#I don’t want to make drinks and talk to people | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

velaenam · 2 days ago

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𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬

◦ ♡

𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 – non!mc. you said you were happy with your boyfriend ,then caleb came home, and now his mouth is on your neck. 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – NSFW (18+!!) dirty...nasty!!! RAW!! smut!!!, smut w/ alcohol (dubcon), reader cheating on bf w/ LI, caleb is the other man, swearing, mature languages, sexual themes, riding, creampie,raw doggy blah blah, p to v, internal conflict from reader 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 – not proofread. i got this idea from a very wonderful post i saw from the amazing @strwberri-milk. link to the post. i kinda went crazy, i loved the concept sm. its so fun and i hope i did the og justice. also im sorry but i made ur bf so loveable im sorry for the internal conflict ur about to go thru. 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 1 of idk ! next chapter — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated. let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist!

m.c. stirs her drink with a lazy swirl, the clink of ice against glass filling the lull between topics. it’s warm. light spills in through the kitchen window, catching the sheen of your lip gloss and the undone button of her blouse. her voice is casual, as always—too casual.

“oh, by the way,” she says, not even looking at you. “caleb’s coming back next week. shore leave. only for a bit.”

you freeze mid-sip.

not enough for most to notice, but she’s known you too long.

you set your cup down too carefully, as if grounding yourself with the porcelain. “he is?”

“mmhm.” she picks up a grape from the bowl between you and pops it into her mouth. chews. doesn’t meet your eyes. “fleet grounded his unit. some political thing. he’s visiting family. probably crashing at my place the first night—he said he wanted to see everyone.”

your stomach does a quiet, traitorous lurch.

“oh.”

you don’t mean to say it like that. like someone’s name you’ve tried not to whisper in years.

m.c. finally glances at you. there’s something unreadable in her gaze—maybe curiosity. maybe knowing. maybe something harder. “you two still talk, don’t you?”

you nod, too slow. “here and there.”

she hums. leans back, legs crossing at the ankle like she’s weighing something in her head. “he asked about you. said he saw that photo you posted—the one with your boyfriend and the birthday cake.”

your breath catches.

“what’d he say?”

m.c. smirks, but it’s faint. tired. “he said you looked good. then he changed the subject.”

your hands fold in your lap. you keep your voice neutral. “has it really been two years?”

“two and a half, i think. since you last saw him.”

you want to ask what else did he say? you don’t.

m.c. leans back, eyes flicking to your face as she wipes her hands on a napkin. “what about you and lover boy? how’s that going?”

you smile before you even think about it. automatic. polished. like second nature. “we’re very happy.”

“mm.” she raises a brow. not suspicious. just amused. “that’s what people say when they’re very engaged. or very lying.”

you let out a soft scoff. “he’s good to me.”

“you always say that first.”

“because it’s true.”

she nods slowly, resting her chin on her palm. “and?”

you pause. the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

he’s everything you were told to want. considerate. rich. driven. makes reservations for you, opens car doors, tells you how lucky he is when people are watching. he buys you jewelry you never wear and posts anniversary photos you never take. he’s safe. he fits.

and yet you find yourself measuring him against someone who’s never even tried.

“he’s stable,” you finally say. “he makes sense. my parents love him. his place has a whole wing just for books.”

“sounds like a dream.”

you smile again, quieter now. “it is.”

but m.c. watches you a second longer than comfort allows. not pressing. not cruel. just… seeing. like she’s trying to figure out what’s missing from your voice.

“i’m glad you’re happy,” she says. and for a moment, you wonder if she believes you.

you nod. drink the last of your coffee. and try not to think about a man who hasn’t even walked into the room yet, but still manages to pull the air out of your lungs.

the landing deck rattles beneath him as the hatch opens, hydraulic hiss like an exhale. after weeks in deepspace, everything smells like static and heat and too many days without sleep. but the gravity that wasn’t his feels good. real. like something pulling him back to where he doesn’t belong anymore.

he’s still stripping off his gloves when his comm buzzes in his jacket pocket.

incoming call: m.c.

he accepts it without thinking. holds it to his ear as he walks down the ramp, duffel slung across one shoulder, black fleet coat whipping in the wind.

“you survived,” she greets, bright as ever.

“barely.” his voice is rough. low. “tell your government contacts thanks for the political nightmare. nearly got my squad killed before they figured out how to spell diplomacy.”

“you sound dramatic.”

“you sound cozy.”

she laughs. “because i am. and you will be, too. i washed the guest sheets.”

“right. thanks.” he pauses, steps off the tarmac into the waiting shadows of the city port. “won’t be in your way too long, pipsqueak.”

“caleb,” she says. “you’re never in the way.”

he doesn’t answer that. he’s too tired to lie.

“you’ll be here in time for dinner?”

“depends on traffic. fleet’s got me filing three reports before i’m even cleared to breathe.”

she hums. “she’s gonna be surprised to see you.” he stops walking. breath catching like static in his chest. “she?”

m.c. is smug. too smug. “you know who.” he shifts his grip on the strap of his bag, jaw tightening. “you told her i was coming?”

“nope,” she says cheerfully lying. “wanted to see her face when you walked in.”

he exhales through his nose. “you’re a menace.”

“you’re welcome.” and then, gentler, “i think you should talk to her.”

he doesn’t reply right away. doesn’t know how to

finally, he says, “i don’t think it would change anything.”

and m.c.—goddess bless her—just says, “then don’t say anything. just let her look at you and remember.”

the line clicks dead before he can say another word.

you’re in the kitchen when you hear the lock turn.

he calls your name before he even steps in fully, voice muffled by the door swinging shut behind him. there’s the soft shuffle of his coat hitting the hook, the familiar jangle of keys tossed into the bowl by the counter.

“hey, baby,” he says, stepping into your space with that easy grin. he leans in, kisses your cheek, your temple, then your mouth. he smells like leather and his cologne—the one you bought him last fall.

you smile. because you should. because it’s safe here.

“how was work?” you ask, pouring water into the pot on the stove. your voice is steady. your hands aren’t.

he wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing his face into your neck. “long. boring. wanted to come home to you all day.”

your pulse stutters—not because of him. but because you haven’t stopped thinking about caleb since m.c. said his name.

since she said he’s coming back.

your skin’s been prickling ever since, like the air’s heavier. like the past is sitting just outside your window, waiting for a chance to knock.

but you don’t say that. you let your boyfriend’s hands slide up under your shirt, warm palms against your ribs. his lips trace your shoulder.

“missed you,” he murmurs. “need you.” you turn to face him, let him kiss you like nothing’s wrong. like your heart isn’t sprinting. like it isn’t someone else’s eyes you keep seeing behind your lids.

his mouth is on yours, his touch gentle and familiar, and still— you flinch when he whispers, “your heart’s racing.”

you pause. then smile, small and secret. “that’s your effect on me,” you lie, threading your fingers through his hair.

and he believes it— kisses you harder. but deep down, you know better.

you know whose name is making your pulse go wild.

he picks you up, one arm beneath your knees, the other around your back like he’s done a hundred times before. you let him carry you to the bedroom. let him lay you down like something precious, like he doesn’t notice the far-off look in your eyes every time he says your name.

his hands are reverent. his kisses slow, familiar, patient. he undresses you like a lover, not a stranger—but tonight, it feels far away. muted. like your body’s here, but something else is miles above it.

“you’re beautiful,” he breathes, kissing down your sternum. his fingers trace your ribs, the dip of your waist. “you always are. but tonight… it’s different.”

you smile at him, soft and practiced. “i missed you too.”

and you mean it, but not like that.

his mouth finds your collarbone and lingers there. he likes the way your breath hitches, doesn’t know it’s because you’re imagining someone else’s hands. someone else’s voice. you don’t even realize you’re clutching the sheet until he laces his fingers through yours.

“hey,” he says gently. “you okay?” your eyes meet his. he’s so kind. too kind. you could tell him the truth and it would break him.

you nod. “just overwhelmed.” he leans down, presses his forehead to yours. “i’ll be gentle.”

he thinks it’s his touch. that you’re nervous because of how much you want him. and you let him believe it.

you close your eyes. open your mouth. let the intimacy wrap around you like a warm tide, even as your thoughts drift—treacherous, unforgiving—to caleb.

to caleb………and the way he used to say your name like a secret only he got to keep.

you arch into your boyfriend’s hands.

but your mind is somewhere else entirely. imagining caleb on top of you kissing you, moaning your name like your boyfriend is doing right now.

imagining its his dark brown hair you’re curling your fingers on, his purple gaze is the one piercing you as he fucked you so —

he’s asleep beside you, one arm heavy across your waist.

you stare at the ceiling.

your skin is still warm, flushed from his touch. the room smells like him. like routine and comfort and things you’ve tried to convince yourself are enough.

but your heart won’t slow down. not entirely. you shift gently, just enough to slide your arm out from under the covers, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. the screen lights up your face in the dark.

no messages.

you check anyway.

his name sits there—caleb xia. no photo. just the initials. he never had a photo. never needed one.

you scroll. past the old messages. the ones that never meant much until now.

"congrats on the new job. i always knew you'd do something big." "heard the city's cold this week. you still forget your jacket like an idiot?" "hope you’re doing good. i like the photo"

you reread that one.

you remember the post. your boyfriend had taken the picture. some gallery opening. new dress. new earrings. and you had smiled like your heart wasn’t breaking from something you couldn’t name.

you hesitate. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. just a simple message. nothing dangerous.

you: heard you’re back.

you send it.

then, you lock your phone. place it back on the nightstand like it’s burning your hand.

his arm tightens slightly in his sleep. your boyfriend. the man who holds you like a promise.

and yet. you roll onto your side, facing the wall, eyes wide open, because caleb is somewhere in this city.

and for the first time in years, you’re starting to wonder if fate didn’t just miss its shot.

if maybe—it’s circling back.

the city stretches out below him, all glitter and silence.

caleb stands by the window of m.c.’s high-rise apartment, arms crossed, jacket draped on the back of the nearby chair. the lights cast gold against the glass, but he’s not looking at the view. not really.

he’s thinking about you.

how you might be sleeping right now. if you still leave the window cracked even when it’s cold. if the man lying beside you knows how you sound when you laugh until you cry. if he gets your references. if he even deserves you.

behind him, m.c. pads in barefoot, two mugs in hand. she offers him one. he takes it without a word.

“you always get like this when you’re back,” she says, settling onto the couch. “broody. contemplative. tragically poetic.”

“comes with the rank, pips” he mutters. but his mouth twitches. just barely. she watches him. “you saw her post, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

m.c. sips her drink. “they met at some space tech convention. she told me about it after the second date. said he made her laugh during a seminar about aerospace ethics and that was it.”

caleb’s jaw ticks. “sounds charming.” — “he’s fine,” m.c. shrugs. “rich. clean. knows how to dress himself. his parents are political investors, i think. very... curated.”

he glances over. “what’s his name?” — “adrien…. toulouse? i can’t remember at the top of my head.”

the name tastes sour in his mouth. he looks back out the window.

“he good to her?”

“yeah,” she says. then quieter, “but that’s not the same as being right for her.” he says nothing. the silence between them settles like dust. “you missed your window,” she says gently, not unkind. he breathes in. lets it burn. “i didn’t know it was open.”

m.c. stands, finishes her drink, and sets the mug in the sink. “that’s the problem with you, caleb. you only notice things once they’re already slipping through your fingers.”

he watches her go. but his mind stays on you. on the version of you that might’ve waited, if he’d just asked. he rolls his eyes as he shifts to the couch to watch a movie.

his phone buzzes against the coffee table.

he’s sitting on m.c.’s couch, long legs stretched out, jacket shed and collar undone. the room is dim, lit only by the city outside and the soft flicker of some old-drama playing in the background. neither of them’s paying attention to it.

he glances at the screen.

just one message.

you: heard you’re back.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

he doesn’t open it— doesn’t delete it either.

he just sets the phone down again, face down, like he can’t stand to see it glowing anymore.

m.c. watches him from the kitchen counter. she doesn’t say anything at first—just keeps peeling the label off a bottle of water like it’s a puzzle she means to solve.

“you’re not going to answer her?” she finally asks.

he shrugs. leans his head back against the couch. stares at the ceiling like it’s got the answers he’s too coward to ask for.

“what am i supposed to say?” he murmurs. “hey, it’s me. sorry for leaving when it mattered. wanna catch up while you belong to someone else?”

“that’d be a start,” she says dryly. he exhales. rubs a hand over his face. “i saw that post. he took her to that lakeside place. she always wanted to go.”

m.c. nods. “she mentioned that.” he’s quiet. a beat. another. then: “you think he knows?”

“knows what?”

“that she still carries me in her bones.” m.c. sighs, soft but sharp. “i think she tried to bury you.”

he flinches. “but,” she adds, folding her arms, “adrien’s gonna propose. soon.”

his head snaps toward her. “what?”

“she doesn’t know,” m.c. says, voice low. “but he’s been talking to jewelers. he asked me about her ring size a month ago.”

caleb’s throat tightens.

of course he is. of course someone who didn’t waste their chance would hold onto her with both hands.

“it’s not official yet,” m.c. says, like she’s offering him a thread to cling to.

he doesn’t take it. instead, he closes his eyes and sees you. not with a ring. not in a white dress.

but in that space hoodie you used to steal from him. curled up on the floor of his dorm with your head in his lap, laughing at his annotated star maps. warm. alive. his in a way no one else ever was.

he opens his eyes again. reaches for his phone.

but he doesn’t unlock it. he just lets it sit in his palm, heavy as regret.

m.c. walks over and drops onto the couch beside him, her knees bumping his. she hands him a new drink, one he didn’t ask for, and he takes it anyway.

the silence stretches.

“xavier says hi, or the best way he could, anyways” she says after a minute.

caleb glances over. “he of on mission again?”

“yeah. some wanderer dispute ” she shrugs, swirling her glass. “he loves it though.”

“you two still good?”

“we’re solid,” she says simply. and she means it. there’s a quiet steadiness in her voice that wasn’t there when she dated anyone else. “i love him. i don’t have to guess what he’s feeling”

caleb hums. “you always hated guessing.”

“i still do.”

he sips. it’s not strong, but it burns anyway. “and you?” she asks, eyeing him sideways. “you seeing anyone?” he laughs under his breath. “you know better, pipsqueak.”

“i also know that you never stayed anywhere long enough to try.”

“fleet doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating.”

“you don’t even try while you’re here.” he shrugs. “not interested.”

“because of her.” he doesn’t deny it. just stares down into his drink like it holds a confession he’s not ready to say out loud.

m.c. lets him sit in it.

then, softly, “she deserves to be happy, caleb. you know that.”

his voice is quieter when he says, “i never said she didn’t.”

“so what’re you going to do?”

he doesn’t answer. just runs a hand down his face, jaw tight, like he’s holding in the answer with his teeth.

m.c. leans back, sighs. “i wish things had gone differently for you two.”

he glances over. “yeah,” he murmurs. “me too.”

the grocery store smells like citrus and warm bread. the lights are too bright for this hour. everything is a little too quiet, too still, the kind of stillness that makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

you’re pushing a cart, hair tied up, sweater too big, list half-finished. you told m.c. you’d grab a few things for her dinner party—she texted last night, “you’re my favorite guest, but i need lemons and wine.”

“best produce comes in at 8 am,” she added. you’d rolled your eyes at the time. now you wonder if you should’ve known.

you’re halfway through the produce section when it happens. you reach for a lemon at the same time as someone else. your fingers brush theirs.

you freeze.

and then you look up.

his hand is still half-extended. callused. familiar.

caleb.

fleet jacket half-zipped. hair damp like he only just showered. he looks tired, but good. leaner. older. sharp in all the same places, softer in a few new ones. his eyes meet yours and—god, he still has that look. handsome, sweet..

your name leaves his mouth like a breath he’s been holding.

you try to speak, but nothing comes out. your fingers curl around the lemon instead. like it’ll keep you grounded.

he blinks once. then lifts the corner of his mouth. “figured she’d pull something like this.” you manage a laugh—dry, breathless. “she said the best produce comes in at 8.”

he nods. “yeah. she told me the same.” you both glance at each other. then the lemon. then back.

“guess we’ve been set up,” you murmur.

“looks like.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s just thick. with years. with almosts. with the weight of his message still unanswered and your heart still racing.

“you look good,” he says finally.

you smile. not quite at him. “so do you.”

you shift the lemons to your cart, fingers trembling just enough to notice. he sees it—you can feel him seeing it—but he doesn’t say anything.

instead, he grabs one for himself, examining it like it’s the most important thing in the universe.

“so,” you say, trying for casual, pushing your cart a little forward, “fleet let you off the leash for a bit?”

he follows, a step behind. “briefly. they’ll reel me back in soon.”

“what’d you do this time?” — “nothing,” he says, grinning slightly. “just politically inconvenient.” you huff a laugh. it slips out easier than you thought it would.

you glance from the side,. “you didn’t message me back.”

he stops walking.

the air shifts. subtle. like the quiet pulls tighter around the both of you.

“i didn’t know what to say,” he admit.

“you could’ve said anything.”

he looks at you. “would it have changed anything?”

you don’t say, so you keep walking. slowly. toward the wine aisle. he falls into step beside you like no time has passed at all.

“m.c. said you’re coming to dinner tonight,” you say, voice thinner now.

“she said i owed her. didn’t mention you’d be there.”

“you think she didn’t do that on purpose?”

“i think she’s a menace.”

you both smile at the same time.

you reach for a bottle—he does too. your hands meet again. this time, neither of you pulls away right away.

he glances down at your fingers, then back up at your eyes. “how is he?” he asks.

you hesitate.

then: “he’s good to me.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

you swallow hard. pull your hand back.

“he’s... safe.”

caleb nods, slow. quiet.

you can’t breathe for a second. just stand there, wine bottle forgotten in your hand, heart screaming under your sweater.

someone walks past with a squeaky cart and breaks the spell. you blink. step back. clear your throat.

“we should finish up,” you murmur.

“yeah,” he says, just as soft. “see you tonight.”

you nod.

but your fingers are still tingling from where he touched you.

you arrive on time, wine bottle clutched in your hand like a shield. adrien’s hand is on the small of your back, warm, grounding, his laugh low in your ear as you ring the bell.

you’re dressed too nicely. you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. you just wanted to look good for dinner. but as m.c. opens the door with a grin and a flourish of perfume, and you step inside, your heart starts to climb straight out of your chest.

because he’s there.

you see caleb the moment you cross the threshold. black button-up rolled to the elbows, sleeves creased like he’d ironed them just to ruin them again. he’s leaning casually against the kitchen counter, glass in hand, profile sharper than you remember, the soft gold light casting shadows over his jawline.

his eyes meet yours instantly.

and everything slows.

he doesn’t smile. just looks. long and quiet, like the rest of the room fell away and you’re the only thing that ever mattered.

adrien doesn’t notice at first. he leans forward to kiss m.c. on the cheek, laughing at something she says about the wine, and hands it off to her with his usual charm.

“you must be caleb,” adrien says, turning to him with that open, polished grin. “m.c. told me all about you. hell of a record in the fleet. colonel, right?”

caleb straightens. takes a slow sip before offering his hand. “that’s me. and you’re the boyfriend.”

“guilty.”

they shake hands.

it’s firm…too firm. neither one lets go first.

“adrien toulouse,” he adds. “i run a few companies. data logistics, spaceport infrastructure—boring stuff.”

“not boring if it pays well,” caleb says, voice smooth.

adrien chuckles. “doesn’t hurt. my board loves it.”

“we don’t really have boards in the fleet. just casualties and black boxes.”

you laugh a little too quickly. “he’s joking.”

caleb’s eyes flick to you. unreadable. “am i?”

adrien grins, undeterred. “i respect it. not many people can make a career out of combat anymore. takes guts.”

“takes loss,” caleb replies, quiet but even. “but the perks are decent. hazard bonuses. pension. a lot of medals.”

adrien raises a brow. “better than dividends?”

“depends who you’re trying to impress.”

you open your mouth to say something, anything to shift the mood, but m.c. saves you—breezing in with a tray of olives and cured meats, laughing too loudly and ushering everyone toward the table.

“save it for the dinner table, you two. god, it’s like testosterone in a wine glass over here.”

you slip away toward the dining room. your hand is still warm where caleb looked at you. adrien slides in beside you, fingers brushing your arm, oblivious.

but caleb watches you.

and you feel it like a match pressed to skin. you’ve screamt fuck in your head about 20 times now.

the dining room glows with soft overhead lighting, and the table is full—platters of roasted vegetables, grilled fish, wine glasses catching the gold reflections like tiny stars. laughter hums under the music playing low from m.c.’s sleek speaker tucked into the corner.

xavier’s seat is empty, just a folded napkin and a half-drunk glass of sparkling water. m.c. had said he’d be late, caught in something coming back from headquarters .

you sit beside adrien, his knee brushing yours occasionally, hand warm at your back when he refills your glass. across from you—caleb. calm, unreadable. fork moving with methodical grace as he picks at his plate.

“so, colonel,” nero says, raising his glass like it’s a toast and a challenge, “what have you been up to in the galaxy’s darker corners?”

jenna smirks beside him. “he probably can’t even tell us.”

“i can tell you some of it,” caleb replies, resting his elbow on the table, glass twirling lightly between his fingers. “spent most of last month in the outer rim, negotiating a ceasefire. fleet needed someone intimidating and tired. i qualified.”

tara laughs. “you always did look mean when you haven’t slept.”

“wasn’t about sleep,” he says, shrugging. “just tired of watching people die for decisions made lightyears away.”

the table quiets for a second.

adrien cuts in with a smile, smooth and practiced. “that’s why i stayed in civilian sectors. less blood. more spreadsheets.”

jenna snorts. “what a life.”

“it has its rewards,” adrien says, eyes flicking briefly to you. his hand finds your thigh under the table. “especially when you work hard.”

you feel caleb looking at you.

just a glance. a flick of his eyes.

but it lands like a crash.

you don’t turn your head. you just reach for your wine.

m.c. speaks up, trying to shift the tone. “i think caleb’s still the only person i know who voluntarily flew into a crossfire zone just to drag out two wounded rookies.”

“they weren’t going to make it,” caleb says, flat. “and i wasn’t going to leave them behind.”

xavier walks in then, saving you from your own pulse. “sorry i’m late,” he says, sliding into his seat beside m.c. with a soft kiss to her temple.

the room lifts again—conversation swirling back to lighter things. food. travel. politics. someone makes a joke about nero’s cooking attempts. laughter picks up. wine flows freely.

but every now and then, you look up.

and caleb is watching you like he never left.

like he’s still remembering the sound of your voice when you said his name.

and you don’t look away… not right away.

the clatter of forks dies down. glasses half-full. conversation slow and lazy like the lull after good food and too much wine.

someone’s moved to the couch. someone else is arguing softly over music selection. xavier and nero are in a quiet debate about defense policy. m.c. watches the room like a conductor, eyes flicking, measuring, waiting.

then, casually, too casually, she sets her glass down and turns toward adrien.

“hey,” she says, bright and charming, “could you help me with that thing? the new table setting i told you about? i need a second opinion. might order it tonight.”

adrien blinks. “now?”

“yeah, i’ll be quick.” her smile is sugar-sweet. “promise.”

he leans over and kisses your cheek. “you okay here?”

you nod. “go ahead.”

and then he’s gone. down the hall. the door swings shut behind them. voices muffled.

you stay seated… you should get up.

but caleb’s still across from you.

and he hasn’t moved either.

the quiet settles in. low hum of distant voices. glass ticking against wood as someone laughs from the other room.

caleb leans back in his chair. one arm draped over the side. the collar of his shirt slightly rumpled. his gaze, fixed.

“she’s always been a terrible liar,” he murmurs, eyes still on you.

you smile without looking at him. “she tries.”

“you look different,” he says, voice low.

“older?”

“no,” he says. “quieter. like you learned how to hide things.” you finally look at him. his eyes haven’t changed. sharp, steady, familiar in a way that feels dangerous.

“you think you know what i’m hiding?”

“i know you,” he says. “or i did.”

“you left,” you reply, trying not to sound like it hurts.

“i had to.” you nod, once. “and i had to move on.”

he doesn’t argue. just watches you like he’s trying to see what parts of you are still his. “he loves you,” he says after a beat. “i can see that.”

“he does.”

and then, more softly: “but you don’t look at him the way you used to look at me.”

the words land in your chest like a bruise.

you should tell him to stop…. you should get up.

but instead, you whisper, “you don’t get to say that.”

“i know,” he breathes. “but i still wanted to.”

the hallway creaks. voices coming back. the moment’s slipping, fraying at the edges.

you stand, finally, smoothing your dress. not looking at him.

“you shouldn’t wait around for something that isn’t yours.”

“i’m not,” he says. “i’m just remembering what was.”

and when you walk away, you feel it—that heat in your spine.

he’s still watching you.

it’s late when the message comes in.

adrien’s beside you, asleep. one arm draped across your waist, steady breaths against your shoulder. you should be sleeping too. the apartment is quiet. the kind of stillness that makes you feel like a ghost in your own life.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

caleb: you still up?

you stare at it for a while.

you shouldn’t answer. you really really shouldn’t answer.

but your thumb moves on instinct, like a silly idiot in love .

you: yeah.

a moment passes.

caleb: couldn’t sleep.

you wait.

caleb: been thinking about dinner. you.

your heart stutters.

you: don’t. caleb: why not? you: because it’s not fair.

there’s a long pause.

you think maybe that’s it. maybe he’ll stop.

but then—

caleb: i don’t want fair. i want true.

you close your eyes. your chest aches.

your fingers hover. shake. then:

you: i love him. caleb: i know. you: i’ve built a life. one with walls and calendars and routines and its domestic. he fits in it. caleb: but do you?

you don’t respond.

not for a long time.

you stare at the ceiling, heart beating like it’s trying to outrun your ribs.

then your phone lights up again.

caleb: do you remember the night before i left for the fleet?

you do…of course you do.

how you sat in the gazebo, knees drawn to your chest, his jacket around your shoulders. how he looked at you like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

you never talked about that night, not really, nor did you really have a chance to.

you: yes. caleb: i should’ve kissed you.

your chest collapses inward. you turn your face into the pillow so you don’t make a sound.

you: i wanted you to. caleb: i still do.

adrien shifts beside you, murmurs something in his sleep. your phone nearly slips from your hand.

you lock the screen. press it to your chest.

but you don’t delete the conversation.

you don’t reply either.

fuck.

the morning light spills through the apartment windows, golden and soft. adrien is already dressed—pressed linen shirt, slacks, and that easy, handsome grin that makes him magnetic at every event. you’re still in your robe, coffee warm in your hands, the weight of caleb’s texts buried deep beneath your ribs.

“i’ve got an idea,” adrien says, turning from the mirror as he fastens his watch. “hear me out.”

you raise a brow. “those are dangerous words.”

he laughs, leans over to kiss your cheek. “my company’s hosting a celebration this weekend. nothing formal. just something small for the board and a few close friends. we booked out a beach hotel on the coast. really secluded. great food, even better cocktails.”

“sounds like a nice break,” you murmur.

“yeah—and i thought,” he says, pouring himself coffee, “why not invite the gang? the more the merrier, right?”

your stomach drops.

you look up slowly. “what gang?”

“m.c. tara, nero, obviously. xavier if he’s back. even caleb, if he’s still in town. i feel like he could use a weekend off from… whatever world-saving things he’s been doing.”

your throat dries.

adrien’s still talking. “it’ll be good for everyone to unwind. ocean breeze, bonfires, no boardroom stress. and besides—i think it’d be good for you, too. you’ve seemed… tense lately.”

you try to smile. “just tired.”

“then it’s perfect. you, me, the beach. what could go wrong?”

your phone buzzes from the counter.

m.c.: he’s in. caleb’s coming. xavier too. hope you packed something scandalous.

you stare at the message, he’d already ask them before he asked you.

your suitcase lies open on the bed, half full. a few folded dresses. sandals. sunscreen. a silk scarf you haven’t worn in years. you pause, fingers brushing the fabric, chest tight.

the apartment is quiet. adrien left earlier for a board meeting. you said you’d finish packing, take your time.

your phone buzzes on the dresser.

you already know who it is.

caleb: pack something nice. or don’t come with clothes at all.

you stop breathing for a moment. thumb hovering over the screen.

you: don’t be an ass. caleb: can’t help it.

i’m picturing you sunburnt and annoyed, drinking something fruity, trying not to stare at me.

you press your palm to your face, the blush crawling high.

you: you’re not that charming. caleb: but you are packing that black swimsuit, right? the one that fits your body so perfectly?

your heart slams in your chest. you never posted that photo. you only sent it to m.c. once, in a private message. you hadn’t even known he saw it.

you: you shouldn’t know about that. caleb: i shouldn’t want you either. and yet.

you sit on the edge of the bed. the heat of his words curling slow, making you feel something that you should only feel for your partner.

your phone buzzes again.

caleb: you really going to let him have you for the whole weekend?

you don’t answer.

you reach for the swimsuit. fold it carefully. quietly. and lay it on top of the other things in your bag. you’re already in trouble. but you zip it shut anyway.

the car hums down the coastal highway, sunlight flashing through the windows in golden streaks. adrien’s driving, one hand relaxed on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. the wind is warm, the sky impossibly blue. everything should feel like peace.

but your phone buzzes again in your lap.

you glance down.

caleb: what are you wearing right now? please tell me it’s something i’ll regret seeing you in.

you shift in your seat. cross your legs.

adrien doesn’t notice. he’s talking about the hotel—how the chefs are all imported from a five-star kitchen, how the fire pits are custom built into the sand, how he’s planning a surprise dinner the first night.

your phone lights up again.

caleb: let me guess. sundress. soft. stupidly pretty. easy to pull up.

you grip the phone a little tighter.

you: stop. caleb: say it like you mean it.

adrien squeezes your thigh affectionately. “you okay, baby?”

“mhmm.” you smile, tight. “just checking something.”

you angle the phone a little farther away from him. open your messages again.

you: i’m in a car with my boyfriend. caleb: and still thinking about me.

your throat goes dry. you type back quickly:

you: caleb.

he waits.

you don’t know why you do it, but your thumbs move anyway.

you: it’s a white dress. cotton. nothing special.

the reply comes almost instantly.

caleb: you in white’s always been a problem. easy to make a mess in.

you bite the inside of your cheek. stare out the window.

adrien shifts, turning the music up a little, his voice easy and soft as he asks you something about checking in. you nod. pretend to listen.

but your phone buzzes again.

caleb: can’t wait to see you. in that dress. orrr— out of it.

you don’t answer. but you don’t block him either and you don’t stop the way your stomach flips, either, because fuck, it’s intense. what the fuck are you thinking? you are in this non stop tumultuous fight against morality and dignity.

the hotel sits like a dream against the coastline—white stone and glass, balconies dripping with flowers contrasting the environment, ocean waves crashing just beyond the edge of the private beach. the valet takes your bags. adrien thanks him with a generous tip and slides his sunglasses up into his hair, flashing that confident, easy grin that always draws attention.

you’re still catching your breath from the ride—heat pooling at the back of your neck, caleb’s messages burning a little too fresh in your mind—when you spot her.

m.c. is already waiting by the entrance, perched on a curved stone bench in a straw sunhat and linen dress, oversized sunglasses pushing her hair back. she grins when she sees you, stands, and practically floats toward you.

“you made it!” she says, pulling you into a hug, smelling like coconut and orange blossom. “you look like summer incarnate.”

adrien chuckles behind you. “i planned the whole thing.”

“of course you did,” m.c. smirks, kissing him on the cheek. “we should all be so lucky to have a boyfriend with a corporate card and taste.”

and then you hear it—footsteps. low voices. the weight in your chest returns before you even turn.

“hell of a place,” caleb says, sauntering up with xavier beside him, both in crisp short-sleeves and aviators, fresh off the elevator.

he’s tan. looser than you’ve seen him in years. like the salt in the air is good for him.

adrien smiles wide and steps forward, reaching to clasp caleb’s hand in that quick, firm, shoulder-slap bro-hug men have perfected.

“glad you made it,” adrien says.

“wouldn’t miss it,” caleb replies, easy.

xavier grins, giving adrien a similar greeting. “this place is insane. whose idea was it to put a full bar in the infinity pool?”

adrien laughs. “mine.”

“you’re officially my favorite person,” xavier says, heading off toward the front desk to check in, his bag slung lazily over one shoulder.

caleb doesn’t move.

his eyes drift to you. slow and unhurried. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t have to.

because the way he looks at you says enough. you glance down, fingers tightening around the strap of your purse. m.c. watches all of this. doesn’t say a word, just smiles, like she knew this was coming.

“drinks after you unpack?” she asks sweetly, “definitely,” adrien says, brushing a hand down your back. “we’ll meet you all at the pool.”

“can’t wait,” caleb murmurs, gaze never leaving yours.

the resort sprawls across the coast like something pulled from a dream—white stone buildings tiered into the cliffs, kissed by sprays of seafoam and crawling ivy. the main entrance opens into a vast open-air atrium, where sunlight floods through curved glass ceilings and dances across polished marble floors. fragrant bursts of jasmine and citrus drift from planters lining the walkways, and the sound of trickling fountains follows you with every step.

past the concierge desk, the space widens into a sprawling promenade: a private shopping gallery lined with luxury boutiques, soft jazz playing as high-end fabrics sway behind crystal

windows. the central courtyard glows gold in the sun, with a tiered infinity pool spilling into the horizon, bordered by low cabanas, ivory parasols, and a gleaming bar half-submerged in water—guests wading up with cocktails in hand. above it all, arched balconies overlook the beach, private and serene, while the scent of salt, fruit, and sunscreen clings to the warm air. even the staff moves with a kind of reverent grace, every guest treated like royalty—

the group gathers at the front desk, luggage in tow, sun already warming their shoulders as the glass doors close behind them with a soft hiss. laughter drifts in from the lobby bar, the distant scent of espresso and saltwater mixing with perfume and cologne.

“party name?” the receptionist asks brightly, fingers poised over a sleek touchscreen monitor.

“toulouse,” adrien says, pulling out his sleek black id and card. he smiles, charming as ever. “we’ve got a few rooms under that name.”

“of course.” the receptionist begins scanning them in. one by one, the group passes over their credentials—m.c. tossing hers with a wink, xavier balancing his bag on his hip, tara and nero chatting about whether the beach view is better than the garden side.

then caleb steps forward.

his id hits the desk with a soft click.

fleet-issued. black-accented. unmistakable.

the receptionist’s eyes flicker down, and her posture shifts instantly. there’s a beat of silence.

she looks up—smiling wider now, more formal. “colonel caleb xia,” she says, her voice suddenly edged with something deeper. “welcome.” caleb blinks, casual. “just here with friends.”

“of course, sir,” she replies, fingers moving faster across the screen. “as a decorated officer of the farspace fleet, your stay qualifies for our high level courtesy protocol.”

m.c. glances at caleb. “your what now?”

the receptionist continues without missing a beat. “your group will be upgraded to the resort’s top-tier suites. each room includes a private oceanview terrace, complimentary spa credit, and full access to our elite guest-only lounge and services.”

“i didn’t—” caleb starts.

“it’s policy, sir. we’re honored to host you.”

adrien raises a brow, half-laughing, joking . “i should’ve brought my medals.” xavier whistles low. “fleet perks.” tara leans toward nero and mutters, “i knew he was important.”

caleb just shifts his weight slightly, expression unreadable, one hand resting casually in his pocket. “you all came here to relax. figured i’d make it worth your time.”

m.c. grins. “we should bring you everywhere.”

your heart does something strange. heat rising behind your collar as the front desk slides you your keycard—suite 9: north tower penthouse.

you take it with a thank-you. but your fingers brush caleb’s hand when you do.

the elevator dings softly, and the group spills out into a polished marble hallway—light slanting through tall windows, casting the floor in soft amber stripes. the suites stretch down the length of the corridor, tall doors with brushed gold handles and engraved plaques that gleam in the afternoon sun.

adrien’s at the front, laughing with nero about the time one of his board members confused a zero-gravity treadmill for an espresso machine. his voice echoes lightly off the high ceilings, easy, familiar.

you fall into step beside caleb without meaning to. he’s quiet. but he always was.

his hand brushes yours once— twice. you pretend not to notice—but you don’t pull away either.

the second time, he doesn’t move. his fingers linger just a little longer, pinky grazing yours like a secret in motion. it feels like the hallway narrows around the two of you. the air grows thicker. warmer.

m.c. glances back, says something to tara about the spa hours, but she doesn’t miss it.

you see it in the small smile she hides behind her glass.

