#I have just about nothing left except spite

[aeolianblues]

The worst feeling in the world is 'I reached out for an interview, oh, you left me on read. Oh I see you've just posted that you're curating and hour of music for the BBC tomorrow. Oh I see, the US tour has sold out in 3 hours. You knew that. I'm embarrassed I ever asked. Sorry for bothering you. I can imagine your smirk right now. I can see your mouth forming the words now, 'poor sod'. Sorry for embarrassing all parties, sorry for wasting your time. I'll go kill myself now to make up for it.'

[barnacles34]

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide. 

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

��Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.’ You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.  

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You���re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

[mxtantrights]

thinking about Jason Todd, who you used to date. It was the best of times. You'd come over to his apartment and fool around, make food, you know basic shit. And he'd come over to your's and fool around and help you with some basic utility stuff that you'd been ignoring.

You'd talk about nothing sometimes. And then you'd talk about everything. How family is important, how you want your life to go, how you think it will go in spite of that.

And you two went on like this for about one year, three months and one day. You remember it to this day because you found it so odd that he dropped off the face of the Earth. No break up text, he seemed to take ghosting to another level.

You go on with your life, after you take six months of missing him and grieving the relationship you had. Because, it is Gotham and people disappear because they either finally decide to leave or they leave the other way... you try not to think about Jason that way. You'd like to think that Jason left Gotham on his own accord.

It's not until two years later that you see a glimpse of him. It's just for a second and you think your eyes are playing tricks on you. For the tiniest of moments you see him walk by you on the subway station. You blink, and he disappears.

That moment haunts you. It makes you realize just how much you really liked him. You hadn't said the word love to him, and neither he to you. But damn if you weren't getting there.

It's another few months before you see him again. This time you can't let it go. You have to pull that thread. You spot him walking across the street. He's in a hoodie and sweats but you see his face plain as day. And that damn leather jacket. That brown leather jacket.

You call out his name and watch his body still. He's on the corner of the sidewalk. With your eyes laser locked on him, you cross the street over to where he is.

He turns around slowly. And you see it. The scars on his face, the J on his cheek. Your blink slow. Because you had thought Jason would have left you for something better. But life didn't seem to be so kind to him.

"Jason..." you trail off.

Your voice isn't that loud. It sits amongst the traffic of the city all around you. It blends with the people walking by, going home from work or going to the nearest bar.

"I didn't mean for you to see me like this." he grunts out.

"What?" you ask confused.

You think of the feeling now, that you've been feeling since you first saw him. How he could be walking by you and you wouldn't notice. How you see his face everywhere, except that couldn't be possible, could it?

"I just wanted to make sure that you were okay." he says.

You nod your head vigorously. The tears in your eyes coming out all at once. You bite down on your bottom lip to keep back the sob.

Because Jason is back, but he's not Jason anymore. He's not yours.

[redheadsramblings]

I have had a vision

Emmrich while Rook is trapped in the Fade

Seems to be keeping it together as far as the team can tell

He's obviously tired and working every hour he can to get them back

Lucanis is a little concerned at how much coffee he's suddenly drinking but glass houses

And he is looking a little more rumpled than usual, possibly scruffy? No surely not

I put this in the 1st week, Rook is missing about day 4 or 5 but could go to 6 or 7 depends on what else he's been doing to stay awake

The team has convened in the dinning room to discuss progress, mostly because Lucanis insists everyone come and eat something, especially Emmrich as he's noticed how much of the vegetarian offerings is left at the end of meals (could be even more heart-wrenching if Rook is also a vegetarian, and he keeps making enough for two)

Anyway everyone is sitting around the dinning table, the dishes haven't been cleared beyond pushing them out of the way for space for them to all compare notes

Except Emmrich who is leaning against the fireplace with a glass of something that Spite says smells like Trees. Smoke. And Regrets!

But it's alcoholic which is weird for Mr Emmrich "never more than a glass of wine occasionally at dinner" Volkarin, and it's not the first glass or even the second, but again everyone is a little stressed so no one is going to judge the man for it

Conversation is happening, and it's all nope, nothing, no clue, not heard back etc

Depressing as fuck

Emmrich has been absolutely silent the entire conversation

Not a word

Someone (depends on certain choices, but my three options are Bellara, Harding or Neve) asks Emmrich if they've got anything to add/are they OK/they've been awfully silent for the Fade expert depends on the level of sass/care/snark you want to go for

For a beat, Emmrich doesn't move or react, and they think he hasn't heard them, so they start to try again

They don't get beyond his name, "Emmrich—"

When he moves like a snake uncoiling to strike, whips his arm back and throws his glass into the fireplace with a crashing of glass, a whoosh of flame and everyone else flinching/bolting up out their seats as he just screams "FUCK!!!"

There's dead silence as everyone holds their breaths

Emmrich moves first

He straightens up, tugs his rumpled waistcoat down, takes two steps and then passes out

Do with it what you will, but I needed to get it out in the world

[megapteraurelia]

TWO-WAY STREET. — part 2.

🫧 SUMMARY; — how is suna rintarou ever going to get over you? or: having a hard time not thinking of begging you on his knees to give him a second chance.

🫧 WARNINGS; — graphic smut; angst; fem!reader; pathetic!suna/sweet talker!suna and fem!receiving oral; mentions of weed and alcohol; second chances (except they're still stupid)

🫧 WORD COUNT; — 3122.

🫧 AUTHOR'S NOTE; — how to angst...? ( part 3 in the works!)

please let me know what you think! -` ♡ ´-

pt. 1 | pt. 2

“if this keeps up, yer gon’ be labeled a stalker.”

atsumu held the bills between his fingers, and suna snatched it, stuffing the money into his back pocket and the rest of the mary jane in the side pocket of his jacket, “how about minding your own business once in a while?”

“nah,” atsumu grinned, “where’s the fun in that?”

his fingers were quick in rolling the joint, crumbling the buds into a neat line before closing the paper with a swipe of his tongue. when he searched his jeans pockets for a lighter, suna’s eyes found your presence amidst the many people at the party, fitted between dancing, sweating bodies. 

the party he hadn’t wanted to stay at once he finished up his deals, but that he couldn’t help but prolong his visit more once his sweeping gaze over the masses found the light you were radiating.

so there he stood, in the shadowed corner of the room with his shady business, several couches and tables between you both, basking in your light even though he knew you didn’t like him to. he knew, he knew, and yet he stood there while the fake blonde next to him clicked his thumb against the lighter, watching you dance.

his hoodie and the jacket thrown on top of it felt heavy and too hot on his shoulders, but he didn’t bother shrugging any of it off.

because he hadn't planned to stay.

“so — “ atsumu dragged a deep breath, and that shit stank up this pathetic little corner suna rintarou was standing in, “ — what do ya say, i try my luck with’er?”

suna froze, but said nothing. maybe if he pretended that the music thrumming through the air was too loud, then he could ignore atsumu and his cocky exclamation of stupidity. 

but as blonde as atsumu was, he wasn’t as gullible.

an arm draped over suna’s shoulder, he leaned in, and smoke curled up into the air, the scent as penetrating as ever, “oi, come on, rinnie, what’s with yer stoic attitude, huh? you can hav’er right after, hn? jus’ wanna see what the fuss is all about. so, how abou—”

suna rintarou did not fight. he really didn’t. he wasn’t the type to, and punches hurt his knuckles.

if anything, he was more the underhanded type to deal with things, maybe a bit of blackmail if they wouldn’t let up, but fighting? smashing any of his body parts into somebody else for violent reasons? not really his style.

but atsumu asked for it. 

so leaving behind a doubled over blonde whose joint had fallen down from his open mouth onto the wooden floor, suna had to get out. it was hot, it was stuffy, it was so fucking unbearably close to where you were, with annoyance pumping through him at every turn because fuck— not even sending him a glance or leave any crumbs of recognition that you had seen him, that you had felt his presence in the same way that he did when he stepped into the goddamn house.

the air outside was fresh, cooling the sting on his knuckles, and he grit his teeth when he bent at the knee, sinking, leaned against a tree in the backyard of the house. the knuckle of his uninjured hand rapped against the space between his eyebrows, trying to pound back some sense back into his head. 

he should leave, ignore that atsumu would get up from the ground and would pursue you out of spite, and just go home. he may had been joking but the venomous way those words left his mouth, painting you like an usable toy, when suna couldn’t even fucking help but let you slip through his fingers, when all he wanted was to lose himself in you, keep a grasp on your essence, selfishly own all that you had to offer.

“rin?”

his head snapped up so fast, he felt his neck protest, but that didn’t matter, because—

fuck. 

the way you were rubbing your arms at the cool air, the hesitant look on your face when he had gotten so used to the look of disdain you used to send his way the past weeks, the absolute wreck that was your hair from running your hands through them while dancing. 

you were breathtaking. 

“what happened with miya?”

“nothing.”

you didn’t believe him, but that was because you knew him. you knew the way his face settled in the slightly bored expression when nothing was going on, the way his shoulders would relax because there was nothing to be tense about, the way he would roll his eyes, the sharp lines of his features laid-back.

suna rintarou looked up at you from where he was seated on the ground, and his face painted a clear picture for you. the tension in his jaw, the deep set of displeasure as his lips pressed into a thin line, the twitch of his ears whenever he lied, the red on his knuckles — he was pissed.

“it’s not nothing.”

what did you want to hear? that he couldn’t bear to hear somebody talk that way about you? as if you were dismissable? at the insult hurled your way and his? 

that he had no right to feel any way about you anymore, not when he fucked up and lost you?

you leaned forward, and a couple of strands of your hair slipped from your naked shoulder, littered in goosebumps. god, he wanted to exist within your confines.

