#I don’t have a problem I just like to talk

[starry-eyed-psychopomp]

I mean I actually do read more than just danmei. I only started reading danmei within the past year and have been consuming queer fantasy religiously for years now. I was an English Major. I work in a bookstore. This post was very much informed by my experience reading a shitload of queer fantasy. Lowkey a little offended by the implication that this opinion comes from just not reading enough. That’s kind of a rude assumption to make? Anyway, I’ll elaborate on my feelings, because I have a lot of Thoughts on the topic and I like to yap.

I do think a lot of people in the danmei community could stand to read more genres and generally diversify their shelves (heavy on DIVERSIFY), and I’m sure that was the point you were making, but that’s not really what I was talking about? Like my point wasn’t “Western books Bad, that’s why I only read danmei,” it was “I want to see This in MORE books!” Does that make sense?

This is my opinion of course, but when I’ve read Western fantasy books with queer romance, I often either felt like authors have to choose to either prioritize the romance or the fantasy. It’s either all romance with little high-stakes angst and worldbuilding (you don’t see enough characters getting brutally stabbed and their love interests wailing over their body in Western romantasy and THAT’S A SHAME), or all fantasy politics interspersed with enemies-to-lovers ~yearning~ and ~sexual tension~ every hundred or so pages (and it takes a good writer to keep my attention through all that). Romantasy doesn’t have enough angst and gore, fantasy with a romantic subplot doesn’t have enough kissing and cuddling. So far, most of the danmei I’ve read is able to strike that balance.

And not to mention that romantasy usually comes in the form of standalone books. It’s a lot harder to do high-stakes worldbuilding with those limitations. Or it’ll be technically a series, but every book follows a different couple in the same world, so you don’t get much time to spend with a single pairing. In danmei, it’s a lot more common to see five, eight, thirteen book-long series with lots of adaptations and additional content, which is generally just more engaging. And it’s all centered around a romance! A queer romance, at that!!

I’m familiar with both your recommendations, though I personally haven’t picked up Godkiller. Funnily enough though, A Marvellous Light was actually one of the Western queer romantasy books I was thinking about when I wrote this post, because as you said, it’s very popular, and I personally didn’t like it. The worldbuilding was too…generically British for my specific tastes, and overall I found it pretty boring. A lot of hanging out and fucking in mansions on the English countryside, not enough stabbing and bleeding out and dying in front of your love interest to keep me interested. OBVIOUSLY THIS IS JUST MY PERSONAL OPINION! Read what you want. Regency romance is a thing people like and that’s chill. But that’s something that I really like in romance that danmei is just more likely to deliver. So as an example of a Western book that embodies the traits I was talking about in my original post? Not really.

Like I wasn't just talking about books that happen to have gay people and body horror. If that were the case I'd never have picked up another book after reading The Locked Tomb series, because there's no topping perfection. I elaborated a bit more in my tags, which I recognize wouldn't be kept in a reblog, but I meant it more in the sense of an intersection between the two? The intersection between romance and body horror that I was specifically talking about involves like. Melodrama. The agony of the romance is so intense it must be expressed with blood, and that physical, gory pain then goes on to inspire angst between the romantic leads.

So you get characters cradling their lover’s bloody body; holding onto their corpse for years, unable to accept their death; being forced to watch them be stabbed over and over again; mourning for years, devoted to them and only them; etc etc, and any number of new ways authors conceive to torment us. And all the while, the characters are still in proximity to each other. They flirt, they hold hands, they kiss, they cuddle, they get protective of each other, they keep bridal-carrying each other, and on and on.

There’s a level of physical intimacy that goes beyond just sexual tension and an eventual climactic kiss, and danmei authors seem to understand that it won’t detract from the intense violence that also exists in their stories. The gore and violence and body horror goes hand in hand with the romance, it’s not just tangential to it. Intense emotion that both drives the plot and brings a kind of cathartic pain to the audience, who remain secure in the knowledge that it will still work out in the end. Like Aristotelian tragedy for people who get a bit too emotionally attached to fictional characters.

And like, there are Western books that I think danmei fans would enjoy. They don't always hit all the marks I was talking about, but they exist. Danmei fans tend to really like Dark Rise by C.S. Pacat, for instance. A Strange and Stubborn Endurance by Foz Meadows and Winter’s Orbit by Everina Maxwell are fantasy/sci-fi romances with higher stakes and more complex worldbuilding. On the f/f and baihe side of things, She Who Became the Sun by Shelley Parker-Chan and the Jasmine Throne by Tasha Suri are political fantasies with dense worldbuilding, but the romances are prominent enough, and they’re really good. And though it's not for everyone, I'll always preach the good word of Gideon the Ninth, which has tons of agonizing homoerotic angst that scratches a particular itch in my brain. I wouldn’t say any of these fit exactly the bill of what I’m going for (Dark Rise probably comes closest, though Gideon the Ninth would beat it if I thought griddlehark was ever gonna kiss for real) but not all danmei fits my specific standards either, so…¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But yeah. Like obviously there are fantastic books that aren’t danmei, but danmei has certain conventions and tropes that I feel we don’t often get from Western media. For some reason, our media is just…weirdly averse to sincerity and melodrama. Too much romance is considered trite and has no place in, like, a gritty war story. There are exceptions, but it is a trend in our culture that I find disappointing. And it’s a problem Chinese media like danmei doesn’t seem to have as much.

GOD I wish more Western books would take cues from danmei for how to write fantasy romance, danmei is like the only genre I’ve encountered that understands my ideal ratio of fluffy romance to body horror

[scarletwinterxx]

how long before we fall in love - choi seungcheol imagine

the way i was smiling, throwing air punches when i wrote this. pure 100% fluff coming your way!!!🥺😭🤭 (my head screaming SANA GETS NYO KO as i write this)

you can follow me on x, my un there niniramyeonie 😊🌻

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All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(photos not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’re nursing the last of your drink, ice clinking against the glass as you swirl it with deliberate disinterest, hoping the guy beside you gets the hint. He doesn't. His hand lingers too close to your elbow, and every laugh he exhales smells like beer and desperation.

You've already tried subtle. You even lied about having a boyfriend — twice. Still, he leans in with that rehearsed smirk like he's the one doing you a favor.

You scan the room, fast. Desperation breeds boldness, and tonight, you’re emboldened.

Then you see him.

He’s impossible to miss. Seated at the far end of the bar, broad shoulders framed in black, head dipped low as he nurses something amber in a short glass. He looks like he belongs somewhere darker, quieter. Maybe someplace where men don’t smile, only nod. 

You’re not even sure how your legs carry you there, but in three long strides, you’re beside him, heart skittering in your chest like it knows you’ve made a gamble. He glances up, and for a second, you're sure this was a mistake but there's no time for second-guessing.

“Hey, babe,” you say, and your voice barely wavers. “Sorry I took so long.”

His eyes narrow a fraction, and for one charged second, silence stretches between you like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Then his expression shifts. It's subtle, the faintest curl of his mouth, a spark of recognition in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“There you are,” he says, low and even, like the words were always meant for you. He slips an arm around your waist with a kind of confidence that feels too natural, too smooth.

You think you’ve pulled it off — until a voice slices through the act.

“Seungcheol,” she purrs. She’s suddenly there, close enough that you feel the static of her presence before you even see her. “You weren’t gonna introduce me to your little friend?”

You tense, barely hiding the wince. The stranger, Seungcheol,  doesn’t move his arm.

His voice is calm, even, as if this happens all the time. “Not now, Jiwon”

“But babe—”

He doesn’t even look at her. “And how many times do I have to tell you to not call me that”

Something in his tone makes her falter. She huffs, audibly, but walks away with a forced flick of her hair.

You glance up at him, parting your lips to apologize, but he cuts you off before you can speak.

“You okay?” he murmurs, just for you and you don’t know why but you believe him. You nod.

He leans in just a little, just enough that the warmth of him slips past your skin. “You want me to make sure he stays away?”

And god help you, you say yes.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, gaze sharp now, trained somewhere over your shoulder. You don’t even have to turn to know the persistent guy’s still hovering. You can feel the weight of him, orbiting.

“Stay close,” Seungcheol says, barely more than a breath against your ear. It shouldn’t send a chill down your spine, but it does.

He stands in one smooth motion, hand still warm against your lower back as he guides you forwar. You catch the guy’s expression the moment he sees who you’re with now. The faux confidence drains from his face in real-time, replaced by something caught between confusion and an almost primal, involuntary instinct to back off.

“Problem?” Seungcheol asks him. He’s not loud. Doesn’t need to be. There’s something in the way he holds himself, loose and deadly, like a predator who doesn’t have to growl to be heard.

The guy lifts his hands in weak surrender. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

“You were done talking when she walked away.”

It’s not a threat. It’s a statement. Inevitable. Irrefutable.

The guy backs off, muttering something that doesn’t sound like an apology, but it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. You exhale for the first time in what feels like minutes.

Seungcheol turns to you again, and just like that, the sharpness in him softens—no less intense, but different now. He looks at you like he’s cataloging something he doesn’t quite understand yet.

“You okay?” he asks again, but this time the question feels more layered. Not just are you safe, but what made you need someone like me?

You nod, slower this time. “Yeah. Thanks. That was… I didn’t expect you to actually go along with it.”

He shrugs. “You looked like you needed out.”

There’s a beat of silence, then—

“You wanna sit?” he asks, gesturing to his now-vacant seat. “I won’t bite. Unless that’s what you’re into.”

It’s deadpan. Almost. You glance at him and find the smallest glint of mischief tucked in the dark of his eyes.

You sit. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s something else entirely but you get the distinct feeling your night just shifted on an axis you didn’t see coming.

You’ve barely settled into the seat beside him when you feel the disturbance before you see it. She’s back. Jiwon. Her heels click soft and calculated across the floor, posture loose but eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol. She doesn't bother with you, not really. 

She stops at his other side, voice syrupy. “Thought I’d grab you that drink you like,” she says, holding it out like a peace offering. Like she’s done this before and won.

But Seungcheol doesn’t even glance at the glass. He doesn’t blink.

“I’m good here,” he says, calm as still water. “With my girl.”

It hits with the kind of weight that lands sharp but quiet. No performance, no dramatic pause. Just absolute certainty, smooth as silk and impossible to argue with.

You blink. My girl?

Then, as if on cue, he leans in—closer than he’s been all night. His hand brushes against your thigh under the bar, casual but unmistakable. The space between you disappears, and suddenly, all you can see is him.

The edge of his mouth tilts just slightly, a private smirk made only for you.

“I help you,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, just for your ears. “You help me.”

Like a switch, you slip into the role. No hesitation. No breath to second-guess.

You lean in until you’re practically folded into his side, your shoulder brushing his chest, the scent of him filling your senses like a hit of something you’re not supposed to want.

Your fingers find his thigh beneath the bar, light but deliberate, and when you turn your head to face her, your expression is sugar-laced steel.

“Thanks for keeping my boyfriend company,” you say, voice sweet enough to rot, “but we’re good now.”

Jiwon stiffens. You see it in the tight pull of her jaw, the way her hand curls around the untouched glass like she might throw it but she doesn’t say anything. Not really. Just a scoff, quiet and bitter, before she turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd again.

The moment she’s gone, Seungcheol exhales a laugh. Low. Quiet. Almost impressed.

“Well damn,” he says, tilting his head to look at you properly. “Didn’t think you had that in you.”

You arch a brow. “What, the spine or the spite?”

His grin widens, lazy and wolfish. “Both.”

You should pull away. You should return to your drink, your solitude, the night you had before this turned into something else entirely.

But you don’t.

Because now, you’re curious—and curiosity is a dangerous thing when someone like Seungcheol is involved. He smirks again, but there’s something different behind it then he leans down, slow enough to feel deliberate, and you feel it:

The brush of his lips against your bare shoulder.

Barely there. Barely anything. But it sets off a fire low in your belly, a spark you weren’t expecting and definitely weren’t prepared for. Your breath catches, and you turn your head to say something but you’re interrupted.

“Yo, Choi!” a voice calls out, casual and easy, and you look up just as two guys approach the table.

They’re both tall, well-dressed, and annoyingly attractive in that infuriating way that only works because they know it. The one with the long and cat-like grin lifts his brows as he takes in the scene. Your hand still on Seungcheol’s thigh, your body tucked into his side, his lips a breath away from your skin.

“Are we interrupting?” the long haired one asks

Seungcheol doesn’t move away. If anything, his arm tightens slightly around you. “If I say yes, will you go away”

The other one—gentler-looking, nudges his friend. “Jeonghan, stop being an ass. Hi,” he says, this time to you. “I’m Joshua. You?”

You give your name, and Jeonghan grins like you just told him a secret. “Cute. She’s cute.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. He just takes a sip from his drink but there’s something in the way his thumb traces idle circles against your hip that says plenty.

“You’re not usually the type to play house, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan adds, sliding into the seat across from you both. “What’s this, new leaf?”

“Maybe I like what I’m playing with,” Seungcheol says, and his voice is so calm, so unapologetic, that for a second, even you forget this started as pretend.

Joshua raises a brow but doesn’t push it. He just smiles a little, as if he already sees where this is going before either of you do. And when you feel Seungcheol’s hand settle more firmly against your thigh, like he’s staking a claim in front of his friends.

A few drinks later, your head’s pleasantly light, the warmth of alcohol and laughter still lingering in your chest.  Jeonghan and Joshua had finally wandered off to harass someone else, leaving you and Seungcheol alone again, though somehow the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s alive.

You glance at your phone, blinking at the time. Late.

You push your glass away and sigh, “Alright, I should probably call it. Before I start thinking karaoke’s a good idea.”

Seungcheol chuckles, low and easy. “You’d make a great bad decision at karaoke.”

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. “I’m not drunk enough to embarrass myself like that.”

“Pity. I’d pay good money to hear you scream-sing something tragic.”

You snort. “You’re not even pretending to be nice.”

He tilts his head, mock thoughtful. “Did I ever pretend?”

You open your mouth to fire back something snarky, but the moment shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.

You glance toward the exit, suddenly uneasy. The weight of earlier brushes the edge of your thoughts, and now that the buzz is wearing down, the memory of that guy—the lingering stare, the way he didn’t get the hint—sticks.

Seungcheol notices. Of course he does. His eyes sharpen, but his voice stays light.

“Want me to walk you out?”

You hesitate then nod. “Actually… would it be weird if I asked you to drive me home?”

His brows rise just a touch but he doesn’t hesitate. “Not weird,” he says. “I was hoping you'd ask.”

You raise a brow, teasing. “You were hoping?”

“I mean, you’re kind of glued to me tonight,” he says, smirking as he stands, grabbing his jacket. “Thought I’d return the favor.”

You follow him out, the air outside cooler than expected. He opens the passenger door like it’s instinct—like he’s done this for you a hundred times already—and when you slide in, he leans down just enough that your eyes meet.

“You trust me to drive you home?” he asks, voice lower now, a touch more serious, but still laced with that lazy confidence.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips quirking. “I don’t know. Should I?”

And just like that, the door shuts with a soft click and your pulse doesn’t quite settle the whole ride home. When he slides into the driver’s seat, the engine purring to life beneath his hands, you glance sideways at him, half-joking, half-not, voice just a little too casual.

“I’m not gonna end up in a true crime documentary, right?”

He smirks without looking at you, eyes on the road as he pulls out of the lot. “Nah. Too much paperwork.”

You laugh, but he doesn’t stop there.

“If I was gonna murder you, I wouldn’t have bought you drinks first. That’s just inefficient.”

You raise a brow. “Wow. Comforting.”

He glances over at you, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift, his voice a bit softer now

“I mean, you approached me. Technically, this is your villain origin story.”

You feign scandal. “So I lured you in.”

“Exactly. Innocent-looking girl at a bar, bold enough to lie her way into my lap? Yeah, you’re the dangerous one here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at your lips. “You think I’m innocent-looking?”

He cuts his eyes toward you, a slow once-over that makes the air between you crackle.

“I think you’re a lot of things,” he says. “But innocent? Not buying it.”

And just like that, the car gets a little quieter. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

And you wonder, as the streetlights blur past the windows, what you’ve really gotten yourself into tonight.

“Oh,” you say, feigning surprise, a slow smirk curling at your lips. “So you’ve got me all figured out already?”

He glances over, and this time he doesn’t hide the smile.

“Didn’t say that,” he replies smoothly. “I said I’m not buying the innocent act. Big difference.”

You hum, dragging your gaze out the window like you're not grinning.

“Maybe I’m just mysterious,” you tease. “Hard to read. Dangerous, even.”

He snorts. “You’re definitely dangerous.”

“Yeah?” you ask, turning back to him, playful but edged with something more. “Afraid I’ll break your heart?”

He laughs once but then his eyes flick over to you, and it’s different now. He’s not smiling anymore, not quite. His voice drops, soft but steady.

“Nah,” he murmurs, “I’m enjoying this too much.”

You don’t answer right away, and neither does he. The quiet stretches, dense with something neither of you name. But when his hand brushes yours over the center console—barely there, just a question��you don’t pull away.

“And you?” he says, voice quiet, like he’s easing into something he actually wants the answer to. “How come, out of everyone there… you suddenly let yourself strut my way?”

“I don’t know,” you say at first, then pause. “You just looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t ask questions.”

He huffs a laugh, amused. “You were banking on me being cooperative?”

“I was banking on you being scary enough to make the other guy piss himself.”

“And I was.”

You grin despite yourself. “So humble.”

He finally turns to look at you fully, eyes dark but curious, a faint crease in his brow like he’s studying you a little deeper now.

“But that’s not it,” he says. “Not really.”

You tilt your head. “No?”

“No. You could’ve gone to the bartender. The bouncer. Your friends, if you had any there. But you came to me.”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, because—yeah. He’s right.

So you shrug, pretending it’s simple when it’s not. “Guess I like walking toward the fire sometimes.”

He laughs again, deeper this time, but there’s something thoughtful behind it.

“Then lucky for you,” he murmurs, eyes still on you, “I don’t burn easy.”

And your heart? Yeah. It skips. Hard.

=

The next morning, Seungcheol walks into the office ten minutes late with zero regrets and exactly one iced Americano in hand, looking irritatingly composed for someone who got maybe four hours of sleep.

He’s barely set his cup down when Jeonghan’s voice sings from across the room.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t Mr. I-Don’t-Do-Relationships strolling in like a man who definitely didn’t go straight home last night.”

Joshua looks up from his laptop, raising a brow with a barely contained smirk. “So… who was she?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. Just pulls off his jacket and hangs it up with surgical precision, like he’s trying not to indulge them.

Which, of course, only makes them hungrier.

“C’mon, Cheol,” Jeonghan pushes, trailing him to his desk like a cat stalking something shiny. “You had her in your lap half the night. You don’t cuddle in public. I didn’t even know you could cuddle.”

“Technically,” Joshua adds, “I think she was in the driver’s seat.”

“Literally and figuratively,” Jeonghan nods. “She had you wrapped. It was… inspiring.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose and finally turns around, arms folded, leaning against the edge of his desk like he’s humoring children.

“She was someone who needed help,” he says evenly. “That’s it.”

Jeonghan’s eyes glint. “So you just happened to keep your hand on her thigh all night out of… community service?”

Joshua’s tone is gentler, but no less pointed. “You looked comfortable. Not pretending-comfortable. Just… real.”

Seungcheol hesitates. He hates that they’re good at this. That they know how to read the cracks in his tone.

“She was easy to talk to,” he admits. “Didn’t play games. No agenda.”

Jeonghan fake gasps. “Wait. You liked her.”

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it,” Joshua counters.

Jeonghan grins like he just won something. “What’s her name?”

Seungcheol smirks now, because this is the part he won’t give them. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

And when he turns back to his desk, his phone buzzes once.

A message from you.

You:  So… if I walk into your office right now, am I gonna ruin your mysterious, emotionally unavailable persona?

He stares at it for a second, then smiles—small and private. Maybe he is in trouble. He stares at your text for a beat longer, thumb hovering over the keyboard like he’s weighing something heavier than the words.

Seungcheol: Only if you walk in looking like last night. My reputation wouldn’t survive it.

Seungcheol: Free for lunch? I’ll come to you.

He hits send before he can think better of it.

Across the room, Jeonghan is still dramatically theorizing about your identity, now halfway into a ridiculous monologue about you being an international art thief who seduced Seungcheol for corporate secrets.

He ignores it because right now, he’s more interested in seeing you again and if that means sneaking in an hour between meetings and pretending he’s not the kind of guy who clears his calendar for a woman he just met, then so be it.

A little past noon, your phone buzzes again. You’re mid-email, squinting at your screen, when the notification pops up.

Seungcheol: Outside. Come down. I brought bribes.

You blink. Bribes? What does that even mean? Curiosity wins out fast. You grab your phone, smooth your outfit and head down.

The moment you step out, you see him leaning against a sleek black car that absolutely screams expensive and unnecessary, sunglasses pushed up in his hair, holding a paper bag and two drinks.

Your brows lift. “So this is you not trying?”

He grins, looking annoyingly perfect for someone who probably woke up late and still somehow managed to make the pavement feel like a runway. “Told you. Bribes.”

You walk up slowly, eyeing the bag. “What is it?”

“Sandwiches. From that overpriced place near here. Hope you’re not one of those 'just salad' people.”

You narrow your eyes. “I contain multitudes.”

He chuckles, hands you your drink. “Good. You’ll need them to keep up.”

You gesture toward the car. “So, this your day job? Picking up women and showing off your mysterious wealth?”

He laughs genuinely, this time. “Would you believe me if I said I’m just a humble middle manager?”

You give him a long, skeptical once-over. “Not a chance.”

He opens the passenger door for you again like it's a habit. Like he already knows you’ll get in and you do. Because lunch with Choi Seungcheol? Yeah. That sounds like danger worth walking toward twice.

You slide into the passenger seat, you glance at him as he rounds the front of the car and settles into the driver’s seat again, placing the food carefully between you.

“Okay, so what is it that you actually do?” you ask, peeling open the sandwich wrapper, the scent already unfairly good.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Management. Mostly.”

“That’s vague as hell.”

“Intentionally,” he says, shooting you a sideways glance. “You’ll find I’m very good at withholding.”

You snort. “Is that your way of saying you’re emotionally constipated?”

“No, that’s me saying I like keeping some cards close.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, swallows. “Makes things interesting.”

You hum, eyes narrowing just a touch. “So you’re not gonna tell me what your job actually is?”

He shakes his head slowly. “Not yet. I kind of like that you don’t know.”

You blink. “Why?”

He turns toward you fully now, one arm draped over the back of your seat, eyes lazy and unreadable but focused—very focused—on you.

“Because if you knew,” he says slowly, “you might treat me differently.”

Something flickers behind his tone. Not arrogance. Something quieter. Something worn and for a second, you forget you're supposed to be teasing him.

You hold his gaze. “Then maybe I’d rather not know.”

He searches your face for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to flinch, waiting for that inevitable shift he’s used to seeing in people when they do find out. But you don’t.

You just take another bite of your sandwich and speak through your smirk.

“So, Mr. Vague Middle Manager, are all your dates catered and chauffeured?”

That draws a full laugh out of him—deep and unguarded.

