about to pour myself another drink when a deep voice cuts through the noise.

“Didn’t take you for the kind of girl to be here.”

I freeze for a second before turning my head.

Matt.

He’s leaning against the counter, watching me with an amused smirk. His eyes flicker over my outfit, lingering just a little too long on the corset before meeting my gaze again. He’s effortlessly put together—black jeans, a fitted long-sleeve shirt, and that same dangerous charm radiating off him like a magnet.

I clear my throat, trying to keep my cool. “I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who lurks in kitchens.”

Matt chuckles, stepping closer. “I don’t. I was actually looking for a drink, but now I think I found something more interesting.”

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips. “Smooth.”

He grins. “I try.” His body close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive. “So, tell me, Y/N, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I lift a brow. “You say that like I don’t belong here.”

“Because you don’t.” His voice is low, almost teasing. “You’re different.”

“Different how?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Matt’s eyes flicker to my lips before back up to my eyes. “Too sweet. Too… innocent.” His lips twitch like he finds it amusing. “It’s refreshing.”

I swallow, suddenly feeling like I need another drink. “Maybe.”

Matt chuckles again, shaking his head. “Oh, trust me, sweetheart, you are.” His voice drops slightly, the edge of danger in his tone making my pulse quicken. “That’s why Jordan warned me to stay away from you.”

I blink. “She did?”

“Oh yeah.” He smirks. “Made it very clear. Told me you're too good for me.” He leans in slightly, his voice just above a whisper. “And maybe she’s right.”

I should probably listen to Jordan. Every instinct in me says Matt is the kind of guy I should stay away from. But the way he’s looking at me, the way his presence pulls me in like gravity—I don’t move.

Before I can even think of a response to Matt, another voice interrupts.

“Finally,” the voice drawls. “We get to meet you without Jordan shutting it down.”

I turn my head to see Chris sauntering toward us, looking just as sharp as Matt but with a slightly more mischievous smirk. His eyes flick between me and his brother before settling on me.

“How about you come sit with us? Let us get to know you,” Chris suggests, motioning toward a worn-out couch in the corner of the room.

Before I can answer, Matt’s hand is already at my waist, guiding me toward the couch. My heart pounds as we move through the crowd, Chris leading the way, Matt’s presence heavy beside me.

As soon as we reach the couch, I start to sit down, but Matt subtly steers me to the middle, settling me between him and Chris. The warmth of their bodies on either side of me is immediate, a stark contrast to the slight chill in the air. Matt drapes his arm lazily over the back of the couch, fingertips just barely grazing my shoulder, while Chris stretches out comfortably, his knee nearly touching mine.

Chris grins. “Let’s play a little game. Twenty questions.”

Matt chuckles, his voice low. “You up for it, sweetheart?”

I glance between the two brothers, fully aware of how much trouble I might be walking into. But something about Matt’s quiet intensity and Chris’ playful attitude makes it impossible to pull away.

“Fine,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “I’m game.”

Chris smirks. “Alright, I’ll start. First question—where are you from?”

“Just outside the city,” I reply, relaxing just a little.

Matt hums. “Explains why you seem so… untouched.”

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks burn. “Next question.”

Chris leans forward, resting his arm on his knee. “Biggest fear?”

I hesitate. “Losing all of my teeth.”

Matt’s fingers tighten slightly against the couch cushion behind me. “Interesting.”

Chris raises a brow. “What’s your guilty pleasure?”

I bite my lip, thinking. “Old romance novels.”

Chris groans. “Lame.”

Matt, however, smirks. “Nah, that tracks. You seem like the type who loves the idea of some brooding, dangerous guy sweeping you off your feet.”

I don’t respond. The look in his eyes tells me he already knows the answer.

Chris continues. “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

I hesitate before admitting, “Probably this. Sitting between two guys I barely know at a party I wasn’t even supposed to be at.”

Matt’s arm shifts, his fingers brushing against my shoulder. His voice is laced with amusement as he murmurs, “Damn, sweetheart. That’s your craziest thing? We’ll have to change that.”

Chris smirks. “Alright, let’s up this. Next question—what’s your biggest turn-on?”

My breath catches in my throat. My instinct is to play it safe, but the heat from Matt’s gaze and the mischief in Chris’ expression make me feel bold.

“Confidence,” I say, tilting my head slightly. “But not arrogance.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “So you like guys who know what they want?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “But not the ones who feel like they need to prove something.”

Matt hums, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the fabric of the couch beside me. “Good answer.”

Chris leans in slightly, his grin widening. “What’s your biggest fantasy?”

I keep eye contact with him, watching as his expression darkens slightly with intrigue. My cheeks warm.

“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?” I tease, trying to deflect.

Chris laughs. “That’s the point, babe. You’re the one who agreed to play.”

I bite my lip, contemplating. The heat in the room, the tension in Matt’s touch, the look in Chris’ eyes—it makes me want to say something I normally wouldn’t.

I take a slow sip from my drink, gathering my courage before answering, “I guess I like the idea of someone being completely in control of my body.”

Matt’s fingers tighten slightly behind me, his breath hitching just a little.

Chris whistles. “Damn. You might be more fun than I thought.”

Matt finally speaks, his voice low and edged with something I can’t quite place. “Careful what you admit around us, sweetheart.”

I arch a brow, feigning innocence. “Why’s that?”

Matt smirks, his arm brushing against my back as he leans in, his lips barely grazing my ear.

“Because we don’t play fair.”

tag-

(divider by @cafekitsune) @tbfaptbfae @ch0llies @2muchofaslvt @rockstarchr1s @simply-a-simper @mattscore @watercolorskyy @urfungi @slut4christopherr @mattsturnii @christmastreecake @izzylovesmatt @larnieboox88 @realuvrrr @namelesssav @matts-girlfriend @emely9274

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

Professor, I didn’t cheat.

Summary: reader is a top student at her university. always exceeding in her courses and even taking the liberty to do study groups with other students to help them. Professor Kennedy finds out that the reader and this other student have the same thesis for an upcoming paper. What happens when he confronts y/n after class?

Warning: fem reader. Professor Leon. make out. breast play. creampie. age gap. CONSENTED.

a/n: I HATE my political class. I don’t understand anything😭 I was put in a group full of of guys and I deadass felt so out of place

(pt.1) (pt.2)

You always took notes during his lectures. You always made sure to jot down every single detail, even if it was something that you could search online. Your studies were important to you. You wanted to be the best so you strived for academic success. Many students valued your ambitious character but others were jealous.

Today’s lecture was more of an exam day. You always aced your tests, given that you studied the night before. You were one of the first students to finish their exam. You and the girl next to you finished at the same time and walked up to Leon’s desk to turn it in. You took your backpack with you as you laid the exam flat on his wooden desk. He gave you a curt nod, and then one to the other girl.