“why do you care?” he settled on that question, a note of bitterness entering his voice, “last i checked, you were too busy dancing with some lame idiot.”

your silence was icy, and suna thought that he might be stupid. at last, your hands resumed rubbing your skin, and your voice sounded almost tired, “because you’re injured, rin. because you look like you’re gonna make some bad decisions.”

then, you huffed, just as bitter and full of resentment as he felt when he breathed next to you and could not call you his, “but i guess i’m the lame idiot here, whatever.”

you turned to leave, but movement rustling behind you and a warm hand on your legs stopped you. half-crawled, half-supported on a knee and a foot, suna rintarou’s fingers squeezed your flesh, and he looked up at you with eyes that spelt out too many hidden emotions, too many hidden desires, too many words unsaid.

“fuck, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean that,” he leaned his forehead against your thigh and your leg twitched at the contact, “i’m annoyed. this shit’s annoying. i fucking miss you, and you’re dancing and you don’t care and god, i’m so fucking pissed—”

a hot kiss placed on your thigh, his hand warm; tendrils of guilty and embarrassed pleasure shooting from where he had touched you to your lower stomach. 

“rin, i don’t—”

his other hand coming up to grip the back of the leg he was leaning against shut you up, and his fingers felt so familiar, the press of the tips against your flesh, marking you in the way they used to. the trace of his lips against you spelt out a dirty secret that he kept hidden in the sleeves of his jacket, in the confines of his pants, in the innermost window of his soul.

those eyes looked at you, half his face covered by the skirt from where you were watching him, pleading, another swipe of his tongue on your skin, tasting you, asking for you to give in.

“i can’t without you,” he murmured against your leg, hot and wet, a bite, “fuck, please. tell me you miss me just as much.”

your ribcage heaved up; rin at your feet, his hands spelling out his desire, the press of his face so comfortable and everything you wanted. your chest hurt, the arousal pooling low, “i hate you.”

he couldn't help but notice that you still didn't deny him.

“i know,” another kiss, and god, he was going to make you go—, “i know, babe, i know. but i’m— crazy, i’m going crazy.”

his nose was searching, a trail he could follow with his eyes closed, leading him under your skirt with ease, tracing the edges of your panties. his groan rumbled in his chest against your leg when he found the proof that you wanted him just as much, the vibration sending shocks through you and you couldn’t help the little pant escaping your mouth.

“fuck, you don’t even know,” suna mouthed against your clothed pussy, the desperate raw edge in his voice kissing you you through the material. your legs trembled, tiny little flutters at the way suna rintarou disappeared under your skirt so naturally, the way the hood of his sweater draped over his back peeped out from underneath, his hands steading you as he licked the wetness of your panties until his saliva drenched all of it.

“r—rin,” your hands found his shoulders to support yourself on, legs spread a little further, hair tickling your innermost skin, “i hate you, a—ha-nd i hate all those s—stupid girls you had with you, an— rin.”

his finger had wrapped around your panties, pulling it to the side, mouth latched to your pussy freely now, tongue tracing your folds like he had forgotten the look of you, the feel of you under his pink muscle, all the little things that had your breath hitching, that had you moan, that had your hands grip his thick neck to press him up further.

“i hated seeing those assholes at your arm,” he snapped against you, mouth growing forceful, and two of his fingers coating themselves in your wetness, teasing you, pushing in slowly, deliberately, “what do they fucking know about what type of sounds you make, huh? how to treat you? how to love you?”

suna knew you; he knew the spot to curl his fingers against, knew the rhythm of his tongue against your clit, knew the erogenous zones to stimulate with his other hand to have you panting, knew the tell-tale sign of you coming undone underneath his touch. and with each stroke, with each kiss, with each gasp of air he forces down his throat before diving back into you, he missed you.

“i want you,” the squelch in the air was obscene, so fucking vulgar, “i need you. please.”

your nerves coiled and crashed on top of him, dissolving into an onslaught of lust, of love, of hate, of cum, of his tongue ever-lasting, of his voice begging, and had he not been holding you up, you would have lost your footing and fallen down, too.

“rin, rin, rin, rin,” name chanting, hands sweaty on his jacket, the pull of your panties, the wet sounds of his fingers fucking you through the orgasm.

“tell me,” his hips were moving against the air, desperate for reprieve, “tell me there’s no other, babe. there’s me, hn? i’ve got you.”

another orgasm was on the edge of your perception at the continuous stimulation, at the continuous plea to give suna what he had to miss out on for the past weeks. brain drunk on you, yours drunk on him, fingers slipping, “rin, there— ah, never wa—ha-as. fuck, you make m’feel soo goo—oood.”

his cock pulsated in tandem with his heart, aching, your words beelining straight down, fuelling the haze surrounding his mind. his mind couldn’t help but conjure all the times other men’s hips snapped into your heat, imagining you opening your mouth wide to fit them. it was like a disease; his thoughts revolved around you, jealousy rushing hot through his veins. 

the way his fingers turned harsh, curling deep had your nerves tingling with an excitement that you hadn’t felt in so long, and your tongue flicked out to moisten your lips. he had leaned back, face exposed to the cool air, lower half of his face glistening in the night and the soft backyard lights. he kept you in his gaze, eyes following the movement of your tongue. his other finger joined to take over the featherlight touches to your clit, so in contrast to the filthy way a third finger joined to wedge itself into your cunt. 

he huffed, “look into my eyes.”

suna's eyes were like a maze that drew you in, the way they had from the first night you had found yourself in his bed. it kept luring you in, even when he paused to stand up in one swift move, balance found quickly, chest pressed against yours, his fingers slowing down from the pace you couldn’t keep up with. so close to you, in the familiar embrace, your head came forward instinctually to rest on his shoulder. 

“eyes up. look at me,” he repeated, nudging your head with his shoulder and you lifted it slightly to recapture the storming grey. his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, eyes half-lidded as he drank you in.

their usually sharp lines having softened, yet his voice remained rough, “nobody compares. you fuckin’ get that?”

his touch became more like a caress; the strokes plunging in deep but not with any less of the needy passion. it drew from you trembles, little moans meant for him, his name tumbling from your lips as you asked for another release; the brewing of feelings in your chest accompanying the heat pooling low.

suna’s head dipped low, found your sensitive skin littered with goosebumps and had his tongue brushing over your flesh to taste your scent. his teeth bit down lightly, a sharp canine digging into your skin; a certain intent behind the marking, possessive and pissed off. the pressure of his clothed cock rubbing your stomach had you clinging to him, and when you opened your mouth, amongst tiny mewls leaving your mouth, another inquiry did as well.

“w—what did a—ah-tsumu say to you?”

he inhaled sharply, surprised, his teeth sinking in deeper and harder for a second, and a painful gasp escaped you. immediately, suna ripped his head back at the sound, half an apology in the depth of his eyes, half fogged confusion, a lot of annoyance.

he stilled, because why the fuck were you taking another man’s name into your mouth when he was knuckles deep inside you?

“who the fuck cares about that guy?”

you visibly recoiled from the sharp tone and the way his fingers felt anything but nice anymore, yet when you stepped back, the inner walls of your pussy quivered at the loss, “why are you reacting like that?”

suna knew from the way your hands came up to hug yourself that you felt a little lost, and the way his pruney fingers grew cold, exposed to the air, squeezed his heart. he didn’t want to be apart from you, but when he stepped forward, you stepped back and suddenly, he thought that the jacket wasn’t enough to keep him warm anymore.

something licked at his heart; something ugly and anxious, clawing through his ribcage like something trying to escape a prison, “you don't get that it kind of wasn’t the time?” 

just stop asking. stop caring about that fucking miya guy. why are you so interested in what miya said? just sto—

“it never is the time with you,” another step back, your voice bitter and regretful, and suna had half a mind to try and step forward again, “you know, i didnt come out here to fuck around with you. i was genuinely concerned and there you go again, completely stuffing whatever fucking emotional connection i want to start.”

suna swallowed poison; tongue bitter and words even more so, “i didn't ask for your damn sympathy, alright?”

he was lying. 

sunarin was lying through his goddamn teeth. he wanted your sympathy and more. he wanted you to have the same interest, the same suffocating need for his presence the way he craved yours; so badly that he could vomit. yet you stared at him like he had never made you happy once, and drawing up the same old walls felt safe, a routine he had perfected, felt like something he couldn’t fuck up no matter how much he tried.

he didn’t want to mention atsumu, didn’t want to think that saying his name might prompt you to go look for that guy. because why wouldn’t you? 

you knew atsumu from before, doing god knows what. goddamn it, you weren’t even his.

suna wanted you for himself, wanted you to not even entertain the idea of hearing atsumu express any kind of interest, jest or not, couldn’t bear the idea that you might take the fake blonde up on his offer. 

he couldn’t. he couldn’t. 

he wanted you to never hear that name again, but he supposed that he had a funny way of expressing that. because what escaped his numb lips was not the love confession he yearned to say, but accusation after accusation. because he didn’t know and he needed to know and he couldn’t rest until he knew.

his palm hurt where his nails dug in harshly.

“if you just came out here because you’re scared for your miya fucking shitsumu, don’t bother. you already have his number, no? no need to go through me then.”

suna regretted his words the moment they left his mouth. because he did mention the guy. he did mention the number that would help you bridge the distance. did what he didn’t want to do because jealousy and sorrow and anger swirled in his chest and the gravitational pull of his heart for all negative things was too great. suna hated that he was the reason you looked like you were going to cry. 

he thought he was stupid. he was so goddamn stupid, and he wanted to get back down on his knees and ask you for forgiveness, but when he stepped forward, you took not one but two steps back. 

the silence stretched between you seemed to be more of a measurement of distance, and you were so far away.

“you’re messed up,” is what you replied, quiet, hands rubbing your arms. you wanted to turn around, wanted to leave and curl up because you felt so used, but he stood there with his stupid hoodie, with the stupid slanted eyes that always observed you so sharply, with the stupid glistening of his lips from where his mouth had met your body feverishly; and it was difficult to breathe because he was still the most beautiful guy you had ever met.

you turned around to leave and this time, sunarin didn’t stop you because maybe he did deserve to be alone.