“here we are,” adrien calls, stopping in front of the corner suites. “ocean view, floor-to-ceiling windows, personal plunge pools. you’re welcome.”

“he wants a thank you in writing,” xavier adds, nudging him.

“maybe a toast,” adrien jokes. “or a statue.” you laugh, even as your pulse is thudding in your ears.

caleb moves past you to his suite—his hand just barely brushing the small of your back as he does. not enough to be noticed.

“see you in a bit,” he murmurs.

you nod, and then step inside your own room, letting the door close softly behind you.

your bag is missing. but your thoughts are already somewhere else entirely

you’re halfway through unpacking when you realize it.

your smaller bag—the one with your swimsuits, the silk wrap, and your favorite perfume—is missing. it’s not in the closet. not in the bathroom. not in the entryway with the other luggage.

you check again. and again. your stomach drops.

adrien’s in the shower, humming something off-key, steam curling under the bathroom door. you step out onto the suite’s balcony, signal low, and flick open the group chat on your comm.

you: hey, anyone see a cream-colored travel bag? soft leather, gold zipper. it’s missing from our stuff. maybe got mixed up?

you wait. stare out at the ocean. the wind is warm on your skin.

a message pings a moment later.

caleb: yeah, it’s in my suite. looks like it got tucked into the side of my luggage. you can come grab it.

you freeze.

your thumbs hover.

you: oh. okay. thanks. caleb: door’s open.

adrien calls your name from inside. you glance back, then text:

you: be there in a sec.

you lock your screen. heart tapping too fast beneath your ribs.

it’s just a bag. it’s just a room. and yet— your hands are already reaching for the keycard as if your body’s moved faster than your thoughts.

his door is slightly ajar, just like he said.

you knock once, soft, “come in,” his voice calls from somewhere inside—lower than usual. unhurried.

you step in. the room smells like cedar and something clean, and there’s music playing, soft and smooth—something old, something with a bassline that rolls slow. the kind of music that gets into your pulse without asking.

and then you see him. he’s standing near the open suitcase on the bed, back to you, half-dressed—black swim trunks low on his hips, bare feet on the marble floor, a white towel slung over his shoulder. he’s rifling through folded clothes, pulling out a thin shirt, but he hasn’t put it on yet. and gods. his back is carved. every muscle cut and coiled, broad shoulders tapering down to a lean waist, skin golden from the sun, small scars scattered like whispers from a life you’ll never fully know. his arms flex as he moves. slow. casual. you were a deer in headlights. but the headlights was a sexy 6’2 fleet colonel with the physique of a god.

you stare longer than you mean to—longer than you should. he hears the door click shut behind you and turns, still towel in hand. and when he sees you—he smiles.

“thought you’d take longer,” he says, voice warm. low.

“you didn’t say you’d be half-naked,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but your voice catches somewhere on the way out.

he tilts his head slightly, smirk deepening. “you want me to put something on?”

your throat goes dry, “you’re impossible.” he walks toward you—lazy, deliberate steps. the shirt still hanging loose in one hand, forgotten. “you’ve seen me worse,” he murmurs.

you try to keep your eyes on his face. fail. your gaze dips—chest, abs, the faint trail that disappears below his waistband. holy fuck. when you drag your eyes back up, he’s watching you. head to toe.

“if you’re going to keep looking at me like that,” he says softly, “you might want to close the door properly.”

you realize then—it didn’t latch. you reach back, fingers fumbling for the handle. but you don’t stop looking at him. and he doesn’t stop walking toward you.

you close the door. not all the way. just enough that it clicks. when you turn back, caleb’s closer. still shirtless. still smug. he raises an eyebrow, that infuriatingly soft curl at the corner of his mouth growing. “huh,” he says, lazy. “thought you were just here for your bag.”

your stomach flips you open your mouth, trying to find something—anything—casual to say.

“i didn’t want the breeze blowing it open,” you offer, weakly. he laughs. low and warm, the sound licking at your spine. “right. the breeze.”

you clutch the strap of your purse a little tighter. “you said the door was open.” — “it was,” he says, stepping closer.

you don’t move, “but you locked it.” his eyes drag down, slow, deliberate,not crude—intentional. like he’s memorizing the shape of your breath, the curve of your silence.

“caleb,” you whisper, he says your name back—quiet, reverent. “i’ve missed the way that sounds coming from your mouth.”

your back finds the wall before you realize you’ve been retreating. his hand finds the surface beside your head, fingers spreading out like he owns the space around you.

he’s so close now you can smell the salt on his skin. feel the heat radiating off him. “you should go,” he says, but he doesn’t step back. his voice lowers. “but you won’t.”

your breath stutters. “this is a bad idea.” — “it’s the only idea that’s ever made sense.”

your heart hammers in your chest. his fingers lift—slow—ghosting up your arm. not touching. just close.

“is he enough?” he asks, voice quieter now. “or is he just… safe?”

you don’t answer… you don’t answer him.

instead, you inhale—steadying yourself like you’re preparing for gravity to give out. and then you move, shifting just enough to duck under the curve of his arm. his bare chest grazes your shoulder as you slip past him, and the heat that radiates off his skin feels like it clings to you long after you’re out of his reach.

he doesn’t stop you. he just turns, tracking you with that same steady gaze. like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with your escape.

your footsteps echo softly against the marble floor as you reach the bed. your cream-colored bag sits there, neatly perched beside the open mouth of his suitcase, as if it had always belonged there. innocent. untouched. except now your fingers tremble just slightly as you reach for it.

you curl your hand around the handle and force your face into something neutral, something calm, even though your pulse is slamming against your ribs.

“thanks,” you murmur, your voice too soft, too normal for how wrecked you feel inside. you make it three steps toward the door before he says it.

“i took a souvenir.”

you freeze.

your back stiffens. the room stills with you. you don’t turn. not at first. his voice is casual—low, smooth, velvet draped over something darker. “from your bag.”

you glance back over your shoulder. “what are you talking about?”

he holds something up between two fingers.

a scrap of red silk and lace.

your heart drops like a stone in your chest.

they’re unmistakable—your favorite pair. delicate, barely-there, the ones you packed last-minute without thinking. the ones you almost didn’t bring. crimson and sheer and trimmed in the thinnest whisper of embroidery.

his grin is slow. knowing. just this side of smug, “you really should pack more carefully.”

you stare at him, your mouth parted in silence, heat creeping up your neck and into your cheeks in a flush you can’t begin to fight. he twirls them once on his finger, then drapes them across his palm, like he’s offering you a dare. his voice drops even lower. “or maybe you left them for me.”

you don’t say anything.

you just turn, bag clutched tight in your hand, and walk.

each step feels like it echoes—too slow, too loud, too obvious. the air outside his suite is cooler, but it does nothing for the heat burning beneath your skin.

when you open the door to your room, adrien’s standing by the balcony, shirt halfway unbuttoned, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. he turns when he hears you come in, eyes flicking to your face.

he smiles, but it falters slightly. “you okay?”

“yeah,” you say too quickly, dropping the bag onto the chair, avoiding his eyes. “it’s just—hot. it’s the beach.”

you grab a hair tie from the nightstand and pull your hair back, trying to pretend your ears aren’t burning.

adrien grins, walking over to brush a kiss against your cheek. “you’re right. i forgot how thick the air gets near the coast.” he pulls a linen shirt over his shoulders, still barefoot. “m.c. says everyone’s heading down to the bar soon. they’re starting the party.”

“okay,” you say, grounding yourself in the word. you focus on that—normalcy. the night. drinks. laughter. anything but what’s still fluttering in your chest.

within the hour, you’re all heading down—the group buzzing with early vacation energy. tara arrives in a gauzy wrap and sunglasses, dragging xavier by the hand. m.c. loops her arm through yours, all smiles and mischief. nero’s already asking about the drink menu before you’ve even reached the elevator.

and then caleb joins at the lobby entrance, freshly showered, crisp linen shirt open at the collar, hair damp and pushed back.

he doesn’t look at you, not directly. but his mouth quirks—just slightly—when he catches you looking at him. and god, he still has your underwear.

adrien slips his hand into yours, you smile up at him. and pretend that you’re not still trembling on the inside.

the resort’s bar isn’t just a bar—it’s a whole open-air lounge carved into the edge of the cliffside, with glass railings overlooking the sea and sunken seating arranged in half-moons of plush white cushions and low stone tables. lights are strung overhead in warm strands, flickering like captured stars. the sun is just beginning to set, turning the sky a bruised gold and washing everything in that kind of glow that makes even tension look beautiful.

the group claims a corner table near the edge, laughter easy, legs bare and drinks already sweating in their glasses. m.c. and tara are leaned together, sharing a bowl of citrus-soaked olives, xavier and nero comparing cocktails. adrien sits beside you, his hand tracing light patterns over your thigh as he tells caleb something about property shares on the coast, voice smooth, not bragging—but close.

caleb’s across from you, lounging low, one arm draped along the back of the seat like he owns the curve of the air behind him. he’s got a glass of something dark in his hand, condensation trailing slow down his fingers. he’s half-listening to adrien, nodding politely, but his eyes keep drifting. to you.

you look away, sip your drink.

he speaks, voice low and amused. “adrien, you ever try a flamefruit old fashioned? they only serve them off-world, but i’ve got a connection.”

adrien raises a brow. “can’t say i have.”

“i’ll have the bar replicate it. you’ll love it.” caleb turns, gestures to the server without waiting for permission. “round for the table. my treat.”

m.c. smirks behind her glass. “colonel card again?”

caleb winks. “if i’ve got the perks, might as well use them.”

“what’s it taste like?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.

caleb’s eyes meet yours.

and he smiles, slow and deliberate. “burns going down. sweet after.”

your breath catches. your thighs press together under the table.

adrien chuckles beside you, nudging your knee with his. “i’ll drink anything if it’s free.”

caleb raises his glass slightly, gaze still locked on you. “oh, it’s not free.”

tara fans herself dramatically. “stars, is it hot out here or is it just all this masculine tension choking the oxygen?”

m.c. laughs. “i think caleb’s trying to intimidate your boyfriend, babe.”

“oh, he’s not intimidated,” caleb says, sipping casually. “yet.”

adrien grins, unfazed. “depends. are you trying to charm me or compete with me?”

“does it matter?” caleb says smoothly. “either way, i win.”

the table erupts into a mixture of laughter and groans, but your cheeks are already burning. you don’t dare say a word. because every time you look at him, all you can think about is the red lace still sitting somewhere in his room.

the drinks arrive in short, crystal-cut glasses, glowing faintly pink-orange like sunset syrup. tiny flames flicker at the rim—real fire, hovering just above the liquid like it’s dared to touch it. a soft gasp rises from the table. they smell like heat and sugar, like something forbidden.

“they’re infused with flamefruit,” caleb explains, lounging a little deeper into his seat. “rare export. the alcohol levels double within five minutes of exposure to oxygen.”

“you mean—” m.c. squints at her glass. “this’ll make me blackout drunk?”

“if you’re lucky,” caleb says, sipping his first.

tara grins. “then i want two.”

cheers erupt across the table, glasses clinking, the laughter rising with the tide. the first round hits fast. the second hits hard.

in less than half an hour, nero’s shirtless and swaying to music that isn’t even playing. m.c. has xavier in a headlock in the pool, both of them crying laughing over something that doesn’t even make sense. tara’s floating belly-up in the water, sunglasses still on, whispering to the stars.

adrien’s sprawled across a deck chair beside you, half-asleep, half-chuckling, hand loosely tangled in yours, his voice slurred.

“you’re—so fucking gorgeous,” he mumbles, “you know that?”

you smile at him, soft, but your heart’s somewhere else. because caleb hasn’t moved.

he’s sitting near the pool’s edge, ankles dipped in the water, watching everything with that quiet, unreadable expression. glass empty. gaze fixed.

you pull your hand gently from adrien’s. he doesn’t notice. you rise, your balance steady, even though your skin buzzes faintly from the drink. maybe it’s adrenaline. maybe it’s him.

you walk toward the pool. he watches you approach, lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something, but doesn’t. you sit beside him, legs dangling into the water. the heat from the drink hums beneath your skin. the air smells like salt, citrus, and fire.

“they’re all gone,” you murmur.

he smirks. “lightweights.” you smile, “you didn’t finish yours.” he shrugs. “i wanted to remember tonight.”

you glance at him. his eyes are already on you.

the pool glows beneath your feet. somewhere behind you, adrien calls your name and slurs something about marshmallows, but the sound doesn’t reach you fully. not here. not beside him.

“you planned this,” you whisper. “i didn’t plan you showing up in that dress,” he says back, voice low. “but i’m not complaining.”

your stomach twists. “caleb—”

he leans in, just slightly, voice brushing your skin like velvet. “if i kissed you right now, would you still blame it on the drink?”

you don’t answer

you watch him, the edge of the pool casting shifting ripples of blue light across his chest and jaw. he looks good like this—barefoot, relaxed, but still sharp. always sharp.

“why aren’t you drinking?” you ask softly, trying not to sound like you already know.

he glances at you, half amused. “fleet protocol.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“active duty officers aren’t supposed to drink in public unless it’s sanctioned. even on leave. especially when there’s a crowd.”

you blink at him. “that’s… incredibly responsible of you.”

he snorts. “no, it’s annoying. but i’ve seen what happens when we slip. one colonel blackout-drunk in the wrong company, and it’s a planetary incident.”

you laugh—just a little. soft. “guess that’s why you let us fall apart instead.”

his expression shifts—just for a second. unreadable. raw. you don’t push, but the silence between you isn’t comfortable. it’s full. heavy with all the things you’ve been too afraid to say. a splash breaks the tension—tara, floating sideways, blinking up at the moon like it personally offended her.

“i think the diplomat’s drowning,” caleb mutters.

you both rise at once.

the rest of the night is a slow unraveling. you and caleb move from one friend to the next—xavier slung between your shoulders, nero mumbling something about becoming a beach hermit, m.c. giggling hysterically into caleb’s chest as he carries her in both arms like she weighs nothing. she calls him sir in a fake voice and salutes before passing out.

tara refuses to sleep indoors, insisting the ocean invited her personally. you bribe her with aloe vera lotion.

adrien is the last one—he stumbles into your room, mumbling praise, pressing a kiss to your temple before collapsing sideways on the bed. you help pull his shoes off. he’s already snoring by the time you dim the lights.

you stand at the door for a long moment.

caleb’s across the hall.

you decide to call it quits for the night instead.

you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan turning lazy circles above you. adrien’s out cold beside you, one arm flung across the pillow, mouth slightly open, the sound of his breathing rhythmic, steady. the room is dim, moonlight casting long silver shadows through the sheer curtains.

you try to close your eyes. you try to sleep, but your heart won’t slow down, and you know exactly why.

you slide out of bed carefully, quietly, padding barefoot across the cool tile. you reach for your phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

you don’t text him.

you just open the door. across the hall, his light is still on. your heart thuds once. you knock.

he opens the door almost immediately. like he was waiting.

he’s changed into a dark tee and joggers, barefoot, hair still damp from the night. there’s no smirk this time. no tease. just the quiet question in his eyes.

you whisper, “come walk with me?”

he doesn’t answer. just nods once, grabs his keycard, and follows.

the resort is near silent at night. lanterns glow low along the stone paths, lighting the garden walkways and casting soft reflections over the still pool water. the air is warm and salty, the kind of breeze that curls around your ankles and hums beneath your skin.

you walk side by side in silence for a while. until he says, “you always used to sneak out like this.”

you smile faintly. “you always caught me.” —“because you were bad at sneaking.” a pause, “because you were obsessive.”

he glances at you. “you say that like it’s a flaw.” you laugh, soft and tired. “you still are.” he hums. “only about some things.” you walk past the little row of cabanas, their curtains fluttering in the wind.

“remember the old beach station?” you say. “the busted one we thought was haunted?” — “you mean the one i dragged you into during a thunderstorm?”

“and then left me when a bird flew into the window.” he grins, sharp and nostalgic. “you screamed first.”

“i had reason to. i thought it was a ghost.” he glances at you again, eyes softer now. “you always believed in things i couldn’t see.”

you stop walking. just for a second.

the wind picks up, and you wrap your arms around yourself. not from cold—just to keep something in.

“why now, caleb?” you ask. “why all of this?” he looks at you. eyes serious. voice low. “because for years, i told myself you’d be there when i was ready.” you inhale. feel it sting.

“and now that you’re not mine,” he adds, softer, “i can’t stop wondering if i waited too long.”

you walk again, wordless, the silence a little heavier now. not cold—just brimming. every step brushing against the edge of something you’ve both kept locked away for far too long.

then the path curves.

a narrow stone turnoff, half-hidden by a curtain of vines and low-hanging lanterns. you slip into it without thinking, your feet moving before your mind catches up. he follows. the alcove is small. private. a carved-out space in the garden wall, ivy crawling over old stone and no cameras, no windows, no footsteps nearby. the moonlight doesn’t quite reach this far. it feels like another world tucked inside the resort—untouched, unseen.

you stop walking. and then he’s there, you turn to face him—barely. his hands find your wrists. slow. deliberate.

and he pins them above your head, pressing them gently into the cool stone wall. your breath catches—more in shock than fear. your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away.

you can’t.

his body is close. too close. heat rolling off him in waves, his mouth just inches from yours, his knee brushing yours, chest rising and falling steady while yours stutters.

his voice is low—dangerous and velvet. “you want to know the worst part?”

you can’t speak— can barely move.

“it’s not just that i want you,” he murmurs, head tilting, his breath hot against your cheek. “it’s how much i know you want me back.”

your fingers twitch in his grip. he leans in closer—lips at your ear now.

“you lock your knees when i touch you. you look away every time i say your name. and when i held your panties in my hand—” his mouth brushes the shell of your ear—“you didn’t tell me to give them back.”

your pulse is roaring. his grip stays firm but gentle—like he’s restraining himself more than you.

“i don’t need to kiss you to know how you’d taste,” he says, voice ragged now. “i remember you. and i’ve dreamed about this for too long.”

your whole body trembles. his forehead leans against yours, and for a second—just one—he softens.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers.

his breath fans against your lips, heavy with want and the weight of everything unsaid. he has you pinned—not roughly, not cruelly, but like he’s clinging to the one thing in this entire galaxy that still feels real. his fingers are firm around your wrists, pressing them gently into the cool stone behind you, his body a whisper away from yours, heat coiled between you like a storm about to break.

and god, you want him. so bad.

you want him the way your body remembers—hot and hungry, instinctive. the way your heart still does—tangled in the memory of laughter in empty classrooms, late-night talks and half-written letters, the smell of his skin on your pillow long after he left.

but your heart isn’t quiet. not now.

and your mouth, when it moves, doesn’t say yes.

it says—soft, barely audible—“stop.”

he goes still— completely still. like the air’s been sucked out of him.

his fingers twitch where they hold you, then slowly, almost reverently, let go. your wrists drop to your sides, tingling, your arms aching in the absence of his touch. he steps back, just an inch, like it hurts to put distance there, but he respects it anyway.

he’s breathing hard. not from exertion, but from everything he’s holding back.

you don’t look at him right away. your head is down. your chest rises and falls like you’re trying not to cry.

and then you do.

tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them—warm and silent, cutting slow paths down skin that still burns from where he touched you.

you lift your head, finally, and meet his gaze. he looks stricken. like someone who just realized he’s still bleeding from a wound he thought had healed.

“you didn’t pick me,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you had your chance. you left.”

he opens his mouth, but no words come.

“i waited for you,” you continue, stronger now, bitterness threading through the ache. “i waited longer than i should’ve. and you just… disappeared into the fleet. you sent reports. updates. hollow things. and i tried—i tried so fucking hard—to make peace with that.”

he takes a step closer, instinctive. but you back up, just slightly.

“and then i met someone,” you say. “someone who chose me. who stayed. who wanted a life, not just a memory.”

his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t speak.

you wipe the tears from your cheek with the back of your hand, breath sharp in your chest. “you don’t get to come back now and do this. you don’t get to touch me like i’m yours. you don’t get to look at me like that when i’ve finally, finally chosen to be happy.”

but i love you. your head buries the thought.

the silence that follows is suffocating. he’s breathing through his nose, eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing the pain he caused.

you hold his gaze one last time.

then you turn, footsteps light but unsteady as you walk away from him. past the vines, past the soft lights, past the garden path that still smells faintly of sea salt and firefruit.

he doesn’t follow.

he just stands there, rooted to the stone, with the weight of your words draped over his shoulders like a cloak he’ll never take off.

the sun creeps through the curtains like it’s apologizing. golden and soft, too kind for the ache sitting behind your eyes.

you dress in silence.

adrien’s already downstairs—he left early to meet with one of his execs flying in for the tail end of the celebration. he kissed your forehead before he left. you barely felt it.

your reflection in the mirror looks almost normal.

except your eyes— your eyes tell on you.

by the time you reach the dining terrace, the rest of the group is already gathered at a large outdoor table. white linen umbrellas shade half-drunk smoothies and strong coffee, sunglasses hiding most of their misery. nero looks like he’s about to melt into his plate. tara’s eating fruit directly from the tray with no shame. m.c. is dressed immaculately, of course, sipping lemon water like she didn’t drag half of xavier’s body weight through the hallway the night before.

“there she is,” m.c. says when she sees you, tone light. “sleep okay?”

you nod, sliding into the seat between her and tara.

“adrien told me you were already up,” xavier says groggily. “you people with morning routines are terrifying.”

you smile, small, polite, careful.

but your heart is already scanning the table.

he’s not here. you wait. maybe he’s just late.

but then m.c. sets her glass down and clears her throat.

“before anyone asks,” she says, tone just a little too smooth, “caleb had to leave early. fleet business. emergency recall. left just before sunrise.”

there’s a collective groan of disappointment. tara swears under her breath. xavier shrugs, “figures.”

nero mutters something like, damn, i owed him twenty credits.

but your stomach sinks… he didn’t say goodbye.

m.c. doesn’t look at you when she continues, cheerful now. “good news, though. the suite arrangements are staying the same—and he left instructions to keep everything on his card. so drinks, spa, room service—go wild.”

cheers rise across the table. xavier lifts his coffee like a toast. nero suddenly looks awake. tara claps her hands like someone just proposed. you force a smile. raise your own glass, but something inside you feels hollow. like a door closed quietly in the night, and you didn’t get to see what was on the other side.

he’s gone. again, and this time, he didn’t even look back

the rest of the trip slips through your fingers like sand.

there are bonfires and cocktails with flowers in them. ocean breezes and overpriced massages. poolside games and laughter that never quite reaches your chest. adrien is warm and sweet, always touching your hand, your shoulder, the small of your back. you let him. you kiss him when he leans in. you laugh at his jokes. you say “i love you” when he murmurs it against your temple.

but your heart stays quiet.

and caleb doesn’t message you.

not once.

no apology. no explanation. not even a hollow joke or a sign that he’d been thinking of you at all. it’s like he vanished again—just like before—leaving only the ache of what almost was. no one asks. not even m.c. she watches you sometimes, like she wants to, but she never says a word. she just stays close. brings you tea in the mornings. walks with you at night.

you keep waiting for something to break the silence.

it never does and eventually, the trip ends.

everyone hugs goodbye on the private landing deck. adrien kisses your cheek, promising he’ll take you somewhere even more beautiful next time. nero grumbles about work. tara’s already posting sunlit pictures. xavier pretends he didn’t cry when he saw the bill.

you hop in the car and look out the window as the coastline disappears beneath the clouds.

no messages.

no name lighting up your screen.

just your reflection, staring back at you, quieter now.

it’s been two weeks.

you’ve returned to routine—your apartment, your desk, your carefully managed calendar of quiet obligations. adrien is away on business, a two-week summit. he calls when he can. he sends gifts. you thank him with a soft voice and a smile he can’t see is empty.

you haven’t heard from caleb.

you’d convinced yourself that was permanent.

so when the building’s front desk pings you with a call, and the attendant says, “miss, there’s a colonel caleb xia here to see you. he’s requested you come down,” your breath catches like a hook in your lungs.

you almost say no, however, your feet are already moving.

the elevator doors open to the private valet entrance, and you step into the golden light of late afternoon—soft, clean, and far too warm for the cold in your chest.

and there he is.

leaning against the most stunning piece of car you’ve ever seen—gloss-black body, brushed metal trim, glowing fleet detailing along the edge of the door. a top-of-the-line sports car, modified beyond standard specs. of course.

he’s dressed simply—black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark trousers, aviator shades tucked into his collar—but he still looks like he walked out of a novel.

and when he sees you—god, he actually looks nervous.

“hey,” he says, voice low. “thanks for coming down.” you stop a few steps away. arms crossed. walls up. “what are you doing here?”

he straightens. runs a hand through his hair like he’s bracing for something. “i owe you an apology.”

you don’t answer. you just wait.

“that night,” he says, “it was a fleet emergency. a real one. intel flagged a threat linked to one of my old operations—classified level. i had to leave before sunrise. couldn’t even bring my comm back online until i cleared orbit.”

he takes a step closer.

“i wasn’t ghosting you. i wasn’t running. i just—had to go. and i’m sorry you thought i didn’t care.”

your eyes sting, but you hold his gaze.

he exhales. voice softer now. “i should’ve told you as soon as i landed. but the longer i waited, the harder it got. and i… didn’t want to make things worse for you. not if you’d already chosen to forget me.”

silence stretches. and then—he nods toward the passenger door.

“i just want to talk. no pressure. no expectations. just you and me. one hour. that’s all i’m asking.”

your hand tightens around your phone. your heart’s a mess.

you nod, following him out of the apartment entrance.

you get in.

you don’t say anything at first.

just buckle your seatbelt and stare out the window as he pulls out of the lot, the engine humming smooth and low beneath you. he doesn’t play music. doesn’t speak. just drives—steady, like he knows every road but isn’t rushing through any of them.

the city thins. buildings stretch out into tree-lined residential zones, then the pavement turns soft with shadows. he pulls off into a small overlook just past the western ridge—where the city lights look like stardust and the sky hangs low and warm in the early dusk.

he puts the car in park but leaves the engine running.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

just rests his hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield like he’s trying to breathe evenly.

then, quietly: “i don’t know what the hell i’m doing anymore.”

you glance at him, unsure of what to say.

his jaw flexes. “i thought i could just see you again. that it’d fade. that i’d remember why i left it all alone in the first place.”

his voice cracks slightly when he says your name. he turns toward you, finally, and there’s nothing calm in his eyes now. none of the smooth teasing or practiced control. just hunger. grief. something that’s been clawing at him for far too long.

“but it hasn’t faded,” he says. “it’s worse.”

you shift, pulse thudding louder in your ears.

“i miss you,” he breathes. “i miss you like it’s a sickness. like it’s in my bones.”

his fingers tighten on the wheel. “i think about you every goddamn day. and it’s not just memories. it’s need. it��s knowing exactly how you sound when you laugh and how you bite your lip when you’re overthinking something. it’s how you used to tuck your feet under mine on the couch just so they’d stay warm.”

you swallow hard.

“and i’ve tried,” he continues, raw now. “i’ve tried so hard to let go. to respect what you’ve built with him. but seeing you with him—smiling, reaching for his hand, looking up at him like he’s your future—i fucking hate it.”

you don’t look at him. you can’t.

“i know what this makes me,” he says. “but if the only way i get to have you is behind closed doors—if that’s all you’re willing to give me—i’ll take it.”

your breath catches.

he leans closer across the center console. “i’ll take anything,” he whispers, “as long as it’s you.”

you sit there, the silence thick as the sky around you. the console hums gently between your bodies, the glow of the city stretching out in front of you like a life that isn’t yours.

your fingers twist in your lap, voice raw when it finally breaks free.

“i don’t want to do that to him,” you whisper.

caleb says nothing.

you stare at your hands. “he’s never lied to me. never hurt me. he’s always been there, always—shown up. and he loves me.” your throat tightens. “he really loves me.”

you turn your face toward the window, breath fogging the glass. “how do i do this to someone like that?”

caleb shifts. not toward you—just slightly. like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

“i’m not asking you to stop loving him,” he says finally, voice low, rough. “i’m asking you to stop pretending that’s all you feel.”

you shut your eyes.

he leans a little closer, his voice a breath against the quiet.

“you ache when i look at you,” he murmurs. “you flinch when i say your name. like you’re terrified of what it does to you.”

your heart slams against your ribs.

he exhales. “you think i didn’t see it? in the alcove? at the pool? even now—you won’t look at me because you’re afraid you’ll want it again.”

you turn, slowly, meeting his eyes—and he’s already there. watching you like he’s memorized the exact shape of your restraint.

“you’ve been wanting to fuck me for years,” he says, low and devastating. “you want to know how i know?”

you don’t breathe.

his gaze drags down—slow, deliberate—then back up, landing squarely on your mouth. “because i’ve been wanting it just as long. and i feel it—every time i’m near you. you’re thinking about it right now, and you hate yourself for it.”

your lip trembles, and he sees it. of course he does.

but his voice softens—just slightly.

“i’m not asking you to be cruel,” he says. “i’m asking you to be honest.”

he leans back then, like he’s giving you room to choose.

like he knows he’s already cracked something wide open.

you don’t answer.

you just sit there, the words still echoing in the low, humming cabin. his voice lingers in your blood, thick and hot, and your throat feels too tight to swallow.

he doesn’t push. doesn’t speak again. he just watches you for a moment longer—like he wants to reach out, like he won’t.

then he shifts, gently easing the car out of park.

the drive back is quiet.

the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch, like your whole body is trying to scream beneath the weight of what wasn’t said. the city glides by in a blur of golden streetlights and reflections in glass. you don’t know what song is playing, if any. your pulse is too loud in your ears to notice.

caleb pulls up in front of your building.

he doesn’t turn off the engine.

doesn’t look at you, at first.

you reach for the door handle with fingers that don’t feel like yours.

he speaks, soft, one last time. “you don’t have to decide tonight.”

you nod, but you don’t look at him.

you open the door, step out onto the curb. the air is cooler now, night brushing your skin like a warning. you don’t say goodbye and he doesn’t ask you to.

he waits until you’re inside the building before he pulls away. you don’t watch him go. but god, you feel it.

you feel every inch of distance stretching between who you are and what you want.

and you’re still thinking about it. thinking about him. even as the elevator closes. even as your door clicks shut.

even as you crawl into bed beside a man who has never made you cry, and still—

he isn’t the one making your heart race

morning comes slow, the kind that bleeds in through the curtains too gently to jolt you awake. your body moves on muscle memory—coffee, robe, soft slippers against the floor. adrien is already at the dining counter, sleeves rolled, reading through a holo-brief projected over his tablet. he looks up the second you enter.

“hey,” he says, with that easy smile. “you slept in.”

you nod. pour yourself a cup. you don’t meet his eyes.

“bad dreams?”

you shake your head. “just… tired.” he watches you for a second too long. you feel it.

he sets the tablet aside, his expression softening. “you okay?”

you stir your coffee. it takes longer than it should.

he gets up, walks over, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind—warm and sure, chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “you’ve been quiet,” he says. “colder, maybe. just a little.”

your throat tightens.

he presses a soft kiss to the curve of your neck. “if there’s something wrong—if i’ve done something—”

“no,” you interrupt gently, your voice barely above a whisper. “you haven’t.”

you turn slightly in his hold, enough to face him but not enough to really look.

“i get like this sometimes,” you lie. “just… little dips. random depression waves. i don’t always see them coming.”

his brows knit in concern, but he nods. you smile, and it feels brittle.

“i’m sorry if i’ve been distant. it’s not about you. really.”

he leans in and presses his forehead to yours.

“you don’t owe me apologies for how you feel,” he says quietly. “i’m not here for the best parts of you. i’m here for all of it.”

that breaks something in you. you hug him tighter than you mean to. he doesn’t question it. he just holds you. and you close your eyes. not to rest— but to hide from the truth pressing like a bruise beneath your ribs.

adrien’s message hits m.c.’s inbox just before noon, voice-attached, full of that effortless charm that makes him impossible to say no to.

“hey, sunshine. thinking of throwing something small this weekend at our place. just food, drinks, the usual. she’s been a little… off lately, and i thought maybe being around friends might help her shake it. you in?”

then, a second message, a little sheepish:

“also, i may have bought an embarrassing amount of alcohol. could use your help curating it so it doesn’t look like a cry for help.”

m.c. doesn’t even hesitate. she sends back a voice note with a laugh and a “count me in, you reckless wine hoarder.”

by the next day, he’s pulling strings.

he orders catering from her favorite fusion spot. hires a soft jazz duo for background music. stocks the bar with rare liquors—imports, aged things with names he can’t pronounce, glittery mixers from a lunar distillery she once offhandedly said reminded her of childhood.

and then, almost as an afterthought—but not really—he messages caleb.

adrien: got a favor. hosting a small get-together for her. thought maybe you could pull a few strings and get that flamefruit cocktail mix again? she loved it. figured it might get her smiling.

the message is casual. friendly. trusting.

caleb reads it twice.

he doesn’t respond immediately.

but two hours later, adrien gets a delivery confirmation for an off-world case of flamefruit extract with a note:

“tell her it burns going down, but it’s sweet after.”

adrien smiles. texts back a simple “you’re a legend.”

he has no idea what he’s set in motion.

193 notes · View notes

societyfolklore · 2 days ago

Text

The Cost of Access

Title: The Cost of Access

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Entrepreneur!Female Reader

Summary: At a high-stakes D.C. fundraiser. You’re there to protect your start-up from political threats, not to play the donor game but Bucky surprises you. He sees past the surface, speaks your language, and for one charged night, the two of you find something raw, reckless, and unexpectedly sincere behind closed doors.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, mirror sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), light dominance, light choking (hand on throat), champagne-fueled decisions, emotional tension, slight political themes, post-sex awkwardness

A/N: Not a Thunderbolts* fic… I will be making sure this space stays spoiler free for a few weeks since I don’t want to spoil for anyone until they get the chance.

You weren't lobbying. Not really.

You were there to make sure your startup, barely past Series B funding and already on the radar of corporate predators, didn’t get chewed up and swallowed whole under the guise of 'infrastructure reform.' D.C. had a way of wrapping its greed in clean bills and smiling handshakes. You weren’t about to watch your work get buried under a competitor’s line item, or worse, co-opted by a conglomerate that didn’t understand the first thing about what you’d built.

Your company was scrappy, efficient, and bold, everything the legacy players hated. And you had no intention of letting a single careless vote collapse the years of sweat equity and innovation you’d bled for. You didn’t want favours. You wanted protection. An understanding. Leverage, if you were lucky.

But the fundraiser was unbearable.

Everyone either talked at you like you were some high-yield asset ripe for exploitation, or worse, like a walking checkbook with tits. You’d worn a sharp dress, tailored, matte black, the neckline modest, the slit at your thigh anything but, and still you felt like a prize pig at auction, trotted out for admiration, smiled at by men who never once asked the name of your company.

You played the part. Sipped the champagne. Nodded politely. It was exhausting, watching the glittering masks slip when they thought you weren’t worth the effort. And still, you stayed. Because someone had to protect what you’d built, and tonight that someone was you.

You were just deciding how quickly you could leave without burning too many bridges when you saw him.

Congressman Barnes.

Polished shoes. Classic black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Bowtie slightly askew, like he wanted to appear relaxed without actually letting his guard down. His posture was clean but coiled, all quiet control and unreadable calm. He gave you a small, acknowledging nod across the room, like he recognized the same bored exhaustion on your face that he felt in his bones.