You both walked out of the classroom without any issues.

Until Leon emailed you that he wanted to have a private conference with you.

You panicked. What could have possibly have gone wrong? Or maybe he knew of an opportunity that you could take, like a job or a scholarship you should apply. Most professors did that, they helped their best students.

So when you walked to his office Monday morning, your gut feeling sank as you noticed the look on his face. It was a mixture of disappointment and disapproval. He motioned for you to step up to his desk, “Y/n, glad you’re here. Please, take a seat.” He sat down on his desk chair while you took one of the chair in front of his desk.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I called you here,” He began as he shuffled through some papers.

What could have possibly called you for? Nevertheless, you responded, “Yes, Professor, I am.”

He looked at you for a brief moment before laying a piece of paper in front of you. It was your exam, not graded yet, but it was yours. You furrowed your brows in confusion and then looked at him, “This is my exam…what’s wrong with it?”

He cleared his throat and rested his hands on his desk, “Look, I’m going to be straight with you. You’re an excellent student. The best student I’ve had so far.” He began slowly but you felt anxious, where was this going to?

“However, academic integrity is part of the student conduct every student must follow. I cannot grade your exam, y/n.”

It was as if time stopped. Your eyes widened, your heart was beating out of your chest. The silence was deafening, the pit in your stomach dropped heavy. “If you don’t grade this exam, I’ll fail the course,” you replied anxiously, “I can’t afford another class, I’ll have to wait for other scholarship opportunities to help me pay.”

He looked at you with sympathy but that didn’t mean he believed you, “Look, I know it’s stressful but that’s life. You don’t get an easy grade from cheating off a friend.”

“Cheating off a friend? Sir, with all due respect, I am not friends with anyone in the class,” you began to feel defensive. You didn’t know anyone, you only talked to them for projects. The professor raised his eyebrow as he stared at you.

“Someone told me that you copied from them. I won’t name the student since that’s between me and them,” he leaned forward onto the desk, “You’re an exemplary student, it hurts me to say this to you.”

All you could do was stare at him, someone actually wanted to ruin your grade and reputation. While you remained silent, he spoke, “Look, you have amazing grades and your participation has been outstanding. I’ll give you another chance. Retake the exam but it must be in my office.”

You furrowed your brows, “Why should I retake an exam if I didn’t cheat? I guarantee you, I would never lie on an exam. I am aware of the consequences that comes from cheating off of someone.”

Leon sighed and leaned back against his chair, “You’re stubborn, that’s good in a student.” He paused for a few moments, staring at you in silence, almost analyzing you. “Tell you what, I’ll investigate this further, however I still want you to take the exam again. If what you say is true then the retake of the exam will be extra credit for your grade.”

Extra credit? How can you say no to that? You sighed defeatedly and nodded along to his words, “Fine, I’ll retake the exam.”

He smiled softly and gave you a short single nod, “Good, come to my office on Wednesday at 12:30.”

You nod again and stood up to leave his office. His eyes trailed behind your back as you walked away from his office. Now all you had to do was wait for Wednesday so you can retake that exam, but first, should you find the person who accused you of cheating?

Wednesday came and you, lazily, made your way to his office. It was 12:25 as you were walking the halls of offices. The Dean’s office, some other professor’s office and then there was his. With his name plastered in the door in gold, Leon Scott Kennedy.

You knocked three times and heard a soft ‘Come in.’ You stepped into his office, immediately met with the smell of coffee, you forgot how much coffee this man consumed but honestly, who doesn’t consume coffee in college? “I’m here,” you spoke awkwardly as you looked at him. Your breath hitches in your throat as you scan him, he looked strangely hot. His tie was loose, his suit jacket hung on the back of his chair and his sleeves were rolled up. You were to see how toned and muscular his arms were, the watch on his left wrist made his hands look bigger for some reason. His hair was messy but it made him look godly.

“Ah, you’re here, good,” He motioned for you to sit down at the chair in front of his desk. “Take out your laptop, I published the exam for you. It should be there.”

You walked over to the chair and sat down in front of his desk, you pulled your laptop out of your school bag and began to scroll through your student account, “I see it.” You mumbled softly.

“Let me know when you’re ready, you have 90 minutes to complete the exam,” He replied politely. You could tell he was proud that you decided to retake it. With a soft sigh, you nodded and began to work on your exam. You leaned back against the chair as your laptop rested on your lap, you answered one question after another. It was an easy exam, you’ve taken it before.

Leon was watching you attentively, his eyes scanning over your relaxed figure. He noticed the way your hair seemed a little bit messy and how your brows scrunched up together in deep thought. He felt proud because he knew you were an ambitious student, you were everything he wanted in a student. Studious, hardworking, hot- wait a minute, hot?

He quickly looked away and focused on some miscellaneous files, he shouldn’t be thinking about his students. He kept stealing glances at you as you worked on your exam and he couldn’t help but feel hot. His eyes lingering on parts of your body, as if truly seeing you for the first time. He sees you as an attractive woman.

“I finished,” you mumbled softly as you looked up from your laptop, he quickly turned his gaze to his computer to check if you finished it. With a firm nod he responded, “Yeah, I see it. Good job, you got another perfect score.”

Of course you did, you were the smartest in his class. This was easy for you, light work. You closed your laptop and began to pack up but not before he tried to stop you, “Hey, wait- don’t leave yet.”

You looked up from your bag to look at him. He clears his throat and continues, “I still have to put in your grade and we need to talk about the cheating accusation.” You nodded and remained quiet as he kept speaking, “I decided to grade both your exams and use this attempt as your extra credit. You’re a great student and it would be a shame if anything bad were to happen to you that could affect your future.”

Your eyes widened, you couldn’t believe he was being this considerate. Most times when a student s caught cheating, a lawyer gets involved. But he was being nice, too nice even.

“What happened to the investigation?” You asked with furrowed brows. “I decided to drop it. I see that you scored the same on both tries so I guess that means you weren’t lying,” he replied as he maintained eye contact. His foggy blue eyes piercing into your soul. It didn’t help that his appearance made you feel butterflies.

“Actually, I also wanted to talk to you about this scholarship I found. It might be good for you,” His hand motioned for you to come up to him and his computer, you got up from the chair and walked to stand behind him. The screen showed a website of a scholarship due next semester. You heard him talk about the details but all you could focus on was the scent of his cologne. He smelled good albeit his messy look. He turned around in his chair to look at you and your faces were merely centimeters away from each other. You looked down at him and he looked up at you from his chair. It wasn’t on purpose but your gaze fell to his lips. Your gaze switched from his eyes to your lips and you didn’t notice how he slowly brought his hand to your cheek. He cupped your side of your face and brought you down to his face.