TAGLIST | @takes1

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

the thing about Lucanis and Spite is like. neither of them actually wanted to be there. and that is both how they were able to survive the melding and why they resent each other so much. Lucanis' banter about the Ossuary where he says to survive it he "Shut down completely. Think nothing. Feel nothing. Except what you need to escape." And when asked what's left he says "If you're lucky? Revenge. And bad dreams." like. he always had this core of his own personal spite down in him (not doing crow jobs the easy way, ignoring Caterina's summons, not embracing his future as a potential first talon, to "live truly is to live fully" but he HASN'T been allowed to and resents it, etc etc etc) but in the Ossuary he really hollows himself out into the perfect vessel, empties himself of everything but wanting to survive anyway. and "no one was in the Ossuary by choice, not even the demons" so of course he and Spite can agree on this One Thing. they make their deal that they're gonna make it through just because everyone else there is waiting for them to die, and of course they're not gonna just give them what they want. even if they're fighting each other the whole time (hence Lucanis being used to Spite 'hitting' him etc when he doesn't get what he wants), they still have this united purpose Every Day about getting through it. like it's utterly crucial that for both to survive at all the demon had to be something that wanted to defy what the venatori wanted from it.

and this is also why their relationship falls apart once they do escape, because without something else present to rail against every day, they have to turn on each other. and of course it is actually an absolutely miserable situation for both of them to be in--Lucanis is living the nightmare of his body being puppetted around without his consent, just like the blood magic he already had to endure under Zara, and can't ever be alone again even in his own mind. Spite is trapped in a world that no longer responds to his shaping, lacks the autonomy of a truly possessed host body, and can barely comprehend the new laws that govern the place he's in.

for both of them it's such an intense violation of being, and one I wish got more emphasis/recognition. it's really easy to make jokes about how Lucanis could be better at sharing/compromise with Spite more (like I make them too myself, it's easy) but really just... man. this isn't like with Anders & Justice, who agreed to their situation, or Wynne where Faith is content to be mostly a silent passenger and did it to save her life. Lucanis and Spite are suffering the most complete form of intimacy under the worst circumstances, and neither actually wanted it. which makes it honestly impressive at all that (unhardened) Lucanis & Spite are able to reach an accord at all by the end. like i'm glad that they did--and have SO many thoughts (& fanfic WIPs lol) exploring just how they managed to get there--but boy was it hard won, if you actually look deeper into it than the game has room to explore.

[coffinclownery]

No, Leyley Was Not Evil, She Was Just a Kid

I was going to be like "If you thought Leyley was an irredeemable devil as a child you probably just hate kids" but I'll be a little more lenient and say you probably either never interacted a lot with kids nor have had to work with kids. Fair enough. But like you're still wrong and I'm going to explain why.

The first part of Decay was an hourlong flashback showing why Andrew hates Leyley, and as a child how easy it was to view her as the evil thing that's ruining his life. And don't get me wrong, Leyley was an absolute brat. She's rude, she's pushy, she throws tantrums, she has no filter, and she has no qualms breaking things.

But from an outside perspective, especially from someone who's worked with kids like this? She's just being a normal kid. None of this surprises or disturbs me. Her attitude and actions made perfect sense. Like yeah when kids are left to their own devices and made to watch each other, when all the adults in their lives want nothing to do with them, this is going to be the result.

If you don't give them the attention they need and the only way they get it is to break things, they are going to break things. And because Andy initially only bothered with Leyley when she breaks things, she learned this is the only way to get and keep his attention.

And this mindset that Andrew will only give her attention when she breaks things is why she continuously pushes Andrew's buttons present day. She never grew out of this belief, which is why it's hard for her to grow out of Leyley.

And reminder, the reason this happened is due to the parents. This was not Leyley's fault, it was the parents who pushed Leyley onto Andy. And I also don't blame Andy for not understanding that as a kid. Later as an adult Andrew does realize that it was his mom who caused this to happen, but it doesn't remove the resentment he festered for Leyley for so long.

On another note I think it was nice how despite this burden put on Andy that made it hard to like Leyley, there's still glimpses of them getting along. Andy defending Leyley from the teacher, them chatting and laughing about getting baked into one of grandma's pies. It really showed that in spite of everything they could have gotten along as normal siblings would, if only things hadn't been screwed up from the start.

It also shows that despite hating Leyley, Andy was still only ever happy with her in the flashback. During that whole sequence not once was he happy interacting with anyone except those few times with Leyley. The only times he acted happy with anyone else was because it was just that: an act to avoid discomfort or trouble.

When the main source of your misery is also the main source of your happiness...yeah no wonder things went so bad.

[postcardsfromheapside]

Just passed a post that tumblr refreshed off my screen wondering why people want there to be more racism/slurs in the game, and like, I am not making a hot take I'm sure, but having a left a large DA fb group partially over this, just to unequivocally answer: white people love cosplaying oppression. They love playing drow in BG3 and squealing about the commentary you get there too. It feels very edgy for them. They feel like they're Engaging With Racism while absolutely doing nothing about it in the real world.

It's insane to explain to other white people that no, I don't want to experience this in-game because I grew up in a stupid southern town where other white people slung around slurs for Jews, among other verbal harassment. I get to hide who I am if I choose, but maybe people who can't hide their differences would like to have a space where they don't encounter this kind of cruelty. And it's extremely difficult for them to understand, because for them, hearing characters like Davrin, or Bel, or Rook, acknowledge how difficult elves have had it - still have it - just isn't enough of a nod - it isn't edgey enough. They don't have the real life experiences to pull from to fill in the gaps, so it makes them feel like the dialogue isn't valid.

Honestly I don't have a way to end this except to tell them that if they want to feel these things, they should go play one of the prior games. VG isn't for them. It isn't for the people who need gratuitous cruelty and unkindness, it's for the people who already know the world is cruel, and unkind, and unfair, and want to be kinder in spite of it.

[nvxzaa]

── .✦ Simple thing

Masterlist

Pairing : Han Jisung x reader

Word : 828

Genre : fluff

Warning : none

It had been a year and a half since they'd been together. A year and a half since Han had fallen in love with a girl like few others: Yn. A girl so simple it was almost disconcerting.

She never wore brand names, never went crazy for luxury items, never asked for anything. She lived with little, and was sincerely happy about it. That was the beauty of it. The most disarming. Han, who had seen it all, experienced it all, owned it all... he'd been marked by it. By this simplicity that could not be faked. Yn calculated nothing. She was content with what she had, and she did it with such touching naturalness that it was enough to turn his heart inside out.

And yet, despite that-or because of it-she hadn't wanted him at first.

"You're an idol, Han."

She'd looked him straight in the eye as she said this, arms crossed and face serious.

"You're just the opposite of me. I have a normal life. I'm simple. You don't need someone like me."

But he'd just smiled. Because he already knew he wanted her. He hadn't let go. He'd insisted, redoubled his efforts, found a thousand excuses to bump into her, a thousand pretexts to talk to her. It had taken weeks for her simply to give him her number, and even longer for her to agree to see him again. And today, every second spent with her reminded him why he'd fought. Yn was his peace.

That day, he received a call in the middle of the afternoon.

- Hello?" he answered, his voice still a little sleepy.

- Han... I've got something to ask you. A bit embarrassing...

From her voice alone, he knew she was uncomfortable.

- Have you been crying? What's the matter, baby?" he asked, straightening up on his bed.

- No... no, it's nothing serious. I'm just embarrassed to ask you this.

- Don't worry, tell me.

A little silence.

- Would you like to... buy me something? I'm really sorry to ask this, I swear I'll pay you back as soon as I can. But I don't have any change on me, and my mom took my card...

Han frowned, confused.

- Wait, what? Your mother took your card? But you're over 18, you've been vaccinated, you're working, you've got your own income, how can she take away your bank card?

- I don't know... it's my mother. She says I make too many successive purchases... successive? Is that how you say it?

- ...Yeah, I think so," he replied, smiling in spite of himself.

- There you go. So she took my card. And I just wanted to buy a little something. I swear, it's nothing. And I'll give you the money back, I promise.

Han breathed softly.

- Yn... you've got to stop apologizing for existing, you know. Come to the dormitory. I'll give you my card. And you don't have to pay me back.

- Are you sure...?

- I'm in love, not stupid. Come on.

A little later, she arrived at the dormitory in an old hoodie that hung over her shoulders, a crumpled tote bag in her hand. He opened the door and immediately drew her into his arms. She snuggled in without saying a word. Her perfume smelled of fresh sheets and hand cream. He kissed her hair before taking out his card.

- Here. Go buy your "little things". Take your time.

She left after a final kiss on his cheek.

He received no messages for two hours. Then she returned, exactly as she had left. Except that she was holding a large glass jar in her arms, which she placed carefully on the table before handing him back his card.

- Thanks Han...

- Stop it... tell me what you bought.

- Felt-tip pens," she replied with a small smile.

- ...Felt-tips?

- Yeah, felt-tips. All mine are dead. They're for coloring. And... I made something for you.

She gently pushed the glass jar towards him. Inside, hundreds of tiny pink paper hearts, all meticulously folded, filled the jar to the rim.

- A heart for every day I've thought of you. Right from the start. I used to make them on the sly, on the nights you didn't sleep at home, when you were on tour, or in the studio.

He stood there, mouth open, completely flabbergasted.

- You used my card... to buy markers?

- Well, yes. I told you it wasn't much...

He looked at her, then at the jar, then at her again. Then, without a word, he stood up to take her in his arms, squeezing her so hard she had to tell him to breathe.

- You have no idea how much I love you.

- If you keep squeezing like that, I won't even have enough air left to say "me too", she murmured with a smile.

He laughed softly against her, his heart swelling with quiet, immense, simple love - just like her.

[gyuswhore]

the story of us ✦ j.w.w x reader

the story of us looks a lot like a tragedy now - the story of us

synopsis: So many walls that you can't break through; except you do.

wc: 2.1K

contains: best friends to lovers, angst, fluff, humour, happy ending, alcohol, arguments

masterlist

Support creators by reblogging!

[a/n]: im exhausted, im loopy, im hungry, but i really wanted to post this so here you go my babies I'm sorry i haven't fed you in so long (ty @toruro for making sure i wasn't talking out of my ass in this ily)

[edit; 11/04/24]: grammar and spelling.