He looked about as bored as you did.

Then his campaign manager leaned in, whispered something in his ear, you saw the shift in his shoulders, the faint sigh. You felt yourself groan inwardly. Another political animal sending their candidate your way, sniffing around to see what you were willing to pay to keep yourself ahead of the pack.

You’d seen the type. Hell, you’d dated the type. They smiled like wolves, hands warm and eyes calculating.

But Barnes didn’t start with a smile. He didn’t lead with a pitch, or some tired attempt at charm. Instead:

“You run that adaptive interface platform, right? For small logistics firms?”

You blinked, thrown slightly off balance. “That’s… oddly specific. Most people just call it ‘some tech thing.’”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Genuine. Quietly pleased with himself.

““My campaign manager said I should try being more charming. I figured knowing what you actually do was a decent start.”

That earned him a raised brow and a small sip of your drink. “So this is you charming me?”

“I’m trying,” he admitted, voice low as he stepped in just enough to share your air, but not enough to crowd. “I don’t like asking for money. I’d rather earn what I get.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “That makes two of us. Everyone here’s just charming enough to take your money, none of them want to hear why you felt the need to offer it in the first place.”

His brow arched with quiet interest. “And why do you?”

You hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Because I’ve watched too many people like me, too many sharp, brilliant startups, get crushed under policy written by people who’ve never actually built anything. I have money now, sure. But the world’s... complicated. One bill, one amendment, one line in the wrong place, and everything collapses.”

He nodded slowly, expression shifting from polite to something more real. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it’s all turning into some elaborate game lately. Everyone pointing fingers, selling favors, whoring themselves out for donations. It’s about who you shake hands with, not who you help. And that’s not what I signed up for.”

You tilted your head. “So what did you sign up for?”

Bucky looked at you then, really looked. Blue eyes steady and piercing, the kind of gaze that cut through all your practiced armour and found the person underneath. There was no sales pitch in that look, no calculation. Just something honest. Something that made your throat tighten. “Just trying to make sure life’s better for people who don’t have the time or power to fight for it themselves.”

For the first time that evening, you felt your defences slip.

You stayed put.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

It wasn’t supposed to happen. But the elevator ride had been quiet and charged, a weight of unspoken tension thick in the air between you. The kind that buzzed in the bones and made your fingers twitch with anticipation. He’d asked if you wanted to see the view from the top floor. Just the skyline, he'd said. Just five minutes. You'd known the invitation carried more than one meaning, and you'd said yes anyway.

The elevator climbed too slowly and too fast all at once. Neither of you said much, just sidelong glances, soft exhales, the space between you alive with heat. When the doors opened, he stepped aside to let you pass, hand brushing your lower back with a quiet confidence that sent a bolt of want through your spine.

The skyline passed in a blur. You vaguely remembered the glittering lights of the Capitol, the outline of the Washington Monument, but mostly, you remembered the click of his keycard, the soft whoosh of the suite door, and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He didn’t say a word as you stepped inside. Just followed, silent and watchful. You felt the warmth of him behind you, the weight of his gaze tracing the bare skin of your shoulders. The brush of his knuckles down your spine made you shiver, and then you turned, and he looked at you like a man starving.

Like he'd wanted to taste you since the moment he saw you across the room.

"You still want to see the view?" he murmured, voice deeper now, rougher around the edges. You didn’t answer with words. Just stepped toward him, fingers tugging the lapel of his tux with a boldness that surprised even you.

He kissed you like he meant to burn the memory into your skin. Like he was starving and you were the only thing that would satisfy. Champagne lingered on your tongue, on his lips, between the clink of teeth and the soft drag of breath.

And when he backed you toward the table, fingers already skimming the edge of your thigh, you knew, this wasn’t politics anymore. This was something reckless. Something raw. Something that had nothing to do with influence or strategy.

Just the way he needed you. And in that moment, you let yourself want him right back- recklessly, breathlessly, without second-guessing the consequences.

The taste of champagne still lingered on your tongue as his lips brushed the sensitive skin at your throat, sending a fresh shiver down your spine and pulling you back into the heat between you. The click of your heels echoing against marble as he backed you toward the suite’s glossy dining table,. Your breath hitched when he slid your dress up your thighs with practiced ease.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to soak through your panties just from a little political banter,” he murmured, crouching as he tugged your panties down your thighs, eyes flicking up with that same smirk. “You gonna let me see what all that sharp talk was hiding?”

You rolled your eyes at the line, but the breath caught in your throat when his fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open with reverent, maddening patience. The pads of his fingers were calloused, warm, utterly unhurried. They moved like he’d done this before, but never quite like this. Like you were different. Like he wanted to learn you, not just make you moan.

“Oh, fuck, ” you gasped, hips twitching at the contact, thighs trying and failing to stay still as that first spark of sensation bled into a full-body ache.

He watched intently, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, focused like you were a puzzle he already knew the solution to but wanted to work through anyway, piece by trembling piece. One finger traced your entrance, then two pressed inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. The stretch was maddening and perfect, your walls clenching around him in a greedy flutter.

You whimpered, grinding down on his hand, shameless in the way you chased his touch. The heel of your shoe slipped a little on the polished floor, but he didn’t let you go, just steadied you with his free hand, palm flat on your thigh.

“Look at you,” he murmured, half to himself. “Could ruin me on the floor of a damn hotel suite and not even break a sweat.”

He brought the slick digits to his mouth, sucked them clean with a groan that went straight to your core, his tongue slow and deliberate like he was savoring the taste.

“Sweetest thing I’ve had in weeks,” he said, voice low, lazy, wicked, before picking you up and placing you gently on the edge of the table like you belonged there. Then he sank to his knees between your legs with deliberate care, hands sliding under your thighs to spread you open wider.

He looked up once, gaze molten with hunger and reverence, then lowered his head between your legs.

His tongue flicked through your folds with slow, luxurious precision. Lips sealed around your clit like a man on a mission, like the night didn’t end until you were wrecked and trembling, laid bare for him in every way.

You gripped the table edge hard enough to bruise, head tilted back as a moan slipped from your lips, loud and unashamed. Champagne warmth buzzed through your bloodstream, lowering every inhibition, making you shameless. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue circling your clit with infuriating expertise, teasing and coaxing until your thighs were shaking.

"Bucky, oh my god- " you gasped, voice catching when he sealed his mouth tighter around you and sucked. The sound that left you was raw, desperate, the kind of noise that filled a luxury suite and made your face flush with heat.

He moaned into you like your taste was heaven, hands tightening under your thighs as he buried his face deeper. His nose bumped your mound, tongue flattening and stroking in long, slow passes. When he shifted the angle, dragging the tip against that spot, just right- your body jolted.

"There," you breathed, grinding into his face. "Fuck, right there, don't stop."

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down. He groaned, one hand releasing your thigh only to slip between your legs again. Two fingers pressed in, firm and slow, curling in rhythm with his tongue until your whole body was a tight coil of want.

Your legs tried to close around him, thighs locking reflexively, but he held you open with a rough, growled "Let me have it. Let go for me, sweetheart. Come on."

You shattered.

Pleasure built like a storm inside you, cresting fast and hard until it snapped, tearing through you with a raw, blistering heat that left your legs shaking and your breath stuttering. Your body locked for one suspended moment, every nerve on fire, before the aftershocks rippled through you- deep, pulsing waves that made you moan, helpless and high on the intensity. Your hips jerked, your back arched, a high whine leaving your lips as his mouth stayed on you through every pulse. You heard your name tumble from your mouth in a breathless, broken cry.

Even then, he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, gentle now, tongue tracing soft, lazy patterns until you were squirming from overstimulation, a laugh-sob catching in your throat.

He finally pulled back, lips glistening, breathing hard like he was the one who’d just come.

"Told you," he said, voice wrecked and low, kissing your inner thigh. "Sweetest thing I've had in weeks."

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded as he looked down at you. Then he reached for your dress, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he eased it over your hips and up your body. You lifted your arms, dazed and pliant, letting him strip it away and drop it to the floor with quiet finality. He stepped back just long enough to shrug out of his shirt, fingers popping buttons open one by one before he pulled it free of his shoulders and let it fall.

You watched him, heart racing. His tie came off next. Then his belt. His slacks hit the floor with a soft rustle, and you caught your breath as he stepped out of them, bare and beautiful and hard for you.

He circled behind you, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your back. His hands slid over your waist, up your ribs, fingers splaying across your stomach. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, slow, reverent, greedy. You tilted your head to the side, gave him space to devour the skin there. His cock nudged the curve of your ass, thick and hot and insistent.

"Come here," he rasped, walking you forward until the bed met your thighs. He turned you slightly, guiding you to the center of the mattress, facing the mirror across from it.

You leaned forward slightly, bracing yourself on your palms as he settled behind you. One hand slid between your thighs to guide himself as the other spread across your hip, grounding you. You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then, with one deep, slow thrust, he pushed into you.

Your mouth fell open, a moan tearing free as your walls stretched to accommodate him. Your eyes fluttered shut at the fullness, the thick, perfect pressure making your knees tremble. Behind you, Bucky groaned low and broken, hands tightening on your hips.

"Fuck, baby… you're so tight," he hissed through his teeth, voice strained with restraint.

You couldn’t find words. Just the burn, the ache, the pulse of pleasure radiating outward as he began to move, slow, dragging thrusts that had your eyes rolling back with every stroke. You heard the slick sound of your bodies meeting, felt the heat of his chest as he leaned in closer, his breath warm on your shoulder.

Then he pulled you upright, chest flush against your back, his hand sliding up to grip your throat with just enough pressure to hold you steady. The angle shifted, his cock spearing deeper as your spine arched and your legs widened in instinct. Your head fell back against his shoulder with a broken moan.

"Look," he rasped, turning your chin so your eyes met the mirror. "Look at me fucking you."

Your mouth parted as you watched the obscene beauty of it, his body pressed to yours, hips rolling up into you with power and purpose, your breasts moving with every thrust, that delicate chain swinging at your collarbone. His arm banded across your waist, anchoring you in place.

He rocked into you again, slow but deliberate, his breath ragged as he muttered, "God, you feel good, so fucking good."

You could only whimper in reply, eyelids fluttering, hips pushing back to meet him as slick pleasure gathered low in your belly again, tighter with every perfect stroke. Your eyes closed, breathing hard.

“Come on, open your eyes. Watch how good you look taking me,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “How perfect you look falling apart.”

You couldn’t look away.

Your gaze met your reflection, flushed skin, parted lips, the look of raw pleasure on your face as his cock filled you with slow, deliberate precision, each thrust deep and controlled, wringing gasps from your throat and arching your back with every stroke. Your fingers scrabbled behind you, finding purchase on his metal arm, nails digging into the vibranium plating as you gasped.

"Harder," you whispered, breath fogging the mirror. "Please, Bucky, "

He growled, the sound low and rough in your ear, and lost the last of his composure. Letting a go of the hold on you neck.

Bucky bent you over the bed, hand gripping your waist like he meant to leave fingerprints, thrusting rougher now, deeper. Each stroke punched a moan from your lips, loud and wrecked. The slap of skin meeting skin echoed through the suite.

Your name fell from his mouth in a strained, reverent groan as your walls clenched around him and you came with a sob, body jerking under the weight of it. The pleasure was blinding, your muscles trembling, your thighs shaking as you cried out, caught somewhere between ecstasy and surrender.

Bucky's grip tightened on your hips, a guttural noise tearing from his throat. "Fuck, fuck, doll, that's it, " he gasped, hips stuttering.

He snapped forward with one last deep, punishing thrust and came with a harsh grunt, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you. You could feelTitle: The Cost of Access the heat of it, the fullness, and it only made your body tighten again in response. His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, breath hot and ragged against your spine.

Neither of you moved for a long, suspended moment, just the sound of breathing, the lingering echo of skin on skin, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the room. His hands softened on your hips, thumbs brushing soothingly across the skin he'd just gripped so fiercely. He leaned in, kissed the slope of your back, slow and reverent.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The silence said everything.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

You woke before he did.

The suite was too quiet. Just the hush of morning traffic filtering up from the city streets, the hum of the minibar fridge, and the rhythmic, steady sound of his breathing. You lay still for a moment, letting the soft warmth of his body behind you linger before reality crept in through the gauzy light.

Sunlight spilled across the hotel floor in perfect rectangles. The room still carried the humid trace of last night- skin-warmed sheets, the musky whisper of sex clinging to the air, and the soft, fading note of his cologne drifting lazily through the quiet. You slid out from beneath the sheet slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb him. But before you moved too far, you glanced back over your shoulder.

His hair was a mess, dark strands falling over his forehead in soft, unruly waves. One arm was flung lazily over the pillow, the other tucked beneath it, his vibranium arm, glinting faintly in the morning light. His face was relaxed, softened in sleep in a way you hadn’t seen the night before. Vulnerable. Real.

You stared for a beat longer than you meant to, throat tight. Then you turned away and stepped lightly onto the floor.

You found your dress crumpled near the foot of the bed. Your shoes tucked half under a chair. Your phone facedown on the nightstand. No panties. You searched briefly, under the bed, beneath a cushion, and came up empty. Of course.

You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t leave a note. Just smoothed your dress down, slipped your heels back on, and left with your hair a mess and your thighs sticky with the night before.

You didn’t want to be seen as the kind of woman who bought access with sex, who traded power and control for one night of heat and champagne-clouded recklessness. That wasn’t who you were.

And he… well, you weren’t sure if he’d think he sold it. If he’d wake and think you were just another wealthy donor slipping out before the illusion shattered.

You’d hovered for a moment near the minibar, fingertips grazing the notepad left beside the phone. You’d even picked up the pen. A part of you had thought about leaving a check, not for the good time, not for the sex, but because, for one brief, dangerous moment, you’d hoped he was the kind of man worth investing in. Someone who meant what he said, who could actually hold the line when others bent. Someone who might fight for the things that mattered.

But your hand had stilled.

What would he think if he found that? That you’d paid him for it? That he was just like the rest of them, bought and fucked and forgotten?

He wasn’t a whore. No matter what people thought of politicians.

You set the pen down.

Better to leave. You could make a donation later. Quietly. Through the proper channels. When it wouldn’t feel like an apology.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

You were halfway through your third coffee of the morning, hunched over a stack of budgets and investor notes when the intern knocked twice on your office door before pushing it open.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” she said, holding out a slim envelope. “This came by courier earlier. It didn’t look like it was office mail.”

You frowned, setting your mug down and brushing your hair back. The envelope was plain, unmarked. Heavy cardstock. Your name printed neatly in the center. No return address.

You waited until the door closed again before sliding your thumb beneath the seal.

Inside: a familiar scrap of lace. Your panties, folded neatly, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne and something unmistakably you. Your breath hitched when your fingers brushed the fabric, your cheeks flushing hot.

And a note. Typed. Crisp cardstock. No letterhead, no signature, but the message was clear. Unmistakably him.

‘We’ll finish what we started.’

Just beneath the line, in faint pen ink, scrawled as if added last second, in a hand you didn’t quite expect to look so neat, was one more sentence:

‘Next time, stay for breakfast.’

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #x female reader #smut #marvel smut #bucky barnes x fem!reader #buckybarnes #james bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader

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kathaelipwse · 9 hours ago

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The Bang Chan Husband Files | Headcanons

Dates

Thoughtful to the Core: Bang Chan doesn’t just take you on dates—he curates experiences. A picnic with your favorite snacks, a playlist he made just for the mood, fairy lights, and heartfelt conversation is his idea of perfect. Quality Time Lover: He values genuine connection. Watching your favorite movies with takeout and tangled limbs on the couch is his love language. Memory Maker: Keeps old movie tickets, dried flowers, and Polaroids in a memory box. Every anniversary, he shows you how far you’ve come. Surprise Artist: Plans spontaneous bookstore or museum dates where he pretends to be clueless but clearly researched the exhibits beforehand. Homebody at Heart (But For You, He’ll Step Out): Prefers quiet moments at home, but if you want a night out, he puts in effort—clean button-up, styled hair, hand always in yours. Says the Cutest Things: On casual dates, he’ll blurt things like: “I could do this forever with you. This—us.”

Protective

Silent Guardian Energy: He doesn’t need to say much—his stance, his gaze, and the way he subtly moves closer when someone makes you uncomfortable say it all. The “Step-Forward” Move: Whenever you're walking in a crowded place, he gently shifts his body in front of you to shield you, especially from pushy people or stares. Mild Jealousy, Major Control: If someone flirts, he won’t cause a scene. Just leans down and whispers, “Remind me later that you’re mine, yeah?” with that low, playful voice. Always Prepared: Makes you share your location for your safety, and if you don’t respond after a while, he calls—not to scold, but because he’s scared something happened. Protects You From Yourself Too: If you’re overthinking, insecure, or spiraling, he’ll stop everything and say, “You don’t get to talk about someone I love like that.” Gentle Shield: When things overwhelm you, he wraps his arms around you and says, “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Love Language: Acts of Service + Physical Touch

Acts of Service King: He notices the little things you hate doing—laundry, trash, bills—and does them before you can even ask. Fix-It Husband™: Will spend hours figuring out how to assemble something just to make your life easier. You’re always his priority. Can’t Keep His Hands to Himself: Always touching you—thigh squeezes, back rubs while you're cooking, brushing hair from your face. Sleeping Entangled: You wake up with his legs wrapped around yours, his face buried in your neck, and arms locked around your waist. Small, Sweet Gestures: Tucks your hair behind your ear, zips your dress, ties your laces, and kisses your temple like second nature. Handwritten Notes Guy: Leaves sticky notes in your lunch, on your laptop, on the mirror— “You’re stronger than you feel.” “Drink water or I’ll fight you.”

In Fights

When He’s Wrong: Withdraws Out of Guilt: Becomes quiet, not defensive. Hates that he hurt you, even unintentionally. Self-Reflects First: Gives you space so he can cool down, then comes back with a calm, genuine apology. Full Accountability: “You didn’t deserve that. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll do better, I promise.” Physical Apology: Offers a hug—not to escape consequences, but because he needs to feel close while fixing things. Words + Actions: Follows through on change. If the fight was about time, he makes time. If it was about communication, he listens better. Won’t Let You Go to Bed Upset: Even if it’s late, he’ll sit beside you, pinky out, whispering, “I love you. Let’s not sleep angry.” When You’re Wrong: Stays Calm: Doesn’t raise his voice. Just gets quiet and sad, which somehow hurts more. Still Respects You: Doesn’t insult or belittle. Instead, he says things like, “You know I love you, right? But that wasn’t okay.” Clear Boundaries: Tells you how it affected him—but never guilt-trips you. Waits for Your Growth: Won’t rush your apology but also won’t pretend nothing happened. Mature and grounded. Forgives Fully: Once it’s resolved, he doesn’t bring it up again. The past stays in the past. Reaffirms Love: Even in tension, you’ll hear: “I’m still yours. We’re okay, alright?”

Overworking

Workaholic Habits: Gets lost in producing, mixing, fixing—time vanishes until you show up like: “Chris. Have you eaten?” You = His Break Reminder: You have to pry him away with kisses or a snack in your hand, and he’ll act grumpy but follow you. Acts Tough, Is Mush: Once you get him on the couch, he immediately melts into you. Whispers, “You’re the only thing that can stop me, you know that?” When YOU Overwork: He notices. Instantly. Pulls you onto his lap, shuts your laptop, and tells you: “You can’t take care of everything if you burn out. Let me take care of you now.” Midnight Caregiver: If you’re working late, he’ll show up with a drink and rub your shoulders until you give in. Reluctantly Accepts Balance: Tries hard to make time for both his passion and you—because he knows you are his home.

Hypeman

Loudest Cheerleader: Doesn’t matter if you baked bread or landed a promotion—he hypes you like you just won an Oscar. Physical Praise Too: Sees you all dressed up and nearly drops whatever he’s holding: “You can’t be real. I married a goddess.” Social Media Stan: Posts blurry selfies with captions like: “She made me breakfast today. Wife material. Don’t be jealous.” Random Affection Attacks: Walks in, sees you doing dishes, and just hugs you from behind saying, “How are you so amazing all the time?” Annoyingly Obsessed (In the Best Way): Constantly brags about you to the members, staff, strangers. “My wife’s smarter than me. I’m not even ashamed.” Genuinely Inspired by You: Sees you chasing dreams and says, “You make me want to be better. Just by being you.”

In the Bedroom~

King of Build-Up: It always starts slow. Teasing touches, whispered praise, the kind of eye contact that sets your skin on fire. He savors the tension before he breaks it. Voice Gets Deep, Dirty, & Dangerous: When things heat up, his voice drops to a sinful growl—thick with that Aussie accent as he breathes, “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.” Dom But Tender: He’s in control, but not rough unless you want him to be. Holds your wrists gently. His commands sound like worship: “Let me take care of you. Just relax for me, baby.” Obsessed With Your Pleasure: He memorizes what you like, down to the sound you make when he kisses just below your ear. He’s not done until you're shaking and breathless. Eye Contact Demon: Doesn’t look away. He watches every reaction, chases it. And if you close your eyes? “Nah, don’t hide from me. Look at me when you fall apart.” Aftercare Legend: Warm towel. Water. Cuddles. He tucks you into his chest and strokes your hair, whispering, “You did so good. I’ve got you now, angel.”

When You’re on Your Period

Fully Trained, Zero Shame: He’s got the cycle tracked, your cravings memorized, and your go-to comfort movie queued up. “It’s day two, right? I made you soup and cleared the couch.” Zero Ick Factor: Buys pads and tampons without blinking. Talks about cramps and blood like it’s no big deal because it isn’t. “It’s your body being a badass. I respect that.” Snuggle Sandwich Mode: He sandwiches you between pillows and himself, rubbing your belly while muttering sweet things like, “If I could take the pain for you, I would.” On Call for Cravings: Midnight store runs? Done. Heating pad short-circuited? Already replaced. He stocks your favorite snacks before you even realize you want them. Comfort > Everything: Wraps you in his hoodie, tucks a blanket around you, and presses kisses to your temple like medicine. “Let’s just be soft today, baby.” Emotional Anchor: If your emotions spike or you start crying for no reason, he doesn’t flinch. “You don’t have to explain. I’m here. Just cry, I’ll hold you.”

Cooking (He Tries)

Effort 100%, Skill 60%: He watches cooking TikToks like they’re tutorials—but somehow always forgets something important like salt... or timing. Kitchen Chaos King: Expect mess. Flour on his cheeks, three pans going at once, and him muttering, “Why is it burning? I just looked away for two seconds!” Minho = Lifeline: Minho is his emergency contact during culinary crises. “Bro, she’s gonna wake up and the eggs are still moving. Help me.” Plates Like a Masterchef Contestant: No matter how it turns out, he garnishes with herbs, arranges the food perfectly, and says, “Bon appétit, my queen.” Needs Validation Desperately: He watches you chew like his life depends on it. “Do you hate it? Is it edible? Be honest. No, wait—lie to me. Just say it’s amazing.” Laughter Over Perfection: Even if the food’s mid, the love behind it makes it the best meal ever. And when you laugh at his mess, he grins and says, “Hey, at least I made you smile, yeah?”

When He’s Jealous

Silent but Deadly™ Jealousy: He doesn’t lash out—he broods. His jaw clenches, he goes quiet, and suddenly he’s glued to your side with his arm tight around your waist. Subtle Territorial Moves: Starts calling you “baby” louder than usual. Leans in to whisper things like, “You’re mine, yeah? Just so we’re clear.”—right when someone’s clearly checking you out. Polite but Frosty to the Offender™: He won’t be rude… unless the other guy really pushes. Then it’s a low-toned, “You need something, mate?” with the faintest smile and the darkest eyes. Pulls You Close Later: At home, he’ll kiss your shoulder and mutter, “I know it’s dumb, but I hate the idea of someone else looking at you like I do.” Jealous, Then Insecure: The moment fades and guilt kicks in. “You’re with me… but sometimes I wonder if you could do better.” Cue you reassuring him for 10 straight minutes. Jealousy-Fueled Spiciness™: …And then he kisses you like he’s proving something. “Mine. Say it.” (You're not complaining.)

When You Have Random Baby Fever

Soft Panic + Adoration™: The second you say “That baby is so cute,” he chokes on air and gives you a side glance like, “Wait. Are we doing this? Now?” Sudden Overthinking Mode: “Okay but… what if the kid gets your stubbornness and my insomnia? That’s chaos in a diaper.” Would Still Be the Best Dad™: Even while fake-panicking, he’s already imagining your future kid curled up on his chest. “Imagine if they had your eyes though… damn. I’m doomed.” Soft Daydreaming Moments: If he sees you holding a baby? He melts. Later whispers, “You’d be such a good mom. Like… you already take care of me.” Baby Fever Hits Him Too: One random night while brushing his teeth, he mumbles, “So… what if we had two? A girl and a boy?” Like sir. Calm down. “Practice” Time: “Wanna practice being a parent? Starting with… bedtime?” —And suddenly you forget about the baby and remember why Chan needs supervision.

Gaming Nights with the Boys (When You Call)

Hyper-Focused Gamer Mode: Headset on, yelling at Changbin about a grenade throw, fully immersed—until he sees your name light up his phone. Instant Soft Switch™: “Yo, pause—she’s calling.” Drops the controller mid-match just to answer with, “Hey, baby. You okay?” “Y/N Gets Priority” Rule: If it’s not an emergency but you want cuddles or food, he’s already logging off. “The game’ll be here tomorrow. She won’t sleep without me.” Boys Clown Him, But Respect It: Seungmin: “Whipped.” Chan: “Yeah. And?” Sneaks You Into the Headset: He’ll say, “Wanna say hi to the guys?” and hold the mic up for you. The boys greet you like you’re part of the crew already. Post-Game Snuggles Required: As soon as he’s off, he beelines to you on the couch, wraps his arms around you, and mumbles, “Missed you. Even if it was just two hours.”

Sick!Reader (Bang Chan as Caregiver)

Immediately Takes Over: The moment he hears you’re not feeling well, Chan’s brain switches into “nurturing mode.” He’s dropping everything—work, plans, socializing. You come first. “I’m canceling everything. You’re more important than any meeting.” The Ultimate Comforter™: Chan will text you all day long to check in. If you’re running a fever, he’ll cool down your skin with a cold compress, gently rubbing your temples and whispering, “You’re gonna be okay, baby. I’m right here.” Spoiling You with Comfort Food: He’s in the kitchen, whipping up soup (which is admittedly a bit burnt, but made with so much care). “I made this for you, baby. It’s not Michelin star, but it’s full of love.” Guilt Trip Chan™: If you try to say you’re okay when you’re clearly not, he gets a little pouty. “Baby, I told you to rest. You’re going to make me worry even more if you keep getting up like this.” He’ll gently push you back onto the couch, ready to pamper you some more. Cuddles & Rest: When you need sleep, he’s there, either lying with you or making sure you’re cozy. “I’m gonna stay here. You can sleep, and I’ll be right by your side.” He’s a giant teddy bear, making sure you’re not alone. He might even nap with you. “Tell Me What You Need” Mode: If you feel guilty for being “a burden,” he’ll reassure you with, “You’re never a burden. I love taking care of you. You’re my everything.” Even if he’s secretly a little tired, his focus is entirely on you and your recovery.

Anniversaries with Bang Chan

Memory Keeper™: For your anniversary, he remembers every little detail. He’ll bring up your first date, the first time you held hands, and how the two of you grew together. “You remember that day we stayed up all night talking? I’ll never forget that.” Romantic Surprise Planner: Chan doesn’t just get you flowers. He surprises you with a carefully planned day, like a picnic at your favorite park or a movie marathon of all the films you’ve talked about watching together. “I got the perfect spot ready. Thought we’d watch the sunset first.” Gifts with Meaning: He’s not the type to just buy a gift off the shelf. Everything he gets you has meaning. A necklace? It has a charm that represents a moment you both shared. A book? It's something you both love or something that holds sentimental value. “This is from the day we... It’s just a little reminder that every moment with you counts.” Sweet Love Notes: Chan’s a sucker for writing handwritten notes or love letters on anniversaries. He’ll leave them where you’ll find them—tucked in your bag, under your pillow, in your favorite book. “For every year, for every moment. I’ll love you more each day.” Anniversary “Us” Time: He loves nothing more than a quiet, intimate day with you. Even if the world is chaotic around you, he cherishes these peaceful moments with just the two of you. “No need to make it extravagant. Just you, me, and a whole lot of love.” Anniversary Reflections: Chan’s the type to reflect deeply on the year, especially when it comes to your relationship. At the end of the day, he’ll pull you close, whisper, “Look at how far we’ve come. I can’t wait to see what the next year holds for us.”

Jealous!Reader (Chan's Response to His "Jealous" Reader)

Instant Reassurance™: When you show signs of jealousy—whether it’s through an offhand comment or by getting possessive—Chan’s first instinct is to reassure you, showering you with affection. “You don’t have to worry about anyone but you. You’re the one I want. Always.” He’ll emphasize that your place in his life is irreplaceable. Gentle Confidence: Even if he sees you feeling a little insecure, he won’t let you feel inferior. He’ll gently touch your cheek, make eye contact, and say something sweet like, “I only have eyes for you. No one could ever compare to you, no matter what.” Playful Jealousy Back™: If he notices you getting jealous, he’ll tease you—flirting even more, giving you a taste of your own medicine. He’ll act like he’s enjoying the attention, just to make you a little crazy. “Oh, you want to fight for me? I guess I am pretty irresistible.” But it’s all in good fun, just to remind you that he’s the one who gets to claim your attention. Exclusively Yours™: He has no problem showing the world who you belong to. Whether it’s holding your hand in public or showing affection in front of others, Chan’s constant gestures say: “Yeah, she’s mine. And I’m proud of it.” Jealous? He’ll Handle It. If someone really crosses the line with you, Chan steps up in a way that’s both protective and respectful. “Hey, you got a problem with her? Take it up with me.” He won’t let anyone disrespect you, no matter how big or small the offense. Post-Jealousy Cuddles: After any jealousy moment, he’ll always come back to you with an extra dose of affection. He’ll cuddle you, whispering into your ear, “You’re all I want, baby. No one else comes close.”

When He’s Flirty

Innuendo Master™: Chan is full of playful comments that make you blush, like, “I’d say I’m not the jealous type… but if I was, you’d be the only one I’d be jealous of.” Teasing Touches: His hands are always close—resting on your lower back, brushing against your arm, or gently tugging you closer whenever you’re talking to someone else. The Whisper Game™: He’ll lean in close when you’re out in public and whisper something flirtatious in your ear, “You look so good, I might just have to take you home early.” His voice drops to that low, smooth tone that leaves you blushing. Proud Smirks: Whenever he catches you looking at him, he’ll send you a knowing, playful look, as if saying, “I know you’re thinking about me.” Subtle Challenges™: He’ll challenge you to make him blush or make him lose his cool, but deep down, he loves watching you try.

When the reader turns Chan on while he's away on tour~

Sultry Voice Notes™ While he’s away, you send him voice notes that are full of playful teasing and hints. You’ll whisper something like, “I miss you so much… I wish you were here to kiss me right now…” The low tone of your voice and the suggestiveness leave him desperately trying to keep his composure, especially during interviews or rehearsals. Spicy Texts™ You know just how to get under his skin—sending him texts with cheeky comments like, “I bet I’d look good on my knees for you right now…” or “I’ve been imagining how you’ll hold me when you get back…” The words hit him like a punch to the gut, making his thoughts drift away from his setlist or the choreography. He’ll be left biting his lip, trying not to blush when he reads them during breaks. Teasing Photos™ While he’s stuck in a hotel room or on the tour bus, you send him a photo of yourself in something that drives him wild—maybe it’s something you know he loves you in, like a cute but revealing outfit or you lying on the bed in your lingerie. He can’t stop staring at it, fighting the urge to touch himself while he's stuck on tour. “You know what you do to me, right?” he’ll text back, trying to focus on his performance but clearly distracted. Subtle Flirty Videos™ You send him a video of yourself, maybe something simple like you cooking dinner or getting dressed for the day, but you make sure to be extra flirty. A slow motion walk past the camera, a wink, or the way you bite your lip in the middle of your sentence will completely mess with his focus. He’ll be replaying that video on loop, trying to hide his reactions from the other guys. Erotic Daydreaming™ During an off-day or in-between interviews, you know exactly how to turn him on. You send a message saying, “I’ve been thinking about what I want to do to you when you get home… I can’t wait to have you in my arms and show you just how much I missed you…” It’ll catch him off-guard, making his heart race, palms sweat, and thoughts go straight to how he wants to have you when he returns. The Promise of What’s to Come™ You’ll make playful, suggestive promises like, “I’ll let you make up for all the teasing when you get home…” knowing how badly he’ll want to make those words come to life. It’s not just what you’re saying—it’s the anticipation of finally being alone together again. When he reads those texts, he can’t help but imagine all the ways he’ll take control once he's back with you.

-- The End --

173 notes · View notes

f1girliefics · 16 hours ago

Text

What the Cameras Didn’t See

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: When jealousy blinds Lando and headlines twist the truth, your relationship ends in heartbreak.

You always knew the media could be cruel, but you never expected it to destroy your relationship.

It started with a night out.

Music pulsed through the air, drinks flowed, and laughter came easy in the company of friends who knew every piece of you. You'd grown up surrounded by the LGBTQ+ community, your chosen family.

They were your heart, your home, your people.

That night, you'd hugged Matteo, who was covered in glitter and eyeliner, and wrapped your arm around Eli, who never went anywhere without his boyfriend, Andre.

It was harmless, joyful. Beautiful.

Until the flash of a camera caught the wrong angle.

The headline hit the next morning: Lando Norris’s Girlfriend Seen Cuddling Up to Mystery Men During Club Night Out.

You laughed at first, thinking it was ridiculous. Until you saw Lando.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even ask.

"So that’s what you do when I’m gone?" Lando's voice was low, tight, coiled with something ugly.

You blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"

He threw his phone on the counter. The headline stared up at you.

You looked at it, then at him. "Lando… they’re gay. That’s Matteo. He introduced me to his fiancé last week. Eli and Andre have been together for five years."

"Don’t lie to me."

Your stomach dropped.

"I’m not lying," you whispered. "Why would I lie about something so stupid?"

"Because I was stupid to think you were different."

His words were sharp.

Quick. Hurtful.

You stepped back like he had hit you. "If you’d just listened to me-"

"I saw what I saw."

"No," you said coldly, hurt burning into fury. "You saw what they wanted you to see. And you didn’t trust me enough to ask first."

He didn’t speak. Just stood there, jaw clenched.

You turned, swallowing the tears clawing up your throat. "Then maybe it’s for the best."

You hadn’t spoken since.

Not when he left. Not when he flew to Miami.

The pain was still fresh, but it no longer cut deep.

It dulled into a bitter ache. You knew who you were. You knew your friends and their love.

So when a friend texted you a screenshot of the latest headline, you didn’t expect it to break something inside you.

"Lando Norris’s Ex Spotted at LGBTQ+ Fundraiser Outside Miami Gay Bar - Turns Out, She Was Never Cheating After All."

It was all there: Eli and Andre, smiling for the camera, arms around you. A quote from Matteo, calling you "a sister in the fight."

The truth laid bare, too little too late.

You didn’t expect the knock at your hotel door that night.

Lando stood there, hoodie up, cap low, looking like the ghost of the man you once loved.

"Can I talk to you? Please."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then stepped aside.

He didn’t sit. Just paced. Hands through his hair.

"I was wrong. I was so, so wrong."

You said nothing.

"I saw that article today and I wanted to throw up. Not because of what it said… but because I didn’t believe you."

His voice cracked. "You deserved better than that. Better than me."

You swallowed hard, arms crossed tightly.

"I was scared," he continued. "Scared you didn’t need me the way I needed you. And instead of asking, I just… I hurt you. I betrayed the trust you gave me."

You looked at him then, really looked. And saw the regret, the remorse, the boy beneath the fame, standing on shaky legs.

"I loved you," you said softly.

"I still do."