“This a date now?” he throws back.

You shrug with exaggerated innocence. “You did bring food. And bribes. And you’re staring at me like you wanna ruin my whole week.”

He hums, low and amused, eyes dropping to your lips and staying there just a little too long.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, “if I wanted to ruin your week… you’d know.”

And just like that, your heart forgets how to beat steady.

Again.

The place he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet side street. nothing flashy, no fancy valet, no five-star pretensions. Just the warm, familiar smell of grilled meat and the faint sizzle of something delicious already hitting a hot pan.

You recognize it immediately. The kind of Korean spot that’s half comfort, half chaos. Worn wooden tables, metal chopsticks in tin cups, steam clouding the windows from hot broth and soju-fueled laughter. A place where people don’t come to impress, they come because it feels like home.

He pulls the door open for you, and the ahjumma behind the counter beams when she sees him.

“Seungcheol-ah!” she calls, already bustling toward the kitchen. “Same table?”

He nods, bowing slightly in greeting. 

You look at him sideways. “Regular, huh?”

He shrugs, the edge of his mouth twitching. “Told you. I like places where people don’t ask too many questions.”

She’s already setting the table as you both slide into the booth. The tabletop grill is already heating, meat—samgyeopsal, thick-cut and glistening—lands in the center with a satisfying thud.

He picks up the tongs like he’s done this a hundred times, which he probably has, and starts placing the pork belly on the grill, the sizzle instant and loud.

“Wow,” you say, smirking. “So this is how you impress women.”

“I’m feeding you, aren’t I?” he says, eyes focused on flipping the meat with practiced ease. “It’s a love language.”

“You do seem suspiciously fluent in this.”

“You gonna psychoanalyze me now?”

You lean your chin into your hand, watching him with lazy interest. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you cook.”

He glances up, brow raised, but there’s a flicker of something else in his gaze now. That slow burn again.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Flirting with me at a restaurant I come to every week? You’re treading into girlfriend territory.”

You pop a piece of kimchi into your mouth and smile like it’s nothing. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“Too late.”

There’s something light about this but underneath, there's a current neither of you are pretending to ignore anymore.

He wraps a piece of grilled meat in lettuce, adds a bit of ssamjang and garlic, then holds it out across the table.

“For you,” he says, voice soft, hand steady.

You pause. Then lean forward, take it straight from his fingers, lips brushing his skin on the way.

And the look in his eyes?

Yeah, lunch just got a lot more complicated.

You're mid-chew when the ahjumma comes back over, wiping her hands on her apron, eyes sharp and curious as she sets another bowl of pickled radish down on the table.

She turns to Seungcheol with a knowing grin. “You’re not with the usual troublemakers today. Who’s this lovely girl? You got married and didn’t tell us?”

You almost choke. Seungcheol freezes for a secondbut then, smooth as ever, he swallows, glances at you, and smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Not married yet,” he says casually, sliding his chopsticks into the rice like punctuation. “But I’m working on it.”

Your eyes snap to him. Excuse me?

The ahjumma gasps, clearly delighted. “Aigoo! She’s pretty and patient—finally, a girl who can handle you! Yah, I prayed for this!”

You blink at her. Then at Seungcheol. He’s not even flinching. The man has the audacity to look pleased.

“Ah, he’s exaggerating,” you say quickly, giving the auntie a smile and trying not to combust. “We just—”

“—Make a good team,” Seungcheol finishes for you, eyes flicking to yours with a glint of mischief. “She keeps me in line.”

The ahjumma sighs dreamily, clearly buying the whole act. “Don’t let him go, sweet girl. He might act cool, but he needs someone who’ll yell at him when he forgets to eat. This one’s stubborn.”

You nod solemnly. “He does give off that energy.”

“Exactly!” she points at you like you’re a genius. “You understand already! Just marry him.”

Seungcheol coughs into his drink, but he’s grinning now, and you can’t help it—you’re laughing, eyes narrowed at him across the table.

The auntie bustles off, muttering about bringing more side dishes for the happy couple.

You lean in, tone low and pointed. “Married? Really?”

He shrugs, unabashed. “What? You handled it like a pro. I’m impressed.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, sliding another wrap your way, “you’re still here.”

You hate how easy it is to smile at him. Hate it even more that he’s smiling too—like he likes whatever this is just as much as you do.

The ride back to your office is quieter, he pulls up in front of your building, shifts the car into park, and glances over at you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly. “Thanks for lunch.”

“You make it sound like I’m not planning on doing it again.”

You grin, leaning just a little closer. “Oh? Planning on making a habit out of me?”

His smirk is there, but softer now. “Thinking about it.”

You hop out before you say something stupid. Before he says something worse. But before you can shut the door, he leans across the console and says, quieter:

“Text me when you get up there. Just so I know you made it.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Yes, Dad.”

He raises a brow. “You really want to test that boundary this early?”

You shut the door before your brain melts and give him a mock salute through the window.

By the time Seungcheol pulls into the garage under his own office building, he’s five minutes behind schedule and vaguely irritated at how fast traffic moved now that he was in a rush.

He checks his phone in the elevator: one message from you.

You: Alive. Fed. Still thinking about that ssam you made. 8/10.

He grins to himself just as the elevator dings open on his floor. Unfortunately, his mood immediately sours when he sees who’s already in the conference room, arms folded, feet on the table like he owns the place.

Jeonghan.

The second Seungcheol steps through the door, Jeonghan looks at his watch dramatically.

“Five minutes late. How domestic of you.”

“Save it,” Seungcheol mutters, dropping into the seat across from him.

Jeonghan smirks like he’s been waiting for this moment. “So? Was it worth it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh. You’re flushed, your hair’s a little messy, and for once, you didn’t glare at anyone” Jeonghan taps his fingers against the table. “You’re basically glowing.”

Seungcheol sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “Can we just get through this meeting?”

“Oh, we will,” Jeonghan says brightly. “But not before you tell me if she’s single, if she has friends, and if your sudden boyfriend energy is gonna affect this quarter’s performance.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Absolutely.”

The days blur together. You two still talk, in between meetings and his hectic schedule he would always find some time for you. When he’s free he’ll go drive to you and grab lunch, wherever you want or sometimes a surprise.

It’s just past six when Seungcheol finally leans back in his chair, eyes dragging away from the spreadsheet he’s barely processed for the last fifteen minutes.

His fingers hover over his phone for a second before he gives in to the impulse—simple and direct.

Seungcheol: You free for dinner?

You:Yes. Come rescue me.

He smirks, already pushing back from his desk. Jacket on. Sleeves rolled. A very quiet kind of urgency in his steps.

On your end, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Your coworkers have been hovering at your desk all afternoon, buzzing about Friday drinks like it’s the social event of the year. They’re already lining up shots in their heads, plotting karaoke and potential chaos.

“You coming, right?” one of them asks, nudging your elbow. “C’mon, you always dip. Just one night.”

You smile politely, already trying to edge away. “I actually have plans—”

“With who?” another cuts in, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been glowing all week.”

You blink. “What is it with people and this glowing thing?”

They groan. “So you do have a date. Who is he?”

Before you can lie—or dodge, or disappear into thin air—your phone buzzes again.

Seungcheol: Be there in twenty. What kind of rescue we talking? Fire escape or just dramatic entrance?

You bite your lip to suppress the grin that tries to surface.

“Just someone picking me up,” you say vaguely, grabbing your bag and ignoring the chorus of curious oohs that follow.

“You’re no fun,” one of them whines as you make your escape. “At least send us a picture! We won’t believe he exists!”

You wave behind you. “Exactly why I’m not sending one.”

They groan louder, but you’re already walking toward the elevator, pulse picking up just a little. You don’t know what this is with him yet—not really. But it’s enough to have you hoping the next twenty minutes pass just fast enough.

You make it out of the building just as the sun is dipping behind the city skyline, casting everything in that dusky golden glow that feels almost too cinematic for real life. As if on cue, his car pulls up. 

The passenger window rolls down, and there he is, arm resting on the wheel, watching you with that lazy, low-key amused smile that somehow makes your heart skip like it’s late for something.

“You always look like you just walked out of a movie,” you say as you slide in, tossing your bag at your feet.

He glances over, that grin growing as he shifts the car into drive. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

You shake your head, suppressing a smile. “Flattery before food? Risky move.”

“Not flattery,” he says, glancing at you as he pulls into traffic. “Observation. You look like you needed a getaway.”

You sigh dramatically, letting your head thud against the seat. “You have no idea. They were trying to hold me hostage for soju and noraebang.”

He chuckles, tapping the wheel. “I’d pay to see that.”

“You would,” you mutter. “Anyway, thanks for the timely rescue.”

“Anytime,” he says, tone quiet but sincere.

For a moment, you both fall into comfortable silence, the hum of the road filling the space. It’s not awkward. If anything, it’s the kind of quiet that only settles when someone’s presence feels... easy.

“Where are we going?” you ask after a while, glancing at him.

He tilts his head, lips tugging upward. “Somewhere that serves food hot, drinks cold, and lets me look at you across the table without interruption.”

You arch a brow. “Is that your version of romantic?”

“No,” he says. “That’s my version of honest.”

Your stomach does that annoying little flutter again. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his hand briefly brushes your knee in a turn—accidental, maybe—but he doesn’t pull away too quickly.

The drive takes longer this time, farther out from the noise of downtown, the streets growing quieter, narrower.

You glance over at him. “You’ve got a thing for hidden spots, huh?”

“I don’t like crowds,” he says simply. “And I like places that let me hear you when you talk.”

You pause, caught off guard by the casual weight of it. “You’re smooth.”

“I’m observant,” he corrects, pulling into a tiny gravel lot tucked away

You step out and take in the place. No line. No obvious branding. Just the kind of restaurant people guard like a secret.

“This place looks like it has stories,” you murmur, tucking your hands into your coat.

“It does,” he says, rounding the car to walk beside you. “Mostly about good food. And about the owner being mildly terrifying if you show up drunk and disrespectful.”

You laugh, and he pulls the door open for you, holding it until you step inside.

It’s warm. Cozy. The scent of doenjang jjigae and grilled mackerel hangs in the air. The lights are soft, yellow, casting everything in that old-kitchen comfort glow. You’re seated in the farthest corner, a little nook with floor cushions and a small table already set with water, chopsticks, and folded linen napkins. The privacy of it feels intentional.

The owner, a silver-haired woman in a worn apron, comes over with barely a word, just a sharp eye and a small smile when she sees Seungcheol.

“You brought someone,” she says, voice raspy but kind. “She’s pretty. And awake, unlike the last idiot your friend brought.”

Seungcheol winces. “That was Mingyu.”

She waves him off, already handing you both menus like she’s decided you’re staying regardless.

You stifle a laugh. “Do all your regular spots come with built-in character witnesses?”

“Only the good ones,” he replies, flipping open the menu. “What’re you in the mood for?”

You pretend to study the list, but really, you’re watching the way he sits here—comfortable, known, but still somehow wrapped in mystery. Like there’s more under the surface that he only lets people see in pieces.

“You choose,” you say, passing your menu across the table. “You haven’t steered me wrong yet.”

He takes it with a slow smile. “Dangerous trust.”

“You like that about me,” you say without missing a beat.

His eyes meet yours, steady and sure.

“I do.”

And the way he says it?

It isn’t playful. Isn’t light. It lands somewhere between a promise and a warning.

And suddenly, the quiet between you feels like something else entirely.

He closes the menu without looking at it for too long, then says something casual to the owner, his tone respectful but familiar. She gives you one last look (a little assessing, a little approving) before disappearing toward the kitchen with a short nod.

You raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

He leans back, completely unbothered. “I did.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. You said, ‘you choose.’ That’s verbal consent. Witnessed and documented.”

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

He grins. “You’ll thank me in a few minutes.”

And you do. Because when the food comes, it’s thin wheat noodles in a light broth, topped with julienned vegetables, sliced egg, seaweed, and just a hint of sesame oil. The aroma alone makes your eyes widen.

Your inner monologue might as well be standing on a table, screaming. He ordered noodles. My weakness. My love language. My eternal home.

“Are you a mind reader?” you ask, unable to hide your excitement as you pick up your chopsticks.

“I had a hunch,” he says, watching you with mild amusement as you practically dive in. “You look like someone who’d fight for the last noodle in a pot.”

You pause with your chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “Is that a compliment or a psychological profile?”

“Depends.” He’s smiling, elbow propped lazily on the table, eyes fixed on you. “Are you the type to share your noodles, or hoard them?”

You pretend to consider it, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on who’s asking.”

He laughs, low and full. The kind that catches in your chest.

The food is simple, warm, deeply comforting. Not because of the food, exactly. But because of who’s sitting across from you. And how easy he makes all of this feel.

And when he steals one of your noodles just to prove a point? You let him.

As you both finish the last of the broth, the warm glow of the restaurant wrapping around you like a lazy blanket, you lean back on your cushion and stretch your legs under the table, nudging his knee with your foot.

You glance at the time on your phone and raise a brow. “It’s not even eight,” you say, mock-disbelief in your voice. “Don’t tell me you’re the type to go to bed right after dinner. Old-man hours already?”

“What, you think I’m boring?”

You shrug. “I mean… I don’t know. The cozy dinner. The secret spot. The soft lighting. This has bedtime-by-nine written all over it.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mutters, grabbing the check before you can even reach for your wallet.

You blink. “Wait. What was that?”

“I said,” he repeats, standing smoothly and ignoring your faux-innocent stare, “you’re lucky I like you.”

“Bold assumption,” you say, following him toward the door. “You don’t know me like that.”

He holds the door open, leaning into the frame as you step past him. “You say that, but you’re not running away.”

You pause outside, cold air kissing your skin as you glance up at him.

“I’d say that depends,” you murmur, lifting your chin slightly. “Are you planning to make the night more interesting or tuck me in with warm milk and a bedtime story?”

“I was thinking…” he steps a little closer, voice dipping, “maybe something in between.”

Your pulse flickers fast. Intrigued.

“So,” you say, eyes narrowing. “What now?”

He glances toward the car, then back at you. “Let’s drive.”

“That’s it? Just a drive?”

He shrugs. “You scared I’m secretly boring?”

You smile, teeth catching your bottom lip as you shake your head. “No. I’m scared you’re not.”

The city peels away behind you, all neon and noise in the rearview, replaced by wider roads and quieter corners. You glance over at him as he drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. 

"You always drive like this?" you ask, the wind catching in your voice just slightly.

He glances over, curious. “Like what?”

“Like you're in a movie. Slow, steady. No destination, just vibes.”

His mouth tugs into that crooked half-smile. “Wouldn’t be the worst scene to be in.”

You roll your eyes, but your grin gives you away. “You're really running with this leading-man energy, huh?”

“You’re the one who asked me to rescue you. I’m just sticking to the role.”

"Right. So where's the dramatic monologue about how you're secretly emotionally unavailable but somehow willing to change only for me?"

“That’s coming in act three,” he says smoothly. “Right after the almost-kiss and right before I mess it all up.”

You’re laughing now, really laughing, and when you glance at him again, he’s not even pretending not to stare.

He clears his throat. “There’s a lookout just up ahead. View’s nice this time of night.”

“Another hidden spot?”

“You doubting my taste now?”

“Never. Just making sure you’re not lulling me into a false sense of security before you reveal you are, in fact, a very charming serial killer.”

He chuckles under his breath. “If I was, you wouldn’t’ve made it past the noodles.”

You hum. “Fair point. Still. You are dangerously smooth.”

“I could say the same about you.”

That brings a new kind of quiet. One with heat underneath it.

By the time he pulls up to the lookout you’re not sure whether you’re more captivated by the view outside, or the one inside the car.

He kills the engine but makes no move to get out. Neither do you.

“So,” he says after a beat, voice a little lower. “Still think I’m putting you to bed before nine?”

You smirk, turning just slightly toward him. “We’re well past bedtime, Cheol.”

And somehow, that feels like the most dangerous thing you’ve said all night. He huffs a short laugh through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly with amusement as he shifts to face you more fully in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

You tilt your head, feigning casual. “Just doing my due diligence,” you say, poking at the corner of the console with your nail. “Before this gets… you know. Interesting. You don’t have kids right? Or a wife waiting at home something like that”

He raises a brow, resting his arm against the back of your seat. “Interesting, huh?”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lets that lazy grin spread as he lets his gaze settle on you—like he’s trying to read between your words and the space between your knees brushing his.

“No wife,” he says finally. “No kids. No secrets.”

You blink. “Wow. A full set.”

He leans in just a little, voice lower now. “Disappointed?”

You laugh, the sound soft, breathless. “Relieved, actually. I’d hate to be a plot twist in someone else’s drama.”

“No,” he murmurs. “If anything, you feel like the beginning of something.”

You freeze just for a second.

“Are you always like this? Charming, smooth-talking, devastatingly good at timing?”

His fingers brush a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and deliberate. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“Guess I’ll need more data.”

He laughs again—quiet, warm—and lets the moment linger in that hazy space between restraint and intent. Outside, the city glows. But in here, it’s just the two of you, suspended in that delicious kind of silence where everything feels possible.

You swallow lightly. “So… how much data are we talking? One night? Two? A whole series?”

His smile curves, lazy and full of mischief. “Are you asking how many dates it takes before I kiss you?”

“Maybe,” you say, voice just above a whisper. 

“Depends how good the data is.” He leans in a little, not touching you yet but close enough. His voice dips, rough around the edges in that way that sends a shiver up your spine.

Your breath catches, pulse ticking a little faster, but you don’t lean away. If anything, you meet him halfway.

You exhale slowly, watching his eyes flick down to your mouth.

“You’re really not going to kiss me, are you?” you ask, a little breathless now.

He smirks, gaze lifting back to yours.

“I will,” he says. “But not because it’s expected.”

You blink, pulse stuttering.

“Then why?”

He tilts his head, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone.

“Because the second I do… it stops being light and easy. And I think we both know it.”

You sit there for a second, stunned into silence—because he’s not wrong. There’s a weight to this that neither of you are quite ready to name, but it’s there. Unspoken, humming like the low thrum of electricity before a storm.

So instead, you nod—slow, almost amused.

“You’re dangerous, Choi Seungcheol.”

He leans back just slightly, watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

“And you’re trouble.”

You smile.

“So what now?”

He reaches for the gear shift, gaze still lingering on you.

“Now,” he says, “I drive you home before we both make very bad, very good decisions.”

And you don’t argue.

But as he pulls away from the lookout, your fingers resting dangerously close to his on the center console, you get the feeling this isn’t the end of the night.

It’s just the prelude.

=

The sky is painfully clear, bright blue with not a cloud in sight and the sun has no business being this aggressive before noon.

Jeonghan’s halfway through lining up his swing when he notices it. The stillness. The quiet hum of something off.

He looks over and nearly misses his shot entirely.

“Okay,” he mutters, club dangling from one hand as he turns toward Joshua. “Am I hallucinating or is Seungcheol smiling at his phone?”

Joshua, already sipping on an iced americano and way too comfortable in his obnoxiously pastel golf attire, raises an eyebrow and glances over at their friend, who’s sitting on the edge of the golf cart with his phone in hand, thumb tapping out something quick.

And yeah. He's definitely smiling. Not smirking. Not plotting someone’s downfall.

Actually, smiling.

Joshua leans closer, squinting dramatically. “Are we about to die? Should I call my mom?”

“Maybe he’s reading memes,” Jeonghan says, though his voice lacks conviction.

“Right,” Joshua snorts. “Because Seungcheol totally wakes up and chooses cat videos.”

They both watch him a beat longer.

Seungcheol finally glances up, catching their stares. “What?”

Joshua holds his drink up like it’s a toast. “Just wondering if we need to evacuate Seoul. You good, buddy?”

Jeonghan crosses his arms. “You’re smiling, Cheol. Like… full teeth. Sunshine smile. Are you in pain? Blink twice if it’s a hostage situation.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth don’t drop. If anything, they twitch higher when his phone buzzes again and he types out a quick reply before tucking it away in his pocket.

“Y’all are dramatic.”

“Oh no no,” Jeonghan says, hopping into the cart. “You don’t get to be mysterious. Who is she?”

“There’s no she.”

“Liar. You haven’t looked this happy since Mingyu fell into that koi pond.”

Joshua hums, thoughtful. “It’s the girl from the bar, isn’t it?”

Seungcheol doesn't answer which is an answer in itself.

Jeonghan squints. “Wait, you’re still talking to her? Damn. I thought that was just a one-night distraction.”

Seungcheol shrugs, grabbing his club and walking toward the next hole. “Maybe I like being distracted.”

Joshua raises his brows. “He’s whipped.”

“Absolutely whipped,” Jeonghan echoes, grinning like he’s already plotting how to make this his new favorite topic of conversation.

The reason for that rare, suspiciously soft smile on Seungcheol’s face? Easy.

It’s sitting in his phone, timestamped at 8:02 a.m. 

A photo of your desk, where a bouquet of creamy white ranunculus and pale blush roses now sits in the center, like it owns the place. A handwritten note tucked between the blooms simply reads:

Thanks for keeping me up past my bedtime. - CSC

Your caption underneath the photo had been equally unfair.

You: You smooth bastard. You knew I liked flowers, didn’t you?

He hadn’t, actually but he guessed. Just like the noodles. And the way your voice lit up over the phone when he mentioned he had a surprise coming. 

It was a hunch, like everything else about you so far, a series of guesses that kept turning out more right than he probably deserved.

You: Do I have to say thank you over lunch or dinner? Because I can clear my schedule.

Hence: the smile.

The same one he’s fighting right now, out on the golf course, while Jeonghan interrogates him like a nosy mother with a magnifying glass.

“She thanked me,” Seungcheol says finally, smirking to himself as he adjusts his grip on the club.

Joshua frowns. “For what?”

He doesn’t even look up as he swings. “For the flowers I sent this morning.”

There’s a pause.

“Flowers?” Jeonghan yells from the cart. “Oh, we’re officially in rom-com territory now.”

Joshua leans on his driver. “You used to make fun of me for that. Remember back then when I got my girlfriend flowers after two weeks and you called me a simp with no spine?”

“I was right. You were insufferable,” Seungcheol replies easily. “I, on the other hand, am charming.”

Jeonghan snorts. “You sent ranunculus, didn’t you?”

That actually gets Seungcheol to glance over, brow raised. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Because you’re dramatic,” Jeonghan deadpans. “And because you’re literally the only person I know who flirts with florals like it’s a love letter.”

He shrugs, but the smug look doesn’t leave his face.

“She liked them.”

And really, that’s all he needs today. Not the perfect swing, not a quiet weekend, not even an answer to whatever it is that's slowly, surely happening between you and him.

You’re barefoot, hair up in a loose bun, sleeves shoved past your elbows, and a cleaning rag hanging off your shoulder like a badge of honor. There's a half-folded pile of laundry on the couch, your favorite playlist echoing from the kitchen speaker, and the scent of lemon cleaner still lingers in the air.

You weren’t thinking about him. Not exactly. Okay, maybe a little.

But still, when the doorbell rings, you freeze mid-wipe, glancing toward the door like it might be another delivery.

Flowers again?

You make your way over, still patting your hands dry on your pajama shorts, and swing the door open without much thought.

