#Do you think they have a real name or something

[cosmictheo]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds

( gif credits to @springseventeen )

—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Bob.

He had been quite special since you had met him, really. 

Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.

But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him. 

How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.

Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.

And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.

“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.

Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.

You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.

Love.

Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.

You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.

He loved you.

“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.

A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.

It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.

To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.

“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.

Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.

“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”

You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”

Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.

“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”

“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.

“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”

“That doesn't even—”

Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”

“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.

Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.

You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.

“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.

The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips. 

He was wearing that beanie again. 

He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.

“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”

He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you. 

Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.

It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.

Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.

His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.

“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”

He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”

Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.

“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”

“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused. 

You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.

“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”

You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”

He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.

“It's just...”

This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.

You waited so patiently for him. As always.

“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.

You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby." 

He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.

Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.

“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”

“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”

“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.

Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.

Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.

But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.

“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”

“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”

Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”

“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”

Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.

“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.

You kissed him. 

And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.

His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.

Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.

“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.

You kissed him again. 

Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.

He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours. 

His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.

His whole being was made to love you.

Bob loved you.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....

His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time. 

Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.

His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.

“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”

“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”

Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.

“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.

Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.

“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”

You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.

“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”

You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him. 

And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.

He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.

“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.

You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.

“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.

He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”

You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.

“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”

The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.

His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.

The lights faded in and out again.

“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,

“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.

Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”

And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.  

Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.

“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.

Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.

“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”

He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.

“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.

Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”

“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.

He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”

He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.

“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”

“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”

His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.

“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.

Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.

“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.

You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”

Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”

“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”

“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”

He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.

But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.

Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”

John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”

Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”

You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.

You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.

“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.

“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.

“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.

Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.

[cumironi]

HII!!! the fic where they realize you like praise is TOOOO good! i was wondering if you could do a sort of part two but where they realize you like being degraded instead of praised? 🫶🫶

ARE YOU A FILTHY GIRL? jjk men.

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. “he calls you his good girl, then his whore.” seems like your boyfriend couldn’t even decide what you really are, no? even after they know about you and the whole degrading things? will they ruin your life after that discovery? oh, definitely.

warning. non-sorcerer! jjk au, college au!, 23 you & 31 them, degrading kink, praise kink, filthy, some of them are so meannn, hair-pulling,

GOJO SATORU

the sheets are a mess. the air is thick with heat, musk, and the obscene sound of skin slapping skin. you can’t even tell what time it is anymore — not that it matters. satoru’s late-night visits always have a way of warping time, bending reality until the only thing that exists is you beneath him, delirious, overstimulated, and stupidly in love.

he’s still in his dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough for you to see the tattoo on his chest (it’s stupid. it says limitless, because of course it does). the tie is hanging off his neck like it’s purely ornamental, swinging as he fucks into you like he’s trying to make you forget your name.

"mmh—look at you, baby," he pants, eyes bright with sweat and sin, his lips wet from where he kissed down your stomach just minutes ago. "so pretty when you’re ruined like this. my sweet college girl, letting her old man fuck her brains out between classes.”

“you’re not old,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “just—just a pervert—”

“correction,” he huffs a laugh. “i’m your pervert. certified, licensed, and addicted to the way you moan my name like it’s your fucking major.”

his pace slows for just a moment, giving you that signature smirk. the one that always gets you in trouble. the one that says i know something you don’t.

“god,” he groans, rolling his hips deeper, letting your whimper melt into the air. “you’re so fucking good like this. eyes all glassy, mouth open, like a good little—”

you moan, louder than you meant to.

he freezes.

“…wait.”

your breath hitches.

he blinks. leans in real close.

“do that again,” he whispers. “what did you just react to, sweetheart?”

your face burns. “i—I didn’t—”

"no no no," he grins like a shark with a credit score of 850. "don’t get shy on me now. that sound you made? the whiny little oh satoru please ruin me noise? yeah, that wasn’t just because of the angle, was it?"

“satoru—”

he pulls his cock out.

you make a noise of protest — a whimper, a whine, a borderline sob — and he raises a perfect white brow.

“look at you. desperate already?” he hums. “and here i thought you liked being treated like my precious little angel. but now…”

he runs two fingers down your spit-slick chin, thumbing your bottom lip as his tone drops to something dark and thrilling.

“…now i’m wondering if my baby likes being treated like a dumb little fucktoy instead.”

your thighs twitch. your eyes roll back just slightly.

he laughs. oh, he fucking laughs.

“no way.”

“shut up—”

“no fucking way. you’re telling me…” he leans down, pressing a filthy kiss to your lips, “…you’ve been getting off on me being a little mean to you this whole time?”

his voice is pure sin now. a low rasp in your ear as he slides his cock back in, slow and deep and deliberate.

“you like when i call you a dumb slut, huh? when i make fun of you for being all brain-dead and cockdrunk on a school night?” he groans, moving faster again. “fuck. no wonder you tighten up every time i tease you. you’ve been hiding this from me?”

you nod, barely able to think, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

“god, that’s why you blush so hard when i tell you to shut up and drool. i thought you were just shy—no, you were getting off on it.”

he presses his forehead to yours, eyes wild and affectionate and unhinged.

“baby,” he whispers sweetly. “you’re so fucked in the head. and i love that for us.”

you whimper his name, breath hitching, and he slams into you harder, making the headboard crack against the wall.

“you’re my stupid baby, aren’t you?” he groans. “my filthy girl with her brain between her legs—”

your whole body trembles. he can feel it.

"oh fuck, you came on that?" he groans. “jesus. i didn’t know i was dating such a nasty girl. i’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

and yet — for all the filth and teasing and dirty, obscene words — he kisses you like you’re made of stars. he holds you close like you’re the most important thing in the world.

“my dumb little angel,” he murmurs against your lips, heart hammering against yours. “mine. only mine. gonna keep you all fucked out and smiling forever.”

GETO SUGURU

“look at you,” he sneers above you, hand fisted in your hair, making you arch back. “acting like a needy little bitch in heat the second i call you a slut.”

you’re moaning, gasping, incoherent — barely hanging on to the frayed edge of your sanity. and he’s not even giving you a break. not slowing down, not letting up, not giving you one second to recover.

because he knows now.

he knows.

you like it when he’s mean.

“so that’s what gets you off,” he growls, slapping your cheek with a sharp little tap, just enough to make you blink and whimper. “not my sweet words, not the nice shit i say to make you feel loved. no. you wanna be put in your fucking place, don’t you?”

he laughs. it’s low. cruel.

“you’re disgusting.”

his cock slams back in. deep. hard. like he’s trying to make you feel it in your throat.

you sob, a broken moan twisting into something animal.

“you like this,” he bites out, hand gripping your jaw to force you to look at him. “fuck. you’re dripping down your thighs, making a goddamn mess of my sheets. and for what? getting called a dumb little fucktoy?”

you nod. you nod. you’re too far gone to pretend anymore.

“you’re unbelievable,” he groans, voice rough with heat and hunger. “i’ve been treating you like a fucking goddess. and the whole time? this is what you wanted? to be used? to be broken down and ruined?”

he slaps your thigh, grinning when you jolt.

“go on, tell me what you are.”

you hesitate, panting, teary-eyed. and that pisses him off.

“say it.”

his hand wraps around your throat, his hips never missing a beat. he’s fucking you fast now — brutal, relentless, like he wants you hoarse and mindless by the end of this.

“say it, or i’ll stop right now.”

“i’m your—your dumb little whore,” you sob out. “fuck, suguru—i’m your fucktoy—!”

he moans. actually moans. like he just got handed the key to his own personal heaven.

“that’s right. my dumb little slut. no thoughts in that pretty head except cock and cum. pathetic.”

he spits on your chest. drags two fingers through it, then shoves them in your mouth.

“suck. maybe if you’re good, i’ll let you come.”

you do. immediately. desperate. like the perfect little pet he just unlocked.

he watches you with dark, gleaming eyes, like he’s thrilled by the monster he’s unleashed.

“you think i’m ever gonna be gentle with you again?” he breathes, mouth brushing your ear. “you think i’m gonna let you forget this?”

another thrust, hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs.

“nah, baby. you’re fucked now. you just told me exactly what you are.”

he grabs your face, forces your eyes up to his.

“and now you’re mine to break.”

NANAMI KENTO

“you were so proud of yourself earlier.”

his voice is calm. deadly calm. too calm for the way he’s got you bent over his kitchen counter, pants bunched at your knees, panties torn and hanging off one thigh. his belt’s undone, hanging from one hand. his other hand? buried in your hair, gripping tight.

“you walked in here all smug, all talk—acting like you’re some well-behaved little student who knows everything.”

he yanks your head back just a little, just enough to make your back arch.

“and now look at you.”

he slaps your ass once, loud and sharp, just to hear the sound of it echo off the marble.

you moan.

and that’s when he knows.

“…you liked that.”

you freeze.

and nanami, ever the gentleman, laughs—slow and dangerous.

“oh. i see now.” he tsks, voice low, amused and cruel. “so that’s what this is. you pretend to be my sweet, smart girl—taking notes, asking questions, playing innocent. but the moment i get you alone, all you want is to be treated like a brainless fuckdoll.”

your cheeks burn. you try to shake your head, to explain—but your mouth won’t work.

nanami chuckles.

“don’t try to deny it. i’ve been fucking you for almost a year. and not once have you sounded like this.”

he leans in, presses his lips to your ear.

“you want me to talk down to you. degrade you.”

he grabs your jaw, turns your face to look at him over your shoulder.

“say it.”

you squirm, gasping, dripping onto his cock that’s barely pressed between your thighs.

“s-say what—?”

his grip tightens. “say what you are.”

“i’m—” you hesitate. but he waits, patient and devastating.

“i’m your dumb little fucktoy,” you whisper.

he groans, low and broken. “god. you really are disgusting.”

his cock slides in without warning, thick and deep, and you cry out so loud it makes your knees buckle.

“is this what you wanted?” he snarls against your neck. “to be bent over like a filthy little whore, drooling on my counter, so cockdrunk you can’t even remember your own name?”

you’re sobbing. nodding. cumming—maybe. you don’t even know anymore.

“pathetic,” he breathes, thrusting into you harder, faster, one hand on your hip, the other around your throat. “all that education, all that ambition—and this is what you really want. to be treated like trash. like nothing more than a wet, willing hole for me to use.”

you moan at every word. filthy. desperate.

and then he softens. just a little. lips brushing your temple, his voice like velvet over razors.

“don’t worry, darling.”

he kisses your cheek. tender. almost cruel in its contrast.

“if that’s what you want…”

he pulls your head back again, growling against your jaw.

“then that’s what i’ll give you.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“fuckin’ knew it,” toji laughs, dragging your panties down your thighs with one hand while the other shoves you down flat into his mattress. “knew from the second you started giving me attitude you were all bark and no bite. nothin’ but a needy little slut underneath.”

he watches you struggle — watches you try to act tough while your legs shake and your soaked cunt practically begs for his cock. he’s grinning like the smug bastard he is.

“mm? where’s that sass now, princess?”

you whimper.

wrong answer.

he slaps your ass, hard, making your whole body jerk forward.

“use your words.”

“i-i’m your slut,” you gasp, voice trembling. “please—”

he cuts you off with a sharp tug of your hair, dragging your head back to make you look at him. “oh, no. no, no, no. don’t go beggin’ now. you’ve been mouthing off for weeks. actin’ like you’re too good for me.”

he nudges the thick head of his cock between your folds, slow, teasing, not pushing in just yet.

“but you dress like that around me? bend over every chance you get? call me ‘mr. fushiguro’ in that sweet little voice like you don’t know exactly what you’re doin’?”

he slaps your ass again.

“you wanted this, didn’t you?”

you nod, choking on a sob. “yes, sir—”

he fucking moans.

“ohh. sir, huh? god, you’re disgusting.”

he finally pushes in. one deep, thick stroke that makes your whole world shatter. and then another. and another. ruthless. like he’s trying to fuck the brat right out of you.

“you hear yourself?” he grits out, fucking you hard enough to bounce the bed. “making all these pathetic little sounds like a dog in heat. bet your professors would love to hear what kind of slut their top student really is.”

you sob into the sheets.

“don’t cry now,” he smirks, leaning in close to growl against your ear. “you wanted to be used, right? wanted me to ruin you?”

his hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

“wanted to be nothing but a dumb little hole for me to fuck whenever i want.”

he’s grinning. cruel, condescending, eyes gleaming with heat.

“well, sweetheart—congrats.”

another brutal thrust.

“you got it.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“you like that?”

his voice is low. dark. teasing.

you’re on your knees, drool smeared down your chin, eyes glassy, lip trembling as you look up at him. your clothes are somewhere behind you, discarded in the haze of him manhandling you onto the bed like a toy. his cock is resting against your cheek, thick and twitching, the skin flushed. and you’re already a mess.

but that grin—

that wicked, sharp-toothed, smug fucking grin stretches across his face when he sees the way your thighs press together from just that one sentence.

“ohhh,” he laughs, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip. “so that’s what it is.”

you flinch.

he grips your chin, hard, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“all this time, you acted like you were scared of me. like you were just some shy little college girl who didn’t know what she was doing.”

he leans in, mouth by your ear.

“but deep down—you’re just a filthy, depraved little fucktoy, aren’t you?”

you whimper. your thighs tremble.

his smile widens. cruel.

“look at you. shaking. moaning. fuck—your cunt’s probably soaked already, isn’t it?”

he shoves you backward without warning, watches you fall against the bed, spread out and breathless. he drags his cock along your folds, not even pushing in, just letting it sit there—heavy and taunting.

“you like being talked down to? degraded? used like a worthless little hole?”

you nod quickly, like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

“then open your fucking mouth and beg for it.”

your lips part—eager, desperate.

but he pauses.

“no. wait. i changed my mind.”

you blink, confused, until you hear him laugh again, darker this time.

“i’m not gonna fuck your mouth, princess. not yet.”

his cock slams into you in one brutal thrust and your scream is instant.

“i want you to feel it when i ruin you.”

his pace is unrelenting. his grip on your hips? bruising. and his words?

they never stop.

“you really thought someone like me would take it easy on you? someone like you? you’re nothing but a dumb little plaything. just a wet hole for me to use whenever i feel like it.”

he leans over you, one hand around your throat, the other pressing your knees up against your chest.

“say thank you.”

you’re barely coherent. moaning. gasping. totally gone.

he slaps your thigh. “i said say it.”

“t-thank you—thank you, sukuna—!”

he laughs, proud and cruel, kissing your temple with mock sweetness.

“that’s my good little fuckdoll.”

SHIU KONG

you’re bent over his desk, face pressed against cold wood, wrists pinned behind your back with one of his silk ties.

your thighs are trembling. lips parted. eyes glazed.

his cock is buried inside you, deep and slow, dragging along every sensitive inch until you’re whimpering from just the stretch.

and he’s still dressed.

not even a button undone.

just his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened—like this is just another part of his shift.

“you’re lucky i’m even touching you,” he says coolly, glancing down at the wet ring your cunt’s leaving on his cock. “filthy little dropout like you.”

you whimper. he laughs—mean.

“you think any real man would keep you? spoiled brat with a mouth that won’t shut and a cunt that clenches when i call her a fucking toy?”

he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“that’s what you are. a toy.”

his hips roll, slow and grinding, and your moan catches in your throat.

“a warm, wet, stupid little thing i use between meetings.”

his hand slips down, fingers flicking over your clit once—twice—and you sob, hips twitching.

“oh?” he coos mockingly. “are you close already? pathetic. i’ve barely done anything.”

and you’re gasping, begging under your breath, “please, please, please—”

he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your ass.

“what did i say about whining in my office?”

you go quiet, biting your lip.

“good girl.”

he slams into you—once, twice, hard—and you wail.

“you should be grateful,” he growls. “i could’ve left you dripping and untouched. instead, i’m wasting my time fucking you through the desk like some cheap little fuckdoll.”

he leans back just enough to see your reflection in the glass cabinet ahead. the way your mascara’s smudging, your mouth falling open with every thrust, your body wrecked and desperate and completely his.

he grabs your face, turns it toward your own reflection.

“look at yourself.”

you do—and you whimper.

“look at what i’ve turned you into.”

he grins, low and dangerous.

“and say thank you.”

you moan. “thank you, shiu—thank you—!”

his breath hitches.

“that’s right.”

his hand closes over your throat again.

“now take it.”

and he fucks you so deep, so rough, you’ll be limping back to campus in his spare dress shirt because your clothes are ripped to shreds.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he’s always been so polite.

held your hand across the table, remembered your coffee order, adjusted your jacket when it slipped off your shoulder. he’s older, calm, grounded—your quiet man in the storm of your busy, chaotic little college life.

but not now.

not when he has you sprawled out on the soft leather couch in his office, legs over his shoulders, face flushed, breath ragged, hands trembling as you cling to the lapels of his suit jacket—like you can hold on to any sense of composure when he’s pounding into you.

“what did you say?” he asks, breathless, low, eyes burning into yours.

you can’t even remember what you said. everything’s fuzzy. everything’s hot.

he slows, hips dragging back, his cock sliding against every hypersensitive inch of your soaked, fluttering cunt.

“you said you were nothing, didn’t you?”

you flinch.

“that you like being talked to like you’re beneath me?”

your lips part—barely a nod—and his jaw clenches.

“fuck.”

his pace shifts, rougher now. mean. and it’s like something in him shatters—all that calm gone, replaced by low, filthy groans and sharp thrusts that make you scream.

“you want to be treated like a good girl?” he pants, hand curling under your thigh, keeping you wide open.

you nod, whining.

“then why are you dripping like a whore when i call you worthless?”

your whole body jerks at that word. he notices.

and now you’re done for.

his grip tightens. his voice drops to a gravelly whisper against your ear:

“you like that? being called a whore?”

you gasp, clutching his sleeves.

“my sweet little honors student,” he snarls. “always so smart. so well-behaved. and yet here you are, soaking my cock just because i called you fucking pathetic.”

his hand snakes down, fingers circling your clit.

“you’re disgusting.”

you clench around him and he groans.

“god. you really like that. my perfect little doll’s a filthy, degrading-obsessed slut.”

he leans in close, mouth hovering over yours.

“say it.”

you blink up at him, dazed.

“say what you are.”

you whisper it, shameful, breathless.

“…i’m a slut.”

he smiles—mean, but affectionate. a kiss drops to your cheek.

“good girl.”

and then?

he ruins you.

[viaxslz]

▦ ﹒ ☆ CALLING THEM BY THIER REAL NAME ⸒ 별 ꜝ ﹫

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: pet names, fluff, nothing much not proofread :P

CHAN

Pet name norm: Normally you call him everything but "Christopher" baby, babe, Channie, cuddlekoala™. he’s used to being absolutely babied. So the first time you go, “Christopher, can you pass me the remote?” His entire system reboots. He blinks at you like you just called him “Mr. Bang” in a courtroom. “Christopher…?” he repeats, slowly, suspiciously. “Are you mad at me? Did I forget an anniversary? Did I leave the fridge open again? Be honest.” 100% thinks he’s in trouble. Starts checking his calendar for any missed events, already texting Jisung like “DID I MESS UP BRO.” You’re just chilling, eating chips. “No? I just felt like it.” He softens like a microwaved marshmallow. “Oh. Okay. Just checking. But also… never do that again.” Gets dramatic: “Calling me Christopher feels like you’re about to divorce me and take the kids I don’t have.” Then pouts for 30 minutes until you call him “baby” again. Suddenly his tail is wagging. “THERE we go.” Lowkey likes it, though. Won’t admit it, but the next time you call him “Christopher” by accident, he gets a little blushy. Bonus: will use it against you if he’s being sulky. “Fine. I guess Christopher isn’t worthy of cuddles tonight.” You: “…what is wrong with you.”

MINHO

Normally, you call him things like: “babe,” “honey,” “min-min,” “grumpy cat,” or something chaotic like “my little menace.” So when you suddenly go, “Minho, can you help me with this?” He freezes. Turns to you slowly, squints. “Who’s Minho. Never met him.” Immediately acts like you just signed his death certificate. “Are we breaking up? Just tell me. I can take it.” (He cannot take it.) “Minho?” he repeats, mock-offended. “What’s next, you calling me Mr. Lee?” You: “I just… felt like using your real name?” Minho: “Well I just felt like dying a little inside.” Tries to act cool and unaffected, but he’s so dramatic behind the scenes. Lays facedown on the couch like a Victorian wife who just heard her husband say “We’re out of tea.” “You’ve been watching dramas again, haven’t you? That’s what this is. You're turning on me. Betrayal. Treachery. This is my villain origin arc.” The next day, calls you by your full government name just to “restore balance.” “Sure, [Full Name], I’ll take out the trash.” Eventually admits (grudgingly, while cuddling you under a blanket burrito) that hearing his real name from you is kinda… cute. “Just don’t make it a habit. I’m used to you being annoying and clingy.” Five minutes later, you whisper “Minho” again. Him, whispering back: “That’s it. We’re fighting. Pillow war. No survivors.”

CHANGBIN

Usually you call him stuff like “binnie,” “baby,” “cutie buff guy,” or something feral like “my gym rat prince.” So when you casually go, “Seo Changbin, can you hand me the charger?” He physically flinches. “What did you just say?” He’s staring at you like you just called him a disappointment in front of his mom. Instantly thinks he’s in trouble. “Wait wait wait, did I do something? Did I breathe wrong? Are you about to lecture me?” You: “No? I just said your name?” Changbin: “My government name?? In this house??” Dramatically clutches his chest. “You only call me Seo Changbin when you’re mad, confessing to a murder, or turning into a villain.” Starts spiraling for no reason. “Is this about the snacks I hid behind the rice cooker? Because I can explain.” Then gets all sulky. “You don’t love me anymore. It’s fine. I’ll move on. Tell the boys I died bravely.” You: “Binnie—” He perks up instantly. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Binnie. Your favorite. Your small strong man.” Pretends he’s joking, but lowkey sensitive about it. Will side-eye you for the rest of the day like a kicked puppy. “You used to call me sunshine… now I’m just Changbin…” Later that night, burrows into your neck like a koala and mumbles, “Don’t say my real name unless we’re getting married or I’m winning an award. It’s scary.” Next morning you wake up to a sticky note on the fridge: “Pet names only 😤 — Binnie ❤️💪🐻”

HYUNJIN

You're normally hitting him with the extra stuff like “angel,” “pretty prince,” “Hyunie,” “dramatic swan,” or “Michelangelo reincarnated.” So when you suddenly go, “Hyunjin, can you pass me the remote?” He goes dead silent. Eyes narrow. Jaw clenches. Paintbrush stops mid-stroke. “Excuse me?” he says like you just slapped him with a Shakespearean glove. “What happened to ‘baby’? ‘Love of my life’? ‘Muse of my soul’? Am I not your walking masterpiece anymore?” You: “I just wanted to say your name.” Hyunjin: “YOU SAY MY NAME WHEN YOU’RE CRYING INTO MY ARMS DURING A MOVIE, NOT TO ASK FOR THE REMOTE.” Paces dramatically like he’s in a K-drama about to turn evil. “I should’ve known this day would come. You’ve grown tired of me.” Actually gets quiet after that. Not sad just way too in his head. “...Do I need a new nickname? Have I lost my sparkle? Is my forehead too big today?” Ten minutes later, comes back with a list. “So I brainstormed some new pet names in case ‘Hyunjin’ is your new thing. Options include: ‘my gorgeous chaos,’ ‘hot disaster,’ or just ‘🌹.’ Thoughts?” You: “Hyunie, please chill.” He immediately melts. “THERE IT IS. I forgive you. Come cuddle me.” Bonus: if you call him “Hwang Hyunjin” he’ll drop to the floor like he’s been shot. “DON’T USE MY FULL NAME UNLESS I’M GRADUATING OR GETTING ARRESTED.”

HAN

Usually, you call him things like “baby,” “sungie,” “gremlin boy,” “my tiny chaos,” or whatever weird affectionate name pops into your head at 3 a.m. So when you go, “Jisung, can you help me with this?” He turns his head so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t sprain something. He squints at you like you just betrayed him in a Mafia game. “Who? Who’s that? Never heard of him. Sounds like a loser.” You: “It’s literally your name.” Han: “Yeah but why would you use it? Did a demon possess you?” Immediately starts being weird about it. “Jisung? What’s next? You gonna call me ‘sir’? Should I put on a suit?” Then it hits him. He gasps. “Wait. Are we roleplaying? Is this serious? Do I need a fake backstory? I’m ready. I’m a barista who secretly writes music and you’re my mysterious customer with a tragic past.” You: “I just wanted the scissors.” Han: “Oh. Right.” Pretends he’s fine but keeps dramatically sighing and dropping hints. “Remember when you used to call me your little peanut butter cup? Good times.” Later you call him “babe” like normal and he immediately clings to you like a koala. “Thank god. I thought we were over. I was already writing a breakup mixtape in my head.” But now that you know it messes with his head, you start using “Jisung” just to be chaotic. He falls for it every time. One serious "Jisung" and he’s spiraling again. “What did I do now? I swear I didn’t eat your leftovers. That was Seungmin. Probably. Maybe.” Bonus: If you ever hit him with “Han Jisung,” he will crawl under the blanket and refuse to come out. “I’m not coming out until you say ‘gremlin baby boy of my heart’ again.” “You’re weird.”

FELIX

Normally, you call him sweet things like “Lixie,” “baby,” “sunshine,” “my little brownie,” or “deep-voiced angel from heaven.” So when you go, “Yongbok, can you grab my water bottle?” He freezes mid-step like someone just paused his simulation. Turns around slowly with those wide sparkly eyes “Did you just... call me Yongbok?” You: “Yeah?” Felix: “Did I do something wrong? Are you about to fight me? Should I sit down?” Genuinely concerned because no one uses his birth name unless it’s a government form, a relative, or someone trying to guilt trip him with childhood stories. Dramatically puts a hand on his chest “Are you mad at me? Was the hug I gave you earlier not good enough? Do you want a new hug? A deluxe hug?” You: “Felix, I’m literally just dehydrated.” Felix: “Then why are you dehydrating our relationship with this sudden formality?” He walks away muttering “Yongbok… unbelievable…” like you just told him Santa isn't real. Later shows up with your water bottle, two cookies, and a sticker he found “In case you’re mad at me. Even though I don’t know why. But I forgive you.” You: “I’m not mad, I swear.” Felix: “You called me Yongbok. I’ve been emotionally compromised.” The moment you go back to calling him “Lixie,” he lights up like a Christmas tree “There she is. My favorite person. I missed you. Please never disappear again.” Bonus: you try it again the next day just to mess with him. He clutches your arm dramatically “If you say Yongbok one more time, I’m changing your contact name to Tax Collector.”

SEUNGMIN

Usually you call him “minnie,” “puppy,” “smartass,” “grumpy cutie,” or “my favorite hater” depending on the mood. So when you hit him with a straight-faced “Kim Seungmin, can you pass me the charger?” He doesn’t even look up. Just goes, “Who died?” You: “What?” Seungmin: “You’re using my full name like we’re in court and I’m about to be sentenced. What happened. Be honest.” You: “Nothing happened, I just used your name?” Seungmin: “Okay. Well I’m scared now. And slightly offended.” Side-eyes you for a full ten minutes like you insulted his entire bloodline. “First of all, only my mom and my enemies call me Kim Seungmin. Which one are you trying to be right now.” Acts cool but he’s definitely being petty about it. “Sure. Here’s your charger, [Full Name]. Would you like anything else, ma’am?” Pretends he’s fine but starts purposely avoiding your pet names just to throw you off. “Okay, y/n. Cool shirt, y/n. Want some water, y/n?” You: “Are you okay?” Seungmin: “I was until I got government named in my own home.” Eventually you break and call him “puppy” again. He smiles, victorious, smug as hell “That’s what I thought. Now come cuddle me or I’ll start calling you by your email username.” Bonus: next time you say “Kim Seungmin,” he responds with “Present,” like he’s taking attendance “Kim Seungmin?” “Here. Emotionally wounded, but physically present.”

JEONGIN

Normally you call him stuff like “innie,” “baby,” “cutie,” or something unhinged like “my little menace in a hoodie” So when you go, “Yang Jeongin, can you help me with this?” He blinks at you like you just threatened him. “Excuse me. I know you didn’t just first-middle-last name me with your eyes like that.” You: “That’s literally just your name” Jeongin: “That’s a form of violence and I’m calling the authorities” Immediately grabs his phone “Hello, yes, I’d like to report emotional damage. Cause? My partner called me by my birth certificate name with no warning.” Stares at you in disbelief. “What happened to ‘baby’? What happened to ‘my sweet Innie who I adore more than anything’?” Starts dramatically narrating his downfall. “It all started on a rainy Tuesday when she called me Yang Jeongin. My world was never the same.” You: “You’re so dramatic.”Jeongin: “You’re so heartless.” Tries to pretend he’s joking but secretly keeps checking if you’re mad at him for real. “You’re not breaking up with me, right? Because if you are I need at least a week’s notice so I can emotionally prepare and eat ten tubs of ice cream.” You laugh and call him “innie” again. He instantly grins like a puppy and tackles you into a hug. “Okay good. I forgive you. But don’t ever scare me like that again. My heart is fragile.” Bonus: if you call him “Yang Jeongin” again just to mess with him, he’ll start responding with “Yes, [ Full Name], do you need assistance?” and bow like a waiter at a fancy restaurant

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght @straystar-8 @myhwnghynjin

[bucketbueckers]

TERRITORIAL

pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

content: filth 👅 (w decent plot - cmon, we know how this goes by now) jealous!p, slight public sex & exhibitionism(?), fingering (r!receiving), packing (🌚), strap (r!receiving), oral (p!receiving), lap dances, spitting, actual warning for men

wc: 8.0k

synopsis: Paige knew what she was signing up for when she asked you, a revered dancer for Dallas’s most prolific strip club, to be her girlfriend, but sometimes she just can’t help getting jealous. Especially when someone thinks they can touch what’s not theirs.

notes: yes the title is from the kali uchis song. if there's any of my fics i recommend listening to the titular song for, this is def one!!! based on this req from 🫦 anon, hoping i did this justice for you and thank you sm for sending this in 🙏 i fear this might be the last fic for a minute - im not dying but i do have to lock in on classes 👎 not proofread but as always though i hope y'all enjoy 🫶

You and Paige weren’t a very…conventional couple by any means. You shouldn’t work well together, but you do.

You’re a stripper – although you prefer the term exotic dancer now, mostly since you’d put an end to some of the services you used to offer – for one of Dallas’s most high profile clubs, Divinity. A corny name that served an even hornier clientele of Dallas’s richest playboys, sleazes, and their countless athletes. You weren’t complaining, though. It’s putting you through college, you’re well on your way to paying off your mom’s house, and you were fortunate enough to have understanding employers who were aware of the ramifications of their business. When you told them that you’d prefer not to perform lap dances or other private shows out of respect for your relationship, they’d readily agreed, a fact you were more than appreciative of.

Paige is one of Dallas’s up-and-coming stars, a bright-eyed, attractive, alluring athlete with the world at her disposal. She was shockingly grounded despite that, humble where you would have expected an arrogant jerk. For all intents and purposes, she wasn’t anything you were preparing yourself for, but you don’t think you’d ever be so thankful to be so surprised.

The two of you have been together for nearly a year, having met during a preseason match during her rookie season. While she was diving for a loose ball near the courtside seats, she ended up at your feet and spilled your drink onto the court. Paige was incredibly apologetic, hardly registering the fact she’d been awarded free throws for the foul, more focused on wiping the water off of your Dunks. After standing and staring at your face for a solid few seconds, as if wondering how you were real and in front of her, she offered to buy you a drink, but the refs were growing impatient and she was out of time.

That didn’t stop her from tracking you down after the game, though. Nor did it stop her from shaking your hand with an enraptured, charismatic little smile, asking for your name and when you’d be free like you’d already accepted her date offer. When you teased her for that, her smile just grew before she pointed out, “Well, you waited for me to come find you. Figured you were at least a little interested.”

In fairness, she was correct. You were interested, not because she was Paige Bueckers or some beginning of a superstar athlete, but because of her humility and how she sank to her knees in front of a sold out arena to dab the water off of your shoes with the hem of her jersey. That meant something to you. So you go out, enjoy the drinks and the company, and you see her again. Then again after that.

Before you could let your relationship grow out of hand, you knew you had to sit her down and explain your profession. You were really into her, but you could see how it could be a dealbreaker for a lot of people, especially since Paige was a public figure. She took it a lot better than you’d been expecting, which led to a lengthy conversation about everything under the sun. She asked if you enjoyed doing it – you did, you were just a dancer at heart and you would be the first to admit that dancing has helped you come out of your shell. 

In turn, you asked her if being with you would make things difficult for her. She was reasonably confused, then almost offended at the idea, before ensuring you that her private life was just that – private. Obviously, being the celebrity athlete she is, it would be near impossible to promise that the two of you could keep things that lowkey, but she was honest and told you upfront that she was falling for you and promised that if push came to shove, the two of you would work through it.

That was the heart of the conversation. Paige asked you to be her girlfriend a week later. It was after a private, rooftop dinner and movie in the fading sunlight of the Dallas summer. You’d said yes, of course, because you were falling hard for her, too. The officiality of your relationship sparked a new conversation regarding boundaries. You agreed on keeping your relationship private, mostly for your benefit – Paige had explained that she could handle the heat on her end, but recognized she had some…hardcore fans, and didn’t want them showing up to your workplace and harassing you.

You told her you’d talk to your employers about dancing only and discontinuing the private shows that people would pay for. It was for both yours and Paige’s peace of mind – you didn’t feel comfortable being so close to other people and performing intimate acts, even if it was your job. It wasn’t necessary and that was a boundary you were willing to enforce because you liked Paige, saw a future with her, and wanted to ensure there was no miscommunication about anything in your relationship. Paige, to her credit, had seemed guilty, making sure to repeatedly emphasize that you didn’t need to change your life or endanger your job for her. You just rolled your eyes, kissed her, and reminded her that you care a whole lot more about her than whether or not old, sleazy men get their rocks off. She’d probably never admit it, but she was relieved that you took that boundary so seriously.

Paige wasn’t known to be an incredibly jealous person. Communication, despite how uncomfortable it could be, was the very foundation of your relationship. The two of you were so secure with one another and any of her jealousy could be derived from a deep-rooted possessiveness.

It’s not the uncomfortable kind where she controls your every move or makes decisions for you – you’d had an ex or two who were like that and you were not keen on repeating that. It was more of a mutual agreement – you were hers, she was yours, and honestly, she was probably developing a bit of a complex about it; you’d perform for a crowd full of people who’d give anything to be with you, but it was her you’d go home to every night. In essence, she just didn’t like it when people got a little too close to what wasn’t theirs.

You and Paige weren’t a conventional couple. But you were a healthy one. You communicated, you had a whole lot of love for each other, and you worked. Despite that, you can’t always control how you feel, and sometimes, Paige just can’t help being jealous.

It was a Friday night at the club and it was already packed wall to wall with patrons, mostly your regulars, but there were also some new faces – investors, foreign athletes, various rookies for the hometown teams. It was a typical show-out, so you weren’t expecting much of it, not until one of your coworkers walks into the dressing room while you’re applying a thin layer of gloss to your lips.

“Never in a million years will you guess who just walked in,” Asha, better known by her stage name Vixen, states in lieu of a greeting. You glance at her through the mirror, your brows raising slightly. She’s dressed to the nines, her make-up gorgeous, and she smoothes out her hair while she waits for your answer.

“Hello, Asha,” you deadpan. “Yes, I’ve had a good day, thanks for asking.”

“Girl!” Asha kisses her teeth while she rolls her eyes at you. “You’re so high maintenance.”

You allow yourself a ghost of a grin, capping your gloss and spinning in your chair to face her. “Okay, who? Was it another rapper? Athletes? Married man?”

“Depends on your definition of rapper; yes, they’re all athletes; and I’m pretty sure there’s at least one or two people in there who are married, but they’re not men,” Asha responds.

You hum. “Well, who are we to yuck their yum?”

Asha huffs, annoyed at the fact that you’re not really reacting, before finally saying, “It’s the Wings, girl. As in the WNBA team. As in First Team All-Studs. I’m either walking out of here tonight with hundreds in my purse or a wife. Shit, maybe Arike’s looking for a third.”

At that, you can’t help but laugh. That morning, before you and Paige went your separate ways – you to the gym and Paige to practice, she’d told you that they’d be out on the town tonight to celebrate some of their rookies, although you thought that would include the bar and some drinks, not a strip club. Knowing Paige, bringing her team to your club wouldn’t have been her first choice, so you figure someone else on her team had the bright idea. You weren’t upset, mostly amused since Paige tends to react to the club in the same way she does while walking through the lingerie section in Victoria’s Secret store – with a lot of dramatic horror like she’s not allowed to look at anyone that’s not you.

You like to joke you have her pretty house-trained, but you find it more endearing than anything else, and you trust your girlfriend.