Jeon Wonwoo was nearing boiling point when he watched you push him away from yet another conversation.

He tried to understand, just like he always had. But it was proving near impossible at the five-month mark. 

There were clear signs you exhibited when you needed space, for whatever reason, Wonwoo knew you would tell him when you recovered. So he gave you what you needed.

And yet, when he finds himself pushed away from what looks like a casual conversation between your mutual friends, he finds his mild annoyance grow into something hotter. 

There’s a clench in his jaw as he tries not to squeeze the red cup in his hand with too much pressure, even when all the spiteful bit of his brain wants to do is to pour its pigmented contents all over your cream outfit. He manages to control himself, choosing to get up and exit the premises entirely. In complete silence, he refuses to acknowledge any yell of his name from passing acquaintances. 

Jeon Wonwoo refused to respond to any of your advances after that. 

Invitations to lunch were left on a jarring sent, the notification sitting in his log until he chooses to open it too late. His response was bare when you asked for help on some accounting concepts, pushing you over into Jihoon’s hands to fulfill your requirements. There’s a blatant shrug when you touch his shoulder, concerned, asking why his behaviour had become so distant in the past weeks; he responds with a mumble of, “just tired”.

The great divide happened a few days proceeding your birthday, one for which Wonwoo did nothing for but send you a quick message during the evening, never to see you throughout the extended day. 

“I can’t believe you’re putting this on me!” you all but yell, eyes wide and expression exasperated at the situation.

“Are you blind? Or just plain stupid? Because I didn’t tolerate months of your shit attitude to have you say it isn’t your fault.” Wonwoo is breathing heavily, hands motioning towards your entire figure with equal disbelief.

“What attitude?” you emphasize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know I couldn’t be upfront with my best friend.”

“There’s a difference between being in a mood and blatant disrespect. I’m tired of having to put up with your mood swings like it’s my responsibility to coddle you. When was the last time you genuinely asked me how I was doing?”

“All the time!”

“Yeah, after you realize there's nobody else to whine and wail to!”

“Wonwoo, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Fine. If I’m clearly so unhinged, I’ll leave you to your liking.” 

The dwindled interactions, from messages to hellos, went from sparing to nonexistent — just like that. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t expect for you and Wonwoo to reconcile in the matter of a few days, if not a couple weeks.

But when the distance did nothing but grow larger, there was a settle of resentment in the pit of your stomach as you accepted the feud you were in. 

A text was sent from your phone a couple days after the incident.

[You]: can we talk?

But when you see no sign of the grey Delivered on the end, you knew he had blocked you. 

This was all nothing less than baffling to you for a number of reasons, starting with how you had never witnessed Wowoo acting this way. 

Wonwoo had done nothing but reprimand you the rare chance you suggested blocking an apprehensive individual, something about not showing that you cared. His voice seemed redundant after a certain decibel, the rarest chance to witness him yell at a failed video game or a frustrating professor. 

You know better, which is the only reason you’re ruling off paranormal possession. 

The claims against you came as an afterthought, not, however, rendering them any less strange. There’s a part of you that pondered if your shield of annoyance blocked you from seeing the truth in his words and in your behaviour, finding yourself overwhelmed with emotions when the thought crossed your mind, tears of frustration immediately blurring your vision. 

You did not understand, you could not. And when it all got too much, you allowed the hurt and confusion to turn into something more dangerous. You replaced it with anger, in the same place that once occupied a more delicate emotion. 

There was an uproar in Wonwoo’s mind when he sees you walk into the lecture hall, unaware of your overlapping schedule in the new semester. He watches as your eyes pass over the moderately packed space, briefly glancing over where he sat; if you saw him, you did nothing to bring a reaction out of it. You take a seat a few rows up front, right in front of him where he’s able to see the back of your head for the next two hours — for the rest of the semester. 

He wonders if it’s too late to switch classes. 

“Wonwoo, I honestly think this is getting out of hand.” Jihoon munches on his cashews, leaning against bark of the tree they were both sat under. 

“Did you want me to keep tending to her bullshit then?” he grumbles.

“That’s not what I’m saying, you know it’s not.”

“That’s what it sounds like.” Wonwoo’s retort is brisk.

Jihoon is suddenly snapping his fingers in his face at the reply, a flinch accompanies Wonwoo’s already sour expression. 

“See! See how frustrating it is when somebody isn’t making sense?” 

“How does this—” 

“Wonwoo, did you try talking to her about how you felt, you know, without the screaming?” 

Jihoon watches as Wonwoo’s expression clears out, his eyebrows unfurrowing and the scowl fading. He doesn’t speak, choosing to let the realization kick in.

“No.” 

Jihoon sighs, taking another pause. “I’m not saying what she did wasn’t uncalled for, but you need to talk shit out before deciding you hate each other.”

“I don’t hate her.”

“Right, so can we wrap this up quickly and have you confess your undying love so we can all relax.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Heat crawls up Wonwoo’s cheeks.

“What? If you don’t hate her, it’s gotta be the opposite.”

Did Wonwoo like you? Yeah, he probably did. Did he ever let himself ponder upon it? No, because he was downright mortified of the mere thought. He finds himself a hypocrite to say it was to preserve your friendship, but he figures he’s fucked it up in a way that’s arguably worse. 

Regardless, Wonwoo walks away from that conversation with two things: a stark realization, and an even starker admittance. 

Everything was going wrong. At least that’s what it felt like when you hear the clang of your water bottle hit the pavement, rolling off into the oncoming traffic as you sprint to grab it. You nearly cause a vehicle pile-up, swallowing a couple profanities from braking drivers. 

You’re stuffing the darn thing into your bag when you trip on a loose brick on the path, nearly landing on your face. The glare you send into the pavement costs you even more when a hard shoulder bumps into your side, sending you another couple steps back. You don’t bother to see who the perpetrator is, too preoccupied with your attempts to take in deeper breaths amid the blankness of your mind. 

There are no hiccups after that, what you might owe your more conscious mind to. Stomping up the library steps, you thank nothingness for the air conditioning that meets your hot face, slowing down as you take in the crowd. 

Scanning the room for an empty seat is harder than you’d anticipated, hoping the heat would keep students away from the building as you left to get work done. Approaching a table, you set down your bag with a huff, pulling the chair out to finally take the seat you’ve been needing for so long. 

The universe seems to have other plans. 

It’s almost funny the way you and Wonwoo make eye contact across the other table, the recognition sending a jolt through your stomach. 

You’ve never moved so fast, pushing the chair back in with a screech that earns you a few looks, grabbing the handles of your bag as you turn around to leave the building you’d just entered. 

No way you'd sit there. Not when he was around.

You're bounding down the steps when somebody passes you, murmuring something without slowing their stride.

“I’m leaving, you can go inside,” Wonwoo says, and the sound of his voice has you halting almost immediately.

Whipping your head around to search for the sound, you watch as he takes a turn at the end of the steps, slowly moving out of your vision. 

There’s a swirl of something in your chest, and you realise in that moment how much you missed hearing his voice. 

Chiding yourself, you blink back the water that wells up in your eyes, embarrassed at how quickly you were losing yourself.

But the damage was done. And you wanted to be reckless, regardless of how desperate it made you look. A split second decision is made in that moment, one that lightens the heavy feet that you’ve planted on the concrete. 

You’re back to bounding down the steps, but this time with aim. 

Taking the same turn you saw Wonwoo take, you break into a sprint as you see his figure move farther away. You keep running, continuing to bump into both objects and people, hurried "sorry"'s the only thing you choose to throw their way. 

“Wonwoo!” Your voice comes out stronger than you’d intended, the sharpness having him turn around in search, eyes landing on your accelerating figure. 

Both of you realize too late how fast you’re really going, the velocity taking you directly into his outstretched arms, hands grasping the sleeves of his shirt as you come to screeching stop directly into his chest. 

You don’t have the time nor the patience to be embarrassed, pulling your face back to look directly into Wonwoo’s bewildered eyes to huff out your next words.

“Why did you block me?” you ask, voice gruff and slightly out of breath.

Wonwoo’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, words refusing to come out. 

“Why are you so mad at me? Why are you being nice to me if you’re mad at me?” You don’t stop, the direct questions tumbling off your tongue in desperation. 

You search his face for an answer when his mouth fails, but all you find is the remnants of shock yet to ebb away. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making you feel like you weren’t important, I’m sorry for taking your presence for granted, I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for…for… I don’t know! I’m just really sorry and I don't know how else to make this right.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you hear him say and you feel the moisture return to your eyes. 

“Huh?”

“I should’ve…” he pauses, looking sheepish. “I should’ve talked to you before I, y’know, went off on you. I should’ve managed my feelings better, I’m sorry.” 

You're silent for a few tantalizing moments before you raise your fists, and pound down on his chest with everything you have. You do it again, and then again, and again—

“What?- Ow!” 

“When are you gonna stop bottling up your feelings for fucks sake, it’s landed you everywhere but good!” you say, nearly yelling.

Wonwoo whips his head around to see who’s listening, palm to mouth in attempts to silence you. 

“I’m sorry! I know! I’m working on it,” he rambles, trying to get you to quit struggling. “Jihoon and I talked, that’s why I realised I was being dumb.”

“Are you gonna unblock me now or do I need to pay Jihoon to sit down with you again?”

Wonwoo’s eyebrows furrow. “You payed Jihoon to sit with me?”

“No, you idiot. But I should have because you can’t seem to figure out how to feel emotions.” 

Wonwoo can’t help himself when he breaks out into a grin, letting out a breathy chuckle that has you asking “What?”.

He pulls you in, heart to heart in an embrace, holding you tight to make up for the weeks of no contact. He breathes in your scent and feels as though he hasn’t in years. 

“I’m not gonna come running up to you the next time you decide you hate me,” you mumble into his shoulder, pouting slightly.

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

“No.” Wonwoo pulls away but keeps you in his arms, looking at you, “I love you. Like, the kind of stuff that makes you wanna live together forever. I love you.” 