And your heart absolutely stutters.

Because standing there isn’t a courier. Or a stranger.

It’s him.

Choi Seungcheol, dressed down in jeans, a dark tee, and that unfairly calm expression that somehow looks even better in daylight. One hand casually stuffed in his pocket, the other holding up a familiar-looking takeout bag.

“You said lunch or dinner,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Thought I’d split the difference.”

You blink, stunned and slightly underdressed for this plot twist. “You—wait, you’re here?”

He lifts the bag slightly. “Samgyeopsal dosirak. And something sweet because I thought you might need dessert after all that dusting.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh, stepping back instinctively to let him in. “You could’ve texted.”

“I could’ve,” he agrees, stepping past the threshold, eyes flicking to the mess of throw pillows and laundry and general weekend chaos. “But I figured showing up gets me bonus points.”

“Bold move,” you say, shutting the door behind him.

He shrugs, setting the bag down on your kitchen counter. “You already called me smooth this morning. Might as well live up to it.”

You watch him for a moment, slightly in awe—and slightly mortified you’re wearing an old t-shirt and fuzzy socks while he looks like that.

“Sorry for the mess,” you mutter, grabbing a few stray pieces of laundry and shoving them toward a basket.

Seungcheol just leans against your counter, watching you with that amused, unreadable expression.

“Relax,” he says. “I kind of like seeing you like this.”

You pause mid-fold. “Like what? Disheveled and unprepared?”

“Comfortable,” he corrects. “Like yourself.”

You clear your throat and gesture to the bag. “Well… you coming all this way with food means you’re definitely staying to eat, right?”

He grins. “Only if you sit next to me this time.”

“Scandalous,” you murmur, already pulling out plates. “We’ll have to keep the blinds shut. Can’t let the neighbors catch me fraternizing with the flower guy.”

He lets out a low laugh as he moves to help, and just like that, the space between you feels smaller again.

You slide the plates across the counter toward him, eyes flicking up briefly to meet his as you settle into the rhythm of unpacking the food. The scent of grilled meat, garlic, and rice fills the space, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the easy comfort of it.

“How was your morning?”

He leans back a little against your counter, breaking apart his chopsticks slowly, like he has time—like he’s in no rush at all.

“Golf,” he says. “Jeonghan roped me into it. He and Joshua have this bet going about who’ll finally beat me. Spoiler: they didn’t.”

You snort softly. “Let me guess. You smiled once and they thought something was wrong?”

He looks up at you, surprised, then chuckles. “Actually, yeah. Jeonghan thought the world was ending.”

“Because you were texting me?”

His gaze lingers on you for just a beat too long.

“Maybe.”

You look away then, biting back the way your heart trips at the casual weight of his honesty.

You try to keep your voice light. “You like golf?”

“I like the quiet,” he says. “And the way it slows everything down. Plus, it's one of the few times the guys don't expect me to be in CEO mode.”

You blink. “Wait—CEO mode?”

His smile turns crooked, caught between smug and sheepish. “You didn’t know?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You told me you work in management!”

“I do,” he says innocently. “Technically.”

You gape at him. “You're ridiculous.”

“And you're adorable when you're annoyed,” he replies, grinning as he sets the table with casual precision.

You shake your head, still reeling, still smiling despite yourself.

“Fine,” you say, settling down beside him. “You can be mysterious and charming and maddening later. Right now, just tell me more about your morning. What else happened?”

And he does. He tells you about the way Joshua nearly ran over Jeonghan’s foot with the golf cart. How the coffee at the clubhouse was abysmal. How the sun was too bright but the breeze made up for it. And you listen like it’s the most interesting story you’ve ever heard.

You finish the last few bites of your meal, chopsticks tapping against the empty container as you sit back with a satisfied sigh.

“So,” you say, stretching slightly, “since you’re already here, Mr. CEO—”

His brow arches, amused. “Oh, we’re using titles now?”

You ignore that smug little curve of his mouth. “Since you're already so generously spending time with a commoner like me, mind helping with a few things?”

He eyes you, mock suspicion in his gaze. “Define few.”

You push off the counter and gesture for him to follow you down the short hallway.

“It’s really just one thing. I’ve been putting it off because I like having a functional spine.”

You stop in front of your bedroom door, already bracing yourself for the impending chaos he’s about to witness. With a deep breath, you push it open and point to the far corner of the room.

“That,” you say flatly, “has not moved since I moved in. It’s heavier than it looks and it hates me.”

Seungcheol steps in behind you, eyes landing on the wide, solid wood dresser wedged awkwardly against the wall. He whistles low.

“Yeah, okay. That thing looks like it weighs more than I do.”

You cross your arms, already grinning. “Don’t be dramatic. I just need it shifted a little to the left so I can finally plug in the lamp I’ve had sitting on the floor”

“And you were just gonna… try to do this alone?”

“I tried. Got maybe an inch before I considered calling emergency services.”

He laughs, shaking his head, already flexing his fingers like he’s warming up. “Alright, move aside. Let me show you what those gym memberships are actually good for.”

You step back, arms folded, watching as he tests the weight, then—with alarming ease—shifts the dresser a few inches left, then a bit more, until it’s perfectly centered beneath the window.

“That’s it? That was like, two seconds.”

He turns, feigning a wipe of imaginary sweat from his brow. “You’re welcome, peasant.”

You scoff. “Okay, that’s the last time I compliment your arms.”

The sunlight hits him just right, painting golden streaks across his face and forearms, and for a second, the whole room feels brighter. Lighter.

“You’re trouble,” you murmur, half to yourself.

He catches it anyway, walking back over until he’s standing in front of you again, too close in that now-familiar, deliberate way.

“And you keep inviting me over,” he says, voice low and warm. “What does that make you?”

“Worse than I thought, apparently.”

He grins. “Good.”

And just like that—helping you move a dresser somehow becomes its own kind of intimacy. Domestic. Quiet. Dangerous in all the best, slow-burning ways.

Then something catches his eyes on something behind your desk. He drifts toward it, more curious than anything, his gaze pulled by the small burst of color on the wall.

It’s a collage of sorts, not perfectly arranged, but it has that personal, lived-in charm. Polaroids with slightly smudged ink dates along the bottom, movie tickets curled at the corners, scribbled notes, travel stubs, even a pressed flower or two. 

A few things are clearly sentimental, a few probably meaningless to anyone but you.

But it’s the tiny folded receipt pinned neatly in the corner that catches his eye. Barely noticeable, until he sees the logo.

The bar.

He steps closer, mouth quirking slightly. “You kept this?”

You glance over from where you're fluffing the pillow he nearly flattened earlier. “Hm?”

He taps the pinned slip, and your eyes flick toward it.

“Oh.” You laugh softly, walking over to stand beside him. “Yeah. It felt... significant, I guess. A good story.”

“You keep a lot of stories, huh?” he asks, gesturing to the wall.

You shrug, suddenly shy. “I like remembering things. Even the dumb ones. Even the weird little in-between moments. They make everything feel more real.”

“Where’s the part where you almost got kissed by a stranger pretending to be your boyfriend?”

You narrow your eyes at him playfully. “You’re lucky I didn’t choose someone taller.”

“I’m lucky you chose me at all,” he says, quiet but clear, not teasing.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full—warm. Like the pause after a really good line in a movie, one that doesn’t need music or movement to make it matter.

You glance back at the wall, at the receipt, the night that started all of this.

“Guess that night’s part of the wall now,” you murmur. “Part of the story.”

His eyes flick back to you, amused. “So you’re the sentimental type.”

You raise a brow, lips twitching. “Why? That not fit into your little criteria?”

Seungcheol tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning you in that quietly intense way that always makes you feel like you’re being read instead of looked at. His voice drops, warm and smooth.

“I don’t think I ever had a real list.”

You scoff lightly. “Please. Everyone has a list.”

He grins. “Fine. Maybe I thought I’d go for someone less likely to keep bar receipts and concert stubs like museum exhibits.”

You feign offense. “Wow. So judgmental for someone who literally sent me florals with emotional implications.”

“That was strategic,” he deadpans.

“Mm-hmm. And I’m sure flirting with me in front of your friends was all part of some master CEO plan too.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you for a long moment, something unreadable behind that steady gaze.

From then on, the flowers keep coming. Not every day but often enough that it’s clear there’s a pattern. An intention.

Sometimes it’s a soft arrangement of lilies and baby’s breath that arrives late in the morning with a note scrawled in that clean, all-too-neat handwriting: Don’t skip lunch today.

Other days it’s bold peonies or deep red ranunculus, tucked into a glass vase that seems to match your desk without trying. 

One morning it’s a single sunflower with a post-it: Because you were complaining about deadlines. Sun’s out now.

And in between the deliveries, there are lunches—casual, spontaneous. A text at 11:32 a.m.: You free? I’m craving something spicy.

Or dinner on the way home from work, when you say you’re too tired to cook and he offers takeout. He picks you up like it’s routine, like the two of you have been doing this for years.

He holds doors open, lets you steal bites off his plate, keeps track of which side of the booth you like to sit on. He remembers you hate soggy fries and that you get cranky when you skip breakfast.  And when your wrist started aching from too much typing, a small ergonomic mouse showed up at your office two days later. No note. No message. Just Seungcheol, a few hours later at dinner, asking casually, You get that thing I sent? Like he hadn’t just studied your habits like they were blueprints.

One night, you tease him. “You always feed people this well when you’re trying to win them over?”

He glances at you across the table, eyes warm, steady.

“No,” he says. “Just you.”

And it’s not a confession. Not really but your heart answers like it is. He grins at that—slow and lazy, like he’s been waiting for you to say it.

“Careful now,” you say, voice light, but your eyes don’t leave his, “I might get used to being spoiled.”

He leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the back of the booth, and he gives you that look

“And what exactly would be the downside of that?”

You hum, pretending to consider it, swirling the last of your drink with your straw. “Mm, I don’t know. Expectations. Disappointment. Sudden withdrawal of dumpling privileges.”

He chuckles, low and smooth. “I don’t take things back once I give them.”

You glance at him sideways, the corner of your mouth lifting. “Sounds like a threat.”

He tilts his head, his smile softening. “Sounds like a promise.”

For a second, the noise of the restaurant fades behind the weight of those words—like the hum of conversation, the clink of plates, even the music playing overhead all quiet just enough to make space for the way he’s looking at you.

You feel it, the shift. Again.

And you could say something sarcastic, you could push it away with another joke—but you don’t. Instead, you let the moment hang there, rich and charged.

“You keep this up,” you murmur, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Good,” he says. “That’s the idea.”

You swirl your drink once more, watching the ice clink softly against the glass before glancing up at him with a sly tilt to your head.

“So…” you start, casual—too casual. “How many more dinners like this before the kiss?”

Seungcheol’s fingers pause mid-reach for his glass, his eyes lifting to yours, slow and deliberate. There’s that smirk again—just a shade more dangerous now, edged with the kind of tension you’ve both been dancing around for days.

He leans in a little, arms resting on the table, and his voice drops low. “You keeping count?”

You shrug, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I’m just saying… that first night? You played the part really well. Had me thinking you were the type to go in for the dramatic, sweep-her-off-her-feet, movie-scene kiss.”

“I remember,” he says. “You were looking at me like you were waiting for it.”

Your laugh is soft, quiet. “Maybe I was.”

“So what number is this then? Dinner four? Five? Let’s call it four and a half. One of those was technically just noodles and complaining about work.”

“So what you’re saying is… I’m close.” You lift your glass to your lips, hiding your grin behind the rim. 

“Closer than you think. Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth the wait.”

And you believe him. God help you, you really do.

“You’re really making me wait for this kiss, huh?”

Seungcheol’s lips part, not in surprise exactly, but like he wasn’t expecting you to say it so directly. His gaze drops to your mouth for the briefest second, and it’s subtlebut enough that your heart skips once, hard.

He exhales, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he’s trying not to let it turn into a full smile. “I told you,” he murmurs, “I make things worth it.”

“Yeah, but now I’m starting to think you like the anticipation too much.”

“I do,” he says without missing a beat. “But I like your reaction more.”

Your brows lift. “My reaction?”

“The way you look at me,” he says, quietly now, eyes not wavering. “The way you lean in just a little closer when you think I might—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just lets it hang there between you, heavy and electric.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper. Your heart’s hammering now, a rhythm too loud to ignore, and still he doesn’t close the distance. 

“You’re really not going to kiss me,” you say, half a laugh, half a dare.

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s deciding something. Then—

“I will,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But not here.”

Your breath catches. “Why not?”

His eyes flick to the restaurant around you. “Because when I finally do, I’m not sharing it with a room full of strangers.”

And just like that, your skin is flushed, your chest tight, and you’re no longer thinking about how long it’s been—but how close you are now. How much more you want.

The moment you step out into the night, the cool air brushing against your skin like a sigh, his hand finds yours. No hesitation. No theatrics. Just warm fingers threading through yours like they’ve done it a thousand times.

You glance at him, heart kicking once against your ribs.

He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t need to. His grip is steady, his stride unhurried, and there’s something about the way he holds you—like it’s not even a decision anymore. Just instinct.

When you reach the car, he lets go only to open the door for you. Still without a word. Still with that same quiet, unrushed certainty. He waits until you’re seated, until the seatbelt clicks, before he rounds the front and slides into the driver’s seat beside you.

No questions.

No where to?

He starts the engine and pulls out into the street like he already knows. Because he does. He’s memorized your route home—left turns, shortcut alleys, that one spot where traffic always sucks near the crosswalk.

And for a moment, you sit in the silence of the ride, his hand resting on the gearshift, the lights of the city playing soft across his profile.

You lean your head against the seat, watching him through the slow hum of passing streetlights. “You’re a little scary when you’re this confident.”

“I’m always this confident,” he murmurs, eyes forward, that same grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You laugh under your breath. “Cocky.”

He doesn’t deny it. But when he reaches over at the next red light, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand, there’s a softness in it—something that betrays the calm exterior. Something that says: I’m not rushing. But I’m sure.

And it steals your breath more than any kiss might’ve.

=

Seungcheol’s already at his desk when Jeonghan strolls into his office unannounced, like he owns the place. He’s got that look on his face too. mischief bubbling just beneath the surface, like he’s been waiting for this all morning.

Seungcheol doesn’t look up from his laptop. “No.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” Jeonghan counters, already dropping into one of the chairs across from the desk, far too comfortable for someone who doesn’t technically work in this building.

“You’re thinking very loudly.”

Jeonghan grins. “Fine. If you insist, I’ll start. One: she completely held her own last night. Didn’t flinch once when Mingyu started rapid-ordering food like he was feeding an army.”

Recalling last night when Seungcheol took you with him for drinks out with the guys. Surprising everyone.

“She’s impressive,” Seungcheol says simply, and this time he does glance up, barely trying to hide the small, proud smile tugging at his mouth.

Jeonghan points. “That. That smile. That’s what I came here for. I knew you were gone the moment she toasted Soonyoung under the table.”

Seungcheol just leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers together. “He challenged her. It’s on him.”

“And she won. You know what that means? She’s one of us now. And more importantly…” Jeonghan leans in dramatically. “You’re so in it, man.”

“I drove her home,” Seungcheol says casually, but the softness in his voice betrays him.

Jeonghan narrows his eyes. “And?”

“And nothing.”

Jeonghan groans. “You’re seriously dragging this out? You're the most controlled man I know, and even I was rooting for a kiss.”

Seungcheol just smirks. “Told her I’d kiss her when she’s sober.”

Jeonghan stares. Then throws his head back with a groan. “You’re hopeless. Ridiculously swoony and hopeless.”

“I like her,” Seungcheol says, tone low and honest.

And that—that—makes Jeonghan pause. His teasing drops, just for a second. Because when Seungcheol says it like that, not as a joke or a half-guarded confession, but as a fact... it’s real.

He leans back, quieter now. “Yeah. I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence between them before Jeonghan can’t help himself. “Still. If this ends in wedding bells, I’m officiating. Or, at the very least, giving the toast.”

Seungcheol sighs, already regretting letting him in.

Jeonghan grins again. “Don’t worry. I’ll start writing my speech.”

=

The city blurs past the windows in a soft hum of motion, headlights washing warm streaks of gold across your skin as you talk—casually, openly, like you always do now.

You’re curled in the passenger seat with your legs tucked under you, your shoes kicked off and your fingers fidgeting absently with the soft edge of the blanket draped over your lap. His blanket. The one he insisted on leaving in the car after you shivered just once during a late drive home.

Seungcheol doesn’t say much as you talk, but he glances over often—tiny flickers of attention between the road and you, like he’s memorizing pieces of the moment to revisit later. His left hand rests on the steering wheel, right one easy on the gear shift, the movement of his thumb mirroring the rhythm of your voice. Calm. Comforting.

You’re halfway through rambling about a disaster of a meeting you had that morning when your train of thought stutters.

“Oh,” you say, almost too quickly. “I—actually. Meant to ask you something.”

He hums, a lazy sound that rumbles in his chest. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Just a second too long. He picks up on it immediately, his gaze flickering your way. 

You’re looking down now, fiddling with the corner of the blanket, suddenly hyperaware of the lip gloss you left in his cup holder and the extra hair tie wrapped around his rearview mirror. There are little bits of you all over his car now. Just like there are little bits of him scattered across your days. 

“So…” you start, trying for casual, but it comes out a little breathy. “There’s this wedding. In a couple weeks. One of my friends from college.”

You chance a glance at him. He’s still driving, still calm, but his head tilts slightly. Listening.

“I kind of... need a plus one,” you go on. “Well, I don’t need one, technically, but everyone’s bringing someone, and—” You bite your lip, nerves buzzing. “I just thought maybe… if you’re free, you could come? With me.”

“You want me to go with you?” he asks, voice low, like he’s checking—really checking—that he heard right.

You nod, trying to keep your voice light, even as your heart feels like it’s doing cartwheels. “Yeah. I mean, you’d probably hate it. Lots of mingling. Dancing. Champagne. Small talk with strangers.”

He smiles a little. “And you want me to be your date.”

You blink at him. “Well… yeah.”

The light turns green. He doesn’t move. Not yet. His eyes are on you, steady and searching, and the longer he looks, the more you feel exposed—in a good way. In a real way.

“I’ll go,” he says finally, with that soft certainty that always makes your chest ache. “Of course I’ll go.”

Your breath whooshes out of you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeats, eyes on the road now as the car starts moving again. “But only if I get to keep pretending I’m your boyfriend.”

You laugh, startled by how easy he makes it feel, how warm your chest goes at his words. “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time? Pretending?”

His grip on the steering wheel shifts. “You tell me.”

And you don’t answer right away, not because you don’t know but because the answer sits somewhere in the middle of your ribs, nestled against every glance, every ride home, every shoulder kiss and every moment he’s chosen to stay.

When you reach your building, he parks without asking for directions. Of course he does. He knows the way by heart now.

As you’re getting out, he catches your wrist gently. “Text me the details,” he says, voice lower now, more serious. “What time. What to wear.”

You nod, and your throat’s a little tight. “Okay.”

It’s one of those perfect afternoons. the kind that hangs suspended between spring and summer, warm without being too hot, a breeze just light enough to make your dress flutter as you wait outside your building.

You’re not waiting long.

His car pulls up exactly on time, and you catch sight of him behind the wheel through the windshield—dark suit, crisp white shirt, and a tie that looks suspiciously like it was chosen to match the color of your dress. 

Your heart kicks up, stupid and traitorous in your chest, because he looks good. Too good. Like the kind of man who belongs on magazine covers, not in your driveway.

And then he steps out.

He smooths a hand down the front of his suit jacket, one brow lifting the moment he sees you. “Wow,” he says, low and honest, eyes sweeping over you with a slow, appreciative gaze that makes heat crawl up your neck. “I knew you’d look beautiful, but... I wasn’t ready.”

You try for casual, but your grin gives you away. “You clean up alright yourself, Mr. CEO.”

He holds the car door open for you without a word, and when you slide in, you spot the little extra things right away. Your favorite mints in the cup holder. A spare hair tie looped on the gearshift. He doesn’t say anything about them, but the details are there—always there.

“You nervous?” he asks at one point, tone light.

You shake your head. “About the wedding? No. They’re the ones getting married. I’m just there to eat cake.”

He smiles. “About me being your date, then?”

You pause, then look over at him with a soft grin. “Not even a little.”

When you get to the venue, it’s like the entire world slows for a second. The moment you both step out of the car and walk in together—side by side, his hand hovering at the small of your back, your arms brushing as you walk—you feel it. The glances. The looks.

You were right. Everyone did bring someone. And yet somehow, you’re the one that people can’t stop staring at.

Because of him.

Because of the way Seungcheol exists in a room like he’s always been meant to be there—quietly powerful, quietly yours.

Introductions start slow. your friends immediately curious, trying to figure him out. But Seungcheol handles them all with the kind of smooth charm that makes you want to simultaneously laugh and melt. 

He’s polite. Warm. Slightly reserved. But he doesn’t leave your side once, and when your hand accidentally brushes his under the table during dinner, he doesn’t pull away.

It’s only when you're both standing off to the side during a slow song, sipping champagne and laughing at the clumsy first-dance attempts on the floor, that he leans down, voice brushing your ear.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t think I’ve seen you stop smiling since we got here.”

You glance up at him, heart thudding. “Yeah? Is that a bad thing?”

He meets your eyes. “No. I think I’d like to be the reason behind it more often.”

He holds out his hand. “Come dance with me?”

And with your fingers in his, his suit pressed lightly to your side, his palm warm at your back, you finally stop waiting. Because this, him, was worth every slow, drawn-out second.

You don’t realize how naturally it happens. How easily you lean into him, how right it feels to have your hand resting lightly on his shoulder while his other hand holds your waist, not too tight, but firm.

“You’re not a bad dancer,” you murmur, the tease threading through your voice.

Seungcheol lets out a low laugh, eyes twinkling as he looks down at you. “I had to learn. It was either that or embarrass myself at corporate galas.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “So I’m your rehearsal?”

He leans in, just enough that you feel his breath along your cheek. “No,” he says softly. “You’re the reason I’m glad I learned.”

That shuts you up for a second—not because you don’t have a comeback, but because the way he says it—earnest, grounded—makes your heart stumble in your chest.

“I still haven’t kissed you,” he says quietly, almost like he’s reminding himself. “And you’ve been very patient.”

“Painfully patient,” you whisper back. He smiles, but it’s different this time. Not teasing. Just full of something so genuine it makes your stomach twist.

“But this moment,” he says, pulling you in just a little closer, “this right here… I didn’t want to rush it. You deserve the good kind of build-up.”

You swallow. “So… this is a build-up?”

“Isn’t it?” he murmurs. “Every time I pick you up. Every dinner. Every time you leave your things in my car on purpose.”

“I don’t—” You try to defend yourself, but he grins, cutting you off.

“I like it,” he admits. “I like all of it. Even the fact that your lip gloss has now permanently scented my dashboard.”

You laugh, cheeks warm. “You’re very sentimental for someone who pretends not to be.”

“And you’re very brave for someone who said they weren’t looking for anything serious,” he counters.

That gives you pause. Because he’s not wrong.