It wasn’t meant to happen but you felt your lips against his lips. The moment the two of you joined together as one in a kiss felt surreal. His lips tasted like coffee. His other hand traveled to your waist and pulled you down to his lap. You straddled his hips and gripped on his hair as you two emerged into a passionate and sensual kiss. His tongue brushing against your bottom lip, eliciting a gasp from you as he forced his tongue inside your mouth. The man was old but he knew how to kiss so good. You moaned into the kiss and felt his cock hardened against your clothed core. Causing your panties to grow a wet spot from the arousal. You shifted slightly against his hips, grinding up against his erection. Your kiss turned hot and messy, saliva dripping down as your chest is pressed up against his. His hands traveled down from your waist to your hips, fingers digging at your skin.

He put hind hands on the back of your thighs near your ass and picked you up. He gently laid your back down on his desk, not caring about the files falling to the floor right now. His mouth moved to your neck as he began to nibble and suck on your skin. Red marks terrorizing your sensitive skin as you moaned and gasped. Your hands gripped on the back of his hair as his hands began to travel to the inside of your shirt, touching your stomach and swiftly making their to your breasts. He growled against your skin as he pushed his hand inside your bra and felt the hardened nipple.

“Take it off,” I mumbled against your skin and pulled back. He helped you take off your shirt as you began to unclasp your bra, revealing those beautiful titties to him. Their color only making him water the mouth, he dropped down to one of your breast and began to suck hard on it while his hand manhandled the other. You arched your back as his tongue moved swiftly across areola of your breast. The salivating skin coating your breast as his teeth grazed your nipple. Your moans and whimpers escaping your mouth as he destroyed your breasts with his mouth and hand. You felt good.

He pulled back from your chest and looked down at the marvelous sight before him. He leaned down to kiss you again before softly whispering against your lips, “Let me know if you want to stop.”

You nodded your head and watched as his hands traveled down to his trousers and began to unbuckle his belt and buttons. He pulled his pants down to his thighs and pulled down on his boxers. His erection jumping from the enclosed space, hitting his abdomen with a thwack as precum had been leaking. He was large, the tip a rosy tone of pink with a vein protruding from the side, his cock leaned to his left and you could swear you saw it twitch. It was a spectacular sight. His hands quickly went down to take off your pants, pulling them to your ankles before taking them off completely. His noticed the wet spot in your panties from your presumably wet cunt.

His index finger pressed down against the fabric covering your clit, the slick of your folds seeping through the fabric as you shut your eyes tightly and moaned quietly. He smirked and began to circled your clit through your panties, he wasn’t aware you were into this but he obliged.

Just as you were near your orgasm, he pulled his finger back and pulled your panties down towards the floor along with your pants. He stood in between your legs and aligned his throbbing tip with your entrance, “I wish I had the time to prepare you but I’ve got a meeting after this,” he mumbled as he pushed himself into you, not giving you time to respond as your mouth became full of moans.

He made sure to fill up with his cock until his balls made contact with your ass, your jaw fell slack as you rolled your head back against his desk. Leon slowly began to thrust in and out, not fully pulling out, he was kind enough to let you adjust to his size.

Once he was sure you were doing good, he began to thrust into you. Pulling out and pushing back in with force, causing the desk to grind against the floor. He leaned down and put his hands on either side of your head. Your hands traveled to his hair and back, clawing your nails through his shirt.

The sound of skin clapping and the smell of sweat and sex covered the room. The air felt humid as both of your breaths became heavy and labored. You felt his tip touch your cervix, sending a wave of pleasure over you through a whimper. He kept thrusting, making sure to hit your g-spot and cervix. He may not have fingered you but he was still a gentleman, he wanted to make sure you enjoyed this just as much.

Your moans began to cut short as your breathing increasing, you arched your back and felt the band in your lower stomach stretching to a snap. And soon enough, your pussy clenched around his cock. Your orgasm milking and pulsating as he thrusted in you while you were experiencing your high. You closed your eyes and the darkness was clouded with stars.

His own thrusts faltered a little bit as he felt you clench and pulsate around his member and without a second thought he couldn’t contain his own cum from spilling inside you. His hot and thick juices shooting into your womb as he slammed his cock into your cunt for one last time. He kept himself buried inside you as he tried to catch his breath. Both of you panting and sweaty.

He slowly pulled out of you and watched as his cum dropped down from your cunt to his desk, the sight making his cock throb again but he couldn’t indulge himself for a second round as he had a meeting to attend. He helped you clean yourself up with some tissues he had and handed you your clothes from the floor. You both began to dress yourselves as the aftermath of what you two had done began to settle into your heads. He looked at you with a smirk and kissed your cheek, his stubble grazing your skin.

“I’ve got to now, sweetheart,” he whispered as his hand cupped your cheek like he did previously. “You should let me take you to dinner some time.”

You could only nod as you were still feeling dumb from the sex, “Yeah…”

He chuckled and pressed a light kiss on your lips before leaving you in his office.

Who knew a professor could fuck so good?

[claramelooo]

Hey, guys!

If you're reading this, congratulations! We've reached the end of this saga! I'm so happy I had the courage to start this project, and it's all thanks to the support of you guys who interacted with me so well that I felt comfortable writing with all my heart.

I still thinking in eventually to write one-shots for them, but I dunno, you tell me!! Lol

and I will definitely write more about the milfs we love, no worries!

Enjoy it!!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Happy Ending!!!

Paring: Mommy Wanda x Brat Fem Reader

Summary: Wanda's courage makes her knock on your door after five years

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 - Predator | Part 2 - The Prey | Part 3 - On your Knees | Part 4 - The Spider | Part 5 - The Lamb | Part 6 - Pure Crimson | Part 7 - Dependece | Part 8 - Passion | Part 9 - Revenge | Part 10 - Control | Part 11 - Consequences

VELVET CHAINS

Love

After five years, everything had changed. You had graduated in International Relations and were working in a mid-level position at the American embassy, handling negotiations, mediating conversations between diplomats, and diving into a routine that made you feel important. It wasn’t exactly what you had imagined when you first dreamed of your career, but you were on the right path.

Living in a quiet Manhattan neighborhood, your apartment reflected who you were: an organized person with a touch of calculated chaos. Stacks of books sat on the coffee table, an unfinished painting leaned against the wall, and Sparky, your Golden Retriever, bounded back and forth with endless energy.

Sparky had come into your life at a strange time, a gift from Yelena. "You need some decent company," she said, placing the puppy in your hands. "Because clearly, you can’t pick good company on your own." It was her way of showing she cared, and you knew that.

Yelena was one of the few ties you kept to your past. Despite your differences, you often met up, usually for quick lunches at tucked-away cafés in the city. She would talk about her work, about Natasha, and occasionally drop hints that you should go out more.