It’s your turn to gape like a fish. 

“W-what?”

“You told me not to bottle up my feelings.” 

“Yeah, but—wow, um.” 

“Did I make another mistake?” 

No! You wanted to scream. But you don’t. You instead lift your hands up to come around his face, cradling it. And you kissed him. 

“I love you, too. Like the live together forever kind.” 

[okay-babe]

On my knees begging for you to give us an Alastor x Reader fic featuring cursed Alastor cat 🙏

Some Small Part (return to you)

note: how could I ever say no? tags: alastor x reader, established relationship, alastor and reader are married, pet! catalastor, mild angst, reader's gender is unspecified, fluff

Outside, thunder rumbled ominously, causing you to pull your robe flush against your torso without even realizing. It was a habit of sorts now, developed after years upon years of unanticipated solitude that seemed to have no foreseeable end.

One had to cope somehow, after all, and you'd never been a very big fan of storms even back when the clouds above had spat water instead of acid.

Your fear required comfort to remedy, and those whose needs were not met made due with the little things, like wrapping themselves up in their softest robe before standing thoughtlessly to search for the only other presence that could be found within the thick and familiar walls of their house.

And of course, that is exactly what you did.

"Minou!"

You called, voice drowned out by the much louder growls of the clouds above as you made your way slowly to the creature's favorite spot within your home.

There was no doubt that he was back from whatever hunt he'd been on by now. After all, he really wasn't one to enjoy getting his fur wet.

"Minou!"

You called again, voice slightly louder this time as you peeked into the laundry room curiously, only to frown when you noted that your "pet" wasn't on the lowly thrumming dryer where he tended to reside whenever the weather grew chill.

You sighed.

He was just as hard to find, it seemed, as the man whose image he so eerily and inexplicably took after.

A burst of lightning crashed noisily against the ground, and in spite of yourself and your apparent annoyance, you jumped, gasping in surprise before groaning, placing your hand against your chest as if needing to feel your racing heart to know you hadn't died all over again.

To say you merely disliked storms after how you'd passed was an understatement, and you found yourself cursing the man who had dared to adorn your finger with his ring all those years ago.

Who did he think he was, leaving you alone to endure a hundred nights just like this one in his absence?

You weren't entirely sure he'd walk away unscathed if he ever dared step through your shared front door again.

But that was enough thought of him.

Sighing, you turned around, already eager to continue the search for your ominous little companion.

Except, much to your surprise, it seemed there would be no search necessary, because standing in the doorway behind you was the very being you had been looking for.

"There you are."

You sighed again, half out of relief and half out of exasperation for the silence with which your darling "pet" always seemed to move.

Habitually, you looked the creature over as he sat still upon the floor, taking in his dark red fur, yellowed teeth, and absurdly small antlers.

He was so familiar to you now that it almost made you falter if you thought about it for too long.

When exactly had you gotten so used to the little guy?

Honestly, if someone were to ask you when the thing had shown up, you weren't entirely sure if you'd be able to recall anymore.

It had been quite some time ago, after all, on a stormy night like this one, that he'd shown up at your door.

The date had long since left your memory, but the fear had stuck around in that wretched way it always did.

You had been terrified.

That storm had exceeded the worst of any other you'd experienced in hell prior, and as you'd cowered in the living room, the radio playing nothing but static paired with the brief interruptions of neighboring channels, you couldn't help but feel like you were being watched.

It was a gnawing sensation, the certainty of eyes staring into your soul, but even still, something had compelled you to approach the window anyhow.

Whatever was out there, you hadn't felt afraid of it, not even when your eyes found those piercing red ones in the darkness.

You had let the creature come inside that night, telling yourself it was just because you felt bad for it having had to sit out there for so very long in the rain.

You'd refused to admit back then how eerie a resemblance it shared with your husband.

You'd refused to acknowledge that such a ridiculous fact had any bearing on your decision.

Because in truth, it was completely absurd.

Except, clearly there had been something about the little guy that you enjoyed having around, because after that night, he'd never truly left.

Sure, he would vanish on occasion through the cat door you'd affixed to the wall a few years ago, but he had yet to stay gone for longer than a few hours at a time.

He knew where home was, it seemed.

Perhaps that was the difference between him and the man you'd married.

You tried not to think too hard about that.

Frowning slightly at another bout of thunder, you snapped yourself out of your reverie and returned your attention to the creature still sitting in front of you.

"Where were you hiding?"

You chided halfheartedly as you bent down to pick the cat-like being up, smiling softly at his purr of contentment. For such an impersonal creature, he certainly did like being on the receiving end of your affections...

Perhaps that was something he shared with the man you'd married.

You were still doing your best not to think about that, though.

Carrying your odd little companion over to the couch, you couldn't help but sigh as you placed him upon your lap, watching as he curled up happily in that same manner he always did.

He was quite the consistent creature, each behavior as strict and unbending as a habit.

All he ever really did was hunt, stare, stand, sit, lay, and stare some more.

His typical day consisted of following you around the house, watching as you performed your daily chores and activities, leaving for a few hours if he felt up to it, and then returning to watch again.

Honestly, now that you thought about it, you weren't even really sure if you'd ever seen the little guy sleep in the four years he'd been occupying your home.

A creature of habit, indeed.

But then, if that was so true, why was it that he was suddenly standing upon your lap with no warning, his fur straight on end and his hackles raised as a hiss as low and ominous as the thunder from above rumbled within his chest.

Your eyes widened at the sight, raising your hands as if in surrender, certain you must've done something to anger your oddly particular "pet".

But then, before you could even consider what that something may have been, you heard a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

It was metal on metal, a familiar, subtle clicking, and then an obvious shift in pressure as cool air flooded your living room.

A key slid easily out of the lock.

Except there was only one other key...

And you hadn't seen it since-

Your head whipped around so fast you feared for a moment that you may have given yourself whiplash, though quickly any thoughts of injury ceased the moment your eyes met his.

"Alastor."

You breathed, his name falling past your lips like a prayer you'd been forced to stop uttering.

Even just saying it felt like an act of heresy.

Your husband's grin remained plastered upon his face even as he caught sight of you, expression unphased, though you couldn't help but notice the way that his eyes roved about your face and body, softening slightly as if he'd only just realized after so very long that he could relax them if he so chose.

"Chère."

He replied simply, his voice smooth and relaxed even in spite of how very long it had been since either of you had seen each other,

"I didn't expect you to be awake."

At that, you swallowed thickly, gently petting at the still growling creature that was standing upon your lap,

"There's a storm."

You replied softly, shaking your head,

"I can't ever sleep during storms anymore."

At that Alastor seemed to stop for a few moments, as if considering your words more thoroughly before he finally nodded.

"Of course, how could I forget?"

Hesitantly, he took a step forward, though he halted rather suddenly when he noticed the source of the angry sound that was reverberating throughout the room.

"What is that?"

He asked, gesturing slightly toward the creature who still stood protectively upon your lap, ears pointed straight up toward the ceiling and eyes fixed meanly upon your husband as if it wished to tear the man to shreds.

"Honestly, I'm not quite sure."

You continued to pet your small companion soothingly, trying to reassure it that things were okay without the use of words.

"He showed up a few years ago during a fearsome storm not too unlike this one. I let him inside so he wouldn't get hurt and he's been here ever since."

Alastor regarded the being with caution and a mild sense of confusion as he continued his slow approach. When he stopped a few feet short of you though, you found that you doubted that your "pet" was making much of a difference when it came to that. Your husband never did stand very close to you when he knew that he'd messed up recently.

A quick getaway, you supposed, probably a smart move.

But as angry as you'd been even just thinking of your love earlier in the evening, you couldn't bring yourself to feel the same way in that moment

It was exhausting, missing someone as much as you'd missed the man standing before you, and it almost felt like none of that truly set in until the very moment he was just outside of your reach once more, standing in the home you'd shared as if he'd never even left in the first place.

Oh how badly you wished that were the case.

You swallowed thickly, fighting back tears that you didn't dare try to understand for fear of making them flow faster.

"It was terribly quiet here without you, you know."

You whispered, watching as your husband's lips twitched downward ever so slightly.

He hummed,

"I wasn't aware that I made much noise at all, my dear."

You scoffed at that, in spite of the tears that were still welling up in your eyes.

"I don't think I was either until you left,"

You tried to laugh, but it came out sounding a lot more like a sob, and in response, the creature in your lap quieted slightly, as if having sensed your distress and realized it's attention was better suited elsewhere.

You gasped slightly as you felt it's rough tongue against your cheek, lapping up the tears that had fallen in spite of your best efforts to keep them from doing so.

And then, unable to control yourself, you let out a burst of laughter.

"You're such a weirdo."

You chuckled as you held the small being beneath it's armpits, outstretching your arms to hold it out further so you could see it properly.

It simply stared back, tail wagging ever so slightly with one of it's ears bent toward you in the way you'd grown accustomed to throughout the years.

It was rare that both of it's ears were up unless it was upset.

You quite liked the look of them when they were uneven anyhow, it wasn't much unlike-

Before you could finish that no doubt destructive thought, you stopped yourself and turned your attention back toward the man who was now sitting comfortably in the chair placed opposite to you.

He hummed softly as your eyes met his once more.

You sighed.

"Al, this is Minou."

You introduced gently, turning the creature so he could see it better.

If it reacted, you certainly didn't notice.

Your husband raised a brow in response.

"It's name is... cat?"

He asked hesitantly, wondering for a moment if you had perhaps grown rusty with your french after so many years with no practice.

But before he could get much further with that theory, you nodded.

"Yeah, I thought it was fitting enough. He could pass for a cat, right?"

You turned the creature around once more to get a better look at him, and smiled when it's persistently ominous expression came into view.

He was pretty cute, in his own weird way.

Another manner in which he wasn't too unlike your husband, you supposed.

Alastor chuckled under his breath at your question, watching intently and with a look of keen interest as he took in the sight of you after so very long.

"I suppose so, if one were to squint."