“I’m sure Arike is very happy in her current relationship,” you say apologetically, knowing first hand that she is. You’d been to their place for dinner many times and Arike practically worships the ground Lala walks on.

“Let me dream,” Asha bemoans. Then, a sly grin appears on her face, and she slides a little closer to you, almost conspiratorially. “You plottin’ on any of them? I think I saw Paige Bueckers out there.”

You smile knowingly, trying not to laugh at Asha’s ignorance – a testament to how quiet you’d kept your relationship. “She’s fine,” you agree, trying to not look too helplessly in love. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll want a private show.”

Her grin widens, but you’re both out of time – one of the stage managers knocks on the door to announce your call time. Asha wishes you luck while you strap on your heels, making your way backstage. The manager guides you to your spot and you take a deep breath in preparation, adjusting the thin, teasing bikini cover over your body. It hides the matching set you’re wearing – an alluring, dark red with glittering rhinestones. You have half a mind to steal it and take it back home with you, but knowing Paige, she’d probably object and buy you a different set entirely for your eyes only.

On cue, you walk out in time with the music, a slow, sultry R&B song, and you make eye contact with the people crowding the stage. The lights, while usually dimmer, have been brightened slightly in preparation for your set. You make your way to the front of the stage, where you’re amused to see your girlfriend and her team waiting. Paige’s eyes brighten at the sight of you, drinking you in, drawing her lip between her teeth almost absentmindedly. 

Deciding to tease her a little, you spin on your heel, your back to her as you pull your cover down inch by devastating inch. Your motions are deliberate, revealing miles upon miles of smooth skin, the lingerie covering your body, the lights catching the rhinestones perfectly. You’re practically glowing. With the cover in your hand, you crouch, making eye contact with Paige, and you smile cunningly at her while you wrap the cover around the back of her neck, pulling her in.

The crowd’s cheering, but you hardly register them as Paige’s hands find your skin. You brush your lips across her ear, knowing you don’t have much time, and you murmur, “What’s the girlfriend gonna think when she finds out you’re at the club?”

Paige slips a crisp hundred dollar bill into your bralette, her hands lingering longer than necessary, but you don’t mind. Her eyes are glued to your chest for a beat, but when they meet your gaze, her pupils are blown wide with desire and a thinly veiled mischief. “Sin now, beg for forgiveness later, right?” she murmurs over the bass of the music. “I’ll make it up to her.”

Your smirk widens and you release her, intending to actually start your set now. You don’t miss how Paige’s teammates jostle her in excitement. Arike was the only one who knew the truth and she just grins knowingly, shaking her head.

You always lock in when you dance, so your set goes by smoothly and ends before you know it. With a smile, you make one last lap around the stage, interacting with the club-goers and winking at the Wings team. If you blew a kiss to them, then that’s no one’s business but your own, but you make your way off the stage and towards your dressing room to change.

Asha’s up next after you, so she congratulates you on a good set before she’s off to do hers. You’re just barely slipping out of your heels when there’s a knock at the door. Thinking it’s a stage manager, you call for them to come in, but you’re surprised when Neil, one of the club managers, walks in. He’s a new face, hired mostly just to fill the vacancy. You don’t know him well – you usually answer to Nicole, but she’s out for the week on a trip.

“Hey, Neil,” you greet, sliding your cover back on to ward off the room’s chill.

“Hello,” he says stiffly. “I’ve got a gentleman in Private Room C. He’s requesting you.”

“I don’t do private dances anymore,” you say, your tone not apologetic. “I think Jess is available.”

Neil sighs. “You know…” he says, trailing off, and you already know he’s about to say something out of pocket. “This is a business. You’re employed here. At a strip club. This is your job. If you were working at McDonald’s, your boss wouldn’t really like it if you refused to make the burger, right?”

You barely resist an eye roll, retorting, “I don’t actually think that’s the same.”

He clears his throat. “Either way, I wasn’t asking. An investor in the private room wants a show from you, so you will do it. You’re the only one here who thinks they’re above the business and refuses to do private shows. Pull your weight or you can find a different club to dance at.”

You raise your brows, meeting his gaze, and smiling in disbelief. “You’re serious?” you ask, laughing uncomfortably. “You can’t fire me. I’ve been here for years.”

“This is Dallas,” he says noncommittally. “We can find someone to replace you. Someone who actually wants to work. Take your pick.”

You stare at him, shaking your head in contemplation. You didn’t want to do the show – it went against the clear boundary you’d set in your relationship early on, one that has been strictly adhered to for the year and some change you and Paige have been dating. But you didn’t want to jeopardize your job, either. Given that Divinity caters to Dallas’s most wealthy, there’s strict rules the patrons have to adhere to to even step foot in the club. It pays extremely well, but this is also the safest you’ll ever be. 

Maybe you’ll get the chance to see Paige before you have to go to the room – just to quickly explain. She’d understand. You knew she would, and that you would make it up to her tenfold. But this feels strangely like betraying her and it leaves a sick feeling in your gut.

“One minute,” you say finally. Neil’s eyes narrow. “One minute is all he gets. You know I don’t do private dances.”

“Five minutes,” Neil bargains. “He’s paying a lot.”

“One minute,” you reiterate. 

“Fine,” he huffs.

You strap your heels back on, trying to control your features. You walk out with Neil following directly behind you. Knowing you won’t be able to detour to find Paige, you slow your steps, scanning the crowd for her. Finally, you spot her at a table in the back, nursing a drink and talking to Arike, clearly not interested in the show anymore. You’re praying for her to look up and meet your gaze before it’s too late – and she does, her expression lighting up at the sight of you before her eyes narrow, knowing where you’re headed. Hoping that she gets the message, you gesture meaningfully to Neil, and she nods, but she looks no less pissed.

Feeling a little more relieved, you try for a smile, pulling back the curtain in the private room and entering. Thankfully, the man sitting on the couch at least looks polite, so you hope that this minute will go by quickly. He attempts to make small talk, commenting on how good your set was as you slide your cover off again, but your heart isn’t in it. Your training goes out of the window and so does every pre-rehearsed line you’ve ever had to use in the past.

You spin, listening for the beat in from the music overhead, but you’re too lost in your thoughts, unable to commit to it fully. Thankfully, you don’t have to for too long because the curtain rips open again.

“Sorry,” Paige says, but she doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic as she steps in between you and the investor, who looks shocked. “She’s spoken for. Scheduling conflict.”

Without waiting for a response from you or the man, she reaches for your cover, wrapping it around your shoulders and ushering you out of the room with her hand on the small of your back. All you feel is a deep relief, letting her lead you to the glass elevators that lead to the private lounges and the managerial offices. The private lounges were usually set aside for reservations, something more elite than the VIP sections, but they’re empty tonight, as are the managerial offices.

The club has a few floors with the managerial offices at the very top. They stick out over the rest of the club almost like a balcony, with floor to ceiling glass walls, allowing for people to stare out at the stage and the seating area, but it’s usually too dim for the patrons to see up. It’s particularly effective for keeping an eye on everything and searching for unruly guests. Up here, it’s like a one way glass – fully private. You can see out but no one can see in.

“I didn’t want to do it,” you rush out as the doors close behind you. You watch the stage disappear as the elevator takes you both up.

Paige’s arm curls fully around your waist, pulling you into her. “I know, baby,” she says, but her voice is still tight. Pissed. Not at you, but at something.

You hardly hear her words. “Neil made me,” you explain, making sure she understands how seriously you see that boundary. You know she knows, but right now, you’re a little anxious, and you want it to be obvious. “He threatened to fire me.”

“I’ll deal with him,” she promises, her voice still dark as she presses her lips to your temple, your forehead. You have no doubt in your mind that she would, but the reassurance makes your heartbeat calm. The elevators open with a sharp ding! Paige leads you out and towards the managerial offices, her hand heavily over your waist, burning. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, leaning into her, the cool silk of her fitted, white dress shirt cold against your heated skin. “I was just a little pissed. But I’m good now.” She hums, trailing her fingers down your sides in a way that almost makes you forget. Your body burns for a different reason now. Swallowing thickly, you admit, “Just wanna be close to you.”

You can almost feel Paige’s smile as she dips her head down, her breath hitting your ear. “Do you?” she murmurs, her voice low, sharp, like she’s daring for someone to try to take you away from her. She leads you towards the glass wall, pressing you against it gently, her chest to your back. Your breath hitches, your eyes scanning the floor below you – dozens of people lost in their own world, in the dancer controlling the stage, too unaware of the fact that if they looked up, they’d see Paige Bueckers holding her girlfriend against the glass.

It’s almost thrilling. The fact you can see all of these people, but they can’t see you. You know they can’t see you, even if it looks like they can.

Paige’s hands trail to your shoulders, reaching for your thin, lacy cover, pulling it off with an agonizing slowness. Her lips follow the path, dancing across your shoulders with a gentle laziness, like she has all the time in the world to pick you apart. Her kisses burn, stoking a flame in your belly that’s been ready to ignite since she slipped the bill into your bralette earlier. She calms the heat with her tongue, licking your skin and groaning at the flavor like she can’t get enough of it.

Finally, your cover is off, and she throws it somewhere to the side without a care in the world. Her hands find your hips, squeezing possessively, and a moan slips from your lips when she presses lingering, wet kisses to your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder. You shudder when her fingers trail down, slipping under the waistband of your lingerie, but she doesn’t touch you – she just hovers. Something about the reminder that despite it all, despite the many different facets of your life that she doesn’t control, that she refuses to control, your pleasure is the one thing she takes the most pride in. She has all the time in the world to figure out how she wants to touch you, how she wants to work you up.

“Just want me to take care of you, don’t you?” she hums against your skin. You nod immediately, feeling the flush settle on your skin, something in your brain floating away because you know you’re safe here. You can relax and let Paige handle it all. She kisses your skin once more before finally, she presses her hips into you, and your breath stutters. You can feel the outline of the strap in her pants, every maddening inch of the silicone. It makes you shudder with want, your arousal already leaking out and soaking your lingerie – you can feel it.

Something smart returns to you and you laugh a little, tilting your head back to rest on her shoulder, letting her wrap you up fully. Slowly, she grinds the strap against you, her breath coming a little heavier due to the dual stimulation. “Optimist, are you?”

Paige bites the lobe of your ear, her smile turning a little dark as she pulls you tighter against her. “JJ wanted to go out,” she murmurs in your ear, slipping her hand fully under the waistband of your lingerie. “Some club called Divinity, she said. Figured my girl would want a little break. Just me and her, a private room. She works so hard, you know?” Her fingers find your wetness like it’s second nature and she groans in delight when she discovers just how slick, how ready you are. “Oh, baby,” she coos, her voice dripping in sin and concern. “All this for me?”

“Nobody else,” you affirm, and she rewards you with a deep kiss to your jaw, a firmer swipe against your clit. It makes your hips buck before she steadies you. “P, please, need it so bad.”

“I know,” she says. Her fingers are everything and nothing, reaching down to your entrance, gathering the arousal pooled there, and using it to rub maddening circles against you. The stimulation is simultaneously overwhelming and not enough, especially coupled with the realization that anyone could look up and see Paige Bueckers ruining you against a window.

Her hips are insistent against yours, controlled in how they give you the slightest bit of friction before pulling away. You’re aware she’s holding you up fully by this point, so you give into it, reaching up with your right hand to thread your fingers through her hair, dragging her back down to your neck.

She doesn’t hesitate, her tongue licking from the base of your throat to your pulse point, smiling when she feels the relentless pounding of your heart against her lips. You can’t find it within yourself to be ashamed, not when her fingers are circling your sensitive clit like her pleasure depends on whether or not you’re feeling good.

“All those people down there…” Paige whispers, her teeth scraping against your skin, the heat of her grin branding her name into your skin. “They don’t know what I have up here. That the woman they throw their salary at comes home to me. That I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. Touch you like this.”

“Fuck, Paige,” you whimper, feeling boneless when her fingers speed up ever so slightly, your body trembling and buzzing under her ministrations. She presses her lips against your shoulder, teeth sinking into the muscle there, not letting up until a dark spot blooms under her touch. She kisses it gently, tongue swiping over the mark, almost as though she’s rewarding you for being good, for taking it. Her pride unravels you and your breathing comes in quick bursts, feeling ready to fall apart.

“You want my fingers, mama?” she coos, shaking her head in displeasure when you nod.

She doesn’t have to say anything – you correct yourself immediately when the fingers on your clit slow. Your fingers tighten in her hair for stability as you babble, “Want them, P, please. Want you to make me feel good. Please–” You cut yourself off with a moan when her fingers resume their speed and press a little firmer into you.

“That’s it,” Paige soothes, her lips kissing your heated skin gently, her soft words a gentle contrast from the intensity of her fingers. It’s nearly shocking, the dual sensations muddling your brain. “Lean against the window for me.”

You do as she says, letting her guide you to her liking, your palms pressed flat against the glass. Your forehead presses against the window, the sweat beading at your hairline smudging the surface, and Paige enters your personal space immediately. She tangles her fingers into the waistband of your lingerie and pulls them down your thighs with a devastating slowness, groaning to herself when a strand of your slick sticks to the fabric and breaks when the stretch is too much. The lingerie pools at your knees and Paige presses her hips flush against your ass, grinding against you until you’re pushing back in search of friction.

You don’t have the time to beg. She reads the sheer need in your expression immediately, her arms wrapping around your waist, knees pushing your legs apart. Your breath fogs against the glass, and if you look close enough, you can just barely see your reflection staring back at you – hair messy, lips red from your teeth, the shine of your neck from Paige’s efforts. You can see the sharp outline of her smile, too, like the idea of claiming you in front of everyone in this club is exciting.

She wasn’t usually jealous. You were hers, she was yours, and there was nothing anyone could do to change that. But possessive? She wanted to show everyone who you were with, who gets to take the skimpy lingerie off of you after long nights. She wants everyone to be well aware of the fact that while they’re the ones fantasizing, she’s the one who gets to hold, to touch, to ruin you for anyone else.

Her mouth finds your neck while the opening notes of Kali Uchis’s Territorial reverberates through the club below. You can feel the bass coursing through your veins, the tinkling strings raising goosebumps on your flesh. Every sensation nearly fades to background noise when Paige’s fingers settle on your clit again, dragging through your folds to coat them in your slick, and her middle finger probes your entrance before sliding in with ease.

The motion punches dual moans from the both of you, yours in pleasure, hers in a near disbelief. No matter how many times she gets you off, the feeling of your cunt sucking up her fingers is one that gets her right every time. You clench, already feeling her brush against the spot that makes electricity course down your spine, moaning wantonly when she curls just right.

With her free hand, she cups your chest, thumb brushing against a nipple covered by the thin lace of your top. You gasp at the feeling, your forehead dropping onto the glass, fingers twisting around nothing, and the hand kneading your breast redirects to lift your chin. “Watch them,” Paige orders, her voice rough, wrecked. “Let them see who’s fucking you.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, heat coiling in your belly at her words. You try to focus, you really do, but your vision blurs when Paige slides in her ring finger, her pace increasing in speed and intensity. If keeping your eyes on the club below you wasn’t hard enough, then it becomes near impossible when Paige’s slow grind against your ass starts up again, her soft sighs and choked moans like music to your ears as she chases a high you have to strain to see.

Her reflection in the glass is the perfect image of someone who’s ruined. Her hair is a mess from how you tangled your fingers in the strands, her brows pinched together in pleasure when the base of the strap brushes against her clit just right. It’s hot – really, really fucking hot, watching and listening to Paige lose her mind rutting against you while her fingers work you up to a quickly approaching high.

The flames lick at your skin, sweat slicking every inch of your body, your breath fogging the glass in front of you. The knowledge that you’re wholly hers combined with the feeling of her fingers scissoring in and out of you, knowing which buttons to push as if you were an extension of her, makes you keen, your hips unsure of whether or not they should buck into her or grind down in time with her fingers. You settle on both, gyrating and chasing your high, but you all but whine when her hand abandons your chin to press against your sensitive clit.

It’s overwhelming – Paige’s fingers curling inside you, pushing in and out relentlessly, her opposite hand rubbing delicious circles against your needy clit, the strap against your ass, your nipples brushing against the cool glass, and the breathless sound of your girlfriend’s moans as she gets off behind you is enough to push you closer and closer to the peak. With a broken gasp, you cry out, “Fuck, P, close,” and she nods against the sweat-slick skin of your neck.

Her hips slam into yours with a little more intensity, pushing you into the glass, both of her hands increasing their pace and pressure in tandem. “I know, mama,” she rasps, leaving marks on your skin, the indents of her teeth left in their wake. Paige sounds destroyed, like she’s moments away from unraveling completely. All that does is push you to the edge. “Give it to me, baby. Gonna make me so proud, aren’t you? My perfect girl.”

You come with a breathless shudder, unable to force the words through your windpipe, and Paige sags against you, her lips jerking messily while her fingers slowly work you through the lingering shockwaves of your orgasm. The cool glass is like a balm against your skin, the sensation so needed while your skin burns and sizzles from the electricity. Paige is panting heavily into your ear – it reminds you that she’d gotten off, too, just from grinding against you. That makes the heat coiling in your belly return tenfold.

You push yourself off of the glass window, hardly thinking about the smudges on the surface, and Paige steadies your hips when your legs tremble. You turn in her embrace, smiling when she wraps you up, pressing your back against the glass now. She kisses your lips – deep, lingering, tongue probing for an entrance that you grant immediately. With her left hand, she pulls your lingerie off completely, tossing the bottoms to the side haphazardly, and she lifts you into her arms with ease. Your legs wrap around her waist, arms around her neck, as she begins mouthing down your chest.

“Nicole’s gonna be so pissed when she gets back from her trip and realizes someone got defiled against her glass window,” you mutter in between heaving breaths.

Paige smirks against your skin, dragging your bra down with her teeth, encircling a nipple with her lips, causing you to gasp. “Defiled is crazy work,” she mumbles. “I prefer worship.”

“You’re annoying,” you say, your body betraying your words when you arch into her mouth.

She squeezes your ass, walking the two of you backwards until her knees hit an armchair and she sinks down, pulling you onto her lap. The front of her pants are wet – you can’t tell if it’s yours, or hers, or a mixture of both, but it just makes you hungry when you pull her up to kiss you again. “You’re spoiled,” she retorts, fingers reaching up for the clasps of your bra. You let her pull it off you completely, smiling to yourself when she stares at you like you’re one of the ancient wonders of the world. “And so, so fucking fine. Jesus.”

You laugh against her lips, your fingers working on unbuckling her belt. She lifts her hips to help you pull her pants and boxers down in one quick motion and you quirk a brow at the sight of the slick between her thighs. You swipe a finger through the wetness accumulated on her legs, sucking it into your mouth with an indulgent moan. That makes the smug smile on her face disappear, and she grips your thighs tightly like she’d lose her mind if you weren’t on her strap immediately. “Can’t believe you came untouched,” you tease, your fingers dancing across the silicone gently. Paige tenses like she could feel it.

“You could touch me right now and fix that,” she offers, voice a little choked, her hips bucking up in invitation. You can’t help the way your mouth waters, knowing that Paige would have you right in minutes.

Instead of giving her what she wants, you stand up, your heels still giving you a slight height advantage over her as she manspreads in the armchair. She pouts, looking disappointed at your departure, but you lean over her and begin unbuttoning her shirt. With your breasts so close to her face, she looks determinedly less upset, although you have to swat her hand away when she tries to touch you.

“Rule one of lap dances,” you murmur, voice silky smooth, “is that you can’t touch the performers.”

“Shit,” she breathes, eyes widening in realization. “You’re killin’ me, mama.”

With her shirt fully unbuttoned, you slide it off her shoulders, leaving her in a dark sports bra. You grin at her wickedly, pulling her shirt over your arms as you coo, “I know.” Her jaw falls open in lust and disbelief at the sight of you – messy, fucked out, and wearing nothing but your heels and her shirt, which is multiple sizes too big on you. You don’t button it, but the message is the same. Paige always liked seeing you in her clothes, and now? You can tell she’s actually going to lose her mind.

She leans back in the armchair, one hand gripping the armrest, the other resting on her thigh, fingers twitching. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen so much unadulterated want on her face. With the Kali Uchis song still playing distantly in the club, you stalk over to her in slow, calculated movements, hips swaying. Paige doesn’t know where to look – your face, your chest, the glistening spot in between your legs. She breathes heavily the closer you get.

You settle both hands on the armrests, leaning over her, not reprimanding her when her lips brush against your chest, seeking out your nipples. You inch closer to her ear, breath fanning against the shell of it as you murmur the lyrics of the song to her. “See, I’m a lover, but I’ll go to war about mine, toe to toe.” Her breath hitches, but you’re gone as quickly as you’d come, turning your back to her.

Your hips move sensually, hypnotically, and you can feel that you have Paige’s undivided attention. Reaching for her left hand, you bring it to your waist, allowing her to lift the back of your shirt so she can get a clear view of your ass. She groans emphatically, her hand falling to squeeze your flesh. It makes your breath catch, too, the feel of her hand swallowing your skin.

You spin around again, the song fading away with the lyrics, “Once I claim my territory, I get territorial,” but you stop in your tracks. Paige’s free hand is wrapped around the strap, stroking absentmindedly as if it were an extension of herself, veins popping and expression gone. You’re throbbing immediately, wanting nothing more than to crawl onto her lap and let her have her way with you, but she takes matters into her own hands.

Paige reaches out for you, spinning you until your back is to her, and she lowers you gently. You sink down slowly. The stretch is delicious, nearly overwhelming as it splits you open, and the both of you moan at the feeling. Both of her hands reach up to cup your breasts as your ass settles flush against her lap, the strap hitting deep inside, and you’re feeling so wound up you could probably fall apart right now with her breathing unevenly in your ear, fingers tweaking your nipples, and her hands kneading your breasts.

Her manspread widens, her hips bucking up to drag the strap in and out of you. You grip the armrest with both hands, using it to lift yourself up and down, head throwing back in a drawn out moan when Paige emphasizes a thrust with a pinch. The slight sting of pain mixes with the pleasure, creating a heady, devastating feeling in your core, and you melt when Paige licks a stripe up your neck again, sucking bruises into the skin of your shoulder.

Her right hand drops, leaving her left to brush against your nipples, traveling down your front to brush through your folds. You gasp at the feeling, whimpering when she coats her fingers in your slick and starts circling your clit again. She curses under her breath. You can’t tell for sure if it’s because of the sheer amount of wetness waiting for her or if it’s because she glanced down, watching your cunt suck the strap right in. Regardless of the reasons, her hips are canting up against yours, timing your thrusts together.

It doesn’t take long before moans are tumbling from your lips quicker now. Her fingers speed up, rubbing against your oversensitive clit with precision and pressure, the hand that was fondling your breasts dropping down to your hip to help you ride her, your legs giving out from the pleasure and the exertion. She’s rambling nonsense in your ear, more sound than words, but you’re able to make out, “You feel so good, mama, taking me so well. So fucking perfect for me. Want you to come for me, please, baby – give it to me–”

The sound of her breathless moans in your ear, the pressure of her fingers on your clit, her hand bruising your hips – it’s enough to send you over the edge. With hardly a warning, you spill all over her lap, your slick soaking the strap, the armchair beneath you, and she brings you down from your high with incoherent words and slowing her thrusts and fingers.

Energy gone, you’re more than ready to curl up with her in this armchair, but her hips shift – discreetly, like she’s still searching for her release and trying to play it off like she’s just trying to get comfortable. It makes you feel guilty immediately. She makes a soft noise of protest as you hoist yourself off her lap, your legs wobbling, and she shoots forward to steady you, a look of confusion on her face. The confusion melts into desire when you sink to your knees before her, fingers reaching to unbuckle the harness, but she pauses you with a hand to your wrists.

“You don’t gotta–” she tries, but you cut her off with a firm, “Paige Madison,” and she shuts up immediately, leaning back in the armchair. You haphazardly discard the strap to the side, curling your arms around her thighs. Before you press your lips to her dripping cunt, she grabs your loose hair, holding it in a ponytail with her hand. You kiss her clit in thanks, smiling when her hips jolt and she sighs softly.

You brush the flat of your tongue across her slit in one smooth motion, moaning at the taste and at the feeling of her grip tightening in your hair, dragging you closer to her. Listening to her wordless command and knowing that she probably doesn’t need much to come, you drink her up like you’re parched, sucking her clit in your mouth and suctioning with your lips. Paige grunts, her hips bucking up, and you don’t stop her, letting her chase her high against your mouth.

You alternate between kitten licks against her clit and long, flat strokes of your tongue against her cunt. It’s not often that you get to see her like this – fucked out and ruined, pliant and soft beneath you, dripping messily onto the surface below, but it never fails to activate a part of your brain that wants to watch her come over and over again.

Wanting to see her fall apart beneath you, you double down on your efforts, your tongue sliding messily through her folds and sucking at her clit until she cries out. You tighten your grip just as she tightens her grip on your hair, pulling you even closer into her – and if this is the last thing you see before you drown, her soaked cunt and the watery, pleading expression on her face, then you think you’d die a happy woman.

“Fuck, mama, ‘m so close,” she rambles, her hips moving against you with a fervor, chest heaving. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

You hum against her, and she whines, moans falling from her lips until she chokes on the last one. Her thighs tense around you, caging you in as she comes, a long, drawn out groan reverberating through the room while you work her through the aftershocks. You lick once more, twice, until she releases your hair and pushes you away, too sensitive after two orgasms.

Paige doesn’t let you get too far. She pulls you back onto her lap, arms wrapping around your waist while you wipe her slick off of your cheeks, sucking the taste off of your fingers. She catches your wrist on the last one, sucking your thumb into her mouth and humming emphatically at your combined tastes. You smile coyly at her, thinking about nothing more than getting her home tonight and making her writhe. You sit motionlessly in her lap while she cleans off all of your fingers.

“You want more?” you ask teasingly, not really meaning it, but raising your brows when she nods quickly, her eyes blown wide. The heat is already licking at you as you grip her jaw with one hand, leaning over her face, and her mouth opens obediently. You let a string of saliva fall from your mouth directly onto her tongue and she swallows immediately with a low groan of pleasure.

You don’t get to say much else before she’s pulling you back in, your lips crashing together messily, her tongue swiping across your lips in search of more. It draws a ragged moan from you, one that she monopolizes on instantly. It’s like she’s trying to swallow you alive, to memorize the way you taste when her slick is on your tongue. It makes your brain spin pleasantly before she pulls away, a dangerous sort of glint in her eyes, but it softens when she sees the blissed out smile on your face.

“You okay?” she murmurs, squeezing your hips, and just like that, the heat of the moment fades – for now.

“I should be asking you that,” you joke. “Could have sworn you blacked out for a moment.”

“Shit, I might have,” she agrees, drawing a breathless giggle from you. You lean your head on your chest, listening to the vibration of her voice against you as she asks. “For real. You’re okay?”

You don’t have to ask for clarity to know she’s referring to before, to Neil. “I’m okay,” you promise, more glad than anything that Paige came in when she did. “Nicole’s gonna be pissed, though. Not even about the window.”

Paige hums, the sound almost noncommittal, but you’ve been with her long enough to know she’s being dead serious about a situation. If the moment were any lighter, she’d probably make a joke about you snitching – but you might be the one thing in the world she doesn’t play about. “I’ll handle him,” she swears, her tone hard enough that it makes you shift on her lap. She doesn’t even notice, which amuses you, but she continues speaking, her voice thoughtful. “I know you like working here. Dancing. It’s safe for you. But don’t let that make you feel like…you don’t have other options, you know? As long as I’m around, you don’t have to worry. Don’t let Neil – or anyone else – threaten to take this place away from you. Your safety and happiness are important to me.”

You soften, her words hitting home. Paige doesn’t pressure you to say anything – she never does, her fingers tracing soothing patterns on your bare skin. “Thank you,” you say eventually, and she makes a soft noise in the back of her throat, like that’s something she needs to be thanked for. Paige would move mountains for you – you knew that. “I appreciate that. And for you looking out for me.”

Paige presses a soft kiss to your lips, smiling against your skin, and she murmurs, “You’re my girl. I’ll always look out for you. Especially when you dance like that.”

You roll your eyes as she laughs, but you’re inexplicably happy. You kiss her again, softly requesting, “Take me home?” and Paige doesn’t hesitate. Not even a little bit, even though her clothes are a mess, her mascara is flaking, and she looks like she’s been put through a woodchipper. Your girlfriend might be a little territorial, but the one thing you know about her is that she’s always going to make sure you’re taken care of.

(When you wake up in the morning to Paige’s smug grin, you check the work group chat at her insistence, where Nicole is informing everyone about Neil’s termination. 

“Neil got fired,” you say flatly.

“Oh, wow,” Paige says innocently, but her beaming grin breaks through her feigned nonchalance. “That’s really unfortunate.”

You huff in amusement, turning off your phone and setting it on the nightstand. You swing a leg over her waist to straddle her and she wastes no time before resting her hands on your hips, sinking into the pillows beneath her, a chain glimmering in the morning sunlight, her smile far too satisfied. “You’re insane,” you murmur, like it bothers you. It doesn’t.

“Mmm,” she hums, pulling you down to her level to kiss you. “Think you like it.”

All you can do is grin, because you do. You really, really do like it.)

[dollbrbie]

thinking about bodyguard!zoro who’s being paid a ridiculous amount of money to keep you, the president’s daughter safe.

you piss him off beyond belief, you’re insufferably rich, a real daddy’s princess and you know just the right words to make him tick, to act unprofessionally and argue with a girl half his size. yeah, you’re a real annoyance to zoro.

despite this, he can’t help but carry on with the more secret relationship you two have. the one that has him laid next to your naked body while his hands find their way to your glossy clit to rub lazy circles as he watches your back arch from his touch.

he knows he shouldn’t be doing this, that it could cost him everything. but something about you was so temping. maybe it was the way you seem to see past his guarded walls, or maybe it was the way your rare moments of kindness had his heart melting. but either way, he was in far too deep to stop.

“oh, fuckkk..”, you moan, your head thrown back against the pillow as you feel the tip of zoro’s cock kiss your cervix, bottoming out inside of you whilst your gummy walls clenched around him.

god, he loved seeing you like this - consumed by the pleasure he was giving you with your pretty moans being enough to cause zoro’s cock to throb. he knew your body like the back of his hand, he knew what you liked and he knew exactly how to make you cum - to make you feel things no one else has before.

“shit-”, he hisses with the way your pussy sucks his cock so tightly, feeling your body writhe beneath him - a sign you were on the verge of cumming.

his thrusts quicken with the building pleasure, the veins in his muscular arms prominent as they rest beside your head. you can’t help but whine out his name, you needed him. and that beautiful sound nearly makes zoro cum on the spot.

“cum with me, yeah? cmon.”, he coaxes, wanting to feel your pussy cream on his throbbing cock - his own peak just moments away.

and with a few more thrusts, you feel that hot white pleasure hit you in an overwhelming manner, causing your body to convulse beneath zoro’s. with the way your pussy sucks him in with such need, he can’t help but release an involuntary choked moan.

he knew what was coming, quickly pulling out with his load erratically littering over your stomach. he hadn’t came like that in a while - watching your exhausted form breathe heavy breaths as he leans down to press a gentle kiss on your lips.

he was definitely in too deep, his feelings for you growing deeper by the day despite how much you might piss him off. and while he knows your father would have his head if he ever found out, he also knows your father wouldn’t ever find a man who’d protect his daughter the way zoro does.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[inseobts]

HAII, I heard your request is now open again and I wanted to request this!

wherein the reader has feelings for (any character you want!) and they friend zone her, and she gets the hanahaki disease!😁 they don't tell anyone until they're almost at the brink of death. well, you can choose if the reader lives or not but the character you choose will happen to realize they do have feelings for the reader and they were only confused at the beginning!

it's kinda like angst sorry😅 But I really want to see something like this from you, since you are an excellent writer! ty smmm

Petals in Silence

zoro x fem!reader

Hanahaki Disease (花吐き病 (Japanese); 하나하키병 (Korean); 花吐病 (Chinese)) is a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. It ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. It can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim’s romantic feelings for their love also disappear.

a/n: wrote about this for one of my old kpop fanfics so I got really exciting to write this again for a different media

words count: 4.0k

tags: illness, angst and fluff, chopper and law being good doctors, unrequited love, slow burn, emotional hurt

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The first time you cough up a petal, it’s early morning.

You’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom when something tickles your throat. You cough once, then harder.

A soft, white petal drops into the sink.

You blink. Stare. It’s delicate. Real.

“What the hell…?”

You look up at the mirror. Your reflection stares back, pale and confused.

You cough again.

Another petal.

“No. No, no, no.”

You quickly wash the sink, flush the petals, and press a trembling hand to your mouth. You’re breathing fast now.

“What is this?” you whisper.

You sneak into the library on the ship when no one’s around. Robin might be there later, but right now it’s quiet.

You pull out an old medical book. Then another.

Finally, you find it.

Hanahaki Disease: A rare, fatal illness caused by unrequited love. The infected cough up flower petals as feelings deepen. The only cures are returned love… or surgery that erases all memory of the beloved person.

You reread it five times.

Then you sit back, stunned.

“No way...” you say out loud “That’s not real.”

But the pain in your chest disagrees.

You press your hand over your heart. It feels like something is blooming. Slowly. Cruelly.

You whisper the name you’ve been hiding in your heart for so long “…Zoro.”

You try to act normal during dinner. You sit beside Luffy and across from Zoro. You talk with Nami, laugh with Usopp. But you keep sneaking glances at him.

Zoro’s sipping sake, listening to Sanji rant about proper cooking technique. He doesn’t even look your way.

That tiny ache in your chest grows just a bit stronger.

You excuse yourself early and go to bed.

Later that night, Zoro finds you on the deck. You’re alone, staring at the sea. You don’t notice him until he speaks.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You flinch a little “Oh yeah. Just thinking.”

He steps beside you. Arms crossed “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I’m fine” you say quickly.

“Didn’t ask if you were fine,” he says, tone flat “I said you’ve been quiet.”

You don’t answer. You look away, afraid you’ll start coughing again.

“Anyway,” he says after a moment, “don’t push yourself too hard. You get weird when you're tired.”

You smile, small and sad “Thanks, Zoro.”

He nods and walks away, like nothing’s wrong. Like your heart isn’t trying to kill you.

You start avoiding him.

Not in a big, obvious way. Just enough to keep the pain small. Manageable.

You leave the room when he enters. You sit farther away at meals. You laugh at his jokes less. You pretend you’re busy when he trains, even though you used to watch him every day.

Still, he notices.

“You mad at me or something?” Zoro asks one afternoon.

You blink “What? No.”

He raises an eyebrow “You’ve been weird. Distant.”

You shrug “Maybe I’m just tired.”

He watches you, arms crossed “You’ve said that a lot lately.”

You force a smile “Guess I’m always tired.”

You walk away before you start coughing again.

Later that night, you’re alone again on the deck. Same spot. Same stars. Same sea.

Your chest feels heavy tonight. Your throat burns.

You cough hard. Petals. So many.

They spill from your mouth, red and white, soft and cruel.

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stop the sound, trying not to cry.

This is getting worse.

You fall to your knees.

It’s too late to stop it now.

The next morning, you can’t take it anymore.

You find Chopper in the infirmary. You pull him aside, whispering.

“Can I ask you something… privately?”

He looks up at you, curious “Of course. What’s wrong?”

You swallow hard “Do you know anything about… Hanahaki disease?”

His eyes widen.

“What?” he says “Why? Who—who has it?”

You don’t answer. Just pull a crumpled petal from your pocket and place it in his hand.

His face falls.

“Oh no… Y/N...” he whispers.

You don’t speak.

He looks at you with tears in his eyes “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!”

You give him the weakest smile “I didn’t want anyone to know. Especially not him.”

Zoro finds you the next day.

“You’ve been ignoring me” he says bluntly.

You sigh “I haven’t.”

“You have. What’s going on?”

You look at him. Really look at him.

Strong. Focused. Brave. And not yours.

You take a deep breath.

“Zoro,” you say softly, “do you see me as… anything more than a friend?”

He frowns “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer.”

He looks confused for a second, then says, “You’re a great friend. You know that.”

Your heart cracks right there “I see.”

He tilts his head “Why?”

You shake your head and step back “No reason.”

“Wait—”

“I have to go” you whisper, already walking away.

You cough again as you turn the corner. This time, petals fall from your hands like snow.

You visit Chopper again the next day. This time, you don’t bother hiding the blood on your sleeve.

He panics the moment he sees you.

“Y/N, sit down, right now.”

You do.

He shines a light in your throat, listens to your breathing, checks your heartbeat. His hooves are trembling.

“Your lungs…” he says quietly “the flowers are growing faster.”

“I know.”

“You’re in the second stage. If this keeps up—”

“I know, Chopper.”

Silence.

You break it first.

“Is there any way to slow it down?” you ask, voice thin “Just a little?”