"You're young, smart, and beautiful," she’d say, almost like a mantra. "And you live like a nun."

What Yelena didn’t understand—or pretended not to—was that you didn’t just want to go out more. You wanted something that felt impossible to find: connection.

Even when you went out with your blonde fling (if you could even call her that), everything felt hollow. She was funny, gorgeous, and always willing to meet up, but she knew nothing about who you really were. She didn’t know about Sparky, your sleepless nights reading poetry, and definitely didn’t know about Wanda.

Ah, Wanda.

There were moments when thoughts of her crept in. Not intentionally, of course, but reflexively. Like when Sparky did something adorable, reminding you of how much Wanda loved dogs. Or when a particular song came on, one she used to hum while cooking.

But you’d learned to shove those memories into the back of your mind. There was too much to deal with in the present.

That day, for example, a stack of reports awaited your review, and you had a meeting at three. But first, you needed to take Sparky for a quick walk. Grabbing his leash, you left the apartment, greeting a few neighbors along the way.

"Good morning, Y/n!" called a cheerful older woman from the second floor.

"Good morning, Mrs. Harris!" you replied, your smile automatic but genuine.

Mornings were like that: simple, ordinary. A far cry from the life you once lived.

By the end of the day, Sparky lay curled up on the rug while you pored over a complicated email. The weight of routine settled over you. Everything seemed in place, yet something still felt out of tune.

You paused, staring out at the city through the window. The lights shimmered on the horizon, a promise of vibrant life out there.

But inside you, there was only silence.

After five years, everything had changed—except you.

Outwardly, you were the perfect image of an adult woman: successful, independent, living the life anyone would envy. But inside, the marks Wanda had left on you lingered like invisible scars, impossible to ignore.

You still felt like a little girl, torn between the desire to be cared for and the need for discipline. No matter how much you tried to bury it, there was a void in your routine that no job, company, or casual relationship could fill.

Wanda had shaped you. She taught you to surrender, to trust, to lose control in a safe way—and somehow, that had defined you. The nights with her still visited your dreams, a mix of longing and anguish. Her voice, firm yet full of care, still echoed in your mind when you felt overwhelmed.

"Good girl."

It was a simple phrase, but loaded with meanings no one else seemed to understand. It wasn’t just the compliment itself; it was what came with it: warmth, security, the feeling of being seen entirely.

A shiver ran down your spine at the memory. Sometimes, you hated it—hated how her memories still held power over you. But the truth was that part of you yearned for it again: a firm touch, a gaze that stripped away all your layers of protection, a kiss that said, "You’re mine."

You’d tried to recreate it with other people, of course. Foolishly, you thought you might find something similar with your blonde fling. But the woman lacked patience, or the understanding to handle your needs. She enjoyed herself, sure, but she had no idea that, for you, it went far beyond casual sex.

There were times when she rolled her eyes as you hesitated or became too submissive. It made you withdraw, reminding you that without Wanda, no one else seemed willing or capable of understanding.

"You’re complicated," the blonde had once said after you hesitated to take any initiative.

The woman straddling you moved rhythmically, trying to coax a reaction that just wouldn’t come. It wasn’t her fault; she was doing everything right. The problem was you. It was always you. Or rather, the emptiness left by the one who should never have gone.

Your vacant gaze fixed on the ceiling, your hands resting lazily on her hips, entirely unenthusiastic. Everything felt wrong, each touch a cruel reminder of what you truly wanted.

And it was only one person.

Not even five damn years had been enough to erase her name from your mind. It was etched somewhere between your ribs, buried deep but never far enough to ignore.

Wanda.

You closed your eyes, trying to push the thought away, but it was useless. All you could do was remember the feel of her mouth on yours, the sound of her raspy voice calling your name, the devastating look that made you feel like the only person in the world.

Now, she was on the other side of the country. Probably lying in bed next to her perfect husband. You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Vision was everything any woman could want: stable, respectable, and, of course, approved by everyone that mattered. But he was never you.

You let out a deep, heavy sigh, so profound the blonde paused, propping herself up on her elbows to look at you with a mix of confusion and irritation.

"Are you going to fuck me or not?"

You shifted your gaze to the blonde straddling you... Jenna? Jemma? You couldn’t even remember her name. All you knew was that she worked in a different department.

Gripping the blonde’s hair, you yanked her head closer. "That’s not how you ask for what you want. But since you’re a dumb little slut, I’ll do all the work."

The woman, who had been about to protest your dirty language, fell silent as you buried three fingers inside her. You grabbed her waist and pulled her down until your fingers disappeared completely.

Her nails were already digging into your shoulders with the simple movement. You smiled to yourself before you began to destroy the poor woman's pussy. You thrust with maximum speed and force, making her scream in pleasure.

You curled your fingertips, hitting the woman's spongy, pulsing spot—bringing tremors in her legs, indicating the strong signs of an orgasm. When the woman came loudly, you pulled out of her.

At least she started to get dressed quickly afterward, "Maybe we can do this again sometime."

You gave her a weak smile. "Maybe."

You grabbed your phone, ordering an Uber for the blonde, the feeling of having brought her here haunting your mind like a mistake weighing on your heart.

As you waited for the blonde's Uber, guilt began to mix with boredom. It wasn't just her; it was the whole situation. The repetition of the same pattern: empty encounters, forgettable faces, names you didn't even bother to remember. You grabbed a robe to dress yourself and cover your nakedness—you threw yourself on the living room couch, while Sparky, your faithful companion, jumped beside you, offering an affection that seemed to be the only true constant in your life.

The apartment was a clear representation of who you had become over the past five years. Modern, well-decorated, yet with an air of transience, as though you had never truly committed to the space. A reflection of your own soul, perhaps.

And now, there was the job offer abroad. Paris. A dream for anyone in your field. The first thought you had when you received the news was excitement. Yet, there was something inside you that hesitated. It wasn’t just attachment to what you had built in Manhattan. It was what you still couldn’t let go of, even after all this time.

Wanda.

Her name still carried a different weight. A name that brought a flood of memories: her laughter, the way she looked at you, the way the world seemed to dissolve when you were together. You didn’t know how she was now. You knew she was in Texas. But beyond that?

Was she still with Vision? Did the boys remember you? Had she completely forgotten about you?

The emptiness returned, but this time with a twinge of curiosity. What was Wanda doing now? Was she sleeping beside Vision? Was she thinking about you?

The sound of a notification on your phone pulled you from your thoughts. The Uber had arrived. You got up, escorting the woman outside, ensuring she was safe—you’d never let anyone leave without making sure of that. The blonde waved at you from the car window, and you responded with an automatic gesture before walking toward your balcony.

You stopped in your tracks when you heard a familiar, yet more mature voice.

“You should put some clothes on if you’re planning to stay out here all night.”