You scoffed at that, but the grin on your face made it obvious that you weren't nearly as upset as you were making yourself out to be.

You pulled your "pet" in closer after a few more seconds of further inspection, smiling softly at the returning sound of his purr upon your lap.

You sighed, looking back to your husband once more.

"You know, when I found him, I almost thought that he was you for a little while, or maybe some extension of you I'd never met before. There's just something about him that feels so awfully familiar in that same way you do."

Alastor hummed and approached slowly, dropping a kiss to the top of your head as he finally began to shed his coat.

"Hmm, how interesting."

He replied, semi-lost in thought as he spoke.

It would make sense, after all, that if some part of him were to somehow split off from the rest and gain a consciousness of it's own...

It would return to you.

[velmalav]

The Giver - Frank Langdon pt. IV

masterlist

day one // night one // day two

night two - f.l.

synopsis: being the selfless person you are, you agree to travel to a 3-day conference with your biggest competition - dr. langdon. part 3 of I don't know how many yet :-)

warnings: cursing, oops there's only one bed, enemies to lovers, ANGST!!!!

Sometimes you just need to dance.

The gears in my brain haven’t stopped turning since I left Langdon in the lobby. Focusing in an academic setting has never been a problem for me; it’s when I thrive the most. Today was an exception. Notebook splayed open across my lap, pen clicked an excessive number of times in preparation, I kept reminding myself that I needed to take notes for Mel. Another task I’d been determined to complete to make me feel less shitty about making us late. And yet by the end of the eighth and final session, I hadn’t written one single word down.

This isn’t about the startling attraction I’ve realized I have for him; it’s the fact that somewhere from the airport to the hotel to the conference, I started to care about him. And it doesn’t make sense because he’s given me nothing to change how I feel. We’ve spent the entire trip arguing and avoiding each other. If seeing the man I hate naked one time is enough to alter my entire perspective on him, then I’m fucking doomed. And stupid.

But last night felt like we bonded. Yes, most of it out of spite, but somehow without noticing all these years, there’s always been a line to our games. We’ve never let it get in the way of our job and we’ve never actually hurt each other’s feelings. Until this morning. It took me crossing the line to find out there ever was one.

At some point, after waging war inside my head all day, my head started to pound. I was afraid to confront him, another thing I usually never hesitated to do. And so when a lovely ER nurse named Daisha made me aware of the mixer after the conference, I used it as a way to avoid the inevitable for just a little longer.

Theo, a senior resident like Langdon, also just happened to be another means of my avoidance. He was very forward, jumping from small talk to very transparent flirting to whisking me off to the dance floor. My entire aim of the night was to dance – my favorite coping skill – so I wasn’t reluctant to take his hand. In all honesty, it felt wrong. To dance with him. To flirt with him. I just don’t know why.

Well, at least I didn’t. Only half a song in, Theo’s arms around my waist and my fingers gripping into his shoulders, I lean my head back to shake my hair out. Just in time to spot Langdon pushing his way out. And it hits me. It’s the thought of him that’s making this feel wrong. I straighten up, pull away from Theo. He’s confused, trying to lean closer so he presumably can ask what’s wrong when I, like Langdon, start to push my way free.

I spin in Theo’s direction once I’m off the dance floor, giving a sheepish wave before booking it after Langdon.

.

The air is thick and filled to the brim with tension when I reach the hallway outside our hotel room. Langdon walks so fucking fast that he’s already comfortably leaned against the hotel wall, arms crossed with his neck craned upwards. His eyes are closed and by his expression, he seems to be in deep contemplation.

“Langdon,” I call out as I approach, holding up the key card he absolutely forgot there was only one of. His eyes drift open, but slowly, like he’s dreading my presence.

He’s silent, turns so he’s leaning beside the door. He avoids making eye contact. Having taken the hint, I simply unlock the door and let him enter first. Again, he does so without a word. But I can feel that whatever he was thinking about is laced with hostility.

Now that I’m alone with him, I have no idea what to say. Where to start. What to even bring up. But I have to say something, I have to cut this tension.

“Sorry about the keycard. I, uh, forgot to remind you that there was only one,” I say gently.

Standing on the other side of the bed, Langdon appears surprised by my words. I’m not sure I’ve ever apologized to him before. I never thought I’d need to or want to for that matter.

“It’s fine,” he says tightly, neck veins protruding and eyes fixated on everything but me. He begins to gather clothes to change into but there is no relief from his response. If anything, it’s starting to rile me up. I have a terrible habit of getting angry when I’m anxious, and I can feel it simmering underneath my skin.

“Langdon,” I repeat. It’s not a question but in the meek way I say it, it kind of sounds like one.

Nothing. Only the shuffling of bags can be heard. And fuck it’s hot in here all of a sudden.

“Listen, I know you’re pissed about this morning. And even though it’s hard to believe, I am actually really sorry. I should’ve woken you up,” I bite out, shutting my eyes. I’m fidgeting with the ring on my middle finger, awaiting the venomous response I’m sure will follow.

“Oh, you mean when you purposefully sabotaged my medical career? And then lied to my face like it was one of your games? Yeah, I’m still pissed,” Langdon snaps. His words are loud like he just yelled them right in my ear. I open my mouth to fumble out whatever I can think of, but he’s not finished. “And, yeah, it’s hard to believe you’d ever feel fucking sorry about anything. Especially that. Because all you’ve ever done is think about yourself, and it’s just fucking gross.”

Another line crossed. Seeing as though I was the first one to do so, I try and take the words in stride. But they keep beating in my ears like they’re on a timer. And instead of breaking down, my anger rushes in full force.

“Fuck you,” my voice scares me. Tears collect in the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. It’s those words that finally get Langdon to look at me. It doesn’t take him long to realize he’s taken it too far.

I toss my purse on the bed and start towards the bathroom, prepared to lock myself in there for the night. But just as I reach it, Langdon’s hand is yanking me toward him. It’s not aggressive but firm, and his other hand moves to rest upon the top of the door frame so we’re facing each other.

It’s clear he hasn’t thought about his next words because we stand there glaring at each other for what feels like hours. Both breathing heavily, unable to break eye contact. I speak first.

“Say whatever you want, but you don’t know anything about me,” I seethe. “All you see is competition, someone who reminds you of everything you wish you had. And you know what, maybe I don’t feel fucking sorry.” I pull my arm out of his grasp.

Langdon flicks his attention between both of my eyes, trying to read anything he can underneath the coldness of my stare. I’m hoping he can’t see the devastation lurking just behind it.

“All I see is someone I don’t want to know,” he breathes. His voice has lost its edge, a vulnerability breaking through without his permission.

“Wow,” I reply softly, matching his tone.

“Wow,” Langdon mimics, more incredulously. “Now why don’t you go find that dude at the bar and find a place to stay for the night?” out of all of the things he has said to me tonight, this is the sentence he says with the most aggression. Like we’re competing again. Because despite all of the reasons he could be upset with me, the sight of me with another man is what hurt him the most.

I’m not even sure he realizes what he’s just given away. Finally, the relief I’ve been begging to feel all day comes. And I start laughing.

Langdon’s face falls in confusion, still leaning toward me with his hand on the doorframe. I put a hand over my mouth to stifle the laugh, “You’re fucking jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he states in a way that seems a whole lot like he’s trying to convince himself, too.

“Oh, we’ve said enough tonight. The least you could do is just admit it,” I push. “I mean, I knew you’d be mad about this morning, it was shitty, and I felt terrible. And maybe a little about the keycard. And I definitely know having to spend half your weekends this year at conferences isn’t helping either. But this mad?” He tries to interrupt, but I refuse to let him, holding up my hand in protest. “It all makes sense now. You saw me with that guy and now you’re fucking jealous.”

Langdon shifts uncomfortably on his feet, propping his other hand on the opposite door frame so he’s towering over me. He glances off past me, tongue swiping past his lips. He’s thinking hard about something. Then his head drops so I can only see the top of his forehead.

The silence is killing me slowly. My smile starts to fade in the thought that I might’ve gotten it all wrong. That he’s actually just pissed about this morning, and now I’ve made it all out to be one big joke. As he lifts his head, probably ready to lay into me again, I sputter out, “I-Frank, I’m sorry. I thought—”

Langdon’s hands drop from the doorframe, and within a second one hand curves around my cheek, the other gripping the back of my neck. My heart has just enough time to sputter once before his mouth is on mine.

My body relaxes into his touch like it’s second nature. I wind a hand into his side, jerking him closer until our chests are one. Senses flooded with only him, his touch, the sound of his uneven breathing, his smell. His mouth drags along mine, and I continue gripping him as to fight the moment we have to come up for air.

But it happens. We breath into each other’s mouths, reveling in the heat existing between us. Eyes shut; I prod at his lips with my own as if trying to find him in the darkness. His one tendril of hair grazes my nose.

“Fuck,” Langdon breathes. I open my eyes to be met with his immediately, harsh blue eyes penetrating me like I’m the first thing he’s ever seen. His eyes half-lidded, he dips down to rejoin our lips. With every second that passes, I crave more of him, wanting him so intensely I’m not sure my heart will remember to beat. I open my mouth, a wordless invitation to have more of me. We stay there, tongues competing against each other, a familiar dance that almost makes me laugh.

“So I was right,” I sigh into his mouth. “Definitely jealous.”

Langdon breaks the kiss, narrowing his eyes as his nose bumps against mine. “You are so fucking lucky you were, too,” he whispers, sending a tremor through my body. He gazes at my lips, temptation simmering in his expression. I anticipate more only for him to break out into a sinister smile. “Too bad we have an early morning tomorrow. Wouldn’t want to be late.”

Before I can protest or even muster of the courage to beg him to touch me again, he spins into the bathroom and shuts the door. And it hits me when the shower turns on. He played me – this is his revenge for me not waking him this morning.