Chopper hesitates “I can give you medicine to ease the pain. But it won’t stop the petals.”

You nod. That’s enough. For now.

He wraps your wrist where you’d scratched it raw from coughing.

“You need to tell the others” he says softly.

“I can’t.”

“Y/N—”

“No.”

He looks at you, torn between doctor and friend. But he nods.

For now, he’ll keep your secret.

At lunch, you barely touch your food. Sanji notices right away.

“You feelin’ alright, sweetheart?” he asks, kneeling beside your chair with a plate in hand.

You blink “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Nami says across the table “You look like a ghost.”

Usopp leans in “Have you been throwing up or something?”

Your grip tightens on your fork “Just tired.”

“You keep saying that,” Luffy mumbles with food in his mouth “You said that yesterday, and the day before that, and the—”

“I said I’m fine!” you snap.

Silence falls.

You don’t look at anyone. You stand quickly, chair scraping back.

“I’m sorry. I just... I need some air.”

You rush out before they see your hand fly to your mouth.

You cough behind a crate on the lower deck. Violet petals. Tiny thorns. Blood.

You shake as they fall into your palm.

Someone walks by above you, and you press your mouth shut until your lungs burn. You can’t let them hear.

You slide down to the floor, heart pounding.

You can’t keep this up much longer.

That night, Zoro knocks on your door.

You don’t answer.

He opens it anyway “Hey. We need to talk.”

You sit on your bed, facing the wall.

He walks in slowly “You’ve been avoiding everyone. Something’s wrong.”

You don’t move “I’m just tired.”

“That’s not gonna work anymore,” he says “Your voice is weak. You’re pale. And you’re breathing weird.”

You say nothing.

Zoro narrows his eyes “Did someone hurt you?”

That makes you laugh. It’s a broken sound “No. Not someone.”

He waits.

You finally turn toward him, eyes glassy “I think I’m sick, Zoro.”

He steps closer “Sick how?”

You look down at your hands. But you don’t answer.

Not yet.

He understands and leaves you alone.

It’s been weeks.

You’re coughing more now. Petals come in waves, in your sleep, in the middle of meals, behind closed doors. You can barely hide it anymore. Chopper’s running out of ways to explain your pale skin and shaking hands.

Then one afternoon, Law steps onto the Sunny.

The crew cheers, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen the Heart Pirates. But you don’t move from the railing. Your body feels too heavy.

Zoro notices.

So does Chopper.

Later, Chopper finds you in the infirmary, Law just behind him.

He stares at you for a long moment, then sighs “Chopper told me everything. Including the petals.”

Your breath catches.

Chopper looks hopeful, desperate even “He thinks he can do the surgery. It’s risky, but it might work.”

You go cold “The memory one?”

Law nods “I can remove the infection. The petals. You’ll survive. But you’ll forget everything tied to the person who caused it.”

You don’t even have to think.

“No.”

Chopper gasps “What? Y/N, you’re dying.”

“I don’t care,” you whisper “I don’t want to forget him.”

Law watches you carefully “You’d rather die than let go?”

You nod.

There’s a pause. Then Law gestures for Chopper to leave the room.

He does, slowly.

Now it’s just you and Law.

“I don’t do emotional attachments” he says, leaning against the wall “But even I know this is stupid.”

You laugh bitterly “Yeah. It is.”

He folds his arms “You sure he doesn’t feel anything for you?”

“He made it clear,” you say, staring at the floor “He sees me as a friend. That’s all.”

Law raises an eyebrow “You asked him?”

“Of course, I'm dying... I asked if he could ever see me as more. He said I’m a great friend. That’s it.”

He doesn’t reply for a moment. Then quietly, he says, “You should tell him about the disease.”

You look up sharply “No. That’s the one thing I won’t do.”

“Why?”

Your voice cracks “Because I don’t want to be loved out of pity. I want it to be real. Not because I’m dying.”

Behind the cracked door, someone stands frozen.

Zoro.

He hadn’t meant to listen. He was just walking by.

He wasn’t trying to find you. Not on purpose.

But now your words are echoing in his head, and they won’t stop.

“I don’t want to forget him.”

“I want it to be real.”

He feels like something is unraveling in his chest.

Suddenly, memories flood in. You watching him train. Laughing at his jokes. Smiling when you thought he wasn’t looking. Bleeding silently.

And him, brushing you off. Pushing the feelings down. Because love was a weakness. A distraction. Something he couldn’t afford.

But now you're dying, and it’s his fault you’re alone.

He presses his hand to the wall beside the door.

“Idiot” he whispers.

He doesn’t even know if he means you or himself.

Zoro doesn’t sleep that night.

He leans against the railing of the upper deck, sword resting by his side, your words stuck in his mind like a thorn he can’t pull out.

“I want it to be real.”

“I don’t want to forget him.”

He tightens his grip on the hilt.

He doesn’t understand everything about emotions... hell, he usually avoids them altogether but he’s not dumb.

He heard enough to know what this is.

Enough to know you’ve been dying quietly, and everyone’s been hiding it from him.

The next morning, he finds Chopper in the kitchen, alone, fiddling with a pile of vitamins and bandages.

Zoro crosses his arms and speaks flatly “What’s wrong with her?”

Chopper freezes “W-Who?”

Zoro just stares.

Chopper sweats “You mean…uh…Nami? I think she had a cold last week—”

“Y/N” Zoro says, voice sharp “Don’t play dumb.”

Chopper drops the spoon in his hoof “Oh.”

Zoro leans in, towering over the small reindeer “I heard Law talking to her. I heard enough. Now tell me everything.”

Chopper swallows “I-I promised not to—”

“Chopper.”

“I—I mean—she’s—”

He folds immediately “Okay! Okay! It’s Hanahaki!”

Zoro stiffens “Hanahaki…?”

“She’s been coughing up petals for weeks. She’s in stage two, probably. Her lungs are already getting worse. If she doesn’t get surgery, she’ll—” Chopper gulps before continuing “She’ll die.”

Zoro goes completely still.

“And it’s because of—” Chopper shuts his mouth with both hooves.

“Because of what, Chopper?”

“I—I can’t say that part—”

Zoro crouches down, voice low “Is it because of me?”

Chopper's eyes fill with panic.

“That’s a yes.”

“Zoro...”

He stands up suddenly, knocking over a chair. His jaw clenches.

Chopper reaches out “Please don’t get mad at her! She didn’t want to say anything. She didn’t want you to know. She didn’t want to make you feel bad—”

Zoro turns away, fists clenched “She’s dying and she’s worried about me?”

“She loves you,” Chopper says quietly “But she’d rather die than force you to love her back.”

Zoro doesn’t answer.

He just stands there, breathing hard and then he walks out.

Fast.

Not toward you.

Not yet.

He needs to get his head straight because for the first time in a long time, Zoro is afraid.

Not of losing a fight.

But of losing you.

You’re sitting alone in the small reading room on the Sunny, legs tucked up beneath you, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. A book is open on your lap, unread. The words blur. Your head throbs.

You’ve been coughing all morning. You can taste iron in the back of your throat.

You hear the door open and close behind you.

You don’t look up “Chopper, I already took the medicine—”

“It’s not Chopper.”

Your breath catches.

You look up.

Zoro.

Standing there, arms crossed. Shadows under his eyes. A strange look on his face — like something sharp and unfinished.

You blink slowly “What do you want?”

He walks forward. No swords. No usual swagger. Just…Zoro.

“I know” he says.

Your stomach drops.

“I know everything. Hanahaki. The petals. That it’s because of me.”

You go still.

“I didn’t want you to find out,” you say quietly “Not like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want your pity.”

He sits across from you. His eyes are unreadable.

“You didn’t want to tell me... but you told Law?”

You wince “Chopper dragged him in. Said he could save me.”

Zoro stares at you for a moment. Then “You turned down the surgery.”

“Yes.”

“Because you didn’t want to forget.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

You speak first “I asked you once if you saw me as anything more than a friend. You said no.”

“I said you’re a great friend,” Zoro says “But I didn’t say no.”

You freeze “That’s not what it felt like.”

He leans forward “I didn’t answer you honestly. I didn’t want to answer.”

You whisper “Why?”

His voice is low “Because I was scared it would mess everything up. You’re... you’ve always been close. If I let myself feel something else, I thought it would get in the way.”

“Of your goal,” you say “Becoming the world’s strongest swordman.”

He nods once “I told myself there was no room for anything else.”

Your hands are shaking in your lap.

“And now?” you whisper.

Zoro hesitates. For the first time in forever, he looks unsure.

“I don’t know,” he says “But when I heard what you said to Law… that you’d rather die than forget me… I realized I don’t want to lose you.”

Your heart slams against your ribs.

“I don’t know if I deserve this,” he says “But I want to try. If you’ll let me. I should’ve said it before you ever started coughing.”

Zoro’s confession echoes in the small room.

You sit there for a long moment, stunned, heart beating so fast it hurts more than your lungs.

But the pain in your chest doesn’t stop. In fact, it starts to burn.

That isn’t supposed to happen.

“I…” You swallow hard, forcing your voice to stay calm “Can I ask something?”

Zoro looks at you, still tense “Yeah.”

You grip the blanket tighter around your shoulders “Do you actually mean it? Or are you just saying that because you don’t want me to die?”

He flinches.

You nod slowly “That’s what I thought.”

Zoro opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

“It’s okay. Really. You don’t have to feel guilty. I’m... glad you care. But you don’t have to pretend to love me. That would hurt more.”

His jaw tightens “I’m not pretending.”

You give him a sad smile “Zoro... if this was real, the petals would’ve stopped by now.”

You cough hard. A violent shake rips through your chest, and something wet and warm fills your palm.

You look down.

A full, red flower lies there, soaked in blood.

Your fingers tremble as you wipe it away, turning your face from him.

“See?” you whisper.

Zoro doesn’t say anything.

He just leaves.

He storms through the Sunny like a blade cutting through mist.

Straight to the infirmary.

Chopper and Law both look up from the counter.

Zoro slams his hands down “Why isn’t she better?”

Chopper blinks “Wh-What?”

“I told her. Everything. I confessed. So why is she still coughing up flowers?!”

Law stands slowly “Did she believe you?”

“What?”

Law narrows his eyes “Hanahaki is rooted in emotion, not logic. You can say whatever you want but if she doesn’t believe it in her heart, it won’t stop.”

Zoro’s throat goes dry.

“She thinks I said it out of pity...” he mutters.

Law’s voice drops “Then her body still thinks it’s unrequited.”

Zoro swears under his breath.

Chopper tugs at his sleeve, eyes big and worried “Zoro, she’s getting worse. No matter what I give her, the petals will start to grow into her lungs. They’ll wrap around her ribs. After that...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Zoro steps back.

He’s never felt so helpless.

“I’ll fix it” he says, turning toward the door.

Law raises a brow “How?”

Zoro doesn’t answer because he doesn’t know yet. But he’s sure of one thing, this time, words aren’t enough.

The sun is setting. Gold light spills over the deck of the Sunny.

You sit alone again, wrapped in your blanket, watching the sea blur into the sky. The petals are getting worse now, they come up more easily, more violently. You can feel them in your lungs even when you're not coughing.

You don’t know how much time you have left.

You don’t hear Zoro approach.

He stands beside you silently for a few seconds. Then, without a word, he sits down.

You look at him. His expression is unreadable. Focused. But his eyes are storming.

“I’m not good at this” he says quietly.

You don’t answer.

He pulls something from his waist. A worn cloth. He unfolds it slowly.

Inside is a small charm. Hand-carved wood, shaped like a sword crossed with a flower.

Your breath catches.

“I made it back on Wano,” he says “Took me three days. I almost threw it out. Thought it was stupid.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just the charm.

“I didn’t know why I was making it. I told myself it was just something to pass the time. But I carried it with me every day since.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

Zoro finally turns to you.

“Because I didn’t just come here to say something this time. I’m here to prove it.”

He places the charm in your lap.

Then Zoro kneels.

Your heart skips “Zoro—what—”

“I’m not asking you to believe me because I said I care,” he says, voice rough “I’m asking you to believe me because I was a coward, and I missed my chance, and I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continues “Not because I feel guilty. Not because you’re sick. Because I’ve loved you longer than I was willing to admit.”

Your eyes well with tears. You shake your head “But... Zoro... why didn’t you—”

“Because I thought I couldn’t afford it” he says “But I realized... what’s the point of becoming the world’s strongest swordsman if you’re not there to see it?”

Your lungs seize.

You cough.

A petal falls into your palm.

Just one.

Small.

Thin.

You stare at it.

Zoro sees too. And for the first time you see hope in his eyes.

It’s slow.

You still wake up coughing sometimes but not with blood anymore. Not with full blossoms tearing your throat raw.

Now, it’s just a few pale petals, thinner than paper. Some mornings, none at all.

You’re healing.

And every time you wake up, Zoro is there.

Not hovering. Just close. Training. Napping with one arm slung over a chair. But always there.

He doesn’t say much. He lets his presence do the talking.

One night, you sit outside the infirmary, wrapped in a jacket that’s obviously not yours, too big, too warm. Smells like steel, sweat, and something familiar.

Zoro’s jacket.

He comes up beside you, leaning against the wall.

You glance at him “Still watching me?”

“Still making sure you don’t keel over,” he says “It’d ruin my day.”

You laugh softly “Chopper says the petals might stop completely soon.”

He nods “Good.”

You look at him “Do you remember what you said? On the deck. About… me seeing you become the world’s strongest swordman?”

Zoro doesn’t look away “Yeah.”

“Do you still want that?”

“More than ever.”

You swallow “And… do you still mean it? What you said about loving me?”

Zoro turns to you fully.

“I’ve said a lot of things I didn’t mean in my life,” he says “But that wasn’t one of them.”

Silence.

Then you reach out, fingers brushing his hand.

“Zoro?”

He meets your eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

His answer is a quiet but firm “Yeah.”

You lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away.

He doesn’t.

His lips are warm. Dry at first... hesitant. But then you feel him tilt toward you, just a little. And his hand rises to rest on your back.

It’s not perfect. It’s a little clumsy. But it’s real.

And when you pull back, breathless and flushed, you cough but not a single petal falls.

Zoro watches you, eyes searching.

When he speaks, his voice is low “Guess that’s one way to test if it’s real.”

You smile “Feels pretty real to me.”

It’s been days since your last petal.

Chopper checks your lungs every morning now with his stethoscope and a hopeful smile, and every time he hears nothing but clean, healthy breathing, he squeaks in joy and flails his little hooves around.

You owe him everything.

Which is why you're now crouched outside the kitchen with a stack of pink cupcakes, a tiny hand-sewn thank-you card (drawn with crayons), and one extremely annoyed swordsman beside you.

Zoro crosses his arms “I still don’t get why I have to be here.”

“Because you helped me live,” you say, balancing the cupcakes with exaggerated care “And Chopper basically didn’t sleep for a week watching over me. We’re doing this together.”

Zoro grumbles “I could’ve just said thanks.”

You grin “And yet, here you are. Holding a party hat.”

“I’m not wearing it.”

“You will wear it.”

He grunts again but doesn’t argue further.

You knock on the door.

“Chopper! Can you come out here for a sec?”

He waddles out, sleepy-eyed, blinking up at youmand freezes.

His eyes go huge.

The cupcakes are stacked with pink frosting, each topped with tiny candy flowers. The card is messy and full of stickers, and you made sure to draw you, Chopper, and Zoro in crayon (Zoro has three swords and a frowny face, just for accuracy).

Zoro groans beside you.

“Thanks for helping me” you say brightly, holding it all out “We love you, Chopper.”

Chopper’s cheeks go red “Wha—whaaa?! I—I—I was just doing my job! Y-You didn’t have to—!”

Zoro, looking like he’d rather be stabbed, mumbles, “Thanks, you tiny doctor.”

Chopper makes a noise. A mix between a squeak and a sob.

He bursts into tears, flinging his tiny arms around your leg and Zoro’s knee at the same time.

“I’m so happy you’re not dead!!!”

Zoro looks at you, completely frozen.

You just smile, slip the party hat onto his head, and whisper “Told you this would be worth it.”

[bueckersleftbraid]

”— Not For Real

WC: just abt 4.0k (trust it’s good even tho it’s short)

paring: pazzi ofc 🤗

warnings: ummm fluff, fake dating, rom com ass moments, paige lowkey being stupid

authors notes —> hi!! here is this. I sort of love it so I hope you do too! I wrote this quick so my apologies for how short it is but it’s very cutesy

THE PITCH

The coffee shop was nearly empty except for a few students buried in their laptops and an older couple sharing a newspaper by the window. Paige slid into the booth, her cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a takeout cup in one hand and skepticism written all over her face.

Azzi was already there, lounging like she owned the place, one leg crossed over the other and an unread book open in front of her like a decoy. Her sunglasses were perched unnecessarily on top of her head, her dark curls pulled back in a loose bun. She didn’t look frantic or upset — not the way her text had sounded— “Emergency. Meet me at Haven. Bring caffeine.”

“Alright,” Paige said, plunking her drink down. “I came. I caffeinated. What’s the ‘emergency’?”

Azzi gave her a look, one brow quirked, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was holding back a grin. Paige didn’t trust that expression. Azzi was rarely panicked. Calculated? Yes. Hyper-competitive? Definitely. But desperate?

Something was up.

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.”

Paige blinked. “You—what?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. “Just for a few weeks.”

Paige sat back, stunned. “This is a joke.”

“I’m completely serious.”

There was a silence between them, the kind that stretched and pulled like taffy. Paige stared, trying to figure out if Azzi had finally lost it.

Azzi’s tone was matter-of-fact. “My sister’s wedding is in three weeks. My parents are hosting half the extended family. And last year—because I was being cornered by four aunties asking why I was single—I might’ve said I was dating someone. Someone serious.”

“Oh my God.”

“I didn’t say it was you,” Azzi added quickly. “But now they want to meet her. And I panicked. And I may have shown them a photo from our joint charity game last summer. You looked good.”

“You—what?”

“I didn’t think they’d remember! But now they’re asking if you’re coming. And since I hate lying—”

“You’re literally lying right now,” Paige interrupted.

“—I figured it’s less lying if it’s you,” Azzi said, flashing a smile that could only be described as weaponized charm.

Paige stared at her like she’d grown another head.

She and Azzi had never been friends, not exactly. Their relationship existed in a gray area between reluctant allies and rivals. They knew each other’s weak spots. They pushed each other during games, sparred during interviews, and occasionally made nice at league events. There had always been tension there — a kind that hovered just on the edge of something else.

But this?

“Why me?” Paige asked finally.

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. Her expression turned serious — sincere in a way that Paige rarely saw from her.

“Because you can handle it,” she said. “My family can be… intense. They’ll ask questions. They’ll pry. I need someone who’s smart, quick, and can improvise. You’re the only person I trust not to crack.”

Paige felt a strange flicker of pride at that, which she quickly smothered. She hated how Azzi’s approval always stirred something in her.

“I don’t know,” Paige said, eyeing her warily. “What’s in it for me?”

Azzi smiled, like she’d been expecting that.

“I’ll owe you. Big time. I’ll even owe you publicly, if you want. You name the favor. I’ll make it happen.”

Paige took a slow sip of her latte, weighing her options. She could walk away. Tell Azzi she was out of her mind and let her deal with the fallout.

But instead, she said, “I want your warm-up playlist.”

Azzi went still.

“…You’re not serious.”

“I am deadly serious,” Paige replied. “The one you play with the wireless earbuds. The one you turn off the second someone gets too close. You give me that playlist, and I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Azzi looked betrayed. “That’s like—sacred. That’s mine.”

Paige smirked. “Then maybe you should’ve asked someone else to fake date you.”

Azzi muttered something under her breath and stared down at her coffee like it had betrayed her too. Then she sighed, reached into her bag, and pulled out her phone.

She scrolled, tapped, and then held it out. “You’re the worst.”

“I try,” Paige said, gleefully accepting the transfer.

There was a strange beat of silence after that, as if both of them realized this was no longer hypothetical. Azzi sat back, a little too calm again.

“So,” Paige said cautiously, “how exactly does this work?”

Azzi raised a brow. “We ease into it. Coffee shops, casual photos, a couple of public run-ins. We soft-launch the relationship by next weekend. Then the wedding. A few smiling family photos. Some lingering looks. Maybe even a dance. Two weeks after that, we stage a quiet breakup. Friendly. Mutual. Devastatingly mature.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You’ve thought this through.”

Azzi gave her a crooked grin. “You have no idea.”

THE ACT

Fake dating, Paige quickly realized, required a surprising amount of coordination.

There were rules, schedules, contingencies. Texts needed timestamps. Stories had to match. They spent an entire afternoon building a believable relationship history — from their “first coffee after a preseason scrimmage” to their “accidental slow dance at a teammate’s birthday party.” Paige had never spent so much time with Azzi without the sound of sneakers squeaking on hardwood in the background.

And somehow, being around her without the structure of basketball— just sitting close on a couch, laptops open, occasionally stealing each other’s fries— felt more intimate than anything else they’d ever done.

It was during brunch on the first Saturday of the plan that things started to feel…off.

Not bad off. Just different.

Their table was tucked into the corner of a sunlit café that Paige didn’t usually frequent— the kind of place with overpriced avocado toast and artisanal jam in tiny glass jars. She kept checking the window, half-expecting someone to recognize them.

Azzi, meanwhile, looked utterly unbothered. 

She was dressed in a soft brown sweater that brought out the warm undertones in her skin, her hair loose for once, curls brushing her shoulders. She’d insisted on sitting next to Paige instead of across from her — “Couples sit side-by-side. Optics.” — and now, her knee kept brushing Paige’s beneath the table like it was nothing.

It was not nothing.

Paige was hyper-aware of every point of contact: the press of Azzi’s shoulder, the occasional light touch on her wrist when Azzi laughed at something she said. And then there was the moment— the one Paige didn’t know how to explain— when Azzi reached across the table and gently, casually, brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

“Missed a spot,” she said, voice low, like it was just for her.

Paige stared, momentarily frozen. She barely managed a sarcastic “Thanks, Mom,” just to defuse the tension in her own chest.

Azzi only smirked.

Then— in full view of the table across from them— she reached down and laced her fingers through Paige’s.

Paige’s pulse jumped.

“What are you doing?” she hissed under her breath.

Azzi tilted her head. “Handholding. Basic public display. You want this to be convincing, right?”

“This is—” Paige trailed off, unable to find a word that didn’t sound like denial. Her fingers stayed tangled in Azzi’s for a beat longer than necessary before she forced herself to look away.

Convincing. Right. This was just for show.

But it felt like something else.

____

Later that evening, they found themselves scrolling through Instagram together on Azzi’s couch, reviewing what Azzi referred to as “launch content.” It had been Paige’s idea to soft-launch their relationship through stories and casual posts — enough to stir curiosity without a hard announcement. “Let the public fill in the blanks,” she’d said. “It’ll feel more real if people think they caught it happening.”

Azzi had been disturbingly into that idea.

“Okay,” Paige said, reviewing a photo Azzi had taken earlier — the two of them walking away from the café, arms looped together. It was slightly blurry, clearly taken from behind. “This one looks stolen. Paparazzi vibe.”

“Good,” Azzi said. “Tag it or leave it?”

Paige sighed. “Leave it. Keep them guessing.”

Azzi grinned, but her voice was quieter when she added, “You’re good at this.”

Paige didn’t look up. “At lying to the world?”

“At making it believable,” Azzi said. “Too believable, maybe.”

There was a silence between them.

Paige felt it stretch again — like the space between words you want to say but don’t know how to. The room was warm, too warm, and she suddenly became very aware of the fact that they were sitting closer than strictly necessary.

She risked a glance over.

Azzi was already looking at her.

Paige swallowed hard. “You’re kind of good at this, too.”

Azzi arched a brow. “Kind of?”

Paige shook her head, eyes flicking away.“Unfairly good.”

A smirk tugged at Azzi’s lips, but she didn’t press. Instead, she nudged Paige’s knee lightly with her own. “Don’t overthink it, Bueckers. Just follow my lead.”

That sentence echoed in Paige’s head for the rest of the night.

____

The first real test came the following weekend— a casual dinner with some of Azzi’s extended family visiting early for the wedding.

Paige had told herself she was prepared. She’d practiced their story, remembered names, even rehearsed a few go-to anecdotes. But nothing prepared her for the way Azzi introduced her:

“This is Paige,” Azzi had said, voice softening at the edges. “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

It shouldn’t have hit Paige in the chest the way it did. But the pride in Azzi’s voice, the way she slipped an arm around her waist like it was second nature, it all felt too natural.

Too easy.

“You’re even prettier in person,” Azzi’s aunt said with a warm smile, making Paige blush hard enough to want to hide under the table.

“She is, isn’t she?” Azzi replied, grinning, and Paige gave her a warning glance that Azzi absolutely ignored.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation, wine, and shared glances that lingered a little too long. At one point, someone brought up future plans — careers, cities, and timelines — and Paige heard herself say something about “we’re figuring things out,” and Azzi didn’t correct her.

She just nodded. Like it was true.

Like it could be.

That night, after the guests had gone and they were back on the couch, Paige kicked off her heels and flopped backward with a groan. “I deserve an Oscar.”

Azzi collapsed next to her, eyes half-lidded from wine and exhaustion. “They love you already.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“You were perfect,” Azzi said quietly, not teasing for once. “Natural.”

Paige turned her head to look at her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Sometimes I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige’s breath caught.

For a moment, the room felt too still. The words hung between them like something fragile — something dangerous.

“Don’t,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t what?” Azzi asked.

“Don’t say stuff like that unless you mean it.”

Azzi looked at her. Really looked. Then — just as softly — said, “Maybe I do.”

Paige didn’t answer.

She didn’t move.

She just let the words sit there, tucked between them on the couch, daring her to pick a side.

THE SHIFT

Paige had faced playoff pressure before. She’d stood at the free throw line with a championship on the line, heard arenas scream her name, stared down defenders with everything at stake.

And still, nothing made her feel quite as unsteady as walking into Azzi’s childhood home.

The place was beautiful — all warm wood and framed memories, the scent of something sweet in the air — but it wasn’t the house itself that threw her.

It was the fact that everyone knew who she was.

“Oh my god, the girlfriend!”

“You’re even cuter than the photos!”

“I heard she plays just as well as Azzi — is that true?”

“Do you want to see baby pictures?!”

Azzi watched it all unfold with thinly veiled amusement, her arm a steady presence at Paige’s back. She was too calm. Too smooth. Like she’d always known Paige would say yes. Like she’d planned for this exact moment.

Paige leaned toward her as soon as they had a sliver of privacy in the hallway. “Your family’s intense.”

“I warned you,” Azzi said with a smirk, then added, “You’re handling it like a pro.”

“I’m dying inside.”

Azzi bumped her shoulder. “You look great while doing it.”

The rehearsal dinner was the first real blow.

Paige had worn a soft cream dress that Azzi couldn’t seem to stop staring at — not that she ever said anything outright, just a glance too long when Paige wasn’t looking, or a compliment murmured so low it felt like a secret.

They sat together at the head table, posing for casual couple photos, telling rehearsed stories about “how we met” and “our first date,” laughing too easily, leaning in like magnets.

But it was during the toasts— when the groom’s brother started talking about soulmates— that Paige glanced over and caught Azzi watching her.

Not with amusement. Not with performance.

But with something soft. Bare. Real.

It was the kind of look no one gives unless they mean it.

Paige looked away, heart thudding in her chest, guilt bubbling like carbonation in her ribs. This was fake. This was supposed to stay fake.

But suddenly, she didn’t know if Azzi had ever drawn the line. And worse — she didn’t know if she had either.

____

That night, in the guest room down the hall, Paige lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her mind racing.

She thought of how Azzi had casually brushed her hair over her shoulder earlier. Of the way she’d poured her wine without asking. Of how she’d reached for Paige’s hand in the dark when no one was watching.

This was the most dangerous part of the lie: the moments that didn’t serve the story. The things that weren’t for anyone else.

And then came the knock.

Soft. Hesitant.

She sat up. “Yeah?”

Azzi peeked through the door. She wasn’t in her dress anymore— just a pair of shorts and an old tee, her curls pulled back loosely, her expression unreadable. “You decent?”

“Depends on your definition,” Paige said, forcing a weak smile.

Azzi stepped in and leaned against the doorframe. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Paige watched her carefully. “Me either.”

There was a long pause.

Azzi broke it, quietly. “Can I tell you something?”

Paige nodded.

“I didn’t think this would get to me.” Azzi looked down, fiddling with a ring on her finger. “It was supposed to be simple. Clean. Controlled.”

“But it’s not.”

“No,” Azzi said. “It’s not.”

Paige felt her heart tug, just a little. “You’re not the only one.”

Azzi looked up at that— eyes locking onto hers, something raw flickering behind them. “When I look at you, Paige…” She stopped. Swallowed. “I forget we’re faking it.”

Paige didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

She just sat there, frozen, every nerve in her body firing at once.

Azzi crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough that Paige could see the tension in her shoulders. “You can tell me to stop. You can tell me it’s just a role. But I need you to know I’m not pretending anymore.”

Silence.

A long one.

Then, quietly— like a truth Paige had been holding in for days— she said, “I don’t want to pretend either.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “You mean that?”

Paige nodded, voice shaking. “Yeah. I do.”

____

The next day was chaos. Wedding prep. Final fittings. Tears and champagne and frantic flower girls. But somehow, through it all, Paige and Azzi found pockets of stillness.

A touch on the back as they passed each other.

A whispered joke during a photo session.

A look— held too long— when no one else was looking.

By the time the dance floor opened and Azzi reached for her hand, Paige didn’t hesitate.

They danced slow. Intimate. Their arms wrapped around each other like second nature.

“Everyone’s watching,” Paige murmured, her cheek brushing Azzi’s.

Azzi’s hand tightened at her waist. “Let them.”

“I feel like we’re supposed to kiss or something.”

Azzi paused. “Do you want to?”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “Not because we’re supposed to. Only if it’s real.”

Azzi looked at her like she’d already made that choice.

And then, quietly, deliberately— she kissed her.

Soft at first. Like a question. Then with more certainty, like she already knew the answer.

When they pulled apart, Paige didn’t look away.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” she whispered.

Azzi smiled. “Good.”

____

The kiss didn’t shatter anything.

It settled something. Quiet and unforced, it slipped between them like a puzzle piece finally falling into place. Not a performance, not a statement— just Paige and Azzi, wrapped in music and low light, eyes closed to the world and open only to each other.

And then, slowly, the moment passed.

They pulled apart, breath brushing between them, eyes locked. Paige blinked first.

Someone behind them cheered— not for them, for the newlyweds— and the real world came rushing back.

But nothing about them felt fake anymore.

They didn’t talk about the kiss right away.

Paige needed space to think. She slipped away from the reception after midnight, half-drunk on champagne and adrenaline, and found herself sitting on the venue’s back steps, heels dangling from her hand.

She was running her thumb over the lip of a glass when Azzi found her.

“You always disappear after the good parts,” Azzi said, voice soft as she stepped into the night.

Paige didn’t look over. “Wasn’t sure if it was a good part.”

Azzi sat beside her. Close, but not touching. “It was for me.”

That quiet admission settled in Paige’s chest like warmth in cold hands.

She exhaled. “I don’t know where the line is anymore.”

Azzi didn’t speak for a moment. Then, “I think it’s gone.”

Paige finally turned to look at her.

Azzi’s hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed from dancing. Her eyes, though, were steady. “This stopped being fake a while ago. We just didn’t want to be the first to say it.”

Paige bit her lip. “And now?”

“Now I want to know what it looks like when it’s not a performance.”

There was no crowd to play to here. No family. No cameras. Just moonlight, soft music from inside, and two people trying to find their footing.

“I’m scared it’s not different enough,” Paige admitted. “That it’ll feel the same, and somehow that’ll make it less real.”

Azzi reached for her hand. “Then we make it different.”

“How?”

“Let’s start with this.” Azzi’s voice was calm but certain. “Tomorrow— no stories. No setups. We go on a real date. Just you and me.”

“No pretending?”

“No pretending.”

Paige nodded slowly, almost like a dare to herself. “Okay.”

Azzi smiled. “Okay.”

____

They danced again before the night ended.

Not for show, not for pictures. Just the two of them, alone near the edge of the floor, slow-swaying to a song no one else was paying attention to. Azzi’s arms were loose around her waist, and Paige let her forehead rest against Azzi’s collarbone.

No eyes on them.

No script.

No lie.

Just a beginning — unspoken, but undeniably real.

THE RAIN

The wedding glow didn’t last.

Maybe it was the travel. Or the shift back to real life. Or the fact that what had started as a joke— a fake relationship to get through a weekend— had suddenly become something far too delicate to joke about.

Whatever it was, by the time they were back home, something between them had changed.

Paige pulled away first.

Not in a dramatic, obvious way. It was subtle— fewer texts, fewer “just because” calls, excuses about being tired, busy, overwhelmed. She showed up late to dinner one night and didn’t lean in when Azzi brushed her hand.

Azzi noticed every beat of it. Every flinch. Every pause.

But she didn’t push.

Not yet.

____

“You good?” Azzi asked one night, when they were sitting side by side on Paige’s couch, a game on the TV, untouched.

Paige didn’t look over. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

Paige let out a short breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“With me?”

“With any of this.”

Azzi paused. “You want out?”

“No. Yes.” Paige rubbed her face, eyes burning. “I don’t know.”

Azzi didn’t say anything.

Because what could she say, when Paige was already slipping through her fingers?

____

The next few days were worse.

Paige stopped answering. Not just texts — calls, too. She skipped their usual Sunday shootaround. She didn’t invite Azzi to the fundraiser dinner they’d planned to go to together. She didn’t say anything was wrong.

She just stopped showing up.

____

It was raining when Azzi finally found her.

Not a soft drizzle— a downpour, the kind that soaked through clothes in seconds, that made the whole world feel like it was breaking open.

Azzi didn’t care.

She stood outside Paige’s building, coat already heavy with rain, hair clinging to her face, and poundedon the buzzer until someone let her in.

She didn’t call first.

She didn’t text.

She just knocked on Paige’s door, hard, until it opened.

Paige stared at her, stunned. She was barefoot in a hoodie, face pale and tired, and for a moment, she didn’t say anything.

Azzi didn’t wait.

“You don’t get to ghost me,” she said, soaked and furious. “Not after all of that.”

Paige swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“No. You were. And I let you. Because I thought maybe you needed space, but now I’m standing here in a storm, and I’m not leaving until you say whatever it is you’re afraid to say.”

Paige’s voice cracked. “This isn’t going to work.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“This thing. Us.” Paige stepped back like she couldn’t bear her own words. “It was supposed to be fake. We were never meant to be real. It’s too much. It’s too fast. And I’m going to mess it up.”

Azzi took a step inside. “You’re not messing it up. You’re running from it.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just scared.”

Paige’s eyes welled up, but she held her ground. “I’ve never had anything like this before, Azzi. Not with anyone. I don’t know what it looks like to let it be real.”

Azzi stood there, soaked to the skin, heart wide open. “You want to know what it looks like?”

Paige didn’t answer.

Azzi closed the space between them. “It looks like me, right now, standing here completely drenched, because I love you so much I couldn’t not come. It looks like two people terrified out of their minds choosing each other anyway.”

Paige froze.

Azzi’s voice dropped. “I love you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then Paige stepped forward— one shaky, breathless step— and kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking.

And in the middle of it, she whispered, “I love you too.”

____

Later, they lay tangled on the couch, wrapped in towels and each other, the storm still whispering against the windows.

Neither of them spoke for a while. There was nothing to explain.

Because for the first time, nothing was pretend.

And neither of them was running.

[ramp-it-up]

Celebrate

Summary: Bucky gives you a gift for your birthday. But he gets the reward.

Word count: 2.5 K

Pairing: Congressman Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader

A/N: Definitely on my Bucky bullshit for a minute. Just block me now. Or, read, respond, and reblog! This is my bit of birthday self indulgence and may be based on real gift requests ;0. Love you heauxes! This is connected to Charm, and Claim, but can be read alone! I'm so down bad for these two. This has no Thunderbolts* spoilers.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. All mistakes my own. Smut! Teacher Reader, Congressman Bucky, Dom!Bucky, but also Subby!Bucky, so switch! Bucky? Back/butt rugs, fingering f receiving oral, raw p in v, breeding kink, SIZE KINK, multiple orgasms, woman on top, orgasm denial, overstimulation, praise kink. begging, female masturbation, The L word!, tiny bit of the Sargeant kink, nicknames Charm and Baby, Basically pwp.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

------

You and Bucky had a rhythm now: every other weekend.

One trip to DC, one to Brooklyn. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked. This weekend was your birthday. And you wanted out of the city.

So you took the train south, and by the time you reached his townhouse, the air smelled like lemon, butter, and something just slightly burnt, because Bucky insisted on cooking and refused help.