Your blood ran cold at the sound of that voice. A strong wave of denial surged within you. Turning toward the voice took all the strength you had to stop yourself from retreating indoors.

The world seemed to tilt when you turned, and there she was. Wanda Maximoff. Five years. Five damn years since the last time you’d seen her, but nothing could have prepared you for this moment.

She stood at the base of your balcony, arms crossed over her chest, covered by a wool cardigan. Her hair was longer than you remembered, with strands that caught the faint streetlight, giving her an almost ethereal glow. But that wasn’t what captured your attention. It wasn’t her undeniable beauty. It was the restrained fury in her eyes, a deep, uncontrollable fire that pierced you like blades.

“Wanda…” you whispered, her name barely escaping your throat as your heart raced wildly.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression stern as she tilted her head slightly. “I asked if you’re staying out here all night or if you’re finally going to get dressed.”

You looked down at yourself, realizing you were still in just your robe, nothing else. But it wasn’t enough to distract you from the fact that she was there. After five years. After all the time and distance, she was standing on your balcony, looking at you as though she could dismantle your entire life with a single glance.

“I…” You tried to speak, but your voice failed. Your chest tightened, a storm of emotions you couldn’t name swirling inside you. Fear. Guilt. Longing. Anger. Love. All spinning within you like a tornado. “It’s been a while.” You finally settled on that response.

Wanda’s eyes narrowed at you. “Yes, and you’ve kept yourself very busy since the last time I saw you.”

Her sarcasm hit you like a slap. Her anger, once contained, began to spill over. How dare she? Five years of silence. Five years of emptiness, and now she was here, judging you?

“It’s none of your business,” you retorted, your voice harsher than you intended.

“It used to be,” Wanda replied with the same intensity. She took a step closer, her eyes burning as her voice dropped to something rougher, more intimate. “You used to be so good to Mommy.”

Her words cut like a knife. The heat you’d felt turned to a chill. You stepped back, raising your hands as if to keep a safe distance from her, from everything she represented.

“Goodnight, Wanda,” you said, your voice cold and controlled, trying to salvage the last shred of dignity you had. You turned to head inside, but before you could take more than two steps, you felt a tug on your wrist.

Her touch, even after everything, was familiar. Too familiar. Your eyes met hers again, and something in Wanda’s expression had shifted. There was anger, yes, but also... something else. Something that looked like desperation.

“Y/n,” she said, her voice now almost a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken conversations. “We need to talk.”

“Talk?” you repeated, almost mocking. “Five years, Wanda. Five years of silence. And now you show up at my door, after everything... to talk?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if searching for the right words. When she opened them again, tears were beginning to pool.

The tension in the air was almost suffocating. Your heart was still racing as you stepped back, swallowing hard and looking away from Wanda. It was too much—seeing her there, the weight of her presence after all this time. You tried to escape the emotional storm, turning toward your hallway, your hands trembling as you gripped the door to close it.

But before the wood could meet the frame, her foot stopped it.

The shock of her audacity quickly morphed into anger. You spun on your heels, ready to confront her, but before you could say a word, Wanda had already crossed the threshold of your home. Without permission.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” your voice came out firm, though the lump in your throat remained. You stepped forward, crossing your arms, trying to project an authority you didn’t feel.

Wanda didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. She shut the door behind her with a calm that was unsettling, her green eyes scanning the room before landing back on you. “I’m not standing out in the cold while you play house with every random whore who crosses your path. But when I need you—when Mommy needs you—you refuse to listen,” she said, her tone almost casual, but with an edge of something dangerous, like a sharp knife wrapped in velvet.

The word you hadn’t heard, hadn’t uttered in years, sent shivers down your spine. Hearing it from Wanda’s mouth reignited a fire in your lower belly—one you tried to ignore.

“Listen?” You laughed, but it was dry and full of disbelief. “You barge into my house after five years and think I owe you anything? Wanda?”

Wanda stepped closer, and you realized you were cornered between her and the wall. Despite the anger burning inside you, something else was growing—something that made your knees weak and the air hard to breathe.

“Five years,” she repeated, her voice heavy with meaning. “Five years without a single word. And now, when I finally see you, you think you can dismiss me with a ‘goodnight, Wanda’? No. We’re going to talk, Y/n.”

“Talk?” you repeated, almost derisively.

The tension in the room was almost electric as you held Wanda’s gaze. No matter how hard you tried to maintain your firm posture, your crossed arms, and your cold voice, something inside you was crumbling. She was so close now, and that familiar scent—a mix of something floral and woody—invaded your senses, dragging up memories you had spent five long years trying to bury.

“Yes, talk,” Wanda replied, her tone lower now, but with an intensity that rooted you in place. “And you’re going to listen, Y/n. Because I didn’t cross half the country to be ignored.”

You let out a bitter laugh, anger and confusion boiling inside you. “You don’t have the right to show up here and demand anything from me, Wanda. Nothing! You made your choice, remember? You chose your family. You chose Vision. So why are you here now? For what?”

Her eyes shimmered with a mix of pain and determination.

"Vision found out." Two words—only two words were enough for you to completely let your guard down with her.

You felt your arms drop to your sides, your posture crumbling. All the control you had desperately tried to maintain was ripped away. Wanda observed the change in you, her eyes watchful but devoid of any satisfaction. It seemed like she was crumbling inside too.

"Found out what, exactly?" you asked, but your voice came out softer than you intended. It was a loaded question, filled with everything you had tried to ignore for years.

"About us," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "About everything."

You let yourself fall back against the wall, trying to find stability as your head spun. "And then? What do you want from me now, Wanda? I can't be your safe place when everything falls apart. Not anymore."

The woman ignored your questions and continued her monologue, her eyes glistening with tears. “He threatened me. Threatened to expose this to the church, threatened to take the boys from me.” Wanda's voice was a fragile thread.

You tried to speak, but your throat was dry. Everything about her—the teary eyes, the voice heavy with pain, the proximity—was pulling you back into a whirlwind of emotions you didn’t want to face.

“I thought about killing him.” The confession made your heart stop for a second. You felt the weight of those words hit you like a punch. Wanda, your Wanda, talking about murdering her husband with an almost practical coldness.

She took another step, her palm now resting against your cheek, a touch so delicate it completely contrasted with the violence of her words.

“It would be simple to poison him, and I’d be free—I’d have my boys, my reputation intact, I’d have you.”

The closeness was suffocating. The intensity in her eyes, the tears slowly rolling down Wanda's face, mingling with your own tear-filled gaze, trapped you in a way you couldn’t escape.

“But then… Billy got sick, and I saw no other way out, Y/n. There was no other way to push you out of my life except for that…” Her voice trembled, an echo of a desperation so raw and real it made your chest tighten even more.