A temporary truce, one that I know won’t even last through the night.

day three

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 10

˗ˏˋ slow dancing ˎˊ˗

"Late night melodies have a way of slipping past your defenses. And maybe that's why he chose 2AM to show you a side of him you weren't supposed to see."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 4.5k

content: electric guitar discussions, griffin being a crackhead like his dad, tiny moments, late night melodies, comfortable silence

✧ author's note ✧

FIRST OF ALL! I CREATED A PLAYLIST OF SONGS FMU!JUNGKOOK PLAYS ON HIS ELECTRIC GUITAR to make him feel more human and lived in. Go check it out! You can play it whenever he’s playing the guitar.

Hello everyone! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Currently writing this from the past since I'm scheduled to be stuffing my face with gyros in Greece right now. Which, honestly? Living my best tourist life with my partner. (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

I know I said chapter 10 might be delayed because of the trip BUT Wednesday night hit different and suddenly my brain went feral. You know how it is - either write nothing for weeks or channel an entire novel in one sitting. There is no in-between. (；一_一)

Here's the thing about this chapter though - I'm actually proud of it? Which never happens, so cherish this moment. It's finally time to plant some seeds (about time, right?). ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

Listen, I know I'm absolutely unhinged about slow burn. Like, genuinely concerning levels of commitment to dragging out emotional development. I kept second-guessing if 50k words in was too early for their first Moment™, but you know what? They deserve this tiny crumb of softness. (`･ω･´)

Before you get too excited - remember who's writing this. Your resident slow burn demon. What I consider a huge development, you'll probably read and go "... that's it?" (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ But I promise, if you pay attention to the vibes, there's something special here.

Quick question! I've sprinkled about three of Jungkook's trauma events throughout the story so far. Any theories? Some of you perceptive souls (looking at you, Koopsy) have probably figured them out, but I'm curious what everyone else thinks! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

See you next weekend! Mwah!

P.S. Written at 5AM running on spite and caffeine. If you spot typos, no you didn't. (￣▽￣*)ゞ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I am sorry but listening to THIS on the second part is MANDATORY. It’s the song Jungkook’s playing. So, you better listen to it or I’ll get mad and stop breathing and there will be no more fuck me up for you bitches. 😤😤😤

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Your hair's a fucking mess and it's all his fault.

You tug at your oversized pajama shirt as you emerge from your room, trying to look less... well. Less like you just had your roommate's tongue down your throat.

The living room's exactly as you left it, except now Jungkook's manspreading in the armchair like he owns it, arguing with Yeji about—wait, what?

"—can't seriously think the Stratocaster is better for metal," he's saying, gesturing with those stupidly nice hands of his. "The humbucker pickups alone—"

"The clarity though?" Yeji cuts in, looking personally offended. You've seen that look before—usually right before she launches into a thirty-minute rant about music theory. "You get way better note definition with single coils, especially for complex riffs—"

"Yeah, if you want it to sound like a tin can—"

"Excuse me?" 

God. Two guitar nerds in one room. This is literally your worst nightmare.

Irya's sitting between them on the couch looking thoroughly entertained, phone in hand. "Jimin!" she calls out suddenly. "Check the one I just sent you!"

Jimin glances up from his own phone, that soft smile playing on his lips. He's claimed the other end of the couch, as far from the guitar debate as possible. Smart man.

The doorbell rings, and before you can even think about moving, Jungkook launches himself out of the armchair like an overcaffeinated jackrabbit.

"I got it!" He's already halfway to the door, and you roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck.

"Whatever." You grab one of the bean bags from near the big window, dragging it to the other side of the coffee table. As far from the armchair as possible, because you know exactly where he's going to sit when he gets back.

"Just saying," Yeji continues like the pizza interruption never happened, "if you're going to shit-talk Fender, at least have a decent argument."

"Oh, I've got arguments." You can hear Jungkook fumbling with his wallet at the door. "Want me to grab my guitar? I can demonstrate—"

"Please, god, no," you mutter, dropping onto the bean bag. The last thing you need is an impromptu concert from either of them.

"Pizzaaaa," he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. He's somehow managing to balance four boxes, and you definitely don't notice the way his arms flex under the weight. "Who's hungry?"

You end up sharing your calabrese with Jimin because he's literally the only person in this room with taste. Plus, watching him take small, careful bites makes you feel better about the way you just inhaled your first slice like some kind of starved animal.

Everyone else claimed their own pizza—Yeji's practically mainlining her extra spicy diavola, Irya's defending her hawaiian from Yeji's judgmental looks, and Jungkook...

God. Jungkook.

He's sprawled in that armchair like it's a throne, one leg thrown over the armrest, decimating his meat lovers' like he's getting paid for it. And it's annoying. Everything about him is annoying. The way he tears into the crust with those stupidly white teeth. The way his throat works when he swallows. The little appreciative sounds he makes that are way too similar to—nope.

Not going there.

"Want some?" He catches you staring and holds out a slice, cheese stretching obscenely. "Since you keep looking over here."

"I'm not—" You break off as a string of cheese snaps. "I was judging your eating habits."

"Uh-huh." He takes another bite, and you hate that you notice the way his lips curve. "Sure, phoenix."

"Fuck off."

"Make me."

Yeji makes a gagging sound. "Do you two ever stop?"

No. You don't. That's the problem. Whether it's fighting or fucking or whatever the hell happened in your room twenty minutes ago, you just... don't stop. Can't stop. Won't stop.

And maybe that should worry you more than it does.

"Pass me a napkin?" Jimin asks quietly, and you grab one gratefully. Away from thoughts of Jungkook's mouth and what it was doing to you earlier and—focus. Pizza. Friends. Normal things that don't involve your roommate's tongue.

Except he's right there, existing in your peripheral vision like some kind of extremely annoying sun. Being all... present. With his hair still messed up from your hands and that mark on his neck that your friends definitely haven't noticed but you know is there and—

"Phoenix." His voice cuts through your spiral. "You're staring again."

"I'm plotting your murder."

He grins, slow and knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

He's still chewing. Like, unnecessarily loud? Who taught this man table manners, a pack of wolves? 

You watch him demolish another slice with the same energy your mom attacks Facebook conspiracy theories. It's giving feral raccoon energy. No, worse—it's giving mukbang YouTuber who's about to get canceled for something weird. The way he's manspreading in that chair like he's about to start a podcast about cryptocurrency—

And then you see it. Griffin, the little menace, has somehow gotten onto the coffee table (again) and he's sniffing at—fuck, is that garlic bread?

You're out of the bean bag before you can think, nearly falling on your face in your haste. "Griffin, no—"

But Jungkook's already moving too, pizza forgotten, practically launching himself out of the chair. "G, don't—"

You snatch Griffin away from the bread just as Jungkook reaches for him, and for a second you're both frozen there—you with an armful of disgruntled cat, him with his hands outstretched and something raw and panicked in his eyes that makes your chest tight.

"He can't have garlic," you explain, which is stupid because obviously Jungkook knows this, it's his cat. "It's toxic for—"

"Yeah." His voice is rough. He swallows, hands falling to his sides. "Yeah, I know."

The silence stretches for a beat too long. 

Something's off about his reaction—it's just bread, right? 

But there's tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before.

"He's got this thing about human food," he says finally, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. His laugh sounds hollow. "Always goes for the stuff that'll fuck him up."

You raise an eyebrow, absently scratching under Griffin's chin. "What, like a death wish?"

"More like bad judgment." He reaches for Griffin, and you notice his hands aren't quite steady. "Likes the wrong stuff. Just like his dad. Don't you, buddy?"

Griffin just purrs, completely unbothered by all the drama he just caused. Jungkook checks him over anyway, like he might have somehow eaten the entire loaf in the two seconds you weren't looking.

"Devil cat," you mutter, but you find yourself reaching out to scratch Griffin's ears anyway. "Always trying to unalive himself with human food."

Jungkook's quiet for a moment, just watching you pet Griffin. 

Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Thanks."

You blink. "For what?"

"For—" He cuts himself off, nonchalance sliding back into place. "For not letting him add 'bread thief' to his criminal record."

But there's something in his voice, in the way his fingers keep checking Griffin like he needs to make sure he's still there—

"Yo," Yeji cuts in, "can someone please explain to my girlfriend why pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity?"

"It's not a crime," Irya's saying, waving her slice of hawaiian like a weapon. "It's culinary innovation."

"It's fruit on pizza." Yeji looks personally wounded. "That's like putting ketchup in coffee."

"Don't give him ideas," you mutter, watching Jungkook from the corner of your eye. He's settled back in the armchair with Griffin, but something's... off. The casual sprawl looks forced now, mechanical. His phone's out, thumb scrolling without really seeing.

Weird. 

"Some people actually do that," Jimin offers quietly. "The ketchup thing."

"Those people need therapy." Yeji steals a piece of pineapple off Irya's slice, examining it like it's evidence in a crime scene. "Like, immediately."

You should probably join in. Make some quip about food crimes or Yeji's weird vendetta against fruit. But you keep getting distracted by the way Jungkook's shoulders are still tight, how his other hand hasn't stopped checking Griffin. Like he needs to make sure he's still there.

Doesn't make sense. He was fine ten minutes ago, being all loud and annoying about guitars. What changed?

"Speaking of crimes against humanity—" Irya starts.

"We are not discussing the mint chocolate incident again."

"It was one time!"

Griffin shifts in Jungkook's lap, and you catch the slight flinch in his fingers. The way his eyes snap to check what the cat's doing. It's so different from his usual careless energy, from the way he usually lets Griffin do whatever the fuck he wants.

"Phoenix." His voice makes you jump. Caught staring. Fuck. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

The words are right—that usual cocky bullshit—but the delivery's wrong. Flat. Like he's reading from a script of himself.

"What, and boost your ego more?" Keep it casual. Normal. Whatever's happening, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. "Pretty sure that's like, directly against the Geneva Convention."

He tries for a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Didn't know you were so concerned about war crimes."

"Only the ones happening in my living room."

A ghost of his usual grin, there and gone. Then he's back to his phone, shoulders a hard line under his t-shirt. You watch him tap the screen exactly four times, precise and measured. Since when does he do anything precise?

"Y/N?" Jimin touches your arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." You gesture vaguely at your half-eaten slice. "Food coma."