It still tasted amazing, because he made it with something neither of you had named yet.

Love.

He leaned in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, wearing that smug little smirk like he knew he’d already won the night. You were curled on his couch in nothing but his t-shirt, a glass of wine balanced on your thigh, and the last bite of cake melting on your tongue.

“Good birthday?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

You nodded, then stretched just enough to make your point clear, your shirt, his t-shirt, riding up on your thighs a little as you groaned softly. 

“Mmm. Almost perfect.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and sauntered over, hand bracing the back of the couch, body heat curling around you.

“Almost? Baby, I cooked for you. I let you win at cards. I didn’t even complain when you dragged me through that bookstore for forty-five minutes.”

You smirked, tilting your head to look up at him. 

“And I appreciate all of that. But…”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “But?”

You set your wine down, pouting up at him just enough to play.

“I was thinking... maybe a back rub?”

He snorted. “You mean a butt rub.”

“I meant what I said.” Your tone was innocent. Your smile wasn’t. “It’s not my fault if your hands wander.”

He leaned down until his lips were brushing your temple, his voice a gravel-soft murmur.

“Sweetheart, when it’s your birthday, my hands are yours to do whatever you want with.”

His mouth found the side of your neck before you could come up with something clever to say, slow kisses trailing heat down your skin. You shivered, arching into him.

“C’mon,” he murmured, already lifting you in his arms. 

“Let me spoil you a little more.”

In the bedroom, he knelt behind you on the bed, thighs straddling yours, big hands working into your lower back beneath the hem of his shirt. His touch was slow at first, thumbs tracing your spine, palms kneading your lower back. But when your hips rolled back into him just a little too deliberately, he groaned.

“This what you had in mind, baby?” he asked, breath catching as you arched again, teasing. His hands slid lower, over the curve of your hips, then further, until he was massaging your ass like he owned it, and come to think of it, maybe he did.

You hummed. 

“Exactly what I wanted.”

His thumbs pressed into the base of your spine, but the heat in his touch betrayed him. 

He wasn't thinking about knots or tension anymore. He was thinking about the way your skin warmed under his palms. The way your hips tilted back to meet him. The little sound you made when he kneaded the underside of your butt.

“You really gonna pretend you just wanted a massage, Baby?” he murmured, mouth grazing your ear now. 

“That all you were after?”

You tilted your head to the side, giving him access, knowing exactly what that would do to him. 

“Didn’t say how I wanted it to end.”

His fingers glided from your lower back, over your beautiful ass, roving intimately. He massaged your thighs, dipping between them to rub your soft pussy through your panties, teasing.

"Turn over, Charm." His voice was a rasp. "Let me see my girl." 

Bucky flipped you gently onto your back, blue eyes dark now, his pupils blown as he looked down at you. The shirt had ridden high, and he pushed it higher, his knuckles dragging against your soft skin.  He ran his fingers over your nipples, tugging at them softly before he cupped your breasts, drawing every shiver from you.

"Open your legs." 

He ran his hands along your thighs and pulled you towards the edge of the bed. 

“I want to see that pretty pussy.”

He took his time, kissing down your torso, eyes never leaving yours until he had to close them, groaning as his mouth found the place just below your belly button, where you always shuddered for him.

“You smell so delicious,” he muttered, voice wrecked, like he was already unraveling. “You know what that does to me?”

You arched up in response, and he didn't wait. He hooked your panties down with a practiced kind of urgency, but still kissed every inch he uncovered. 

Every part of you felt claimed before he’d even touched you where you needed him most.

And when his mouth finally settled between your thighs, when his tongue licked a long, slow stripe and his hands held your hips down, your breath caught so hard it was a sob.

“Oh my god, Bucky!”

“Say it again,” he rasped, voice muffled, his mouth relentless. “Louder. I want the neighbors to know whose birthday it is.”

You were already shaking. He was too good at this, too practiced at making you fall apart for him. It was his favorite way to give. 

Not diamonds. Not champagne. Just you, undone.

Your fingers laced through his hair, pulling. He groaned into you and doubled down, like he needed it just as bad. Like this was his gift, too.

You came hard, trembling under him, his name a broken prayer on your lips. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down, just licked and sucked until you were shaking under his mouth, coming so hard it almost hurt.

Then he slid up your body, grinning. He only stopped to kiss you again, mouth slick, eyes wild, cock heavy against your thigh.

"You’re fucking stunning. I need you dripping with my cum."

He slid over you, teasing you with his thick cock as he rubbed against your folds.

“God, you’re so wet already.”

“Wonder why,” you whispered, grinning.

That earned you a low growl. Vibranium braced your hip, the other hand fisted in the sheets beside your head, and then a guttural moan ripped out of you as he eased in, taking it slow because he was so damn big. 

The sensation was overwhelming, and you trembled on the bed, breathing deeply.

“Jesus, Bucky!”

“Yeah?” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “That what you wanted? My cock for your birthday?”

You nodded, dizzy with it, but he was already moving, already moving his hips in that perfect rhythm that made you whimper every time he pulled out only to fill you again and again. Deep, rolling thrusts, each one carving you open just right.

"Say it," he groaned. "Tell me what you need."

"You," you gasped, wrapping your legs around him. "Harder. Just don't stop."

He went slowly at first, grabbing your hair in his fist as he thrust in and out of you, stroking your squeezing pussy with his pulsing cock. You arched up against him and he gave you more, everything you could take. 

He thrust harder. Rougher. His rhythm breaking just enough to show how close he was, how much he needed this.

Bucky’s control started to fray at the edges. You could tell in the way he cursed into your neck, in the way his rhythm started to stutter, rougher now, deeper as his hips snapped into yours.

“Gonna give it to you,” he promised, and he did, he gave you everything. The weight of him, the heat, the unspoken love in every thrust. He fucked you like you were the only thing that’s ever made him feel right.

Because you were.

You met him stroke for stroke, fingers digging into his back, nails raking as you got closer again.

“Gonna come for me again, birthday girl?” he panted, barely holding on. 

You nodded, breathless. “Yes, please, Bucky, I’m right there…”

“God, I wanna feel it. Wanna feel you squeeze me just like that, fuck, gonna cum inside you…”

And you did.

And he did.  

You shattered underneath him with a cry, body clenching tight around him, massaging the length of him in firm tugs until he lost it. He followed fast, burying himself deep as he came with a raw, broken groan that sounded like your name.

He didn't pull out right away; he was still hard.

“I want to do this all day and all night, forever, Charm.” 

You took his head in your hands and looked him in those beautiful eyes.

“Gonna give you what you need, Bucky.”

He broke, whispering a reverent, “I love you,” for the first time.

You grinned back at him and whispered it back. 

“I know. And I love you, too.”

Bucky laugh/sobbed and then proceeded to work the waves of your orgasm further, harder, until the waves of your next climax tugged tightly around his cock and he filled you with more hot bursts that made you come again. 

It was amazing.

His hands gripped you possessively, playing with your nipples and your clit, memorizing every perfect curve and groove, until you were coming yet again. Finally, he lay there, panting, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat-damp hair falling in his eyes as he kissed you like he didn’t want to let you go.

His smile turned lazy, confident, until you flipped him gently onto his back and straddled him, that same glint he wore now reflecting in your eyes.

“Did you get everything you wanted?”

“I can think of another gift I’d like…” you murmured, rolling your hips just enough to make him curse, “I want to ruin you.”

Bucky blinked up at you, caught between reverence and sheer, helpless lust.

“Jesus, Charm…”

“Do you understand, Sargeant?” you asked, dragging your nails down his chest, scraping his nipple deliciously. You took his arms and guided them above his head. 

“Now, keep your hands up here. Do. Not. Move. Understand?”

Bucky swallowed hard and nodded, voice gone, pupils blown.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Good boy.”

You rolled your hips down against his watching the way Bucky’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact, how he bit back a moan, hands twitching where you’d pinned them to the bed.

But he didn’t move. Not without permission.

You smiled, pleased, and leaned in to kiss along his throat, leaving a mark just below his jaw.

“That’s better,” you murmured. 

“All this strength, all this control, and you give it to me.”

His breath hitched. “It’s always yours.”

You sat back on his thighs. Your hand slid between your bodies, wrapping around his cock, still hot and half-hard, soaking wet with your combined fluids, and already starting to throb again beneath your touch.

“Then let me take what’s mine.”

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, until he was fully hard again, aching for it, whining softly in his throat. You watched him fall apart under you, helpless and obedient, eyes glassy with need.

“Look at you,” you whispered, lining yourself up and sinking down on him in one slow, deliberate motion. “So fucking gorgeous when you let go.”

His groan was deep, desperate, like he was barely holding on.

You rode him slowly at first, then harder when you felt him start to twitch beneath you, like he couldn’t take it anymore. You leaned in close, lips brushing his.

“Don’t come unless I say.”

He whimpered, eyes wide, and you grinned as you rolled your hips again.

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “God, yes.”

You rocked harder, nails dragging down his chest again, and you felt him tremble underneath you. But he held on. Just like you told him to.

“Good boy,” you whispered, then gave him a filthy kiss. 

“Now tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” Bucky choked out. “I belong to you, Charm”

“Damn right you do.”

And then you let him break.

“Cum for me, Bucky.”

That was all it took.

The second the words left your mouth, he came with a wrecked moan, his entire body arching beneath you, cock pulsing as he spilled deep inside you. You didn’t slow. You kept riding him, hips grinding down to milk every last drop, your cunt squeezing him mercilessly until he was gasping for breath.

But you weren’t done.

Not even close.

His arms trembled where you still had them pinned. He looked dazed, flushed, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

You leaned forward and kissed him, soft at first, then biting his lower lip as you clenched around him again.

“You didn’t think I was finished with you, did you?”

His breath caught.

“Baby, fuck, I don’t think I can…”

“You can. And you will.”

You pulled your hips up slowly, feeling his cock twitch inside you, still half hard, but oversensitive. You dragged your nails down his chest, then planted your hands on either side of his head, hips rolling with calculated precision.

“I want it again. Want to feel you get hard inside me while I use you.”

He groaned like he was in pain, but his cock was already thickening again, fighting through the aftershock to obey.

“That’s it,” you whispered, biting along his jaw. “Good fucking boy.”

You moved with ruthless grace now, your control absolute. You rode him like his only purpose was to fill you, please you, break for you. And he did. He took it all, shaking, panting, drowning in the way you fucked him.

And when you came again, clenching hard around him, moaning into his mouth, he whimpered like it hurt, and then begged to cum again.

“Please Charm, let me, please, let me come inside you again…”

You smiled wickedly.

“Not yet.”

You leaned back, hips still moving, watching the tension build in him again, watching how badly he wanted to obey. You pressed a palm to his chest, and let your free hand slip between your legs to rub your clit in tight, practiced circles, moaning shamelessly, knowing exactly what it did to him when you took control like this.

Bucky’s eyes were fixed to the spot and he bit his lip as he watched you.

And finally, when your breath started to break, when your thighs trembled and you could feel another climax building, you gave him his reward.

“Now, Bucky. Fill me.”

He shattered beneath you with a hoarse, broken cry, coming so hard it sent your orgasm crashing into you too. Your pussy clenched violently around him, drawing him deeper, milking him again as you rode both of you through it, grinding every drop out of him.

You collapsed forward, breathless and flushed, your body humming from the high of it, sweat-damp skin sticking to his.

Bucky wrapped his arms around you the second you let him, trembling and blissed out, lips finding your neck.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered hoarsely, voice raw. “I think you just rewired my brain. Supposed to be your birthday, not mine.”

You laughed softly, stroking his jaw, and kissed him with a slow, satisfied hum.

“Best Birthday ever.”

He smiled, boyish and ruined and beautiful. He kissed your shoulder.

“You sure? I've got more planned."

You hummed, fingers drifting down his back, nails grazing his skin.

“Hmmm. Well, we’ve got all weekend."

"Gonna give you everything you ever wanted, Charm."

"You already have, my Darling. My Bucky. My love."

[natalianovnas]

𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

summary : raised in the heart of the countryside, you, Y/N Langford, has always known the rhythm of ranch life—early mornings on horseback, sun-drenched vineyards, and a quiet kind of freedom carved into the land passed down through generations. however, your father's recent colleague is interesting enough.

genre : country!au, wlw, countryside life.

warnings : beefy!nat, top!nat, gp!nat, sub!reader, fluff but mostly smut — let's say this chapter's just briefing how nasty the two are.

words count : 4.7k

an : i promise im not as freaky as this might be 🙈

𖦹 part one 𖦹 part two 𖦹 part three 𖦹 part four 𖦹

HORSES & ROMANCE :

Every Inch Of Dawn

📍 Langford's Estate,

Clare Valley, Southern Australia

You stirred first.

Body aching in pleasant ways. A dull, stretched soreness that reminded you just how intense the night before had been.

Natasha was still asleep, lying on her stomach, one arm under the pillow and the other loosely draped over your waist. The blanket barely covered her, and the sun gave her shoulders a warm glow. Her back moved in slow, steady breaths, muscles relaxed, hair messily tumbling around her face.

She looked peaceful—something you didn’t think she let herself be often.

You let yourself watch her a little longer than you probably should’ve, committing the sight to memory of her here in your bed, your space.

You could still feel her on you—her mouth, her fingers, the way she had whispered your name like it was something sacred.

As you brushed the hair from her face, her lashes fluttered—lips parting into the hint of a smile.

“You watching me sleep?” She mumbled, voice low and scratchy.

“You snore,” You teased.

She opened one eye. “You’re lying.”

“Little bit.”

Natasha stretched, her body warm and heavy against yours. “Gonna put me to work today?”

“Thought about it,” You said, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “You owe me for eating the last of the pie yesterday at the fair.”

“You said I could have it.”

“You used that voice.”

She grinned lazily, then rolled on top of you, pinning you to the bed with nothing but her weight and that wicked smirk. “What voice?”

“That voice where I know I’m about to let you do whatever the hell you want.”

Cockily, she rose a brow. “You mean the one that gets me pie and laid?”

You laughed. Loudly. Honestly.

She kissed you quiet — slow and affectionate, not leading anywhere this time. Just there. Warm. Real.

Neither of you moved right away. There was no panic, no rush to explain, no awkward reaching for clothes. Just a long moment suspended in the quiet.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she said after a while, her fingers brushing lightly along your hip under the sheet.

“I didn’t either,” You replied. “But I’m glad we did.”

Her brow arched faintly. “Yeah?”

You nodded, your voice soft. “Yeah.”

Natasha leaned in, brushing her lips over your bare shoulder—a small kiss, nothing demanding. Just acknowledgment, making you smile.

She exhaled, a shaky breath, and tucked her face against your neck, like she needed the anchor. You held her without speaking.

After a few minutes, her stomach let out a quiet growl.

You laughed softly, pulling back just enough to see her face. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” She muttered, eyes closing again.

“You stay here,” you said. “I’ll make coffee. And eggs if the hens liked me enough yesterday.”

She cracked a sleepy grin. “You’re kind of perfect, you know.”

You kissed her once more—light and lingering—before slipping out of bed, wrapping yourself in a worn flannel shirt. She watched you go, propping herself on one elbow, and thought of how lucky she was right in that moment.

You made it to the kitchen— barefoot, coffee in hand, standing in the kitchen with your hair a mess and your flannel slipping off one shoulder.

You heard her before you saw her — soft steps on the floorboards, followed by that husky voice that always managed to make you feel seen, even when you weren’t looking.

“Looks like the hens didn't appreciate you today.” She commented.

A soft hum, in agreement, came from your lips. “I was thinking toasts would do the drill instead.”

“Help yourself to the coffee.”

“I didn’t come for the coffee.” She murmured.

Her hand slid to your hip, the other brushing the hair from your shoulder. She bent down, lips grazing your neck, slow and deliberate. “I came for you.”

You didn’t stop her.

Didn’t want to.

The mug was forgotten somewhere on the counter as she kissed you — not rushed this time, not needy. Just full. Thorough. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you tasted first thing in the morning. Her hands found the hem of your flannel, sliding under it, dragging over bare skin with reverence.

Her picking you up with no warning made you gasp in surprise, then smile at yourself right after as she attached her lips back on yours —hands dropped over your sides— then it shifted.

Your smile turned into full giggles as she attacked you with kisses. Your lips, eyes, cheeks, neck, jaw—all while your bodies being glued to the other's.

“You always look like this in the morning?” The Russian asked. “Or is it just for me?”

“Depends. I'd do the honor to say that it's just for you.”

With a low hum while nipping your jaw, she added, “Remind me to never underestimate you again in bed.”

You raised a brow. “You underestimated me?”

She tilted her head, eyes gleaming now. “Just a little.”

You laughed softly, but your fingers stayed at her back, moving in slow strokes. “Do you regret it?” The question slipped out quieter than you meant it to.

Natasha stilled. Her eyes searched yours, serious now.

“No,” She said finally. “Not even close.”

You nodded, exhaling. “Good.”

She rested her forehead on yours, the edge of a smile tugging her lips as she pecked your lips repeatedly. “I liked waking up next to you.”

You smiled back, “I liked falling asleep next to you.”

The redhead's hands glided down to your thighs, fingers grazing over them in a soothing motion.

“You're sitting there, hot and all, and I hate to say that I'd have to leave soon.” She stated. “Got work to do.”

You nodded. “It's alright. I gotta check on Bramble, anyway. But you're not leaving without eating first.”

Of course, she wasn't. One thing she knew about your family and the constant time she'd spent with you — breakfast was priority here.

“How’s he, by the way?”

“Spooked by the gate slamming a day ago, but calmed down fast. That’s progress.”

“I’ve seen grown men recover slower.”

🪵 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 ✈︎ 𖦹 🪵

(Few days later.)

It had rained the night before, a steady, rhythmic downpour that soaked the soil and cooled the summer air. By morning, the clouds had scattered, leaving the fields glistening under soft light.

The barn on your property stood tall and weathered, its red paint faded by time and sun, and just beyond it, your horse was stuck in the mud. Again.

You stood ankle-deep in it, boots sinking into the thick mess as you muttered curses under your breath.

The rope tugged sharply in your hands as the mare resisted, stubborn as ever. You were halfway to cursing her ancestors when you heard a whistle — low, slow, and unmistakably amused.

Natasha leaned against your fence like she’d been summoned, sleeves rolled up, tank top sticking to her damp skin. She didn’t say anything right away. Just watched you with that crooked grin, arms folded across her chest, muscles flexing as if she wanted to remind you she was built like sin and salvation all at once.

“You look like you’re auditioning for a country song,” The redhead finally spoke up.

You shot her a glare. “Unless you’re offering to help, Romanoff, shut it.”

With deliberate slowness, she climbed over the fence, boots landing in the mud with a satisfying squelch. She came to your side, took the rope without a word, and gave one firm tug.

The mare moved forward with ease. You blinked.

Natasha tossed a smug glance your way. “What? She's got a thing for redheads.”

You snorted, “So does her owner.”

“Well,” She murmured, “Guess we have something in common.”

You looked away, hiding your smile but she saw it anyway.

By the time the two of you got the mare back in the stable, your jeans were a mess, and your hands were streaked with mud. Natasha wiped her palms on her thighs and gave the horse a soft pat before turning to you.

She helped you finish up without being asked — sweeping out the barn, fixing the bent gate hinge, and repairing a broken step on your porch.

The way she worked, methodical and focused, told you she wasn’t new to hard labor. But she never complained. She just moved beside you like it was natural.

Later, while fixing a loose hinge on the chicken coop, you caught her staring again. Not with heat, but with softness. Like she was trying to hold the moment in her palms.

“What?” You asked, hands on your hips.

She stepped closer, slipping behind you, arms wrapping around your waist.

“You’re dangerous,” She murmured into your ear.

“How’s that?”

“Because I could stay here,” The redhead whispered. “And forget who I was before.”

You turned in her arms, meeting her gaze. “Maybe that’s the point.”

🪵 ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎   𖦹   ✈︎  𖦹  🪵

The storm had passed, but the air hadn’t cooled.

It was thick, charged with something heavier than just humidity. You could feel it in the way Natasha looked at you across the dinner table — quiet, unreadable, but her eyes told a different story.

You were barefoot, wearing her flannel — nothing underneath. You’d slipped it on after your shower, thinking she wouldn’t notice.

She noticed.

“Stand up,” She said, voice low.

“Why?”

Natasha tilted her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Because I said so. Come on.”

You rose slowly, your heart thudding as her chair scraped back against the floor. The second you reached hsr, she hooked her fingers into the hem of the shirt and lifted it just enough to see your bare skin beneath.

“Fuck,” She muttered, more to herself than to you.

You leaned into her with teasing smile. “Something wrong?”

She chuckled, “Yeah. I’m trying really hard to be a decent woman right now.”

In a swift mouvement, she gripped the back of your thighs and pulled you down on her lap, your bodies slamming together like you’d been craving it all day.

You let out a breathless moan as you landed right on her hard cock, her hands were everywhere — gripping, guiding, greedy.

“I dreamt about this,” She murmured against your throat. “Woke up hard and aching and mad because I wasn’t inside you.”

Her hand was already sliding beneath the shirt, finding your heated core. “You’re already wet, baby. You waited for me.”

Her fingers slipped inside your cunt with maddening ease, her palm pressing just right. Your body arched into hers as she whispered filth into your ear, every word soaked in desire and dominance.

“You like being ruined in your own kitchen?” She rasped, her fingers moving relentlessly inside of you. “Want me to fuck you on this counter with your legs wide open like you’re mine?”

“Please,” You gasped, barely holding on.

That did it.

She lifted you with ease, set you on the counter, and yanked the shirt wide open — not caring about buttons, not caring about anything except seeing you sprawled, flushed, trembling for her.

She didn’t waste time and dropped to her knees again, tongue dragging a slow, sinful line up your thigh before she reached your dripping heat, devouring you like she’d been starving.

You broke apart in seconds, hips jerking, hands tangled in her hair, voice lost to the walls and fields and the wide-open night outside.

And even after she stood, breathless and wild-eyed, she didn’t stop. She kissed you deep — claiming you — and lifted you off the counter.

“We’re not done,” She growled, carrying you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. “Not even close.”

Moments later sometime after midnight, the room smelled like sweat and skin and summer rain still lingering on the breeze.

Your legs were tangled with Natasha’s, her hand resting low on your stomach, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your bare skin. The sheets were kicked halfway down the bed. Her body was still half on top of you, heavy and warm — grounding.

You could feel the rise and fall of her chest. Steady. Safe.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” She mumbled, lips brushing your temple.

You turned your head, eyes still hazy. “You didn’t like it?”

The redhead huffed a laugh. “I loved it. But I meant… I wasn’t planning on losing my mind the second I saw you in my shirt.”

You smiled. “Then it’s my fault.”

She shifted onto her side, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s your fault I’ve been walking around all week trying to be respectful, meanwhile thinking about bending you over every fence on this damn property.”

Oh.

You laughed softly while she leaned in again, this time slower, her kiss gentle. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just soft.

“I like how quiet it is here,” She whispered. “But I like you more.”

You tucked your face into her neck, smiling against her skin. “You’re gonna make me fall for you.”

Natasha held you tighter. “Too late. Already fallen.”

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The day hadn't even ended and Natasha's mind was running wild with thoughts of you.

It started with the damn shorts.

You’d worn them on purpose — cut-off denim that barely passed for legal and a tied-up flannel that left very little to the imagination.

You knew exactly what you were doing when you bent over in front of the fence (said fence she'd mentioned just last night), pretending to check the wire right across from where Nat worked, arching your back just enough.

The sun was hot. The sky was cloudless. And you could feel Natasha’s gaze sear into you from halfway across the field.

You'd thought it was a great idea to toy with her today, not even bothering to stop when she was in the presence of your dad.

You were always passing around, teasing, all acting innocent.

You didn’t have to look to know she was staring. You felt it like pressure on your skin.

“You’re really testing me, sweetheart,” Her voice came from behind — low, strained, full of warning, making you smirk.

As you straightened, slow, cocky, to face her, you feigned pure innocence. “I’m just working.”

Natasha didn’t buy it for a second.

The second you turned around, she was there, grabbing your hips, walking you backward until your back hit the wood of the fence with a dull thud. Her breath was hot, heavy, and furious against your cheek.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growled. “Those shorts, that shirt. Bending over like that. What are you trying to do to me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Wrong move.

Her hand shot to your throat — not squeezing, just holding. Commanding. The other slipped under the hem of your shorts, fingers pressing into the soft, warm skin of your ass.

“Nat—”

She silenced you with a kiss that left no room for teasing — open-mouthed, tongue, teeth, all hunger and pent-up frustration. She kissed like she was claiming territory, biting at your bottom lip as her fingers pushed past the denim, past your underwear, past your composure.

“You get off on this?” She rasped, voice rough in your ear as you panted, a pleased grin on your lips. “Getting me worked up in the open, where anyone could see?”

“You mentioned taking me over the fence some days ago.” You replied, already breathless, as she fiddled with the zipper of her pants. “I'm just helping your wish to come true.”

She tugged your shorts down just enough, lifting one of your legs to hook around her hip. The fence creaked behind you, the wood rough at your back. But you barely noticed — not with the way she slid her dick inside you in one motion, slow and thick, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your thigh tight enough to bruise.

“Fuck,” Natasha groaned, thrusting deep. “So wet. Were you waiting for this?”

You clawed at her shoulders, gasping as each roll of her hips sent heat spiraling through your body.

“For what do you think earlier's show was ?”

She was relentless — thrusting hard enough to shake the boards, grounding you with her strength, her body, her voice.

“You tease me like that again,” She hissed as she pounded hard into you , “and I’ll take you right here every time.”

Her pace quickened, the slap of skin against skin muffled only by your moans and the wind. It was messy. Hot. So damn risky.

And you were addicted.

She pulled out of you and before you could even have time to complain, you were turned around, bent over and her cock was back inside of you.

If it weren't for her hands holding your hips tightly, you would've been face down the grass by now due to your knees that'd almost gave up.

“Fuck, yes, j-just like that..”

You moaned, your hands gripping the border of the fence to anchor yourself. Natasha took you, just like you wanted.

You came with a sob, body trembling as she drove you through it, holding you tight, whispering dirty promises into your ear even as she lost herself in you.

When she finally stilled, still inside you, breathing hard against your neck.

“Think the whole damn field heard us,” She muttered, grinning as she kissed the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the underside of your jaw.

“Serves you right,” You whispered back, teasing. “You’re the one who couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

Her teeth sank lightly into your shoulder, and you yelped.

She laughed. A real, bright, completely unguarded laugh.

But then — a voice cut through the air like a crack of thunder.

“Y/N! You out there, darlin’?”

It was your father.

Natasha’s body locked against yours like stone, her eyes wide. You slapped a hand over your mouth, biting back a curse.

“In the back pasture, fixing the gate!” you shouted, trying to sound casual, like you hadn’t just been railed against a wooden fence by your dad's dangerously hot co-worker.

The Russian, still very much inside you moments ago, looked like she was reconsidering every life decision that had brought her to this exact moment.

Boots crunched in the distance — your father’s. Getting closer.

You shoved at Natasha’s chest. “Go. Go!”

She practically dove into the nearest row of tall grass, tucking herself out of sight behind the shed. You yanked your shorts up in record time, yelping as the zipper caught your sensitive skin.

Your father appeared just over the ridge. “You okay?”

You forced a smile, “Yeah! Gate’s a little stubborn.”

He eyed you. “Your face’s all red.”

“Hot out,” You blurted.

He narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “Well, come on back soon. We’re firing up the grill.”

“Be right there.”

He turned and walked away with a nod.

You waited until his footsteps were gone before the tall grass rustled — Natasha emerging like a gorgeous fox. Her shirt was unbuttoned, face smug.

“That was close,” She murmured.

You glared at her. “I hate you.”

She smirked, pulling you back into her arms. “No, you don’t.”

She kissed you again — sweet, lazy, full of trouble.

And you let her, even as you muttered, “You owe me so bad.”

“Good,” Nat whispered against your lips. “’Cause I was planning on working up an appetite before dinner anyway.”

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The sun was dipping low, casting the ranch in gold as smoke curled lazily up from the grill. Your dad was manning it like it was a battlefield, spatula in hand, cowboy hat slightly askew.

Your grandmother had set out the side dishes on the porch table, chatting with your aunt while your younger cousins chased each other barefoot across the grass.

And then there was Natasha — washed, changed, and acting like she hadn’t just had you gasping against a fence an hour ago. Her hair was damp from a quick shower, slicked back, revealing cheekbones sharp enough to cut. She wore worn jeans and a black tank top that clung just right, and when she smiled politely at your mom, you could almost believe she was innocent.

Almost.

You were standing beside the lemonade table when she sidled up next to you. Her hand brushed yours — deliberately, slow — and she didn’t look at you when she said, “Still sore?”

You choked on your drink.

Natasha chuckled under her breath and took a sip of her sweet tea like she hadn’t just whispered sin. Your aunt, Diane, turned toward the sound and smiled. “Natasha, how do you like ranch life so far?”

Nat didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve never been more… satisfied.”

Your face burned.

Your dad called everyone over for burgers, and Natasha stepped in like she’d always belonged, passing plates, laughing at your uncle Pete’s jokes, helping your little cousin tie her shoelaces. But every time she looked at you — that spark in her eye, the ghost of a smirk — it was a silent, unspoken promise: I’m not done with you yet.

Later, after dishes were cleared and the sky turned indigo, she tugged you by the hand toward the barn with a whispered, “Come on.”

The barn was quiet, cloaked in shadows and the warm hush of summer night.

The soft glow of old fairy lights strung above the rafters cast golden patterns over everything — the hay bales, the tools, the dust motes swirling in still air.

You didn’t even get a word out before Natasha pushed you gently against the barn door and kissed you like she hadn’t had her fill — like the entire day had just been foreplay for this.

Her hands were rough with callouses now —weeks on the ranch had seen to that— and they gripped your sides.

Her mouth moved from yours to your neck, then down, lips dragging across your collarbone with intent.

“Slow down, I'm not going anywhere, you know?” You chuckled.

“Thought about this all through dinner,” She murmured, pulling your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. “You, in that tight little tank top. Acting like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

“And you, pretending to be sweet in front of my family. You’re evil.”

She grinned against your stomach. “You liked it.”

She kissed you then — not gentle, but needy. Desperate. All tongue and teeth and hands that couldn’t stay still. Your shirt was yanked up and over your head, tossed somewhere into the shadows, and her mouth was on your collarbone, your chest, biting just enough to make you shiver.

You moaned as her hand slid past the waistband of your underwear, finding heat and slick with a confident ease that made your knees weak.

“F-fuck…”

“I’ve got you,” she said low, her voice pure gravel, pure promise.

She turned you then, guiding you toward the nearest hay bale, and before you could fully process it, you were bent over it, fingers gripping the edge. Her body was flush against yours, and her other hand was already working open her belt, her breath hot against your neck.

“You sure you can stay quiet, sweetheart?” she whispered.

You nodded, barely.

Then she slid her dick into you — slow, sure, deep.

You bit your lip so hard it almost bled, a sharp cry caught in your throat. Her hands gripped your hips, anchoring you to her, guiding the rhythm. She rocked into you, the angle perfect, dragging pleasure through you in waves.

The sounds were obscene — wet, gasping, skin on skin — muffled only slightly by the barn’s thick walls.

She leaned over you, lips brushing your ear. “Still wanna tease me tomorrow? Wear those little shorts again?”

You whimpered, trembling under her.

She grinned, nipping your earlobe. “Didn’t think so.”

Her pace didn’t falter. She thrust deeper, rougher, but gentle, until you were bracing hard against the hay, your body a mess of sensation, clenching around her.

When you came after she did, it hit fast — a quake that left you breathless and shaking. She held you through it, still moving, coaxing every last wave out of you until you collapsed forward with a groan.

Natasha kissed your shoulder, then your neck, slowing down only after she’d chased her own high with a soft, broken growl against your skin.

You both stayed there for a moment — pressed together, panting, tangled up in sweat and heat and everything unsaid.

“Feel better?” You asked with a dazed smile.

She chuckled, pulling you close, her voice a velvet rasp. “You’ve got no idea.”

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You should’ve moved. You knew you should’ve moved — back to the house, to a bed, to the rest of the world waiting outside that old barn. But Natasha’s hand was drawing lazy circles on your lower back, her bare thigh tangled between yours, and you didn’t want to go anywhere.

Her voice broke the quiet, low and satisfied. “How do you always manage to look this good, even after i’ve wrecked you?”

You smirked, eyes fluttering shut as you nuzzled into her collarbone. “Modest this morning, aren’t we?”

She kissed your temple, lips grazing tenderly across your hairline. “I’m not wrong.”

“No,” you whispered, tracing your fingers along the edge of her ribs, “but if you keep talking like that, I’m never getting off this haystack.”

“That’s the plan.”

Natasha shifted, rolling you onto your back again with that effortless strength of hers. She leaned over you, her body warm and solid, her eyes dark but soft. She looked at you like she’d been starving and had finally been fed — but still wanted another bite.

"Slept nice?"

“I don’t think I've ever really slept,” You murmured, your voice low, teasing. “Someone kept me busy.”

Natasha chuckled, low and smug, her hand sliding over your waist, fingertips brushing a bruise she’d left near your hip. “You kept moaning my name like it was the only word you knew. You think I could sleep through that?”

You blushed, but you didn’t pull away—eyes tracing the mess of red hair, the way the morning sun lit her skin in amber. She looked devastatingly good like this — rumpled, content, still hungry in her gaze.

“You’re not sore?” You asked, quirking a brow.

The Russian smirked, “Baby, I can handle a few rounds in the hay.”

You rolled your eyes and laughed, then winced slightly as you moved. “God, we really didn’t stop.”

“Nope.” She stretched a little, groaning, then leaned down and kissed the inside of your thigh. “Not my fault you’re irresistible in denim shorts and mouthy comebacks.”

You tangled your fingers in her hair, tugging her closer. “We should probably go inside before someone finds us out here.”

“I want to see you again,” she said, voice rougher now, “feel you again. Slow this time. We’ve got time now, don’t we?”

Your breath hitched. “I thought you wanted peace and quiet on this farm.”

Her lips ghosted over your throat as she leaned back up. “I’ve got peace. You’re the quiet I like.”

Your heart did something traitorous then — flipped, full, needy. But there wasn’t time to process it, because her mouth was on your chest again, kissing every bruise she left the night before like a silent apology — or maybe a vow.

And then she sank down your body, slow and reverent. No teasing this time. No need. Just the heat of her breath against your thigh, her hands holding you like you were something sacred.

You arched as her tongue found you, already pulsing and tender, but eager for her again. Her name spilled from your mouth like prayer. She licked you slow, deep, thorough — drawing it out, savoring it, like she was determined to memorize every sound you made under her.

You came undone again, this time with a whimper and your fingers tugging tight in her hair. And even as you trembled, even as your vision blurred, she didn’t stop — didn’t let go — only kissed her way back up your body, wrapping herself around you again.

“I could die happy right here,” She whispered into your neck.

“Not yet,” You murmured, dazed. “I’m not done with you.”

She laughed then, low and rough and so turned on. “Then don’t be, baby.”

And the barn stayed quiet — except for the sounds only the two of you made, as the sun climbed higher, and morning became something entirely your own.

➪ next part.

[polychaeteworm]

I mean this as politely as possible:

You need to go catch your whimsy it's flying away.

Your "ridiculous" is my "emotional contextual fun description" and I'd be remiss in not mentioning that this is the same flavor as the bullying I got for being the weird art kid in school. Maybe you can empathize with that.

Also, I have complex synesthesia and I don't think you would think it's that ridiculous if you could also taste and see the actual blood orange when someone describes warm red that way.

You don't realize it, but that description also gives added emotional context to the color too

Warm red= ok that's all. Does the job.

Blood orange= saturated deep warm red, like the juice from the named citrus. Fresh like an orange, but powerful like red. Evokes vibes in addition to doing the job.

I will continue to say with my whole chest that invocation of flowery comparison items in color names is just as useful as CMYK classifications.

Because sometimes you're trying to render something with a kind of vibe that you won't get with a color that doesn't have the named, emotional, contextual ties to a real thing. I get some folks are just not that kind of artist and that's ok.

I just think it's not ok to label it as pretentious and ridiculous when someone engages with color like this because you're sliding down a slippery slope that leads to devaluing the arts as "frivolous" whether you realize that or not.

[scarletwinterxx]

the archer - choi seungcheol imagine

helllloo ~ short backstory as to why this is titled 'the archer', i was omw home one day and the line "Who could ever leave me, darling But who could stay?" just stuck. i hope when you read this one, it will make sense😅 oh and yea we have a cute shy cheol for this one sksksks

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’ve heard the crying before but tonight, it’s relentless. For nearly an hour now, it’s been Soojin’s voice echoing through your studio, softening only to rise again like a wave you can’t block out with pillows or music.