Your heart was torn between believing her and protecting yourself. Her words seemed genuine, but you knew Wanda had always had the power to manipulate your feelings. She always knew exactly how to reach the most vulnerable corners of your soul.

“Wanda, I...” You tried to find words but were lost. Lost in the whirlwind of emotions she provoked in you—anger, sadness, love, and a terrible longing for everything you used to be together.

"I never wanted to hurt you," she whispered, her fingers now softly tracing the line of your jaw. "I just wanted to protect you. Protect the boys. Protect... us."

"Protect?" Your voice finally found strength. "Wanda, you destroyed everything. Not just your life but mine too. I spent five years trying to piece together what you left behind. And now you come back, expecting me to believe it was all to protect us?"

Wanda stepped back slightly, but her eyes remained fixed on yours, pleading for something you didn’t know if you could give. "I don’t expect you to forgive me, Y/n. Not now. Maybe not ever. But I needed you to know. I needed you to understand what really happened."

Silence fell between you, heavy and oppressive. Her words still echoed in your mind. Vision. Threats. The boys. She had thought about killing for you. For them.

And despite everything, a part of you wanted to believe her. Wanted to go back in time, to before everything fell apart, to when her touch was the only thing that made sense in the world. But the past was there, as present as she was, and you didn’t know how to escape its shadow.

“Who was she?” Wanda's hoarse voice cut through the silence like a blade—low, but laden with an intensity that sent a shiver up your spine.

You blinked, confused, trying to understand the question. "Who...?"

"The blonde? Who was she?" Wanda interrupted, her eyes burning into yours, her tone a little firmer, almost possessive.

You hesitated, discomfort growing. "I... I don’t know what that matters now, Wanda."

"It matters," she shot back, stepping forward. "Because she left your house wearing the same cheap perfume I smelled on you when I arrived. So I’ll ask again: who was she?"

The sudden clarity in Wanda's words hit you like a shock. It wasn’t just curiosity or simple jealousy; there was something deeper in the way she was looking at you, as if she desperately needed this answer.

“She’s just...” You averted your gaze, trying to find an explanation that didn’t sound as frivolous as the truth. "She’s nobody. Someone from work. She means nothing."

“Means nothing,” Wanda repeated, almost to herself, but with a touch of sarcasm that hurt more than you wanted to admit. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as if trying to calm herself. When she opened them again, her green eyes were intense, locked on yours. "You think I believe that? Since when would you let just anyone touch you? She isn’t ‘nothing.’"

"You have no right to come here and ask me these kinds of questions, Wanda. Not after everything," you snapped back, your own anger finally starting to bubble.

She began, her voice deep but trembling, “Just the thought of someone else touching you, kissing you, seeing you the way I did…” She paused, her fists clenched at her sides. “It feels like the ground is disappearing beneath me.”

You felt the air leave your lungs. Her intensity was overwhelming. "Wanda..."

“You don’t get it, do you?” Her voice broke, and for a moment, she seemed so vulnerable that you didn’t know whether to stay or run. “I tried to move on. I tried to accept that I’d never have you again. But every day, every night that passed, I felt you with me. Here.” She pressed her hand to her chest, over her heart.

You stayed silent, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to deal with the storm forming in front of you.

“I see myself in every woman who tries to touch you," she continued, her voice lowering but still loaded with dangerous intensity. “And it’s unbearable. Because no matter who they are, I know none of them will ever be good enough for you. Because none of them are me.”

Her words hit like a blow, mixing anger, sadness, and a pang of something you didn’t want to name. Love. Maybe obsession.

You whimpered, “That’s not fair! You chose him over me! You can’t just come here and say whatever you want.”

“I had to, Y/n! For the sake of my kids, for Billy’s health!” She snapped, clearly frustrated with your stubbornness.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “And what does that mean now, huh? What does it change in the present?”

She stood up from the couch, straightening her posture—and her pride. “It means I’m divorcing him.” She began walking toward you in slow steps. “It means I took the first flight and traveled 27 hours—even though I’m terrified of planes—just to see you.” Wanda smiled, emotional. More steps, closer to you. “It means, Y/n, that no matter how hard I’ve tried, I can’t forget you.”

You wanted to step back, but your body wouldn’t obey. You couldn’t control yourself and cursed inwardly at the thought that your body still belonged to her, and the promise Wanda made you before still lingered.

“You know what, Y/n?” Wanda said, staring at you intently.

You couldn’t have answered even if you wanted to, your voice stuck in your throat.

“All I’ve been able to think about for the last few fucking months is your beautiful face between my legs.” Her face was close to yours, her breath fresh and hauntingly familiar, tickling your skin. “Tell me, so many women coming and going from this place… but has any of them made you come like I did?”

The truth was that you hadn’t had an orgasm since your last time with Wanda. Every woman who had passed through your life didn’t understand how much you wanted to be broken during sex and then be held, pampered, loved…

“Oh, poor thing… Haven’t you cum since the last time Mommy made you?”

Usually, you hated it when people got in your head, but you were getting close to the limits of your intelligence. The only woman who could make you was right in front of you trying to do just that.

“It seems like you need Mommy as much as she needs you.” Wanda slowly knelt down, opening the robe you were wearing a little. She moaned when she saw that you weren’t wearing any panties.

“Fuck, I love how wet you get for me.” The woman’s mouth was watering as she remembered the taste of you on her tongue.

Your breathing quickened when one of Wanda’s fingers dragged through your folds. Quickly, you took a step back and closed the robe again.

“I can’t do this. You're going to fuck me and then leave me!” You shouted, stomping your feet like the little girl Wanda knew well and missed terribly.

“Y/n, I'm getting a divorce, seriously!” She uses that soothing tone, the tone she used to calm you down when you cried in her arms after a punishment.

Before you can deny her once more, Wanda crushes her lips to yours—and that was the end of the conversation. Your hands locked themselves in the older woman's blond locks, bringing her even closer to you.

“I hate you so much!” You growled, biting Wanda's lower lip, making her moan. “You owe me the best orgasm of my life.”

You rip the woman's blouse, wrapping Wanda's nipple between your teeth—mutilating them, making Wanda moan.

“Has he touched you since I left? Do you moan like that for him? Does your body react to his touch?” As much as you tried. Tried to forget her and put out the fire of your obsession for her, here you were, with your mouth mistreating every inch of her skin.

“No.” Wanda replied breathlessly, her hands tangling in your hair. “Only you.” The woman’s intense gaze as she said this made you shiver.

Wanda pulled your head away from her. Your neck was stretched back as she stared hungrily at your body, “Mommy understands that you’re mad at her, baby, but don’t forget who’s in charge. You want to make me happy, don’t you?”

You immediately flinched at the brightness of her black eyes of pure excitement, “Yes, Mommy.”