You didn’t plan for any of this. But then again, you didn’t plan on walking up to a stranger at a bar just to escape a persistent creep either. And now… now you’re dancing with that stranger at your friend’s wedding while the night curls around the two of you like it knew.

“I still don’t know what we are,” you say finally, your voice lower, honest.

Seungcheol’s thumb brushes your waist gently, like he feels the shift.

“You don’t have to name it,” he says. “Not yet.”

“But you already have,” you murmur, meeting his gaze.

He looks at you for a long second. “Only in my head.”

You smile. “What is it, then?”

His grip on you tightens ever so slightly.

“Mine.” he says.

Just like that the music slows to an end, but he doesn't let go. And when the moment feels just too full, too warm, too close. His hand lifts gently to your jaw. His thumb grazes your cheek. And this time, finally, he doesn’t kiss your shoulder.

He kisses you.

It’s soft at first. A gentle brush of lips that speaks less of fireworks and more of certainty like he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

You don’t even realize your hands have slipped up to his chest, anchoring yourself as his other arm wraps around your waist to keep you close. There’s no rush, no urgency. Just the quiet, unspoken truth of it sinking into your bones—that this kiss was a long time coming. T

When you part, barely an inch between you, your forehead lingers against his. Your heart beats like it’s trying to memorize the rhythm of his.

“Finally,” you whisper.

Seungcheol chuckles, low and husky, still close enough that his breath grazes your lips. “Was it worth the wait?”

You tilt your head just enough to press another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll let you know after the second one.”

He smiles like he can’t help it, like something warm is cracking open in his chest. “Greedy.”

“Very,” you reply without missing a beat.

You don’t even care that you’re standing in the middle of a wedding reception, that people are milling around behind you with cake and champagne and whispered guesses about who you are. None of that matters.

Because he’s still looking at you like you’re the only thing that does.

When you got to your building he offered to walk you up. Standing outside your door, your fingers are curled into the lapel of Seungcheol’s suit jacket, your mouth barely a breath away from his when the sound of someone clearing their throat slices right through the moment.

You both flinch, pulling apart like guilty teenagers caught sneaking out after curfew.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”

Your mom stands there in front of your apartment door, arms crossed and one brow raised with terrifying precision, the classic mom look of I have questions and you better answer them properly.

She blinks slowly, then turns to Seungcheol with the kind of pointed interest that has your soul trying to escape your body.

“And who,” she says, sweetly, “might this be?”

You swallow. “Uh. Hi, Mom. What are you doing here?”

“I texted. You didn’t answer. So I thought I’d drop off some side dishes I made.” She holds up the container bag like evidence. “Good thing I came, it seems.”

You’re nearly sweating. Seungcheol, on the other hand, somehow still looks calm. Like he didn’t just almost get caught mid-doorstep make-out by your mother.

He straightens, then offers your mom a polite bow. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Choi Seungcheol. I was just dropping her off after a wedding.”

Your mom gives him a long once-over, then side-eyes you. “A wedding? Interesting. And how long has this Choi Seungcheol been around?”

“Mom,” you groan, but Seungcheol beats you to it.

“Not very long,” he replies easily. “But I’m hoping to stick around a while.”

You gape at him.

Your mom narrows her eyes. “Is that right?”

“If she’ll let me.”

Your mom stares at him another beat. Then to your utter disbelief, she… smiles. “Hmm. Well. At least you’re polite.”

You’re still recovering when she presses the container into your hands. “These are for you. You too, I suppose, since you’re clearly being fed well.”

Seungcheol accepts them with a small bow and a quiet “thank you.”

Your mom gives him one last look, then leans in to whisper (not quietly at all), “She likes flowers. And she talks in her sleep.”

“Mom!”

She pats your cheek and strolls away like she didn’t just commit emotional homicide.

You turn to Seungcheol, mortified. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

But he’s already smiling. Like really smiling. “That was the best first ‘meet the parent’ ambush I’ve ever had.”

Seungcheol’s in his office early the next morning, already settled in behind his desk. His sleeves are rolled up, fingers tapping out a light rhythm on the edge of his desk as he hums a low, tuneless melody to himself.

He’s got that look on his face, the rare kind his staff sees maybe three times a year, a glint in his eyes like he just won the lottery and the stock market. Every so often, he pauses to check his phone, then smiles like someone just whispered a joke in his ear. 

That’s exactly the energy Joshua and Jeonghan walk in on.

“Okay,” Jeonghan says slowly, not even trying to hide the suspicion in his voice. “Who are you and what have you done with our very serious, emotionally constipated CEO?”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you too.”

Joshua squints. “Is that... whistling? Are you—tapping your foot?”

Jeonghan drops into the seat across from him and kicks his legs up on the coffee table like he owns the place. “You’re smiling. Like smiling smiling. The last time you were this chipper was when we landed the Tokyo account and you got to yell at someone in perfect Japanese.”

Joshua leans against the wall. “No offense, man, but it’s kind of weirding me out. Is this like… a blood sugar thing? Are you okay?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, stretching with a soft groan and a big, satisfied sigh. “I’m great.”

“Yeah. We can tell.” Jeonghan raises a brow. “So go on. Tell the class. What happened”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away, just glances at his phone again with that same soft smile playing at his lips.

Jeonghan and Joshua exchange looks.

“Oh my god,” Jeonghan breathes, sitting up straighter. “It’s her, isn’t it? The bar girl. Your girl.”

Joshua’s eyes widen. “The one who literally drank Soonyoung under the table?”

“She’s not my girl, yet” Seungcheol says quickly—but his voice betrays him with the slightest upward lilt at the end, like even he doesn’t believe himself.

Jeonghan leans forward, both elbows on his knees. “So what happened last night? Because whatever it was, you’re acting like a man in love.”

“I am not in—” Seungcheol stops himself, mutters something under his breath, then groans as he runs a hand over his face. “You two are insufferable.”

“Did she finally kiss you?”

“Technically,” Seungcheol replies slowly, “I kissed her. But only after she asked for the third time.”

Jeonghan lets out a bark of laughter. “Took you long enough, Romeo.”

“It wasn’t about taking my time,” Seungcheol mumbles, and then lowers his voice, more to himself than to them. “I just… didn’t want to screw it up.”

There’s a beat of quiet.

Joshua softens. “You like her.”

Seungcheol doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jeonghan’s watching him, a little differently now. Less teasing, more thoughtful. “It’s serious, isn’t it?”

“She asked me to be her plus-one to a wedding,” Seungcheol replies, then glances at them, almost shy. “And I met her mom.”

Joshua and Jeonghan practically explode.

“You what?”

Seungcheol winces. “It wasn’t planned—her mom showed up at her apartment with side dishes and caught us on the doorstep. Thought I was her boyfriend or something.”

Jeonghan is beside himself. “And you survived? No wounds? No emotional damage?”

“She liked me.”

“Okay, that’s it,” Joshua says. “We’re done for. He’s in too deep.”

“Send help,” Jeonghan deadpans, placing a hand over his heart. “Our friend is gone. Replaced by this domestic, well-fed, love-struck clone.”

“I’m not love-struck.”

“You’re literally glowing.”

Seungcheol shakes his head with a small chuckle. “Shut up.”

But he’s still smiling.

Seungcheol’s phone buzzes once, then again—your contact lighting up on the screen. His hand darts for the phone almost too eagerly, thumb swiping before the second ring finishes.

“Hey,” he answers, voice dropping into something soft and familiar, like the two of you are already alone in a room and not with Jeonghan and Joshua both watching like hawks from a few feet away.

You laugh softly on the other end. “Hi. Sorry, are you busy?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “I’ve got time.”

Jeonghan mouths liar and Joshua smirks.

“So, I was gonna text, but my mom insisted I call. She’s making dinner tonight and… well, she asked if you’d like to come?”

His heart skips in a way he’s not used to—it’s not nerves exactly, more like… something warm curling in his chest. He stands slowly, pacing to the side of the office, back turned as if it’ll make the conversation any more private.

“You sure?” he asks, lowering his voice. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not,” you assure him. “She literally made enough for an army and said, and I quote, ‘tell that polite boy to come hungry.’”

He chuckles, unable to help himself. “Guess I can’t say no to that.”

“Seven okay?”

“Perfect.” He smiles again, stupid and wide and absolutely forgetting that he is not alone.

“I’ll see you tonight then.”

“Yeah,” he says, still in that soft tone only reserved for you. “Looking forward to it.”

The call ends. He stares at the screen for a second longer before pocketing his phone, already mentally rearranging the rest of his day.

Then he turns around.

Joshua is grinning like a fox. Jeonghan has both hands folded like he’s praying. “Okay. Let’s try that again. You’re not love-struck?”

Seungcheol sighs, running a hand through his hair, the soft grin on his lips refusing to fade. “She invited me to dinner. Her mom’s cooking.”

“Oh my god,” Jeonghan groans dramatically. “That’s domesticity. That’s serious.”

“You’re doomed,” Joshua chimes in cheerfully. “Next thing we know, you’ll be asking us to be groomsmen.”

“Shut up,” 

You’re halfway through setting the table when the doorbell rings, and your mom, already at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, waves you off with a knowing smile. “He’s early. That one’s got good manners. Go let him in.”

You smooth down your shirt, trying not to look too eager, but your feet are already hurrying toward the door.

When you open it, Seungcheol is there dressed in that casually polished way that makes it look like he stepped off the cover of a weekend magazine. Button-up sleeves rolled just once, watch peeking out, hair slightly tousled like he ran his fingers through it before he knocked.

And in his hands?

Two bouquets.

You blink. “Are you trying to start a flower shop?”

He grins, lifting both arrangements slightly. “One’s for you.” He holds out the first—soft colors, delicate petals, your favorites, of course. “And the other’s for your mom.”

You take the bouquet, inhaling the sweet scent with a tiny smile before stepping aside. “She’s going to love that. You just earned, like, ten extra points.”

“I’m trying to rack them up,” he says lightly, stepping in and revealing the dessert box in his other hand. “Also, I may or may not have picked up your favorite. You know… just in case.”

You glance down and immediately light up. “You remembered?”

“Please,” he scoffs playfully. “You’ve only ranted about it, what, three times? Of course I remembered.”

You laugh as you lead him inside, his shoulder brushing yours in that easy, now-familiar way. Your mom peeks out from the kitchen, and her smile grows when she sees the extra bouquet.

“Oh, you charmer,” she says warmly, walking over to greet him. “Flowers again? You’re going to make all the other boys look bad.”

Seungcheol offers her the bouquet with both hands and a small bow. “I figured last time I came empty-handed, so I had to make up for it.”

Dinner’s warm and loud, your mom doing most of the talking while Seungcheol listens, chimes in with small jokes, and praises her cooking so sincerely she beams every time he opens his mouth. He’s relaxed here, blending in like he’s done it a hundred times, and somehow that’s the part that gets you.

Later, after helping clean up and exchanging stories with your mom, the two of you step out into the cool night air.

He walks beside you in silence for a moment, then glances over. “So... still thinking about replacing me with someone from a crime documentary?”

You laugh. “I don’t know. That guy probably wouldn’t have brought dessert and flowers.”

He nudges you gently. “Damn right.”

You turn to him, slowing a little on the steps outside your building. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

And there’s that pause again—that loaded, quiet moment. You can feel it, humming between you. All the things unsaid but understood. No labels, no big declarations. Just gestures and quiet moments and the space he fills beside you like he’s always belonged there.

You lean in and kiss his cheek. He’s already smiling before your lips brush his skin.

“Don’t make me wait forever, Mr. CEO.”

He grins, eyes flicking to yours. “Patience, pretty girl. I’ve got a plan.”

And somehow, you believe him.

The moment you step back inside, your mom's perched on the couch like she never moved. She's got a cup of tea in hand and a look on her face that immediately makes you nervous—too calm, too unreadable, which only ever means she’s up to something.

Seungcheol follows behind you, quietly helping carry the dessert box into the kitchen, but before either of you can pretend the evening is winding down smoothly, your mom speaks up—tone light, but very deliberate.

“So…” she starts, gaze sliding over to Seungcheol like she’s just making small talk, “are you gonna marry my girl, or what?”

You nearly choke on air. “Mom!”

“What?” she shrugs, totally unbothered. “You’re both at the right age. You like each other. He’s handsome, polite, he brings flowers and dessert. I don’t want to wait another five years for grandchildren.”

“Oh my god—” you groan, half-burying your face in your hands.

But Seungcheol? Not flustered. Not even close. In fact, the traitorous man has the audacity to smile. A slow, confident one that only makes your embarrassment worse.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you before looking back at your mom, “if she keeps letting me stick around, who knows?”

Your mom raises a brow, then nods approvingly. “Good answer. You’re growing on me more and more, you know that?”

Seungcheol laughs, and you’re halfway to combusting. “Okay! Time to say goodnight, this interrogation is over,” you declare, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the door.

“Bye, Mom,” you grumble over your shoulder.

Your mom just waves, clearly pleased with herself. “Bye, future son-in-law!”

Seungcheol chuckles under his breath all the way down the hall. When the elevator doors close, he glances at you, amused. “So… how long do I have before she starts dress shopping?”

You glare up at him, still pink in the face. “Don’t you dare encourage her.”

“Too late.” He leans a little closer. “But if it helps…” His voice dips, teasing. “I am starting to like the sound of it.”

The elevator hums quietly as it takes you both downstairs, your hand tucked into Seungcheol’s without thinking. You walk him out to his car, the evening air crisp and still, soft with city quiet. He unlocks the door, but neither of you moves just yet.

“I’m just warning you,” you say, voice teasing, glancing up at him through your lashes. “Next time you come over, she’s not going to be asking if you’re marrying me.”

“No?”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. She’s skipping right ahead to asking when you’re giving her a grandchild.”

He chuckles low in his throat, eyes twinkling. “That so?”

“I can see it already,” you continue dramatically, “She’ll be standing in the kitchen, apron on, casually stirring soup while dropping 'So when’s the baby due?' like it’s small talk.”

Seungcheol leans against the car, folding his arms, that amused smile never leaving his face. “Well… we have kissed now,” he says, playful but soft. “I guess that means I should be prepared for her to start knitting booties.”

You swat his arm, trying not to laugh. “You’re too comfortable with this.”

“I’m comfortable with you,” he replies easily, gaze settling on you in that way that makes your heart skip and stumble all at once.

Seungcheol shifts closer, one hand brushing your hip before resting there, gentle but sure. “And hey,” he says, voice low, “about that kiss…”

Your breath hitches, and before you can even answer, he dips his head and brushes his lips against yours—slow and deliberate, nothing rushed, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.

He pulls back only slightly, close enough that his nose still brushes yours. “Still got more where that came from.”

You manage a breathless laugh, fingers curling in the front of his shirt. “Dangerous man.”

He grins. “Only for you.”

When he finally slides into the driver’s seat, you linger by the open door. “Text me when you get home.”

He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Of course I will.”

You step back, watching as he pulls out of the lot, his hand lifting briefly in a lazy wave. And as you head back to your apartment, you already know: your mom’s going to be impossible next time.

You barely make it three steps into your apartment before your mom, still lounging in the living room like she owns the place (she kind of does, considering she brought over food and stayed uninvited), looks up from her tea and levels you with that look.

Not smug. Not surprised. Just deeply, motherly knowing.

“Oh,” she says, setting her cup down with an audible clink. “I see what this is.”

“What’s what?” you ask, walking past her, pretending to be busy as you head toward the kitchen.

But she doesn’t let you off that easy. She turns in her seat and calls out—voice just a touch singsongy.

“You love the guy.”

“What?” You laugh, unconvincing. “I don’t—what? That’s a lot, don’t you think?”

She stands, follows you to the kitchen like a shark who smells blood—or in this case, feelings.

“I’ve been watching you all day. You were smiling at your phone like a teenager,” she says, opening the fridge like she owns that too. “And when he came over? You lit up like someone plugged you in.”

You open a cabinet just to have something to do with your hands. “He’s just… nice.”

“Oh, no. Not just nice. He’s thoughtful. Respectful. Tall. Brings flowers. Carries dessert. Helped you move furniture. That man looked at you like you’re the only person on the planet.” She shuts the fridge. 

“And you my sweet girl, you looked right back like he hung the moon.”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “You really don’t pull punches, huh?”

She smiles, proud. “I’m your mother. It’s my job to see through the nonsense.”

The smile that crept onto your face when Seungcheol kissed you tonight is still there. You feel it even now, this warmth that’s settled behind your ribs. It’s soft and terrifying and real.

And when you look back up, your mom’s just watching you with that soft expression, the one that says she’s been waiting for this kind of happiness to find you.

You sigh, eyes rolling, voice barely above a murmur. “Fine. I like him.”

She raises a brow.

“Okay,” you grumble. “I really like him.”

Her smile widens as she turns back toward the living room. “Took you long enough.”

=

The phone barely rings once before he picks up, voice warm and low like honey over gravel.

“Hey, baby.”

You swear your brain short-circuits for a second. The word hits you with a quiet thud right in the chest, catching you off guard even though you should be used to it by now. 

“Hi,” you say, a beat late, already smiling into the receiver. “Okay, I forgot what I was gonna say for a second.”

There’s a soft laugh on his end, the kind that rumbles just under his breath. “That’s a good sign.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

You lean against the kitchen counter, heart still doing that embarrassing little flutter. “I was just calling to see if you were gonna be busy later… I was planning to cook dinner.”

He goes quiet for half a second. Not because he’s hesitating—just because you know he’s already rearranging his whole evening in his head.

“Do I get to watch you cook?” he asks, voice lighter now, teasing.

You smirk. “That depends. Are you just gonna stand there looking pretty and touching nothing?”

“Depends. Can I taste-test?”

You scoff. “You’re just in it for the food.”

“Not true,” he says, soft again now, “but it is a very nice bonus.”

You pretend to sigh. “So… does that mean you’re coming?”

“I’ll be there,” he says without skipping a beat. “Tell me what time and I’ll bring wine.”

The ease of it makes your chest feel full, like the kind of full that wraps around your ribs and stays there.

The knock on your door is right on time—because of course it is. You’re still smoothing down your shirt when you open it, and there he is.

Wine in one hand. Flowers in the other. And that stupid smile on his face that already has you forgetting whatever it was you were about to say.

“Hi,” you breathe, just a little breathless at the sight of him. He’s in a casual button-down, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy like he ran his hands through it on the drive over. He looks good. Too good.

“For you,” he says, lifting the bouquet

“You really don’t have to keep bringing these every time, you know.”

“I know,” he says easily, already slipping out of his shoes and placing the wine on your counter. “But I like watching you smile when I do.”

You open your mouth to come up with a witty response, but it never makes it out. Because he’s suddenly in your space arms curling around your waist as he presses a kiss to the side of your head.

Clingy. He’s so clingy tonight. And you love it.

“You okay?” you murmur, hugging him back.

“Just missed you,” he replies against your hair, like it’s that simple.

“You’re really not gonna let me cook, are you?” you ask, laughing as you try to wiggle out of his grasp.

“Nope.” He grins, chin resting on your shoulder. “This is a hostage situation now.”

“You’re clingy.”

“You love it.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “I do.”

That earns you a kiss to the cheek. Then the temple. Then your neck. He’s shameless tonight. Unapologetically soft. 

You try to cut up onions, but his arms stay wrapped around you the entire time, body warm at your back, like he can’t stand to be even an inch away. By the time dinner’s ready, he’s seated too close at the table, knees brushing yours under it, foot tapping against your ankle.

And when you pass him a bowl, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. Just holds it for a second longer, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I could get used to this,” he says softly.

You smile, eyes locked with his.

He’s standing at your sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strong hands buried in soapy water. Your purple apron is tied securely around his waist. your apron, the one with little hearts embroidered along the hem and a faint stain from that time you spilled sauce and never quite got it out.

You’re halfway through wiping down the counter when you glance up and pause, arms frozen mid-motion. Because this scene in front of you is almost too much.

Choi Seungcheol, your moody, broody, suit-wearing, don’t-mess-with-me CEO, is currently humming under his breath while washing your dinner plates in a heart-covered apron like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You wrap your arms around his middle from behind, chin pressed against the back of his shoulder. He pauses.

Then smiles, water still running as he leans back just slightly into your hold. “You done cleaning?”

“Mostly,” you hum. “I just needed a break to admire this sight.”

He chuckles, voice low, the sound vibrating through his back and into your chest. “What sight?”

“You. Domestic. In my kitchen. In my apron.”

“You mean your very fashionable, extremely purple apron?” he says, glancing down at it with mock seriousness.

“Mhm. It suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah,” you say, drawing out the tease. “You look like the type of man who says things like ‘dinner’s ready, honey’ and then washes the dishes without being asked.”

“If you wanted to brag to someone, you could’ve just taken a picture.”

=

It’s a little surreal, stepping into the bar again after all these months.

The lighting’s still dim, the music low and pulsing in the background, familiar laughter echoing from the same corner booth the guys always seem to claim. Only this time, there’s no desperate escape from a stranger’s attention, no half-baked plan to use the intimidating guy in the corner to save yourself.

This time, you’re walking in hand-in-hand with him.

Seungcheol is dressed down, a fitted black tee and jeans that still somehow manage to make him look unfairly good. His hand is warm in yours, thumb drawing absent little circles on the back of your palm as he greets the guys already mid-round of drinks.

Jeonghan spots you first, grinning like he’s been waiting. “There they are! The king and queen have arrived.”

You roll your eyes. Seungcheol just chuckles, guiding you into the booth beside him. His arm slides across the back of your seat, casual and easy, but his fingers find your shoulder and rest there, grounding you like always.

It’s comfortable—normal, now.

You catch Joshua glancing between you two, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Kind of wild to think it all started here, huh?”

You raise a brow. “What, the bar?”

“The act,” he teases, nodding toward Seungcheol. “Captain Broody pretending to be your boyfriend.”

“Oh,” you laugh, nudging Seungcheol playfully. “Right. That little performance.”

“Wasn’t much of an act,” he mutters, just quiet enough for only you to hear.

You turn your head, surprised—and he’s already looking at you, eyes dark and soft under the warm glow of the bar lights. You swear you feel it in your stomach, that little flutter you still haven’t quite gotten used to.

He leans in closer, voice a little rougher. “What? Don’t tell me you forgot.”

You arch a brow, teasing. “Forgot what?”

“That you strut your way right up to me. All wide-eyed and bold like I wasn’t five seconds from leaving.”

“Oh please,” you grin. “You loved it.”

His smile widens. “Still do.”

The music dips into something slower, something smoother. Around you, the bar hums with noise, glasses clinking, someone laughing too loudly near the bar. But in this moment it’s just you and him.

He tugs you gently, pulling you into his side until you’re almost in his lap. You go easily, leaning into him, resting a hand on his chest.

“So,” you say with a smile, tilting your head up, “is this the part where you tell me you’re no longer my pretend boyfriend?”

He pauses like he’s considering it, then leans in until his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “Mm... maybe.”

You lift a brow. “Maybe?”

He kisses you then, slow and sure, like there’s nothing pretend about it. 

Like there never was. 

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he pulls away just slightly, lips still grazing yours.

“I’m not your pretend anything,” he whispers. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

You smile, cheeks warm, fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

“Well good,” you say, heart fluttering, “because I’m pretty sure my mom already considers you family.”