You lie there, eyes on the ceiling, heart pacing with a mixture of concern and hesitation. It’s not your place. You barely know him—Choi Seungcheol, your next-door neighbor with the quiet eyes and tired smile. You’ve exchanged the occasional nod in the hallway, a few polite words in the elevator. He moved in six months ago, shortly after the baby was born. Alone.

But something about the way the cries go unanswered tonight makes you swing your legs out of bed and pad toward your door. You don’t think too hard as you knock. It takes a moment before he opens it. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts, already looking apologetic. “She—she won’t calm down. I’ve tried everything.”

“May I?” you ask, surprising even yourself.

He blinks at you, caught off guard. But when you extend your hands, he hesitates only a second before handing her over.

She’s warm and trembling, but you sway gently, instinctively, and hum something low under your breath. an old tune from a drama your mother used to love. Soojin’s cries hiccup, then soften. Within a minute, she’s quiet against your shoulder.

You glance up.

Seungcheol is staring at you like he’s witnessing a miracle.

“Uh—wha—how?”

You glance at him, one eyebrow raised as you continue to gently sway with Soojin nestled against your shoulder, her tiny fists tucked under her chin now. 

Seungcheol looks like someone just handed him the answer to a test he didn’t study for.

“I… I swear I tried everything,” he says, running a hand through his hair, which sticks out at odd angles like he’s been yanking at it all night. “Bottle, diaper, bouncing, singing—I even googled ‘is my baby possessed’ at one point.”

“That must’ve given you comforting results,” you say, adjusting your hold slightly as Soojin lets out a soft sigh. “Any luck with the holy water?”

“Didn’t get that far. I was about to throw salt at her, though.”

You laugh. You haven’t laughed like that in a while, and from the way his expression shifts, neither has he.

“Okay, but seriously,” he says, crossing his arms loosely over his chest as he leans against the doorway. “What did you do? Are you some kind of baby whisperer? Do you own a magic shoulder?”

“She probably just likes that I don’t smell like desperation and instant noodles,” you tease, nodding at the small mountain of convenience store trash on the kitchen counter behind him.

Seungcheol groans and presses his palms over his face. “That’s so valid. You’re right. I reek of ‘guy barely holding it together.’”

“You said it, not me.”

Soojin shifts in your arms but doesn’t wake. You lower yourself gently onto the couch, adjusting your hold.

Seungcheol watches, awe still etched into every line of his face. “She never calms down like that with me,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “She usually screams like I’ve offended her ancestors.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

You blink. Right. You’ve lived next door for months and this is your first real conversation. You tell him your name.

He repeats it, softly, like he’s testing the sound. “Well. I owe you. Like… a lot. If I had knees left I’d be bowing right now.”

“Save the bowing for when she starts teething,” you murmur, eyes on the baby now curled like a bean in your arms.

He laughs, and it’s warm and real, like it hasn’t been heard in his apartment for a long time.

“So,” he says after a moment, still watching you like he can’t quite believe it. “Do you do this for all your neighbors or am I just lucky?”

You glance at him over Soojin’s soft head. “Only the ones who google ‘possessed baby’ at 3 a.m.”

“Damn,” he grins. “That narrows it down.”

“She probably felt you freaking out,” you say, keeping your voice low so you don’t wake the now peacefully sleeping Soojin. “Babies are weirdly psychic like that. You panic, they panic harder. It’s like emotional Wi-Fi.”

Seungcheol squints at you. “You’re telling me this tiny human was mirroring my mental breakdown?”

You nod. “Pretty much.”

He drags a hand down his face. “Well, that makes me feel both seen and judged by someone who can't even sit up by herself.”

“She is very advanced,” you say with mock seriousness. “Clearly an empath.”

He huffs a soft laugh and flops into the armchair across from you, legs sprawled, head tilted back. “You have one too?”

You glance down at Soojin, then back at him. “A baby? No. I just like them. And—lucky me—they like me back.”

He lifts his head and raises a brow. “That’s not fair. I made her. She should like me.”

“Maybe she’s still bitter about the eviction from the womb.”

He lets out a half-laugh, half-groan, like he’s not sure whether to be offended or impressed. “I’m never going to win an argument in this house, am I?”

“Not with her from the looks of it”

He tilts his head, giving you a look that’s part amused, part grateful. “Seriously, though… thank you. I didn’t realize how close I was to completely losing it tonight.”

You shrug, glancing down at Soojin’s soft lashes against her cheeks. “It’s okay. Everyone has their limit. Even sleep-deprived single dads who try to summon baby-calming magic via YouTube.”

He groans again. “Ugh, please don’t remind me.”

“No promises.”

Seungcheol smiles—really smiles this time. “Well… if you ever want to visit your favorite fan again…”

You glance up at him. “Are you saying I have visitation rights?”

“With Soojin? Definitely. With me… maybe. I’m still evaluating.”

“Rude.”

“Fair.”

You don’t say anything at first. Just watch him watching her.

Then, softly, “She looks just like you.”

His eyes flick to you.

You nod, gentle. “Same nose. Same shape of her eyes when she squints. I saw it the moment you opened the door.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, the sound laced with disbelief. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, smiling down at Soojin. “It’s a good face to grow into.”

He exhales, some of that pressure inside him loosening, like you handed him a valve to let the fear out slow. He rubs the back of his neck, looks down at the floor, then at his daughter again.

“I’m scared all the time,” he admits. He doesn't know why he's telling you this but it's too late to stop, “Like—I love her so much it physically hurts, but I keep wondering if that’s enough. If loving her this much makes up for everything I can’t give her yet.”

“You’re here,” you say. “You’re trying. You’re sleep-deprived, semi-malnourished, and your apartment smells like baby wipes and cold coffee. But you’re here. That already makes you better than a lot of people.”

“Also,” you add, “she fell asleep in like, two minutes. I’m pretty sure that means she’s happy and safe. Or she’s secretly plotting. Either way, you’re doing okay.”

“Thanks,” he says. “For everything tonight.”

You shrug one shoulder. “What are neighbors for, right?”

=

A knock at your door isn't unusual. Packages, random hallway noise, maybe the building ajumma making her rounds with gossip and kimchi. But this one is too soft to be a delivery guy and too polite to be a kid. You pause your Netflix episode and head over, peeking through the peephole.

It’s Seungcheol.

You open the door and he’s standing there in jeans, a hoodie zipped halfway up, one strap of Soojin’s diaper bag slipping off his shoulder. He looks a little frazzled, hair tousled like he ran his hand through it too many times.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless. “Sorry, are you busy?”

You glance behind him. Soojin is in his arms, blinking like she just woke up from a nap and hasn’t decided whether the world deserves her attention yet.

“Not really,” you say, brows raised. “Everything okay?”

He nods, shifting Soojin to his other arm. “Yeah—yeah, I just—look, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really quick, but I have to run down to the ward office to drop off some paperwork. It’s boring, annoying, and they hate when babies scream through it.”

You smirk. “So you’re abandoning your child to avoid judgement.”

“Exactly,” he deadpans. “And you’re the only person she doesn’t seem to think is a demon in disguise.”

You hold out your hands automatically, and he hesitates just long enough to look guilty before gently placing Soojin in your arms. She blinks up at you like, Oh, it’s you. Okay, this is fine, then promptly grabs a fistful of your shirt.

“I’ll be gone maybe thirty, forty minutes tops,” he says, already half-turning like he doesn’t trust himself not to second-guess this. “I swear, if she cries, I owe you—like—coffee for a month. Or five years. Whatever’s fair.”

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him, bouncing her a little as she starts to hum her sleepy protest song. “Go do your boring adult things. We’ll be here, judging your outfit.”

He looks down at himself, frowns. “What’s wrong with my hoodie?”

“It’s giving ‘college sophomore in finals week.’”

He looks personally wounded. “Wow. Harsh from someone wearing pajama pants.”

“Bold of you to assume these are pajamas and not my formal lounging attire.”

He grins, then presses his palms together in a dramatic bow. “Gamsahamnida. You are a lifesaver.”

“Go, Seungcheol,” you say with mock severity, like you're kicking him out of your own house. “Before I charge you babysitting rates.”

“Noted,” he says, already backing down the hallway. “If she starts crying, play her that weird folk song you hummed the other night. She apparently likes that.”

You snort. “It’s not weird. It’s vintage. Now go.”

He disappears down the hallway, mumbling something about government forms and how adulthood is a scam. You close the door, look down at Soojin.

About an hour after Seungcheol left, someone knocked on your door again.

“She’s out,” you said.

Seungcheol blinks “Out?”

“Like a light,” you said, stepping aside to let him in. “Didn’t even fight it. Just conked out mid-conversation with her carrot.”

He entered cautiously, peering over at the couch where Soojin lay snoozing like an angel, one sock halfway off her foot. His whole body went still for a second, like even his breathing slowed down.

“No way,” he muttered. “She never naps this easily. I have to do a whole routine. Like, bouncing, swaying, bribery, gentle pleading—”

You held up a hand. “To be fair, I did sing her an exclusive remix of ‘Arirang’ with some freestyle humming in between. It was Grammy-worthy.”

Seungcheol leaned down slightly, adjusting Soojin’s sock with that instinctive tenderness he probably didn’t even notice he had anymore. 

“You’re doing okay, you know,” you said quietly.

He looked at you, startled.

“I mean it,” you added. “You always look like you’re bracing for a storm, but… she’s happy. You’re doing okay.”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “I never know if I am.”

“You are.”

He nodded slowly, then straightened up, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Um. Thank you. Really. I owe you, like… a year’s supply of coffee or something.”

You grinned. “How about you start with dinner next time?”

He paused. Not in surprise but like he was waiting to make sure you really said what he thought you said.

“Dinner?” he repeated.

You leaned against the doorframe, casual. “Yeah. You bring the baby, I’ll bring dessert. Seems fair.”

“Deal,” he said.

“Why don’t we let her sleep?” you say, voice soft. “You want coffee?”

His head snaps toward you like you just offered him oxygen. “God, yes.”

You stifle a laugh. “Come on.”

You move to the kitchen and start pulling mugs from the shelf. Behind you, he hovers awkwardly for a second before cautiously lowering himself onto one of the kitchen chairs like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit down in someone else’s life yet.

You hand him a mug, fingers brushing his. “Cream and sugar?”

He stares at you for a second too long.

“Huh? Oh—yeah. Just a little.”

You smirk as you fix it the way he asked, then slide it across the counter. “Look at you. Saying ‘just a little’ like you didn’t pour half the sugar jar into your coffee the other morning.”

He narrows his eyes over the rim of the mug. “I was sleep-deprived. I needed moral support in powdered form.”

You sit across from him with your own cup, resting your chin in your palm. “And here I thought you were this composed, competent, remote-working professional.”

He scoffs. “I am composed and competent. Most of the time. Except before 8 a.m. Or when Soojin decides sleep is for the weak.”

“So… most days,” you tease.

He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. One that doesn’t look so tired now. You sip your coffee and let the quiet stretch a little, comfortable and warm.

“Thanks again,” he says after a moment. “For today. For—whatever magic you’ve got going on. I still don’t get it.”

You shrug. “She’s easy to love.”

There’s something in his face that flickers at that. like he’s trying not to show how much those words hit. His thumb taps against the side of the mug.

“She really is,” he says. “But… sometimes I forget that it’s okay to enjoy it. I’m so busy trying to keep up with everything, I think I forget to stop and—feel it.”

You lean back slightly, studying him. “Well. You’ve got backup now. Whether you want it or not.”

He settles more into the chair, like your words gave him permission to breathe a little deeper. The mug cradled in his hands, still warm, anchors him in the moment.

You glance toward the living room, then back at him. “You always wanted to be a dad?”

He hums, considering. “Yeah. I think so. Not like—I didn’t grow up dreaming of diaper bags and formula,” he says with a faint smile, “but… I always liked the idea. Being someone’s safe place.”

Your heart stirs a little at that. You hadn’t expected such a soft answer.

“And now that you are?” you ask, gently.

He exhales a laugh, tilting his head. “It’s like I got dropped in the middle of the ocean with floaties and a smile and they were like, ‘Good luck!’” He pauses, then adds, “But then she looks at me like I’m her entire world and suddenly I don’t mind drowning a little.”

You smile into your mug. “That’s… weirdly poetic for someone who wears socks with mismatched cartoon characters.”

He looks scandalized. “You noticed that?”

“Hard not to when you wore Pororo and Iron Man.”

“Okay, but hear me out. Laundry day.”

“Sure,” you nod solemnly. “Blame the system.”

“What about you?” he asks after a moment. “No kids of your own, but you’re, like, terrifyingly good at it.”

You shrug, swirling your coffee. “I’ve always liked being around them. Babysat a lot. Volunteered at a daycare during uni. There’s something honest about babies, you know? They don’t pretend. If they like you, they like you. If they don’t, you know immediately.”

He grins. “So what you’re saying is, Soojin’s got good taste.”

“Exceptionally,” you deadpan. “Especially considering her father pairs Iron Man with penguins.”

You both laugh again, soft and low so you don’t wake the sleeping queen in the next room. 

“You know,” he says, almost shy, “I didn’t expect any of this. The neighbor thing. You, being... kind.”

You quirk a brow. “Kind? Is that what we’re calling basic human decency now?”

He gives you a look. “It’s different. Most people don’t know what to do with single dads. They either pity you or overstep.”

You nod, thoughtful. “I’m not here to fix anything. I just... like her. And you’re not exactly awful either.”

He chuckles. “High praise.”

You finish your coffee and set the mug down with a soft clink. “Besides, I figure anyone who handles a teething crisis without crying deserves at least a neighbor who makes decent coffee.”

“This is decent?” he teases, lifting his mug. “That’s all I get?”

You smirk. “I’m keeping ‘great’ in my back pocket. You have to earn it.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and smiles in that quiet, melting way he’s got. “Challenge accepted.”

=

It’s been a few days, but the rhythm is already familiar.

You’re coming home later than usual. Just as you hang up and juggle your keys, you hear it again. soft giggling, baby babble, and the unmistakable click of a stroller wheel bumping over the hallway tile.

You glance back and there they are. Seungcheol in a black cap and hoodie, pushing the stroller like he’s trying to look inconspicuous but failing because Soojin is loudly babbling and flapping her arms like she’s the mayor on parade.

“Caught you,” you say, smiling.

Seungcheol grins sheepishly. “We were trying to sneak back in.”

“Oh yeah? How’d that go for you?”

He peers down at Soojin, who grins up at you like she just told a great joke. “She’s terrible at stealth.”

Soojin kicks her feet in response and lets out a very enthusiastic raspberry.

He unlocks his door, gesturing you over. “You wanna come in? She’ll never forgive me if you don’t.”

You grin. “I could be convinced.”

A few minutes later, your groceries are in the fridge, and you’re sitting on his living room floor, legs crossed, feeding Soojin tiny bits of cut-up apple. She’s babbling nonsense and trying to grab the bowl, grinning like this is the best part of her day.

Seungcheol leans against the counter, arms crossed, just watching.

“She’s been in a mood lately,” he says. “But you walk in, and she turns into a cartoon sunflower.”

You glance over your shoulder. “She just knows good vibes.”

He smiles quietly. “You’ve got this… thing. With her. I don’t even know what to call it.”

“Charm,” you say matter-of-factly.

He snorts. “Dangerous charm.”

Seungcheol walks over, drops to the floor beside you, close enough that your knees brush. You both look down at Soojin, who is now focused on trying to fit her whole fist in her mouth.

“I never thought…” he starts, then stops, fidgeting with a baby spoon. “I mean, before she was born, I didn’t know if I’d be doing this alone. I had no idea how to be good at it and I’m still scared. All the time. Like if I mess up once, it’s over. For both of us.”

You reach out, brush your fingers gently against Soojin’s soft little hand.

“She’s happy,” you say. “She’s healthy. She feels loved. That means you’re already doing the most important part right.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “Not just for this. For… showing up. For her. For me.”

You hold his gaze for a beat. “You don’t have to thank me. I like being here.”

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

He watches Soojin for a while, her small hands grasping at the last apple slice like it’s a national treasure. There’s a little silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just soft, shared air.

Then, without you asking, his voice comes low, careful.

“Her mom… left after she was born.”

You don’t move. You just listen.

“She—uh, she told me she wasn’t ready. For any of it. And I guess I knew. Deep down. We were already drifting, and then the pregnancy—it just pushed everything to the surface.”

He looks down at his hands, thumb rubbing at a small mark on his knee.

“I tried to hold things together for a while. Bought the crib. Took the classes. Thought maybe if I showed her I could do it, she’d change her mind. But after Soojin was born… it was just me.”

You feel something tighten in your chest.

“I signed the papers. Named her. She wasn’t even there. No message. No goodbye.” He pauses, blinking a little too fast. “And I didn’t know if I was angry or just… numb.”

He exhales slowly, the sound more of a release than a sigh.

“It’s weird. People always say they can’t imagine doing it alone. But you don’t really get the choice. You just… do it. You wake up. You feed her. You change her. You learn what each cry means. You hold her even when you’re falling apart. And the worst part is that sometimes I wonder if I’m enough. If one parent can really make up for the absence of another. If she’s gonna grow up and ask where her mom is and… and I’ll have to tell her.”

You reach over without thinking and gently lay your hand on his. He flinches slightly, not because he’s startled—but because it’s been a long time since someone touched him like that. Quietly. Kindly.

“You are enough,” you say, voice steady but soft. “She doesn’t need perfect. She needs you. And she’s got you.”

His eyes meet yours. There’s a shine there he doesn’t bother to hide this time.

Soojin lets out a tiny burp and promptly faceplants into her own lap, startling herself into a squeaky hiccup. You both look at her, then at each other—and laugh.

And just like that, the heaviness lifts. Not completely. But enough.

Enough to let the warmth back in.

Seungcheol leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter than before. Like he’s afraid saying it too loud might make it more real.

“I just don’t want her to grow up thinking she wasn’t wanted.”

You look at him, and something in your chest aches. He’s not just talking about Soojin now. He’s talking about himself too. About the fear that all his love won’t be enough to drown out the silence someone else left behind.

“She won’t,” you say softly, certain. “Not with you. Not with the way you look at her like she’s your whole world. Not with the way you know the exact rhythm that calms her down. Or the way you whisper to her when you think no one’s listening.”

He gives you a shaky little smile, eyes shining, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“She’ll know she was wanted,” you say again, firmer now. “Because you show her. Every single day.”

He nods slowly, like he's trying to believe you. Trying to let that truth settle somewhere in the spaces guilt has lived too long.

“When she was a newborn, she hated the crib. I used to hold her all the time even when my arms ached, her little cries broke me. It still does”

You smile, imagining a newborn Soojin and a sleep deprived Seungcheol, “Yeah well cribs don’t have a heartbeat, yours probably calmed her down”

And that statement stirs something in him. Seungcheol turns to you, something breaking open in his expression. Not sadness, exactly. Just… gratitude. Raw and unguarded.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Anytime.”

=

It’s a slow, golden Saturday. You’ve got no plans today no errands, no calls, no responsibilities. Just you, your comfy clothes, and the peace of a rare free weekend. Meanwhile, right next door, Seungcheol is pacing his living room barefoot in a plain tee and gray joggers, Soojin perched in her bouncer like a tiny queen on a throne. 

He stops mid-pace, turns to her.

“Okay. Hear me out,” he says, pointing a spoon in her general direction. “We should go ask her.”

Soojin gurgles and kicks one leg.

“But like—not in a weird way,” he adds quickly, eyes wide like he’s already spiraling. “Just casually. Like, ‘Hey, what’s up, you doing anything? Wanna hang out with this delightful six-month-old and her semi-stressed dad?’ Totally normal.”

Soojin lets out a fart noise with her mouth and slaps the penguin.

“Exactly. See, you get it.”

He rubs the back of his neck and glances toward the door.

“But what if she’s got plans?” he mutters. “Like… what if she’s one of those mysterious types who secretly has a jam-packed social calendar. What if she’s got a date. A tall, charming, emotionally available—ugh. No, nope, not thinking about that.”

He turns back to Soojin, hands on hips.

“Okay, but what if she’s just chilling in there with snacks and no idea what to do with her Saturday? What if she wants someone to knock?”

Soojin makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a cough-sneeze-laugh hybrid and flings her penguin across the room.

“That’s a yes?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

She kicks both feet at once and squeals.

Seungcheol sighs dramatically. “Fine. If this crashes and burns, you’re going to daycare on Monday in mismatched socks out of spite.”

He walks to the mirror, runs a hand through his hair, then turns to Soojin. “Do I look casual? Like, ‘Hey, I just came over on instinct and not because I’ve been rehearsing what to say for the past fifteen minutes’ casual?”

Soojin lets out a loud raspberry, very pleased with herself.

He points at her. “Don’t sass me. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Finally, he scoops her up—socks and all—grabs a burp cloth (because he’s not a total amateur), and heads for the door.

“I swear, if she’s got company over and I walk in holding you like a prop, we’re moving apartments.”

Soojin gnaws on his collar, utterly unfazed. He sighs, shifts her in his arms, and knocks. Twice. Light. Hesitant.

Then waits.

And you, from the other side, put your book down, already smiling because somehow, you knew it would be them.

Seungcheol is standing there, Soojin on his hip with one sock off and the other one half-on, clinging to his collar like she owns the place. 

“Hey,” he says. Voice a touch too casual. “We were just… y’know. Wondering if you were around.”

“I am around,” you say, stepping aside. “And I see I’ve been summoned by royalty.”

“She insisted,” Seungcheol says, shifting her with a grin. “Practically bullied me into coming over.”

You raise a brow. “Ah. So this was her idea, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s the boss. I’m just the driver.”

Soojin lets out a burble and grabs your sleeve with sticky fingers like she’s making a legal claim.

“Well,” you say, gently taking her from his arms, “I’m honored to be chosen by her highness.”

You cradle her easily, bouncing her on your hip. “She smells like she’s recently made some… decisions,” you add, scrunching your nose playfully.

Seungcheol’s eyes go wide. “Oh no, did she—? Wait, really?”

You laugh. “Relax, she’s clean. I’m just messing with you.”

He exhales, clearly relieved. “Okay. Good. Because I forgot to bring the emergency diaper and I was not about to make a dramatic exit.”

You nod solemnly. “Wise. Nothing ruins a cool entrance like a diaper blowout.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway… I was just thinking, if you’re not busy today, maybe we could hang out? Or just… sit around and pretend we’re doing something productive?”

You smirk. “That sounds like exactly what I had planned.”

You motion toward your living room. “Come in. She can help me finish this coffee I forgot about an hour ago, and you can tell me what you’ve been pacing about for the last thirty minutes.”

He steps inside, mock offended. “Okay, how did you know I was pacing?”

You grin. “I didn’t but now I do”

A little while later, after Soojin had taken a tour of every object on your coffee table and spent a solid five minutes drooling purposefully on your shoulder, Seungcheol stands up with a stretch.

“I should probably grab her stuff—she’s gonna get hungry soon, and I didn’t bring anything except a bib and blind optimism.”

You snort. “Go. We’ll hold down the fort.”

He’s only gone for maybe five minutes before he reappears, slightly out of breath, carrying a small insulated bag and what looks like a pink spoon in his mouth.

“Sorry,” he mumbles around the spoon before pulling it free. “She has this weird sixth sense about when I try to move fast and immediately decides to throw a crisis.”

You take the bag from him as he plops onto your floor with a sigh, Soojin perking up at the sound of the zipper being undone like she knows exactly what’s coming.

Seungcheol pulls out a small container of baby food and holds it up like it’s radioactive. “Just a warning. She hates this. Like, we’ve had full negotiations over a spoonful of this stuff.”

You laugh, settling on the rug with Soojin in front of you. “What is it?”

“Sweet potato banana something? It smells… unsettling.”

He hands you the spoon and the little jar like he’s surrendering it. “She usually swats it away. Or looks at me like I’ve betrayed her.”

You scoop a small amount onto the spoon, raising an eyebrow at Soojin. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, tiny critic.”

She blinks at you, eyes curious. You gently offer the spoon—and without hesitation, she opens her mouth and eats it. Chews. Swallows. And then opens her mouth again.

You glance at Seungcheol. “Um. That didn’t seem like a struggle.”

He looks absolutely gobsmacked. “What—wait—she ate it? Just like that?”

You nod, offering her another spoonful. She chomps happily.

Seungcheol stares, eyes wide. “Are you some kind of baby whisperer? What is going on?”

You shrug, trying not to laugh. “Maybe I just have really good snack energy.”

Seungcheol leans back against your couch, watching the scene like it’s defying all natural laws. “I swear, when I try, it’s like feeding a tiny, angry gremlin who knows martial arts.”

He watches you feed her another bite and he doesn't say anything at first but his face softens. Something gentle settles in his chest. And quietly, just to himself, he thinks, Maybe we needed her in our lives more than I realized.

Soojin is fully invested now—tiny mouth open, little hands waving in excited anticipation every time you bring the spoon near. At one point, she grabs at your wrist with surprising determination, trying to pull the food toward her faster, making a high-pitched whine that’s half-demand, half-excitement.

“She’s got a strong grip,” you laugh, letting her catch your fingers as you scoop up another bite. “She means business.”

He puts a hand dramatically over his heart. “Betrayed,” he says, deadpan. “By my own blood.”

“She didn’t even hesitate!” he says, sitting up straighter to look at Soojin like she’s done something treasonous. “All that effort I’ve put in—singing songs, dancing like a clown, inventing entire operas just to get her to eat half a spoon. And here she is, practically writing you a love letter for mashed bananas.”

Soojin responds by making a delighted little grunt and reaching for the spoon again with both fists.

You grin. “Don’t take it personally. Some of us just have snack-based chemistry.”

Seungcheol slumps theatrically against the couch. “This is how it starts. First the food. Then she’ll want you to read her bedtime stories. Then I’ll be voted off the island.”

You gently guide the spoon back into Soojin’s mouth, chuckling. “She’s just expanding her circle. You’re still the main character, Dad.”

“Barely,” he mutters, though there’s no real pout to it. He’s smiling—watching his daughter giggle and eat and look up at you like you hung the moon.

And yeah. He’s a little dramatic. But he’s also never been more relieved to be outshone.

It hits him. Not like a big, dramatic realization but like a slow, quiet bloom in the back of his mind, impossible to ignore. You laugh again, brushing a bit of puree off her chin, and Soojin squeals in response, delighted.

It’s almost daunting, how easy you are with her. How completely she adores you. How at home the two of you look like this.

And he tries—really tries—not to read too much into it.

But part of his brain… the part that’s been whispering louder every day lately… it won’t stop.

It’s saying: This is what it could look like. This is what it could feel like.

And it terrifies him.

Not because it’s bad but because it’s good. Because for the first time since Soojin was born, he’s seeing a picture he didn’t even let himself hope for.

A picture with someone in it.

Someone who isn’t just passing by in the hallway anymore. Someone who holds his daughter like she’s something precious. Someone who might be holding him too, in ways he hasn’t dared to admit.

You glance over your shoulder and catch him staring.

“Everything okay?” you ask, tone light.

He clears his throat, straightens a little too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, just… zoning out.”

You smile, not pressing. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us.”

You’re wiping Soojin’s hands with a wet tissue, cooing at her like you’ve got all the time in the world, even though she keeps squirming and trying to eat the wipe instead. You’ve got that calm, unbothered rhythm to your movements, like nothing this baby could do would surprise or overwhelm you. Like she’s yours.

You glance over. “You good?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just thinking…”

Finally, he exhales. “The weather’s… really nice today.”

You nod slowly, smiling. “That it is.”

He looks at you a little longer, then finally goes, “Do you… wanna grab lunch? Like, out? I mean—if you don’t have plans. Which, if you do, that’s totally fine, I just thought it's too bad to waste a good day”

“I don’t have plans,” you interrupt gently, amused. “Lunch sounds good.”

“Yeah?” His eyes brighten a little.

“Yeah,” you say again, bouncing Soojin a bit. “And I think our third wheel here is already dressed for the occasion.”

Soojin squeals like she agrees wholeheartedly, flapping her arms and narrowly missing your chin.

A few minutes later, you’re all out the door. The spring air feels fresh on your face, the streets buzzing with quiet weekend energy. You walk side by side, Soojin tucked against Seungcheol in her little carrier, her head bobbing gently as he walks. 

Every now and then she lets out a content sigh or babble, and he automatically adjusts the shade over her face, so used to moving with her now it’s like second nature.

And then he speaks, a little hesitant.

“I’m not, uh…” He clears his throat. “I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes, right?”

You glance at him, brows slightly lifted.

“No jealous boyfriend about to appear out of nowhere and beat me with a stroller or something?”

You burst out laughing. “Wow. That was oddly specific.”

“I’ve seen things,” he deadpans. “This is Seoul.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “No boyfriend. No jealous ex. No one waiting in the wings.”

He hums, eyes on the sidewalk ahead. “Okay. Just had to check.”

You glance at him again, slower this time. “Why? You nervous?”

“A little,” he admits, hand resting instinctively on Soojin’s back. “You… You’ve been really kind. And easy to talk to. And Soojin loves you, obviously. I didn’t want to assume anything. Or make you uncomfortable.”

You look ahead, thoughtful, before replying softly, “You didn’t assume anything. You asked.”

He meets your eyes then, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it that way. And maybe he didn’t know how much he needed to hear that.

The place Seungcheol picks is tucked on a quiet street corner—one of those old-school Korean restaurants with handwritten menu signs taped to the walls, it’s cozy, worn in a way that feels like a warm hug.

The owner, a sprightly woman in her late sixties with cropped hair and a floral apron, greets you all with a wide smile as you step in.

“Omo, what a cutie!” she says, eyes immediately landing on Soojin nestled in Seungcheol’s carrier. “Look at those cheeks. Aigoo, she’s a living doll!”

Soojin blinks at her, wide-eyed and curious, then lets out a delighted sound that has the woman absolutely beaming.

She waves you toward a table by the window, already reaching for menus. “Sit, sit! This one’s good with the sunlight for the baby.”

You thank her, and Seungcheol gently shifts Soojin out of the carrier and into his lap while you take the seat across from them. The owner returns with water and leans slightly closer, eyes dancing between the three of you. Then she claps her hands once.

“Aigoo—what a beautiful family.”

You pause mid-sip. Seungcheol blinks.

“Oh—uh—” he starts, fumbling a little.

“We’re not—” you add, just as quickly.

But the owner just waves you both off with a cheeky grin, already scribbling something on her notepad. “Ah, I see, I see,” she says, in the tone of someone who does not see but is choosing delusion. “No need to be shy. Young parents these days, so stylish. Such a pretty mama and a handsome papa. And this baby—so healthy!”

Soojin gurgles right on cue, smacking the table with glee. Seungcheol opens his mouth again, clearly gearing up to correct her.

But then you just smile and say, “Thank you.”

The owner beams. “I’ll bring you something nice, service. For the baby, okay? Don’t worry, it’s all soft. Very gentle for little tummies.”

And just like that, she disappears into the kitchen.

Seungcheol looks down at Soojin, who is currently grabbing for the side of his sleeve with one hand and trying to eat the air with her mouth slightly open.

He chuckles. “Well. That happened.”

You lean back. “She meant well.”

“Sure. Though now we’re officially a stylish young couple with a baby.”

“Hey, I’ll take ‘stylish.’”

Then, quieter: “You handled that well.”

You smile, reaching across the table to nudge Soojin’s tiny hand. “I don’t mind being mistaken for your family.”

His eyes catch yours for a moment. And he doesn't say anything right away.

But the silence between you?

It feels like an answer he isn’t quite ready to say out loud.

The table fills slowly with food—banchan dishes placed with practiced ease, two bubbling pots of jjigae, warm bowls of rice. 

“She really thinks we’re a thing,” Seungcheol says under his breath, amused, as the woman disappears again behind the swinging kitchen door.

You lift your spoon and glance up. “You sound like you mind.”

He pauses, opens his mouth, closes it. “No,” he says after a second. “Not really.”

You nod, smile into your rice, and don’t push.

Soojin sits in her little portable chair between you, supported by pillows and mostly fascinated by a plastic spoon she’s been chewing on for ten straight minutes. Occasionally, she lets out a delighted squawk, causing you or Seungcheol to look over instinctively, like clockwork. He wipes her chin. You fix the corner of her bib. Neither of you comment on how easily it all flows.

“So,” you say between bites, “what does stylish dad do when he’s not being mistaken for my husband?”

Seungcheol chuckles. “Work. Meetings. More work. And then about sixteen loads of laundry.”

“Ah, a man of many hats.”

“Too many. I swear, I didn’t even own this many burp cloths before she was born. I don’t know where they come from. They multiply.”

You laugh, “Like gremlins?”

“Exactly. Feed them formula after midnight and bam twelve more burp cloths in the drawer.”

You both burst into quiet laughter while Soojin slaps the table enthusiastically, completely unaware of the comedy unfolding around her.

He doesn’t date. Hasn’t even thought about dating. He’s a single dad with enough on his plate to feed a small village. But sitting here, with you across the table and Soojin babbling between you like she belongs to both of you—it feels suspiciously close to something he used to want.

Something he wasn’t sure he’d get.

When lunch wraps up, the owner insists on taking a photo of “the beautiful family.”

You start to protest, but Seungcheol just laughs and waves you into the frame. You lean in beside him without hesitation, Soojin in his arms, her head flopping slightly against your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Click.

And just like that, there’s a photo of the three of you now.

Later, he won’t be able to stop looking at it.

=

You juggle your keys, your takeout bag, you hadn’t planned to stop by anywhere but the moment they handed you an extra set of banchan and grilled fish at the restaurant, something tugged at you.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was… him.

You pause in front of Seungcheol’s door, free hand raised to knock. You think you hear faint music something mellow, like a playlist for winding down.

You knock twice. Then the door opens.

Seungcheol blinks at you, hair slightly mussed like he’s run a hand through it more than once. 

“Hey,” you say, lifting the bag. “I accidentally ended up with enough food for two. Felt like a waste to eat alone.”

“She’s still with the sitter,” he says, stepping back to let you in. “I had some work I needed to wrap up tonight.”

“Oh,” you say, kicking off your shoes and stepping in. “So it’s just you?”

He smirks faintly. “Just me.”

“Well,” you grin, “lucky me.”

He lets out a soft, honest laugh at that and you both settle at his small dining table, where he quickly clears a stack of papers and a nearly empty coffee mug to make room.

You open the containers and start unpacking, setting up the rice, the kimchi, the fish, the spicy radish.

“You didn’t have to,” he says.

“I wanted to.” You glance up at him. 

He watches you move the plates around like it’s your table too—like this isn’t the first time. Like it won’t be the last. The food steams gently between you, the air filling with the familiar comfort of grilled sesame and garlic.

You glance at him. “You okay? You look like you’ve been thinking too much again.”

He leans back slightly in his chair. “Yeah. I just…” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s quiet without her. That’s all.”

“Lonely kind of quiet?” you ask, soft.

He nods slowly. “Yeah. That kind.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just pick up your chopsticks and slide one of the containers closer to him.

“Well,” you say gently, “for tonight, you don’t have to eat in the quiet.”

He looks at you like you’ve said something bigger than what you meant—something that echoes a little too close to a wish he hadn’t allowed himself to name yet.

But instead of running from it, he says, “Then stay a while?”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

And as the night eases in around you both, laughter slipping through conversations, the space between you doesn’t feel quite so quiet anymore.

The food dwindles slowly, not because you’re eating slow but because the conversation keeps veering—sideways, up, spiraling through nonsense. 

You learn that Seungcheol is deeply opinionated about how jjigae should be spiced, and that he once accidentally deleted an entire quarterly report because Soojin spit up on his keyboard mid-call.

You nearly choke on rice at that one.

“She projectiled,” he says, completely deadpan, “like something out of an exorcism.”

“Why do I feel like you weren’t this funny when we passed in the hallway before?” you tease.

“Because I wasn’t,” he admits, sheepishly. “I think I was trying not to fall asleep standing up.”

It’s adorable, the way he trips over his own words. Like he’s still not used to speaking freely, like he’s trying to find a version of himself that doesn’t second-guess everything he says around you.

You pretend not to notice his ears tint pink.

Eventually, when the table’s cluttered with empty containers and chopsticks, you help him clean up. He tries to wave you off—“You’re the guest, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not leaving you with this war zone.”

Somehow it turns into a dance of bumping elbows and nearly dropping the dish soap. He’s holding a wet bowl when your hand accidentally brushes his under the faucet.

He freezes. Just a second. But you catch it.

“I don’t bite,” you murmur with a teasing smile.

“Y-yeah,” he says, eyes flicking away like the faucet is suddenly fascinating. “I know.”

When the last bowl is drying on the rack, you both end up just… standing there. Side by side. Not saying much.

He glances at the clock. “It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” you say, but you don’t move right away.

He shifts his weight, rubs the back of his neck again. “Thanks. For coming over. For the food. And just… being around.”