Her lips pressed against yours in a small peck, “Good girl, now take me upstairs.”

There was a hesitant tremor in your body as you picked up the older woman and carried her to your bedroom. You sat her down on the bed and stood in front of her, waiting for the next move. You were writhing around, your pussy was so wet.

"Did you enjoy fucking that blonde slut on this bed? This bed should only be used for pleasure if mommy allows it."

You shook your head, "No, mommy…"

"What about the other sluts you were fucking? Hmm, you had so many, didn't you? All blondes… I wonder why that was."

Your focus was divided between her questions and the hand she was using to tease you. Her hand found a path you desperately wanted to follow. From your chest to your pussy.

"No mommy, they couldn't satisfy me."

Wanda finally took a long step towards you, placing her hand on your chest. "And why is that, baby?"

Your breath hitched as she touched the band of your robe, threatening to take it off. Her delicate finger crept into your folds.

"Because only mommy can make me cum." She pinched your clit, making you whimper,

"Say it again."

"Only mommy can make me cum," Your voice rose an octave as Wanda thrust a finger into you.

There was a slightly sadistic look on her face at the sound of your cries. She bent down to her knees, pulling off your robe, leaving you completely naked to her. Her finger continued to attack your pussy.

"You're so tight, Detka, has no one put a finger inside you since mommy? Have you kept that pussy all pristine for me?" You were struggling to stand at this point.

The way she was talking to you along with her finger fucking was enough to make you fall apart. Wanda smacked your thigh firmly, making you jump in surprise,

"Mommy asked you a question." Your frantic eyes met hers,

"No, mommy, no one has touched me since you."

"Not even your pretty little finger has been in that pussy?" You shake your head,

"No, Mommy."

She takes this as a sign to shove 2 more fingers inside you, "Open that pussy for Mommy. When I'm done, that hole will be just right for Mommy."

You moaned at the way your pussy stretched for Wanda. You could feel the juices dripping out of you as Wanda worked her magic on you. You almost screamed when you felt a slap against your clittoris.

Although you couldn’t see her, you were sure the woman was smiling at your reaction. She continued to pound your clit hard to the point that your knees felt like they would give out at any moment.

“It’s like it’s the first time all over again. You can’t handle a simple caress and a slap on your pussy without your legs giving out. We’re going to have to retrain you after this,” the woman pushed you hard onto the bed.

Your hands were gripping the edge of the mattress as your legs dangled over the edge. Wanda settled herself between your knees.

Her hot breath teasing your pussy. She gave one last smack before closing her lips around your clit.

“Fuck, mommy!” Wanda giggled into your pussy, sending vibrations through your body.

Wanda used one hand to hold you down as she fingered and tongue fucked you. Your back was almost arched off the bed.

“Mmm, so sweet.” She murmured into your pussy. “Mommy missed that smell so much, that sticky little pussy of yours wetting my mouth.” Wanda ground her own pussy into the edge of the mattress, the friction sending tremors through her legs.

You wanted to close your legs because there was something building in the pit of your stomach.

You staggered up from your sitting position when Wanda removed all contact. It was like your eyes were going to pop out of your head.

There was a mischievous smile on her lips as she looked down at you.

“What’s wrong, Detka?”

Your body was shaking, yearning for your long-awaited release.

“Mommy, please.”

Wanda smiled even wider as she crawled on top of you, lining her pussy up with your fluid cunt. She was directly above you, her eyes looking playfully into yours,

“Please, what, huh? We’ve barely started, baby girl, you don’t want to cum now, do you?”

Wanda began to grind against you, making you both moan at the contact of your pussies together. The ease with which your clits met only showed that your bodies had met before—maybe in another life.

"I need to cum, Mommy. Please let me cum. Fuck, it's been too long…. I need my Mommy to make me cum, only Mommy can make me cum, please," you were desperate.

If you even tried to touch yourself without her permission right now, she would deny you. The best thing you could do was beg like the hungry slut you truly were.

She increased the friction against your pussy and a small cry escaped your lips. You demanded more, and Wanda knew it.

"Look at me," Wanda gently grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at her.

She brushed your messy hair away from your face and placed a tender kiss on your forehead, "I've missed you so much, Y/N. I'm going to make you cum so hard. Do you know why?"

You shook your head, unable to speak. Tender moments during sex didn’t happen often between the two of you. So this was definitely new, and it was making your heart flutter.

She placed her forehead against yours, “Because I love you.” She moaned passionately, as if those words had been stuck in her throat for a long time. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed my perfect little slut? My little sneaky baby, huh?” Wanda continued to grind her hips against you, feeling her orgasm coming on herself.

“All I want to do is take care of you. I want to make you feel good because it makes me feel good.” She began to thrust harder against you.

You grab her face with both hands, crushing your lips against hers feverishly. She slumps against your body, so she’s no longer holding back.

You moan directly into her mouth as she begins to move more sporadically against you.

“Cum for me, Y/N,” the command was whispered in your ear, and that was all it took for you to cum.

Both of your bodies shook, and your arms flew around Wanda, pinning her in place. It felt like your entire body was spasming under the immense amount of pleasure.

Wanda placed soft kisses on the side of your neck as you began to regain your composure, “You’re my good girl. Cumming as soon as Mommy says you can.” You look so beautiful when you're under me like this, darling.

Wanda sighed, her fingers tracing small circles on your back, each gentle touch laden with a tenderness that felt almost reverent. Her breathing seemed calm, but you could feel the rapid pulse in her chest, as if her heart was struggling to break free from the walls her mind insisted on building. There was a raw vulnerability in the silence between you, a space where unspoken emotions seemed to take form.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” you murmured, your voice thick as you buried your face in her shoulder. Every word felt like a battle against the tight knot in your throat, threatening to unravel into tears at any moment.

“I did too,” Wanda replied, her voice heavy with a weight only she could understand. Her lips brushed against the top of your head in a slow, almost hesitant kiss, as if she needed to confirm you were real. “And every day without you… felt like an eternity. A never-ending punishment.”

“I love you too, Wanda. That’s never changed.” The words came as a whisper but carried a devastating power. You didn’t need volume; the love pouring out of every syllable was enough to fill the void of the lost years.

Wanda froze for a moment, as if your confession had the power to split time in half. You hadn’t realized how tense she was until you felt her body relax against yours, a shaky breath escaping her lips. Slowly, she pulled away, rolling to her side until the two of you were face-to-face. Wanda’s face was an open book—hope, fear, and love colliding in a whirlwind of emotions.

“I have children,” she said finally, her voice low and raw, as if each word was a confession torn from her. Her gaze was piercing, searching yours as though bracing for judgment or hesitation.

“I know,” you said, your voice steady, a contrast to the delicate fragility of the moment. Your eyes held hers, offering the reassurance she seemed to desperately need.