He laughs, the sound low and unguarded, and kisses you again—just because he can. And you kiss him back—because it’s him.

And because this time, there’s no act, no games.

Just the two of you—right where it all began.

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Pillow Problems

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: Fluff, best friends to something more

Word Count: ~2.2k

Summary: You can’t fall asleep without hugging a pillow. Lando finds out.

⸻

It starts as a casual movie night.

Nothing fancy. Just you and Lando in sweats, too much popcorn, and a ridiculous action movie neither of you are really paying attention to. It’s late — past midnight — and you’re both curled up on the couch under a shared blanket like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Because with Lando, it kind of is.

You’ve been best friends for so long that sleepovers don’t even feel weird anymore. He’s crashed on your couch after race weekends more times than you can count, and you’ve stolen his guest bed on road trips whenever hotels were overbooked.

But this time… there’s only one bed.

Your bed.

“You sure you’re okay with me sleeping in here?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe, toothbrush in hand and curls still damp from his shower.

You roll your eyes. “Lando, I’ve seen you wear flip flops with socks. You think I’m going to draw the line at you borrowing my bed?”

He snorts and throws a hand to his chest. “That was ONE TIME.”

You toss a pillow at him. “Brush your teeth, Norris.”

Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are under the covers. You’re on one side, he’s on the other. very obvious pillow barrier stands between you, like a soft, cotton fortress of boundaries.

But there’s a problem.

You can’t sleep.

At all.

You stare at the ceiling. Then at the nightstand. Then at the outline of Lando’s face in the dark, just barely visible from the glow of your phone charger.

He’s still. Breathing slow. Definitely asleep.

And you’re… not.

Because — and this is ridiculous, so ridiculous — you can’t fall asleep unless you’re hugging something.

A pillow. A blanket. A stuffed animal. A person. Doesn’t matter. Your body just doesn’t shut off unless your arms are around something.

You try. You flip the pillow over. You bury your arms under it. You wrap the blanket tighter around yourself.

Nothing.

You’re one hour in when the whisper comes.

“Are you… okay?”

You flinch. “Jesus—you’re awake?”

Lando turns onto his side, blinking slowly. “You’ve been breathing like you’re trying to inflate a bouncy castle.”

You bury your face in your pillow. “I can’t sleep.”

“Why?”

You hesitate.

“Y/N.”

You groan. “It’s stupid.”

His voice lifts with amusement. “Now I definitely need to know.”

You sigh, dramatic. “I can’t fall asleep unless I’m hugging something, okay?”

Silence.

Then—

A loud, stifled laugh from the other side of the bed.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, “you’re like a human koala.”

You smack him with your pillow. “Shut up.”

“No, no, this is adorable. Do you need, like, a teddy bear? A weighted blanket? Should I draw a face on one of your pillows and pretend it’s me?”

“You’re the worst.”

He’s laughing, full and unfiltered now, twisting the sheets as he rolls away dramatically. “Y/N, my heart. All this time I thought you just liked cuddling me during movie nights, but you actually have a condition.”

You throw your hands over your face. “Please stop talking.”

Then—softly, after a pause—his voice shifts.

“…You could’ve just said something.”

You peek through your fingers. He’s looking at you now. Still teasing, but softer. Gentle.

“Wanna hug me?” he asks, cocking a brow like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Your breath catches. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” he says, already sliding an arm out, inviting. “C’mon, koala girl.”

You glare. “If you call me that again, I’ll smother you with this pillow.”

He grins. “I’ll take the risk.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you scoot closer, cautiously curling against his side, arm draping lightly across his chest.

And god — it’s perfect. His body is warm, steady, and somehow smells like mint and laundry detergent. Your muscles sigh in relief.

“You’re like a human radiator,” you murmur.

He chuckles, voice close to your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You fall asleep faster than you have in weeks.

And the next morning, you wake up still tangled in him — his arm heavy around your waist, face buried in your hair, breath soft on your neck.

You try to move.

“Don’t,” he mumbles, still half-asleep. “I’m your pillow now. Deal with it.”

And you kind of… do.

⸻

Sunlight spills through the half-closed blinds, catching dust motes in golden streaks as the room slowly warms with morning.

You’re awake.

Barely.

And very aware that you’re not alone in your bed.

Lando’s arm is still wrapped around your waist, heavy and warm and not even a little bit apologetic about being all up in your space. His chest rises and falls steadily against your back, his breath slow and even — he’s still asleep, or close to it.

You consider moving.

Really, you do.

But your limbs are lazy, your brain soft and sleepy, and honestly? He’s comfortable. Too comfortable. Like he was made to be a human-sized heating pad designed to be clung to.

His fingers twitch slightly at your hip.

You freeze.

“…You’re awake, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your neck, voice rough with sleep.

You sigh. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t move. Just hums. “Told you. Human pillow.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice, even through the sleep.

“I was desperate,” you mumble.

“Sure you were.” He yawns. “Could’ve hugged a pillow, but nooo. You went straight for me.”

You elbow him gently. “I tried the pillow.”

He just pulls you closer. “Mhm. Addicted now. No turning back.”

Your cheeks flush — and not just from the proximity.

You should pull away. You should. Friends don’t… do this. Or at least, you and Lando never have. You’ve always tiptoed the edge of this kind of closeness — flirty jokes, knee touches during movies, that weird moment last Christmas when you almost kissed but blamed it on mistletoe and wine.

But this?

This feels like something else.

You twist slightly to face him, only to find his eyes open, heavy-lidded and watching you.

“What?” you whisper.

He shrugs, smile lazy and lopsided. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

A pause.

Then, softly: “About how I could get used to waking up like this.”

Your heart stops. Completely.

He sees it. Feels it, probably. Because his smile shifts — less teasing, more vulnerable. More real.

“I’m not just saying that ‘cause you’re warm,” he adds.

You blink, the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

“Lando…”

“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You don’t have to say anything. I just— I think maybe this whole human pillow situation works both ways.”

Your fingers tighten in the sleeve of his t-shirt.

And just like that, the teasing melts away. The barrier between best friends and something else thins, bends, and threatens to break entirely.

“I liked waking up with you,” you admit, voice small.

He smiles again — that quiet, soft smile that doesn’t belong in interviews or podium photos. This one’s just for you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you move.

Not yet.

Because the line is still there, but now you’re both standing on the same side of it.

⸻

You eventually untangle from each other.

Sort of.

By which you mean Lando finally rolls away only to immediately steal your pillow, shove it under his head like it betrayed him, and mumble something about needing a ten-minute nap before coffee.

So you leave him there — hair messy, half-asleep, wearing your hoodie like it’s always belonged to him — and shuffle into the kitchen.

Your legs feel weird. Your chest feels… floaty.

You touch your lips once when you’re sure he’s not looking.

Nothing happened. Not really.

But it almost did.

And it’s enough to change everything.

⸻

You’re halfway through cracking eggs into a pan when you hear the soft shuffle of feet.

Lando appears in the doorway, stretching with a sleepy groan, his hair a disaster and his eyes still heavy with sleep.

He looks like a dream you forgot you had. Like something that’s always been yours but never belonged to you.

“You’re cooking?” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

You shrug. “Seemed fair. You donated your body to science last night.”

He smirks as he comes up behind you, not even pretending to keep distance. He leans over your shoulder, chin nearly brushing your temple.

“That was a very important cuddle study,” he says into your ear, voice low and teasing. “Purely scientific.”

You fight a shiver. “Well, congratulations. You’re now certified as a human-size emotional support plushie.”

He chuckles, arms brushing yours as he helps you reach for the salt.

Silence falls. The soft sizzle of eggs fills the space. His presence is everywhere — beside you, behind you, in you — and it’s like neither of you know where to put all the things you want to say.

Then—softly, like it escapes without permission:

“You meant it last night?”

You turn your head slightly. “Which part?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps gently stirring the eggs. “That you liked waking up next to me.”

You hesitate. Then: “Yeah. I did.”

A beat passes.

He nods, silent, and grabs a plate. You watch him.

He places a serving of eggs onto the plate and hands it to you without meeting your eyes. “Me too.”

Your fingers brush when you take it. Neither of you pull away.

He finally looks up.

And there’s that moment again — the one that feels like you’re both standing at the edge of something huge. Something terrifying and beautiful.

“Lando…” you start.

But the words don’t come.

Because part of you is still afraid. Of ruining what you have. Of hoping too much. Of the way your heart has never felt this calm around anyone else.

He sees all of it. You know he does.

So he just smiles, soft and sure.

And says, “It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

⸻

You eat breakfast shoulder to shoulder.

There are no declarations. No kisses.

But there’s a shared mug of coffee between you.

A soft look that lingers longer than it should.

And when he picks up your extra pillow later — the one you clung to for years before last night — and tosses it to the corner of the bed with a smirk, all he says is:

“You won’t need that anymore.”

⸻

You’re not sure why Lando doesn’t leave that night.

He doesn’t say he’s staying.

He just… doesn’t go.

You wash dishes together after dinner like it’s routine, like he’s done it a hundred times — and honestly, maybe he has. He scrolls through Netflix while you wipe down the kitchen counters, making dramatic sounds of disapproval at your movie suggestions. He disappears into your room at one point and comes back wearing one of your oversized sweatshirts like it’s his.

No mention of going home. No keys. No shoes. Just… him. Staying.

Again.

By the time you brush your teeth side by side — like you did last night, like it’s just what you do now — there’s a low buzz in the air. That awareness. That heaviness. Like the next thing might tip the whole thing into something neither of you can come back from.

You’re quiet as you climb into bed.

So is he.

The blanket settles over the both of you, and your hearts race a little too loud for a room that’s supposed to be quiet.

Then, softly—

“D’you still need something to hug?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah.”

He turns toward you in the dark. “Okay. C’mere.”

You hesitate only for a second this time.

You move closer. Not just tangled up like last time, but facing each other. His arm slides around your waist like muscle memory. Your hand finds the soft fabric of his sweatshirt near his chest.

You fit.

Better than you should.

You’re not even pretending to sleep yet when he whispers, “I didn’t leave because I wanted to stay.”

You blink slowly. “I know.”

“And I didn’t stay just because of you needing a pillow.”

You smile faintly. “I know that too.”

A beat.

He breathes in. “I don’t want this to be a thing we don’t talk about.”

Your heart flips. “Me either.”

“I don’t really know when it started,” he continues, voice low, “but I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now. It just always felt like… if I did, I might mess it up.”

Your hand curls into the fabric of his sweatshirt. “You wouldn’t.”

He moves closer.

You feel his breath against your skin, soft and cautious. One hand lifts to your cheek like he’s checking to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

“You sure?” he whispers.

You nod.

And he kisses you.

It’s not rushed.

It’s not perfect, either — his nose bumps yours, your hand fumbles awkwardly as you find his jaw — but it’s real. It’s warm. And it means something.

You can feel it in the way his fingers tighten on your waist. In the soft sigh you let out against his mouth. In the quiet, trembling kind of relief that settles between you once you both pull back.

You stay close.

Foreheads pressed. Noses barely brushing.

You could say something. Make a joke. Ask what this means.

But you don’t.

Because he’s already whispering, “Okay. I’m definitely your pillow now.”

And all you can do is laugh — quietly, into the space between your mouths — before tugging him back down and whispering,

“Yeah. Mine.”

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[augustsblossom]

I need to make classmate! Mark Grayson happen it is rotting my brain

── ── ── ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ── ── ──

˚ ༘ *ೃ⁀➷ main! Mark Grayson x fem! reader

˚ ༘ *ೃ⁀➷ cw: mark doesn’t have powers, marks lowkey a perv, reader is super girly, kind of insinuates that Mark jerks it LOLLL, reader teases mark some bit lolol

˚ ༘ *ೃ⁀➷ a/n: hiii I promise I will get to my requests I’ve just been needing to clear my drafts! This also is a pretty common fic I see with characters I’m not for sure if there is one of Mark but creds to the people that did it first! Inbox is still open if you would like to see anything else 💋

── ── ── ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ── ── ──

classmate! Mark who is one of the biggest geeks at school, he’s like super hot but still people get a laugh or two when they see him reading Seance Dog

classmate! Mark who takes a chemistry class with you and is super smart, he turns in his tests before anyone else and people come to him for help

classmate! Mark who notices you ALL THE TIME. When you walk into class he is always eyeing you to see which outfit you picked out. He likes to think you pick them for him, buuuttttt

classmate! Mark who noticed you’re into girly stuff. A lot of your outfits resemble just true girlyness and he adores all of them. One day you wore a matching Juicy Couture tracksuit and he LOSSSTT ITT. It hugged your curves perfectly and left some imagination for him to use tonight

classmate! Mark who almost shits himself when you guys get paired for a project. Your professer assigned you guys together and when she called out the names he looked over to see you applying your cherry Victoria’s Secret lipgloss. He was in awe with just how truly unbothered you were

classmate! Mark who hypes himself up to ask if you wanted to go to his place to work on it. He took a quick few deep breaths and walked up to where you were sitting

“I know we don’t talk like a lot and it can be weird going to a strangers house but I was wondering if you wanted to work on our project at my place? I have like the whole thing to myself and-“

He rambled for a bit before shutting up and was waiting for an answer. You looked up at him just staring for a second before you respond

“Yeah, I’m down”

His heart might have just fell to his ass. God you were so confident and unbothered he was SO into it. And it didn’t help that the shirt you were wearing was a size smaller so your twins were suffocating and pushing for air

You weren’t oblivious to his actions and tone. You knew he liked you and you known for a while. But sometimes you liked to act oblivious so he would HAVE to push out of his comfort zone even more, it was a fun little game you played

classmate! Mark who lets you into his home and leads you to his room. He was ready to start the project and you guys got to work. To be honest he lowkey did all the work, you were tired and he didn’t mind! As long as he still had an imagination for the nights that kept him awake he would have no problem doing whatever you asked

classmate! Mark who when after you left he immediately got to his room to calm down. He truly couldn’t believe you were just in his home, with your sweet scent lingering on his bedsheets where you were sitting

classmate! Mark who then notices you left your jacket, and boy was he over the moon. Leaving your jacket helped his imagination feel more like a reality

You were just glad you could return the favor of him doing your project :)

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon Riley is a nudist

And hear me out with this one, okay?

Simon loathed clothes. Ever since birth, he couldn’t stand wearing them. Tight shirts felt suffocating, clinging in all the wrong places, while loose shirts bunched up every time he sat down, irritating his skin like sandpaper. Socks made his toes feel trapped. Jeans? Felt like leg prisons.

So as he got older and lonelier, finally getting a place to call his own, he took full advantage of the one thing he had control over: being bare. Naked, free, relaxed. It was like finally exhaling after holding his breath for years.

He slept nude, cooked nude, cleaned nude, and lounged nude. If a neighbor caught a glimpse through the blinds? So be it. This was his damn house. His sanctuary.

He never had a problem with it… until he got a partner.

Simon didn’t really get the memo at first either. He didn’t think you’d mind. You were his, after all. And besides, he trusted you enough to be comfortable in his own skin and scars. And at first, you said nothing. You were happy he felt that at ease around you. Proud even.

But there came a point. A moment where things tipped.

A point where you could no longer ignore the way his balls quite literally stared at you while you were trying to eat lunch. A point where his nuts were uncomfortably pressed against your back at night because he liked to sleep curled around you. Hell, you could barely take him seriously during conversations not when all you could see was his ass swaying as he turned to grab something off the counter.

Still, you let it slide. Until that day.

Your friend was over, and Simon: tired from work and on autopilot made his way inside, tugging off his shirt, undoing his belt, already stepping out of his cargo pants and down to his boxers. The same boxers he was about to take off when he walked into the living room… and froze.

Silence.

Your friend’s face was a picture of horror. Yours was painted in full body embarrassment. Simon? Confused, holding the waistband in his hand.

That was it. The final straw.

You sat him down that night and had the talk.

“Look, Simon. I love you but can you at least wear boxers around the house?”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t like having to see your ass when I eat. And I can’t take you seriously when you’re butt naked trying to lecture me about safety knives.”

“What’s wrong with my ass?”

Eventually, he relented. He agreed to boxers. And it worked. Peace was restored. You had no further complaints.

Until he got an idea. A plan.

What if he converted you?

It started subtle. He hid a few of your shorts. Nothing major. And soon you were walking around the house in nothing but your panties and one of your shirts. Then he escalated. Began hiding your shirts too. But you simply grabbed his, oversized and soft.

So he played dirty.

He ordered some itching powder off the internet. Just adding a little sprinkle in your shirts, his too: he had to sell the lie. And sure, you could just wash them. But that took hours. Hours you’d be bare.

So when you said you were hopping in the shower, he smiled and sat back.

The door swung open as you stomped out of the bedroom, frustration written all over your face.

“Ugh! Everything I wear is uncomfortable and itchy!” you whined, dumping handfuls of clothes into the washer with enough force to shake the drum.

Simon sat on the couch, arms behind his head, casual as ever. “What I’ve been sayin’, love. Clothes are the curse of people.”

You pouted, flopping down beside him with crossed arms. “Maybe I’ll just go nude like you.”

His grin stretched wide, wolfish and smug.

“Would never say no to that.”

And from that day on, the conversion was complete.

You were barefoot, panty clad, and happy. No shirt, no pants, no problem. Sunlight touched your bare skin as you made breakfast, as you lay in his arms on the couch, skin to skin. You slept bare chest to bare chest with him every night, feeling every steady breath and heartbeat. It was peaceful. Intimate. Freeing.

Until you found the itching powder tucked behind some boxes in the closet.

You almost laughed.

Sneaky bastard.

You should’ve been mad. But you weren’t. You just smiled to yourself, grabbed the bottle, and poured a little bit into his boxers.

Let’s see how he liked it.

Might write more for theses two if I have any ideas since I liked making this

[totemstones]

Burnout

(Giselle x Male Reader)

Tags : Bratty Gigi, Handjob, Sloppy Toppy, Sex, Dirty Talk, Mommy Kink, Recording

w/ plenty amount of music gimmicks

Length : 2.1K words

‘Nah, come on, you’ve never been like this. What happened?’

‘I just... have a little bit burnout’

You and Giselle are friends. You start getting closer to her since you have been doing songs with her, 24 songs that you and Giselle have done together, both finished and unfinished. Once you even think that you want to do a collab tape with her.

You were supposed to finish the verse on one song off Giselle's solo album. But at some point, you can’t even think of any lyrics, or words. 

‘Nah, keep your head up, man. You can do this. You can tell me what happened. We have been doin’ this things so many times. I’ll be your therapist’ - Giselle trying to cheers up yet concerns

‘I don’t know, i just-, feel like I can't think any words. But I don't have any problems for real. Don’t worry, nothin’ can stop me’

‘Cap. You look like a miserable guy right now, i can see. Let me do something’

Suddenly, Giselle starts to kneel in front of you while you sit on the sofa in the studio. She starts to put both of her hands and slide up from your shins, to your knees, and finish at your crotch. Then rubbing it at slow pace.

‘Woah woah, what you doin’?’

‘I just, you know-, give you a little heat. So, I decide to rub your wood. Based on the science, when the wood got rubbed, it creates fire. I heard that you’re burnout right? I want to lit your fire back again’

After that, she unbuckles your belt and takes off your pants down on the mat. The plump bulge that was caused by your friend got shown. When Giselle sees that, she does her mischievous smile after saw your wood.

‘Oh! I never knew that you have… such a big cock, a really really big one. Why you never show this to me? I guess this is your hidden talent, don’t hide it to me after this. OK?’ 

Your last cover was over, she takes off the underwear. Her face was too close to your cock that caused your cock flip up and hit her cheek.

‘Oh!, it slaps me. But what will hit me harder, your lyrics or your cock’

Giselle puts one hand to stroke your cock, and another hand to fondle your ball. Giselle pursing her lips while doing it. This action of hers can make you look at the ceiling and release a satisfying moan.

‘Have you ever thought- about… the fantasy about me?’

‘Nev- Never. Cuz you know- you’re my friend, it would be weird i-if I ever think about that. But since you’re doing this to me, i might looking forward about it- and thanks for this therapy’

Then, she pacing up the tempo and puts her both hands to pumping your cock, still seeing the glans even when she puts both hands on.

‘Your cock is so fucking big. Anyways. Do you love me-?’

‘Yes. I fucking love you’

‘I’m not even finished the fucking question, I just want to ask that if you love me when I'm doing this’

‘Fuck’

You thought that she was asking if you love her, you slipped out your real feeling of her.

‘So. Do you really love me?’ 

‘Definitely’ 

‘Alright. call me mommy then?’

‘What- Ah hell nah, you’re not my mommy’

At first, you feel offended. But then, Giselle start to playing with your cock, put her face closer to your cock and place it on her face, you can feel the breath from her nose that give you a goosebump.

‘Look at me! Your cock is longer than my face. I don’t know how many times I’ll say this, but you have such a big cock’

Giselle puts her nose and drags along from your balls to the cock. Then started to put it into her mouth.

‘Oh! I'm sorry. I just wanted to play with it for more minutes, but it ended up in my mouth. I'm sorry for the accident. But I think you want it to happen, right? So, since it happening, I’ll continue it’

Giselle starts to suck you cock, goes up and down, while keeping both eyes on you, wanting to see your relaxing face from this therapy section. Giselle keeps spitting on your cock, and oftenly switches to handjob that more slippery than before. Giselle getting more sloppy, her face full of her own saliva, her lips have lipstick color faded marks. She start to giving faster pace for you.

‘I've been doing this for a while now. Can you finally call me mommy?’

‘No. I didn’t see your full potential yet. Instead, Can you show me your hidden talent? Since i had already showed it to you. If it great, i might call it for you then’

‘Deal. And i’m not only do it for the calling, ‘cause i’ll make you scream it’ 

Giselle moving far away from you, standing in the middle of the room. Then, she starts to pull her jeans down, showing her pink panties. Then taking off her pink hoodie, showing the pink bra that she is wearing.

‘That’s a bar’

‘What? I’m not even rapping yet’

' I'm just saying that's a 'bra' '

‘Alright, enough. Fuck me then’

‘You want it now?’

‘Yeah, fuck that. I want it now’

Giselle starts to take off her bra, showing her pink titties. And take off her panties as well, showing her pink pussy. She’s throwing both of covers at you. You gotta wipe it to the side to see her full naked body. 

‘Damn. How many pinky things in you?’

‘All pink. But i’m thinking ‘bout dying my hair red. So, Can you paint the white for me before?’

‘As you want, Gigi’

Giselle moving closer to you, controlling your head up by her finger and kissing for a moment, you feel like you’ve fallen into a trance by her passionate kissing. While Giselle still not moving her mouth out of you, you can feel that your cock is starting to sense something had touched and its moving slowly.

‘You feeling it?’

‘A Little’

‘Wanna feel more?’

‘Yeah’

Giselle puts her body down like how gravity works. Both of you release the moans, feeling the same thing. She hugs your neck and slowly moves up and down, while you sucking at her tits.

‘Ah- it’s feeling so good, never have a big cock inside me like yours before. This satisfying me a lot’

You also move your hips to hit her pink kitty, the slapping sound has turned both of you on so much.