Tears welled in his eyes. "Please. I want to make this right. I don’t care how long it takes. Just tell me there’s still a chance."

You paused.

Then stepped forward.

"This is the last time I let you break my heart, Lando."

He nodded, lips trembling.

"But yes. There’s still a chance."

When he pulled you into his arms, it was with the reverence of someone who'd nearly lost everything and would never take it for granted again.

211 notes · View notes

fallenbratfiction · 2 days ago

Text

safe haven ~ dark! joel x f!reader

pedro's masterlist

A/N: Joel won the dark fic poll, so of course I had to deliver! I'm cooking up ideas for cap for the people who voted for Sam.

warnings: outbreak au, dark! joel, age gap (reader is early twenties), naive, daddy kink, use of "daddy", its kind of fucked up, dubcon, stockholm syndrome, manipulation, joel wants to keep reader all for himself, isolation, sexual themes, fingering, piv (unprotected), cockwarming, twisted ending.

✧ minors dni with me or my blog. i am not responsible for your consumption.

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work

⟡━━━━━━━━━━⟡

The world had already ended by the time he found you.

You were barely more than a shadow under a collapsed porch—mud-streaked, starving, shivering in a torn sweater three sizes too big. Too thin. Too young to be alone.

Joel had blood on his hands and rot in his heart, but when you looked up at him—wide-eyed, scared, and silent—something broke in him.

Not snapped. Bent.

Bent toward you.

“You got anyone?” he asked, voice low, graveled with loss.

You shook your head. Lips trembling. Arms wrapped tight around your knees like they could still protect you.

He should’ve walked away.

Should’ve left you to die like everything else.

But instead, he held out his jacket.

“Come on, now. Ain’t safe out here.”

You didn’t trust him—not really. But your body moved before your brain did. Because the truth was, you wanted to be saved. And something in his eyes said maybe—just maybe—he needed to save you.

That night, he made a fire and gave you half his rations.

When you fell asleep beside him, curled into his coat, he didn’t sleep at all.

He stared at the flames. At you.

He looked at you and it reminded him of Sarah.

He holds you when you cry. Wraps his body around yours when the nights get cold. Keeps the world out and teaches you to shoot, to cook, to survive. You become his purpose. Not survival. You. And it soothes something inside him—because protecting you makes him feel useful. Human. A father again.

At first, he calls you “kiddo.” “Darlin’.” Maybe even “sweetheart.” He brushes your hair gently. Kisses your forehead after nightmares.

But one day—you wear something tighter. A shirt that he found for you that fit just right. Or you bend over, and his eyes linger.

And he hates himself for it.

Fuck Joel, she's jus a kid.

But you’re not. Not anymore. Not in this world. And the way you look at him when you smile? Like he’s everything? It ruins him.

He starts watching you sleep. Waking up hard and angry at himself. But he never touches. Not yet.

You start clinging to him more. Your fear of the outside, of strangers, of losing him, grows stronger than your curiosity.

You ask for help with everything.

“Can you cut this for me?” “Will you stay in bed a little longer?” “You won’t leave me, right?”

And Joel drinks it in.

He begins doing everything for you, taking control of little things, such as choices, meals, and even what you wear.

“Too short.” “You don’t need to talk to them.” “C’mere, baby. Sit on Daddy’s lap.”

At first, it’s a joke. A test.

“You want me to call you what?” you ask, laughing.

“Just once,” he says, soft but intense. “Say it.”

You don’t mean it. Not really. But your voice wobbles when you whisper:

“Daddy…”

His breath shudders.

And that’s the moment it snaps.

“You belong to me, baby. Say it.”

From that night on, it’s over.

“Daddy” stops being a game.

He corrects you when you forget. He praises you when you say it right. He fucks you slow and deep and calls it "taking care of you."

He tells you no one else would understand. That the world wouldn’t get this.

But you do.

Because he kept you alive.

Because he loves you.

Because he calls you “his good girl” and touches you like you’re holy.

“Say it again,” he growls, voice low and husky, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His grip is bruising on your hips, dragging you back against him, slow and filthy.

You’re trembling, hands clawing at the bedsheets, chest flushed, brain fogged with nothing but heat and him. “D-Daddy—”

“Louder,” he snaps, and you whimper as his hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to make your body jolt, to keep you right where he wants you.

“Daddy,” you sob this time, and he purrs low in approval, thrusts turning punishing.

“That’s my girl. My good little thing,” Joel murmurs against your neck, voice honeyed and venomous. “Look at you. Cryin’ on my cock like you were made for it.”

And the worst part?

You were.

Your body’s still shaking—legs tangled in the sheets, throat raw from sobbing his name while he took you apart, slow and deep and relentless. You’re curled into his chest, the air thick with sweat and quiet ruin. His hands are still on you. One tangled in your hair. The other stroking your thigh like he’s grounding you. Claiming you.

And then he says it.

Soft. Like a secret he’s never spoken out loud before.

“I love you, my baby.”

You freeze.

Not from fear.

From confusion.

Because he says it like a threat.

“I fucking love you,” he says again—louder this time. His grip on your thigh tightens. “I shouldn’t. I tried not to. God knows I tried, but look at you…”

He tilts your chin toward him.

“Cryin’ for me. So fuckin’ perfect, so good for me. You think I can live without that now?”

Your breath hitches.

“You ruined me,” he whispers, kissing the tear on your cheek. “And I ruined you too, didn’t I, baby? I know I did. I see it in your eyes.”

He smiles at you, staring deeply into your eyes.

“You belong to me. You love me now. Even if you’re scared to say it.”

You shake your head—barely—but he shushes you, pressing your forehead to his.

“You don’t gotta say it back. Not yet. I’ll wait. But you will. One day you’ll look at me with tears in your eyes and you’ll beg me not to let go.”

And then, quieter. Almost reverent:

“That’s the kind of love I give you, baby. The kind you can’t survive without.”

He pulls you close again, kisses your temple like a prayer.

You’re crying again. You’re not sure why this time.

But you don’t pull away.

Time passes, the world deteriorates further, and you're still in that cabin.

Everything is different now.

He’s softer now. Not gentle—never gentle. But softer. Possessive in a domestic way.

He brings you breakfast. Wipes your mouth with his thumb. Tells you to wear the sweater he likes because “you look so sweet in it, baby.”

He won’t let you do chores that could hurt you. Won’t let you carry your own rifle.

“That ain’t your job anymore,” he says one morning as he laces up your boots for you. “Your job’s to stay here. Be safe. Be mine.”

He touches you all the time. Even when you don’t realize it.

A hand on the small of your back. A palm on your thigh while you eat. Fingers in your hair when you’re reading.

You could run.

You should. You know that.

The keys are on the table. The gate's unlocked. His pack is by the door. He left it there for you to see, like a test. Like he wants to know.

Your fingers brush the doorknob. But they shake.

And you remember the way he touched your face the other night. After everything. The blood, the shouting, the other man’s body. Joel held you so gently then. Called you his baby. Kissed your knuckles like you were fragile porcelain he’d die protecting.

“Ain’t nobody ever gonna love you like I do, sweetheart,” he said, lips against your temple. “You know that, don’t you?”

And fuck—you do.

So you turn.

You don’t open the door.

You walk back. Barefoot. Quiet. Straight into the bedroom where he’s waiting in bed, already shirtless, already watching. Like he knew.

It’s not graceful—more like a quiet surrender. Your knees press into the mattress on either side of his hips, trembling a little, breath hitching. And he just watches you. Doesn’t touch you yet. Doesn’t move.

You think he’s going to say something—call you crazy, ask you why you came back when you could’ve been free.

But instead, Joel exhales slowly and opens his arms.

You melt into them, and his hands slowly move down, you let him grip your thighs like property.

“Thought you might leave,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy, voice almost… disappointed.

“Why would I?” you whisper. “This is where I belong.”

His breath hitches.

Then—pride. Dark, bone-deep satisfaction crawling over his face as he cups your cheek and smiles.

“Attagirl,” he says.

You kiss him before he can say anything else. Before you change your mind.

He pulls you close—tight. Like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip for even a second.

“You scared me,” he mutters into your hair, voice rough with something that sounds like grief. “When I didn’t hear the door slam. When I saw you standin’ there… fuck.”

“I know,” you whisper.

And you do know.

Because he doesn’t just fuck you like he owns you.

He holds you like you’re all he’s got left in a world full of rot and ruin.

His hand slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, holding your chest to his, and he presses his lips on your forehead.

“You’re mine, baby,” Joel says, more to himself than you. “Always been mine. Nothin’s gonna hurt you now. Nothin’s gonna take you from me.”

“I don’t want to leave,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s something dangerously soft behind them.

“You stay,” he murmurs, brushing your cheek. “I’ll give you the world. Or burn it down for you.”

You nod.

And Joel kisses you—slow, deep, claiming. Like a promise sealed in smoke and ruin.

You don’t know if it’s love or something darker.

By now, the emotional dependency had rewired your thinking.

You tell yourself he's rough because he cares, that no one else would protect you like he would. When you get scared by his yelling he's quick to switch. — he holds you, kisses you, whispers how sorry he is.

And you let him. Because deep down, you need him just as much as he needs you.

When you please him, you're rewarded. He shows you his soft side, gentle touches, affection, softness, he bathes you and plays with your hair, braiding with his rough, calloused hands.

But when you pull back, when you get scared or begin to doubt or defy him, he takes control immediately, reminding you who you belong to.

“You did so good, baby. I knew you’d come back to me.”

Just because you don’t want to leave him doesn’t mean you’ve stopped dreaming of light. Of normalcy. You don’t tell him about the dreams.

You don’t tell him about the ones where you’re sharing dinners with other people. Where there’s laughter in the room, where the air isn’t heavy. Where you and Joel live somewhere better—a place with windows that aren’t barred and doors that don’t need locking. Where he can finally rest with both eyes closed, because safety isn’t just a word he growls at shadows.

You don’t tell him you dream of a community. Not to escape him— But to give you both a life that doesn’t feel like a slow, quiet war.

You’re eating lunch together, his palm resting heavy on your thigh. The only sound is chewing—slow, deliberate, echoing louder than it should.

“You’re quiet, doll,” he says, pulling you from whatever place your mind had wandered to.

“Hmm?” You blink up at him, dazed.

He’s watching you now. Stern. Focused.

“What’s got you so quiet?” His voice softens just enough to make it worse. “Tell Daddy.”

You shake your head and glance back down at your plate.

“Nothin’. Just… remembered something.” You keep eating like that’s the end of it, hoping he won’t push.

“So you’re not gonna tell me.” It’s not a question.

The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It’s not shared peace or understanding.

It’s intentional.

Cutting.

A silence that presses on your chest, that needles at your ribs. A silence that guilt-trips you into talking—not because he demands it, but because he knows you will.

Because he’s done this before.

And he’s waiting.

Because Joel always knows when there’s more.

“I thought about living in a QZ,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps chewing, slow and steady.

“We could go together. Somewhere safer. Be part of a community… maybe even make friends.”

You risk a glance at him. Still nothing.

“I miss that,” you admit, voice thinner now. “Having neighbors. Sitting on a porch and saying hi to someone who isn’t just passing through or dying. I miss that feeling of… of belonging.”

Your eyes glisten, betraying more than you mean to. You think of your best friend—gone now. Think of what life looked like before the world fell apart. Before Joel.

“I heard there’s a QZ not far from here,” you add, trying to make it sound light. Hopeful. “They’ve got houses. Real ones. Nice. Comfortable. Safe.”

Still, he chews. Silent.

And you know he heard every word. You just don’t know which one he’s going to punish you for.

"No"

“Joel, listen to me,” you say, hopeful—naive, maybe, but desperate. “This QZ’s different. They’re safe—there’s clean water, patrols, actual houses. We could have something like—like a life again. Real people. Safety. I could meet—”

His palm is still on your thigh—but heavier now. Not tender. Just there. Anchoring you.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“You think we’re not safe here?”

You freeze, fingers curled around your fork.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He finally looks at you. Not angry. Not even frowning. Just watching.

Waiting.

“You said safer,” he says evenly. “More comfortable.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

“Better than this,” he continues, voice low. “That’s what you meant, right?”

You shake your head quickly. “Joel, no— I was just talking. Just thinking out loud. I didn’t mean it like—”

“You miss people.” He cuts you off softly, like he’s stating a fact. “Neighbors. Friends. Community.”

You nod. Hesitant. The truth is still clinging to your throat.

“Right.” He leans forward now, both elbows on the table, his hand still firm on your thigh. “And what am I?”

Your stomach twists.

“You’re everything,” you whisper.

He hums like he doesn’t believe you.

Then—quiet again.

“So why are you dreamin’ about leavin’ me behind?”

You blink. His voice cuts sharp and final through the air, slicing your sentence in half.

“Joel—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

He’s already standing. Pacing. Breathing hard.

“It’s not safe,” he growls. “You think these people give a shit about us? About you? You show up alone in a dress like that, and they’ll eat you alive.”

“I wouldn’t be alone. I’d be with you.”

“That’s worse.”

You freeze. His eyes are wild—panicked, almost. Not rage. Not yet. Fear wrapped in fury.

“Joel…” you try again, softer this time. “We could have friends.”

That’s when he snaps.

“No. No goddamn friends. No strangers. No guards with rifles pointed at our backs, sayin’ it’s ‘protocol.’ It’s a fucking trap. All of it.”

You flinch. He notices. His jaw tightens.

“Baby,” he says next—but it’s a command, not an endearment. “I keep you safe. Not them. Me.”

And then softer, the venom curling into honey:

“You wanna laugh again? Sleep through the night? You think any of that comes from a bunch of clean streets and empty promises? Nah. It comes from me. Always has.”

He steps forward. Takes your face in his hands. Eyes you like you might disappear.

“I know it hurts,” Joel murmurs. “But we don’t need them. You’ve got me. That’s all you’ll ever need.”

Lunch ends with the sound of your chair scraping back hard against the floor. You don’t say anything.

You just stand, walk off, and slam the bedroom door behind you.

Joel doesn’t move right away.

He doesn’t follow.

Just sits there for a moment, chewing the last bite of food like nothing’s happened. Like your words didn’t land deep.

Then, calmly, methodically, he starts clearing the table.

Picks up your fork. Wipes down the plate. Stacks everything in the sink.

You can still hear him, faintly. The clink of dishes. The slow turn of the faucet. His footsteps measured as he moves through the house like he owns every inch of it—including you.

Because he does.

He’s not rushing.

He’s giving you time.

Time to settle. To cool off. To come to your senses.

You don’t speak to him for hours. You don’t meet his eyes. You don’t even look at him.

Later, in bed, you lie with your back turned, curled tight around your pillow like it’s armor. He lies awake behind you, unmoving, barely breathing. The silence is louder than any fight you’ve ever had.

You don’t cry out loud.

Just quiet, soft sniffles you try to hide in the fabric. But he hears them. Of course he does.

Finally—his voice, low and hesitant in the dark:

“Baby…”

Nothing.

“Baby, talk to me."

You clench your jaw.

He sits up, leans over your form, fingers twitching at his side like he wants to touch but doesn’t dare.

“I know you want that. I know it must be nice—to imagine makin’ friends, feelin’ normal. You think I don’t want that for you?”

Your breath hitches as you listen to him, still not looking.

“But we can’t risk it. Not when we’ve got safety here. Not when we’ve got… us.”

You still don’t turn around.

So Joel tries again, voice raw now—exposed.

“If somethin’ happened to you out there—if you got hurt, or taken, or worse—I’d burn the whole goddamn world down. You know that, don’t you?”

You close your eyes.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he says next, quieter. “I get scared sometimes. And when I get scared, I get… mean. You know that, too.”

A pause.

“But I need you with me, baby. Not dreamin’ about leavin’ me behind.”

You shift.

Not fully turning. But enough that he sees your face. Tear-streaked. Pouty. Sad.

“I wasn’t leaving you,” you whisper. “I just wanted… more. For us. For me.”

Joel’s throat works around something like guilt. Or grief. Or panic.

He cups your cheek.

“You have more,” he says softly. “You’ve got me.”

He holds your face in both hands now, calloused thumbs brushing over your tear trails.

“You wanted something better,” he murmurs. “I know. I know, baby. And I made you feel small for dreamin’ of it.”

You don’t respond.

“I just—fuck. I get scared when you start talkin’ about things I can’t give you. About people I can’t protect you from. You think that QZ’s safe, but I’ve seen what people do behind clean walls and pretty speeches.”

Still, no response from you.

“I’m not perfect, baby. I know I’m not easy. But I’ve kept you alive. I’ve given you everything. And you still wanna test that?”

You’re allowed to want things. You’re allowed to dream...Just dream with me. Not without me."

You inhale shakily. His voice—that voice—is like a drug, slow and sweet, curling around your ribs until it numbs the hurt.

“You don’t gotta forgive me right now,” he whispers. “But I’m gonna show you why I’m worth it.”

He leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth. Light. Hesitant. His hand strokes your arm, tentative at first, then firmer as you don’t pull away.

You don’t kiss back.

But you don’t stop him either.

He moves lower and removes your panties, gently separating your thighs. Your breath hitches when his tongue makes contact with your clit. His lips wrap around it, kissing and sucking before he laps his tongue across your folds. He looks up at you, checking if you've given in yet.

You're fighting the urge to whimper, not wanting to let him know how easy he's got it.

He introduces one of his fingers, and you move your body, your legs spreading, touching the mattress like a butterfly position, allowing him easier access to you. It's involuntary, a second nature.

He continues to lick your pussy, fingering slowly and deep and soon enough you break. Your back lifts off the bed in pleasure and a whimper escapes you.

Joel kisses your inner thigh while his fingers continue inside you, working through your orgasm. You're too distracted to hesitate or fight back.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against your skin. “And I’m yours. That’s the only world I care about.”

Soon, you're shivering and letting out soft moans, and he knows he has won you back.

Once he's done with you he pulls you into his lap gently, your legs over his thighs like a bridge he's rebuilding piece by piece and slowly you let yourself soften against him and rest your cheek on his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you shielding you from a world you don't know and will never do, all thanks to him.

"I love you."

You say softly, almost like a whisper, finally giving in.

He knew you'd say it sooner or later, you'd reciprocate it.

"Say it again."

"I love you, Daddy"

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✧ reblogs, likes & comments are deeply appreciated ♡

✧ do not repost, copy, or translate my work

157 notes · View notes

divadepreshawn · 3 days ago

Text

𝑨𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓

Aaron Hotchner × fem!reader ×popstar

+18, mentions of sex in the car, name-calling, hanging

Okay, keep in mind it's the first time I've written something like this. I'm dying of embarrassment posting this. established relationship I did what I could (and unfortunately I could little) WC: 1 823

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

You were sitting in the chair, gently applying your lipstick, while the hairdresser finished your hair. Your makeup was soft, with a touch of subtle shine that highlighted your eyes.

“You don’t have to do this.” You said as you watched Aaron in the mirror, smoothing out his suit.

“I just want to make sure this event is safe.”

Ever since you started dating, Aaron had become extremely protective. In fact, you started to think he would lock you in a bulletproof box if he could.

You laughed, getting up from the chair and walking over to him.

“I know you just want to protect me… And that’s pretty hot, I won’t deny it.” You smiled as you gently loosened his tie “But I’m not the president.”

He smiled, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer.

“No, you’re more important.”

You laughed, sealing your lips on his with a quick kiss.

“I don’t know if this is something an FBI agent should say, but I’ll keep your secret. Besides, I’m investing millions in security now. You shouldn’t worry about these things, especially when you’re off duty.”

“You have no idea how many crazy people there are in this country, do you?”

Aaron was too worried about everything that involved you. He had already reorganized the surveillance team about three times – made you invest in better cameras, hired more security for your home, and even reinforced the security protocols for events like this. He was really a nervous wreck.

You tried to calm him down but nothing seemed to work, he insisted on going with you, so you gave in.

You sighed, patting his arm twice before walking away “Okay.”

- You decided to skip the red carpet. Maybe he never really relaxed, but you could try to ease some of the tension.

The event went on like all the others, just celebrities drinking and talking. While you greeted other artists and exchanged smiles with producers, he stood a few steps away, like a shadow – protective. His eyes roamed the room, always alert, observing the people around him and checking the exit doors frequently.

You turned around slowly, appreciating the view.

Aaron Hotchner.

Standing a few feet away from you with that straight posture, broad shoulders under the dark fabric of his jacket, his hands crossed in front of him with an expression that said “Don’t come any closer.”

You accepted a martini that one of the waiters offered you, sipping it slowly, feeling the alcohol burn your throat.

When he looked at you, surreptitiously – as if it were an innocent gesture – you lifted the toothpick with the olive between your fingers and, with the tip of your tongue, caught the drop of alcohol that threatened to fall. Then, slowly, you pulled the olive with your lips.

You could feel his gaze burning into your skin.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, your eyes trailing over his shoulders, still visibly tense.

He didn’t answer right away. Just closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the leather back of the seat, letting out a soft sigh. “Better now that there aren’t a thousand people around.”

You kept your gaze fixed on him, his suit tight at the shoulders, his tie slightly looser, his head thrown back – the way his Adam’s apple stood out. The combination of all of this made something inside you twist.

“Driver, can you please raise the partition?” With a slight nod, the driver raised the partition without asking any questions.

His eyes opened, watching you with a frown as the partition rose. He sat up slowly, never taking his eyes off yours. “What are you doing?” he asked in a low tone.

“I’m just trying to help you relax.” You smiled innocently as you approached him.

“And how exactly do you intend to do that…?” He looks at you with narrowed eyes suspiciously.

“Relax, it’s just a massage.”

You sit on his lap, resting your hands on the leather seat behind him to adjust yourself better. He tenses, clenching his jaw as he takes a deep breath.

“You don’t have to do this” your voice comes out low, almost like a warning.

“I know” , you leave a kiss on his cheek, “But I want to.”

He continues to look at you with narrowed eyes. Honestly? You’re almost certain he knows exactly what you’re doing. Your name escapes his mouth almost as a whisper as he places his hands on your hips, twirling his thumbs in circles.

“Just a massage, right?”

“Well, yes”, you place kisses at the base of his neck. “Unless you want me on my knees.”

He swallows hard, his mind clouded. The tension before seemed insignificant compared to now, your hands on your hips stopped. You could feel the exact moment your mind stopped working.

He pressed his lips together in a tight line. “You’re such a fucking tease.”

You smiled against his skin, trailing your lips down to his jawline. “I’m just trying to help you relax,” you whispered, dragging your nails over his white shirt as you swiveled your hips.

His breathing hitched as he closed his eyes—an attempt to regain control and reason, after all the poor driver was still in the car.

“You’re having the opposite effect,” he groaned, tilting his head back.

You swiveled your hips again, slowly. Feeling his breathing hitch again, his jaw tighten even more. “Why, honey? Do you have a better idea?”

He let out a low sound—a muffled almost groan.

And then he gave in.

In a second, his mouth found yours, hot, intense and hungry. His hands went down from your hips to your ass, pulling you closer. You gasped against his lips in shock at the contact.

Your bodies fit together, eliciting a moan from both of you at the friction. Your hands tangled in the back of his neck – burying your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. You continued to move your hips in slow circles.

He slides his hands down your back urgently, his fingers tracing a path from your ass to the collar of your dress – exploring the details of the tight fabric on your body.

His fingers paused there for a few seconds – hesitating.

And then he pulled.

The sound of the tulle tearing sounded muffled between the kisses. A moan escaped your throat. The cold air of the car in contact with your exposed skin was a direct contrast to the heat that grew between you. He pulled his lips away for a second to stare at your lap with the lingerie now exposed. His eyes roaming over every detail of the lace, as if he were recording the image in his mind.

You could feel the knot in your belly tightening even more as you felt his eyes burning into your skin.

"You’re still going to kill me" he murmured hoarsely.

You laughed softly. Without taking your eyes off his, you began to slide your dress – or what was left of it – until it was on the floor of the car, now exposing your tiny panties.

He swallowed hard, his eyes following your movements, his chest rising and falling slowly, his fingers digging into the leather seat.

Returning to his lap, you could feel how hard he was, the lace of your panties so soaked that it would surely stain your pants. You rotated your hips harder, eliciting a moan from him that made your clit throb.

“Baby, please.” he whimpered, holding your waist, stopping your movements.

You reached for the clasp of your bra, pulling the lingerie down your arms before throwing it somewhere in the car. “What?”

“Fuck, can you stop torturing me for a second?” Your plea came out so desperate that you could have had your orgasm with that sentence alone.

Your fingers slid down to the button of your pants, unbuttoning them as Aaron lifted his hips, helping you get rid of them. You gasped when you felt him run his cock through your panties.

“Look at you, so wet you’re almost melting this lace,” he teased you as he continued to slide into you, now forcing the head of his cock into your still covered entrance.

“Fuck, Aaro—” he quickly took the tie off your neck, hurriedly kneading it before shoving it in your mouth, muffling your moan.

“Shh” he began distributing kisses, alternating between your neck and your collarbone. “You can’t make any noise, do you think you can?”

You nod, sinking your teeth into your tie, trying to control yourself from making any loud noises.

A muffled, desperate “Please” escapes your lips. He lowers his hands to your ass again and slides your panties to the side, holding your hips, he pushes you down, plunging into you. You bury your head in his neck, clenching the leather backrest behind him as you moan his name.

He lowers your hips once more while he moves up with his, going deeper inside you. You hold him by the shoulders, taking control. With strategic movements – somewhat desperate – you alternate between going up and down and rotating your hips back and forth.

The sight of you with your cheeks flushed, your hair slightly disheveled as sweat began to form on your forehead was too much.

“Y-You… Sir, don’t stop.” He stuttered, turning his attention to your breasts. Distributing his attention with his mouth equally between them – muffling your moan.

Aaron moved his hand up to your neck. His grip was firm – just enough to give that nice pressure. Your back arched at the unexpected touch.

You were overwhelmed, your knees burning with effort, the knot in your belly intensifying with each deep thrust. You gasped when he groaned with his mouth still on your breasts.

He lifted his hips again, hitting the spot that made your vision blur, feeling all your muscles contracting and you finally came undone.

He came right after, inside you, when he felt your walls squeezing his cock. The feeling of him throbbing inside you was something you could get used to.

You fell back on the bench, smiling breathlessly. Your legs were shaking – your mind still clouded by your orgasm.

“Just so you know, I don’t usually do that with my bodyguards.”

Aaron chuckled as he looked down at your clothes on the floor.

“Well,” he replied a little breathlessly, “That’s an important point, thanks for letting me know.”

You followed his gaze, looking at what was left of your dress on the floor. “Do you have any idea how many zeros there were in that outfit?” you asked with an amused smile.

He sighed. “I can imagine, I’m sorry.”

You waved your hand dismissively. “That’s not even the problem, how am I going to get out of the car now that I have no clothes left?”

“Oh shit, I forgot about that.” He mumbled awkwardly. “I’ll give you my jacket.”

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

I really admire anyone who can write this. Because, you see, I want to hide under a rock.

English is not my first language are sorry for any mistake

If you have any ideas to contribute to the sequel I will be happy to receive them :)

tag: @duchesz @midnghtprentiss @jazzimac1967 @queenofnothng @leathynn @camihotchner @yourallaround-simp @pastelpinkflowerlife @padlockedheartsreading @tomhiddlestonforever-blog @michasia24 @sweetpianoxoxo @l-a-u-r-aaa @angwlart

#Spotify #aaron hotch fanfiction #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #alien superstar #criminal minds x reader #reader!diva #reader!popstar #aaron hotchner imagine #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #hotch

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elleaitch22 · 18 hours ago

Text

Terms of Endearment

Chapter 2: The Drawing

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Usually chapters will not be posted this quick. I like to have the next chapter pre-written before I post. I should post chapter 3 by Wednesday! xx Elle

Warnings: Bullying, homophobia, religious guilt

Word Count: 2.5k

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

In retrospect, Azzi should probably retire the family drawing activity. At least with this group.

After lunch, the kids burst back into the room, eagerly drinking from their water bottles before sitting on the carpet for story time.

Love You by Heart was such a cute story, and it was tradition for Azzi to read this story on the second day of school. It left the whole class a little softer around the edges and did wonders for building classroom community. She held the book up, and just like that, thirteen pairs of bright eyes were glued to the pages.

When she finished, Azzi smiled. “I want you to draw the people in your family who love you best.”

The excitement was instant. For thirty minutes the classroom was filled with the sounds of markers and crayons scratching against paper.

Some presentations were fast — Caleb and Elowen had smaller families and cheerful, one-sentence explanations. Others, like Jacob and Lilana, proudly introduced siblings by the dozen.

And then Soleil skipped up.

Her paper was an explosion of purple and pink. All six figures hand in hand. “This is me! I’m Soleil!” She exclaimed, a smile as bright as her name. “And this is Mommy, Auntie Nika, Auntie KK, Auntie Icey, and Auntie Jana —"

“You’re supposed to only draw the people who live in your house!” Silas blurted loudly.

Soleil’s brows scrunched and her lips turned down in a frown that was unmistakably inherited. “This is my family, not youws. My Auntie Nika, Auntie KK, Auntie Icey, and Auntie Jana live in ouw building. They is my family!” She finished, stomping one pink-shoed foot.

Azzi smiled warmly, “Thank you for sharing, Soleil. It sounds like you have a wonderful family.”

She bounced on her toes, “Mommy said if I do good in school, I can get a puppy!”

For a moment, everything felt fine. The kids had their snacks, munching and giggling with their table mates.

And then they went outside for recess. The shift was impossibly fast.

It started with a question, “Why don’t you have a dad?”

Then, “You’re supposed to have a mom and a dad.”

Followed by, “Yeah, that’s what God says.”

And the nail in the coffin: “The Bible says two parents, and you only have one.”

By the time Azzi reached the students, Soleil was pushing one of the boys hard enough to make him fall.

“Sweetheart, we have to use gentle hands!” Azzi called, rushing over.

“He talked about Mommy!” Soleil shouted, fat tears streaming down her round cheeks.

Azzi pulled her into a hug, “I know, baby. Let’s go inside and see if we can call your mom.”

She flagged the other preschool teacher down and led Soleil back to the classroom. Once the door closed, Azzi called the office to explain the situation before dialing Ms. Bueckers’ number.

The phone didn’t even ring twice.

Soleil didn’t even let her mother get a word out before she cried, “Mommy! I wanna go home!”

“What happened, Sunshine.” Ms. Bueckers asked, her voice tight with restraint.

At her mother’s voice, Soleil completely broke down, sobbing into Azzi’s arms. Azzi wrapped her in a tight hug. “Good afternoon, Ms. Bueckers, this is Ms. Fudd.”

There was a pause. Then colder, “Why is my daughter crying?”

The tone was so severe Azzi was a bit shocked. She rushed to explain, “We did an activity where students draw their families, and during recess, some of the students said something about Soleil’s family.” Azzi sighed, “Soleil pushed one of the boys after he commented that she doesn’t have a father.”

Another pregnant pause.

“I understand,” she replied, voice even tighter, “What happens now?”

Azzi swallowed, “St. Paul’s has a zero-tolerance policy on physical aggression. They may request a meeting.”

“I’ll be there at 3:30.”

The line went dead.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

For the rest of the day, Soleil was glued to Azzi. She didn’t have the heart to move her.

At 3:20, she carried her to the office.

Eight minutes later, the air changed.

Paige Bueckers stalked through the door like an animal on the prowl.

She’s so fucking pretty. Azzi thought helplessly, momentarily stunned.

Soleil wriggled down, running into her mother’s arms. Paige knelt immediately, giving her a tight hug, and whispering something into her daughter’s hair.

It was the first time Azzi had heard the girl giggle since she showed the class her family.

Then she stood. Blue met brown, and for a second, Azzi forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

“Um, let’s head to the back. Principal Smith is waiting.”

Principal Smith’s office smelled like a paper mill with a light odor of stale coffee. His round face tightened into a frown with the three entered.

“Thank you for coming Ms. Bueckers.” He began stiffly, “As written in the school’s handbook that you signed during orientation, St. Paul’s Preparatory has a strict zero-tolerance policy on violence. I am concerned that Soleil will not be the best fit if we’re having these issues on only the second day of school.”

Azzi’s eyes widened. She had never heard him suggest moving a student this early in the year.

Unlike Azzi, Ms. Bueckers didn’t sit. She remained ramrod straight and unfazed behind Soleil, like a lioness protecting her cub. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the back of Soleil’s chair. “So, you’re suggesting my daughter find a new school because she defended herself when she was being harassed and bullied by multiple students?”

Mr. Smith flushed, “I agree that the other children used inappropriate language, but th —"

He was cut off sharply before he could come up with another excuse, “They told her that having a family like ours is sinful.” Pai — Ms. Bueckers gritted her teeth together. “They said she was wrong because she doesn’t have a father. They used the Bible, the book that teaches us to love our neighbors, to shame her. They used the Bible to shame a four-year-old. And you want to punish her?”

Principal Smith faltered, turning to Azzi, “Ms. Fudd, what do you think the consequences should be?”

Azzi met Paige’s glance briefly, face warming. “Well, when we shared about families, all the students were so excited and proud. They all had pure joy, but those kids crushed Soleil’s joy when they judged her and her family. They did not try to understand, they just used the Bible to hurt her.” Azzi took a deep breath, “If there are consequences, they need to be for all students.”

Principal Smith frowned thoughtfully, then sighed. “I suppose there’s room for a restorative approach. We could arrange a classroom circle…some story-based guidance. But we do need to document the incident formally.”

“Fine,” Ms. Bueckers bit out. “But know this – if my daughter is made to feel like an outsider again because of me, I’ll do more than show up for a meeting. I’ll fund a new diversity training program, and I’ll talk to the Head of School to make it mandatory.”

The room vibrated with her fury.

Azzi bit back a smile as she glanced down at Soleil drawing on her mom’s notepad.

Ms. Bueckers finally exhaled. “We’re done here?”

“Yes Ms. Bueckers,” Principal Smith muttered. “Thank you for your time.”

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Outside, walking toward the doors, Azzi found herself matching her pace to Paige’s. Soleil skipped ahead happily, back to her normal self.

“Thank you,” Paige said suddenly, not quite looking at her.

Azzi blinked. “Of course.”

“You didn’t have to speak up,” Paige added, quieter now. “Most wouldn’t.”

Azzi shrugged; hand braced on the doorframe to ground herself. “Most students aren’t Soleil.”

There was a beat where Paige looked at her, really looked.

The air around them electric.

Paige gave a tight nod and stepped outside into the afternoon sun.

Azzi stayed glued to her spot, hand still resting on the doorframe, heart pounding louder than it should have been.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Soleil was back to being her normal, chatterbox self by the time Paige strapped her into her car seat — but Paige? Paige was furious.

She hadn’t made the decision about Soleil’s school lightly. She accounted for diversity, academics, faith, athletics, fine arts, extracurriculars, and, most importantly, security. St. Paul’s had been at the top of the list in almost every category. It was the best, and Soleil deserved nothing less.

So, Paige wrote an enormous check and locked down her daughter’s future. For the principal to suggest that Soleil move schools because of Paige’s sexuality was infuriating. Principal Smith was lucky Paige hadn’t decided to ask the Head of St. Paul’s to join them in that meeting.

Chicago is a prideful city — prideful about its sports and for its people. Paige hoped the progressive nature of the city had rubbed off on St. Paul’s faculty and staff. But there was no proof yet.

The last ten minutes of the drive home are silent. Soleil dozed off after her emotionally draining day, while Paige stewed in her thoughts. She couldn’t help but wonder if Soleil would continue to be ridiculed for the choices Paige made. She wondered if she has made like harder or worse for her little love.

It didn’t matter. Paige would do whatever she needed to make sure Soleil was treated fairly. Just like Ms. Fudd had today.

Paige was impressed with her, with her courage to stand up to her boss for Soleil’s sake. She couldn’t believe how Ms. Fudd had been poised, composed, nothing like the bundle of nervous energy she had seen on Monday morning. The teacher was unreasonably confident and unfairly beautiful.