“The divorce…” Wanda continued, her words almost a lament, “it might get messy. Ugly. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.” You squeezed her fingers gently, as if to say no obstacle would be big enough to separate you again.

The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. It was as if both hearts were readjusting their rhythms to beat in unison once more after so long out of sync. You brought your free hand to her face, gently caressing her warm, delicate skin.

“I’m here by your side, Wanda, no matter what happens. As long as you’re honest with me, I’m yours.”

Wanda blinked, her eyes glistening with tears she didn’t try to hide. “All mine…” she echoed, her voice almost a whisper, as though she couldn’t believe the words. A single tear slid down her cheek, and you wiped it away with your thumb, a simple gesture heavy with unspoken promises.

“Yes,” you reaffirmed, your voice soft but resolute. “Always yours.”

Wanda closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. When she opened them again, a determination shone in her gaze that hadn’t been there before. “I’m going to fight for this. For us. I’ll never let you go again.”

And so, in that room where time seemed to have stopped, you found each other once more. After five years of pain and distance, nothing felt more certain than the promise you now shared.

[...]

The irresistible aroma of roasted turkey wafted through the house, mingling with the scent of pumpkin pies and spices that promised a memorable dinner. Through the window, the golden light of an autumn evening softly spilled onto the dining room walls, painting everything with a warm, cozy glow. Sparky, ever vigilant for any sign of food, lay at the foot of the table, watching everyone’s movements like a little guardian.

“Tommy, if you put one more olive on that plate, I swear you won’t get dessert!” Wanda scolded, her voice filled with exasperation, though her eyes betrayed an amused glint.

“Mom, olives are the best part of dinner!” Tommy retorted, stacking a fourth olive in the corner of his plate as if building a tower. Billy, seated next to him, leaned in with a teasing grin.

“Let him be, Mom. At least that way he’s eating something, considering he always skips the vegetables.”

“I don’t skip them! I… selectively eat them,” Tommy corrected, raising an eyebrow.

Wanda ran a hand over her face, clearly resisting the urge to say more. She looked like the epitome of an exhausted mother: wrinkled apron, hair tied back in a hurried bun, and a furrow between her brows that revealed her struggle to keep everything under control. Watching from the kitchen as you sliced bread, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“Relax, love. They’re just excited. It’s part of the holiday,” you said gently, crossing the space between the kitchen and the table with a plate of salad. Wanda turned toward you, her shoulders subtly relaxing at the sound of your voice.

“They’re going to drive me insane, that’s what’s going to happen,” she grumbled, though her words were tinged with affection.

Leaning in, you kissed her cheek, ignoring the muffled teasing coming from the boys.

“It’s only until dinner. I promise, after that, they’ll be calm and polite as angels.”

“Doubt it!” Billy called out loudly from across the table, laughing as Wanda narrowed her eyes at him.

Finally, everyone sat at the table, the golden turkey shining at the center, surrounded by colorful dishes: gratin potatoes, sautéed vegetables, pies, and sauces that completed the feast. Sparky, realizing it was mealtime, lay down again with an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay, kids, let’s give thanks for today,” you suggested, taking Wanda’s hand, who in turn took Tommy’s. The chain was formed. Billy glanced sideways at his brother before offering a small smile.

“I’m thankful for this new house and for Mom’s cooking,” Tommy said first, surprising everyone with his sincerity. Wanda blinked, clearly moved, but held herself together.

Billy, ever practical, smirked and said, “I’m thankful Sparky didn’t eat my snack this week. And for that pumpkin pie over there.”

Everyone laughed, breaking the momentary seriousness. Wanda squeezed your hand gently before speaking.

“I’m thankful for the family I chose and for the peace we have here. None of this would be possible without you.” She looked directly at you, her green eyes full of a tenderness that seemed to envelop her entirely.

You smiled, feeling your heart warm. “And I’m thankful for all of you. For being together, healthy, and happy. That’s all that matters.”

That night, as the boys slept in the room next door and Sparky snored at the foot of the couch, you and Wanda found each other in the small space of your new home, cups of tea in hand. The soft lights of the room illuminated only your faces, creating an intimate and cozy bubble.

“Do you realize we’re here now? Together. Like a family,” Wanda murmured, her voice tinged with a sweet incredulity. “I never imagined my life could be like this.”

“You deserve this, Wanda. You deserve love, you deserve peace.”

She smiled softly, her eyes glinting with some distant memory. “That trip to Paris… it was the best surprise I’ve ever had.”

You laughed, fondly recalling the moment. Wanda thought you were taking her just to celebrate your vacation, but both of you had a secret plan. On the first night, under the illuminated Eiffel Tower, you took her to dinner, pulled a ring from your pocket, and knelt before her. Wanda’s smile and tears were enough to calm any nerves.

What you hadn’t expected, however, was that she also had a ring hidden in her bag.

“It’s funny how we proposed to each other at the same time,” you said, laughing softly.

“I knew we were meant to be; I just needed a ring to make it official,” Wanda joked, leaning into you.

The memories mingled with the present: family dinners, the twins’ laughter, Sparky’s innocent antics, and the love that overflowed in every touch and shared glance between you. Life went on, and that moment was just a snapshot of a story that would continue long after the readers’ eyes closed.

Destiny is a quiet and unpredictable force, weaving invisible threads between souls that, somehow, were meant to find each other. Sometimes, it acts as a whisper in the wind, a shared glance in a church that grows into a grand story, the kind so impactful they become unpublishable.

The best love stories are the ones eyes can’t read, the ones words aren’t enough to tell. They are the stories that are felt or dreamed.

Some loves are born as sparks: they shine brightly but end in the same breath that started them. Others, however, carry eternity in the eyes of those who live them. They are built over years, with patience, courage, and even silence. These loves withstand time, crossing generations, and when life ends, they find a way to continue. Perhaps in another era, perhaps in another skin, but never in another heart. Because there are loves that don’t belong to just one life. They belong to destiny, and destiny, however whimsical, always finds a way to perpetuate what was born to be eternal.

We are all like pieces of coins that children break in half as keepsakes—turning one into two, like flounders—and each of us is always searching for our corresponding half.

And so all this commotion is a relic of that original state of ours, from when we were whole, and now, when we long for and pursue that primordial wholeness, we say we are in love.

And that was it. You had found your other half. Wanda was your primordial wholeness, and you were hers. The world might change around you, but that—that silent and secure love between you—would remain, unbreakable as velvet chains.

~*~

Thankiuuu so much for you read Velvet Chains!!! YEYY

I hope the ending met your expectations!

I dunno if i'll write anything before Christimas, so... MERRY CHRISTMAS you gayyys!

Tag list <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580 @valentine585

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @bees-for-brains @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @sheriffswan-blog @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000