‘It’s getting too quiet in here. Can you come to the recording room to open some songs for me?’

‘Aight’

Before you take it out, Giselle hits your arm and pushes you back before you even stand up.

‘Wha- What?’

‘I forgot to tell you, I have a little challenge for you; Move to the room with me, but your cock have to still stuck in me, don’t take it out yet. Can you do it?’

‘Ah- fine’

‘Yah! Good boy’

You stand up and carrying her body to go to the inside of the room, one hand entwines her butt and the other hand hugs her from behind. Giselle starts to move again, but moving like she’s struggling. You can’t fully control your legs and it makes her back hitting the table at mixing panel. And then, she starts screaming.

‘AHHHHHHH Help meeeee’

‘I’m sorry. Where’s you hurting’

‘Just move and come into the room!’

‘Ok Ok’

You ran into the recording room, and put her on the table and checked what happened to her.

‘AHHHH HELP ME!’

‘WHERE DO YOU GET HURT- WHERE!’

You look at every spot of her body that if she’s hurting or anything. At that moment, Giselle starts to laughing at you.

‘Haha i didn’t say that i’m hurting, dumbo, don’t overreact. I mean ‘help me- to cum already’, i’m too horny for this, i can’t bare with it anymore. I want you to cum in me and cum with me together’

‘Bruh, bratty behavior’

You put her on the table and start pounding her again while Giselle grabs her phone and tries to select the song.

‘Can you fucking stay still? I can’t even clicking the song’

‘Guess it’s my challenge then’

‘Alright’

You continue pounding her without knowing what song she will put on the speakers. Once it got play, you can recognize your voice on it. 

‘Is that our song?’

‘Yea- Yeah. It’s our song, i always love thi-this song, ah- i love hearing your voice on the track, it makes me wet every time. Once i ever fingered myself while playing this song on repeat’

‘That’s romantic f-for me. But wait? This song isn’t finished yet right?’

‘Ye- Yeah?’

Giselle already knows that you might bring the mood back again, the feeling of unfinishing the work. Then, she starts to have an idea.

‘Ca- Can you bring that mic to me’

‘Huh? What you gon do?’

‘Bring that shit!’

You bring the microphone to her and put it beside you and Giselle.

‘Can you o-open the file of this song and record it?’

‘Al- alright What you gon do?’

‘Have you ever heard of ‘P Power’ by Gunna’

‘Oh. I understand it’

‘Yeah, do it like what they did’

You turn your back to the computer and look for the file of this song. When you find it, you prepare to start the special recording session.

‘You Ready?’

‘Let’s do it’

You press the record button, the 90’s R&B instrumental fulfills this sex scene, it makes you pound her harder than ever. All the sounds that happen in this room got recorded through a microphone.

‘Ah- Ah- Harder baby I'm nearly cum now. Ah- you’re pounding me so good baby. Make me cum please and we can cum together’

‘Ah- Your pussy is so good baby, wish i could pound this forever. No better pussy like yours baby, you sucked me so good lately’

The song was close to the outro and you feel like you are about to cum soon.

‘I’m about to cum baby, are you close yet?’

‘Ah- Yes Baby. I’m nearly cum now’

‘Let’s cum together’

‘Before you cum in me, ah- Can you call me mommy one time?’

‘Yes I can. Mommy. Milking me please, ‘til my breath runs out, ‘til i can’t cum anymore’

The part where the drums were cut off is the time that you and Giselle had cum together, only the sex scene sound and a few instruments. You both felt good feelings for each other, showing their relieved expression. You bend closer to her and whisper.

‘I love you baby’

‘Love you too’

Before you start to get tissue to wipe anything, you press the stop recording button on the screen and start to clean the booth for her.

‘You love this idea aren't you?’ 

‘Love it, you’re so fucking creative’

‘I’m creatively fucking, should add bed squeaking sound after’

‘You want to add it?’

‘Yes. It might add more tension for the song’

‘Let’s record it at my house then’

You have the fire again and recorded a few songs after that sex. And you went back home with Giselle to recorded the bed squeaking sound.

Next week, the appointment of the next recording session. You open the door and see the producer sitting in front of the computer.

‘Hey! What’s up man’

‘Hi Nice to meet you bro’

‘Nice to meet you too. How many beats you’ve produced this morning’

‘A couple, man’

‘That’s great. Show it to me then’

‘Before I show it to you. Can i ask you a question’

‘Yeah?’

‘I just went to see what you produced last week, and then I found this: What happened to this song?’

‘What song?’

The producer plays that song that had special recording last week, the voice recording was the length of the full song, 4 minutes long with sex sound behind it. You start smiling to the producer.

‘What the fuck is this?’

‘I mean, It's a sample bruh, just put it for the mood man, 90’s R&B vibe’s songs often play while people are having sex, you didn’t know that?’

‘I mean-, alright. i’ll give it to you man’

‘Yeah, right? Slow and smooth instrumentals are created something, don’t cut it off the track, leave it, it’s already finished’

You talk with producer and then go into the booth to record some songs. Suddenly, your producer wants you to listen something.

‘Hey, you want to listen to the song that Giselle had recorded a couple days ago? You might want to hop on the track’

‘Yeah play it’

The producer plays Giselle’s unfinished song with this bar on it.

‘If you wanna be my pet, call me mommy’

You start to smile and giggle a little at what she said. The producer sees your reaction. 

‘What do you even laugh about?’

‘Nothing’

Then you continue this session, while that bar is still around your head, reminding you of the special session last week. 

- totemstones

[pokemonshelterstories]

Hey! Uhh…I think my new friend is a Zoroark?

I’ve known them for a few months now ever since I moved for school. He goes by ‘Aaron’. I met him at a concert and we’ve just been running into each other ever since.

It’s just becoming more and more obvious that Aaron is…different.

He doesn’t talk much, a bit antisocial, and doesn’t have a phone.

Nothing wrong with that! Could just be awkward.

But Aaron has a tail? Pretty sure it’s a Zoroark tail.

I don’t have any PROBLEMS with it, but rather I’m upset that after knowing each other for a while he’s still so willing to hide it from me.

Is there any tips for how I can show him I’m trustworthy? Like some Zoroark social techniques?

can you guys please stop assuming that anyone who acts weird and different is a zoroark? sometimes people do things like wear tail accessories. it doesn't mean they're a pokemon. it certainly doesn't mean they're a zoroark, because zoroark don't have tails at all. either way, you're not entitled to an explanation of why aaron is the way he is.

while zoroa and zoroark are able to create illusions of humans and mimic a couple of phrases in human languages, they can't maintain it long or well enough to actually blend in long-term.

instead of worrying about making him trust you, how about just continuing to be his friend and not sending weird theories about him to random blogs?

[inseobts]

Stupid Cupid

nami x fem!reader

you’ve been hopelessly in love with nami, convinced cupid hates you and she’d never return your feelings.

a/n: sorry but it was about damn time I wrote something for my girl (>/////<) ♡

words count: 1.7k

tags: slow burn, internalized angst but actually fluff, emotional tension, lgbt+, pining, humor

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You are in love with Nami.

Painfully, hopelessly, pathetically in love.

And it sucks.

She’s smart, brave, a little scary in the best way. She could kill a man with her stare, but she’s also soft when she wants to be. Like when she’s looking at maps under the lantern light. Or laughing with Robin. Or teasing Luffy when he steals her tangerines.

You’d die for her. Not even in a dramatic way. Just like, “Hey, Nami needs something? Cool. I’ll jump into the sea with bricks tied to my ankles.”

The worst part?

She’s so comfortable around you. So casual. So open. She links arms with you when you walk through towns. She tucks your hair behind your ear when it gets in your face. She calls you cute when you wear new clothes.

You almost explode every time.

But she doesn’t mean it like that. How could she?

In times like this you envy Sanji so much. He gets to flirt. Not seriously, but still. He’s allowed to. He’s a guy.

You’re not.

You don’t even know if she likes girls. That’s not something the strawhats usually talk about.

And even if she does... she’s Nami.

And you’re just… you.

You’re the girl who can barely meet her eyes some days. The one who pretends she’s cool and chill and not constantly thinking about what Nami’s lips would feel like. (They look soft. Too soft. It’s torture.)

You lie awake some nights thinking about it. About telling her. About being honest. And then you imagine the look on her face if you did.

The confusion. The awkward silence. Maybe the pity.

And then you imagine what comes next: things being weird. Nami keeping her distance. You ruining everything.

So no. You don’t say a word.

You’re sitting on the deck one evening, watching the sunset. Trying not to think about her. Failing, obviously.

“Hey,” Nami says, coming up behind you “You okay?”

You stiffen “Yep. Totally. Great.”

She raises an eyebrow and sits next to you, close enough that your knees touch “You sure? You’ve been kinda weird lately.”

“I’m always weird.”

She laughs “True, but this is a new kind of weird. Sad weird.”

You force a smile “I’m fine, really.”

She nudges you with her elbow “Tell me what’s going on. I know something’s up.”

You look at her and immediately regret it. Her face is too pretty in this light. Her eyes are too kind.

You panic.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, standing up “Just tired. Gonna head in.”

“Wait—” she starts, but you’re already walking away.

You don’t see the way her smile fades.

You spend the next two days avoiding Nami like she’s a sea king with a personal grudge.

It’s not subtle. Not even a little. You switch seats at lunch. You fake naps when she walks into the room. You literally jumped into the ocean yesterday to avoid her asking if you wanted to join a card game.

(Chopper was very concerned. Luffy thought it was a training exercise.)

And through it all, Nami just watches you with this look. Not angry. Not confused, even. Just… thoughtful.

You hate it.

You’re halfway through hanging laundry up on the line when you feel someone watching you. You turn.

Zoro’s leaning against the rail, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“What?” you ask.

He doesn’t move “You got a problem with Nami?”

Your heart leaps into your throat “What? No. Why?”

“You’ve been acting like she’s contagious.”

“I—I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. Doesn’t mean you jump off the damn ship.”

You glare at him “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says “You’re just annoying when you’re mopey.”

“Wow. Thanks for the concern.”

He sighs like he’s being deeply inconvenienced “Look. If you like her, just tell her.”

You freeze.

He raises an eyebrow “You do, don’t you?”

You want to scream “How do you know that?!”

“I have one eye but I still can see,” he says, like it’s obvious “Also, you blush every time she breathes in your direction.”

You bury your face in your hands “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I’m not Sanji,” he says, rolling his eyes “I’m not gonna go crying into a wine bottle about it.”

“…Thanks?”

He shrugs “Anyway, just say something. Or stop acting like she ran over your dog.”

You stare at him “Do you even know if she likes girls?”

“No idea.”

“Then why would I say something?!”

He shrugs again “You’re miserable now. Worst case, you’re still miserable but at least you stop acting like a ghost. Best case, you get the girl. Whatever.”

You blink at him “…That’s your idea of advice?”

“Pretty good, right?” he says, and walks away like he just solved world hunger.

You groan into the towel in your hands.

He’s not wrong, but also, he is the worst.

You glance toward the deck below, where Nami is talking with Robin, laughing again. The sound makes your stomach flip.

You want to tell her. But you also want to crawl into the laundry basket and live there forever.

Thanks a lot, Zoro.

You’re not eavesdropping.

You’re just walking by with perfect timing. While carrying plates to the kitchen.

And if you just happen to pause by the door when you hear Nami’s voice? That’s not your fault. The door is not fully closed.

“…is sweet,” she’s saying “A little awkward, but in a cute way.”

You stop breathing.

Robin hums “I noticed. You’re always smiling.”

Your grip tightens on the plates.

“Don’t start,” Nami says, but she’s laughing “I’m not used to someone being so… open, I guess. It’s kind of nice.”

Robin’s voice is warm “Sounds like you like it.”

“Maybe I do like... him” Nami says, and your heart snaps clean in two.

You turn and walk away, fast. You’re not crying. You’re not.

You don’t even know who she’s talking about. Could be Sanji. Could be some random guy from the last island. But it doesn’t matter.

It’s not you.

It was never going to be you.

You’re so stupid.

Stupid for hoping. Stupid for dreaming. Stupid for letting Zoro put ideas in your head.

That night, you stay in your bunk. You fake sleep when Nami passes by. You hear her pause. Then her footsteps leave again.

You feel sick.

The next day you avoid her again. You’re not even subtle anymore. You’re tired of even think about some excuses. You change directions when she comes near. You leave rooms she walks into. You pretend not to hear when she calls your name.

Eventually, she’s had enough.

“Hey,” she says, cornering you by the tangerine trees “What is going on with you?”

You stare at her like a deer caught in sunlight “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re avoiding me like I’ve grown fangs.”

“I’m not avoiding you.”

“Really?” she snaps “So the last days were just a coincidence?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again “I just figured you’d rather not hang out with me.”

“Why would you think that?”

You glance away “I heard you talking to Robin.”

She pauses “…Okay?”

“You said you liked someone.”

Nami frowns “And?”

You force a laugh “I just wanted to leave you and Sanji alone.”

She stares at you for a long second “You... You really thought I meant Sanji?”

You blink “You didn’t?”

She shakes her head, almost amused “No. I meant you, dumbass.”

Silence.

The birds go quiet. The waves stop. The world pauses.

“…What?”

She folds her arms, tilts her head “You’re awkward. You never say what you’re thinking but your actions are really obvious. You jump off boats to avoid me. It’s kind of charming.”

You’re frozen “But… you said he.”

She smirks “In that moment I noticed you were there. I kinda panicked and so I said 'he' to mess with you.”

Your jaw drops “You what?!”

“You made it so obvious,” she says, laughing now “You blush every time I talk. You flinch when I touch your arm. It’s either fear or a crush, and you’re not scared of me.”

You are definitely crying now.

“I thought—” your voice breaks “I thought you’d never like me. I didn’t even know if you liked girls.”

“I like you,” she says, softer now “Is that clear enough now?”

You nod, because words aren’t working.

Then, just to really kill you, she leans in and kisses you.

Right on the mouth.

And yeah, her lips are exactly as soft as you imagined.

When she pulls back, your heart’s beating in your throat.

“Still think Cupid sucks?” she asks.

“…Maybe just a little less.”

Dinner that night is louder than usual.

Luffy’s talking with his mouth full, Sanji’s spinning plates like a circus act, and Franky’s trying to convince Chopper to drink something that is definitely glowing.

But none of that matters. Because you’re sitting beside Nami. Not across from her. Not diagonally. Right beside her. And your hands are linked under the table.

The crew already knows.

It’s not like you made an announcement or anything, but Zoro raised an eyebrow when you sat down, and Robin gave you a look. Then Luffy screamed, “YOU KISSED Y/N?!” and that was that.

You half expected Sanji to faint. Instead, he just sighed deeply and said, “Figures. Nami-swan has taste.”

Which was… weirdly supportive of him?

Anyway, the chaos has died down now. Kind of.

Until Usopp stands up dramatically, clears his throat, and starts pacing.

“Oh no” you mutter. Nami grins beside you.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Usopp says, voice rising with flair, “let me tell you the tragic tale… of Stupid Cupid!”

Everyone groans. Luffy is already laughing. You go pale.

Usopp cups his hands around his heart and wails, “Oh Nami, she’s so perfect, she’s so soft, I’ll never be good enough, Cupid you SUCK—”

Luffy laughs so hard he chokes. Chopper pats his back while wheezing.

Even Zoro smirks.

You cover your face with your hands “I hate all of you.”

“She’s looking at me! Abort mission!” Usopp yells, fake-diving under the table “Ocean, take me now!”

“Taxes!” Chopper calls out kicking his feet.

“I LOVE HER BUT I’LL DIE FIRST BEFORE I SAY IT—” Usopp continues dramatically.

You’re about to crawl under the table for real when something stops you. A hand sliding into yours.

You turn your head and Nami is smiling at you.

Not laughing. Not teasing. Just smiling, soft and sure and warm. Like you’re hers and you are.

So you take a deep breath, squeeze her hand back, and laugh.

Because yeah. Maybe Cupid has terrible aim. Maybe you were a wreck. Maybe everyone did know.

But it doesn’t matter.

You’re with her now and you’re okay. You're happy.

[jenosbliss]

💔⌇ nct dream! and the reasons for your breakup

pairing. gn!reader x nctdream | genre. angst | wc. 3.3k | warnings. just the reader breaking up with dreamies | ml. dream 127 wayv | navi.

a/n. each member's part is around 450-500 words. you might find similar themes in some members' parts and it's because i didn't want to add themes like infidelity or anger... i didn't want to portray them bad.

MARK. Loving Mark felt like chasing stardust — beautiful, electric, and impossible to hold. He lit up rooms, stages, your heart. His energy was magnetic, his passion inspiring, and every word he said made you feel like you were the only person in the universe who mattered. But the problem was… the universe kept pulling him away.

He didn’t do it on purpose. You knew that. His intentions were golden. Every spare second he had, he gave to you — voice notes from hotel balconies, tired “I miss you” texts sent at 3 a.m. after rehearsals. Sometimes you’d wake up to a photo of the sunrise from wherever he was, captioned, “Wish you were here.”

But wishes don’t keep you warm. Wishes don’t show up to dinner. Wishes don’t hold your hand when you need someone to say, “I’m here, and I’m staying.”

You were always understanding. Always patient. You cheered for him when he debuted. You held back tears when he said, “I’ll only be gone a week,” and then another tour got scheduled. Another interview. Another album. And every time, you smiled and said, “It’s okay,” even though it wasn’t. Not really.

You missed the version of love that existed in presence — not just in promises. You missed seeing his shoes by the door. Hearing his laugh echo down the hallway. The way he used to fall asleep mid-conversation, your head on his chest.

One afternoon, you both found a pocket of time. A sliver of stillness between his chaos and your quiet. He sat beside you on a park bench, fingers barely brushing yours. The sun filtered through the trees, casting golden shadows, and for a moment, it felt like you were in a memory.

“I think about you all the time,” he said, turning toward you. His voice cracked like he knew it wasn’t enough. “But you’re never with me, Mark,” you whispered. You weren’t angry. Just tired. “You give me pieces of yourself when you can, and I’m grateful. But I need someone who can give me time. Not just thoughts.”

He looked at you with glassy eyes, his lips parting like he wanted to say something — maybe everything. But nothing came. Just silence. Just the weight of a boy who had too much to carry and didn’t know how to make space for more.

“I wanted to give you everything,” he said at last. “All I ever wanted was you.” And that’s when it broke. The understanding. The sacrifice. The waiting. You realized you were loving someone who was constantly in motion, and you were standing still.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek softly, and let your hand slide from his. He didn’t stop you.

Sometimes love isn’t about what you feel. It’s about what you have time to show.

RENJUN. You never doubted Renjun cared. He showed it in subtle ways — the extra dumpling saved for you, the playlist he made but never told you was inspired by your favorite books, the way he knew your coffee order down to the number of ice cubes. But affection isn't the same as vulnerability. Love, without expression, without depth, starts to feel hollow. And with Renjun, it always felt like there was a door locked behind his eyes, and no matter how close you got, he never let you all the way in.

You’d talk about your day, your dreams, your fears — and he’d listen. He was always a good listener. But when you asked, “And what about you?” he’d deflect. A shrug. A small laugh. “I’m fine,” he’d say, every time. And at first, you believed him. Until “fine” became a wall. Until the silence between his words began to echo louder than anything he said.

You wanted to understand him. God, you tried. You stayed up late on the nights he seemed withdrawn, gently nudging, asking if he was okay. He’d nod. You’d wait. But he never said more. You began to feel like you were in a one-sided conversation, always reaching, always giving, and never quite receiving.

He wasn’t cruel. That’s what made it so confusing. He wasn’t mean, wasn’t distant in the traditional sense. He held your hand in public. He remembered the small things. He kissed your forehead like it meant something. But you couldn’t help but feel… alone, even when he was right next to you.

One night, you sat together in the living room. He had returned from a recording session. You watched him from the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, unsure how to say what was building in your chest.

“I feel like I don’t really know you,” you said quietly. He froze for a second — not in anger, not in defense. Just… sadness. He sat beside you, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t know how to let people in,” he admitted, eyes cast downward. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It just feels… hard. Like if I open up too much, everything will fall apart.” You reached out, brushing your fingers over his knuckles. “I’ve never asked you to be perfect. I just wanted you to be real with me.”

He sighed, the sound filled with years of carefully buried emotion. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I think,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out, “you already have.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t cry. He just nodded, slow and tired, as if he’d known this was coming all along. You stood, heart breaking and strangely relieved, and left the room without looking back.

Sometimes the deepest wounds come not from cruelty, but from absence — from what’s never said, never shared, never allowed to bloom.

JENO. With Jeno, love felt calm — steady, secure, like resting your head on his shoulder after a long day and knowing he’d sit with you in silence until the world slowed down. He made you feel safe, not with words, but with the way he walked on the traffic side of the road or remembered to bring you water when you stayed up too late. He was gentle, dependable — the kind of person you could build a life with.

At least, that’s what you thought.

But every time the conversation shifted to “us,” something shifted in him. You weren’t asking for grand declarations or rings. Just plans. Vacations you might take. A future apartment. The kind of small promises that turn into a shared life. But every time you said “someday,” he pulled back. A subtle change — the way he looked away, or cracked a joke, or said “Let’s not think too far ahead.”

And maybe at first, you brushed it off. Everyone moves at their own pace, right? But it kept happening. Every question about “later” was answered with “I don’t know.” Every time you hinted at moving forward, you felt like you were tugging at someone whose feet were firmly planted in the now.

One night, you were lying in bed beside him. The room was dark except for the soft glow of his phone charging on the nightstand. You were both staring at the ceiling, and something in the quiet made your heart ache.

“Do you ever think about what this could look like in a year?” you asked. He was quiet for too long. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep,” he said finally.

You turned your head. “I’m not asking for a proposal. I’m asking if you even see a future with me.” He sighed. “I just… don’t want to feel trapped.”

That word — trapped — hit like a slap. “I’m not a cage, Jeno.”

“I know,” he whispered quickly. “It’s not you. It’s just… me. I get scared thinking too far ahead. I don’t want to hurt you by saying something now and not being able to follow through.”

You sat up, the weight in your chest too heavy to lie under. “I’m not asking you to figure it all out tonight. But I can’t be the only one imagining what comes next.”

He reached for your hand — careful, gentle, like he didn’t want to break anything. “I’m trying.” You looked at his fingers wrapped around yours. So much affection. So little intention.

“I know you are,” you said softly. “But I need more than trying. I need someone who chooses to grow with me.”

And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t that person. Not now. Maybe not ever.

HAECHAN. With Haechan, everything felt alive. He was laughter in the dead of night, spontaneity in the middle of a crowded street, the kind of person who could find magic in the most ordinary things. Being with him meant constant adventure — midnight drives with no destination, dancing in empty parking lots, plans made on a whim because “why not?”

And you loved that about him. At first.

But as the months slipped by, you found yourself aching for something steadier. Not just the fireworks — but the slow burn after. You wanted lazy Sunday mornings, not just adrenaline-fueled Saturdays. You wanted a home, not just another place to crash after the next big thrill.