You look up at him, eyebrows raised in gentle teasing. “Why do you always sound like you’re giving an acceptance speech when you say nice things?”

“I—” He laughs, low and helpless. “I’m rusty, okay? I haven’t had adult conversations that didn’t involve pacifiers in like, months.”

You smile. “You’re doing fine.”

You step out into the hallway, then turn, glancing at him again.

“You know,” you say, “if you’re free tomorrow… you could come over for dinner. Just you. I mean unless you’ll miss the spit-up too much.”

That earns a real laugh. A shy, surprised one.

“I’ll try to survive,” he says, his hand braced against the doorframe, like he’s not sure if he should lean in or keep his distance.

You grin, backing away. “Then it’s a date.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, is it—?”

But the door’s already closing behind you. He stands there for a good thirty seconds, blinking at the wood grain.

“…A date?” he mutters to himself.

Then smiles, just a little.

Definitely doomed.

The next day Seungcheol adjusts Soojin’s little headband as they walk up to the sitter’s door, her soft babbling filling the air between them.

“Okay, I know we’ve been over this,” he says, one arm holding her close, the other fumbling for the doorbell, “but let me just say for the record—she was the one who said this is a date”

Soojin blows a raspberry.

“Exactly,” he nods. “You get it.”

“It’s just dinner. Two adults. Eating. No pressure. Just… food. With a neighbor. Who laughs at my jokes. And smells really nice. And always has that soft, glowy thing going on with you that kind of makes my brain forget how breathing works sometimes.”

Soojin lets out a coo and smacks her tiny hand on his chest.

“I know,” he sighs. “I sound like an idiot. You don’t have to rub it in.”

The door opens and the sitter beams, reaching for Soojin with practiced ease. She goes willingly—of course she does—and Seungcheol hesitates for half a second before letting go.

“Be good, okay?” he tells her, brushing a kiss to her temple. “And if I don’t make it back, tell her it was the grilled mackerel that got me.”

The sitter chuckles. “You’re being dramatic again, Mr. Choi.”

But even as he walks away, trying to play it cool, he’s hyperaware of everything.

He groans softly. “I should’ve brought Soojin. She’s a good buffer.”

But it’s too late now. 

He adjusts his collar one last time. Then knocks. This time, he's the one holding his breath.

You open the door with that familiar easy smile. Your hair’s tied back in that half-messy way that makes you look both totally relaxed and somehow unfairly gorgeous. 

Seungcheol forgets what planet he’s on for a second.

“Hey,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re just in time. I was about to taste test and pretend I knew what I was doing.”

He walks in like a man trying not to trip over his own shoelaces. “You cook and downplay your skills? What don’t you do?”

You raise a brow as you shut the door behind him. “Flatter people at the door like a drama lead.”

He clears his throat and tries to sound normal. “So… Soojin said she’d cover for me if I don’t survive this.”

“Oh yeah?” You glance over your shoulder. “And what does survival entail exactly? You afraid I’m gonna poison you?”

“No, I’m afraid I’ll like it too much and then embarrass myself asking for seconds before the rice is even done.”

You snort. “Wow. That’s dramatic.”

“I know. I was practicing in the mirror earlier.”

You pause at that, turn to face him, spoon still in hand. “Wait, what?”

He freezes. Blinks. Regrets everything.

“I mean—not seriously, I wasn’t like—practicing lines or anything. I just—I was…” He trails off and finally throws his hands in the air with a sheepish laugh. “You know what? Yeah. Mirror. Full speech. There was pacing involved. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

You break into a laugh that makes him feel like he just passed some kind of secret test. “Well, now I have to impress you. I can’t let that rehearsal go to waste.”

He watches you lift the lid off a pot, steam rising in fragrant clouds, and swears the apartment smells like something from his childhood—warm, familiar, comforting.

“You okay?” you ask, looking at him again, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” he says, hands shoved in his pockets, that same shy smile tugging at his lips. “This is… nice.”

You tilt your head. “It’s just dinner.”

You turn back to the stove, giving the stew one last stir, but your smile doesn’t fade and Seungcheol sees it. He sees how the corner of your mouth twitches like you’re trying not to grin. Like maybe he’s not the only one feeling this.

“You want to try it?” you ask, ladling a bit into a small bowl. “I need an honest review.”

“Sure, but if I say it’s good, you’ll think I’m just trying to impress you.”

“You are trying to impress me,” you say without missing a beat.

He freezes halfway to the bowl and laughs, quietly. “Wow. Okay. You’re terrifying.”

You hand him a spoon. “Eat, coward.”

He takes the spoon, eyes still on you as he tries it. Then closes his eyes. Groans. “Okay. Okay, see—now I can’t be cool about this. This is actual comfort food. Like, soul-restoring, existential-clarity food.”

You raise a brow. “Is this the speech you practiced in the mirror?”

He points the spoon at you. “You wish it was this polished.”

You both laugh again, that easy rhythm building between you like it’s always been there, waiting.

As you finish prepping, he helps without asking. Dinner is soft and familiar. Seungcheol tells you about the time Soojin tried to eat a remote control with the most serious face he’s ever seen. 

When everything’s finally done and the dishes are stacked neatly in the sink, you both end up on the couch without really saying anything about it. You sit with your legs tucked under you. He leans back, elbows on his knees. Close. Not too close.

“I had fun,” you say first, voice quiet now, softer under the buzz of the kitchen light.

He nods. “Me too.”

Then a pause. Not awkward. Not rushed. He turns his head toward you slowly, like even this moment is something he doesn’t want to break by moving too fast.

“I wasn’t really expecting tonight to feel like this,” he admits.

You look over. “Like what?”

He shrugs, but his voice is warm. “Like the part of the day I didn’t know I was waiting for.”

“You’re kind of a softie, huh?”

He groans and drops his head into his hands. “Don’t call me out like this.”

You laugh. “Too late.”

And when he lifts his head again, there’s color on his cheeks, that same bashful smile tugging at his lips—but this time, it stays. For a while, you don’t talk. You just sit. Close. Quiet. Like neither of you is quite ready for the night to end.

“So… uh,” he starts, clearing his throat once, then twice. “Soojin and I… we’re—uh—we were gonna go to the aquarium. This weekend.”

You raise your brows, curious. “Yeah?”

He nods. Doesn’t look at you. Just at his sleeve. “Yeah. Just… thought it’d be good. For her. Well—for me too. Kind of our first, like, out-out trip, y’know? Outside the baby bag radius.”

You smile, head tilting. “That’s really cute.”

He lets out a breath of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. Yeah. So…”

He trails off. You wait. Then he blurts it all in one go: “If you wanted to come too I mean I thought maybe you’d like it but it’s totally fine if you’re busy or if you hate fish or—”

“Seungcheol.”

He stops. Freezes like he’s been caught in a lie. You’re smiling again. That calm, steady kind that says you’ve got all the time in the world to wait out his nervous spiral.

You lean forward slightly. “I’d love to come.”

His eyes snap up to yours, wide like he wasn’t expecting that answer to be real.

“Yeah?” he says, voice too hopeful, too soft.

“Yeah,” you say, easy. “I mean, how could I say no to Soojin? She’s clearly the boss.”

He laughs, the tension finally breaking a little in his shoulders. “She is. Completely. I’ve accepted it.”

“Good,” you grin. “So… Saturday?”

“Yeah. Saturday.” He looks like he’s mentally adding that to five different lists. “Cool. Cool, cool cool…”

You squint. “You’re going to overthink this the whole week, aren’t you?”

“Only absolutely,” he says without missing a beat.

But he’s smiling. Really smiling now. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like things might actually be moving toward something better than just figuring it out day by day.

Saturday comes. You're locking your door when you hear the soft wheels of a stroller squeaking down the hallway. You turn just in time to see Seungcheol pushing Soojin toward you. Her little legs are kicking excitedly, hands flailing the second she sees you.

“She’s been doing that since we left the apartment,” Seungcheol says, breathless like he jogged here, “which is either a good sign or she thinks you have snacks again.”

You laugh, crouching to greet her. “Hi, boss lady. Ready for some fishy business?”

Soojin squeals like she understood every word.

Seungcheol grins at the both of you, adjusting the strap on the diaper bag. 

“You look nice,” you say as you stand.

He straightens. “Thanks. You too.”

Then he immediately adds, “I mean, you always do, but—uh—not that I’ve been paying attention like in a weird way, just—you know, normal neighbor-level noticing.”

You snort and start walking. “You rehearsed this too?”

“Absolutely,” he mutters.

The ride is full of soft Soojin giggles and your laughter overlapping with his quiet commentary. She grabs your fingers like they belong to her now, and when Seungcheol tries to reclaim her attention with a pacifier, she practically bats it away in protest.

By the time you get to the aquarium, it’s late morning and the crowds are still manageable. The moment you step inside Soojin goes completely still in her stroller as the first tank glows to life with swirls of orange fish. Her mouth falls open.

“Oh no,” Seungcheol whispers. “She’s about to have a spiritual awakening.”

The two of you take turns pushing the stroller, stopping often so Soojin can smack her little hands against the glass. At one point, a stingray glides by, and she lets out a tiny gasp so dramatic that a passing toddler actually applauds.

Seungcheol leans down next to her. “That’s right, baby girl. Get your nature documentary moment.”

You can’t stop laughing. “She needs her own voiceover.”

He shrugs, then adopts a deep narrator voice. “Here, the wild Soojin discovers her first sea cucumber. She is—”

“Absolutely unimpressed,” you finish, pointing at Soojin’s deadpan expression.

Lunch is simple convenience store kimbap on a bench outside, the stroller parked beside you, Soojin chewing on a toy like it wronged her in a past life. Seungcheol offers you half of his triangle kimbap without a second thought. You don’t even hesitate to take it.

“This was really nice,” you say after a moment. “I mean it. Thanks for inviting me.”

He glances at you, then at Soojin, then quickly away again. “Yeah. I—uh. I’m glad you came.”

After lunch, with the sun warm and steady above, you glance down at Soojin in her stroller. She’s got her tiny fists outstretched like she’s summoning someone, and that someone is clearly you.

You kneel beside her with a soft smile. “You wanna see the fish up close, huh?”

She squeals, arms waving dramatically now, little feet kicking like this is the most urgent request in the world.

Seungcheol stands nearby, halfway through packing up the leftover wrappers into a bag. “You don’t have to, she gets heavy—”

You’re already scooping her up, one arm cradled under her legs, the other behind her back like it’s second nature. “I think I can manage a very powerful six-month-old.”

Back inside, Soojin’s wide-eyed and alert, tiny hands reaching for the glass every time something colorful swims by. You walk slowly, giving her time at every tank, while Seungcheol trails beside you, hands occasionally brushing yours as you both lean in close to point something out to her.

The three of you moved deeper into the aquarium, into a quieter exhibit tucked in a corner where the lights were lower and the tanks stretched high like glass walls, casting slow, rippling reflections across the floor. 

You let out a quiet, awed, “Oh—look at that,” and without thinking, your hand reached out.

You grabbed his hand. The free one. Your fingers wrapped around his instinctively, tugging gently as you stepped closer to the tank, pointing upward toward the shimmering dance above you.

“Look how they move all at once—like they’re connected,” you said, voice soft.

It took a second. A full second before you realized your fingers were still around his. Still holding him. Still warm and unhurried. Your eyes flicked down—then up—to see him already looking at you, his face unreadable for a beat too long. Not surprised, exactly. Not alarmed.

Just still.

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe apologize, maybe pull away—but then he shifted his hand.

Not to let go.

His fingers curled around yours. Gentle, a little unsure, but steady. And when your gaze met his again, there was a quietness there. Something real. Something that settled between you both, subtle but unmistakable.

Soojin shifted slightly in his arms, murmuring a half-asleep sound, and he gave her a gentle bounce as his thumb brushed against the side of your hand.

Neither of you said anything more. Not because there was nothing to say, but because for the first time words didn’t seem necessary at all.

The next few days blurred into something soft.

It started with small things.

You’d stopped knocking when you came over. Seungcheol had said once, “Just come in,” and you had. 

One afternoon, you were helping fold laundry on his couch. Soojin was on the floor, busy gnawing on a teether, occasionally babbling up at you like she was chiming in. You tossed a baby sock at Seungcheol’s face. He caught it mid-air, mock-offended.

“That’s assault,” he said, tone flat but lips twitching.

“You missed a fold,” you replied, pointing at a tiny shirt he’d lazily half-folded.

“Why do baby clothes even need folding? They’re this big,” he said, holding up a onesie with both hands, then tossing it dramatically into the basket.

You laughed, and the sound made him glance over. You were grinning, hair falling a little into your face, and something about the sight made his heart do a slow, inconvenient flip.

You didn’t notice it Or maybe you did.

Another night, you both ended up cooking dinner together. His kitchen now seemingly half-stocked with things you liked. It wasn’t planned. You were there, Soojin was asleep early, and somehow your hands were brushing while reaching for the same spice jar. Again.

He paused when your fingers touched. You didn’t move either.

Then you looked at him and said, softly, “You always hesitate.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Hesitate?”

You leaned in just a little, eyes steady. “Like when you’re about to say something but stop yourself.”

He went very still. Then looked away, mumbling, “I don’t wanna mess this up.”

You didn’t push. Just smiled, gentle. “You’re not.”

Later that night, you were on the couch again. Soojin had fallen asleep in your arms mid-bottle, and you didn’t want to move her, so Seungcheol had passed you a blanket, then sat beside you again without a word.

His arm brushed yours. You didn’t move away.

In fact, you leaned into it.

And he let his shoulder rest against yours, hesitant at first. Then, gradually, comfortably, as the silence stretched and the tension thickened like a thread being pulled tighter.

Neither of you spoke.

Because maybe that silence said everything.

Because maybe you both already knew.

The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen light left on behind you. Soojin was curled up against your chest, utterly knocked out, her soft breaths rising and falling with yours. 

Seungcheol was beside you, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His hand was on the back of the couch, just behind your head, and every now and then, his knee would brush yours.

You chuckled quietly, so soft you felt it more than heard it.

He turned his head. “What?”

You looked at him, and your smile deepened, eyes amused. “You’re too easy to fluster.”

His lips parted like he had something to say but nothing came out. His brows lifted slightly, cheeks dusted pink in the low light.

“I am not,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

You let out another quiet laugh. “You so are.”

He shook his head, a hand running through his hair. “You’re the one who says things like that and then looks at me like… like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, tilting your head.

He groaned under his breath. “Like you’re not even trying to kill me but somehow you are.”

You paused.

And then, softer, your voice barely above a whisper, “You don’t know how my heart literally jumps when I see you.”

The words settled between you, unhurried, delicate but powerful.

Seungcheol’s eyes met yours.

There was a beat.

Then another.

He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed. “You can’t just say stuff like that,” he said, voice low and uneven.

“I can’t?” you teased gently, lips twitching.

“Not when we’re like this,” he said, nodding slightly to Soojin nestled on your chest. “And it’s late. And you’re… here. And you say something like that.”

Eventually, you leaned your head back against the couch cushion, still holding Soojin close, and murmured, “Maybe it’s okay, though.”

Seungcheol turned to you slowly. “What is?”

You glanced at him. A tiny, knowing smile on your lips. “Letting it happen.”

The next morning, you found a coffee waiting for you outside your door. A simple sticky note pressed to the lid with his messy handwriting: 

Thought you might need this. You always look too good to be that tired. - SC

You grinned the whole time you drank it.

One evening, you were helping him put Soojin to bed, your voice low and soft as you read aloud from a worn picture book. Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching.

Later, in the kitchen, as the night settled into quiet again, you rinsed out Soojin’s bottle while he dried dishes beside you. Your shoulders brushed once. Then again.

And this time, he reached over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You paused, looked at him, caught that flash of hesitation in his eyes, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like that.

“You’re getting bold, Choi Seungcheol,” you teased gently.

His lips quirked. “Trying,” he admitted, cheeks pink. “Is it working?”

You set the bottle down, turned slightly to face him. “It’s cute,” you said, voice soft. “You’re cute.”

And just like that, the boldness flickered. His eyes widened a bit, and he ducked his head with a huff of embarrassed laughter. “Ah, don’t say it like that. I’m gonna combust.”

You stepped closer, your hand brushing his.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, his fingers slipped between yours still a little shy, but deliberate now. Steady.

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” you said, tilting your head. “You’re kind of the highlight of my day.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And smiled that slow, sincere smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Yeah?” he said softly.

“Yeah.”

You just looked at him, heart stuttering, and then leaned in without a word, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He blinked. The tips of his ears flushed red. “You—okay. That’s fine. Cool. Totally fine.”

“You’re flustered again,” you teased, grinning.

“You kissed me!”

“Not even on the mouth.”

“You kissed me,” he repeated, dazed but smiling.

And then, because it was him, he cleared his throat and offered his cheek again.

“…Just in case it was a fluke,” he muttered.

So you kissed him again longer this time. And he didn’t say a word after but his hand found yours, and he didn’t let go this time. You smiled, the kind of smile that crept all the way into your eyes and without a word, you stepped in and wrapped your arms around him.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest, steady and strong—but a little fast. Like yours.

“I’m not very good at this,” he murmured, voice low near your ear.

You hugged him tighter, your cheek resting against his collarbone. “You’re doing better than you think.”

His voice came quieter this time, barely above a whisper, “I really like you.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your smile still there, softer now. “I know.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “You do?”

You nodded. “I really like you too, you know.”

His mouth opened a little like he was ready to say something but then he just smiled. He leaned in, forehead pressing gently to yours. “I think I’m gonna keep falling for you,” he whispered.

“Good,” you whispered back.

=

The apartment was quiet again, warm in the late afternoon light filtering through the sheer curtains. 

Seungcheol was in the kitchen, rinsing out Soojin’s sippy cup and tossing a few snack wrappers into the bin. He didn’t even really need to clean, he just needed to do something because otherwise his heart might start sprinting again just from thinking about how easily you laughed earlier.

When he stepped out to check on you two, a dish towel still slung over his shoulder, he froze.

There you were.

Curled into the corner of the couch, Soojin nestled securely in your arms, her tiny hand fisted in your shirt, both of you deep in sleep.

Your head had tipped slightly to the side, mouth parted, hair a little tousled from the nap. Soojin was using you like a personal pillow, her cheek pressed to your chest, completely still except for the slow rise and fall of her breathing.

And just like that—like a switch flipping in his chest—Seungcheol knew.

It wasn’t a crush.  It wasn’t just appreciation. He wasn’t just touched that you loved his daughter.

He was in it. In deep.

There was something terrifying and sacred about the way the two people he cared about most looked so safe with each other. About how he didn’t want this to be a moment—he wanted it to be a life.

Eventually, he moved quietly, grabbing the folded blanket from the armrest and gently draping it over the two of you.

You stirred slightly, shifting, and your eyes fluttered halfway open. You looked up at him blearily, smile lazy and content.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Hey,” he said just as softly.

You didn’t even move to get up, just adjusted your arms around Soojin and let your eyes fall shut again, trusting him to take care of whatever needed doing.

Later that evening, Seungcheol stood just outside a convenience store, phone pressed to his ear, one hand buried in his coat pocket as he stared out at the quiet street. The light above him buzzed faintly, the sky overhead dimming into early night.

“Hyung?” came Jihoon’s voice on the other end. “You okay?”

“I need to drink,” Seungcheol said flatly.

There was a beat of silence.

“…Like, now?”

“Now,” he confirmed.

“Did something happen?” That was Soonyoung chiming in now, voice already laced with concern and that slightly chaotic energy Seungcheol expected.

“I left Soojin with the sitter. Just come meet me. That fried chicken place near the station.”

Another silence.

Then Wonwoo’s voice, casual but amused: “You sound like you’re about to confess to a crime.”

“I might as well have,” Seungcheol muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

Ten minutes later, the guys showed up, filing into the booth around him. Beers clinked onto the table. Chicken arrived. And then the staring started.

Seungcheol just slumped in the booth, arms crossed, beer untouched.

“…Okay, spill it,” Jihoon said. “You didn’t call us out here just to eat.”

Seungcheol looked at them, defeated. “I think I’m in love.”

Soonyoung nearly choked on a fry. “Wait—what?”

“With your neighbor?” Wonwoo asked, already grinning.

“She fell asleep on my couch holding Soojin like—like it was nothing. Like she’s always been there. Like we’re…” He groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I am so done.”

The table fell into chaotic laughter.

“I knew something was up!” Soonyoung exclaimed. “You’ve been all weird and fluttery for weeks!”

“I haven’t been fluttery,” Seungcheol mumbled.

“Bro, you giggled last time she texted you,” Jihoon deadpanned.

“Okay, maybe I giggled—”

“This is good, though, right?” Wonwoo leaned forward. “I mean… she’s great with Soojin. You like her. She likes you.”

“That’s the thing,” Seungcheol said, staring at the beer bottle. “It’s too easy. Too good. I keep waiting to mess it up. Or for her to realize I come with a lot more chaos than most people want.”

“But she already sees that,” Jihoon pointed out. “And she hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Seungcheol paused. Thought about you, smiling sleepily at him from his couch just hours ago.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “She hasn’t.”

“But like—what if it doesn’t work? I mean, she’s—she’s calm and smart and funny and actually sleeps more than three hours a night. And I’m over here talking to my ten-month-old about whether I’m embarrassing myself!”

“Didn’t you just say it was good?” Soonyoung blinked.

“I did, but that was ten minutes ago when I was delusional and riding the high of a nap scene from a drama,” Seungcheol groaned. “Now I’m thinking about the reality of it.”

He shoved a piece of chicken into his mouth like that would fix it, then talked around it.

“I mean, look at me. I’ve got formula in half my clothes, I haven’t gone on a proper date in more than a year, and my idea of romance is asking someone if they want to share baby wipes. That’s not attractive. That’s functional despair.”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “Functional despair sounds like a great band name.”

“I’m being serious,” Seungcheol said, waving his chopsticks. “She deserves someone who’s not already drowning in dad mode. Someone who doesn’t have to pause kisses to check if the baby monitor blinked.”

“So don’t kiss near the baby monitor?” Jihoon offered unhelpfully, popping a fry in his mouth.

Seungcheol ignored him and ran a hand through his hair, “What if I fall harder and then she decides she can’t do this? Or worse, what if Soojin gets attached and then she leaves? That’ll wreck both of us.”

“Or,” Wonwoo said slowly, “she stays. Because she already cares. You’re kind of freaking out about something that hasn’t even started.”

“I’m pre-freaking,” Seungcheol corrected. “It’s like damage control but emotional.”

Soonyoung stared at him. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes,” Seungcheol said dramatically. “And I don’t like it.”

“You’re so gone it’s almost poetic,” Jihoon muttered.

Seungcheol groaned and dropped his forehead to the table. “I hate how much I like her.”

And underneath all their laughter, the teasing and snark, none of them missed the truth in his voice.

Wonwoo leaned back, one eyebrow raised. “Do you though?”

Seungcheol lifted his head slowly, hair slightly flattened from where it had been pressed. “Do I what?”

“Hate how much you like her.”

Seungcheol sighed, finally leaning back in the booth. “No,” he muttered. “I don’t. That’s the problem.”

Jihoon smirked. “You poor sap.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Wait until she actually kisses you. Your brain’s going to short circuit.”

“If she kisses me,” Seungcheol stressed. “I’m still not even sure I’m not imagining half of this. What if I’m misreading things? What if she’s just naturally sweet and I’ve been out of the game so long I’m confusing basic kindness with affection?”

“Okay first of all,” Jihoon said, “you’re not imagining it. Remember when you said she called Soojin her girl once. Like, ‘where’s my girl?’ You don’t ‘my girl’ someone else’s baby unless you’re all in.”

“Exactly,” Wonwoo said, raising his glass. “You're not doomed. You're just deeply, ridiculously smitten. Congratulations.”

Seungcheol let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and picked up his beer.

“Yeah,” he said, staring at the glass. “I really, really am.”

He stood there, keys in hand, swaying just slightly not from alcohol, really, but from overthinking. The hallway was quiet, dim, the kind of silence that made every thought echo a little louder in his head.

His fingers hovered over your door, not quite ready to knock.

He sighed and leaned his shoulder against the frame, muttering to himself, “She’s probably asleep. Or busy. Or—”

Click.

The door swung open, and there you were, hair a little tousled like you'd just gotten comfortable, holding a half-full mug and blinking in surprise.

“Oh—hey,” you said, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Were you about to knock?”

Seungcheol froze like you’d caught him sneaking candy from a jar. “I—uh. Maybe. I wasn’t sure if—uh—hi.”

You leaned on the frame too, mirroring his posture. “Hi.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but your eyes. “I didn’t mean to be weird. I was just… standing. Near your door. For no suspicious reason.”

“Completely normal,” you deadpanned, but the soft laugh in your voice made his shoulders relax.

“I was with the guys,” he explained. “Had a drink. Nothing wild. No one danced on tables.”

“Disappointed in you, honestly,” you teased, stepping back slightly. “You wanna come in?”

He blinked. “Really?”

You tilted your head. “Well, you were already loitering. Might as well make it official.”

You glanced over your shoulder as you set your mug down on the table. “You good?”

He blinked, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Just… wasn’t expecting you to open the door right when I was about to have a full internal crisis.”

You smirked, settling onto the couch. “Timing’s always been my thing.”

“You ever feel like your brain’s just… racing ahead of everything else?”

You gave a soft laugh. “Constantly. That’s why I eat snacks in bed. Brings balance.”

He chuckled, head dropping for a second before he glanced at you. “I think I’m just…” He hesitated. “Scared.”

Your voice was quiet. “Of me?”

“No. God, no.” His answer came quickly, eyes wide. “Of… how easy it is. With you. And how fast that happened. It’s not bad. It’s just... surprising. And kind of terrifying.”

You leaned back, watching him gently, your voice softer now. “You don’t have to rush anything.”

He looked at you like that was the first thing he needed to hear all week.

“I know,” he said. “I just… I want to get it right. With you. With her.”

“You already are,” you said simply. “Even when you’re awkward and rambling.”

He groaned and flopped back against the couch. “Don’t remind me.”

You smiled, looking at him. “It’s charming.”

He turned his head toward you. His voice was quieter. “You think?”

You nodded. “I do.”

And maybe it was the way the room felt warm or how the night wrapped around the moment so gently but he looked at you for a long beat, his eyes a little softer, his heart a little louder. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

You didn’t say anything either. Just leaned over, slow and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He went still for a moment when your head gently rested against his shoulder, but then you felt it the subtle shift of him relaxing, his shoulder settling just a little deeper into the couch so you’d be more comfortable. Like his body had made space without him thinking about it.

His arm lifted awkwardly at first, like he wasn’t sure where to put it, before it curved around your back, warm and tentative. You heard him breathe in, soft and shaky.

“This okay?” he asked quietly, the words brushing the top of your hair.

You nodded, your voice just as low. “Yeah.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward this time. It was gentle. Companionable.

Eventually, he whispered, half-laughing under his breath, “This is really dangerous.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him. “Why?”

His eyes were on the ceiling, a crooked smile forming. “Because I could get used to this.”

You shifted just slightly so you could look up at him, your cheek still resting against his shoulder. “You know,” you said softly, “you’re allowed to feel things. To want things. You can be more than Soojin’s dad.”

His gaze dropped to you slowly, like the weight of your words took time to settle. His eyes searched your face, but he didn’t speak, not yet.

You reached up, brushing your fingers gently over the crease between his brows. “You’re still Seungcheol.”

And it wasn’t until right then that he realized how much he needed to hear that. How long he’d been carrying this version of himself, carefully trimmed down to the essentials: provider, protector, father. As if there wasn’t space for anything more. As if it was selfish to even hope for it.

But here you were. Not asking for anything. Not expecting him to be perfect. Just… seeing him.

“I forgot,” he said finally, his voice a little rough. “I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“You’ve been doing the hard stuff,” you murmured. “You’ve been strong for her. But you don’t have to lose you in the process.”

His arm tightened around you slightly, his thumb brushing against your side in small, grounding circles. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t need to. The way he looked at you said everything.

“I didn’t think I’d get this again,” he said after a long silence. “This kind of quiet. This kind of—someone.”

You looked up at him again, your voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t lose your chance, Seungcheol.”

He glanced down at you, his eyes searching yours like he was trying to believe it.

“I think you’re kind of incredible,” you added, smiling just a little. “Even when you’re running off to buy emergency baby food or panicking in the hallway at midnight.”

A small, surprised laugh slipped from him, his eyes crinkling. “You remember that?”

You bumped your shoulder into him lightly. “You muttered a full monologue out there.”

He shook his head with a bashful smile. “I was trying to psych myself out of it.”

“Did it work?”

He looked at you again. Really looked. His gaze softened.

“No,” he said quietly. “Not even close.”

“I don’t know what this is yet,” he said, his voice unsure but honest. “But I know I don’t want to run from it.”

You smiled, leaning your head back on his shoulder. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on letting you.”

He chuckled under his breath, his head tilting down to rest against yours again.

And just like that, the silence returned—but this time, it held something new. Something neither of you said aloud yet, but both of you felt.

The beginning of something.

=

It’s another random day, the three of you just lounging around. 

Soojin was curled between you, triumphant and snug, and Seungcheol was pretending to pout, eyes narrowed at her while trying not to smile. His arm was still behind you, his body warm and close, and for a second you looked at him

And then, almost without thinking, you leaned in.

A soft kiss. half on his cheek, half on the corner of his lips.

He froze. You pulled back slowly, your smile still there but quieter now, a little uncertain. And then he turned his head toward you, just enough that your faces were closer again, but not quite touching.

“You missed,” he said, voice low, a little breathless.

You raised a brow, trying to play it cool even as your pulse fluttered. “Did I?”

He nodded slowly, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second. “A little.”

Soojin, completely oblivious, let out a content sigh in your arms and stuffed her fingers into her mouth.

You looked at him, at the way his usually calm eyes were dancing with something nervous and bold all at once. And then you leaned in again closer this time, a heartbeat away—

Only for Soojin to let out the loudest hiccup of her life and slap a drool-covered hand to your chin.

You and Seungcheol both burst out laughing.

“Okay,” you said, grinning as you wiped your face. “She’s really committed to cockblocking you.”

Seungcheol laughed so hard he had to cover his mouth. “She’s ten months old and already has better timing than I ever will.”

But even after the moment passed, even with Soojin demanding your attention again, he kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye—like the space you almost closed still lingered in his chest.

You were finishing the last of the dishes, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath when you felt the shift in the room. You didn’t need to turn around—you could sense him. That quiet energy of his when he wasn’t quite sure how to act, like he was rehearsing what to say even as he approached.

Then, arms slid around your waist.

You smiled before he even said anything.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmured against your shoulder, his voice low, a little too casual.

You grinned, rinsing the last plate. “Hey yourself.”

His hold tightened, not too much, just enough to feel the beat of your pulse and make you pause. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your neck.

“You do this now every time I’m doing dishes?” you teased, flicking water off your fingers. “Getting cozy so you don’t have to help?”

“I like the view,” he muttered.

You turned your head toward him with an amused look. “Of the sink?”

“Of you at the sink,” he said, then groaned quietly like he hated himself for how that came out. “That sounded better in my head.”

You laughed, setting down the towel and turning in his arms, your hands still a little damp as they rested against his chest. “You’re really bad at this, huh?”

“I am,” he admitted, no hesitation, ears slightly pink. “Like, embarrassingly bad.”

“I kinda like it,” you said with a soft smile. “It’s… endearing.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Endearing enough that I don’t need to pretend I came out here for water or something?”

You squinted at him. “You came out here to flirt.”

“I really thought I was being subtle.”

“You were about as subtle as Soojin when she wants to be picked up.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Wow. Harsh.”

“But accurate,” you teased, poking his chest gently.

There was a beat then, quiet and close. His hands were still on your waist, yours resting between his ribs and shoulders. The kitchen was soft around you, dim and warm, the sound of the hallway clock ticking faintly in the background.

And suddenly the air changed.

Seungcheol swallowed. “I’ve… kind of wanted to do this for a while now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Help with the dishes?”

He huffed a laugh, nervous and fond all at once. “God, you’re really not gonna let me have this moment easy, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

Then he leaned in. Tentative, close enough for your breath to catch but still watching your face like he was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.

Your hands slid around his neck instead, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. “Okay,” you whispered, “I’ll let you have this moment.”

He smiled. Soft, real, and just a little shaky.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t perfect. His nose bumped yours a little, and your teeth almost clacked from the way you both smiled halfway through it. But it was warm and real and his hands tightened just slightly like he was anchoring himself there with you.

When you finally pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“Worth the bad lines?” he asked.

“Definitely,” you whispered, cheeks flushed.

And from the hallway, as if on cue, Soojin let out a sleepy little squeak in her crib.

You both laughed quietly.

“Guess that’s our timer,” you said, leaning into him again.

He kissed your temple, still holding you like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “She’s gonna be so mad she missed that.”

=

It was an ordinary morning. Soojin was babbling her usual string of soft sounds while sitting on the floor between you and Seungcheol.

You were handing her one of her favorite toys, grinning as she smacked it against her chubby thigh in excitement. She was bouncing, babbling, making nonsense sounds and grabbing at your sleeve like she always did when—

“Mama.”

It was soft. Clear. Unmistakable.

You froze mid-reach. So did Seungcheol, his mug halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was almost comical. Soojin just blinked up at you like she hadn’t just shattered the entire room into stillness.

You slowly turned your head to look at Seungcheol. He was already looking at you, eyes wide.

“Did she—” you started.

He nodded, eyes even wider now. “She said—”

“Mama,” Soojin chirped again, reaching for your hand with her gummy grin.

You blinked fast, a wave of emotion flooding your chest so quickly it knocked the breath out of you. “Oh my god.”

Seungcheol was already moving, crawling closer to the two of you, completely abandoning his coffee. “Wait—say it again, Soojin. What was that?”

But she just giggled now, slapping your arm with baby enthusiasm, still beaming. “Mama!”

You laughed, a sound caught between a sob and sheer disbelief, hugging her instinctively to your chest. “I swear I didn’t teach her that. I didn’t—”

“I know,” Seungcheol said, staring at you both like the world had just shifted. “She just… she chose it.”

“She called you mama.”

You looked up at him, cheeks warm, eyes a little wet. “She did.”

He leaned in and kissed the top of Soojin’s head, then your temple. His voice was barely a whisper, like it was only meant for the space between the three of you.

“She knows who loves her.”

Your eyes welled up so fast it surprised even you. You blinked hard, trying to breathe through it, but the moment, it cracked something open.

Seungcheol’s head snapped up, alarm flashing across his face. “Wait—are you crying? Are those—are you okay? Was it too much? I mean, she just—she just said it out of nowhere, I didn’t mean for—"

You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head as you held Soojin closer. She patted your cheek, like she could sense it. “No—no, it’s not that, it’s just—” you looked up at him, your voice catching in your throat. “Do I deserve that? Is that okay with you?”

His breath caught. His mouth parted, like the words couldn’t come fast enough.

“Hey,” he said, moving closer on his knees, gently reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You didn’t take her from anyone. She chose you. She’s been choosing you.”

You swallowed hard, but the tears still fell, quiet and honest. “I’m not her mom…”

“You love her like one,” he whispered. “She feels that”

You stared at him, breath shaky.

“I didn’t know if it was okay,” you murmured, “to feel this much.”

He leaned forward, forehead touching yours. “It’s more than okay.”

Soojin squirmed in your arms, reaching one tiny hand up to grab a piece of your hair and yanking gently. You both laughed, eyes still wet. And then Seungcheol pressed a kiss to your cheek, soft and sure.

“Welcome to the family, mama.”

You were crouched on the floor, gathering up Soojin’s toys and it hit you all at once. The memory, bright and clear, of her smiling up at you with those shining eyes, her chubby hands reaching out as she said it.

Mama.

The quiet shuffle of feet made you look up. Seungcheol stood at the edge of the room, eyes wide with concern, a half-folded blanket still in his hands.

“Hey—” he said gently, moving to crouch in front of you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You shook your head, wiping at your cheeks, the words barely able to form. “I don’t know. I just—” you swallowed, voice cracking. “She looked at me like that. She smiled and she called me mama like I’ve always been that for her and I—”

He moved closer, hands bracing on your arms as if to ground you.

You took a deep breath and looked at him, tears still spilling. “How can I even love someone this much? She’s not even mine, but I feel it—I feel like she is. Every part of her. And then I think…” Your voice wobbled harder. “I think, how could anyone not want that? How could her mother not want her? Not love her?”

Seungcheol’s expression folded not in shock, not in discomfort but in something raw and full of understanding. He pulled you forward, wrapping his arms around you tight, pressing your face against his shoulder as you cried.

“I ask myself that all the time,” he murmured. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it. But I’m grateful—” he held you tighter—“so damn grateful that she has you. That she loves you.”

You clutched his shirt in your fists, letting yourself cry into him, letting the weight of all of it — the love, the ache, the wonder of being chosen — pass through you.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered.