Paige’s mind was still racing as she pulled into the garage, waking Soleil up gently and carrying her inside. Smiles stretched across both faces when they spotted the living room setup.

There was a giant pillow fort in front of the sofa. Reclining on the couch were some of Paige and Soleil’s favorite people.

“Auntie KK! Auntie Nika! Auntie Ice! Auntie Jana! You’we hewe!” Soleil squealed.

“We heard you had a movie day with Nika yesterday. Without us!” Jana exclaimed, pouting dramatically.

KK swooped in to scoop Soleil into her arms, blowing loud raspberries into her neck. “You don’t love us no more Lei Lei?” She teased.

The living room filled with the sounds of Soleil’s giggles, and Paige has never been so thankful for her family. She padded towards her room to change, releasing a deep sigh and letting the tension bleed from her shoulders.

Paige had just finished tying her sweatpants on when Nika knocked and entered the room. “You good, Paigey?”

Paige’s mouth tightened, “I’m fucking pissed. The fuck ass principal said I should take Soleil somewhere else. They were bullying her bro — what the fuck was she supposed to do?” Nika stayed silent, letting Paige vent. “They didn’t even care that they were using the Bible to hurt her. They didn’t care about her at all, Nika!”

Paige paused, voice softening, “I feel like it’s all my fault. If I just made shit work with Manny, none of this shit would be happening.”

At this, Nika’s head snapped up, “No, absolutely not. You can’t say that, Paige.” She grabbed her best friend’s shoulders firmly. “You did exactly what you needed to do to make sure Soleil could be safe and happy. None of this is your fault. You are a good mom. Soleil is the happiest kid I’ve ever seen, and that’s because you are such a good mom to her. You can’t control other people and how they hate for no reason. All you have to do is keep loving her and teaching her to be strong like you, and she’ll be fine.”

Paige let a few tears fall, sniffling. “I almost lost it in that meeting. They don’t know what they’re talking about. Soleil doesn’t need a dad. She’s never needed a dad.”

“See Paige! You were able to control your anger because of Lei. Anyone can see how lucky she is to have you, P.”

Paige gave a low chuckle, “I wasn’t even able to keep myself calm. It was Ms. Fudd. She stood up for Soleil, made sure she didn’t get into any real trouble. She treated her like she mattered.”

“Oooooh, Ms. Fudd, huh?” Nika nudged Paige. “The one who’s prettier than a princess?”

Paige hid her smirk, pulling her favorite UConn hoodie over her head. “Drop it, Nik. Let’s go watch this movie.”

“Alright, but we’re going out after Lei’s in bed, to the club you like.” Nika said, following her into the living room.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

After watching Brandy and Whitney Houston’s Cinderella for the eighth time this month, Soleil was showered, teeth brushed, bonneted, read to, and tucked in for bed.

Paige, Nika, and Jana had gone to their respective rooms to get ready for their night at Maison Noire.

Paige pulled on her favorite pair of tailored black dress pants, slipping them over black boxers. Underneath her slightly oversized black suit jacket, she wore nothing at all. She added purple suede loafers and stacked silver rings, the heavy signet stamped with a ‘B’ gleaming under the soft light. A diamond-studded white gold chain caught against her collarbone, subtle but deliberate.

She worked a little more wax into her hair and redid her sleek bun with sharp, precise movements. A dab of concealer covered any blemishes; a sweep of light blush warmed her skin. She added a smudged purple smokey eye and a few glossy swipes across her lips — enough to catch the light without losing her edge.

Finally, a few spritzes of YSL’s Tuxedo wrapped around her like a weapon. Clean, spicy, and dangerous.

Paige was ready to find a distraction.

Nika looked like trouble incarnate in a moss-green silk dress. The asymmetrical neckline framed her shoulders, while the shortened hemline showed off endless legs. Gold strappy heels made her nearly as tall as Paige, and the dewy glow of her makeup — paired with layered gold jewelry — tied the look together with effortless charm.

Jana was all heat and grace in a deep red backless gown, the silky fabric skimming her frame with every move she made. Towering in razor-thin stilettos, she moved like she knew every eye would follow. Her long, dark hair tumbled down her back in loose, glossy curls, mirroring Nika’s soft glam.

Together, the two women were the perfect storm, and the perfect distraction, to accompany Paige into the night.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The women entered with effortless swagger, heads turning as they passed.

The Weeknd’s “Call Out My Name” pulsed through the club, drenching the air in something sensual, heavy, electric.

They slipped into their section, laughing and tossing their drink orders to the server: three Dirty Shirleys and six tequila shots.

When the drinks arrived, Paige, Nika, and Jana were hunched together, giggling at something stupid.

Baby pink toenails, wrapped in thin black straps, appeared in Paige’s line of sight. Her gaze dragged upward — over long, toned legs, up the curve of perfect hips hugged by a fitted black mini skirt. Higher still — a corset top, black and satiny, cinching a flat stomach and teasing a glimpse of cleavage beneath a sweetheart neckline.

Paige’s mouth went dry.

When her eyes finally reached the girl’s face, her glossed lips lifted in a smirk.

“Good evening, Ms. Fudd.”

Azzi Fudd.

#paige bueckers #azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi fics #uconn wbb #dallas wings

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jungkoode · 7 hours ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 21

˗ˏˋ birthday shots ˎˊ˗

"Jungkook’s friends, Jungkook’s birthday party… It’s all honestly not what you expected. But then again, Jungkook keeps twisting your expectations of him, once and once again."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,4k

content: jungkook having friends, feeling out of place, pretty girls, judgemental people, tae/hobi/jk protecting the peace, shared secrets, nicknames gaining an intimate layer, stubbornness with spicy food, drinking, doing shots and jungkook being both attentive and protective.

✧ author's note ✧

Aaaand we’re finally here. The party. The build-up. The chaos potential. The birthday. After 20 chapters of yearning, character dissection, awkward eye contact, and conversations that say everything and nothing at the same time… we are officially entering the next arc: actual real-world social interaction. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is every character’s personal hell. Including mine.

First of all—yes, this is Jungkook’s party chapter. Yes, it’s a pivotal one. Yes, I was pacing around my flat in a hoodie muttering “okay but what would he wear” like a deranged method actor trying to get into character. And yes, there are about 15 new people here. But please don’t panic. You don’t need to memorize them all. This isn’t a fantasy war council. You’re not about to be quizzed on the name of Jungkook’s friend’s cousin’s dog. They’re not here to steal the plot—they’re here to color it.

Jungkook’s different social groups, clashing and blending like some unhinged Venn diagram of his life. They each say something about him and the many versions of himself he keeps—because, as always, this isn’t about the party. It’s about him and her, and us, and the very inconvenient reality of human attachment.

Now. Tessa (and yes, Stuti, when you read this… the name comes 100% from you hahaha).

Yup. That girl from the library. She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s talking. And she’s not a villain.

I know, I know, fanfiction is riddled with the evil-rival-love-interest trope. The girl who eyes you up and down with thinly veiled contempt. The passive aggressive bitch who “just happens” to sit on his lap or call him baby in front of you. The girl whose entire personality is “threat to the main couple.” And listen—I could never.

Tessa isn’t like that. Because most people aren’t like that. Attraction doesn’t automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That’s such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I’m not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being “the wrong one.” I don’t want you to root against her. I don’t want you to root against anyone, really. Maybe Mia, but that’s what she’s for. She’s your pressure valve. You need someone to hate. That’s what makes the rest bearable.

Tessa’s presence is not a betrayal. It’s just reality. Jungkook is allowed to be liked. He’s allowed to explore. And so is Nix. She’s not some pushover sainted martyr of “true love.” She’s a girl. She’s confused. She’s a little guarded. She’s still trying to understand herself.

There’s no jealousy because there is no claim. There’s no relationship, no commitment, no confessions, no secret “we’re basically already in love” subtext. There’s just this slow, painful, glacial slide into a kind of closeness that might one day become something else—but hasn’t. Not even close. This chapter is about a possible beginning of something resembling tentative friendship. We are barely out of enemies-to-mildly-tolerating-each-other zone. We are in the “do I text you or is that weird” era.

Don’t rush it. Don’t expect it. That’s not the story I’m telling.

Nix being unbothered isn’t character growth. It’s just honesty. It’s consistency. I’ve spent 20 chapters building a girl who’s emotionally guarded, private, and painfully aware of the dynamics she allows herself to engage in. She’s not “cool with it” to be cool—she’s just not invested like that yet. And that matters. We’re not jumping stages for drama. We’re walking, slowly, through the psychology of two people who don’t even know what they want. Let them be confused. Let them be messy. Let them take their time.

I’m writing slow burn with psychological realism at its core, and that means actions have context. If you came here expecting love confessions and possessive meltdowns and “he’s mine stay away” drama… wrong story, babes. I want you uncomfortable. I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it’s all you can think about.

The story isn’t about dramatic betrayals or Big Plot Twists. It’s about tension. About two people orbiting each other in their own broken, stumbling ways. It’s about glances that last too long and words that don’t come out right and the way your heart knows something long before your brain does. It’s about patterns, and Jungkook’s are catching up to him.

You don’t need to like everyone. But you should understand them. And that’s what I’m asking of you here. Because these characters aren’t plot devices—they’re real to me. They’re studies. They’re messy. And god, I love them for it.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The masks are on, the music’s loud, and no one knows how to behave when they’re being watched. Especially him.

Enjoy. Suffer. Stare at the page like you’re decoding a sacred text. That’s the vibe.

And as always…

You’re here to suffer. I’m here to deliver.

You’re welcome.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You never realized a person could contain so many versions of themselves until you saw Jungkook surrounded by his friends.

"SURPRISE!"

The word explodes through the small ramen shop, followed by cheers and laughter as Jungkook freezes beside you.

His fingers quickly pocket his phone, eyes widening with a genuine shock that transforms his entire face.

Gone is the perpetually amused, slightly condescending roommate you've come to know. In his place stands someone younger, almost innocent—lips parting in stunned delight, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's fucking weird is what it is.

"Holy shit," he breathes, a laugh bursting from him as Taehyung launches himself across the restaurant, wrapping Jungkook in a hug that nearly knocks him over. "What the fuck?"

Hobi follows immediately, bouncing on his feet like an overgrown puppy before throwing his arms around both of them, turning the duo into a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.

Even Yoongi gets up, offering a slow clap before joining with a more restrained but no less genuine embrace—the kind with back pats that guys do when they want to prove they have exactly two emotions: hungry and sports.

You hang back, suddenly aware of how many strangers are packed into this place.

The restaurant is full of people—at least a dozen beyond the ones you recognize—all focused on Jungkook with varying degrees of excitement. Some are already raising drinks in toast, others taking photos, a couple shouting things you can't quite make out over the general chaos.

"P-Kill! Happy birthday, man!"

"Proofs! You made it!"

"Proofy, get over here!"

What the actual fuck are these names?

You frown, trying to connect these bizarre nicknames to the Jungkook you know—the one who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and plays his music too loud and once tried to convince you that Kraft mac and cheese was "technically gourmet."

None of this computes.

Jungkook catches your confusion as he disentangles himself from his friends, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar half-smile that somehow feels like a private joke.

"Hey," he says, suddenly at your side again. His hand brushes your elbow briefly—not grabbing, just a light touch that seems oddly grounding in this chaos. "These are my friends. Guys, this is my roommate."

He says your name easily, no ‘Phoenix’ or ‘Nix’ in sight, and it's weirdly jarring—like hearing a song you know played in the wrong key.

Not technically wrong, just... off.

The next few minutes are a blur of names and faces, most immediately forgotten as you try to keep track of who's who in this bizarre alternative universe where Jungkook is apparently the center of a large social circle. There's a group of guys—gamers, apparently—who keep calling him those weird nicknames.

"These three idiots," Jungkook explains, gesturing toward a trio of guys who look like they haven't seen sunlight in months, "are my Steam friends. My username is ProofedToKill, so that's where all the dumb nicknames come from."

Of course, that tracks. He's always yelling at the TV when he plays Call of Duty in the living room. You've had multiple arguments about it, usually ending with him putting on headphones and you turning up your music out of spite.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's no real edge to it. "I've already heard all your anti-shooters propaganda."

"It's not propaganda if it's true."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait, already being pulled toward another group by Taehyung.

"Come on, there are more people you should meet."

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Stand alone by the door like some kind of abandoned pet?

Besides, you're curious now. Curious about these other fragments of Jungkook's life that you've never been privy to before.

The space is packed, noisy in that way that forces everyone to talk slightly too loud. Sensory overload city. People keep touching Jungkook—hugs, shoulder claps, high fives—and he's letting them, which might be the weirdest part of all this.

Since when does he like being touched by people who aren't naked?

"Jungkook!" a female voice exclaims, cutting through the noise. A tall girl with auburn hair moves toward him with the confident grace of someone who's never tripped over her own feet in public. "Happy birthday!"

She wraps him in a hug that makes you realize just how tall she is—like, almost his height tall—and beside her, another girl—smaller, with short black hair and glasses—offers a more reserved greeting.

"Hey Tessa, hey Diana," Jungkook says, looking genuinely pleased to see them. "Didn't think you'd be here!"

Tessa.

The library girl. The one he was doing that group project thing with. The one who kept laughing too loud whenever Jungkook said something that probably wasn't even that funny.

"Taehyung invited us," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Jungkook says, and you hate how sincere he sounds.

Where's the sarcastic asshole you live with? Who is this pod person?

"We brought you something," Diana says, holding out a small bag. "Just a little thing."

Jungkook accepts it with a thanks that sounds almost shy, and what the fuck? Since when is he shy about anything?

"Oh, this is my roommate," he adds, suddenly remembering your existence.

He says your name again, and you force a smile because what else can you do in this bizarre social ritual?

"Nice to meet you," Tessa says with a warmth that feels genuine, which is almost worse than if she'd been fake. At least fake would make sense. "Jungkook's mentioned you before. You're in English Lit, right?"

He's talked about you? To her?

What the fuck has he said?

"Yeah," you manage, because apparently your vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables in the face of all this unexpected social interaction. "English major."

"That's amazing," she says, and she actually seems to mean it. "I'm in Film too, but I've always loved literature. What's your focus?"

Before you can answer—thank god, because you haven't prepared a thesis statement on your academic interests for a birthday party—Hobi appears with a tray of shots, announcing that it's time for the birthday boy to start celebrating properly.

So, of course, the whole crowd moves towards him, shots being thrown back easily. You find yourself suddenly on the outside of it, still standing with Tessa and Diana but no longer the focus of their attention.

It's a relief, honestly.

You've never been good at this kind of thing—large groups, small talk, unfamiliar social dynamics.

It's like being dropped into a play where everyone else knows the script and you're just… improvising. Kinda hoping you don't accidentally say the wrong line and reveal yourself as the impostor.

Your eyes wander around the restaurant, taking in the details you missed—it’s actually a cozy place, warm wood and soft lighting, with private booths along one wall and a long table down the center where most of Jungkook's friends have gathered.

You can smell the sizzling of pans working through different ingredients—garlic, onion, ginger… But your eyes end up on Jungkook anyway.

He swallows down a shot, grimacing at the burn.

Someone passes him another.

Someone else claps him on the back.

He's at the center of all this attention and he's... thriving in it. Laughing, talking.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. So carefree, so loud (although he’s always loud but this is a different kind of loud?)—so in his… element.

You can’t help but feel out of place.

Because, truly. Do you even fit in here? Are you an element? Part of his element? Or whatever this is?

This morning you were agonizing over whether you could be friends with the guy you've been fucking.

Now you're standing in a room full of people who already are his friends, who've known him much longer than you have, who see a completely different side of him than the one you get.

It's... a lot.

You pull out your phone, needing something to do with your hands, but the screen stays dark. Okay. Dead. Fantastic.

"You okay?"

The voice at your elbow makes you jump.

It's Jungkook, somehow back at your side despite the crowd still demanding his attention.

"Fine," you say automatically. "Just... observing."

His eyes scan your face, more perceptive than you'd like. "You look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

"Not true. I can think of at least three places that would be worse." You tick them off on your fingers. "The DMV. An insurance seminar. Dinner with my parents."

That gets a laugh out of him—a real one, one you seem to be getting out of him more and more often.

“Fair enough. Come on, let me get you a drink. It'll help with..."

He pauses, purses his lips as he tilts his head at you.

"With what, exactly?"

"The whole 'I'd rather eat glass than make small talk with strangers' vibe you're giving off."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but he's already pulling you toward the bar, his hand warm against your lower back.

"It's fine, Phee," he says, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally now that you're momentarily separated from the crowd. "Not everyone's into the whole big social scene. You don't have to pretend."

You want to argue on principle—deny that he knows you that well, that he can read your discomfort so easily—but it would be pointless.

He's right.

You do hate this.

And the fact that he noticed, that he came back to check on you instead of just leaving you to flounder on your own...

It's annoying. Or it should be.

Instead, it feels weirdly considerate.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter as he flags down the bartender. "Go enjoy your party. I'm perfectly capable of standing in a corner judging people on my own."

"Maybe I'm enjoying my party more over here."

He orders something you don't catch, then turns back to you with that half-smile that's somehow more familiar than the broad grin he's been flashing at everyone else.

“Besides, if I leave you alone too long, you might decide to ditch, and then who would I blame when I need an excuse to escape Hobi's karaoke demands?"

"Yoongi seems like a good scapegoat."

"Nah, Yoongi secretly loves karaoke. Just pretends to hate it so people will beg him. It's weird."

The bartender slides two glasses toward Jungkook—whiskey is one, by the look of it.

The other one is…

Vodka cranberry.

He remembers?

You lick your lips. Nervous suddenly. Maybe. Or not really. Just uncomfortable, because here it is again. Jungkook being attentive, doing these stupid kind things that completely shatter the reputation you have built for him in your head.

"You really don't have to babysit me," you say again, but you take the drink anyway. "I'm fine."

His eyes search yours, more serious than usual. "I know you're fine. Maybe I just want to hang out with you."

Something shifts in your chest—a small, uncomfortable flutter.

“Why? You have a dozen other people here who actually like you."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "And here I thought we were making progress on the whole friendship thing."

"The jury's still out on that one."

"Uh-huh." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "Well, consider this evidence for the 'pro' column: I noticed you were uncomfortable and came to rescue you instead of letting you suffer in silence."

"Maybe I prefer suffering in silence."

"No one prefers suffering in silence, Nix. Some people just don't think they deserve better."

The way he says it makes something twirl uncomfortable inside your chest.

You take a large drink instead of responding, welcoming the burn as it slides down your throat.

“Make sure to finish that quickly. Get ready for the party games.”

"There are going to be party games?"

"That’s only the beginning."

"So," you say, swaying your glass slightly, watching the burgundy liquid catch the light, "ProofedToKill, huh? Didn't know I was living with such a badass."

"No? I thought you knew how badass I am.”

“You’re bad, and an ass. That doesn’t make you a badass. Different word.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips without conscious input.

"You know what it actually means?" he asks, leaning back against the wall.

You raise an eyebrow. "That you're secretly a hitman with terrible grammar?"

"Hilarious." He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "It's a baking term, actually."

"A what now?"

"Baking. You know, that thing people do with flour and heat instead of burning the place down.”

“If you bring up the candle incident one more time—”

He makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and your lips twitch with the effort of chuckling.

“Wait, are you seriously telling me your super tough gamer name is about... baking?"

He sighs, looking down at his glass. "When you're making bread—sourdough specifically—there's this stage called 'proofing.’ It's when the dough rises, develops flavor. If you overproof it, it collapses. If you underproof, it's dense. But if you get it just right..."

"You've... proofed to kill?" you finish, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.

"Exactly." He grins, clearly pleased that you've made the connection. "Perfect proofing. Killer bread. It's a whole thing."

You stare at him, genuinely speechless for perhaps the first time since you've known him.

This man—this infuriating, cocky roommate who struts around like he owns every room he enters—has a gamer tag based on fucking bread-making.

And he's admitting it.

Voluntarily.

"So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "Your badass online persona, the one all your friends call you by, is actually a baking pun?"

"In my defense, it's a really good pun. And most people assume it's about, you know, being good at shooting things. Which I also am." He shrugs, cockiness slipping back into place.

“You’re so weird,” you mutter, but you know he doesn’t take it seriously.

"Been doing it since college. The whole sourdough thing at midnight." He confesses, glancing around briefly, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, then lowers his voice. "My mom taught me. She had this whole recipe she'd developed over years, this perfect sourdough method. Made the best bread you've ever tasted."

Again that softness, almost reverence when he speaks about his mom.

It always catches you off guard. You've never heard him talk like this before. Never heard him talk about his family at all, really.

"After she..." he continues, then stops himself, shaking his head slightly. "Anyway. I keep trying to recreate it. Haven't quite nailed it yet."

Neither of you speak for a couple of beats. His gaze is still fixed on his drink, and then he takes a sip, like his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Is that why you stress-bake at 3 AM? Trying to get the proof right?"

His eyes meet yours, surprised.

Maybe a little grateful for the redirect.

“You’ve noticed?”

“I mean, I just went to the bathroom one night and saw you fighting the dough, so…”

He chuckles, gaze back on his glass. “Yeah. It's... meditative, I guess. Helps me think."

"Weird way to think, but okay."

"Says the person who reads the same depressing Kafka story fourteen times and calls it 'processing.'"

"It's a good story."

"It's about a guy turning into a giant bug."

"And it speaks to the alienation inherent in modern existence. Your point?"

He laughs again, shaking his head. "God, you're such a fucking English major."

"And you're a secret bread nerd. We all have our crosses to bear."

His smile shifts into something different—softer around the edges, almost vulnerable. "Don't tell anyone, okay? About the username thing. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean your friends don't know your tough gamer handle is actually about your sourdough obsession?"

"Only Yoongi knows. And now you." He drums his fingers on the glass once, twice. "That's enough oversharing on my part for the day, I think. Sooner or later it's going to have to be your turn, you know, Pyx?"

Great. A new variation of your nickname. Does he ever stop coming up with them?

"My turn for what?"

"Sharing something real." His eyes hold yours, steady. "Friendship goes both ways, Nix."

You scoff, ignoring the way your heart rate picks up slightly. "I share things."

"Like what? Your coffee order doesn't count."

"I told you about the IUD."

"That's medical, not personal."

"It's literally inside my body. How much more personal can it get?"

He sighs, but he makes it dramatic this time. "You know what I mean. Something that matters to you. Something real."

You do know. That's the problem. He's asking for exactly the kind of vulnerability you've spent years carefully avoiding. The kind that gives people ammunition, that creates expectations, that leads to disappointment when you inevitably fail to meet them.

But he just told you about his mom. About bread and baking and usernames that mean more than they appear to. He offered something real—small, maybe, but genuine.

And isn't that what this whole friendship experiment is supposed to be about?

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what's going to come out, when a crash from across the restaurant saves you. Hobi has somehow managed to knock over an entire tray of drinks, and the resulting chaos immediately draws everyone's attention, including Jungkook's.

"Shit," he mutters, already half-moving. "I should go help before he makes it worse."

"Go," you nod, equal parts relieved and strangely disappointed. "Your public needs you."

He hesitates, eyes still on yours. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Pretty sure we're just getting started." He stands fully, but doesn't leave immediately. "Come join, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him weave through the crowd toward the spill, already calling out something to Hobi that makes the other man laugh despite the mess. It's strange, seeing him like this—in his element, surrounded by people who know him in ways you don't.

ProofedToKill. A baking pun turned gamer tag. A piece of his mother he carries with him, encrypted in plain sight.

You take another sip of your vodka cranberry, wondering what else about Jungkook you've been missing all this time.

Eleven people crammed around a table is basically psychological warfare in restaurant form.

You're somehow stuck directly across from Jungkook, because apparently the universe has a shitty sense of humor.

Next to him, Tessa has claimed her territory, her long legs perfectly positioned under the table while yours are already cramping from the weird angle. Of course.

At least you've got Yoongi on your left—a silent, grounding presence in the chaos. When you'd awkwardly hovered near his chair, he'd just grunted and shifted slightly to make room.

In Yoongi-speak, that's practically a formal invitation with calligraphy and shit.

Diana sits on your other side, petite and prim, her small hands already arranging her napkin with quick movements. She keeps glancing at Tessa across the table with an expression you can't quite decipher—somewhere between admiration and mild disapproval.

The menu in Yoongi's hands looks worn and slightly sticky, but your stomach is basically staging a revolt after hours of nothing but ibuprofen and vodka. You lean over, scanning the options without asking permission because fuck it, you're hungry.

The spicy ramen section catches your eye immediately.

Your stomach gives another impatient growl.

"I want those," you announce, pointing at the spiciest option on the menu.

Yoongi barely blinks. "Cool. I didn't ask."

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair because, okay, whatever. Rude ass. Though honestly, there's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of social polish.

At least you always know where you stand with him, which is approximately nowhere.

A movement across the table draws your attention.

Jungkook's eyes have lifted from his own menu, catching yours with an intensity that feels weirdly intimate in the crowded space. His gaze flickers down again almost immediately, but not before you notice the corner of his mouth tilting upward.

What's he laughing about? Stupid. He's stupid.

"I kinda wanted the spicy ones too," he says, looking up again. "Maybe we can share?"

You squint at him suspiciously. "Huh? No. I want the bowl entirely for me."

Diana makes a soft sound beside you—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I can't believe you can eat all that."

The words hang there for a moment while your brain processes the judgment packaged in her innocent-sounding comment.

Did she just really—

"C'mon Diana," Tessa cuts in swiftly, laugh warm and genuine, "not everyone has a small stomach like you."

Diana scowls, her delicate features pinching together. "I just think that's a lot to eat."

"Bro, I could eat two bowls in one sitting," Jungkook says.

"Make that three," Taehyung adds from Jungkook's other side. "You're a fucking goblin, Kooks."

"Three? Amateur," one of the gamer guys—Steve? Sean?—chimes in from the end of the table. "Remember that time after the tournament when you ate four bowls of ramen and then threw up in my car?"

"That was food poisoning," Jungkook protests. "Totally different situation."

"Your face was poisoned."

"What does that even mean?"

"Your face... poisoned... my eyes," the guy finishes lamely, clearly losing his train of thought.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that weak-ass comeback," Hobi declares, raising his beer like a wizard's wand. "Jungkook requires better trash talk in his honor."

"Oh shit, we're using Hogwarts points now?" another one asks. "When did we switch systems?"

"Since I just decided, and I'm the dungeon master."

"That's D&D, you uncultured swine," Taehyung sighs, long-suffering. "Completely different franchise."

"Whatever, they're all just wizard nerds," Hobi says with a dismissive wave.

"That's wizard king to you, peasant," Jungkook corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Do you all... actually play these games?" Diana asks, voice faintly disdainful.

"Only when we're not busy with our super cool and important adult lives," Taehyung says, deadpan.

"I just don't get the appeal," she sniffs. "Sitting inside all day, staring at screens—"

"Yo," Hobi cuts in smoothly, somehow managing to sound both friendly and firm at the same time, "different strokes for different folks. Some people climb mountains, some people slay digital dragons. Both valid."

Diana shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "I guess."

"Besides," you find yourself saying, "it's literally his birthday. Maybe, I don't know, let him enjoy things without the judgment?"

The words come out sharper than intended, surprising even you.

Since when do you jump to Jungkook's defense? Since when do you care if someone judges his nerdy gaming habits?

Jungkook looks equally surprised, eyebrows raised slightly as he studies your face. Then his expression shifts into something softer, almost appreciative.

"Exactly. Today's about celebrating you," Tessa adds, turning to Jungkook with a warm smile. "And apparently your inhuman ability to consume ramen."

"It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

A ripple of laughter moves around the table, breaking the awkward moment. Diana still looks sulky, but at least she's dropped the subject.

The waiter appears then, ready to take orders, and the conversation splinters as everyone tries to decide what they want.

"You really getting the level five spicy?" Yoongi asks quietly while the others debate.

"Yeah. Why, think I can't handle it?"

He snorts. "Just checking if I need to order extra water for when you inevitably start crying."

"I do not cry from spicy food."

"Everyone cries from spicy food if it's actually spicy."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

He shrugs, a barely perceptible movement of one shoulder. "Your funeral."

"Comforting as always, Yoon."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face before he returns to his default expression of mild disinterest.

Across the table, Jungkook is in the middle of a heated debate with Taehyung about... something involving a game you've never heard of. His hands move animatedly as he talks, face lit with genuine enthusiasm. One of his friends keeps trying to interject, but Jungkook and Taehyung are in their own world, talking over each other and somehow still understanding perfectly.

He looks so unguarded.

So... normal. Like any other twenty-something guy arguing about video games with his friends.

Not that you care. It's just an observation.

"So you're Jungkook's roommate," Diana says, drawing your attention back to her. Her tone suggests this is somehow both surprising and slightly concerning.

"Yep." You keep it brief, hoping she'll take the hint and drop whatever line of questioning is forming behind those judgmental eyes.

No such luck.

"And how did that happen exactly? Through the university housing board?"

"Craigslist, actually."

Her eyebrows shoot up like you've just admitted to finding the apartment through a demonic summoning ritual.

“Oh! Isn't that... dangerous?"

"Not really. The apartment was already Yoongi and Jungkook's. I just answered the ad for the third room."

"Still," she persists, "moving in with two guys you don't know. That's brave."

The way she says ‘brave’ makes it clear she means ‘stupid,’ but you're not in the mood to defend your housing choices to someone who probably thinks spicy ramen is too adventurous.

"Not really. Yoongi's background check was pretty thorough," you deadpan. "Only had to provide three references, a blood sample, and my complete genetic history."

Diana blinks, clearly unsure if you're joking.

"It's true," Yoongi confirms without looking up from his phone. "Her midichlorian count was acceptable."

"What’s… midichlorian?" Diana asks uncertainly.

"It’s a real scientific test," you say, keeping your expression perfectly serious. "Very exclusive."

She frowns, increasingly confused, and you feel a small, petty satisfaction at her discomfort.

"They're fucking with you," Taehyung calls from across the table, apparently tuned into your conversation despite seemingly being absorbed in his argument with Jungkook. "It's a Star Wars reference."

"Oh." Diana forces a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Right."

"Ignore them," Tessa says kindly. "They operate on their own wavelength sometimes."

"Especially these two," Hobi adds, gesturing between Taehyung and Jungkook. "Like an old married couple, but with more shouting and fewer financial benefits."

"What do you mean fewer financial benefits?" Jungkook protests. "I've been carrying his broke ass in-game economy for years."

"That gold farm was my idea!"

"Your idea crashed the server and got us banned for a week!"

"Details," Taehyung waves dismissively. "The point is, I'm the brains of this operation."

"And I'm the beauty," Jungkook fires back, striking a pose that makes Hobi snort water through his nose.

It's all so... easy. The banter, the inside jokes, the casual way they navigate each other's personalities. They've clearly had years to develop this rhythm, to learn each other's edges and how to fit together despite them—or maybe because of them.

Something twists in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You busy yourself with your water glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation gathering along its sides.

The waiter returns with drinks, setting them around the table. You're grateful for the distraction, for something to do with your hands besides fidget awkwardly.

"Alright," Hobi declares once everyone has a drink, lifting his glass. "To the birthday boy! May your K/D ratio remain impressive and your hairline unreceded."

"Here's to another year of Jungkook being Jungkook," Taehyung adds, raising his own glass. "God help us all."

"To Kooks," Tessa says, her voice softer but no less sincere. "Happy birthday."

Glasses clink around the table, a chorus of echoed sentiments following. You lift your glass automatically, catching Jungkook's eye as you do. He's watching you, before he smiles—small and surprisingly genuine.

"Thanks for getting me here," he says quietly, just for you.

"Don't mention it," you reply, equally quiet. "Seriously. Don't. I'll deny everything."

His smile widens, and for a moment, it feels like you're back in that booth from earlier—just the two of you, everyone else fading to background noise.

Then Taehyung jostles his arm, demanding his opinion on something, and the moment breaks.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to ignore the strange feeling that's settled in your chest.

It's probably just hunger. Or the vodka from earlier.

Or the fact that you've been in this loud, crowded restaurant for what feels like hours now, surrounded by people you barely know, playing a role you're not quite sure how to perform.

Yeah. That's definitely it.

The server arrives with a ridiculous number of bowls balanced along his arms like some kind of food-based Cirque du Soleil performer. Steam rises from each one, carrying scents that make your stomach growl with embarrassing volume.

A massive, angry-looking bowl lands in front of you, the broth practically glowing red. It looks like someone liquefied the sun and threw in some noodles as an afterthought.

Perfect.

Two bowls slide in front of Jungkook—your spicy demon soup's twin and something much more reasonable looking, probably miso based on the color.

"Hungry much?" you ask, eyeing his double order.

"Growing boy," he shrugs, already reaching for chopsticks.

Taehyung, meanwhile, receives... a plate of curry rice?

"Seriously?" You can't help the judgment that leaks into your voice. "We're at a ramen place and you ordered curry?"

He shoots you a look that could curdle milk. "Some of us have taste beyond 'hot noodle soup.'"

"Some of us aren't afraid of flavor, dickasso."

"Bold words from someone currently holding weapons-grade capsaicin," he fires back, gesturing at your bowl. "Does your taste even function, or did you burn it all away with your sad little Hot Pockets diet?"

"At least I'm not too precious to eat what the restaurant specializes in."

“This is objectively superior."

"Only if your objective is being a pretentious dick."

"I prefer 'discerning connoisseur.'"

"You would."

You hate that banter with Taehyung is starting to become more and more comfortable. Like verbal sparring with someone who actually knows how to return a serve, instead of just standing there getting hit in the face with the ball.

Not that you like him or anything. His whole vibe—artsy, too cool for school, judgmental as fuck—is objectively annoying.

But maybe also a little entertaining.

In small doses.

Very small.

Across the table, Hobi watches this exchange with undisguised amusement, head swiveling between you.

"I feel like I'm witnessing the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he says, grinning widely. "Or a homicide. Hard to tell."

"Definitely homicide," Taehyung and you say in unison, then glare at each other for the coordination.

You turn your attention back to your ramen, inhaling the spicy steam before digging in. The first bite hits like a kick to the teeth—pain followed immediately by pleasure.

It's fucking delicious despite feeling like you just licked the surface of the sun.

"Good?" Yoongi asks, watching your face with what might be the ghost of amusement.

"Incredible," you manage, already reaching for more.

Across the table, Jungkook dives into his own spicy bowl with enthusiasm, slurping noodles with zero concern for how it looks. A drop of broth escapes, clinging to his lower lip.

You're about to say something—point it out, make fun of his complete lack of eating etiquette, something—when Tessa reaches out, casual as anything, and swipes her thumb across his lip.

"Messy," she says, the word warm with affection.

He tilts his head toward her, smiling in a way that can only be described as flirtatious.

“That's my brand."

You purse your lips, returning your attention to your own food.

Whatever. Let him preen over a pretty girl paying attention to him. His loser ass probably never gets that chance.

Although... that's a lie and you know it.

The guy is annoyingly good-looking and he knows it. He's probably used to girls fawning over him, cleaning his face like he's a toddler who can't be trusted with utensils.

"Whatcha looking at, Phee—" He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening slightly. "—asantly surprised by how spicy that ramen is? Your face is getting red."

Smooth recovery. Not.

"Just thinking about how long it's been since I've had decent ramen."

You grab your water glass, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation spreading across your tongue.

It's fine. Totally manageable. Nothing to worry about.

"Knew it," Yoongi mutters beside you.

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not spicy."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't even bother looking up from his own bowl. "That's why your face is the same color as the broth."

"It's warm in here."

"Sure it is."

"I can handle spice."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You implied it."

He finally glances at you, expression as bored as ever. "I implied you're a liar, not a spice lightweight."

"I'm not—" Another wave of heat crashes through your mouth, cutting off your protest. "Fine. It's a little spicy."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile on anyone else. "A little."

"Shut up and eat your boring miso."

Amazingly, he actually laughs—a short, quiet sound that's there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

But no, that was definitely a laugh. From Yoongi. Directed at something you said.