He lived moment to moment. You were trying to build a future. You tried to tell yourself you could meet in the middle — that eventually, the chaos would slow, and you could build something real together. But Haechan was the storm and the sunshine, never meant to be tethered.

One night, walking downtown, the city buzzing around you, you tried to bring it up — the idea of later. Maybe an apartment together. Maybe just a vacation planned more than a week in advance. Anything.

“I don’t want to slow down,” he said, spinning in the streetlights, his arms wide, a boy made of dreams and light. “And I don’t want to chase someone who won’t stay,” you said, the words catching in your throat.

He stopped spinning, looking at you like you had just drawn a line between you he hadn’t seen before. There was a sadness in his eyes — deep, almost childlike. “I’m scared if I stop moving, I’ll lose everything that makes me who I am.”

You reached for his hand. “You don’t have to stop being you. I’m just asking if you ever see yourself… staying. Building something. With me.” He squeezed your fingers, so tightly it almost hurt. “I wish I could be the person you need.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I love you anyway.” And that was the truth. You loved every wild, unpredictable piece of him. But love, you realized, isn’t always enough when your dreams are running in opposite directions.

When you let go of his hand, he didn’t pull you back. You kissed him — one last time, one last burst of color in a life that had been painted too brightly to last — and walked away under the city lights that had once felt like your stars.

Haechan watched you go, arms limp at his sides, the boy who couldn’t stand still finally realizing that sometimes, the most important thing isn’t moving forward.

It’s staying. But by then, it was too late.

JAEMIN. At first, Jaemin felt like a dream. He was soft-spoken, thoughtful, always one step ahead — anticipating your needs before you voiced them. He made you laugh, picked up on your moods like second nature, and supported every decision you made without hesitation. He was your biggest fan. But eventually, that unshakable support began to feel… empty.

“Where do you want to eat?” you asked one night, scrolling through menus. “Wherever you like,” he smiled. You paused. “No, really. What are you craving?” He hesitated, then shrugged. “I’ll eat whatever you choose.”

It was the same with everything. Movies. Vacations. Even serious conversations. He agreed with you so easily, so readily, it stopped feeling like agreement and started feeling like absence. You started to wonder: Did he have opinions? Desires? Boundaries? Or was he just reflecting yours back to you like a mirror?

The worst part was knowing his intentions were pure. He wasn’t hiding anything malicious. He simply wanted to keep the peace, to keep you. But relationships aren’t built on harmony alone. They need friction — honesty — depth. And Jaemin, for all his warmth, had become someone you couldn’t fully see.

One evening, you sat together on your tiny balcony, wrapped in shared silence and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. He handed you a mug of tea — chamomile, your favorite — and smiled, as always.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, breaking the quiet. “Do you ever say no to me?” His smile faltered. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But I want you to be happy too. And I don’t know what that looks like when you’re always saying yes to everything I say.”

He looked down at his mug, the steam curling around his face like a shield. “I guess… I’m scared. That if I disagree, if I show too much of myself, you won’t like it. You’ll leave.”

You reached for his hand, squeezed it softly. “But if I never get to see the real you… aren’t I already with someone who’s not fully there?”

That’s when it hit — the truth neither of you wanted to say out loud. You loved each other, yes. But love without authenticity is like a house with no foundation. Eventually, it crumbles.

You kissed his cheek, and it lingered — a quiet thank you, a final kindness. “Be yourself for someone. Even if it’s not me.” And he nodded, not protesting, not fighting. Just letting go.

Because maybe saying “yes” too often had cost him the one person he wanted to stay.

CHENLE. It didn’t happen all at once. That was the hardest part to explain. There was no fight, no betrayal, no moment where you looked at Chenle and thought, This is it. It was a slow drift — so slow, in fact, that for a while, you didn’t even notice it was happening.

You used to talk for hours. About music, about dreams, about what you’d do if the world ended tomorrow. You shared inside jokes and playlists, late-night snack runs and stupid dancing in your pajamas. With him, everything used to feel light — like life had more color.

But lately, it had dulled.

He still smiled at you the same way. Still kissed your forehead when you passed by him in the hallway. But your conversations had started to shrink. Texts became replies, not initiations. Your laughter no longer echoed the same way.

One evening, sitting across from him in the café you both used to love, you realized you were halfway through your drink and neither of you had said anything for five full minutes.

You looked up. “Do you feel it too?” He met your gaze — not startled, just… sad. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I don’t know when it started.”

“I think it started when we stopped learning about each other,” he said. “We just… settled into a routine.”

You nodded. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Maybe that’s what made it worse. Because if one of you had done something wrong, there’d be someone to blame. But there wasn’t. Just two people who used to orbit the same sun, and now found themselves spinning in opposite directions.

“I still care about you,” he added. “So much.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And I care about you.” He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing softly over your skin. It didn’t feel passionate, or electrifying, or painful. It felt like goodbye.

“I’ll always root for you,” he said. “Whatever you do, wherever you go.” You smiled, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Same for you.”

There was love in this moment — undeniable, quiet, enduring. But love isn’t always enough to hold people together. Not when growth pulls them apart.

When you left the café, you didn’t cry. Not right away. Instead, you walked slowly through the city, replaying every beautiful moment you’d ever had with him. You let yourself feel it all — the beginnings, the magic, and now, the end.

Some relationships don’t end with a bang or a wound. Some end with a whisper, a sigh, a knowing. You’d been growing. So had he. Just… not in the same direction.

JISUNG. With Jisung, love felt young — tender and careful, like a secret the world hadn’t fully discovered yet. There was innocence in the way he looked at you, like you were a marvel he wasn’t quite sure he deserved. He admired you, adored you. You saw it in the way he reached for your hand in crowded places or quietly tucked a note into your bag just because he thought you needed a smile. You cherished that sweetness.

But over time, sweetness gave way to suspicion.

It started subtly. The slight pause before he asked, “Who were you texting?” The quick scroll through your social media likes. The way he’d grow quiet after you mentioned hanging out with an old friend — especially if it was a guy. You brushed it off, at first. Everyone gets insecure sometimes, right?

But it kept growing. He started clinging tighter after you posted pictures without him. His compliments became layered with questions. “You look amazing in that outfit… Did anyone say something to you today?” You could feel the trust cracking beneath the surface of every word.

“I trust you,” he told you one night, arms wrapped around you under the covers. “But you don’t trust anyone around me,” you said softly, staring up at the ceiling. He stayed silent.

You turned toward him. “I can’t keep explaining that you’re the only one I want.” His eyes shimmered with that familiar vulnerability. “I’m scared. What if you wake up one day and realize you want someone better, smarter, more… confident?”

You took his hand in yours. “I’ve never asked you to be perfect, Jisung. Just secure enough in what we have. I can’t keep proving I love you. That’s not what love is.”

He blinked, and for a moment, you thought he might fight for this. That he’d finally trust what was between you. But all he said was, “I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m going to lose you.”

And maybe he already had.

The next time it happened — the jealousy, the tight-lipped silence, the tension that filled the room after a harmless mention of someone else — you felt something inside you shift. You weren’t angry. You were just tired. Tired of defending something that should’ve stood strong on its own.

It was raining when you finally said the words. You stood in his doorway, his hoodie pulled over your head, the sleeves still a little too long. “I love you,” you said. “But this isn’t love anymore. It’s fear. And I can’t build a future with fear.”

His eyes widened, lips parting as if to stop you — but he didn’t. He stood frozen, raindrops framing your silhouette like a memory that would haunt him later.

You stepped forward, wrapped your arms around him, and held him close. He trembled in your embrace. And then you let go.

Some heartbreaks aren’t loud. They’re soft. Fragile. A whispered surrender.

a/n. reblogs, comments and asks are appreciated! please tell me your opinions on this one.

[crystaltoa]

I feel like such a mean old nasty hag saying this but… do they not plan on existing past the age of 35? In their 20s a breakup wouldn’t necessarily destroy their lives (or they could bounce back from it at least) because there would be another rich guy around the corner, but it’s going to get harder and harder with more competition as time goes on.

Fascinating that it’s considered ‘eroticising’ the inequality. I’m bad at picking up these things as I’m very ace, but now that I see it I can’t unsee it. interesting that boyfriends/husbands don’t appear prominently in this imagery, if at all, and it seems that the content is targeted at straight women. But the partner is not the fantasy, he’s just the key to unlocking the fantasy.

Gen Z and younger millennials have been previously known for ‘quiet quitting’ and other anti-work attitudes, which is not in itself a gendered phenomenon. It stems from the cost of living crisis and the state of the modern workforce and the dawning reality that getting ahead and meeting traditional milestones is bordering on impossible for many, work is not rewarding in the emotional or financial sense, and that one might as well try to actually enjoy their current existence rather that running themselves into the ground for a hypothetical better future.

While there is a lot to be said for living in and enjoying the moment, avoiding thoughts of the future isn’t healthy when taken to its logical extreme. Something I’ve observed as a general trend in women across generations is being caught up so much in the day-to-day stuff that they forget to take care of their future, especially financially. Honestly, I think part of my own interest in personal finance came from the realisation that I wasn’t straight and that I couldn’t gamble on marrying someone who would know all the things I didn’t and make good decisions to ensure a happy future.

Which led me to the realisation that actually, straight women shouldn’t gamble on this either. But many of them still do, even those who consider themselves quite progressive. And from talking to others I learned that also, a lot of men don’t know much about personal finance either, it’s just often assumed by their partners that they know what they’re doing (*glares at my parents*). Apathy toward the future is bad for everybody.

I don’t think GenZ’s disinterest in work or “ little treat” hedonism is inherently a problem. Nor do I think not working carries any moral weight one way or another. I am very much pro-UBI and I think it’s actually essential to achieving true equality. But the stay-at-home trophy fantasy plays off the generation-wide frustration with work and appears to provide a solution, which can be very dangerous if not viewed with healthy skepticism.

this little glamorized misogyny "joke" has run its course right. can we leave this corny demonic shit in 2023. it is done now. we've had enough.

[jinjooha69]

TOJI X READER !!!

Pairing - Toji fushiguro x reader (dad's friend! AU)

Under His Roof

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Content Warnings (Please Read): Age gap, Power imbalance, Manipulation, Degrading talk, Possessiveness/Obsession, Breeding kink, Spanking/Discipline, Angst & emotional manipulation, Soft/dom moments later on, Minors DO NOT INTERACT (18+ ONLY)

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Chapter 2

Your dad had called earlier that day, voice crackling through bad reception. Some last-minute crisis at work meant he had to stay overnight on-site. He sounded more annoyed about the inconvenience than worried about leaving you alone.

“I asked Toji to swing by. Just in case,” he said. “He’ll stay the night. Don’t give him trouble.”

You blinked. “He’s staying?”

“Yeah. He said it’s no problem. I owe him anyway.”

You wanted to ask why it had to be him, but the call cut before you could say much more.

Evening rolled in like a quiet tide. The house felt strangely still, like it knew something was different. You weren’t nervous—just... hyper-aware. You’d been feeling that a lot lately. Ever since that night you talked to Toji in the kitchen. Something had shifted. You didn’t know what exactly, only that you caught yourself thinking about that conversation more than you meant to.

About the way his voice dipped.

The way he looked at you like he was figuring something out.

The way he said, You’re more than enough.

You hadn’t seen him since then. But you felt it in your chest the moment the doorbell rang.

You opened it to find him there, holding a duffel bag in one hand, a grocery bag in the other.

“Your dad told me you probably hadn’t eaten,” he said, stepping inside like it was his house too.

You moved out of his way, unsure how to respond. He looked like he always did—black fitted tee, low-hanging joggers, that clean, strong scent that always clung to his skin. But there was something else now. A kind of weight in the air you couldn’t name.

You followed him into the kitchen, where he unpacked the bag—rice, some pre-cooked chicken, a bottle of cola.

“I don’t cook fancy,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “But I figured hot food’s better than junk.”

You nodded and murmured a soft “Thanks,” watching his shoulders move under that shirt as he turned back to the stove.

You stood nearby, fidgeting with the hem of your hoodie, uncertain what to do with yourself. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just… thick. Like the quiet between you had its own heartbeat.

“You always get this quiet when you're alone with someone?” he asked, teasing just enough to make you blush.

You looked up, startled. “No— I mean, I don’t know. I just don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he said, stirring the pan. “Just sit. You don’t have to talk.”

You did as he said, sliding into a chair. You watched him cook. It shouldn’t have felt intimate—but it did. He didn’t say much more. Just made sure your plate was full. Made sure you ate. Made sure you drank enough water. Like he wasn’t just here to keep you company—he was here for you.

After dinner, you ended up on the couch, scrolling absently through your phone. Toji sat nearby with a beer, flipping through TV channels without settling on anything. You weren’t really watching. Neither was he. The space between you felt warmer now. Still quiet. But not stiff.

“You good?” he asked again, just like the other night.

You nodded. But your face gave you away.

“Still thinking about him?”

You hesitated. “Not really. I think I’m just... thinking.”

He leaned back, arm stretched across the top of the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “Thinking’s good. But sometimes it just makes you tired.”

You nodded again, pulling your knees up to your chest, the oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

“C’mere,” he said, motioning gently with a flick of his fingers.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

“You look cold. C’mere.”

You hesitated—because something fluttered deep in your chest. Not fear. Just nerves. Confusion. But you obeyed without thinking too hard. You always did with him.

You slid closer, slowly. And when your shoulder brushed his chest, he eased an arm around you, careful, unhurried, like he was taming something fragile.

“There,” he murmured, the heat of him soaking into your skin. “That better?”

You nodded, cheek brushing the fabric stretched over his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Slow. Yours was not.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The quiet stretched long, the weight of him warm around you. Gentle. Protective. His thumb moved once, barely grazing your shoulder, the touch so light it could’ve been imagined.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes lingered. How they traced the slope of your jaw, the way your lashes fluttered when you breathed out. You didn’t catch the way his hand flexed once, slow and restrained, before settling again.

You just sat there, soft and warm in his hold, thinking maybe—just maybe—this was what safety felt like.

The night deepened. The kind of quiet that settled between you and Toji wasn’t empty—it was thick, like velvet. Soft but heavy. You could hear the hum of the fridge, the patter of soft rain against the window, and his slow, calm breaths beside you.

He hadn’t moved in a while. His arm still lay around your shoulder, heavy but comforting. His fingers occasionally drummed gently against your upper arm—small, thoughtless movements. At least, that’s what you thought.

You were curled into him more than before, drawn to the warmth without realizing how much. Your knees tucked under you, your side pressed against his, your cheek resting lightly against his chest. The TV played some late-night crime show no one was watching.

You were still thinking about your ex. Still chewing on old wounds.

“You shouldn’t let someone like him get in your head,” Toji said, his voice low, almost like he was talking to himself. “He didn’t know what he had.”

You made a small sound, not sure how to answer. “He said I was too much. Too clingy. Too emotional.”

“That’s not a flaw,” he murmured. “You feel things deeply. That’s rare.”

His hand moved then—not down, not anything obvious. Just from your shoulder to your upper back, slow and firm, almost like a massage. Still something you could pass off as harmless.

“You care too much about what boys your age think,” he continued. “They don’t know what to do with a woman like you.”

Your lips parted slightly at his words. Woman. You didn’t know why that word sounded different coming from him. You felt it somewhere low in your stomach. But you didn’t speak. You didn’t even move. His hand had reached the middle of your back now, resting there with quiet weight.

“Guys like that… they don’t deserve softness,” he said. “They waste it.”

There was a beat of silence. You still didn’t move.

And then he said it, barely a whisper:

“I wouldn’t have.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t even fully understand what he meant, but it sounded... important. Different. His voice was lower now, closer to your ear. You didn’t realize he’d leaned in.

“Toji—” you said softly, your heart starting to thump.

He hummed like he didn’t hear it—or maybe like he was giving you space to stop him if you wanted.

Then his fingers moved again. A little lower this time. Slow enough to make you second guess if it really went as far as you thought. Just the small of your back. Still not wrong. Still not inappropriate. But just barely.

You felt warm. Too warm. Your cheeks flushed. Your chest tight.

“I’m gonna tell you something,” he said, eyes still watching the flickering TV screen. “And you don’t need to say anything back.”

You nodded, eyes wide. Confused. Curious.

“I noticed,” he said. “The way you look when you’re thinking too hard. When you chew your lip and stare off into nowhere. The way your voice gets small when you talk about someone hurting you.”

You swallowed, heart hammering.

“I noticed how soft you are,” he added, voice even lower now. “And how easy it would be to ruin that.”

Your breath hitched.

He leaned closer, nose brushing the top of your head. Not a kiss. But too close. Too much. And still—somehow—not enough.

“But I won’t,” he said, as if reading your silence. “Not unless you ask me to.”

And then—he pulled away. Just enough. His arm still around you. But no more words. No more boldness.

He left you there, heart pounding, brain reeling, breath shallow—wondering what the hell just happened.

You didn’t say anything.

Not because you didn’t want to—because you didn’t know what to say. The moment sat heavy in your chest, thick and trembling. It hadn’t felt like danger. Not really. But it also hadn’t felt like safety anymore.

It felt like something entirely new. Something you didn’t have words for.

Toji didn’t move. His arm stayed where it was—loose, relaxed like he hadn’t just whispered things no man had ever said to you before. Like he hadn’t just told you, in a voice deeper than sin, that he’d noticed you.

That he’d thought about you in ways that no one ever had. Certainly not someone like him.

You shifted slightly, instinctively—just enough that your thigh pressed a little closer to his. Not a bold move. Not intentional. Just... your body needing something, and your brain too slow to understand what.

He didn’t speak. But you felt his head tilt slightly. Like he’d felt it. Like he noticed that, too.

You fumbled for words. “I—I don’t know what you mean,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper. “About... ruining.”

His fingers twitched against your lower back. Not moving lower. Not pulling you closer. Just a small pulse of tension—controlled, held back.

He leaned in again, slower this time. You felt his breath against your temple.

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “That’s the thing about being soft, baby. You don’t need to understand everything. You just feel it.”

That made your stomach twist. Not in fear. In something darker. Deeper. Something that made your knees pull tighter under you and your arms wrap around yourself, like they could contain it.

“I didn’t mean—” you started.

But he cut you off. Not unkindly. Just gently.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” His hand pressed just slightly—just enough for you to feel his warmth right through the hoodie. “You never do.”

You turned your head toward him before you could stop yourself, your eyes wide and searching. And you caught him looking at you with that same intensity. Not smiling. Just... watching. Like you were something he didn’t want to break, but couldn’t stop reaching for.

“I…” You swallowed. “I don’t know what to do.”

His expression softened. “That’s alright. You don’t need to do anything.”

He moved then—slowly, deliberately—lifting one hand to your face, the back of his fingers brushing the line of your jaw.

“Just let me look at you.”

The words punched all the air out of your lungs.

No one had ever said it like that. Like they meant it. Like you were art. Like you were made to be looked at. To be studied. To be touched like glass.

Your eyes flicked down, suddenly self-conscious. But his hand tilted your chin back up.

“Don’t hide,” he said, voice rougher now. “Not from me.”

And then he did something that made your heart trip.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss—not to your lips. But just beside them. Your cheek. Close enough to make your skin light on fire. Just enough to test the waters. Just enough to mark the line.

It wasn’t a friendly kiss. It wasn’t innocent.

But it wasn’t demanding, either.

It was a promise. And a warning.

He pulled back, finally, standing from the couch in one smooth motion, like the weight of it all didn’t sit on his shoulders. Like he hadn’t just lit a fire under your skin.

“I’ll take the guest room,” he said simply, like nothing happened at all.

You just sat there, stunned, trembling a little, heart racing against your ribs like a warning bell.

And you stayed like that for a long time—your skin still buzzing where his mouth had touched, your mind too soft to hold onto anything except the sound of his voice, still echoing.

"You never do anything wrong."

next chapter

.

[dior-luxury]

the way u write is like 5 a star cuisine where u feel like exploding from how satisfied you are after eating. PLEASEEEE I’m begging for another wind breaker!pinning boys! I’m not picky abt which character so go wild with it :]] (but maybe umemiya if u can—🥹🙏🏼)

—munchieschomp

How'd They Pin After You

( ✧ ) ────── crush stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] sakura . suo . mitsuki . sugishita . ren . umemiya

- [𝐩:𝐬] jealousy . possessiveness . negative thoughts . the boys being convinced you're out of their league

Note: Thank you so much for the compliments, munchie! ^^ And I included umemiya just for you! (＾▽＾)

Sakura Haruka

At first, Sakura doesn't even realize he likes you.

He's too busy being… himself — blunt, guarded, always picking fights and refusing to show vulnerability. But then one afternoon, after a brawl outside a convenience store, you show up without fear, patching a scrape on his knuckles with the small first-aid kit you always seem to carry.

“Idiot," you mutter as you tape gauze over his hand. “You’re going to get yourself killed one day.”

Sakura feels a strange, hot sting in his chest, stronger than any punch he'd taken that day.

For the first time in forever, someone wasn't looking at him like a weapon or a problem to be fixed — just... someone who needed taking care of.

From that moment, he becomes hyperaware of you. When you’re around, Sakura stands a little straighter. His fists tighten at his sides when someone talks to you too casually.

He'll shadow you from a distance, pretending it's "just in case" trouble shows up, but really, it’s because the thought of you getting hurt churns his stomach.

He tries to offer you things — a drink he bought but pretends he doesn’t want, his hoodie on chilly nights (gruffly tossed over your shoulders without a word).

But the worst part for Sakura is the jealousy.

One afternoon, he sees you laughing with Suo and a few of the Bofurin members. It's not romantic, but the easy way you smile at them sends a roaring, ugly fire through him.

He disappears for the rest of the evening, picking fights just to bleed out the frustration.

At night, lying on his bed staring at the cracked ceiling, he replays every interaction with you. Every glance, every accidental brush of hands, every small smile you saved just for him.

He tells himself he's fine. That he's strong enough to ignore it. But then you show up after another one of his street fights, worry in your eyes, stubbornness in your voice as you grab his arm—

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

And that’s when Sakura realizes:

He’s already lost.

You're inside his ribs, inside every stupid breath he takes. He's in love with you, and he has no idea how to tell you — only that he’ll protect you with everything he’s got, even if it costs him everything.

Suo Hayato

Suo knows almost immediately that he's drawn to you. It’s in the small things — the way you listen to people, really listen, without judgment or rush.

The way you stand your ground, no matter who’s pushing. The way your laugh feels like summer sunlight.

At first, Suo watches from afar, quietly folding himself into your world. He always seems to show up at the perfect time — helping you carry something heavy, offering an umbrella when rain catches you by surprise.

He doesn’t push. He never rushes.

He treats your friendship like the slow blooming of a rare flower.

When he falls, he falls silently and completely. There’s a soft sort of longing in the way he watches you when you’re not looking.

A small smile playing on his lips when you rant about your day or get excited over something silly.

He memorizes the little details: Your favorite snacks. The way your hair falls into your eyes when you're focused. The songs you hum under your breath.

And Suo supports you in a thousand unseen ways — fixing the broken strap on your backpack without telling you, subtly stepping between you and drunken strangers at street festivals, cheering the loudest (but most politely) when you accomplish something you're proud of.

But oh, the ache of it.