“You won’t,” he said softly. “You already gave her what no one else did.”

You pulled back a little, eyes still glassy. “What’s that?”

He smiled gently. “Your whole heart.”

“I don’t want her to grow up ever thinking she doesn’t have enough love,” you said, voice raw and breaking. “She doesn’t deserve that. She deserves so much more.”

Seungcheol’s arms tightened around you, his breath catching like your words had punched straight through his chest.

“She won’t,” he said firmly, his voice a little hoarse now too. “Not with you in her life. Not with us.”

You pulled back, just enough to look up at him, your face still streaked with tears. “What if one day she wonders why her mom left? What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough to cover up that kind of ache?”

His hands cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away with the gentlest touch. “You being here doesn’t erase what happened,” he said. “But it gives her something else to remember. Something better. She’s gonna grow up knowing that she was wanted so badly that even the people who didn’t have to stay… did.”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to love her like this,” you admitted. “I didn’t expect to. But now I can’t imagine not.”

“She doesn’t know anything else but love when you’re around,” he said quietly. “You’ve already changed her whole world. Mine too.”

You closed your eyes, more tears slipping free, but they didn’t feel heavy now. They felt… full.

“I’m so glad she has you,” he whispered. “I’m so glad I do too.”

And there, in that quiet room filled with baby toys and love you didn’t see coming, you nodded and leaned into him, holding on like the two of you — all three of you — were exactly where you were meant to be.

=

He was just coming out of the other room, towel slung around his shoulders, when he heard your voice. Not loud. Not laughing. Not teasing like it usually was when you played with Soojin. 

This was quieter—gentler.

He padded closer to the bedroom doorway, peeking in without making a sound. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in one of his old sweatshirts, Soojin nestled between your knees, her little arms lifted as you struggled to get her tiny hand through the sleeve of her onesie.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whispered, a fond smile on your lips as you smoothed the fabric over her back. “Look at you, almost dressed all by yourself. You’re so smart.”

Soojin babbled in response, wiggling slightly as if trying to help.

“You are,” you told her softly, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “So smart, and brave, and kind. And everyone who meets you is going to see that, because you shine. You know that? You shine.”

He stilled, towel forgotten in his hand. Something tugged hard in his chest. You laughed a little when Soojin blew a spit bubble in reply, unbothered, like she understood every word you said.

“And you’ve got the strongest little heart,” you continued, guiding her chubby feet into her leggings. “You’ve been through more than most, haven’t you, sweetheart? But you keep going. You keep smiling. And you’re so, so loved.”

You paused for a second, your fingers slowing.

“By your dad,” you whispered, kissing her forehead. “By me.”

Soojin squealed, flapping her arms with glee, and you grinned, lifting her up in a little bounce. “Yeah? You know it, huh?”

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe before he could stop himself, heart in his throat, eyes on you like he couldn’t believe this was real. You glanced over, surprised, but your smile didn’t falter.

“Hey,” you said, lifting Soojin a little higher. “We’re dressed. Tell Daddy we got dressed like champs.”

He laughed “I heard.”

You tilted your head. “Too much?”

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

And in that moment, watching you cradle his daughter like she was the whole world and speak to her like every word mattered, Seungcheol realized something else. 

You weren’t just part of his life now. You were helping build it.

You were still laughing softly with Soojin, brushing her wispy hair back and blowing a gentle raspberry to her cheek, when he said it.

“I love you.”

Your hand paused midair.

The room stilled not tense, but full. Full of everything that had been building for weeks in glances, in soft touches, in the way you carried his daughter like she was a part of you, too.

You looked up slowly, lips parted slightly, eyes wide with something between surprise and breathless warmth. “What?”

He stepped forward, leaving the towel forgotten on the hallway floor. His voice was calmer than he expected, his hands at his sides, heart pounding—but steady.

“I love you,” he repeated. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to say it just now. I was going to… I don’t know. Plan it better, maybe.”

You blinked, standing up with Soojin still in your arms, her head now resting lazily on your shoulder like she was sensing something important.

“But then I heard you,” he went on, his voice rough around the edges. “The way you talk to her. The way you love her. And I just—there was no way I could keep it in.”

You stared at him for a beat longer, as if trying to decide if this was real, if you were allowed to feel everything you were suddenly feeling.

Then your mouth curved into the softest smile, and your eyes glistened.

“You’re really bad at planning, huh?”

He let out a breath of a laugh, stepping closer. “Terrible. But I meant it.”

You nodded, hugging Soojin a little tighter between you. “I know.”

He tilted his head, suddenly unsure again. “You know?”

Your smile deepened as you stepped close enough to press your forehead to his, Soojin squished gently between your chests. “Of course I know.”

Then, quieter, your lips brushing his:

“And I love you, too.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You felt it — the way his shoulders dropped, the quiet shudder of relief through his body, how his hands finally moved to hold your waist, steady like he was anchoring himself to the moment. You didn’t pull away. If anything, you leaned in closer, letting Soojin nestle in between you both like she belonged there — because she did.

He let out a breathless laugh, rubbing one hand gently up your back. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You smiled against his jaw. “You let me in. That’s enough.”

Soojin shifted in your arms with a sleepy little whimper, and both of you instinctively rocked slightly, a quiet rhythm the two of you had already fallen into like it was second nature.

Seungcheol watched you the curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the way your arms curled protectively around Soojin like you were born to love her.

And now, him too.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I want you to stay.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, eyebrows raised slightly. “Today?”

He shook his head, a little crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“No,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “I mean… in our life. Always.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, full and aching and warm.

You whispered, “Okay.”

And when he leaned down this time — with Soojin smooshed between you both, giggling now, tiny hands batting at your chins — you tilted up to meet him halfway, a soft, sure kiss shared right there in the center of your little world.

Messy, imperfect, beautiful.

Yours.

=

It was the day before Soojin’s first birthday, and the apartment was a gentle mess of soft pinks, pastel streamers, and tiny decorations waiting to be set up. 

Later that evening, after Soojin had gone down for the night, the apartment was unusually quiet. The living room still held the remnants of earlier chaos. You were at the table, folding the last few napkins.

You caught him staring.

“What?”

He gave a guilty little smile. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“That’s always dangerous.”

He laughed under his breath. “True.”

“Thinking about what?”

He hesitated, then came to sit across from you, elbows resting on the table, hands clasped. “Just… tomorrow. Her first birthday. It feels like a milestone for her, but also… for me.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hands. “I think it is. You kept her alive, loved, and growing for a whole year. You did amazing.”

“She made it easy. And you…” he trailed off, gaze softening. “You came in and filled in every space I didn’t know was empty.”

Your heart squeezed at that.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “I used to count down every hour until bedtime. Just so I could breathe for a second. And now—now I look forward to the mornings because I get to see her smile. And I get to see you.”

You smiled gently, voice quiet. “Cheol…”

“I mean it,” he said, sitting up a bit straighter. “You changed everything.”

You reached across the table, resting your hand over his. He turned his palm to meet yours, fingers lacing instinctively, like they’d always meant to do that.

Then he squeezed your hand. “Wanna stay over again tonight? Just us. Before the chaos of tomorrow.”

You smiled softly. “Only if you make me your famous midnight ramen.”

He grinned. “Deal.”

He stood, pulling you up with him by your joined hands. You laughed as he tugged you close, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

Later, you found yourselves curled on the couch, sharing a blanket, your legs tangled, a bowl of instant ramen balanced between you. You took turns feeding each other, whispering quiet jokes and memories from the past few months, letting the soft light from the kitchen be the only thing illuminating the moment.

And neither of you said it, but it was clear. This, it wasn’t fleeting. It was growing roots.

Right here, in the warmth of laughter and late-night ramen, on the eve of a little girl’s first birthday.

You're both lying in bed, the lights dimmed to a soft glow, the sheets pulled up to your waists. Soojin was asleep in her room, the baby monitor quiet on the nightstand. Seungcheol was on his side, facing you, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting just barely on your waist.

You’d been talking about her birthday party tomorrow, about whether the cake would survive the trip from the bakery, about how she was probably going to end up covered in icing before the day was done. 

You’d laughed, light and sleepy, and then the room had gone quiet. Not awkward—just still.

And you’d gone quiet too.

He noticed it almost instantly.

“Hey,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along your arm. “Where’d you go just now?”

You blinked out of your thoughts, glancing at him. “Nowhere.”

He raised a brow, giving you a look.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “Okay… not nowhere.”

He waited, eyes patient, a quiet comfort in the dark.

“I was just thinking,” you said, your voice low, barely more than a whisper. “How fast everything changed. How we went from being strangers in the hallway to…” You trailed off, gesturing softly between you and him.

“To this,” he said.

You nodded. “And how it doesn’t feel scary. I thought it would. But it doesn’t.”

He smiled, eyes still on you. “I thought it would too. I tried really hard to keep things from going too far, honestly.”

You gave a playful scoff. “Wow. Thanks.”

He laughed quietly. “I mean because I was scared. Because I thought maybe it was too much to hope for. That someone could just… walk into our lives and fit so perfectly. Be exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”

“I still get scared,” he admitted. “But every time you’re here, or she reaches for you, or you say her name like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world… I stop doubting for a little bit.”

You shifted closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Then I’ll just have to keep doing all of that. So you don’t forget.”

His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers curling around yours gently.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Deal.”

He never said it outright again after the first time, “I love you”, but he didn’t need to. 

It lived in every small thing he did. In the way he made your tea just the way you liked. In the way he gave you the first bite of everything. In how he never missed a chance to touch you — hand on your back, brushing your fingers, tucking your hair behind your ear.

And you — you loved them back so fiercely it scared you sometimes.

“She’s so loved,” you whispered

“She is,” he said, almost like a vow.

You looked at him — this man who had doubted everything once, wondered if he could be a good father, a good partner, someone worth staying for. Now he says things like vows he'll keep for the rest of his life.

“I was so scared,” he murmured, voice low. “That I’d mess her up. That I’d never get it right.”

You reached for his hand. “You did everything right, Cheol. Everything.”

A long pause.

Then, softly, with a small laugh in his voice, he asked, “So… same time next year for birthday number two?”

You smiled, leaned up to kiss him — gentle, reassuring. “Already thinking what theme we should do next”

Right here, right now he doesn't even remember all those who left, everything he once lost. Now, all he can think of is what he has, wha he gained ever since he met you.

Wrapped in each other, the past behind and the future so very close, it felt like the beginning of everything good. Of everything true.

[blissfulflw]

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝑈𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑆𝑝𝑒𝑙𝑙

Pairing- Kim Minjeong (Winter) x fem reader

Genre- Fluff, slow burn, enemies to lovers

Word count- 10813

A/N: tumblr is being a bitch rn so I have to split the fic into two parts since apparently it’s too ‘long’ so here.

Part 2

It started with a text.

You had just finished up a long day at the library, your brain fried from the hours spent buried in textbooks, when your phone buzzed on the desk. Frowning at the unfamiliar number, you unlocked it.

*Hey loser, I bet you’re still doing your stupid homework. I’m about to go to a party, but don’t worry, I’ll think of you while I’m having fun. ;) *– Minjeong, your new best friend

You blinked at the message. First of all, who even was Minjeong? You didn’t know anyone by that name. Second, loser? You glanced over at your untouched dinner—instant noodles—and sighed. Well, she wasn’t wrong.

You stared at the phone, debating what to do. Was this some kind of prank? No way this was real. Still, your fingers typed out a careful response.

Uh, sorry, I think you have the wrong number. I’m not sure who you meant to text, but I’m not your best friend.

The response came quickly, as if she’d been waiting for you to reply.

Oops. Sorry, loser. I’ll try again next time. Have fun with your noodles. ;)

Your eyebrow twitched at the audacity. You weren’t sure if you should be offended or impressed by how casually rude this person was.

The next day at class, your phone buzzed again, and you groaned inwardly before checking it.

How’s your loser day going, huh? Are you hiding under the desk to avoid attention again?

You stared at the message, unsure of how to react. Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly typed back.

This isn’t funny. Stop texting me.

Aww, don’t be such a buzzkill. I’m bored, so I’m just sending you some entertainment. Maybe you should loosen up a little. Have you ever tried going to a party?

You frowned. You were way too shy for parties. Definitely not your scene. But this person didn’t seem to care about your feelings.

I don’t go to parties, and I’m not interested in whatever this is. Please stop texting me.

There was a pause before the next message came through.

Oh, I see. Another shy nerd. Alright, well, don’t have too much fun being all lonely and miserable. I’ll catch you later, loser.

You resisted the urge to throw your phone out the window. Why was this person so insufferable? You could already picture some snobby rich kid typing that message with an exaggerated smirk.

A few days later, you were in the library again, trying to focus on your notes when your phone buzzed again. This time, you didn’t even hesitate before checking.

I hope you’re enjoying being a nobody while I’m out living my best life. Got a new Louis bag. It’s so much better than your stupid backpack.

You blinked at the message and felt a small surge of annoyance.

Why do you keep texting me?

Because it’s fun. You’re fun to mess with. Plus, I think you need me in your life.

You let out a frustrated breath and leaned back in your chair. Why did you care so much about a person who didn’t even know you? Still, something about this exchange—it was infuriatingly addictive. As much as you hated the arrogance behind every message, a tiny part of you almost looked forward to it. Maybe because it was the closest thing to excitement you’d had in a while.

Well, I don’t need you.

Uh-huh, sure. That’s why you keep replying, loser.

Your fingers twitched, and you stared at the screen for a moment. You weren’t sure if it was frustration or something else—something you definitely didn’t want to admit—but you couldn’t help yourself.

Fine. Whatever. But I’m not playing your games anymore.

Oh, you’re playing. You just don’t know it yet. :)

_____

The next week, you found yourself standing outside the classroom when you heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, nerd.”

You froze. No way. You turned around, heart suddenly hammering in your chest. Standing there, her arms crossed and a smug grin on her face, was none other than Kim Minjeong. The Kim Minjeong. The girl everyone talked about on campus. The one with the perfect hair, flawless skin, and an attitude that could probably melt steel. And yet, she was looking at you like you were her next personal project.

“You’re the one from my texts,” she said, clearly amused. “I didn’t expect you to actually show up in person. I was starting to think you were just a boring little avatar on my phone.”

You cleared your throat, completely caught off guard. “Uh… I—”

“Shut up. I’m not here for your excuses. I just wanted to see what kind of loser texts like that. What’s your deal? You too shy to have a real conversation with people?” She tilted her head, her smirk growing.

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Was this really happening? You weren’t sure whether to feel angry or completely embarrassed.

“Well, no matter,” she continued, inspecting her nails. “You’ll be my little project now. Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you. For now.”

You stared at her, unable to speak. All you knew was that this was the start of something much, much bigger than you ever anticipated. And for some reason, you had the feeling it wasn’t going to be easy to get out of it.

You stood there, dumbfounded, as Minjeong—Kim Minjeong, the girl everyone on campus gossiped about—stared at you, completely unfazed by your awkward silence.

“You’re not much of a talker, huh?” she asked, leaning slightly forward, her tone almost mocking. “That’s fine. I’ll speak for both of us.”

You swallowed, feeling a little dizzy. She was even more intimidating in person. Her pristine appearance, her confident posture—it all screamed “don’t mess with me,” and yet here you were, standing in front of her, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“I’m not trying to be mean,” Minjeong said, stepping a little closer. “But it’s really funny how you just take all my texts without saying anything back. You don’t even stand up for yourself. You just… let me walk all over you.”

You felt heat creeping up your neck, realizing she was right. You had been letting her mess with you, every text cutting through your defenses like a hot knife. And instead of standing up for yourself, you just let it happen, every time.

“Don’t worry,” Minjeong continued, her lips curling into a playful smile. “You’ll get used to it. Or not. I really don’t care either way.” She tilted her head, studying you with almost too much interest. “But hey, you’re not completely useless. You’re smart, right? The whole campus knows you’re the best in class. Maybe we can make a deal.”

You blinked, utterly confused. “A deal?”

“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “I need help in a few subjects. And since you’re such a little genius,” she said, rolling her eyes dramatically, “I guess I’ll let you tutor me. But only if you agree to one thing.”

Your mouth went dry. “What thing?”

Her smirk widened, the challenge in her eyes making you want to back away, but you were frozen in place. “You’ll stop being such a boring, quiet little nerd. I want to see a little more of a… backbone from you.”

You swallowed, unsure of what she meant. Was she actually asking you to change? To become someone else? Or was this another game she was playing? Either way, something about the way she was looking at you made it hard to say no.

“And if I don’t?” you asked, your voice shaky but defiant.

She stepped even closer, closing the space between you, her presence looming in a way that made your heart beat faster. “Then I guess you’ll just stay in your little corner, the same nobody you’ve always been.” Her voice was low, almost teasing. “But hey, that’s your choice.”

You stared at her for a moment, torn between the frustration of her arrogance and the tiny spark of curiosity she’d ignited in you. You had always been invisible to people like her—perfect, untouchable Minjeong. But here she was, asking you for something. Something that felt… a little too much like a dare.

“Fine,” you finally muttered, unsure of what you were agreeing to but too stubborn to back down. “I’ll tutor you. But don’t expect me to be your personal project or anything.”

Minjeong’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oh, but I think you already are my project, sweetheart.” She let the words hang in the air, her tone thick with a teasing edge. “You just don’t know it yet.”

_____

You tried to concentrate on your notes in the library. You really did. But the truth was, you couldn’t stop thinking about Minjeong. Every time she texted you, every time she cornered you between classes, she left you reeling. You couldn’t figure out if she was just messing with you or if she really expected you to change for her—whatever that meant.

Your phone buzzed again.

Hey loser, I finished that paper. I hope you’re not crying because I got it done before you.

You groaned and typed back.

You’re not funny.

I’m hilarious, and you love it.

You bit your lip, unsure of how to respond. But before you could type anything else, another message came through.

Meet me after class. I want to make sure you’re doing your job properly. I’ll be in the usual spot.

Your heart skipped a beat. The usual spot? What was that supposed to mean? You could already feel the nerves crawling up your spine. But there was no turning back now. You were in this—whether you liked it or not.

_____

You walked slowly across campus, your hands shaking in your pockets as you tried to ignore the growing anxiety in your chest. You had no idea what Minjeong wanted from you. Was she really expecting you to start acting differently? To… become someone like her?

You rounded the corner and saw her leaning against a tree, her sunglasses perched on her nose, looking effortlessly cool and completely out of place. Minjeong. The epitome of confidence, sitting there with her legs crossed and a casual smirk on her face as if she owned the whole campus.

She looked up when she saw you approaching and immediately stood up, her gaze shifting from indifferent to something more dangerous. “Well, well. Look who decided to show up.”

“I’m here,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, still not sure what to say to her.

Minjeong crossed her arms, eyeing you up and down. “So… how’s this tutoring thing gonna work?” she asked, a cocky edge to her voice. “You gonna teach me something useful? Or are you just gonna sit there and tell me about boring equations?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m here to help you with the subjects you need, not your attitude.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Is that so?” She took a step closer, almost invading your personal space. “And what if I don’t want to listen to your ‘help’? What if I want to see if I can break you first?”

Your heart raced as she loomed over you, a mischievous glint in her eyes. You didn’t know whether to be terrified or intrigued by the way she was looking at you. But in that moment, you realized something.

You were in deeper than you thought.

_____

You sat at the table in the corner of the campus library, the one you usually claimed as your quiet spot. Your heart was racing, palms sweaty, despite the fact that you were technically prepared for the tutoring session. You had organized your notes, had everything ready, and you were determined to act professional.

Except that Minjeong was coming.

You had no idea how it was going to go. Would she actually listen? Would she make fun of you the entire time? The idea of having her so close, her eyes boring into you while you tried to explain math or history or whatever… It was enough to make you squirm in your seat.

The sound of footsteps broke you out of your thoughts, and you looked up. There she was. Minjeong. She sauntered toward your table with a confident smirk plastered on her face, her designer bag slung carelessly over one shoulder, the soft click of her heels echoing in the otherwise quiet library.

“Hey, nerd,” she greeted, sitting down a little too close for comfort.

You flinched slightly, your body tense. The closer she got, the harder it was to keep your thoughts in order. You had to remind yourself that she was here to study. You weren’t just some random person she was bothering—no, she needed your help.

Right?

“Ready to teach me, or do I need to entertain myself first?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, casually brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes were playful, as though she knew exactly how she was affecting you.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “We’re starting with history,” you muttered, opening your notes to the chapter you had planned on covering first. “I… I’ll just explain it, okay?”

“Sounds boring,” Minjeong said nonchalantly, but she leaned in anyway, her gaze never leaving you. “Go on. Teach me then. But, I gotta warn you, I’m not the best student.”

Her words shouldn’t have affected you the way they did, but they did. The teasing lilt in her voice, the way she sat just a little too close—it was making it hard to focus.

You coughed, trying to push the thoughts aside. “So, uh, this chapter is about—”

Before you could finish, Minjeong casually kicked her legs out, letting one of her feet brush against yours. You froze, your heart skipping a beat. Her eyes flicked down to where her foot had made contact with yours, then back up to meet your wide-eyed expression.

“Oops,” she said sweetly, almost too sweetly, “Did I do that?”

You nodded quickly, trying not to look like a mess. Why was she doing this to you?

“Focus, focus,” you muttered under your breath, forcing yourself to look at your notes. You opened your mouth to start again, but Minjeong wasn’t making it easy.

She leaned in closer, her face now dangerously near to yours, her lips just a breath away. “You’re really cute when you get all shy, you know that?” Minjeong’s voice was low, and the tone sent a strange shiver down your spine. “Makes me want to see just how far I can push you…”

Your cheeks went red instantly. You turned away, trying to act like you were still in control. You’re supposed to be tutoring her, you reminded yourself. You’re not supposed to be a nervous wreck.

“Stop distracting me,” you whispered, hoping she couldn’t hear the way your voice wavered.

Minjeong’s chuckle sent another wave of heat rushing to your face. “Distracting? I’m just trying to help you relax. You know, get rid of that stiff little nerdy vibe you’ve got going on.”

You wanted to protest, but the words didn’t come. Every inch of you was telling you to focus, but Minjeong wasn’t letting that happen.

She reached across the table, just a little too casually, and tapped the edge of your hand with her fingers. “You’re so serious all the time. Lighten up, will you?”

You jerked your hand back, feeling your pulse quicken at her touch. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She wasn’t supposed to make you feel like this. You were the one in control here, the tutor, the smart one. Not her.

“I… I’m just trying to teach you,” you stammered, feeling the heat rush to your neck. “Can we please just focus on—”

But Minjeong wasn’t done yet.

Her chair scraped the floor as she moved just a little closer, until her body was practically pressed against yours. You stiffened immediately, trying to ignore the way her perfume clouded your senses. You could feel the heat radiating off her, and the distance between you was practically nonexistent.

“You’re cute when you get all flustered,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s honestly kind of adorable. Who knew the quiet nerd could be so… touchy?”

You swallowed, unable to think straight as she invaded your personal space even further. Minjeong’s lips were so close, and the way she was looking at you—like she was studying every reaction you had—it was making your head spin.

“I’m not—” you tried, but the words got stuck in your throat. You couldn’t even form a coherent sentence with her so close. You felt like a complete loser.

“Not what?” she teased, her breath warm against your skin. “Not flustered? You’re definitely flustered.”

You wanted to say something, anything to regain some of your composure, but Minjeong was relentless. She moved closer again, her hand resting casually on the table, dangerously close to yours. “I bet you don’t even know how much I’m messing with you right now. You’re such an easy target, you know?”

You couldn’t even look at her anymore. You were certain your face was so red, you might actually combust.

“Are you gonna answer me, or are you just gonna keep looking all embarrassed?” she purred, the teasing tone in her voice making you want to curl up into a ball.

“I… I don’t…” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. You just wanted to get through this tutoring session without completely losing your mind.

Minjeong chuckled softly, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on you. “Don’t worry, loser. I’m not that cruel. I’ll give you a break. But only because I’m feeling generous.”

You barely managed a shaky breath as she leaned back in her chair, her smile still playful, her eyes gleaming with amusement. You couldn’t believe how much she was affecting you with just a few words, a few touches. It was like she was purposefully breaking down every wall you had, and you couldn’t stop her.

You’re in over your head, you thought, unable to ignore the way your heart pounded against your chest.

You were trying. Really.

Trying to focus on the page in front of you, trying to explain the importance of some war or treaty or whatever the hell you were supposed to be teaching Minjeong. But it was impossible with her next to you, stretching in her chair like this was a spa day and not a tutoring session.

At some point, she had slid her chair even closer, until your knees were touching under the table. You had pulled back instinctively, but she only followed.

“I don’t bite, loser,” she whispered, her tone sickeningly sweet, “unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

You immediately choked on your own breath and coughed into your sleeve.

“God,” Minjeong laughed, “you’re such a mess.”

You slammed your textbook closed without meaning to. “I’m not a mess,” you muttered, even though your face was on fire and your hands were shaking slightly.

She leaned forward again, elbow on the table, chin resting on her palm, just watching you.

“Mm, sure. You’re not a mess. You’re just sweating and stuttering and can’t look me in the eye for longer than five seconds. That’s totally normal,” she said, voice laced with mock sympathy.

You clenched your fists in your lap, biting your tongue.

This was hell. She was hell.

“I don’t know why you’re even here if you’re not going to take this seriously,” you mumbled.

Minjeong blinked slowly. “What makes you think I’m not taking it seriously?”

You blinked back at her, dumbfounded. “Because you haven’t even opened your notebook.”

She smiled, almost innocent. “Yeah, but I’m watching you. That counts.”

“That’s not how studying works,” you said, exasperated, but your voice cracked halfway through the sentence, which absolutely killed any authority you were trying to have.

Minjeong reached across the table, slowly, and grabbed your pen. You thought she was going to mess with you again—but instead, she flipped your notebook toward herself and scrawled something at the top of the page.

You looked.

It said:

Loser Tutor’s Notes (feat. Me, Your Favorite Distraction)

You stared at it, dumbstruck.

“I’m going to murder you,” you said under your breath.

She just grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Now that’s more like it. There’s the spark I wanted to see. Who knew the little mouse could growl?”

You groaned and dropped your head onto the table.

“Oh my god. Please just read the chapter.”

Minjeong didn’t move.

You lifted your head slightly and gave her a side-eye. “What?”

She smiled like the devil. “You’ve got something on your face.”

You blinked. “What—?”

And then, without warning, she reached out and gently brushed her thumb across your cheek. You froze—completely, absolutely froze—because her hand was warm and soft and why was she touching you?!

“There,” she murmured, thumb lingering a beat too long. “Got it.”

You could barely breathe. Your brain was short-circuiting. You were ninety-nine percent sure your soul had just left your body.

She pulled her hand back slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“You look like you’re about to faint,” she said, tilting her head. “Are you okay, tutor?”

You nodded way too fast. “I’m—fine. Totally fine. Great. Studying. Yes.”

Minjeong bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh.

“God, you’re fun,” she whispered.

You looked down at the table, your notebook blurry through the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks. You didn’t know if this was some long-con bullying tactic or actual flirting or just Minjeong being a chaotic menace, but whatever it was—it was working.

You were completely, helplessly flustered.

And Minjeong? Minjeong was thriving.

You were certain the library air conditioning was broken. That had to be it. No way the heat rising in your face, the pounding in your ears, the flushed feeling in your chest—it couldn’t just be because Kim Minjeong was looking at you like she was waiting for you to fall apart.

And you were dangerously close to doing exactly that.

She’d stopped “studying” five minutes ago—if she ever started. Now she was slouched low in her chair, legs stretched out under the table, one of them still brushing yours every time she shifted. She hadn’t moved it. Not once.

You, however, had shifted four times and were now practically sitting sideways in your own chair, clutching your pen like it was a lifeline.

Minjeong tilted her head again, her ponytail swinging over one shoulder. “You keep running away from me and we’re not even on problem three.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was dry and your face felt like it was melting off.

“Are you nervous?” she asked softly, voice almost gentle. “Because I don’t bite unless you ask nicely.”

You accidentally dropped your pen.

She immediately leaned down to pick it up, and you scrambled—too late. Her fingers brushed yours as she handed it back, and you swear your heart jumped so hard you saw stars.

“Thanks,” you whispered, looking anywhere but her.

“You’re so cute when you’re panicking,” she murmured. “Seriously. I should mess with you more often.”

“You already do,” you muttered, surprising even yourself with how fast it came out.

Minjeong’s brows rose. “Oop. Did the mouse just bite back?”

You clutched your pen tighter. “I’m just trying to help you pass history. That’s it.”

“Yeah? And I’m just trying to help you grow a backbone.”

You looked at her finally, eyes narrowing.

She smiled—lazy, smug, teasing. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. She wasn’t even doing anything outrageous—just being there, being her. Minjeong had this way of making even the smallest things feel dangerous. Flipping her hair, licking her lip, leaning just a little too close when she didn’t need to. It was like she knew what she was doing to you.

And worst of all: it was kind of working.

“I think we should take a break,” you said suddenly, standing a little too fast. Your chair scraped loudly across the floor, drawing a few judgmental librarian glares. You winced and hunched your shoulders.

Minjeong blinked up at you, smirking. “Running away again?”

You didn’t answer. You were already speed-walking toward the little vending machine nook down the hall, trying to calm your nerves. You needed air. Or sugar. Or maybe holy water.

Behind you, you heard her chair scrape, and then the soft click of her shoes as she followed. Of course.

You stared blankly at the vending machine, pretending to decide between juice and soda, even though your hands were shaking too badly to press any buttons.

Minjeong came to stand beside you, casually leaning her shoulder against yours. “If I knew tutoring came with this much entertainment,” she said, “I would’ve signed up ages ago.”

“You’re evil,” you mumbled, pressing a random button. You weren’t even sure what snack you picked. It clunked down into the bin below and you reached for it blindly.

“I’m effective,” she said with a grin.

You didn’t move, just stared down at your snack. “I don’t get you.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “That’s what makes this fun.”

You turned to look at her. She wasn’t teasing now. She looked… curious. Like she was watching you figure something out and enjoying every second of your confusion.

“I don’t know if you’re making fun of me or if this is just your weird way of flirting,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Minjeong tilted her head again. “Can’t it be both?”

Your stomach flipped.

She stepped a little closer—barely noticeable, but enough that you felt her body heat again, that magnetic pull she always seemed to carry with her. “You’re not like everyone else. You’re awkward, and twitchy, and you talk to yourself under your breath, and it’s hilarious. But…”

She hesitated.

“But I think it’s kind of cute.”

You froze.

She leaned in, lips near your ear.

“…Which is really inconvenient, because I was planning on just messing with you until you cried.”

You stared at the vending machine like it held the secrets of the universe.

Then you whispered, “You still might.”

Minjeong laughed.

“Okay,” she said, tugging your sleeve, “break time’s over. Come back. I might actually let you teach me something this time.”

You followed her back to the table.

But your heart was no longer racing from panic.

It was racing because now, you weren’t sure where this game was going.

But you definitely weren’t losing anymore.

_____

You had been trying to keep a low profile. Hoodie up, headphones in, eyes on the ground. But apparently, fate—or maybe just Minjeong—had other plans.

You saw her before she saw you, standing under the shade of a tree with her usual entourage: Jimin, Aeri, and Yizhou. They looked like a poster for a perfume ad—flawless, bored, and too cool for the sun. Minjeong was leaned against the trunk, arms crossed, sipping an iced drink like she owned the quad.

And then she spotted you.

Her eyes lit up, sharp and interested, like she’d just remembered a game she wanted to keep playing. She straightened immediately.

“Loser!” she called, way too loud. Students nearby turned to look. You wanted to sink into the earth.

You paused, already overheating as she sauntered over, her friends watching with curious amusement.

“C’mere,” she said, grabbing your sleeve and tugging you away from the crowd and her clique. “I need to talk to you.”

“Uh, okay,” you mumbled, letting her lead you a few steps away. You glanced nervously at her friends, who were now openly watching the scene.

Minjeong didn’t seem to care. Her grip on your sleeve tightened like she thought you might run away if she let go.

“What’s with the hoodie? You trying to ghost me?” she asked, arching a brow. “You haven’t replied to my texts.”

“I didn’t think you actually… wanted me to,” you said honestly. “I figured you were just messing with me yesterday.”

She gave you a flat look. “If I was just messing with you, I wouldn’t have remembered your hoodie smells like vanilla and anxiety.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“Never mind,” she said quickly, cheeks barely pink. “Listen. There’s a party tonight. You’re coming.”

Your stomach twisted. “Minjeong, I don’t really—”

“Party,” she repeated, voice firmer. “Tonight. You. Me.”

You shook your head. “I’m not a party person. I’ll just—”

“Hey,” came another voice suddenly—light, amused. You turned to see Jimin, striding over, hands in her jacket pockets and smile too pretty to trust.

She gave you a slow once-over. “You’re the little tutor, right?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“She’s my tutor,” Minjeong cut in, fast and clipped. “Mine.”

Jimin just smiled wider. “Relax. I’m not stealing your study buddy.” Her eyes flicked to you. “But if she ever gets tired of Minjeong’s attitude, I’m around.”

Minjeong stiffened beside you.

You, meanwhile, were having a mental shutdown.

Jimin winked. “You free tonight, sweetheart?”

Before you could combust on the spot, Minjeong reached over and grabbed your wrist, dragging you back toward the tree.

“She’s busy.”

“Am I?” you asked weakly, trailing behind her.

Jimin finally turned to her, raising a brow. “I didn’t ask what she was doing, Minjeong.”

“She’s going to a party,” Minjeong said through clenched teeth.

“Oh?” Jimin looked back at you, eyes glinting. “Are you?”

“I, um…” You hesitated, caught between them like you were the final rose on a reality show. “She just invited me…”

“She just invited you?” Jimin echoed, mock-surprised. “And you’re going? That easy, huh?”

Minjeong bristled beside you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Jimin said innocently, though she looked two seconds from grinning. “I just didn’t know our little tutor was such a yes-girl.”

“Back off,” Minjeong muttered, taking a step closer to you—not touching, but unmistakably claiming.

Jimin smirked, completely unbothered. “Relax, Minjeong. I’m just making conversation. Unless…” She looked at you again. “You wanna ditch her and come with me instead?”

You made a sound that might’ve been a nervous laugh, or maybe just your soul evacuating your body.

But before you could process the chaos any further, Minjeong leaned in close—her voice dropped to something lower, more serious, and surprisingly soft:

“Don’t listen to her.”

Minjeong stopped, turned, and stared at you. Her eyes were… not playful now. Not exactly angry either. Just tense. A little frustrated. A lot possessive.

Then her voice dropped to something quieter. “Come to the party. Please.”

The word please came out soft. Not bratty. Not sarcastic. Just… honest.

You looked up at her, stunned.

“I thought you didn’t care,” you said, barely audible.

Minjeong met your eyes. “I do.”

Just those two words. No teasing. No smug grin.

You swallowed hard, heart thudding. “…Okay. I’ll go.”

Her expression broke into something triumphant, and maybe just a little too pleased. “Good.”

She let go of your wrist—finally—and turned to walk back toward her friends, but not before tossing over her shoulder, “Wear something cute. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re single.”

You stood there, stunned.

And then:

Wait.

Did she just—

_____

Your bed looked like a tornado had passed through it. Clothes were everywhere. Hoodies, jeans, shirts you hadn’t worn since high school—piled up like casualties of war.

You stared at the mirror, frozen.

A skirt.

You were wearing a skirt.

A cute one, too—soft black pleats that hit just above the knee, paired with a tucked-in oversized cream sweater and the tiniest bit of lip tint you nervously applied three times. It was… girly. Way too girly for you. But you had tried jeans first. Three different pairs. And none of them felt right.

But the second you pulled on the skirt and glanced at your reflection, your brain screamed: Minjeong would stare at this.

Which. Was a problem. Because now all you could think about was her reaction. Would she tease you? Laugh? Say something like “Trying to impress me, loser?” and then flash you that smug grin that made your stomach somersault?

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m going to die,” you muttered to the ceiling. “She’s going to eat me alive.”

Your phone buzzed.

[Minjeong]: u ready or r u still panicking abt ur outfit

You stared.

How the hell did she know?

Before you could respond, another message came through:

[Minjeong]: put something cute on. like that skirt u wore in that insta pic 4 months ago. i remember.

Your soul left your body.

That post had maybe three likes. You’d deleted it two hours after posting because you thought you looked awkward. She remembered it?

You swallowed hard, quickly typing back:

[You]: …i am literally wearing that skirt rn

Her reply came instantly:

[Minjeong]: good girl

You dropped your phone face down and covered your face with both hands.

“I’m not surviving this night.”

_____

The music was loud. The lights were low and warm and golden. People spilled out onto the porch and into the kitchen, laughing, dancing, shouting over whatever playlist was blasting from someone’s half-broken speaker.

You stuck to the wall like a nervous cat, clutching a solo cup filled with something fruity you hadn’t even tasted yet. Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since you stepped through the door.