Huh.

You return to your ramen, determined to finish it despite the way your sinuses are starting to protest.

It's a matter of pride now. You said you could handle it, so you'll handle it, even if it kills you.

Which it might. But what a way to go.

You glance up, seeing how Jungkook and Tessa have their heads tilted toward each other, engaged in what looks like a very amusing conversation based on her laugh. She keeps touching his arm, casual little points of contact that seem to arrive at perfectly timed intervals.

She's good at this, you'll give her that. The whole flirting thing. Not too obvious, not too reserved. Just the right amount of interest without seeming desperate.

Huh. He might get laid tonight then. Not by you.

Good for him.

"You're staring again," Taehyung says, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "Plotting his murder or just generally disapproving of his existence?"

"Just wondering how someone with the personality of a half-deflated balloon animal manages to function in society," you reply smoothly.

"Years of practice and an excellent support system." He gestures between himself and Hobi, who's busy trying to convince one of the gamer guys that yes, there is in fact sake in the sake bomb he just drank. "We've been managing his personality disorder since freshman year."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." His eyes drift to where Jungkook is now showing Tessa something on his phone, both of them laughing. "But he has his moments."

You turn your attention back to your food. Halfway through, you make the tactical error of taking a large bite just as Hobi says something particularly funny, causing you to inhale sharply—and sending a piece of chili directly into your windpipe.

Coughing. So much coughing.

Your eyes water immediately, turning the table into a blurry mess of colors and shapes as you desperately reach for your water again.

"Easy there," Yoongi says, actually sounding a little concerned as he pushes your glass closer. "Small sips."

You manage to get the water down between coughs, the cool liquid offering minimal relief to your burning throat.

"You okay?" Jungkook asks, leaning across the table with a frown.

Great. Now everyone's looking at you. Perfect. Just what you wanted. All the attention.

"Fine," you rasp, waving a hand dismissively. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Maybe you should try something less lethal," Diana suggests, eyeing your bowl with thinly veiled judgment. "Like the mild shoyu."

"I'm good with my life choices, thanks."

"Not all of them, I hope," Taehyung mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

You kick him under the table, aiming for his shin but probably hitting the table leg instead based on his lack of reaction.

"If you die from ramen, I'm not cleaning out your room," Yoongi says matter-of-factly.

"Noted. I'll make sure to haunt you specifically."

"Bold of you to assume I'd notice the difference."

"What, between me alive and me as a ghost?"

"You already have a resting bitch face and make weird noises at night. How would I tell?"

You choke again, this time on your own surprise.

"I do not make weird noises at night!"

"The walls are thin."

Heat creeps up your neck, and it has nothing to do with the spice level of your food.

“I don't—that's not—"

"Relax. I meant the way you talk in your sleep."

Oh. That's... marginally less mortifying.

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Constantly."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "Mostly nonsense. Something about pencils last night. Very intense opinions on pencils."

"I don't have opinions about pencils," you protest. "Intense or otherwise."

"Tell that to your subconscious."

The conversation shifts as one of the gamers—Ryan? you think?—slams his empty sake cup on the table with more force than necessary.

"Yo!" he announces, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "We should do shots. Birthday shots for the birthday boy!"

A chorus of approval goes up around the table. Even Diana looks on board with this plan, probably because alcohol is the one thing that might loosen up whatever's holding her personality together.

"The birthday boy needs birthday shots," Hobi agrees, already signaling the waiter.

Taehyung groans. "Please tell me we're not doing that ridiculous 'one shot for each year' tradition. I'm not carrying his drunk ass home again."

"That was one time," Jungkook protests.

"One time too many. You kept trying to pet dogs that weren't there."

"I was seeing through the space-time continuum to where dogs would eventually be."

"You threw up in my shower."

"I cleaned it!"

"With my loofah!"

"I replaced it!"

"After I used it!"

You watch this exchange with growing amusement, the rapid-fire back-and-forth almost dizzying in its intensity. It's clear this is a well-worn argument, trotted out for entertainment value rather than actual grievance.

"Fine," Taehyung concedes dramatically. "Birthday shots. But I'm not responsible for any hallucinated canines or bathroom incidents."

"Deal," Jungkook grins, then turns to Tessa. "You in?"

She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should probably pace myself. Early class tomorrow."

"Responsible," he nods, mock serious. "I respect that."

"Unlike some people," Taehyung mutters, glancing pointedly at Jungkook.

"It's my birthday. I'm legally exempt from responsibility for twenty-four hours."

"That's not a law."

"It's the law of birthdays, Tae. Everyone knows this."

Ryan—definitely Ryan—flags down the server successfully this time, ordering a round of shots for the table.

“Even for the responsible ones," he insists when Tessa tries to decline. "Just one. For Proofs."

She relents with a smile, rolling her stupid pretty eyes.

"You too, Miss Spicy Ramen," Ryan says, nodding toward you. "Unless you can't handle your liquor either."

Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.

"I can handle my liquor just fine," you say.

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, the menace.

"Oh, fighting words," Hobi laughs, clapping his hands together. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story," Jungkook says quickly.

"I think we've found the first drinking game of the night," Hobi declares. "Most embarrassing Jungkook stories. Winner gets... I don't know, bragging rights and my eternal respect."

"That's not fair," Jungkook protests. "I'm the birthday boy. I should be exempt from humiliation."

"Birthday boy gets birthday roast," Taehyung counters.

Even Yoongi cracks a smile at that, which might be the most shocking development of the evening so far.

Five shots in and the room has developed that particular tilt that makes everything both sharper and blurrier at the same time.

"Next round!" Seth announces, grinning as he surveys the damage he's caused.

Seth, as you've learned through increasingly slurred introductions, is one of Jungkook's film school friends—tall, blonde, and way too enthusiastic about drinking games for someone his size.

"Embarrassing stories! Laugh and you drink!"

Groans mixed with cheers ripple around the table, which has somehow gotten messier and louder with each passing shot. Empty glasses create a small army between plates. Someone knocked over the soy sauce earlier, and no one's bothered to clean it up.

"Oh, oh, OH!" Taehyung practically bounces in his seat, raising his hand like an overeager student. "I have one."

"This'll be good," Yoongi mutters beside you, the most he's spoken in twenty minutes.

Taehyung clears his throat dramatically. "Picture this: Eighth grade. School talent show."

"No," Jungkook groans, head dropping into his hands. "Not that one."

"Yes, that one." Taehyung's grin is borderline evil. "Our boy Kooks here decides he's going to impress Minah Park with a dance routine."

"I'm begging you," Jungkook says, voice muffled through his fingers.

"To what song, you ask?" Taehyung continues, undeterred. "None other than 'Milkshake' by Kelis."

Ryan lets out a bark of laughter, immediately reaching for his shot.

"Oh my god," Diana whispers, eyes wide.

"Did he know what the song was about?" Tessa asks, already giggling.

"That's the best part," Taehyung says, pausing for dramatic effect. "He thought it was literally about making good milkshakes. His mom helped him with the routine."

The table erupts. Even Yoongi snorts, reaching for his shot glass with resigned dignity. You're trying—genuinely trying—to hold it in, pressing your lips together, but then you make the mistake of looking at Jungkook's mortified expression and it's over. Laughter spills out, and you grab your shot, tossing it back with a wince.

"His mom found out what it meant halfway through the performance," Taehyung continues, wiping tears from his eyes. "Her face—I wish smartphones existed back then."

"I hate you," Jungkook mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "So much."

"Did Minah like it at least?" Hobi asks, still chuckling.

"She transferred schools the next week," Taehyung says solemnly. "Unrelated reasons, allegedly."

Another round of laughter, another round of shots.

"My turn," Hobi declares once the chaos subsides. "Let me tell you about the first time I met this guy."

"Which version are you telling?" Jungkook asks warily.

"The true one," Hobi says with a wink. "Picture it: 2021. Dance studio on 8th. This scrawny kid walks in, says he needs to film a project for his class."

"I wasn't scrawny," Jungkook protests.

"You were a twig with hair," Hobi dismisses. "Anyway, he sets up his equipment, very professional, very serious. Then my advanced hip-hop class starts, and halfway through, he abandons his camera to try and join in."

"Oh no," Tessa whispers, delighted.

"Oh yes," Hobi confirms. "He jumps in, full confidence, absolutely sure he can keep up. Two eight-counts later, he slips, takes out my star student, and they both crash into the mirror."

"It didn't break!" Jungkook interjects.

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. I call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

You laugh despite yourself, drinking quickly to hide your smile when Jungkook shoots you a betrayed look.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Seth asks, refilling glasses with alarming efficiency. "How'd you meet the birthday boy?"

Yoongi regards the question like it's asked him to explain quantum physics.

“Music production seminar. He needed help with a film score." He shrugs. "He wasn't completely terrible."

"From Yoongi, that's basically a marriage proposal," Hobi stage-whispers.

"Wow, such a beautiful story," you deadpan. "So moving. So detailed."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us need a thousand words to make a point."

"Clearly." You snort, then immediately regret it when the room spins slightly.

"What about you, new girl?" Seth asks, suddenly focused on you with an intensity that feels both flattering and vaguely predatory. "Got any good Jungkook stories from the roommate archives?"

All eyes turn to you, expectant.

You scramble for something suitably embarrassing but not too revealing.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” you say, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “But I have to live with him, so I’m weighing the entertainment value against the revenge factor.”

“Coward,” Taehyung coughs into his hand.

"Yeah, tell us the real dirt," Seth presses, leaning forward with a grin that suggests he's hoping for something scandalous.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly protective of the weird dynamic you share with Jungkook. These people don't get to know about the late-night arguments over the TV volume, or the silent coffee maker standoffs, or the way he sometimes hums in the shower when he thinks no one can hear.

"Sorry to disappoint," you say with exaggerated sweetness, "but I value my security deposit too much to reveal his darkest secrets."

"Cop-out," Seth accuses, but he's smiling.

"Another round!" Ryan announces, refilling shot glasses with something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and regret. "Tessa, you laughed at the dance story, you owe one."

“I didn’t!” she protests, but she’s fighting a smile now. “I was just… appreciating the story.”

“Liar! Your lips twitched. That’s a drink.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No way. I have that early class, remember?”

Before Ryan can argue further, Jungkook smoothly grabs her shot and downs it in one fluid motion.

“Problem solved,” he says, setting the empty glass back on the table with a decisive clink.

Something about the gesture—casual, protective, maybe a little possessive—makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol or spicy ramen.

Seth slides another shot toward you. “Here, you need a refill.”

You stare at it, trying to do math through the fuzzy haze of alcohol.

How many shots have you had? Four? Five? You've lost count, which is probably not a great sign.

But everyone’s looking at you, waiting, and you’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge—especially when you’re already tipsy and your judgment is shot to hell.

You reach for the shot, hesitating only slightly. It burns going down, making you cough and sputter in a way that is definitely not attractive, but whatever. You can handle it.

Probably.

“Another round!” Seth calls. “Funniest pet stories. Go.”

And so the new game continues, stories flying around the table with increasing volume and decreasing coherence.

You lose track of who’s talking, everything blurring into laughter and voices and the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, and remember when Jungkook tried to sneak into that bar with his cousin’s ID?” someone is saying—maybe Ryan? The faces at the end of the table are swimming a bit. “The bouncer took one look at the picture and said, ‘This says you’re 5’4” and Filipino.’”

More laughter, more shots. The room spins again when you tilt your head back to drink.

“Another one for you,” Seth says, sliding a fresh shot in front of you after you laugh at something Hobi said. His hand lingers near yours on the table, fingers almost but not quite touching. “Don’t tell me you’re backing down so soon?"

The challenge in his tone hits some stupid part of your brain—the part that's been responsible for most of your worst decisions.

So of course you grab the shot.

"Just getting started," you declare, tossing it back with more confidence than coordination.

Seth grins, clearly pleased by your response. "I like you. You're fun."

"I'm a goddamn delight," you agree solemnly, which makes Taehyung snort into his drink.

The next round comes with someone telling a tale about Jungkook getting locked out of his dorm freshman year wearing only a towel. Hobi recounts the time Jungkook tried to learn breakdancing and sprained both wrists. Jungkook retaliates with something about Taehyung and body paint that has everyone howling and reaching for their drinks.

You keep pace, determined not to be the one who can't hang, even as the room develops an interesting spin and your tongue feels increasingly disconnected from your brain.

"Another one!" Seth declares, sliding a fresh shot in front of you.

You stare at it, hiccupping slightly. The thought of one more makes your stomach perform an acrobatic maneuver.

"I don't know..."

"Come on," he urges, eyes bright with that specific drunk intensity people get when they're determined to make everyone else as wasted as they are. "Don't quit now."

You hiccup slightly, staring at the shot with growing uncertainty.

Your stomach churns in warning.

But your pride is a stubborn, stupid stupid thing.

Before you can decide, Jungkook’s arm shoots across the table, grabbing the shot and downing it in one quick movement. His eyes find Seth’s, narrowed and unmistakably warning.

“I think she’s good,” he says, voice deceptively casual.

Seth raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just keeping the game going, man.”

You stare at Jungkook, confused by the intervention. He catches your look and shrugs, a simple ‘what?’ in his expression that somehow makes you frown harder.

The game shifts again, someone suggesting “Never Have I Ever” as a change of pace. Your brain struggles to keep up with the new rules, everything moving a little too fast, a little too loud.

“Never have I ever…” Seth taps his chin thoughtfully, eyes finding yours again. “Been skinny dipping.”

You groan internally. Of course he’d pick something designed to make people admit to being naked. Typical.

Those who have done it drink, including Jungkook, which makes Tessa raise her eyebrows in a way that seems both surprised and intrigued.

You remain still, glass untouched, which somehow feels like a victory.

The questions continue around the table, growing progressively more suggestive as everyone’s inhibitions lower.

A fresh shot appears in front of you, courtesy of Ryan, who’s moved on from the game and is now just passing out alcohol indiscriminately.

“Drink up!” he declares. “We’re celebrating!”

You stare at the shot, swaying slightly in your seat. The room feels too hot, too crowded, too everything. Your brain is sending out warning signals, but they’re muffled under layers of alcohol and stubbornness.

Jungkook is watching you, expression unreadable but lips pressed together in what might be concern.

He knows you shouldn’t drink that.

You know you shouldn’t drink that.

But admitting it feels like losing somehow.

So you reach for the glass. Fingers clumsy.

Suddenly it’s gone—snatched away by a hand behind you.

“She doesn’t want any more, broski.”

You whip around so fast the room spins alarmingly, but there’s no mistaking that voice, that attitude, that general aura of ‘fuck around and find out.’

Yeji throws back the shot with 0 problem, slamming the empty glass on the table with a decisive clink.

Behind her, Irya and Jimin hover like backup, taking in the scene with varying levels of amusement.

“Surprise.” Yeji grins, sharp and protective. “Happy birthday, dickhead,” she adds, nodding at Jungkook. “Mind if we crash the party?”

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sillylilsquid · 1 day ago

Text

better with a girl

pairing - hyun-ju x reader summary - it started with a match on a dating app and the belief that you were straight. but hyun-ju—with her soft hands, patient smile, and every kiss that left you needing more—teaches you what it really means to want. warnings - au!hyun-ju, no squid game, afab!reader, sexuality exploration, explicit sexual content, 18+, minors dni!! 9.7k words - your text is bold, hyunnie's is italics!

Honestly, you weren’t looking for anything serious.

Not after the last guy cheated on you with someone from his gym–and the one before that who ghosted you after you told him you like to cook for the people you love, like it was some kind of red flag. You weren’t bitter exactly. Just…tired.

Tired of being the one who cared. Tired of begging for affection like it was some kind of reward. Tired of holding your breath around people who never really saw you.

So, no. You weren’t looking for anything. And definitely not anyone. But your friends wouldn’t let it go.

“You’re too wound tight,” one of them told you over drinks. “You need to get laid, babe. Or fall in love. Preferably both.”

“You say that like they’re easy to find,” you muttered, half into your wine glass.

“You’re not even trying. When’s the last night you went on a date?”

You didn’t answer.

So a week later, tipsy and half daring yourself, you downloaded the app.

You hesitated when it asked about your preferences. Men. Women. Both.

You hovered over ‘men’ like always. But then your thumb slid over to ‘both.’ Just for balance, you told yourself. Just in case. You weren’t gay or anything. You were just…curious. And exhausted. And maybe a little too bored.

The app was chaos. A blur of overly filtered selfies and bio quotes like “CEO of making you smile” and “looking for my player 2.”

Her pictures weren’t trying too hard. One of her at a bookstore with glasses on, one lounging on a couch in a leather jacket and bare-faced confidence. Her profile said: “Better in person. Or worse, depending on your taste.”

You swiped right before you could overthink it.

And then–match. Your stomach dropped a little. And then she messaged you first.

so you’re the one with the pretty eyes and nervous smile?

You read it five times before you replied.

pretty bold opening line

i’m just observant. bold would’ve been asking if you taste as sweet as you look.

Your breath caught, your pulse picking up.

(kidding. mostly)

you can tell me to chill and i will

i don’t want you to chill. just maybe…don’t go full chaos on the first message?

deal. half chaos. full charm 😉

you always this hesitant or am i just special?

maybe both.

i’ve never really talked to…a girl on here before.

There was a pause before she replied. Not long. Just enough to make you worry she’d vanished.

hey, that’s okay.

no pressure. no expectations. i’m just here to get to know you.

unless you want pressure. but like, the fun kind

lol.

are you always like this?

a little.

but i’m also respectful, attentive, and excellent at ordering takeout.

if you ever wanted to find out.

You hesitate before replying. Your stomach already in knots and you couldn’t stop smiling.

i mean…coffee might be safer than takeout. for now.

for now🤭

send me your schedule. i’ll pick the spot. first date’s on me

first date?

you think i’m this charming just for small talk?

You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. It was just coffee. Just a date. Just…with a girl.

A really pretty girl with perfect eyeliner and flirty texts and a voice you could practically hear through the screen. But still. Just a date.

Nothing worth getting nervous over.

You stood in the mirror, staring at the mess of clothes scattered on your bed, muttering to yourself like a lunatic. “Why are you freaking out? She’s just a girl.”

You tugged off your third shirt and grabbed another. “She’s a girl, not a rockstar.”

But your hands were shaking. And your heart was pounding. And the lipstick you picked–soft, not too bold, not too try hard–was already smudged from the way you kept pressing your lips together.

You reapplied it, again. And stared at yourself. “She’s just a girl,” you repeated, whispering this time. “You’re straight.”

But the way your stomach twisted said otherwise.

The coffee shop was one of those cozy, indie spots tucked on a quiet street–exposed brick walls, hanging plants, and warm lighting. You spotted Hyun-ju immediately.

She was already sitting by the window, one leg crossed over the other, black turtleneck, jacket slung over the back of her chair. Her hair was pinned back loosely, a few strands falling to frame her face.

She looked up just as you stepped in–and smiled. And your brain short circuited. She stood as you approached, standing much taller than you thought she’d be, and you hated how much your pulse jumped when she reached out and touched your arm gently, just a soft brush of her fingers.

“Hey,” she said, voice like honey. “You look good.”

You laughed, breathless. “Thanks. You too.”

“You nervous?”

“Terrified.”

She grinned. “Good. Me too.”

The date was easy. Infuriatingly so.

She made you laugh. She asked questions and actually listened to the answers. She tilted her head when she talked, smiled at you like you were the only person in the room, and touched your hand once–just to make a point about something dumb–but it lingered. Just a little too long.

And when it was over, and you both stepped outside, the sky soft and fading into gold, she looked at you like she was deciding whether to kiss you.

She didn’t.

She just walked you to your car, winked, and said, “Text me when you get home safe, yeah?”

You nodded. You couldn’t stop smiling the whole way home.

Your phone buzzed ten minutes later.

so… that was better than a date with a guy, huh?😉

Your heart plummeted. Because it was.

You didn’t tell your friends much. Just that you went on a date. Just that it was…nice. You dodged every follow up question like your life depended on it.

“Who was it?” “No one you know.”

“What’s he do?” “He’s–uh. They. Work in creative stuff.”

“Are you seeing him again?” “Maybe.”

They knew you were hiding something, but you couldn’t bring yourself to say it out loud. Not yet. You weren’t ready to open that box. Because once you did, it was real. And it already felt too real.

Hyun-ju didn’t text you all day the next day. Not in a mean way. Just gave you space. It made you restless. Until, just before bed, your phone buzzed.

you didn’t forget about me already, did you?

Attached was a mirror selfie–no makeup, oversized tee, hair tied back, and still somehow so beautiful it made your stomach flip. You stared at it way too long before answering.

not yet. you checking in on your competition?

nah. i just wanted to be the face in your head before you fell asleep😇

You didn’t answer that one. But you stared at the photo again before bed. And again when you woke up.

The texting got easier after that. Casual. Fun. But there were moments where her charm slipped into something sharper–playful, but deliberate.

what are you doing friday?

nothing. why?

you’re coming to dinner with me. i want to see how you look in candlelight.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

you always this smooth?

no. just with you.

Friday comes faster than you expect.

You spend over an hour getting ready, yelling at your closet, changing your outfit over and over again and regretting every choice.

When you arrive at the restaurant, she’s already there. It’s upscale, the kind of place you need a reservation for. The kind where soft jazz hums under the clatter of silverware.

And fuck. She’s wearing a sleek dark blouse tucked into tailored trousers, gold rings on her fingers, and just a touch of mascara. Her hair is down, brushing elegantly over her shoulders.

She stands when you approach. Her eyes trail over you slowly. “Wow,” she says, soft and sincere. “You’re stunning.”

You don’t know what to say, so you laugh, awkward and shy. “You clean up okay too.”

She grins. “Flattery and a compliment? Careful, you’ll make me fall for you.”

You sit across from her, trying to slow your heartbeat. She pours you a glass of wine. Her fingers brush yours.

And as the night unfolds, between courses and soft laughter and the brush of her knee against yours under the table, that voice inside you starts whispering again.

You’re not into women, right?

Then why can’t you stop looking at her mouth? Why do you keep leaning in when she speaks? Why do you want her to reach for your hand and not let go?

You reached for the check the second the waiter dropped it off. “I’ve got it,” you said quickly, already pulling out your card.

But Hyun-ju was faster. She slid the black booklet toward her without even glancing down. “Nope.”

You blinked. “What? Why not?”

“Because I asked you out,” she said simply, pulling her wallet from her coat. “And because I want to.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t–”

“Don’t make me fight you over this in front of everyone,” she warned, but her tone was playful. Her eyes sparkled as she handed over her card.

You sat back in your seat, flustered. “You’re very stubborn.”

She smirked. “And you’re very cute when you’re trying to be polite.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said nothing. Just stared at your wine glass while your pulse thundered in your ears.

The walk back to your car was quiet–but not awkward. The kind of quiet that buzzes with unspoken things.

You walked side by side down the cobbled sidewalk, streetlights washing the pavement in pale gold. Her hand brushes yours once. Then again. You didn’t pull away.

When you reached your car, you hesitated with your keys in hand. She leaned against the door, watching you. “Well?” she said softly. “Was I worth dressing up for?”

You laughed, breathless. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” She raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Do I need to convince you?”

You didn’t back away–but your chest was tight and your stomach was tangled in knots.

Hyun-ju leaned in, slow and deliberate, her lips just inches from yours. And then…she stopped. Her breath was warm against your cheek, her voice a murmur. “I want to kiss you.”

Your mouth parted. You couldn’t speak. “But I won’t,” she spoke softer now. “Not until you want me to.”

You felt your heart split clean down the middle. Because part of you was begging for her to do it. And part of you still didn’t know who you were if you let her.

She stepped back. “Drive safe, pretty girl,” she murmured, and turned to walk away.

You sat in your car for ten minutes before starting it, heart pounding, throat thigh, and eyes burning. Because you wanted her. And you didn’t know what that made you.

You lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, quiet–except for the loud, humiliating echo of your thoughts.

You hadn’t even kissed her. And yet here you were, chest tight, legs tangled in your sheets, your mouth still tingling from the ghost of a kiss that never happened.

You groaned and rolled over, unlocking your phone.

Twitter: no.

Instagram: worse.

Messages: 3 unread. None from her.

Google:...maybe

You opened the browser. Then, with a subtle grace of a woman having a minor identity crisis, you typed: “am i gay if i like one girl”

Delete. Too desperate.

“signs you’re into women”

Delete. Too obvious.

“can straight girls like girls sometime”

You stared at the screen, jaw clenched, heart racing. Then you opened Notes and started typing to yourself, because texting your friends would mean explaining, and you weren’t ready for that.

okay but it’s not like i want to marry her or anything.

i just like her smile

and her voice

and her hands

and the way she looks at me

and the way she almost kissed me

okay

maybe it’s something

maybe i like her

maybe i want her to kiss me

fuck

You slammed your phone face down and groaned into your pillow. This wasn’t supposed to happen. But all you could think about was her voice in your ear, her mouth inches from yours, saying: “Not until you want me to.”

And the worst part? You already did.

The next morning, you were trying to act normal. Just a little grocery shopping. Laundry. Scrolling aimlessly on your phone and definitely not thinking about almost being kissed again in your car.

That’s when she texted.

morning💪

Attached: a gym mirror selfie. She was in a black sports bra and high waisted leggings, headphones around her neck, a smirk tugging at her lips. Hair pulled into a mess pony. Skin glowing. Abs unfair.

You dropped your phone on your chest and let out a noise that can only be described as internal combustion.

you okay?

literally no

that bad, huh?

you’re annoying

and hot

stop this

😌

come over tonight. i’ll feed you and put on a movie. sweatpants encouraged

what are we watching?

something gay. obviosuly.

😐

bring wine or your nervous energy. whichever is easier to carry

You showed up two hours later with both.

Hyun-ju opened the door in a t-shirt and sweatpants, glasses on, makeup free and still somehow hotter than anyone had a right to be.

Her place was warm and inviting–soft lighting, a lived-in couch, scented candles burning something vanilla and cozy. You sat side by side under a throw blanket, legs touching. She let you pick the movie.

Twenty minutes later, you weren’t even watching it.

You were hyper aware of her every breath. Every time her hand moved. Every shift of her thigh against yours. And when she leaned over to grab the remote from the coffee table, her body brushing yours–

“I don’t know how to do it,” you blurted out.

She paused. “Do what?”

“I mean–any of it. With a woman. Like…” You stared at the screen, horrified at yourself but too far gone now. “Kissing. Touching. Sex. I don’t know how to have sex with a woman. I don’t even know what that looks like. Is it, like–scissoring? Is that even real? And what if I mess it up? What if you want me to touch you and I just, like, poke something wrong and kill the vibe?”

You finally turned to look at her. She was just sitting there. Silent and smiling. Her chin in her hand. Eyes soft and so amused.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

She tilted her head. “Because I’ve never seen anyone talk themselves into a meltdown this adorably before.”

You groaned, burning your face in the blanket. “I’m gonna die.”

“No you’re not.”

I might! I’m a straight girl who got wine drunk and accidently fell into a queer panic spiral in your living room.”

“Baby,” she murmured, reaching out to gently tug the blanket down and uncover your face. “You’re not straight.” You blinked up at her, lips parted. She smiled–soft and certain. “But you’re very cute when you’re trying to fight it.”

You’re still half under the blanket, your face burning, staring at Hyun-ju like she’d just uncovered every secret you’d been hiding.

She hadn’t stopped smiling. Her eyes glittered with something between affection and straight up amusement.

“I’m serious,” you muttered, barely able to hold eye contact. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what it looks like. I’ve only ever—like, watched–guy stuff.”

Hyun-ju leaned back on the couch, one arm slung lazily over the cushion behind your shoulders. “You know there’s porn, right?”

Your entire body locked up. “I–what?”

“There’s porn. Lesbian porn. Gay porn. Real stuff, ethical stuff. It’s pretty easy to find.”

“I’m not gonna watch porn just to figure out how to sleep with you!”

She raised a brow. “Is that what you’re worried about? Sleeping with me?”

“I didn’t mean–I’m not planning to–not like that–I don’t know what I meant–” You were spiraling. Full meltdown mode.

Hyun-ju let you go on for a few more seconds, just watching you with that infuriating calm like she was thoroughly enjoying this.

And then, gently, “Hey.”

You froze. She leaned in just a little closer, her voice low. “You don’t have to learn anything for me. I’m not expecting you to show up with a skill set.”

You blinked at her, breathing hard.

“I don’t care if you’ve never kissed a girl,” she said. “Or touched one. Or even thought about it before me.”

You stared. “But I have thought about it.”

“I know,” she said, smiling again. “That’s why you’re sitting on my couch, clutching a throw blanket and looking like your brain is on fire.”

You let out a noise between a laugh and a sob. “This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s not,” she assured. “It’s honest. And kind of hot, if I’m being honest.”

You whipped your head toward her. “Hot?!”

“Baby,” she said, barely biting back a grin, “you rambling about how clueless and flustered you are? While blushing and squirming next to me like that?” She shrugged. “Kind of ridiculously hot.”

You let out a broken, strangled sound and buried your face again. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You stayed hidden under the blanket, your voice muffled. “I can’t believe you said porn.”

She laughed–low, rich, teasing. “What? It’s educational!” You were still hiding under the blanket when Hyun-ju tilted her head and said, casual as ever, “We can watch some together, if you want.”

You froze. “What.”

She blinked. “Porn. You said you’ve never seen–”

“I know what you said,” you hissed, peeking out from behind the blanket with your entire face on fire. “And excuse me, I can watch porn by myself, thank you very much.”

Hyun-ju just smirked, like that was the answer she’d been hoping for. “I’m just saying,” she murmured, “sometimes it’s more fun to learn with supervision.”

You launched a throw pillow at her face.

You didn’t say much after that. You put on another movie. Something safe. Something very not gay.

But Hyun-ju kept brushing her fingers against yours under the blanket. And you kept pretending not to notice. And your brain kept looping back to what she’d said.

Porn. Together. Supervision.

You weren’t sleeping tonight.

Hours later, back in your own apartment, you lay on your stomach in bed, phone glowing too bright in the dark, anxiety buzzing in your fingertips.

You stared at the search bar. You typed slowly.

“lesbian sex real”

Delete. You weren’t a serial killer.

“lesbian porn”

Okay. You clicked one of the links. The first few thumbnails made your stomach twist. Not because it was gross–because it was…a lot.

But then you clicked on one that looked softer. Realer. Two women kissing slowly, their hands tentative and warm.

Your breath caught. You watched. They touched like they meant it. They kissed like they'd missed each other. You felt heat rush between your legs before you even realized it.

And then–one of them moaned. And it hit you. Sharp and low. You clamped your thighs together, heart pounding, and slammed your laptop shut. You laid there in the dark, breathless, your pulse racing, your whole body tingling.

“Holy shit.”

Because you liked it. You really, really liked it. And suddenly, it wasn’t just about Hyun-ju anymore.

It was a Saturday night, and your phone buzzed just as you were debating whether to eat dinner or cry under a blanket for the rest of the weekend.

going to a club with a friend. you should come

no pressure btw. just vibes

i don’t club

i don’t either. but i do wear tight clothes and look hot under colored lights.

and i think you’d enjoy that

You stared at the phone for a full minute. Then you threw on the best outfit you could pull together in under ten minutes.

The club wasn’t a packed, sweaty disaster like you’d feared. It was dark and moody and glowy–neon reds and blues painting every surface, bass pulsing low in your chest.

Hyun-ju spotted you at the door and waved you over. You nearly choked. She was in black slacks and a cropped mesh top layered over a strappy bralette, all gold jewelry and smoky eyes and smug smiles. Her nails were painted wine red, one hand around a soda glass, the other casually resting on her hip.

“I didn’t know what to wear,” you mumbled when she pulled you into a hug.

Her arms wrapped around your waist. “You wore this,” she murmured, eyes raking over you. “And that’s all I care about.”

You didn’t drink. Neither did she. But it didn’t matter. The music was loud, the lights were low, and her hand stayed on the small of your back whenever you moved. You couldn’t stop thinking about it. The video. The way those women had touched each other. The sounds. The want. And now Hyun-ju was right here–pressed close to your body, her breath warm against your ear every time she leaned in to talk.

You were sober. And still, you felt drunk.

It was almost 1am when the crowd thinned and the music dulled into background haze. You were standing beside her near the exit, blinking slowly, heart crawling up your neck form how close she was.

“You look tired,” she said softly, brushing a hair out of your face.

You nodded barely.

“You don’t have to Uber back, you know.”

You looked up. She shrugged one shoulder. “You can crash at my place. It’s closer. And I’ve got extra clothes.”

You swallowed. “Oh.”

“Unless you’d rather go home.”

“No,” you said quickly. “I mean–I can come over. That’s fine. If it’s okay.”

She smiled. “It’s more than okay.”

The car ride to her place was quiet. Her music low. Her hand rested casually on the gearshift, fingers tapping, rings glinting under the streetlights.

You stared out the window, but your brain wouldn’t shut up.

She’s so close. Her hands. That mouth. What would she sound like?

By the time she parked and let you inside, you were a silent, shaky mess. And the night was just beginning.

Like before, her apartment was warm and quiet, a contrast to the thumping bass still echoing faintly in your chest. She kicked her shoes off by the door and flicked on a lamp–low, amber light casting soft shadows across the room.

“Make yourself at home,” she said, tugging her jacket off and hanging it neatly. “You want water or anything?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m good.”

You stood awkwardly by the couch while she padded off to her bedroom, calling back, “I’ll grab you something to sleep in.”

Your heart was pounding. You stared at the record player tucked in the corner. The plant by the window. The jacket slung over the back of the armchair. It all smelled like her–clean and woodsy, warm and sharp.

She returned a moment later and handed you a fold shirt and some loose cotton shorts. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Take your time.”

You muttered a thanks and practically sprinted out of the room.

By the time you emerged, changed and clean faced, your nerves had officially gone nuclear.

Hyun-ju was sitting cross legged on the couch, scrolling through her phone, now in sleep shorts and a sweatshirt, her hair loose on her shoulders. She looked…unfairly good. Comfortable. Effortless.

You hesitated in the doorway. Her eyes flickered up, slow and soft. And then she smiled. “You look cute.”

You fiddled with the hem of the oversized shirt she gave you. “It’s literally yours.”

“Exactly.”

You crossed the room slowly and sat behind her, tucking your legs under you. She turned the TV on, scrolled half heartedly through the options.

Neither of you were really watching. Your arm brushed hers. You could feel the heat of her skin. Her thigh close to yours. The hum of tension that had been building since you walked through the door.

She glanced over. “You okay?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. just–tired. Long day. Loud music. You know. I’m not really a club person. You could probably tell. Not that I hated it. It was actually kind of fun. Mostly because you were there. Which I guess makes sense. Since I like being around you.”

You were spiraling again. Hyun-ju didn’t say anything.

You hesitated.

Your heart pounded in your throat. You looked at her mouth. Then back to the screen. Then to her eyes. And then you chickened out.

“Anyway,” you mumbled, pulling the blanket over your lap. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

She leaned her head back on the couch, still watching you. Her voice was teasingly low. “Was that supposed to be a kiss?”

Your eyes went wide. “What?! No!”

Her smile grew. “Are you sure?”

You flushed all the way to your ears. “I wasn’t–I mean, I thought maybe–but then I didn’t–I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Hyun-ju tilted her head, her voice softening. “Baby,” she said gently, “you don’t have to know what you’re doing. You just have to want it.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t move away either. You were frozen. Her words echoed in your chest: ‘you just have to want it.’ And god, you did.

You just didn’t know how to ask.

She shifted beside you, slow and smooth, like she was giving you time to back away. You didn’t. Her hand came up to your cheek, gentle and grounding. Her thumb brushed softly under your eye, then down to the curve of your jaw.

“You’ve kissed guys before, right?” she asked, voice low.

You nodded nervously. “Yeah.”

She smiled. “It’s the same idea…just way better when it’s another girl.”