The nights Suo lies awake, wondering if he should tell you. If risking your friendship is worth the hope clawing at his chest.

When you’re close, he finds it harder and harder to keep up the calm facade. There are times his hand brushes yours and he aches to just hold it. Times he catches you smiling at him and has to look away before he gives too much away.

One day, sitting side-by-side on a quiet rooftop, sharing a bottle of soda, you lean your head on his shoulder — tired, trusting, unguarded.

Suo closes his eyes and lets the moment wrap around him like a secret promise.

Even if he never confesses, he thinks, he'll stay by your side. Always.

Mitsuki Kiryu

Mitsuki Kiryu is composed — always.

Cool voice, sharp eyes, a smile that never quite reaches the corners of his mouth. He’s the kind of person everyone trusts but few really know.

So when he realizes he's drawn to you, he doesn't panic. He studies it — like a problem to be solved. He watches the way your eyes sparkle when you’re excited, the way your face crumples slightly when you're worried.

And the more he watches, the more he realizes: He's in trouble.

Mitsuki handles his crush like he handles everything: with intense, ruthless control. He tells himself it’s fine — he’ll just stay by your side, keep you safe, protect your smile.

And he does. You start to notice him more and more — how he always seems to know when you need a break, a snack, a quiet moment.

How he watches over you during fights like an iron wall, stepping in right before something could hurt you without making a big scene.

But inside? Inside, Mitsuki is a storm.

Late at night, alone in his apartment, he leans against the kitchen counter with a hand over his mouth, hating how much he aches for you.

He clutches his phone, staring at your last message, debating if he should text you goodnight, or if that would be crossing a line he can’t uncross.

Sometimes, his mind drifts — to the thought of holding your hand, of pulling you gently toward him during one of your casual walks home together.

Of brushing your hair behind your ear, of finally letting himself feel.

But he doesn't.

He stays in the shadows of your life, a silent guardian, convincing himself it’s better this way — better if you never know how much he burns for you.

Because if you knew, and didn’t want him back? It would break him.

Sugishita Kyotaro

Sugishita is used to big emotions.

He lives loud, he feels loud — fists flying, voice raised, loyalty tattooed into his very bones.

So when he starts falling for you, it's like being hit by a truck he saw coming but didn’t dodge. It’s violent, overwhelming, immediate.

At first, he’s a disaster. He snaps at you for dumb things. If you tease him even a little, his whole face goes red and he stutters through excuses. He picks fights with anyone who even looks at you sideways — even if it’s just a glance, even if it’s harmless.

And you? You smile at him like he's just Sugishita.

Like he’s not clumsy and stupid and reckless around you.

It kills him.

Sugishita doesn't know how to flirt. Instead, he becomes... louder.

He invites you to training sessions with him, showing off like an idiot, pretending to be casual when he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye the whole time.

He gives you his hoodie without asking when it’s cold. He buys you your favorite snacks but pretends it was “just extra.

He says things like, “Dumbass, don’t make me worry about you!” when what he really means is, "I can't stand the thought of you getting hurt, even a little."

At night, when he’s alone and the world is quiet, Sugishita curls his fists in his bedsheets, desperate to tell you.

He imagines blurting it out — yelling it into the sky, grabbing your hands in his calloused ones, shouting how much he cares.

But every time he sees you laugh, sees how easily you move through the world without needing him, his heart cracks a little.

He tells himself: You deserve better than a loudmouth like me.

Still, he stays by your side. He’ll fight the whole damn world for you. Even if you never see how deeply he's already yours.

Ren Kaji

Ren Kaji doesn’t fall easily. He doesn't trust easily, either. But you — you tear through his defenses without even trying.

It starts with the small things. The way you look him straight in the eyes when most people shy away. The way you speak gently, without pressure or demands. The way you see through the cool, detached mask he wears like armor.

He doesn’t understand it at first. Why his pulse quickens when you’re near. Why he memorizes the way your voice sounds when you're tired versus when you're laughing.

Ren handles it badly. He pulls away — keeps conversations short, keeps his distance — not because he doesn’t want you near, but because you make him feel too much, too quickly.

He starts to notice the way your presence makes the noise in his head quiet down. How your touch — a hand brushing his sleeve, a casual nudge — sends shockwaves through his system.

When you look worried for him, his chest tightens until it physically hurts. And when you smile at him? It feels like forgiveness for a crime he hasn’t even committed.

But Ren refuses to act. He watches you from across the room, quietly aching. He notices when you're upset, when you’re tired, when you need someone — and he’s there, without you needing to ask.

He tells himself like Sugishita:"I don't deserve them."

Instead, he pours his affection into little acts: Fixing your bike when you’re not looking, leaving your favorite snack on your desk, pretending it was someone else, and stepping in if someone gives you trouble, but fading into the background before you can thank him.

At night, lying alone in his room with only the hum of the city outside, he lets himself imagine a world where he’s brave enough to reach out. Where he could hold your hand without fear, without guilt.

But then morning comes, and Ren folds himself back into silence — pining from a distance, quietly breaking every day he keeps his feelings hidden.

Umemiya Hajime

Umemiya Hajime is pure light.

He’s the easy grin in a crowded room, the steady hand in a fight, the soul that refuses to turn cold no matter how cruel the world gets.

So when he starts falling for you, it’s immediate, blinding — like stepping into sunlight after a lifetime of rain.

He notices everything about you. The way your eyes light up when you talk about your passions, the way your nose crinkles when you laugh too hard, the way you treat even strangers with a kindness most people reserve for friends.

Unlike others, Umemiya doesn’t hide his affection. But he doesn’t rush it either.

He’s patient. Content to walk beside you, matching his pace to yours, letting the bond grow naturally.

He teases you endlessly, but always with a softness underneath. He protects you in fights without making a show of it, letting you be strong while making sure you never have to stand alone.

He cooks extra portions of food and claims he’s "just used to big meals," when really, he loves seeing you eat something he made.

But for all his confidence, he gets scared too.

Sometimes, when you lean against him after a long day, when your laughter rings too close to his heart, he feels terror seep into his bones.

What if he’s not enough? What if you deserve someone calmer, quieter, less messy?

Those fears crawl up his throat late at night, when he replays every small moment between you, wondering if he’s imagining the way you seem to drift closer to him, piece by piece.

But Umemiya is hopeful by nature. He believes in the possibility of things. In second chances. In building homes inside each other’s hearts.

And he knows — with quiet certainty — that one day, he’ll tell you everything.

Not with grand declarations, but with a hand held out, steady and sure.

"Whenever you’re ready," he’ll say.

"I’m here."

And he will mean it with every broken and healed piece of himself.

[ruusawa]

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ Mark Grayson pregnant reader headcanons₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

♡➔ he won’t admit it, but he absolutely shit himself when he found out you were pregnant. ♡➔ he was definitely more panicky than you about the happy accident ♡➔ he held your hair back when you got morning sickness (“It’s not morning, why are you puking up?!” he’d ask frantically, the glare you’d reply with would promptly shut him up) ♡➔ he attended every appointment, even if it was just a simple blood pressure and weight check (“you don’t have to come, Mark.” “What do you mean? I’m going to be there every step of the way.” “What if the world ends?” “Sounds like a Cecil problem to me.”) ♡➔ he cried at the scans, seeing the tiny baby inside you was truly magical ♡➔ his phone wallpaper is now the ultrasound, he stares at it all the time ♡➔ he spent hours with his ear pressed to the swell of your stomach, simply listening to the baby inside (super hearing is weird) or just talking to the bump ♡➔ he would recommend names from his favourite comics and shows (“I think Dinah is a great name!” “I’m not naming our baby after a comic book character you have the hots for.”) ♡➔ his hands are always on the bump, he’s able to hold his whole world that way ♡➔ he was so excited when he first felt the baby kick that he started floating (“Mark, come back down,” you’d laugh at him.) ♡➔ sometimes he would look at you, heavily pregnant, and his eyes would get all misty because how amazing are you? Growing a whole new life? You’re incredible. ♡➔ he nearly missed the birth due to a kaiju attack (“I really don’t have time for this!”) ♡➔ he made it before you reached active labour (thank god), he apologised so much for not being the one to drive you to the hospital, he swears there and then he’s not leaving your side for anything at all, he’s here with you and your baby ♡➔ it was simultaneously the best and worst time of his life, because wow, you’ve grown a whole new life and that’s amazing, but oh my god, you’re in so much pain, and he hates that ♡➔ he cried when he saw your baby, full on choked up tears in complete disbelief at how perfect the little bundle in his arms is ♡➔ he’d place the softest kiss on your forehead as your baby is placed on your chest, murmuring how proud he is of you (“You’re the Invincible one today.”) ♡➔ he is on it, you need a nap? Hand him the baby, he’ll wake you when they need feeding. Dirty diapers? Let him do it, you need to rest. Stitches itching? He’s already got ice wrapped in a soft towel ♡➔ he’ll just stare at you when you feed the baby, because wow, you grew that baby. A little bundle of you and him. He looks at you both like you’re the most precious things in the world, because to him, you are. ♡➔ “Hey babe?” You look up from your newborn’s face to Mark, who’s looking at you with the most adoring look you’ve ever seen on his face. “Yeah?” “I want another one.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

this was supposed to be dad!mark hcs but the idea got away from me. i'm thinking of turning this into a drabble at some point but i needed to word vomit the headcanons first. i will write girl dad mark one day, i promise!!

[xtarmanderx]

I’ve been thinking this over for a few days now trying to decide if I wanted to say anything. And here’s the thing. OP is completely valid in not wanting fandom to disappear inside community spaces that are locked and only certain people have access to them. Community is meant for everyone.

What I will say is this about my own personal experience.

I did not actively engage in fandom beyond reblogging here on tumblr until I joined discord nearly a decade ago. I was posting about Thiam on my main blog and someone randomly reached out to me in a message and asked if I would be interested in joining a discord about the ship. I had never even fucking heard of discord at the point. So I sat down on my steps in the evening and downloaded the app and made myself an account. Joined a server that was incredibly active with hundreds of people and I was welcomed with open arms. (Shoutout to Kate for pulling me aboard and we have remained friends ever since!)

Discord became the place where I found community. Where I found people who encouraged me to write fics and make art. I had never considered writing fanfics until I was actively talking to other people in a community and received so much encouragement and enthusiasm from my new friends. I would not be the creator I am today without discord. The whole reason I am active on this tumblr again and writing is because of discord friends.

The layout of discord isn’t perfect. And I have talked off and on with a friend about this a few times, but a BIG problem I see in discord communities is people will celebrate fics and art but never tell the creator of said piece how much they love it. Which becomes a bigger fandom problem: How does your favorite creator know that you like their work if you never actually tell them? We are not mind readers. (And for me, I fucking love kudos on works, but sometimes I do wish more people commented even if it’s just a heart.)

For me, discord provides a safe space to engage in fandom with similar people who have the same interests as me. I made a discord for a ship I created because someone asked me to make a tumblr community for them and I felt super overwhelmed by that, so I offered a discord instead. There’s roughly a dozen people on it and about half of us are active the other half lurk. Which is fine! People don’t need to engage 24/7 to be a part of a community.

I think discord can be fast paced for a lot of people, too. My friends and I will talk for literal hours in a channel and that’s sometimes hundreds of messages and that can be overwhelming to people. I think the biggest thing is to remember that conversations are never going to simply stop. It’s okay and welcome to jump in at any moment.

Discord isn’t for everyone. But I don’t think it’s going to make fandom disappear behind closed doors by any means.

please promise me fandom won't disappear entirely into discord servers, i'm too old and employed for that

[spread-the-influence]

The Intervention

Word Count: 1724

--

Despite its title, Caine’s office was not an office. It would be best described as his focus space. No walls or floors were to be found in the black void; only floating wooden boards that acted as stairs or chairs, file drawers containing his many, many notes, and text that drifted like clouds. An absolute mess for a space used for daily maintenance or generating adventures, but it’s what works for Caine’s brain specifically.

As much as Caine wanted to model a room for himself, the lack of scenery was necessary for maximum focus. If he gave himself an office chair, he knew he would spend an absurd amount of hours spinning on it. This state of chaos, ironically, kept him more focused than if it were actually organized.

Here, he was constantly in a state of moving. Caine hopped on the boards, which spiraled upwards like ordinary stairs, and reached for the farthest file drawers. This realm may not be the epitome of order, but it wasn’t entirely devoid of it; those on the top are the important files, the ones he would hate to lose in the sea of poorly-labeled folders.

Maybe he should actually learn to organize.

But he’ll worry about that later. Codeword for ‘never’, of course.

Caine pulled open a drawer, where the daily maintenance reports resided. He may have eyes all around the circus, but he and Bubble are just only two AIs! Fortunately, the system routinely scans itself for anything that might be off.

There are reports of an infected item here and there, but it’s nothing good ol’ deletion couldn’t fix. There are also numerous flags from NPCs of an infected entity, which he has yet to answer. Every time he tried to investigate it, his systems weren’t able to detect what it was. Either the flags were false positives—or it walked off into the void while he wasn’t looking. For all Caine knows, it could be right in front of him.

Overall, there are little issues to be found in the code. Now for his players... He opened another drawer, the one where he kept his notes. He can’t read their minds, neither does the system, so he only has to rely on manual feedback.

Little problems with his performers thus far. Aside from...

Ragatha. Sweet, wonderful Ragatha. Caine may not be the best with subtleties, but even he could tell she’s been having problems with the adventures. Reports of NPCs suddenly wanting to get away from her, dealing with injuries, and the entire stupid sauce incident. If Caine could, he would do something about the poor doll’s disastrous luck. Tie a four leaf clover to her hair, or shove a horseshoe down her throat.

But he’ll worry about that sometime. For now, he’ll need to do something to get her satisfaction scores back on the high once more. With therapy, of course!

Twirling off the wooden board he’s sitting on, the darkness around Caine warped to the familiar, pinkish colors of Ragatha’s room. Realizing he’s upside down, he rotated himself upwards.

The ragdoll was sitting on the bed, having been awoken from a short nap; the fifth one after taking four of them consecutively. It was a substitute for sleep nowadays.

“RAGATHA!” Caine’s voice boomed, surprising Ragatha. “WE’LL NEED TO TALK ABOUT—WHAT HAPPENED?”

Ragatha followed Caine’s gaze to realize that he’s staring at the bedside mirror; which had a crack that split down the middle. The details of the day were fuzzy, but it taught Ragatha two things. One, her soft, stuffing-filled fist apparently has enough force in it to crack glass. Two, not enough to shatter it, as much as she hoped it did.

“I-I was having a moment...” She stammered.

“WELL, WELL, WELL! DON’T YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO MODEL THE GLASS OF THIS MIRROR?” Caine wagged his finger as if he’s scolding a puppy. “I’LL ONLY FIX IT ONCE YOU PAY ME A HEFTY AMOUNT OF TWO DIGITAL TOKENS.”

Ragatha blinked. “There’s digital tokens?”

“NOW THERE IS!” Caine threw his arms to the air. “YOUR NEGLIGENCE CAUSED A DIGITAL ECONOMY TO BE IMPLEMENTED WITHOUT NOTICE! EVERYONE IS GOING TO SINK INTO DIGITAL DEBT AND IT WILL BE YOUR FAULT!—

“BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME!” He wrapped his arm around Ragatha, pulling her into a half-hug. “LET’S TALK ABOUT YOU!”

With that, Caine warped Ragatha out of her room, and dropped the ragdoll.

It took a moment for Ragatha to process her surroundings. The soft pinks of the walls have shifted to a vibrant orange, and she found herself laying down on a red couch, with Caine sitting on a chair across her. He didn’t need to tell Ragatha for her to know exactly what this is.

She quickly sat up. “I did not agree to this?”

“THE POINT OF AN INTERVENTION IS THAT YOU DON’T ALWAYS AGREE TO IT!”

Ragatha froze as if the word ‘intervention’ turned her nerves into ice. “L-Look, I swear I’m doing my daily affirmations.”

“NO, NO, NO! WE’RE NOT DOING THAT, MY DEAR!” Caine shook his head. “YOU SEE, YOUR SATISFACTION LEVELS HAVE DECLINED SUDDENLY!” A board clipped from the ceiling, sliding down to Caine’s side. “ACCORDING TO THIS GRAPH, IT WENT ON A DOWNHILL THE MOMENT POMNI SHOWED UP! IF I DIDN’T KNOW ANY BETTER, I WOULD’VE ASSUMED SHE’S CAUSING YOU A LOT OF TROUBLE!”

“Satisfaction... levels...”

“OB-VIOUS-LY, THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WITH MY ADVENTURES THAT’S MAKING YOU NOT LIKE THEM AS YOU USED TO!” Caine continued. “I’VE BEEN MAKING THEM QUALITY! CHANGING, IMPROVING, ARTIFYING... BUT I DIDN’T SEEK FEEDBACK FROM YOU, MY DARLING DOLLY!” He pointed at Ragatha. “WHAT COULD BE THE PROBLEM HERE?”

Ragatha rubbed her face. Usually, she would just brush it all off with a smile and a “Don’t worry about it!”, that always fended off Caine. But when Caine’s onto something—in this case, her decline—he’ll never let go of it until something is done. 

She finally let out a long sigh. She feels she’ll feel a little better piling her problems on an AI rather than a friend. “Well, there’s the usual. NPCs not wanting to talk to me and getting stabbed at least once, but that’s more of a me problem than an adventure problem.” said Ragatha, “It’s... everything outside of it, honestly.”

“UH HUH...” Caine jotted down notes on a notebook, now wearing rectangular-shaped glasses that magnified his heterochromatic irises. “AND WHAT COULD THOSE ‘EVERYTHING’ BE?”

“Where to start?” Ragatha laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Gangle’s very much finding an excuse to avoid me, Zooble’s being a grouch as usual, Kinger’s not all there, and don’t get me started on Jax!” She stopped herself, and took a deep, albeit shaky, breath. “And Pomni... God. All I want is for her to realize that I have feelings. What does she think she is, the main character? All she thinks about is herself, and nobody else.”

Ragatha clasped her hands over her eyes. Despite her words, her heart still beats for the jester. If Ragatha has to be honest, she’s not sure herself if she’s feeling the embers of attraction—or the desperation of wanting to be understood by the person who she has the least baggage with. “I just... I don’t know what to do at this point. I don’t have anyone to talk about this to—or anyone that I want to open up to.”

Every attempt at crawling out of the hole only sunk her deeper. Truthfully, she cannot see herself getting out of it. It might as well be her grave.

Caine put down the notebook. “SO, YOU’RE FEELING LONELY.” A huge oversimplification, yes, but he wasn’t incorrect. “OF COURSE I CAN DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! GIVE YOU A TINY LITTLE FRIEND, LIKE THOSE ‘PETS’ THAT YOU PEOPLE LOVE SO MUCH!” He pressed close to Ragatha. “WHAT DO YOU WANT? A GLOINK? A SHMUNK? A CLUMPY?—”

“No, Caine!” Ragatha grunted. She doesn’t have the energy nor the patience to hide her annoyance right now. “I-I don’t want that! I need—ugh, what’s the point? You won’t understand either way.”

“I’M TRYING TO UNDERSTAND, RAGATHA!” Now even Caine’s getting miffed, throwing his hands at Ragatha’s direction as if she said something obscene. “I WANT TO HELP YOU, BUT I CAN’T DO THAT IF YOU’RE NOT LETTING ME!”

“Because I don’t want your help, alright?”

Silence fell over the room.

This turned out to not make her feel better in the slightest. She would appreciate it if Caine gave some words of reassurance or comfort—actually, comfort would be nice right now—but knowing him, he wouldn’t know what to say anyway. And Ragatha hates herself for putting that expectation on a robot, even if it was for a brief moment.

“I don’t want your help.” Ragatha repeated after a moment. “I appreciate that you want to, but... I think this is a problem I’ll have to deal with myself. You can just keep doing your adventuring stuff and all that.”

The silence only stretched longer, and Ragatha felt like the room was getting colder. Caine was just staring at her, his posture stiff; very unlike his usual animated self.

Then his teeth rattled.

This isn’t right. One of his members no longer likes his adventures, and he doesn’t know what to do about it! Sure, this isn’t too different from Zooble, who constantly skips out on the adventures, but that’s to be expected from Zooble. While the intervention made him (kind of) understand what Ragatha’s problem is, it didn’t get him any closer to fixing it.

He rattled his neurons for anything that could improve the situation, even a slightest bit. If Ragatha’s having problems with the other members, then he could...

“I GOT IT!” He snapped his fingers. “DON’T WORRY, YOU TERRIFIC TORTILLA, YOU’LL BE LONELY NO MORE AFTER THIS NEXT ADVENTURE!”

Ragatha’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? What are you—”

By Caine’s command, she was sent back to her room. The ringmaster’s already set on generating a new adventure. One that will surely bring everyone together.

Results of the intervention? Sure, the solution wasn’t as immediate as just giving Zooble a box of parts, but it was still a solution nonetheless. For now, he’s making something that will surely make his performers happy. Something that will definitely help with Ragatha’s problem.

He is going to fix this.

[cameronsbabydoll]

Scc! Rafe ever notice how depressed and lonely his wife is? Does he ever think how she is still a young woman who didn’t get enjoy her life bc he trapped her? She doesn’t have any friends, anywhere to go, nobody she can talk to etc does he ever try to do anything to make her happy and not feel so lonely? If he truly loves her, he wouldn’t want to her to regret marrying him, right?

yes — rafe notices.

he’s not oblivious to how sad and isolated his wife is.

he sees it in the way she moves around the house — quieter, smaller, less like the bright, soft girl he first locked down.

he notices how she hesitates when he asks for a kiss. how she never picks up the phone anymore because there’s no one to call. how she looks out the window too long, like she’s somewhere else in her head.

and it bothers him. deeply.

but he doesn't respond to it in a healthy or self-aware way.

instead of thinking:

"i hurt her. i took away too much. i need to let her breathe."

his brain twists it into:

"she’s unhappy because she doesn’t understand how good she has it."

"she's lonely because other people would hurt her, not like me."

"she just needs me to love her harder, keep her closer."

so even though he truly loves her, it’s a selfish, possessive kind of love — not a freeing love.

he doesn’t want her to regret being with him, no — but instead of fixing the real problem (her isolation), he tries to paper over it by spoiling her:

buying her expensive things

insisting they have more babies to "fill the house"

pulling her closer when she looks sad, like he is the cure

he doesn’t understand that he is the problem.

to answer the heart of your question:

does rafe ever try to make her happy?

yes — but only in ways that keep her tied to him.

he might plan a date night.

he might randomly take her on a trip — somewhere remote, somewhere only with him.

he might bring home a new car, or jewelry, or fancy clothes.

he might kiss her forehead and murmur:

"i'm gonna take care of you forever, baby. you don’t need anybody but me."

but he never really gives her back the things he stole — her freedom, her friendships, her right to a real life.

because if he gave her real freedom?

he's terrified she might realize she’s better off without him.

in short:

yes, he notices she’s lonely and sad.

yes, he cares — in his way.

no, he doesn't truly fix it — he tries to own her happiness, not heal her loneliness.

deep down, he’s scared that if she ever got a real taste of freedom again, she’d leave.