Then—

“Holy shit.”

You turned. It was Minjeong.

Her eyes scanned you up and down. Slowly. She blinked like she’d just walked into something unexpected.

“You actually wore it,” she said, voice low, a little breathy.

You shrugged, cheeks on fire. “You said it looked good.”

Minjeong bit her lip, very visibly, and took a step closer. “I didn’t say good. I said cute. You look… dangerously cute.”

You blinked at her. “Dangerously?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, reaching out to tug at the hem of your sweater, her fingers brushing your bare thigh for a second that felt like an eternity. “Someone might flirt with you again.”

You swallowed. “Is that a problem?”

She stepped in fully now, her body practically brushing yours, voice dropping just enough that it buzzed against your skin.

“It is if it’s not me.”

You laughed nervously, but her eyes didn’t move from yours. She was serious again—Minjeong-serious, which meant she was probably five seconds from either kissing you or ruining your life with one sentence.

“You really look good,” she said softly. “I mean it.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

She looked down at your mouth, then back up.

And just like that, the space between you started to disappear.

The room spun a little, not from the drink—honestly, you were too scared to actually drink much—but from the way Minjeong was looking at you. Focused. Intense. Like she was choosing what to do with you very, very carefully.

You weren’t even sure what you were supposed to do. Say something cool? Flirt back? You were lucky you hadn’t spontaneously combusted the second she touched your thigh.

Minjeong’s fingers lingered on the hem of your sweater, her knuckles grazing skin. She leaned in just a bit more—her mouth dangerously close to your ear—and said, voice low:

“Everyone’s looking at you.”

Your heart jumped so hard you nearly choked.

She pulled back slowly, smug. “Bet you didn’t think wearing that skirt would make you the main character.”

You blinked, struggling to find your voice. “I didn’t wear it for them…”

Minjeong raised a brow.

“I wore it because you asked.”

That got her.

The smirk faltered for a half second, replaced by something softer—surprised, maybe even a little shy, though she’d never admit it. Her tongue poked the inside of her cheek as she looked you over again.

“…You’re gonna kill me,” she muttered under her breath.

And then—

“Hey!” someone shouted across the room. “We’re doing truth or dare in the living room. Get in here, Minjeong! Bring your girlfriend!”

Your brain stuttered.

Minjeong didn’t correct them. Just turned to you with a tilt of her head. “You in?”

“I—” You hesitated. “I’m bad at games.”

“You’re bad at everything,” she replied sweetly. “Come on.”

You were pretty sure your legs didn’t even work right as she grabbed your hand—your hand—and pulled you through the crowd. People glanced over as you passed, some whispering, others straight-up staring. You, the awkward, quiet tutor girl, holding hands with the most terrifyingly attractive brat on campus like it was normal.

You sat down beside her on the floor in the circle, already tense. The game had clearly started—half-empty cups, people mid-laugh, someone yelling about a dare involving whipped cream and the upstairs bathroom.

Minjeong didn’t let go of your hand.

Jimin sat across the circle, raised a brow at the sight of you, and smirked knowingly.

It was Minjeong’s turn. The bottle spun, slow and lazy, until it landed directly on… you.

A chorus of “oooooh”s filled the room.

You swallowed hard.

Minjeong leaned forward, that bratty glint fully returning to her eye. “Truth or dare, loser?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought about lying.

“…Truth,” you said weakly.

She pouted. “Coward.”

Then her eyes gleamed.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Do you like anyone right now?”

Your whole soul short-circuited. The entire circle perked up.

Your voice cracked. “That’s your question?”

“What?” she said innocently. “It’s just a game.”

You looked around. Everyone was watching you. Even Jimin, lips curled into a smirk like she already knew the answer. Especially Minjeong—leaned in, eyes locked on yours, like she was testing something.

You looked at your lap. Then, quietly:

“…Yes.”

Minjeong’s smile froze.

And then her voice dropped, quieter than before. “Do I get to know who?”

You looked up.

And just barely—only loud enough for her to hear—you whispered:

“If I said it was you, would you stop teasing me?”

Minjeong blinked. For once, she was speechless.

Then she laughed, almost breathless, and leaned in closer than ever before. “No,” she said. “That would just make me worse.”

And she still didn’t let go of your hand.

like she always did when she got her way.

Minjeong just stared at you. Like she was recalibrating something in her head.

Then, in classic Minjeong fashion, she leaned back like nothing happened at all—like you hadn’t just admitted you liked her in front of a crowd—and said lazily, “About time you said it.”

You flushed to your ears.

Someone whistled from across the circle. “Damn, is this a real thing now?”

“Obviously,” Minjeong replied with a toss of her hair, tightening her grip on your hand like it was proof.

“She didn’t say your name though,” Jimin pointed out slyly, swirling her drink. “Could’ve been me.”

Minjeong’s head snapped around so fast you could feel the heat rolling off her.

“Oh, really, Jimin?” she said, voice all sugar and knives. “You wanna go there again?”

“I’m just saying,” Jimin shrugged. “She did look kinda cute blushing when I talked to her.”

You, still attached to Minjeong’s hand, wished to be buried in a hole. Immediately.

But Minjeong was already turning back to you, letting go of your hand only to casually sling an arm around your shoulders. You stiffened like a board.

“She blushes when I breathe near her,” she told the group, shooting a smug grin at Jimin. “That doesn’t make you special.”

You whispered, “Oh my god,” under your breath.

The group howled with laughter.

You sank lower against the couch, every inch of your body warm, but Minjeong didn’t move her arm. In fact, her fingers started playing with the loose ends of your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Next round,” someone called, spinning the bottle again. The game moved on, but Minjeong stayed close, thigh pressed to yours, one leg bent so her knee bumped against yours every now and then.

Every time someone got dared to do something loud or messy or flirty, you flinched. But Minjeong? She didn’t let them near you.

“Dare me to kiss anyone here,” someone slurred two seats away, clearly tipsy. “I dare you.”

“Not her,” Minjeong said immediately, pointing at you without even looking up. “She’s off-limits.”

You stared at her.

“Why?” someone asked with a grin.

Minjeong finally turned her head, looked at you—really looked at you, eyes a little darker now, a little softer.

“Because I’m gonna kiss her later.”

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

_____

You weren’t sure how you got here.

One second you were in the living room, sitting next to Minjeong with your face burning and your thoughts short-circuiting. The next, she was tugging your hand again, weaving you through the crowd like she owned the place (which, for all you knew, she might), until you reached the back hallway—quiet, dimly lit, with only the low bass of music muffled through the walls.

You stopped just outside an empty guest room.

She let go of your hand but stepped in close again, crowding you gently against the wall, her gaze unreadable but focused like a laser.

“You okay?” she asked, and for the first time tonight, her voice was calm. Serious.

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Just a little warm.”

Minjeong smiled—crooked and knowing. “You always get like this around me?”

You wanted to lie, but all you could do was squeak, “Maybe.”

She hummed, pretending to think. “That’s cute.”

Your breath caught when she reached up and brushed your hair away from your face. Her fingers were light, warm, more careful than you expected. And you hated—hated—how easily you melted under her touch.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she murmured. “About kissing you.”

Your throat closed up. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” she said plainly. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

You looked up at her, heart hammering, cheeks hot. You didn’t say anything—but you didn’t pull away either.

That was enough for Minjeong.

She leaned in slowly, giving you time, watching you for even the smallest flinch.

And when her lips finally brushed against yours—soft, teasing at first—you forgot how to think. It wasn’t rough or rushed or showy like you thought it might be. It was patient. Curious. Gentle, even as her hand settled on your waist and her body pressed a little closer.

You gasped just slightly, and she smiled into the kiss like she’d won a prize.

When she pulled back, it was only by a few centimeters. Her breath was warm on your lips.

“You’re really bad at hiding it,” she whispered.

“Hiding what?” you managed to breathe.

“How much you like me.”

You didn’t deny it.

Minjeong grinned—smug, beautiful, bratty. “Lucky for you, I like you back. Even if you’re a total loser.”

“Gee, thanks,” you said, dazed.

She kissed you again.

And this time, you kissed her back.

_____

The air hit you like a wall the second you stepped out the front door. Crisp, cold, sharp against your legs—the skirt suddenly felt like a criminal choice.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, already regretting not bringing a jacket. Not that you’d planned to be here long enough to need one.

Minjeong followed behind, pulling the door shut, the muffled sound of music and party noise sealing off in an instant. The night was quiet now. Just the wind, a few distant voices, and your heart still fluttering from what had just happened.

“You’re freezing,” she said, eyes flicking to your bare arms.

“I’m fine,” you lied quickly. “It’s not that—”

Before you could finish, she was already sliding off her jacket. Not just any jacket. A black designer bomber, subtly monogrammed with tiny initials and a luxury brand name you definitely couldn’t pronounce.

She held it out.

You blinked at her. “Minjeong, that’s like… probably worth more than my tuition.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a jacket. And you’re shivering.”

“I’m not—”

“Take it,” she said flatly. “Before I get mad about it.”

You stared.

She stared back.

You slowly took the jacket, and the weight of it was immediate. Heavy, expensive, warm—and it smelled like her. Some kind of clean, expensive perfume and something uniquely her. You pulled it on, the sleeves way too long, the shoulders slightly too broad.

And still, it felt… safe.

Minjeong looked you over once, then smirked. “Cute. Loser in designer. New aesthetic?”

You scoffed. “I look ridiculous.”

“You look like you’re mine,” she said under her breath. Then louder: “And it’s not ridiculous if I say it’s hot.”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

She watched you fumble, grinning smugly, before walking ahead a few steps—then pausing and turning around, waiting for you to follow.

You did, hugging her jacket closer to your body, still buzzing from the kiss, her scent, her voice—everything.

She glanced back at you again.

“You hungry?”

You looked up. “What?”

“I’m starving,” she said. “Let’s go get food. I’m not ready to drop you off yet.”

“Minjeong—”

“Don’t argue,” she cut in. “You’re wearing my jacket. That makes you my responsibility.”

You rolled your eyes, flustered and grinning, and followed her into the cold.

The diner was exactly what you needed. Small, dimly lit, and filled with the faint hum of quiet chatter from a few other late-night customers. The warm glow from the neon signs outside flickered through the windows, giving everything a surreal, almost dream-like feel.

You slid into the booth across from Minjeong, still wearing her oversized designer jacket, which now felt like it belonged to you—despite the overwhelming scent of her still lingering on it. She didn’t say anything as she picked up the menu, her face softening for a split second before she took a casual glance at you.

You glanced down at the menu too, trying to look normal, but your fingers were still numb from the cold and your mind was racing a million miles an hour. You couldn’t stop thinking about what just happened—what she had said, the way she kissed you, how she’d taken off her jacket without hesitation and handed it to you.

She leaned back in the booth, her eyes scanning the menu, though you caught the way her gaze flicked to you every now and then, like she was waiting for you to say something.

“Don’t make me do all the talking,” she finally said, voice teasing. “Order something. It’s late. And I’m starving.”

You nodded, but before you could even pick something, she already waved the waitress over.

“I’ll have the pancakes and a coffee,” Minjeong said casually, flipping the menu shut. Then she turned to you with a raised eyebrow. “You?”

You hesitated, still feeling the weight of the moment, the kiss, the intimacy of it all. Finally, you settled on something easy—“Uhm, I’ll just have a burger, I guess.”

The waitress nodded and left.

You stared at the table, the silence between you stretching on. Minjeong didn’t say anything at first, letting you stew in your thoughts, her posture relaxed but the slight smile on her lips betraying a soft satisfaction.

“You’re really quiet all of a sudden,” she finally remarked, leaning in just a little. “That’s not like you.”

“I’m just… thinking,” you admitted, not really wanting to meet her gaze, but feeling the pull to do so. “About, well… everything.”

Minjeong’s lips curled up, a half-smirk forming. “And what exactly are you thinking about?” Her voice was lighter, teasing, but there was something underneath it, a small vulnerability that slipped through the cracks in her usual brash demeanor.

You shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to explain. “Just… you know. How things just kinda… happened?”

She tilted her head, eyes scanning your face for a moment. “It wasn’t that sudden, was it?” she asked, her tone more serious now, the playful edge gone.

You shrugged. “I mean, you were kind of… teasing me all night, and then the kiss, and now we’re here. I guess I didn’t really think it’d go this way.”

Her gaze softened a little, and she leaned forward just enough to close the space between you two. “You didn’t think I’d kiss you?”

You shook your head, feeling like an idiot. “No, I— I don’t know what I thought.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Minjeong reached across the table, her fingers brushing against yours for the briefest second, making your heart skip a beat.

“I’m not gonna lie,” she said softly, her gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that was rare for her. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while.”

You froze.

“I just didn’t know if you’d want it. I didn’t know if you’d be into it.” She paused, biting her lip in that way that sent a shiver through you. “But when you looked at me like that… I kinda lost control.”

You felt your face flush again, your chest tightening. “You’ve been wanting to kiss me? Seriously?”

She smirked again, just a little, but there was no mistaking the softness in her eyes now. “Why do you think I’ve been teasing you? Flirting with you?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your mind was still processing. Minjeong… wanted you? All along?

Before you could speak, the waitress arrived with their orders, setting the plates down with a quiet smile before walking off.

You reached for your burger, but your hand was shaking—just a little.

Minjeong noticed.

She leaned back in the booth, crossing her arms over her chest, the soft smile still on her lips as she watched you carefully. “Relax,” she said gently. “I’m not gonna bite. At least, not unless you want me to.”

You shot her a playful look, finally shaking your head and trying to settle into the moment. “I’m still figuring out what to do with you.”

“Good luck with that,” Minjeong said with a grin, reaching for her coffee. “I’m not easy, you know.”

You laughed quietly, still trying to get used to the idea of this—her teasing, her soft moments, the fact that she wanted to be close to you.

Minjeong’s eyes softened again, a little less cocky now, a little more real. “I’m serious though,” she said, her voice quieter, almost shy. “You do look cute in my jacket.”

You smiled, a little more at ease. “Thanks, Minjeong.”

“Anytime, loser.”

______

You took a bite of your burger, still flustered but feeling more comfortable now that the silence wasn’t quite as awkward. Minjeong was sipping her coffee, her fingers wrapped loosely around the mug, and you couldn’t help but notice the way she looked—more relaxed than usual, a little less like the untouchable queen of the campus and a little more like… well, someone you could actually talk to.

After a few more seconds of silence, you caught her glancing at you, a playful glint in her eye as she waited for you to say something.

And, for some reason, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Jeongie,” you said out of nowhere.

Minjeong blinked, the coffee cup pausing halfway to her lips as she stared at you. “What did you just call me?”

You tried to hold back your smile, knowing you had the upper hand now. “Jeongie. It fits you. You can’t just be ‘Minjeong’ all the time. It’s way too formal.”

Her eyebrow arched. “Jeongie?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your grin getting wider. “It’s cute. I think it suits you better than ‘Minjeong.’ It sounds more… playful. Fun.”

Minjeong set her cup down, a small laugh escaping her as she leaned forward, looking at you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Jeongie, huh? Is that what you think of me?”

You shrugged, trying to act nonchalant despite the fact that your heart was suddenly racing again. “I don’t know. I mean, you’re definitely a little bratty sometimes, but I think you have a softer side. I think you like the nickname.”

Minjeong leaned back in the booth, crossing her arms and giving you a sideways smile. “You’re bold, aren’t you?”

You shrugged again, but this time your grin was playful. “What can I say? You bring it out in me, Jeongie.”

Her eyes narrowed in mock annoyance, but there was something warmer behind them now—something that made her seem less like the untouchable goddess and more like someone real. Someone you could actually imagine getting to know better.

“You’re gonna regret that nickname, loser,” she said with a sly grin, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, her lips twitched like she was trying not to smile.

“No way,” you retorted confidently, biting into your burger. “It’s perfect. You look more like a Jeongie than a Minjeong anyway.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t seem bothered by it. In fact, she leaned across the table again, her face now just inches from yours. “You’re so cute when you’re being a little brat, you know that?”

Your breath caught at the closeness. The teasing tone in her voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Stop flirting,” you mumbled, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

Minjeong’s smirk only deepened, and she sat back in her seat again, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m not flirting. I’m just telling you the truth.”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Jeongie, you’re impossible.”

“That’s why you like me,” she replied smoothly, looking far too smug for someone who had just claimed that they weren’t flirting.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you filled with a mix of teasing and something else—something soft, almost like you were both trying to get used to the idea that you were sitting here together, just the two of you, talking in a way that felt more real than the game you’d been playing earlier that night.

Then, Minjeong’s voice broke the silence, quieter than before.

“You know, I’m really glad you came tonight,” she said, her tone a little more genuine, less teasing. “I… I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up to the party. Or if you’d even want to be around me, after everything.”

You were caught off guard by the vulnerability in her voice. Minjeong—Jeongie—wasn’t the type to let people see her like this. She was usually cocky, sure of herself, a little untouchable.

But now? There was something else there. Something softer.

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But… I’m glad I did too. I… I like being around you. Even if you’re a brat.”

Minjeong looked down for a second, almost like she was processing your words, before her gaze met yours again. There was that familiar spark in her eyes, but it was mixed with something else now—something warmer.

“I like being around you, too, loser,” she said softly, before leaning back in the booth with her usual cocky grin. “But don’t get used to me being nice.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, feeling a wave of warmth spread through you. There was something about this side of her—the side she only showed when it was just the two of you—that made you feel a little braver. A little more confident.

“Jeongie, I don’t think I could ever get used to you being nice,” you teased, feeling more playful now. “You’re way too much of a brat for that.”

Her eyes sparkled as she leaned forward again, her voice low and dangerous. “Keep calling me that, and I’ll make sure you never forget who’s in charge, loser.”

The intensity of her gaze sent a thrill through you, but you couldn’t help but smirk back.

“Only if you can keep up, Jeongie.”

[msbarrows]

This makes me think of my dad, who died at the age of 88 a few years back. He was an audiophile, and all his life he loved exploring music genres, and the music of other countries. Most of his life he regularly spent time looking for new (or old) things to listen to.

I cannot tell you how many times in those last years living with him where I heard him listening to stuff that was as (or more) current than what I was seeing cross my dash at the time (or in some cases was exactly what I'd just seen on my dash, which was always kinda surreal). He'd listen to anything at least once, and buy a copy for his music library if he liked it (he was the first person I personally knew who had an ipod). He had thousands of albums by the time he died (sadly all too many of them in the iTunes cloud, so they've poofed into nothingness); from music hundreds of years old (Gregorian chants were a particular favourite due to attending a Jesuit-run boarding school in the UK in his youth), to whatever was currently top of the charts. He had metal of varying degrees of metalness. He had punk, pop, country, soft rock, classic rock, rockabilly, rap, hip hop. Klezmer. K-pop. Easy listening. A capella. Opera. Musicals. Sound tracks. He had didgeridoo. He had jazz quartets, big band, orchestral. He had Pink and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and Arcade Fire and Imagine Dragons and and and. He had a lot of complete collections of things, some of them fairly eclectic (all the Millenium Collection CDs, all the Rough Trade Shops compilations, the entire World Music CD collection... just to name a few I can recall off the top of my head).

Music doesn't have any real age limit or restriction beyond "Do you like the sound of it?". Just because someone is older doesn't mean they aren't still listening to (and liking) current music. Because our tastes evolves and change over time, just like music itself does.

Though yeah, I laugh whenever I see people having that "omg why are they listening to/into/a fan of that..." moment over something and it turn's out to be because that was the current music/movies/whatever when they were teens or 20-somethings. It's kind of darkly hilarious how often the answer to that is, essentially, "do some math".

who is blasting linkin park at work the only other coworkers at the office are like 40+. Incredible

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

THE MIND OF A WEIRD BLACK GIRL

CHAPTER 3: "I HATE COLD FOOD"

Platonic yandere!batfamily x Deathstroke!reader

SYNOPSIS: He's been visiting me once a week like I'm his child in college, BUT THE FUCKER PUT ME IN HERE!!! And if there wasn't a thick glass between us, the old man would be DEAD.

People say that living in Arkham sucks fucking ass, but it's not that bad, really. Well, okay, it is that bad. There's rats chewing on electric wires, and the "villains" keep trying to break out but get hauled back in here like groceries. The psychologist keeps asking stupid questions that make you go more insane than the Sesame Street that keeps playing on those busted TVs. They won't show anything else but kid stuff or the news—something about not showing the patients violence. But let's be real here, this isn't some regular insane asylum; this place is more like a fucking prison. Your room got switched out for something that looks like you're locked up in Alcatraz. You have a collar on your neck that lets out calming mist that knocks you out or makes you fall asleep when pressed, but because the electrocuting one was too "inhuman," like this place wasn't completely inhuman. But it's not too bad. You've been through worse training with Slade. It makes you laugh. One time he left you on an island with only a knife and dreams: "If you survive, you become my prodigy." Now that was worse. It made you laugh because the old man had left food and supplies lying around because he cared, unlike, well, he who shall not be named. And by he who shall not be named, he's visiting you today. And let's be honest, he's been visiting you every Friday at 3, every single damn time—not a second late. He's not tired of your face; he's not tired of the scowl you give. He's not scared when you punch the windows or yell that you'll kill him because the reason why you're here is because you tried to kill him, but you failed, getting caught by his dusty sons before you could stab him right between the eyes. You were so close, yet so far—so fucking far. And now you're here. Pretty ironic you'd tried to get locked up for hours so that you wouldn't see him, but you get dragged out of your room. It doesn't matter how hard you thrash or how many nurses and doctors you slam against the walls; they roll your ass into that meeting room whether you like it or not. You tried to run out once before he could start talking, but the guards activated your collar, leaving you motionless in the chair for two minutes. They do it a lot now, and now he has a remote to activate it when you get out of hand. How fucking perfect is that?"[Name Wayne]," said a voice on the intercom. It made you shake, knowing what was to come of this. The nurses were getting tired of fighting with you just to see your dad, and you knew he was tired of pressing that button, but you seriously didn't want to talk to him at all. "[Name Wayne], come to the visiting room, please. You have a visitor; he has a gift for you." A gift? Does he think I'm a baby? Jesus Christ. A nurse came around but stayed six feet away from you.

"Uhmm, [Ms. Wayne]?" asked a timid nurse. "I have ears; I'll go," you groaned, getting off the couch in the place they call the entertainment room, which was just three boxes, a TV, card games, and board games. Entertainment, my ass. The nurses tried to touch you, but you slapped their hands away. "I can go there on my own; I need this over with." You walked down the corridors. The hallways felt longer than they did before. Were you walking slow just because you didn't want to see him? Get a grip, [Name]. He's just an old man—an old man who abandoned you twice, choked you out, and broke your rib. You aren't afraid of him. You refuse to be. He should be afraid of you and what you're going to do to him when you get out, and when you get out, he's going to wish he had better security in this place.

You entered the visiting room, and there he was, his face shaved, lemon-pepper hair gracing his black locs. He had a small scar above his eyebrow, and it made you feel proud—you had done this to him. So proud, you placed your feet in front of him, picked up the phone beside you, and held it to your ear.

"Afternoon," you mumbled.

"Afternoon," he answered.

Then silence. He spoke after a moment.

"No nurses?"

"Nah, I wanted to give them a break this week."

He laughed; it was a short, raspy laugh, one you were used to. He shouldn't be laughing, not at all. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk."

We're talking right now," you said,

I'm already feeling a migraine coming on.

"You used to talk more. You'd tell me everything, and more."

Oh God, he's reminiscing. "I was twelve, Bruce. I didn't know how to shut up."

"And now you do." He smiled, and it was that warm, dad smile that made you want to puke. You felt your collar beep.

"Something wrong?"

"Nothing, just tired."

Tired of you, but he really wasn't here just to talk—he's a detective with questions, and you're someone with answers.

"I took Slade to prison."

Great, imprisoning another father figure. How beautiful.

"God, you can't be serious."

You sighed.

"I am."

"Is that my gift imprisoning my mentor. "

"Yes." This has to be a joke. Taking the person who cares most about me and putting them in prison? Great, just terrific, Father of the damn Year.

"I'm going to kill you, you know that, right?"

"No, you're not." You hate how confident he sounds.

"You couldn't do it the first time, so how are you going to do it now? You still care for me, [Nickname]."

"Don't fucking call me that! You have no right to call me that!" My collar beeped, and I let out a deep breath.

"And as for caring, I don't."

"But you do."

"No, I don't."

He gave me that sickly sweet smile that could make your heart melt, but I wasn't falling for his tricks. I'm better than that, and I'm better than him.

"When I get out of here, you're dead. I have three months left in here, and when I'm free, ha, you'll have a sweet little bullet right between your skull."

"I'd like to see you try, dear." Oh, you'll see.

"You're fucking dead."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀˚ ⋆⠀⠀⠀ィ⠀⠀⠀⠀after last night⠀⠀⠀ ࿐ ⠀⠀⠀

@crazycaoticsimp

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@time-shardz

[coniferouspines]

Another snippet inspired by @babyblankyerror ’s Dr. Pinington AU.

“Stanley, are you—?” Stanford stopped dead upon entering his brother’s office, standing in the doorway dumbstruck as he took in the sight before him.

Stanley was sitting on the floor, leaning over one of those life-sized anatomy models one would normally find in a university biology classroom. He was dressed in his favourite lab coat, the one that was too big for him with the sleeves that would slip down past his hands. Surrounding both him and the anatomy model was a large array of stuffed animals, all posed in different positions. Some were set up to hold various medical instruments, while others were holding fake plastic organs. A few more seemed to simply be observers.

Mr. Rabid was right on top of the model’s open chest cavity, sitting on the fake lungs. It wore a little nurses’ cap on its head and a mini lab coat that Stanley had clearly sewn together himself. It looked to be watching Stanley as he rooted about in the model’s body, seeming very intent with… whatever his task was.

“What are you doing?” Stanford asked, thoroughly dumbfounded.

He’d watched Stanley poke around in actual dead bodies before and remove their organs, and that had been less confusing than this. At least those bodies had been real and something could be done with their parts. This was a plastic model.

Stanley turned at the sound of his voice and cracked one of those eerie smiles (Stanford refused to think about how they were starting to become more endearing than creepy at this point). “Hey, Sixer!” Stanley said cheerfully. He waved a hand in greeting, the long sleeve of his lab coat flapping about.

“Hi, Stanley,” Stanford said patiently. “Again, what are you doing? What’s with all the—” He gestured wordlessly to all the plushies.

“Well, we haven’t had a patient or even a body to… have fun with… for a while and I’m bored. And if I’m bored… then my friends are probably bored too! So I figured I should include them… because no one likes feeling left out.” Stan beamed like he was proud of himself, looking at Stanford with those big, mismatched eyes.

Stanford blinked as the puzzle pieces clicked together in his brain. “Wait, Stanley, are you—You’re playing?”

“Uh-huh!” Stanley tapped his misspelt name badge. “The doctor is… in session! Or something. Whatever they say.”

He stuck his tongue out at Stanford in a goofy manner, and for a brief moment, Stanford’s mind overlaid the image of the man before him with a much younger version, with a boy in a white and red striped shirt. He had the same look on his face: giddy, innocent in the way only a child could be, yet mischievous and bold.

Stanford didn’t know what to say. His brother was playing make-believe surgery with his stuffed animals and a plastic anatomy model. There was something almost sweet about it, if one ignored how odd it was for a grown man to be doing so. Then again, Stanley had gained a lot of new…oddities…since his incident. Most of them Stanford wrote off as being from brain damage that the botched lobotomy had done to him.

So this was fine. Stanford could accept this. Even if it was a little unsettling, Stanley wasn’t hurting anyone by doing this. There were worse things he could do than play pretend in his free time.

“Did you… want to join me?” Stanley had cocked his head to the side, staring at Stanford with hopeful eyes.

“Actually, I was coming to ask if you wanted to join me,” Stanford said. “I was going to go get lunch. Did you want to come?”

Stanley jumped to his feet, nearly tripped over the hem of his too-large lab coat, pin wheeled his arms wildly to keep his balance, then bounced over to Stanford excitedly. “Yes!”

“Calm down,” Stanford chided, though a smile tugged at his lips at the overeager display. “It’s just lunch.”

He led the way down the hall, Stanley practically skipping behind him.

[livvymd]

After Hours Service. MDNI

this one low key isnt eating sorry anon

The second the restaurant doors opened, you knew this day was going to be chaos.

You'd worked a few pop-ups before, but nothing quite like this — a full-on Sidemen event, half content shoot and half real service. It was all a bit mad: cameras everywhere, orders flying in, the back kitchen sounding like a school canteen on fire, and somehow you were meant to keep a smile on your face and carry three plates at once.

You were good at your job. Calm. Composed. Focused.

Or at least, you were — until ChrisMD entered the building in a too-clean apron and made eye contact with you for a full second before looking away like you’d physically blinded him.

And that became the theme of the day.

Chris was also “working” the event, roped into the front-of-house rotation with various YouTubers, and he was doing an okay job when he wasn’t short-circuiting every time you got close.

You didn’t even have to flirt. You just existed — and he apparently couldn’t handle it.

It started small.

You passed him a plate of sliders. “Table three, yeah? You good with that?”

He nodded a little too fast, eyes flicking from your hands to your face. “Yep — uh — totally. I’m good. I can do plates. Yep. That’s what I do.”

You raised a brow. “Right… Well, try not to drop them.”

Spoiler: he nearly did.

And that was before he walked into a folding signboard that hadn't been there two minutes earlier.

It escalated.

Every time your paths crossed, it was a fresh scene from a romcom:

You asked him to carry drinks. He spilled a third of a Coke on himself.

You brushed shoulders near the pass window. He nearly dropped a tray of garlic bread.

You asked him how the tables were going. He blanked completely, said “table 9 is a man,” and walked away.

You couldn’t not smile around him.

And apparently, neither could the others.

By the third hour, Harry had started narrating his movements. “And here comes Chris, attempting human interaction. Will he survive? Odds are low.”

Ethan chimed in, “Bro turns into a loading screen whenever she walks by. Buffering for his life.”

You caught Chris ducking his head behind the drinks fridge, pretending to look for cans. Probably hiding from you.

Cute.

You decided to push your luck.

Near the end of the lunch rush, you cornered him — lightly, playfully — by the cutlery stand.

“Chris,” you said, and the way his name sounded in your voice made him glance up, heart already racing.

You held out your hand. “Need help with section five? Looks like they’re about to riot.”

He blinked at you. “Help? From…you? Yeah. Totally. I mean, if you’re not too busy — ”

You just smiled and walked past him, bumping his shoulder gently. “Come on, then.”

He followed.

He always followed.

By dinner service, things had settled into something almost normal. Tables were clearing out, the last guests were halfway through desserts, and the YouTubers had mostly stopped pretending to be competent.

You were behind the bar restacking glasses when Harry strolled past you.

“Y’know he’s completely lost for you, right?” he said casually.

You raised an eyebrow, playing dumb. “Who?”

Harry snorted. “Chris. You’re like his Roman Empire. He can’t think straight.”

You smirked but didn’t answer. The warmth in your chest betrayed you. You liked knowing that. Liked that Chris wasn’t like the others — he wasn’t pushy, or flirty just for content. He was genuinely trying, and failing spectacularly, and that was half the charm.

The restaurant emptied out slowly.

Most of the crew started packing up, clearing the last of the plates, throwing out props. Cameras were off. The lights were dimmed. You stayed behind to tidy up your section, focused on the last table when someone stepped up beside you.

Chris.

Hair slightly messy. Apron wrinkled. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. He looked boyish, nervous, and — despite the long day — still painfully fit.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, eyes on the table you were wiping. “I wanted to — uh — say thanks.”

You glanced at him, pausing your work. “For what?”

“For… not laughing at me. Much. Or for not reporting me to management for being the worst pretend-waiter of all time.”

You leaned back against the table, crossing your arms. “You weren’t that bad.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, you were terrible. But you were sweet.”

He shifted closer. “Sweet like… pity sweet? Or sweet like maybe-you’d-consider-hanging-out-after-this sweet?”

Your mouth quirked up. “Depends how brave you’re feeling right now.”

He looked at you for a long moment — longer than any glance he'd managed all day. His confidence wasn’t fake, but it was shy. Tentative. Like he’d finally decided to risk it.

“I’m feeling brave enough,” he said.

You reached out, your fingers curling lightly around the edge of his apron, tugging him closer.

“Then show me.”

The kiss started soft.

He leaned in slowly, carefully — like if he moved too fast you’d vanish. His lips brushed yours once, tentative, testing, then again with a little more pressure.

You sighed into it, your hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.

That was the switch.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. Not rushed — just sure. His hands slid to your waist, gripping gently like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You pulled him closer, mouths moving in sync, the kiss growing more heated. His tongue brushed yours and your knees went a bit weak — not from the kiss itself, but from how into it he was.

Like he’d been holding back all day and couldn’t anymore.

The door clicked behind you as Chris locked it.

You were both still breathless — bodies too close, pupils blown, hands already wandering.

The restaurant was closed. The others were gone.

You were alone.

Your back hit the prep counter as Chris’s mouth found yours again — this time deeper, desperate, no hint of nerves left. His hands roamed with less hesitation now, gripping your waist, skimming over your hips, tugging you closer until you felt every hard inch of him pressed to your body.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and wrecked.

You smiled, your hand sliding under the hem of his hoodie. “I think I do.”

You pushed it up and over his head, and Chris dropped it to the floor without a care. His chest was warm and lean, skin smooth beneath your palms as you traced down the slope of his abdomen, dragging your nails lightly just to watch his abs twitch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, shivering at your touch.

He bent, lips ghosting down your neck, then across your collarbone. His teeth grazed gently as he nipped, sucking marks into your skin you’d probably have to hide tomorrow. One hand slid under your shirt, warm and rough against your waist, until his thumb brushed just under your bra.

You arched into his hand.

“Off,” you said, tugging at your own shirt. Chris helped you peel it off in seconds, followed by your bra.

His breath hitched when he saw you — his gaze devouring, lips parted, frozen for a moment like he was trying to burn the image into memory.

“God, you’re — ” He stopped, swallowing thickly. “You’re unreal.”

His mouth latched onto your chest — tongue and lips moving slowly, wetly, kissing over sensitive skin while his hands gripped your thighs. You reached between your bodies, unfastening his belt and jeans, pushing them down just enough for his boxers to tent obscenely in front of you.

Chris groaned when you brushed your fingers over him through the fabric.

“Y/N…” he rasped, forehead against your shoulder, hips jerking.

You kissed his jaw, then his throat, licking a slow stripe across the hollow of it before whispering, “Want you.”

He stepped back long enough to drag your trousers and underwear down your legs, his hands firm but reverent. You helped him out of his jeans and boxers, both of you standing fully bare in the middle of the dark, empty kitchen — fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.

Then he was between your legs again, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing.

Chris kissed you slow this time — less urgent, more worship. His hands settled on your thighs, thumbs tracing the inside gently, so close to your centre but not touching yet.

“I’ve thought about this too many times than I'd like to admit,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours.

“Then show me,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He reached down between your bodies and lined himself up, the head of his length brushing against you — hot, hard, ready.

And when he pushed in?

You gasped — head falling back, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled you in one long, perfect thrust.

“Shit — ” Chris choked. “You feel — fuck, you feel amazing.”

He paused once he was fully inside, letting you both adjust, just staring at you with wide eyes and parted lips. You were flushed and panting, legs tight around his waist, hands gripping the back of his neck like you needed him to anchor you.

Then he moved.

Slow at first — deep, dragging thrusts that had your whole body rocking with each one. The wet, filthy sounds of skin against skin filled the kitchen, along with your moans, his groans, his whispered curses in your ear.

Your hips met every movement, your thighs tightening with each delicious grind of his pelvis against yours. He hit that perfect spot again and again, making your breath hitch, making your body clench around him until his rhythm stuttered.

“God, Y/N — you’re so tight — I’m not gonna last — ”

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, eyes rolling back. “I’m close, Chris, please — ”

He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle — his thumb pressing to your clit just right.

Your whole body tensed.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm hit hard and fast, waves crashing through your body as you cried out his name, shaking, clenching around him. Your walls pulsed and fluttered, drawing him even deeper.

Chris groaned — deep, raw, helpless — and followed you over the edge with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you, head falling to your shoulder as he trembled in your arms.

The air between you was hot and thick with breath, skin sticky and flushed.

You stayed like that — entwined, panting, bodies still joined — for long minutes.

Finally, Chris lifted his head, lips brushing your forehead.

“I’m never gonna look at the prep counter the same way again,” he muttered.

You snorted, too blissed out to care. “Guess I’ll never eat another chicken tender again without getting flashbacks.”

He chuckled, pressing a lazy kiss to your mouth. “Reckon we’re due a round two in the freezer.”

You grinned. “And then maybe… dessert?”

Chris smirked, lips against your neck. “Sweetheart, you are the dessert.”