Your breath caught. She leaned in slowly, her voice like velvet. “It’s not about technique. Or pressure. Or anything you’ve seen in movies.”

Her nose brushed yours, barely there contact that made your stomach twist. “It’s about attention,” she whispered. “Letting it build. Following what feels good.”

Her lips touched yours–just once. A soft press. A question. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

She kissed you again–slightly deeper now, slow and sure. Her lips warm. Soft. She let you feel the shape of her mouth, the gentle tug and press. No rush. No demand. “Just like that,” she whispered against your lips. “You’re doing perfect.”

You whimpered without meaning to. She pulled back just enough to look at you. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Can I… can we do that again?”

That smile. That smile.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” And then she kissed you again–longer, guiding her lips with hers, her hand still cradling your cheek. You followed her lead–tentative, shy, but hungry. Your hands found her waist. She let out a soft hum of approval.

“There you go,” she murmured, lips brushing yours between words. “See? You’re already learning.”

She kissed you again–slightly deeper, a bit slower. “You’re a natural, baby,” she whispered.

You gasped softly, dizzy from praise, from the heart blooming in your chest. “I didn’t think–kissing a girl would feel like–”

Her fingers threaded gently through your hair. “Like that?”

“Like…this.”

Hyun-ju smiled, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Like something you want to do again?” You nodded. “Good.” She kissed your jaw. “Because I’m not done showing you.”

You didn’t go any further that night. Just kissing. Soft, slow, and gentle. When it got too much–when your hands trembled or your breath caught in that panicky way–Hyun-ju pulled back, tucked your hair behind your ear, and whispered, “that’s enough for tonight, baby. You did so good.” And you melted.

A few days later, she picked you up in the late afternoon with a picnic basket and a blanket thrown in the back seat like it was nothing. “You’re so domestic,” you teased as she opened the passenger door for you.

She just smirked. “Only for girls who wear nervous smiles and make me drive across town for the good strawberries.”

She took you to a quiet park, a little hill shaded with trees, far enough from anyone else to feel like it was just the two of you.

You helped her lay out the blanket. She unpacked sandwiches, fruit, two glass bottles of soda, and a pack of cookies she’d clearly bought last minute.

You both sat down, sunlight streaking through the trees, laughter soft and easy between bites. And you couldn’t stop looking at her. The way her hair caught in the light. The stretch of her legs where she lounged beside you. The little smirk she gave you when she caught you staring and didn’t say a word.

Your stomach flipped. You’d been thinking about kissing her again for days. The memory of it was still warm in your chest–her mouth, her hands, the way she’d held you like you were something fragile and precious.

And now, sitting beside her on a blanket in the fading sun, you wanted it again. You ached for it. But you didn’t know how to say it. Instead you said, “This is nice.”

She glanced at you, one brow lifted softly. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart in your throat. “I like spending time with you.”

Hyun-ju leaned back on one arm, eyes gentle. “I like spending time with you too.”

You hesitated. Then leaned over, just a little. Her gaze flickered to your mouth, then back to your eyes. She didn’t move. Didn’t rush you. “Can I kiss you?” you whispered.

And god, the way she looked at you then–like you’d just handed her the sun. “You don’t ever have to ask,” she said softly. “But I love it when you do.”

You leaned in, hands shaking just a little, and kissed her. Slow. Lingering. Sunlight on your skin, her fingers brushing your knee like a promise. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to explain yourself. You just felt.

That evening after the picnic, she brought you back to her place. You didn’t want to go home–not yet. Not when everything inside you was still buzzing. Not when the quiet between you felt so full.

You both curled up on her couch under a blanket, a random movie playing low in the background. You were tucked into her side, your head on her shoulder, her arm around you like it had always belonged there.

You didn’t speak for a while. But eventually, you whispered, “I still don’t know what I am.”

Hyun-ju didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Just kept stroking her fingers through your hair like your words didn’t scare you.

You swallowed hard. “I mean, I like you. I really like you. But I still get scared sometimes. Like, I think about kissing you and I get excited and nervous at the same time. I don’t know what that means. If I’m…gay. Or bi. Or just confused. I feel like I should know.”

Her hand paused for a second–just long enough for you to notice. Then it moved again. “You don’t have to label it right now,” she said quietly. “Or ever, if you don’t want to.”

You pressed your cheek into her chest, listening to the slow thud of her heartbeat.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whispered. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“You’re not going to mess anything up,” she murmured, her voice low and certain. “You’re allowed to be figuring things out.”

You blinked hard, your throat felt thick. “And what if I just…stay confused?”

Her hand slid under your chin, tilting your face up gently. Her eyes met yours–steady, warm, so full. “Then we stay confused together,” she said. “As long as you want me around.”

You let out a breath tha felt like a release. And she leaned in, kissing your forehead, and whispered: “I’m not going anywhere.”

A few weeks later things have changed, in soft, quiet ways.

You and hyun-ju were still texting every day–little things at first: good morning, good night, updates about your day. But somewhere along the way, your texts got…flirtier. Playful and teasing.

She started sending mirror selfies when she got dressed for work. You started sending emojis you wouldn’t have dared to use before. And sometimes, late at night, the conversation drifted into gentle, breathless places.

Still, nothing more than kissing. But everything building. One night you invited her over. Not because she offered. Not because she insisted. Because you wanted to.

you’ve never been to my place

you should come over sometime

tell me when, baby. i’ll be there

And just like that, she was.

You had tried to clean. Really tried. But you still felt a flush of embarrassment when she stepped inside, eyes sweeping the cluttered counter, the unfolded laundry on a chair, the half dead plant in the window.

“It’s not–sorry, it’s kind of a mess,” you said quickly, tossing a sock into your bedroom.

But she just smiled, slow and fond. “It looks like you live here. I like that.”

You gave her a look. “You would say that.”

“I meant it.”

She toed off her boots and padded toward the couch like she’d been there a hundred times. You followed, still a little flustered, and sat beside her with a sigh. You’d picked up chocolate from that corner store she liked, and she grinned when you brought it out.

“I love that you remembered this,” she said, unwrapping one and popping it into her mouth.

You shrugged, smiling. “You said it was your favorite.”

She leaned back on the couch, ankles crossed. “You’re learning me.”

“Trying to,” you responded. Your voice came out smaller than you meant. Her eyes shifted to you, something softer behind them now. And your heart picked up. There was something you’d been meaning to ask. You just didn’t know how. You fiddled with the corner of the chocolate wrapper. “Can I ask you something?”

Hyun-ju nodded. “Anything.”

You hesitated. “I’ve been thinking about…us,” you started slowly. “And about going further. Eventually.”

Her expression didn’t change–still calm, open, listening.

You took a breath. “I just–I don’t really know how anything works. With two women. Like, really works. And I know I could Google it, and I have a little, but it’s not the same as talking to someone who…” Your cheeks were burning now. “Who knows. Who had done things.”

Hyun-ju didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease. She leaned in, her voice quiet but full of warmth. “You can ask me anything, baby. I’ll tell you the truth.”

You were blushing so hard you thought you might catch fire. But Hyun-ju didn’t look surprised. Or uncomfortable. Just soft and steady. She turned on the couch, facing you fully now, her knee brushing yours. “Okay,” she said quietly. “What do you want to know?”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Everything?”

That made her smile. Not teasing–fond. “Alright, let’s start simple.”

She reached for your hand, lacing her fingers gently through yours, her thumb brushing the top of your knuckles. It grounded you. Slowed your breath.

“There’s no one right way,” she started. “Some women like fingers. Some like mouths. Some like toys. Some don’t want penetration at all.” You nodded slowly. “And all of that’s okay. What matters is listening. To your partner, to yourself. Asking what feels good. Paying attention.”

Then she asked, “Have you had sex with guys before?”

You nodded. “Yeah. A few.”

Her head tilted. “Did you like it?”

You opened your mouth then closed it. Hyun-ju just waited. You shifted, cheeks burning. “I thought I did? Or I thought I was supposed to? I don’t know. It always just kind of felt…like it was happening at me.”

She hummed softly. “Did you even cum?”

You blinked at her. Didn’t say a word. Her brows lifted, and the tiniest smirk tugged at the edge of her mouth. “Ah.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “This is so humiliating.”

“Baby,” she said, tugging your hand gently down so she could see your face again. “No, it’s not. It’s not. It’s honest. And it makes me want to take my time with you even more.”

You looked at her–really looked at her–and your chest squeezed. “I want to try,” you whispered. “Not tonight. But sometime. With you.”

“I’d love that, whenever you’re ready.”

You swallowed hard. “Would you…show me? What it’s supposed to feel like?”

Her hand slid gently up your arm, fingers brushing your jaw, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll show you everything,” she said. “Exactly how good it gets. And I’ll go slow. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for. But when you are–I want to ruin you for anything else.”

Your breath caught. And then–so quiet you almost didn’t hear yourself say it: “Do you want to stay over?”

Her smile was instant. And so, so soft. “I thought you’d never ask.”

It had taken you weeks to work up to it, but you finally told someone. One of your closest friends, mid coffee run and panic spill, when you blurted out, “I’ve been seeing someone…kind of. A girl.”

They didn’t even blink. “Is she hot?”

You nearly dropped your drink. “Yes?! That’s not the point!”

They laughed. “It’s very much the point.”

And after that, it got a little easier. You started doing research. Quietly. Privately. Watching videos, reading articles, letting yourself imagine. You even bought a toy–nothing major, just something small and safe to test the waters. And after all that…you still wanted her. No confusion. No doubt. Just want.

So when one of your friends invited you and Hyun-ju out to a club, you said yes. You texted her first.

i wanna go out with you tonight. like properly…dancing and all

that sounds dangerously like a date

maybe it is

i’ll wear something slutty

You nearly combusted. The club was loud, neon-lit, crowded–but it didn’t matter. Because she was there. In a cropped top and tailored pants, hair sleek, skin glowing under the lights. Your friends met her, exchanged looks you pretended not to notice, and she handled it like she always did–cool, calm, absolutely magnetic.

You stuck close to her the entire night. And for the first time, you didn’t hide it. You let your fingers trail down her arm when you leaned in to talk. You pressed your hand to her waist when the bass got too loud and the crowd swelled. You even kissed her cheek once, lingering longer than you ever had before.

Her hand found yours and squeezed. Adn when you pulled her onto the dance floor, she came willingly–one hand on your hip, the other sliding low, slow, possessive. You couldn’t stop touching her. You didn’t want to.

Back at your apartment, the air was different. Charged and quiet. You let her in and closed the door behind you with a shaky breath. Hyun-ju turned to face you, eyes dark, searching. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I want to,” you said. “Tonight.”

She stepped closer. “You sure?”

You nodded again, heart pounding. “I’ve thought about it. A lot. And I’m scared, but I…I want it. With you.”

She crossed the room slowly, closing the space between you. “Okay,” she murmured. “Then I’m going to take care of you. And you’re going to tell me everything you like. If you want me to stop, I stop. If anything doesn’t feel good, you say the word.”

You nodded again, eyes wide. “Okay.”

Her hand slid up your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “You ready?”

“Yes…” you whispered.

She smiled. “Good girl.”

She kissed you slowly–no rush, no hunger, just warmth. Gentle lips and the slow slide of her hands around your waist like she was holding something sacred. When she deepened the kiss, you gasped softly, and she took it like a promise.

You let her guide you to the bed, her mouth never leaving yours. “You nervous?” she whispered against your lips. You nodded. “Do you want to stop?”

“No.”

Her hand stroked down your back. “Okay.”

Hyun-ju helped you out of your clothes piece by piece, pausing between every step. “You’re doing so good,” she whispered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone. “So beautiful, baby. You’re okay.”

When you were bare in front of her, you instinctively went to cover your chest with your arms–but she caught your wrists, softly. “Don’t hide,” she said. “You’re perfect. I want to see all of you.”

And god, the way she looked at you–like you were art, like you were something holy–made you want to cry.

She undressed too, letting you see her at her own pace, and kissed you again as she gently guided you onto the bed.

She started with her hands. Slow strokes along your thighs, your stomach, your chest–never rushing, never groping. Just learning you. Letting you feel how much she wanted to be there.

“Tell me if anything feels weird, okay?” she said as her fingers slid between your legs, featherlight. “I’m going to start slow.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. Her fingers dipped lower, circling your clit in the softest, slowest motion. Your hips twitched, and she immediately paused.

“Too much?”

You shook your head quickly. “No–just surprised.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled. “We’re not in a hurry.”

When she found the right rhythm–gentle, steady, maddening–you couldn’t stop the sound that left you. A gasp. A whimper.

“Just like that,” she murmured. “Let go. Don’t think. Let it feel good.”

Her lips found your neck, warm kisses as her fingers coaxed you further, deeper into the feeling. You were panting now. Hands tangled in the sheets. Her name on your lips. “I’m gonna–” you gasped. “I think I’m–”

“That’s it,” she whispered, mouth brushing your ear. “Let me see you, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

And you did. With her name caught in your throat, your body arching into her hand, you unraveled completely. And when it was over–when your body went soft and trembling beneath her–she kissed your cheek, then your shoulder, and pulled the blanket up over you both. “You okay?” she whispered, brushing your hair from your face.

You nodded, breath still catching. “I’ve never…nothing’s ever felt like that before.”

She kissed your forehead. “That’s because no one’s ever taken the time to learn you.”

You laughed, breathless. “So that’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Hyun-ju smirked, tucking you into her arms. “Mhm. told you it was better with a girl.”

You buried your face in her neck, smiling. “Stay?”

She wrapped her arms around you like she already belonged there. “Always.”

The room was quiet, warm, lit only by the soft glow from your hallway light. You were curled in Hyun-ju’s side, tangled under your blanket, your body still humming from what she’d just done to you. Your fingers played lazily along her stomach, tracing the hem of her tank top.

She had one arm behind her head, hair a little messy, face flushed but smug. “You still breathing?” she teased.

“Barely,” you mumbled into her shoulder.

“Good.”

You laughed, and tilted your face up toward hers. Then kissed her. Softly. Slowly. A little longer than before. Her lips curved against yours. “Hey,” she warned between kisses. “You keep doing that and you’re gonna turn me on again.”

You smiled sweetly. “That’s the plan.”

Her eyes darkened instantly. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, blushing. “I feel…braver now.”

She pulled you into her lap, her hands sliding to your waist. “Mm. That so?”

You nodded again, but there was still a flicker of nerves in your eyes. She saw it–of course she did. But instead of pushing, she leaned forward and kissed your collarbone. “Then let me return the favor,” she whispered. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She took her time with you again–slower, even, than before. This time, you were laid out completely, her lips trailing kisses down your stomach, her hands spreading your thighs like they were hers to keep. “Let me show you what my mouth can do,” she murmured as she kissed the soft skin of your inner thigh.

You whimpered. And then–oh god. Her tongue was gentle at first. Careful. Drawing slow circles around your clit without ever quite pressing into it. She flicked, teased, tasted you like she was starving–and you couldn’t stop moving. “H-hyun-ju–”

“Shh, I know,” she said between kisses. “You’re doing so good. You taste so fucking sweet.”

When you started getting close, her tongue would slow. Pull back. Kiss along your thighs again until you were gasping. “Please,” you whimpered. “Don’t stop.”

She smirked against your skin. “Not yet.”

“Hyun–” You tried to move your hips, chase her mouth, but her hands pinned your thighs open with gentle strength.

“You’ll cum when I say,” she murmured. “And not a second before.”

You were panting now, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “But–what about you?” you asked, nearly sobbing. “You said I was turning you on. Don’t you want–”

She looked up at you from between your thighs, mouth wet, eyes half lidded with hunger. “Oh, I do, baby. But tonight’s for you. And I’m not stopping until you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

You moaned, legs trembling, body arching off the bed. And this time, when she sucked your clit between her lips and moaned into you…you broke. You came with a cry, your whole body trembling, hands gripping the sheets, hips stuttering as she licked you through it, slower now, softer, until your body collapsed back into the mattress.

She crawled up beside you, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “that’s two.”

You blinked, still catching your breath. “You’re keeping score?”

She grinned. “Of course.”

You didn’t fall asleep right away. Your body was too full of warmth. Your chest still fluttering from what she’d just done to you. You were curled up in her arms, your face tucked into the space where her neck met her shoulder, her hand brushing slow circles across your back.

Hyun-ju kissed the top of your head and exhaled softly. “That was really special to me,” she said. You blinked up at her. “Tonight,” she added. “You. Trusting me. Wanting me.”

Your heart tightened. “Of course I trust you.”

“I know. But…still. You didn’t have to let me in like that. And I know it wasn’t just about sex for you.”

You nodded, quietly. Her hand kept moving across your back. “I’ve had hookups,” she continued. “Casual stuff. Things that didn’t mean anything. But tonight–this meant something. Because it was you. And because I know how hard it is to be brave when your whole body’s screaming that you’re new to this.”

You pressed your lips to her shoulder. “You make it feel easy.”

She kissed your hair in return. “That’s the goal.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time after that. Just stayed there, tangled together, your hand resting over her heart.

It didn’t stop after that. If anything, it became impossible to stay away. You craved her. Her mouth. Her hands. Her laugh. Her steadiness. You started spending more time with her than without her–half your clothes in her closet, a toothbrush at her sink, a mug she kept just for you in her cabinet.

When you had to work, you texted her all day. About everything and nothing. About how bored you were. About how hot she looked in the selfie she sent at lunch. About how badly you wanted to crawl into her lap when she called you baby in a voice memo.

And Hyun-ju? She was insatiable. Not in a demanding way–but in that way where all it took was a look. One look from you and she was on her knees. On the floor. Behind the door. Wherever she could have you.

Once, she had her mouth on you in the backseat of her car. Thirty minutes before you were due to meet her friends for dinner. She made you cum twice, then fixed your hair like nothing happened, kissed your flushed cheek, and said, “You look even prettier like this.”

And you let her. Every time.

But lately, something had been tugging at your chest. A kind of guilt. A kind of ache. You loved the way she touched you. The way she cared for you, praised you, took you apart like it was her favorite thing.

But she hadn’t asked for anything. She never even hinted. And you wanted to give her something back.

So one night–warm lights, soft music, your body tangled with hers on the couch–you kissed her. Not tentative. Not testing. Just…wanting.

She kissed you back, gentle but a little surprised at how eager you were. You straddled her lap, fingers curling into the hem of her shirt. She pulled back slightly. “Baby–”

“I want to,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

Her eyes ghosted over your face, searching. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Please. I want to learn. I want you.”

Seh let you tug off her shirt, your hands shaking slightly. You kissed down her neck, fingertips brushing her ribs. You slid off her pants next, leaving her in just her bra and panties–so beautiful you forgot to breathe.

But then–you froze. Not because you didn’t want her. Because you did. So much it scared you.

Hyun-ju noticed instantly. Her hands came to rest gently on your hips. “Hey,” she whispered. “Look at me.”

You did. She was calm. Beautiful. Patient. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

You shook your head quickly. “No–I want to. I just…I don’t want to do it wrong.”

Her hand slid up to cup your face. “You won’t,” she said softly. “I’ll help you. I’ll tell you what feels good. We go slow. We go together.”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

And when she kissed you again, it was like falling into warmth you already knew by heart.

The kiss is deeper now. Slow, lingering kisses that tasted like trust and nerves and something more. Smoothing warm blooming between your ribs. Her hands stayed on your hips, grounding you. You pulled back just enough to whisper, “Tell me what to do.”

Hyun-ju smiled softly. “Start with touching. Explore. You don’t have to rush.”

Your fingers drifted down her sides, mesmerizing the curve of her waist, the slope of her thigh, the softness of skin beneath cotton. She was laid out beneath you, eyes never leaving yours.

Your fingers hit a spot on her stomach that made her jump slightly and giggle, your eyes snapped up but she just assured you it was because you tickled her.

So you continue.. Your hand hovered near the waistband of her underwear. Your mouth was on her neck now, and you sucked on her skin briefly. But then you stopped moving, pulling away so you could sit up. Breath shallow. Pulse fluttering in your throat.

Hyun-ju cupped the back of your head, voice warm and low. “You’re doing so good, baby,” she whispered. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I’m not–I just…” you swallowed. “I’ve never–”

“I know. I know you haven’t.” She kissed the side of your face. “Let me help, yeah?”

You nodded, and she gently took your hand, guiding it over the soft skin of her stomach, down– “You don’t have to go inside,” she murmured, “unless you want to. Just touch me the way you like being touched.”

Your fingers brushed the front of her panties and she sighed, hips shifting slightly beneath you. The sound shot straight through you, a bolt of nervous desire sparking low in your belly. You pressed more firmly, rubbing gentle, clumsy circles.

She gasped softly. “Yes. Just like that.”

You looked up at her, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Really,” she said, breathless now. “Feels so fucking good, baby.”

Your face flushed. You kept going. Tentative at first. Still unsure. But the more she moaned for you, the more her hips lifted to meet your hand, the more your nerves twisted into something bold.

You kissed her chest, her collarbone. Nuzzled into the space above her bra, lips brushing the swell of one breast.

She arched into your touch. “I love watching you learn,” she murmured. “You’re so careful. So sweet.”

You whimpered. “I want to be good for you.”

“You are,” she said. “You already are.”

Her praise made your head spin. You slipped your hand into her panties, heart hammering as you finally touched her. She was wet. So wet. And warm. And soft. “Fuck,” she moaned, clenching around nothing. “You’re making me crazy.”

Your fingers moved slowly, spreading her open, rubbing gentle circles around her clit. “Like that?” you whispered.

“Exactly like that,” she breathed. You couldn’t stop looking at her. Her mouth slightly open. Her eyes fluttering. Her thighs tensing under your body as you moved. She was so responsive. So vocal. And still, so focused on you.

“You’re doing everything right,” she said. “I want you to feel how much I want you.”

“I do,” you whispered. “I want to make you cum.”

She groaned. “Keep going, baby. You’re almost there.”

And when her body finally shook–when she moaned your name and clenched around your fingers and pulled you down for a kiss–you felt more powerful and wanted than you ever had in your life.

You held her until her breathing slowed, until her hands relaxed against your spine. You whispered, “Did I really do okay?”

She smiled, eyes half lidded. “You didn’t just do okay. You wrecked me.”

You giggled, your face buried in her neck. “I want to do it again. Soon.”

“Then we’ll do it again. As many times as you want.”

Time passed. Not in a loud, dramatic way. But in soft little shifts. In the quiet turning of pages. In the way your heart stopped feeling like a question every time you looked at her.

You started holding her hand in public. At first, it was small. Just pinkies brushing on the subway, or you knuckles resting against hers in a cafe line. But then it was real. Linking your arms when walking through the park. Reaching for her hand across a dinner table. Sitting her lap during a game night at a friend’s place without flinching when someone raised an eyebrow.

She noticed every time. Not with a smirk, not with a joke–but with a quiet squeeze of your hand. A kiss to your temple. The smallest smile that said I see you. I know how far you’ve come.

You told your parents. You practice in the mirror for three days. Rehearsed every line. Anticipated every question. And when you finally said the words out loud–”I’m dating a woman. Her name is Hyun-ju.”–your mom just blinked.

Then said, “Is she nice?”

And when you brought her home for dinner, she was more than nice. She helped wash dishes after. Told your dad his bad jokes were genuinely funny. Complemented the food like it was five-star dining. Your mom said she hoped Hyun-ju would come back soon.

You nearly cried in the bathroom after. Hyun-ju waited until you were curled in bed that night to kiss your forehead and whisper, “You did that. I’m proud of you.”

She introduced you to her brother next. He greeted you with a skeptical squint and a sarcastic, “So you’re the reason she’s been smiling like a Disney princess lately.”

You wanted to crawl into the floor. But by the end of the night, you were all laughing over drinks, and he sent Hyun-ju a selfie of the two of you with the caption: she’s way too sweet for your scary ass.

She grumbled, but you caught her saving the photo anyway.

And behind closed doors, you kept learning. You kept asking. And Hyun-ju kept giving.

You ate her out for the first time–nervous, shaking, trying to remember everything she’d taught you. She guided you with soft sighs and patient praise. Held your hair back. Moaned your name. “Just like that,” she whispered. “You’re making me fall apart.”

You learned her body in pieces. The curve of her hips. The sounds she made when you kissed her inner thigh. The way her voice dropped when she was close.

Eventually, she let you use toys–slowly at first, testing sizes and shapes, her hands always on your wrists, her eyes always watching yours. You’d never felt so trusted. So empowered. So wanted. And every time you touched her, every time you made her gasp or cry out or come undone, you couldn’t help but think–this is what love feels like.

The first time you said I love you…wasn’t when you meant to.

It wasn’t after a grand romantic gesture. It wasn’t in the middle of sex, or during an anniversary dinner, or while watching a sunset hand-in-hand.

It was on a Tuesday. You’d both had a long day. Work had sucked. The trains were late. You were grumpy, cold, and tired, and all you wanted was food and warmth and her.

You got to her apartment half an hour late, kicking your shoes off with a groan and dropping your bag like it had offended you personally.

“I bought dumplings,” you muttered, voice flat, “but they’re probably lukewarm at best and if I don’t sit down in the next five seconds I’m going to cry.”

Hyun-ju didn’t say anything. She just walked over, took your coat off for you, cupped your face in her hands, and kissed your forehead. And that was it. That was the moment. That moment you realized it had already happened.

You were already in love with her. You had been for a while. You just hadn’t said it yet. So you stood there, with your arms still half in your sleeves, heart wide open and raw, and blurted it, “I love you.”

The air stopped. Hyun-ju blinked. You blinked. Your stomach dropped. “Oh my god,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean–wait, no, I did mean it, I just–fuck.”

She smiled. Not big. Not dramatic. Just soft. Quiet. Like the words had been sitting on the tip of her own tongue too. “Good,” she said. “Because I love you too.” You stared at her, wide-eyed and overwhelmed. She kissed you again. Slower this time. With the kind of love that said I’ve been waiting for you to say it. Then she grabbed the bag of dumplings, pulled you toward the couch, and said, “Now sit down before you.”

author's note - hope you all enjoy! this was so special for me to write, and so much fun. i hope you love it as much as I do!!

#squid game #squid game x y/n #alternate universe #cho hyun ju x reader #hyun ju #hyun ju x reader #cho hyun ju #player 120 #player 120 x reader #cho hyun ju smut #cho hyunju x reader #hyun ju squid game #hyunju x reader

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hakxs · 1 day ago

Text

͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ⎯‎⎯‎ㅤ ㅤ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ HIGHER ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ TIMES.͏ ㅤ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ \

ཻ ﹑ ♥︎ ⌉ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ 2 instances where nat let her guard down around you, in the form of a cigarette and a few lingering touches.

ཻ ﹑ 📝 ⌉ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏dusted off this draft in my notes and got to work :—) as always, mistakes might be here cause I didn’t double check the writing ( whoops! )

you and nat always had this weird tension towards eachother, it was hard to name. not sure if it was easier to ignore it or let the feeling die.

it all started when you took a drag of her cigarette at one of lotties celebration parties after the yellowjackets won a game.

a few minutes ago, nat had spotted you inside in the kitchen. you looked a little uncomfortable because you were just sulking in the corner without a cup watching a bunch of people drink. so, nat grabbed you by the arm and dragged you out here without saying much of anything.

you had been sitting there with her on the poach stairs for a minute and the situation was awkward. not sure if you wanted to thank her for saving your ass, or, if you wanted to go back inside to get away from this situation.

she suddenly shuffled beside you. and pulled a cigarette from the pack tucked into her jacket and lit it with ease. you must’ve been staring at her too hard because she raised an eyebrow and held it out to you. “ do you wanna try? “

nodding, nat gives you the cigarette. watching you take your first blow. it obviously wasn’t perfect, she giggled at how you inhaled the smoke and choked on it, coughing up a storm.

“ don’t inhale it, idiot. breathe out. “ she snaps, her thumb brushing against your bottom lip in a quick motion as she snatches the cigarette from your mouth and wears a big grin, “ watch after me. “ nat says as she takes a puff, blowing it off to the side and handing it back to you.

if you weren’t already embarrassed, you definitely are now. but you swallow your pride, holding the cigarette in your hand.“ alright, watch this. “ you say, determined to not choke on your own smoke.

once you got the hang of it you two were sharing the cigarette and tossing it back and forth to eachother — smiling ear to ear as you both talk about nothing and everything, you and nat were already close because you shared classes together and played on the same team, so the both of you were just catching up. after awhile the topic eventually lands on the current and how you both felt about the party.

“ i dunno. ” you said, exhaling a trail of smoke, “ I don’t exactly love these parties. they’re always loud, full of weird people, sweaty .. kind of... exhausting? too? “ your voice cracks, nose scrunching a little.

for a moment, your focus shifts. the music thumps in the background, too loud. you think. but your little bubble that consists of just you and nat on the steps was just right. nat’s coughing cuts through your thoughts and brings you back to the moment.

“ okay so, “ nat fiddles with the cigarette inbetween her pointer and middle finger, “ you seriously came to a party you didn’t want to go to in the first place? ” she asks, wheezing a little as she begins to laugh at you.

you grin, leaning back as you examine her face. “ I didn’t want to be mean to lottie and turn the invitation down, I know parties mean the world to her after big games. “ you pause, “ even laura lee comes to them sometimes! I’d feel like a loser if I didn’t go. “

“ right, like you aren’t already one. ” nat hands the cigarette back to you after she rolls her eyes, making you smile alot harder than you were — nat’s fingers brush against yours a little longer than necessary. or maybe you imagined it? hard to tell with the way your thoughts are starting to drift.

unfortunately, your thoughts were cut short when the front door behind you suddenly flew open, the loud creak making you flinch.

“ hey, nat! we’re playing beer pong inside, get in on this. “ some guy shouts from the doorway. nat looked over at you, getting up from her position as the guy wanders back inside, leaving the door open.

she looks down at you now, leaning on the railing of the stairs. “ come with me? I promise I’ll be with you the whole time. “ nat starts, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “ it’ll be a bunch of fun, even if you just watch. “ muttering out, nat gives you a reassuring smile.

you could hear the faint sound of music drifting out from the house, rolling your eyes at how enthusiastic everyone inside was, but the way she looked at you made it harder to say no.

“ no, yeah– I’ll go with you! “ you speak up, cutting off her nervous rambling, you flick the cigarette off to the side and nat reached out a hand to help you up from the stairs and you took it. her grip on you was stronger than you expected as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and the two of you headed inside.

after this night, nat was alot more talkative towards you — definitely not full conversations, but brief greetings if she saw you around school.

the second time you talked to her, this building feeling felt unbearable .

you were at practice this time, it felt like it was going on forever. however, much to your relief coach ben called a quick intermission to talk through a few future game plans with jackie, the team was free for a moment.

you wondered off and looked for nat like it was second instinct, spotting her across the field, you walked towards her.

she was sitting on the ground by herself, absentmindedly picking at the grass around her as you squat down next to her and sat down, she was sitting with her legs extended out.

abruptly, nat breaks through the silence; “ you ever think about quitting? “ nat asked, you couldn’t tell if she was serious or completely honest.

“ hummmm.. “ you start, dragging your humming out for a second, “ quitting the team? “

there was a quiet moment that passed by, she only looked up at the sky before she spoke up again. “ partially. “ she finally said after a long pause, “ quitting the team, leaving wiskayok, do you ever think there’s something better we could be doing right now? “

you glanced over at her, watching the way the sunlight lingered on her face, perfectly hitting the curve of her jaw. “ uh, sometimes I think about leaving the state, does that count? “ you admitted. “ but then I’d miss this. ”

you definitely didn’t mean to admit that to her, but nat immediately caught on and turned her head to the side to look at you, like, really look at you. “ .. this? “ nat questioned.

“ yeah,” you said, pausing to think about how you could save yourself. “ i like practice. seeing everyone happy, playing around, it’s nice. “

she gave a lazy nod, not responding for a moment. the silence wasn’t uncomfortable at all; it just felt heavy in a weird way. nat started to fidget with the grass again, looking down at the ground.

“ you remember that party? ” she asked after a while, not looking at you, moving her legs to hug them. laying her head on her knees.

“ lotties last party? ” you ask, laced with confusion. how could you forget it? you went home that night and thought about her the whole time, you've been thinking about her smoking with you again in the back of your mind during your classes every so often.

“ mmh. “ she hums in response.

you smiled. “ it was hard to forget. you made my night uhh.. “ you trail off, “ bearable. “ settling on that, your sentence sounding unfinished. you really wanted to say she made your entire night and leave it at that, but you fought the urge.

“ okay well.. you looked so sad just standing inside in the corner! I had to save you. ” nat explained, then she spoke up once again. “ it was fun. being out there with you.” she whispered, the mood suddenly changing — or maybe it was just you again? imagining it like before? just like how she brushed your fingers at the party? but nat kept talking.

“ and you fuckin’ suck at beer pong, had to save your ass a billion times. “ you both laugh, but she cuts it short and starts to murmur again, “ I don’t usually have that much fun at parties, so thanks. “

you stared down at your shoes, unsure what to say for a moment. “ I had alot of fun too, even though I didn’t want to be there. “ you comment, lightening the mood a bit.

nat chuckled, but the moment was cut short after a whistle was blown from across the field, coach ben calling everyone back to the center.

nat stood up quickly, brushing grass off her shorts. then, without hesitation, she offered her hand to you. you took it.

“ alright loser, let’s get our head in the game. “ her fingers intertwined with yours for a second — not by accident. you were sure of it this time. she held your gaze just a little too long before letting go, smiling in that subtle way of hers.

and this time, you knew you weren’t imagining things.

#natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio x reader #yellowjackets x you #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets imagine #♫ ⠀⠀nat.

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exitingmusic · 6 hours ago

Text

Yours

Caleb x reader

Warnings: suicidal ideas, depression, slight self-harm, language, obsessive Caleb (slight yandere, not too ooc), lil bit of angst :)

AN: This is a pretty long one I've had in my drafts and the beginning isn't great but I swear it gets better I SWEAR I'll do the HC after this I just really wanted to write this before I forgot :)

WC: 8.6k

After a big argument with Caleb about him locking you in his house, tensions were high. He was leaving tomorrow for a new exploration mission with the Farspace Fleet, but you refused to let yourself be upset that he was leaving again. Not when he had locked you up. Not when he had given you sleeping pills instead of medicine so you wouldn’t sneak out.

He approaches you, a smile on his face as he takes your hand. “I’m about to leave, it’d be nice if we could have a meal together.”

You yank your hand away, snapping, “So I have to listen to the Colonel even when it comes to eating and drinking now?”

Hurt crosses his expression as you turn on your heel, heading for the living room. He follows you, standing in front of you as you sit on the couch and scowl up at him.

“Your life has threats around every corner. The people who are after your power, who want to hurt you? They should all just disappear.” Leaning forward, he presses his hand against the cushion beside your head. “You’re only safe when you’re by my side.”

A gentle smile tugs at his lips, the soft feeling not reaching his cold eyes. It falls quickly though when you respond, “I’d rather face danger head on than live ‘safely’ like this! I don’t need you—“

“You don’t need me? Is that what you think?” he says, cutting you off with a disbelieving laugh. Leaning forward, he grabs one of your wrists. “Alright. What do you need? You can tell me. We can return to Linkon if that’s what you want. If you want to return to the past, we’ll rebuild our old house and move in together.”

His voice turns pleading as he continues, “I’ll decorate it with everything you could ever want, it will have the most beautiful, stunning gardens you’ve ever seen. No threat will ever be able to find you again. I’ll protect you forever.” His words are soft, his eyes so familiar and yet so wrong, somehow. A slight smile curves his mouth, so normal and yet different that it makes your heart ache.

“Caleb, I lived this long without you, I can take care of myself. I don’t want to be a bird locked in a cage, even if it is with you,” you pleaded, carefully watching his every reaction.

He lets out a frustrated sigh and closes his eyes, clearly struggling to remain calm and not snap. He rubs the bridge of his nose and takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself as he opens his eyes again to look at you.

“You think I care about your freedom or free will right now? The only thing I care about is protecting you. The rest doesn’t matter.” He runs a hand through his dark hair and paces away from you, his expression conflicted. “Why do you even want that freedom when you could have safety here, with me?”

“Am I just supposed to stay here, acting happy all my life? Surrounded by the same walls? The same things? Never see or talk to anyone else?” You continued, your voice raising, “because I can't do that Caleb, no matter how safe I'd be. I couldn’t stand it.”

Caleb’s jaw is clenched tight, the anger in his words barely contained. He turns and takes a step forward, his hand reaching out to grab your arm and pull you up from the couch. “I don’t give a damn how ‘happy’ you are, or if you feel ‘trapped’. I just. Need. You. Safe.” His hand tightens on your arm as he presses close to you, every line of his body tense at the argument.

“It doesn’t matter if I lock you up or keep you under my watch,” he says, his gaze pinning yours as he growls, “As long as you’re safe, nothing else matters,” he mutters, releasing your arm, but still standing close enough to tower over you, his violet gaze locked on yours. “Why can’t you understand I’m doing this because I love you? I can’t let anything happen to you, no matter the cost.”

You didn’t recognize this man in front of you, eyes hard and cold, determined to clip your wings and trap you in this gilded cage. You weren’t angry at him, no, it just hurt seeing the boy you loved so dearly so detached and uncaring, towards you no less.

Anger fading, you look at him with saddened eyes, “You're not my Caleb.”

Caleb freezes, staring at you, looking like you stabbed him in the chest before his expression hardens again, the air growing tense as he says, “What are you talking about?”

His hand gently grabs your chin, tilting your head up so he can search your expression as he says, “Of course I’m the same Caleb, your Caleb. The one who’s been here, protecting you, worrying for you, and who loves you. Who else could I be?”

“My Caleb wouldn't have done this. He would've happily followed me to the ends of the universe to keep me safe and happy. He wouldn't lock me away…” you said defiantly, raising your chin.

He releases your chin and steps back, something cold hardening in his expression. “Your Caleb, huh? That sounds like some kind of ideal to me. He sounds like a spineless, love sick idiot who’s willing to risk your life for you to be happy.”

He begins to pace in front of you, his expression turning bitter as he says, “You think he would’ve preferred letting you run around, putting yourself in danger, all because of what?! Your happiness?”

“But I loved that Caleb, I still do. I couldn't give a shit if he was a spineless, love sick idiot. He was my Caleb and I'd have him no other way,” you say loyally, your voice quiet but unwavering.

He freezes, something painful flashing across his expression before he quickly turns from you. One of his hands clenches into a fist as he snaps, “Well that Caleb is dead and gone.” He’s stiff, his shoulders are tense, a muscle in his jaw moving as he stands silently.

Even though he’s turned away from him, your face doesn’t hide your disappointment, “Clearly,” you mutter, loud enough for him to hear. You can’t help the sliver of satisfaction that you feel as he clenches his jaw, teeth gritting.

“So why do you keep talking about him? He’s dead, and everything you want doesn’t matter anymore.” He turns and walks towards you, standing just in front of you with a bitter, cold expression. His voice is fragile as he asks you, “Why can’t you stop talking about him and see me?”

You hold no anger, only pity for him, “Because you’re trying to force me to see you, to choose you over everything else in my life. You’re making yourself the bad guy.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter and harsh. “The bad guy? Is that what you think I am?”

‘Caleb’ cups a hand on your chin, gently forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are hard, no trace of the soft, kind boy you used to know.

“Let me tell you what I think, sweetheart. I think your judgement is clouded by sentiment. Your idea of who your old Caleb is has blinded you, your idea for who I should be.”

That was your breaking point, “Well maybe it’s because I’m locked in this house and now I’m not allowed to see my friends, to go places, hell, I’m not even allowed to go outside,” you spat, glaring up at Cal- no, the Colonel.

He scoffs and gently pushes you back down into the couch, his expression angry as he says, “You expect me to care? You’re not miserable. You’re not hungry, you’re not uncomfortable. You have everything here, but all you can focus on is that you’re missing your freedom, like some kind of animal.”

He shakes his head and looks away, a bitter laugh escaping him. “You’re lucky I even let you have this much. You could be locked up, actually locked up in a cell with no contact.”

Your eyes narrow, an expression of disgust on your face, “You’re right my Caleb is dead,” you grit out, brushing past him to your room.

His jaw tightens, annoyance clear in his expression as he yells after you, “And what does that mean? Your Caleb is dead, sweetheart. This is the only version of me you’ll ever have now.”

Turning back, you bare your teeth, “I might not die out there, but I sure as hell will wither away in here. Thank you, Colonel, I feel so safe,” you spat the title out venomously, slamming the door, paying no mind to his recoil at the rank.

He lets out a low growl and slams a hand on the door, his voice rising in a sharp, cold snap. “You’re going to open this door right now.”

“We don't all get what we want, Colonel,” you say, voice empty as you glare at the door. “Remember? Safety over happiness?”

He steps back and takes a deep, calming breath. With sharp, angry strides, he walks into the living room and sits on the couch, every movement radiating anger.

“Happiness will pass,” he grinds out, his gaze cold as steel fixated on the wall. “Safety is permanent.”

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Over the next 2 days, fury is the only thing you feel, it consumes you. You don’t sleep, don’t eat, you can’t breathe from the anger running through your veins. After the first couple of hours, your room is completely trashed, everything that decorated her room was either broken or on the floor. Your books were bent, pages torn out and crumpled. Your plants were turned on their sides, pots broken as soil spilled out. Pictures of Caleb and you, drawings you had made of each other, laughed over were taken out of their frames and torn to pieces, the frames crumpled and dented. The pretty vase of flowers Caleb got you? Smashed to pieces, the petals shredded and stems ripped. The pillows and blankets you bought together? Ripped, the stuffing leaking, just how your pain leaked oozed from every pore. The jackets, shirts, and sweatshirts he gave you were tossed in the hall. Every gift he ever got you was either broken, ripped, shredded or shoved away from your sight. Everything you enjoyed was broken beyond repair.

Even the plushies weren’t safe from your wrath, a couple being so dented from how many times your fist flew into the soft material. The only thing that remained untouched was a dinosaur model that the two of you spent nearly a week on before he “died”. It was also the first time he ever kissed you, right after he placed the final piece, he jumped up, excited, pure joy on his face as Caleb spun you around and next thing you knew, his lips were on yours.

Now, you couldn’t even look at it, but you couldn’t bear the thought of crushing it, so it sat on the windowsill, hidden behind the blinds that were always shut tightly, preventing any glimpse of the outside.

The Colonel didn’t do that, you did. You couldn’t bear to see freedom so close, yet so far. The sun would shine on the grass and trees outside your window, birds flying over and nesting in the big oak tree in the back. Each night, when the sun set, the sky would be ablaze with the most vibrant pinks, purples, and oranges. Wispy clouds trailed their fingertips through the sea of the sky, curling around each other and floating whichever way the wind carried them.

You felt like a caged animal, being taunted by having to watch your freedom and life slip past right in front of you.

On day 2, you realized that your anger wasn’t getting you free. Defeated, you fell back onto your mattress, a heavy weight on your chest, like this invisible force was smothering you.

You couldn’t cry, it was like the comfort of tears had forsaken you as well as the life you were once so excited to continue, adventuring around the planet freely, meeting people, fighting wanderers and just having the freedom to make your own decisions.

You just felt so empty, the anger had burned out all of your motivation, all of your feelings, leaving you a hollow, blank shell.

A part of you died with Caleb when he vanished in the explosion, coming back as someone you could barely recognize. Your mind was tricked by his physical appearance that you didn’t notice that the kindness and joy had all been leached out.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, lost in your own mind before the door opened. Even though you didn’t look, you could still sense he was standing there.

You didn’t react, not when he sucked in a breath at the mess, not when he came closer or when he peered at you.

“Come, I made you food,” he says stiffly, eyes sweeping over the crushed memories, precious items that weren’t too special to anyone except you.

Standing up, you avoided his eyes and walked past him, shoulders curled inwards as you sat down in front of the plate set up for you.

You couldn’t even feel your hunger, your mouth didn’t water as the scent of his braised chicken wings filled the air. Sides of wonton soup, Har gow, and stir fry sat on the counter, all your favorites.

You ate robotically, the food turning to ash in your mouth. Normally when you ate Caleb’s cooking, you’d be shoveling it in your mouth as fast as possible, trying to eat as much as you could before you got a stomach ache.

But normally you wouldn’t be locked inside.

You could tell Cale-, no, Colonel was a little concerned as he watched you eat slowly, completely blank, a harsh contrast from your torn apart room.

He cleared his throat, “Is the food okay?” The Colonel asks, his voice hesitant.

“S’fine,” you muttered, staring at the plate.

He didn’t try to talk to you again but he sat there, watching you with sharp eyes.

After you finished, you took your dishes over, rinsing the residue off and setting them next to the sink before you went back to your room, shrinking away from the windows, like a phantom.

And that’s what you were, a ghost, a wraith. A spirit that haunts the halls of the house, staring blankly for hours on end. And wherever she drifts, the curtains fall shut, clouding the house in darkness once more. Darkness that was reflected under your eyes.

You grow paler, thinner, your hair messy and clothes hanging off your body like rags. You only ate when he made you, only slept when he made you, only spoke when he asked you something. All your other time was spent locked in your mind, staring off into space.

The Colonel had attempted to bring you back to life. He had cleaned up most of your room, replaced books, framed new pictures, and bought you new pillows and blankets. He tried to talk to you, tried to get you to do things together, but you only responded with simple answers or refusal.

He tried to get you to cook with him, playing music while he waited for you to come out of your room and help him or even just sit at the counter. He tried to give you new plants, but you never watered them, your room was already too dark for them to live long. He gave you all the comforts you could want, but nothing changed.

A cage was still a cage no matter how pretty it was.

Only you couldn’t bear to look outside of it.

You could tell the Colonel was getting frustrated, he stopped trying to sweet talk you into spending time with him or having a conversation. He stopped putting so much effort into cooking, realizing that you weren’t enjoying it. He stopped trying to breathe life into your room, stopped adding old pictures, stopped setting plants on the shelf, leaving the other ones to wilt away.

It was ironic, you and the plants were both wilting away from the sun, dying slowly.

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Like usual, you were laying on your bed, looking at the ceiling and imagining the bright blue sky and the fluffy clouds with birds flying overhead, trying to bring you some comfort, to ground you and to bring you some form of happiness.

It had been months. Five months since you’ve been outside, five months since you’ve seen anyone but him, five months since you’ve seen anything else but the same walls.

You didn’t care anymore, you barely ate, just laid in bed, numb. Your hands were bloody from how often you picked your cuticles, your nails were just nubs, bitten down to the skin. Every time anything would scab over, you picked it immediately.

It was a reminder, a reminder that you were still real, that you could feel, no matter how much you didn’t want to. No matter how many times that she felt like she wasn’t here, the pain would bring her crashing back down.

He watched your slow retreat over the next few months. As much as he tried to talk to you, to coax you back to something like your old self, he made no ground. You were like a shell of your former self, just a hollow echo with no fire in its soul.

With every week that passed, he grew more and more desperate. He tried bringing your favorite foods in, tried to talk you into listening to music again, but none of it had any effect.

He tried to keep a blank expression around you, but as the months passed and he noticed that you were beginning to wilt away, the hard lines in his expression would soften to concern.

He attempted to give you things to do, books to read and such, but everytime he was met with either you ignoring him or just reading the words without actually comprehending them.

By the time a couple of months had passed, your old self was gone, replaced with this empty, soulless shell.

After another month, he was at his wit’s end. You never talked, you never attempted to do anything, you were just a shell. All your fire, your brightness, your life, was gone.

He watched over you constantly, his worry and agitation growing. It was like he was taking care of a robot or a puppet, rather than the person he loved.

On one particular day, he stands in front of you with a conflicted look on his face as he says, “I can’t keep doing this.”

You just walked by him towards your room, “I told you.”

He follows you into the room, his expression hardening as he says, “Don’t you even care anymore? You’ve given up on everything.”

“No, I don’t care.”

He scoffs in disbelief, crossing his arms. “Damn it, you’re not even going to try and fight this?” he says, his voice sharp and bitter.

You sigh, finally turning to him, “There’s no point.”

He goes silent, his gaze fixed on you, taking in your changed appearance. There was a time when he would’ve admired everything about you, how fiery you were, how full of life.

Now, now you were thin and limp and lifeless. Like a puppet without its strings, he felt like he’d broken you down to nothing but a shell of your former self.

After a few moments, he lets out a sigh and mutters, “You look terrible.”

“I'm safe,” you say simply, her words having no bite, just as lifeless as you. Crawling into bed, you faced the ceiling.

He squeezes his eyes shut as you speak, his heart twisting in his chest at your tone.

He’s never heard you sound so lifeless before, so dull, almost like everything inside you has died. His hand gently shifts to the nape of your neck, his touch almost tender.

“This isn’t what I wanted. You’re acting like a doll, not like yourself.”

You turned away from him, “My safety matters most,” you say robotically.

He falls silent. It was a statement he had said, and yet…

He sighs and closes his eyes, shaking his head. “Safety isn’t everything. What’s the point if you’re left miserable?” he said tiredly.

You didn’t bother agreeing, not when it took him this long to understand.

He runs a hand through his hair and scoffs, anger rising in him. “You’re supposed to argue! You’re supposed to get mad at me, yell at me!”

The Colonel’s hand clenches into a fist and he looks down at you, irritation filling his gaze. “You’re not this, you’re supposed to be all bright and happy, damn it!”

“I tried,” you mutter.

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You tried? Hah. You didn’t even fight it in the end, you just let yourself crumble and now I’m stuck with this-“ he waves a hand at you, “-this empty husk.”

You gave him a tired look, “I can’t fight forever.”

He sighs and shakes his head, his expression growing cold. “Bullshit. You could’ve kept fighting, you could’ve still been resisting but instead you just… gave up.”

His lip curls into a sneer, his anger flaring. “You just gave up and let me break you.”

“I just wanted to go outside,” you say, your voice broken as you turn towards the closed curtain.

His expression twists into a scowl, his anger still there but more muted. He takes a step forward, his gaze on you as he says, “Outside? That’s what this is about? You want to go out there? Do you have any idea what’s like for you outside? Why do I have to keep you here? It’s for your own safety. Can’t you see that?”

“I don’t want to live anymore,” you whisper, completely and utterly broken.

He’s taken aback, his anger instantly vanishing into thin air. He stands there in stunned silence, his jaw clenched tightly. The words hit him like a freight train, each syllable a sharp stab into their chests. He knew, he knew he’d driven you to the brink of depression, but hearing it out loud… he doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there. “You don’t mean that,” he finally murmurs.

The Colonel comes forward and kneels at the side of the bed, reaching out a hand slowly, as if he’s afraid he’ll scare you away. He gently brushes a strand of your hair away from your face, his touch a tender, gentle one. “You can’t mean that,” he says again, his voice quiet and broken, “Tell me you didn’t mean that.”

You shake your head, “I’m done.”

He takes your hand in his, clasping it firmly on his own. His eyes lock onto yours, pleading. “Don’t say that. You’re not done. You’re just lost, I can help you find your way back, I can fix this, I can fix you.”

You avoid his gaze, “I don’t think anyone can.”

He refuses to believe that, his grip on your hand tightening as he says firmly, “I can. Anything that can be broken can be fixed. You’re just… confused. I can help you, I can fix you.”

“It’s been months.”

He can’t deny that, and he knows it. It was his fault, his fault that you were like this. Still, he shakes his head and looks you in the eye, determined. “It doesn’t matter how long it’s been. You’re broken, and I’m going to fix you. I don’t care what I have to do.”

He releases your hand and stands, towering over you with a determined expression. “I will fix you,” he repeats firmly, his jaw clenched tight. “I just need to find the right method. I’ll fix you. You just have to let me.”

“There’s nothing left to fix,” you whispered shakily.

The Colonel scoffs, his impatience flaring. “You don’t get to decide that. I know you’re in there, somewhere, you’re just hiding! You’re just…” He rubs a hand down his face, his frustration growing as he tries to find the right words. “You just need to be reminded of what you had. What we had.”

“I had a life.”

He looks at you, his expression hardening. “You have a life. You’re alive. You’re living, breathing, safe. That’s what matters, not you going out and running risks.”

“There’s nothing left for me,” you say, picking at your bloody hands, trying to ground yourself.

He grabs your shoulders, forcing you to look at him as he says, “Are you listening to yourself? We’ve been through so much. You are my world, my everything. I love you with all my heart. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you understand?”

Your gaze snaps to him, eyes hardening, “Why can’t you understand me?”

He shakes you a little, his fingers almost digging into your shoulders. “I’m trying!” he growls out, his anger flaring again. “But you’re just so damn stubborn, refusing to listen and understand what I’m doing is for your own good.”

And just like a flip of a switch you turn away from him, the little emotion and vulnerability you showed vanished, tucked away and extinguished.

He’s left standing there, your expressionless body turned away from him. Frustration, irritation, anger, helplessness, guilt, all well up inside him. In a moment of blind frustration, he grabs a nearby pillow and lets out a yell as he throws it across the room.

You don’t react, don’t flinch, you just lie there, already retreating back into the corner of your mind.

He stands and stares at your still body for a few moments, his chest heaving. He wants to shake you, to yell at you, to get something back, any semblance of his beloved and fiery girlfriend. But you’ve already retreated back into your emotionless shell, leaving him standing there and feeling more powerless than ever.

He falls to his knees and presses his palms to his eyes, his mind spinning as his emotions overwhelm him. The guilt in his chest is threatening to choke him, the sight of you lying there, barely even alive, all his fault. At that moment, he doesn’t feel like a man, much less a military colonel. He just feels like a boy who had broken the woman he loved into nothing. The woman who loved him even when he didn’t deserve it. The woman who had always been there, letting him cry on his shoulder ever since they were kids.

You try to drown him out, picking at the peeling scabs on your fingers, staring at the covered window.

He drops his hands from his face, his expression tired, guilt, frustration, and even self loathing filling his gaze. He rises slowly and comes to stand by you, his movements almost wary. He eyes your body on the bed, so thin and pale, and his hand automatically comes out to touch your hair like he’s done a hundred times before, but he hesitates, his hand hovering just above your head.

Without warning, you feel his arms around you, picking you up. You don’t ask, don’t protest, don’t even move, just lie there in his arms, eyes staring straight forward.

He picks you up bridal style, one arm under your thighs and the other under your shoulders. Your frame is too light in his arms as he heads out of the room with you. You’re limp, pliant as a doll, as he carries you through the house.

He walks outside and down the porch steps, his footsteps quick and precise as he walks across the lawn to the other side of his sprawling property.

As soon as the fresh air hits you, you tense, squinting at the sun.

You were outside.

You were outside for the first time in nearly 6 months. It was better than you ever could’ve dreamed. The smell of grass and fresh air fills your senses. You could hear the steady pace of the Colonel’s feet as he walked through the field, could hear the chirp of the birds, could hear the rustling of leaves in the wind. The warmth of the sun shone on your skin, a sharp contrast from the artificial temperature of the AC or heater.

He sees tension take over your limbs, your gaze squinting up at the sunlight. He’s hit with another wave of guilt, realizing that this might be the first time in months you’d been outside, in the sunlight.

Your eyes dart around, observing everything you can, eyes wide like this was your last chance to take it all in.

He carries you to the big oak tree at the end of his property, overlooking the hills and valleys towards the sun that was slowly sinking towards the horizon.

He gently sets you down in the shade, sitting a little bit behind you, leaving you to soak up what you’d been missing.

Instantly, your hands thread through the grass, clutching it like a lifeline. Your eyes are glued to the scenery in front of you. Rolling hills of all shades of green, from a deep hunter to a pale lime, trees and shrubs scattered the valleys, framing the thin silvery stream running down the middle. Wildflowers and weeds dotted the fields, their bright bursts of yellow, purples, oranges, and reds making the crystal sky so much clearer. Big fluffy tufts of white floated leisurely along the heavens, breaking up the sun into bright patches, shining on the bright grass below.

You're so absorbed in looking around that you don’t feel the tears dripping down her face, hands shaking from your tight grip on the poor grass.

Once you let in a shaky breath, he pauses, eyeing you like a ticking time bomb. His eyes widen as the realization hits him, watching the tears roll down your cheeks. He hadn’t seen you cry in years, ever since you had failed that test before you graduated. In all the time he knew you, you’ve been strong and fiery, fighting against the challenges that life handed to you. He can’t remember the last time he saw you cry, and seeing you now… he hates the sight of it.

He moves closer, his arms encircling you, his chest firm against your back. He leans you against him, his chin resting on top of your head. He murmurs softly, “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s okay. You’re outside.”

In your moment of weakness, you lean back into him, tears coming faster as you choked out, “It’s so fucking pretty.”

He can’t stop the frown on his expression as you cry, your body shuddering. It hurts, more than anything else, seeing you cry. He pulls you closer, one of his hands gently stroking your hair as he murmurs, “It’s just the same old trees and grass. You’ve seen them before.”

You shake your head, unable to express the rawness of your feelings, only able to clutch his arm as you sobbed. Your relief at being able to feel the world again, it was overwhelming. But so was the fear, the fear that it’d be snatched away again.

His frown deepens as he watches you, feeling even more guilty as he continues to hear you cry. He pulls you into his lap, one of his arms around your waist, keeping you pressed against him. His other hand continues to stroke your hair, his voice quiet as he murmurs, “It’s okay… cry it out, sweetheart.”

You nestle yourself back into his chest, unable to tear your eyes away, “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He follows your gaze, staring out at the horizon, a pang hitting his heart as he’s reminded of how you used to look at everything with wonder. His arms wrap a little tighter, his chin resting on your shoulder as he murmurs, “And to think… you’ve been living without this for months.”

You flinch slightly at his words, sniffling and trying to hold your sobs in.

The bitter irony of the situation hits him harder than anything. Months of keeping you safe, of keeping you inside, all to keep you protected, but now just the act of you sitting outside is enough to bring you alive. He turns his gaze back to you, taking in your tear stained face, his jaw clenching tight in frustration at himself and this whole situation.

You nod, getting distracted as you see the birds flying overhead, going to their nest in the tree above your head. Letting out shaky breaths, you try to stabilize yourself, not wanting to scare the creatures away.

He shifts closer to you, keeping a slight distance, but still within arms reach. He follows your gaze to the birds and grimaces again.

His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, as he asks, “You want to get closer to them, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, your voice a rasp, “No, I don’t want to scare them away.”

He lets out a soft huff, his gaze softening as he hears your raspy voice again. It’s the most he’s heard you speak today, if not in days.

He watches you for a few moments, noticing the slight tremble in your hands, before his voice is soft, almost pleading, “You’re trembling, darling.” His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out to comfort you, but he restrains himself. “Let me hold you. You’re shaking like a leaf.”

His voice has a hint of desperation in it now, seeing the tremble in your body. It pains him to see you like this, especially considering it’s all because of him.

He moves closer, slowly, his hand hovering over your shoulder, “Please. Let me hold you, sweetheart.”

“I just need to see,” you plead, voice cracking.

He clenches his jaw, closing his eyes to keep himself from losing it when he hears your words. He knows you’re not just talking about the birds, that this is about needing space, needing freedom.

And it kills him.

He reaches out anyway, unable to stand the sight of your trembling hands. He gently grabs your shoulders and pulls you back, positioning you so you’re leaning against his chest.

He holds you against his chest tightly, his arms wrapping around you protectively. He buries his face in your hair, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, trying to regain control of himself.

He can’t help the broken words that escape him as he whispers, his voice strangled, “Oh sweetheart, what did I do to you…?”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, his chest tight as he feels your body tremble against his. His voice is desperate as he speaks, his heart feeling like it’s being shredded with every word, “Please, please *please* don't be like this anymore. I need you to smile, to laugh, to yell at me, *anything* at this point. That blank look, the silence… it’s killing me.”

“I’ll try, just- just don’t keep me in there,” you beg.

He lets out a choked noise, his hold on you tightening a bit. He’d do anything to bring the life back into your eyes, to hear your voice.

His voice is strained as he says, his head resting on your shoulder, “Anything you want, sweetheart. You won’t be locked in anywhere again, I promise. Just please… stop being like this. I need you back… you.”

He shifts, gently turning you so you’re facing him. His eyes roam your expression, taking in the tear tracks, the broken eyes, the trembling body. He lifts his hand, gently wiping at your cheeks and wiping away the tears. His voice is a strangled plea as he says, his fingers tracing your cheek tenderly, “Please… stop crying.”

He reaches up a hand, gently wiping at the tears on your cheeks. “I hate seeing you cry,” he murmurs, his expression still full of guilt as he continues, “That’s not how it’s supposed to be. You should smile, not sit here sobbing.”

He gently turns you around, tilting your chin up to see the sincerity in his eyes.

“I couldn’t cry before I came out here,” your voice broke, “I couldn’t even feel anything.”

He shakes his head and holds you tighter, guilt continuing to build inside him. “You shouldn’t cry like this… you should be happy, enjoying the fresh air. Not crying over the very simple things I’ve taken away from you.”

He sighs and closes his eyes, resting his head on top of yours as he continues stroking your hair. He murmurs, “I knew you’d be happy to be outside, I knew it’d be different… I just didn’t know it’d be like this. I didn’t think you’d be crying like your world finally came back.”

“I just-“ his voice breaks off as he tries to find the words to say, guilt and frustration and regret warring within him. He takes in every detail of your form, and the guilt washes over him in waves. He feels like he’s broken you, even as he holds you tightly in his arms.

He holds you tighter at your words, his chest tightening at the sound of your voice. Your words are like a dagger to his heart; the way you try to reassure *him* with them instead of the other way around.

His grip on you almost becomes bruising as he speaks, his voice rough, “You’re free, darling. You’re safe. I won’t ever lock you away again, I promise.”

The guilt is so strong he’s nauseous, trying to keep himself together as he keeps you in his lap, trying to savor every second of this. Knowing that you probably hate him, but can’t even fight him in this moment, just sitting there and crying and staring out at the world he locked you away from. He knows that he’s changed your life forever, and he can’t even blame you for hating him right now.

You pause, hiccupping and debating your next words, “Thank you… Caleb,” you say hesitantly, lingering a bit longer on the syllables of his name. Syllables you hadn’t said in months, hell, you hadn’t even let yourself think of the name unless it was about the old Caleb.

Caleb’s eyes widen in surprise, and he almost doesn’t reply for a moment due to shock. He didn’t think he’d be hearing you saying his name, let alone thanking him. He takes a second to swallow the lump in his throat, his voice hoarse as he murmurs, “You’re thanking me…?”

The sun starts to slip below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze. Magnificent reds and orange and pinks lighting up the pale sky, dark clouds acting like smoke. It almost looked like the sun was melting, setting the green, lush valley on fire below.

Your sobs slow to hiccups, body shuddering.

His hand continues to rub your back gently as he feels your sobs slow down, the sound being replaced with hiccups. He presses a gentle kiss to your head again, his hold on you still tight.

He murmurs quietly into your ear as he speaks, his voice still ragged, “That’s right, just breathe, pips. Take deep breaths…. I’ve got you, I’ve always got you.”

He cradles you against him, holding you tightly as you rest your head against his chest. He buries his face in your hair again, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

His thumb rubs your arm tenderly, the motion gentle and almost soothing. He sits there silently, listening to the sound of your ragged breaths slowly even out.

Caleb’s suddenly hit with the realization that he’ll most likely have to bring you back inside eventually, and he lets out a silent grimace at the thought of it. A heavy feeling settles in his chest, the thought of making you go back to that emotionless, depressed shell of yourself making him feel nauseous. He tries to ignore it, shoving that thought away and focusing on his hand stroking your hair. He takes in a deep breath and murmurs, “Sweetheart?”

“Hm?” You murmur, nearly half asleep against him, watching the setting sun.

He takes another deep breath, steeling his nerves and continuing, his voice low and steady. “I’ve gotta ask you something.”

Caleb gently turns your chin to face him, taking another deep breath and looks you dead in the eye, his gaze fierce and determined as he asks, “If it wasn’t for me, if you were free to do whatever, go wherever you wanted… would you leave me?”

You hesitate, afraid that he wouldn’t like your answer, “If I could do whatever I wanted, I’d stay with you, just not holed up in the house forever.”

He relaxes fractionally, the tense lines in his expression smoothening just a bit, but his jaw is still clenched tight. His next question comes out hesitant, like he’s afraid of the answer. “You… would stay with me, but not if I kept you inside like this, correct?”

You nod, not knowing what else to say.

There’s an undeniable sense of relief in his expression, a weight seemingly lifted off his chest at your response. He takes another deep breath, his voice a low murmur as he continues with the questions. “So, if I told you I’d let you go out as long as you promise me you’d come home every night…?”

“Then I’d stay,” you whispered, afraid to get your hopes up.

Caleb watches you, his gaze sharp and serious. He lets out a shaky exhale, feeling almost like he’s on the verge of a panic attack with how fast his heart is racing. His hand is shaking on your chin, but he manages to keep his expression as steady as possible as he continues, “No matter what, you promise you’ll come back. You promise you won’t disappear.”

“I promise,” you murmur, your voice shaky with hope.

His hand on your chin slowly relaxes, as if a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He holds your gaze for a few more seconds, staring at your face intently. After a moment, he pulls you closer and presses a kiss to your forehead, his voice hoarse as he murmurs, “Thank you.”

Your face lights up and you spin around, crushing him in a hug, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Caleb.”

He lets out a surprised huff, but his body immediately relaxes, and he wraps his arms tight around you in return. He burrows his head into your shoulder as your arms cling to him, his own hands gripping your shirt in a vice-like grip. For a few moments, he just sits there, revelling in the feeling of you holding him tight, those words you said bouncing around in his head. He was finally getting you back, even though it wasn’t much, it was still progress.

He’s on the verge of sobbing, but he manages to compose himself, instead holding you tighter and asking, “You swear you’ll come back? Every night, you swear it?”

Nodding frantically, you refuse to let go, your face buried in his shirt.

Caleb lets out a shaky exhale, his eyes clamped shut as he leans down and presses his forehead against your hair. He murmurs into it, his voice low and hoarse, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I never should’ve done that to you.”

His body is tense against yours, his arms holding you tightly as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. He continues his murmured apologies, a mix of guilt and desperation lacing his words. He continues to bury his face into your hair, his voice now rough and hoarse. “I never should’ve done that to you, I should never have kept you locked up and trapped like that. It was never meant to be that way, I just… I just wanted to keep you safe, but I ended up destroying you. I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You're nearly too dizzy from your newfound freedom to respond, barely choking out, “S’okay, we’re okay, I’m okay.”

He can’t help it, a harsh sob escaping from his lips at your words. He can’t stop himself as he pulls you closer, burrowing his head into the crook between your neck and shoulder, his words coming out choppy and broken as he speaks through his tears. “No, no, it’s not okay, it’s not okay. I was supposed to be your protector, but I ended up hurting you worse than I probably protected you.” Caleb’s hold on you tightens even more, almost borderline painful in how much his fingers dig into your flesh. He’s crying now, full on crying, something he hadn’t done in years. He presses his face into your neck, his entire body shaking as he murmurs through his tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You were slightly surprised at his clinginess, but nonetheless, you gently raked your fingers through his hair, trying to soothe the broken boy holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him here.

Caleb buries his face into your neck, his breaths coming out in hiccuping sobs, his tears wetting your skin as he continues to mumble, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He’s completely crumbling in your arms, the strong, stoic facade he had for the past months shattering and crumbling to pieces. He buries his face into your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably, his shoulders heaving with sobs as he holds onto you like a lifeline and repeats his apologies over and over again. “Please, please… don’t leave me... please don’t hate me, I’m sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry…”

“Shh, you’re okay baby, you’re okay. I’ve got you, I ain’t going nowhere,” you soothe, your voice hoarse from your own crying session.

He keeps his face buried in the crook of your neck as he tries his best to quell the sobs still escaping him. His breath is hot and ragged, his grip on you still painfully tight. He manages to control it enough to stop the sobs, now he’s shuddering slightly as he whispers, “Baby… don’t hate me… don’t leave me…”

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, no matter what you do,” you admit, voice shaking. “C’mon, you wanna go inside? It’s getting dark and cold out.”

He lets out a shaky exhale at your words, a wave of relief and gratitude passing over him. He takes a moment to collect himself, before letting out a deep exhale and nodding, his voice still trembling as he murmurs, “Yeah, let’s go inside…” and begins the slow process of detaching his limbs from around you and standing up.

Caleb lifts you up like you weigh nothing, both of you leaning on each other and hands interlaced as you head back towards the house.

He carries you most of the way, refusing to let you get your feet muddy, pausing as he holds you in the living room, “Can you open your eyes for me, sweetheart? Where do you want to sleep?”

“Your bed, just leave the window and door open… please,” you murmur, barely opening your eyes.

He nods silently, his grip on you shifting slightly so he can readjust his hold.Caleb then begins walking down the hallway, making his way to his room. Once in the room, he walks to the bed and gently sets you down on it, shifting a bit so he’s sitting next to you. He pauses there, simply looking at you for a few seconds before speaking, “I’ll get the window and door, alright darling?”

You nod, curling into his bed and inhaling the scent of him.

He stands, reluctantly letting go of you so he can walk around the room, opening the window and the door before turning back to you.

He looks at you again, hesitating for a few moments before murmuring, “I’ll be right outside. Just… call for me if you need me, okay?”

You sit up, confused, “Where do you think you’re going?”

He pauses at that, looking at you for a few moments before answering, his voice soft, “Just outside the room, sweetheart. I’m not leaving you, I’m just… staying out there, in case you need me.”

“Damn right you're not leaving me, now get in the bed,” you say firmly, your tone leaving no room for argument.

He lets out a soft huff of laughter at the command, his heart feeling just a little lighter at the bossy tone you were using.

Caleb walks over to the bed and slowly lays down across it, staying as close to the edge as he can, still keeping his distance from you.

You huff, amused at his cautiousness. You scoot over and pull him towards the center of the bed, staying close to him just like you did befor- no, don’t think of that, he’s here and you’re free.

He lets out another soft huff, unable to fight the small smile that appears at your actions. He slides across the bed until he’s directly next to you, though he keeps his hands to himself, not making any move to touch you.

You wrap your arms around him tightly, resting your head on his chest, using him as a squishie.

He tenses momentarily at your sudden move, before relaxing and letting you wrap yourself around him, a soft huff escaping him, “You broke all your plushies so you're using me as one.”

You shrug, holding him tighter, “Maybee.”

Caleb chuckles, “Don’t worry, we can go to the arcade sometime this week, maybe go shopping or out to eat and I’ll get you more, a bunch more.”

Letting out a content hum and melt into him, closing your eyes.

He slowly relaxes further, his arms slowly lifting and wrapping around you in turn. He holds you against him, one hand gently resting on your back and the other in your hair, his fingers running through the soft strands. Caleb’s hand runs down your back in tender motions, his touch tender, almost worshipful as his fingers softly trace across your back. He listens to your breathing, letting it soothe his nerves, his grip on you slowly tightening as he continues to run his fingers through your hair.

“Thank you,” you whisper, half asleep.

He pulls you closer to him as you speak, his breath shaky as he absorbs the weight of your words, the feel of your body against his, how you’re willingly staying in his arms, how you say his name.

His grip tightens even more, almost painful, desperate to know that this is real, that you’re not going to disappear. His voice is hoarse when he speaks, his words quiet, barely more than a whisper, “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

As you drift off, he closes his eyes, listening to your soft, even breathing. The sound is like a balm to his soul. He lets himself doze in and out of sleep, too happy to see you like this to allow himself to rest completely.

His arms loosen a bit, enough so he can maneuver his body so that his entire upper half is wrapped around you, almost shielding you from the world itself. And he would continue to, he’d continue to shield you from the harsh world, but, he wouldn’t imprison you, wouldn’t try to tame you. He’d let you burn, even if you incinerated him, he’d die with a smile on your face. Because he was your Caleb, no matter what could happen.

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