But you keep watching. Can't help it. The way his jaw clenches every few seconds. How he's barely touched his pizza since the Griffin thing. The slight tremor in his fingers when he scratches behind the cat's ears.

He just... trusts the wrong people sometimes, you know?

What the fuck was that about?

"Earth to Y/N!" Yeji's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Back me up here. Pineapple on pizza—yes or no?"

"What? Oh, uh." You force yourself to look away from Jungkook. "Definitely no."

"Thank you!"

"Traitor," Irya accuses, but she's grinning. "I trusted you."

Trust. There's that word again. You glance back at Jungkook, but he's not even pretending to listen anymore. Just staring at his phone, one hand buried in Griffin's fur like an anchor.

Something happened here. Something you're missing. But the more you try to piece it together, the less sense it makes. It's just bread, right? Just Griffin being his usual chaos gremlin self. So why does Jungkook look like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop?

"Hey." Jimin's voice is soft. Private. "Sure you're okay?"

No. Yes. Maybe. You don't know why you're so fixated on this, why you can't just let it go. It's not like you care. It's not like—

"I'm fine." You reach for another slice. "Just tired."

But you can't quite shake the image of his face when you caught Griffin. That raw panic, like he was seeing something else entirely. Someone else.

“Alright I’m so done with this. We are watching Love Island.” Yeji jumps in.

“Since when do you like reality shows?” Jimin asks, smiling.

“Since, uh, never.” She replies, defensively. “I just like seeing stupid people doing stupid shit.”

And that’s how you end up watching Love Island reruns, because apparently that's what your life has devolved into. Jungkook disappeared to his room twenty minutes ago, taking Griffin and his weird mood with him, and you're trying very hard not to think about either of them.

You're failing spectacularly, but whatever.

"You good?" Yeji nudges you with her foot. "You've been weird since the whole bread thing."

"M'fine." You bat her foot away. "Just tired."

She gives you that look, the one that says she knows you're full of shit, but before she can call you out on it, the front door opens.

Yoongi trudges in looking like he's been through seven circles of hell and maybe a Walmart on Black Friday. His beanie's askew, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual—classic post-studio energy. He stops dead when he sees your little gathering, letting out the longest, most defeated sigh you've ever heard.

Then he takes off his beanie, hanging his keys, and—

"You're fucking joking." 

Yeji practically launches herself off the couch, dislodging Irya from where she was curled into her shoulder. What the—

Yoongi freezes. Turns. Very. Slowly.

"........."

"Mint????" Yeji's voice hits a pitch that probably only dogs can hear. "What the actual fuck?"

Yoongi closes his eyes like he's praying for strength. "Please god, no."

Hold up.

You look between them—Yeji vibrating with chaotic energy, Yoongi looking like he wants to evaporate on the spot. Since when does your anti-establishment new possibly best friend know your lowkey famous producer roommate?

"Wait." You sit up straighter. "You know Yoongi?"

"Know him?" Yeji's still staring at Yoongi like he's either Jesus or a sleep-deprived hallucination. "He produced my track six months ago and then ghosted everyone like—"

"I didn't ghost." He dumps his bag on the counter with maybe more force than necessary. "I was working."

"For six months?"

"Yes."

You regard both of them slowly. Because yeah, you knew Yoongi was Mint—Hoseok had dropped that bomb like it wasn't a whole thing. But Yeji? Your anarchist, fight-the-system best friend worked with him? 

"Hold up." Irya's sitting up now too, eyes wide. "You're telling me this is the guy? The one who made that track that almost got you banned from three venues?"

"It was one track." Yoongi's already heading for his room, clearly done with this conversation. "Six months ago."

"It was fire though!" Yeji calls after him. "Could've been more if you hadn't—"

The door closes with a very pointed click.

"Well." Irya breaks the silence. "That was fun."

Another door opens and Jungkook peers out, probably drawn by all the noise. "Was that Yoongi? What's with all the—"

"Did you know Yeji worked with him?" you demand, because apparently this is your life now. Finding out your friend and your roommate have secret music history.

He blinks. "With who?"

"Our roommate? Mint PD? Ring any bells in that empty head of yours?"

"Oh." He shrugs, leaning against his doorframe. "Yeah, but I didn't know it was your Yeji."

"She's not my—wait." You narrow your eyes. "How many Yejis do you know?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, phoenix?"

"It’s not like Yeji is a super common name in New York." 

His grin is insufferable. "Sure about that?"

"God, do you ever shut up?"

"Only when I'm sleeping." He stretches, all casual arrogance. "Sometimes not even then."

"Gross." You turn to your friends. "You guys don't have to leave just because he's being... himself."

But Yeji's already getting up, collecting their stuff. "Nah, it's late. Plus, I need to process the whole Mint thing. That was weird as fuck."

"Text me the story later?" Irya asks, helping gather the pizza boxes. "I want to know everything about this track that got you banned."

"It wasn't banned," Yeji protests. "Just... strongly discouraged from ever being played again."

Jimin helps clean because he's literally an angel walking among mere mortals. You walk them to the door, hyperaware of Jungkook still hovering in his doorway like the creep he is.

"Text me," Yeji mutters as she hugs you goodbye. 

The door closes behind them. When you turn around, Jungkook's gone, door clicking shut like he was never there.

Typical.

You stare at his closed door for a moment, thinking about garlic bread and panic and things that don't make sense.

Whatever. Not your problem.

You're going to commit a murder tonight.

Your friends left hours ago, and you've been trying to wind down—reading, scrolling through TikTok, attempting to be a functional human being who sleeps before their 8AM class. But someone apparently decided 2AM was the perfect time to practice his goddamn electric guitar.

The electric guitar riffs pierce through your wall for the hundredth time, each note a personal attack on your sanity.

Who the fuck plays at 2AM? Who? What kind of sociopath—

Another chord progression. Louder this time.

You grab your pillow, smothering a scream into it as your nails dig into the fabric. Eight AM class tomorrow. Eight. Fucking. AM. And this absolute waste of oxygen is out there having his main character moment like he's the star of some teen angst movie.

Fuck him. Actually fuck him. And fuck past you for fucking him in the first place. Yeah, okay, he's hot. Fine. But does that really balance out this? The constant noise and the attitude and the way he acts like the whole world revolves around him? 

The guitar gets louder, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Pain in the ass doesn't even cover it. Pain in places that don't have medical names yet. Pain in the fucking soul.

You snatch your phone off the nightstand, fingers flying over the keyboard:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝟾𝚊𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 🖕🏻

The guitar stops. Thank god. Thank every possible—

A low chuckle filters through the wall.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞

Your blood pressure spikes.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚗 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑

A pause. Then:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: ��𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚢 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛

You actually growl.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝟷𝟸??

Another chord rings out. Deliberately slow. Testing.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗?

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛? You: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢?

The guitar stops. Complete silence. Maybe you went too far, bringing up—

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚖

Your heart definitely doesn't skip. Absolutely does not.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛? 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍

You stare at your phone. At the wall separating your rooms. At your reflection in the dark window, hair a mess and eyes too bright.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍

Fuck.

Fuck.

Your feet hit the floor before you can think better of it. And isn't that just the whole problem? You never think better of it. Not with him.

So yeah, you make it to his room. Where the devil sleeps.

Your eyes sweep over his walls, taking in all the black and red and—yep, exactly what you expected. Some alt-boy Pinterest board threw up in here. Black wooden bed with those lumberjack pattern sheets, gaming setup that probably cost more than your tuition, wardrobe that's definitely hiding at least three identical black hoodies.

No windows. Makes sense. Vampires and all that.

He's sprawled on the bed like some renaissance painting gone wrong, all long limbs and messy hair like he's been rolling around like a dog marking its territory. The guitar sits easy in his lap, familiar. Natural. 

Not that you notice. Or care.

His eyes flick to you, that insufferable smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't stop playing, just watches as you hover in his doorway like—nope. Not finishing that thought.

"Didn't think you'd actually come."

"Didn't think you'd actually know how to play." You step into his space, ignoring how the air feels different in here. Heavier. "Yet here we are, disappointing each other."

He snorts, fingers still moving over the strings. Something slower now, almost melodic. "Always so sweet, phoenix."

"Always so annoying, rogue."

But you find yourself moving closer, drawn by the way the notes fill the space between you. It's... not terrible. Actually kind of good, if you're being honest. Which you're not. Obviously.

"What?" He catches you watching his hands. "Surprised I can do something besides annoy you?"

"Mostly surprised you can do anything besides game and be a pain in my ass."

His grin turns wicked. "Pretty sure I do more than that to your—"

"Finish that sentence and die."

He laughs, low and warm, but goes back to playing. Something different now. Softer. You hate that you want to ask what it is.

"Didn't take you for a musician." The words slip out before you can stop them.

His fingers stutter on the strings. Just for a second, barely noticeable. But you notice.

"No?" His voice is carefully casual. Too casual. "What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Professional asshole? Chief Expert in Being Insufferable?" You comment, flicking a small plushie on his bed. "First Chair Fuck-Up?"

He huffs a laugh, but something's off about it. Like earlier with Griffin. That same weird tension.

"Used to play in a band," he says after a moment. Still not looking at you. "Back in high school."

"Let me guess—My Chemical Romance covers?"

"Nah." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Original stuff. Mostly."

You wait for more, but he just keeps playing. That same soft melody, over and over. Like he's trying to get it right. Or trying to forget something else.

"It's good."

The words surprise you both. His hands freeze on the strings, eyes snapping to yours.

"The song," you clarify, because apparently your mouth's just doing whatever it wants now. "It's... not horrible."

He stares at you for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression—that cocky mask slipping just slightly. Then:

"Want to hear the whole thing?"

And maybe it's the late hour. Maybe it's the way he's looking at you, all quiet uncertainty beneath that usual swagger. Maybe you're just fucking tired.

"Yeah." You slide down to sit on his floor, back against the bed. "Show me what you got, rogue."

He starts playing something different. Not that angry teenage angst from earlier—this is... softer. More careful. Like he's showing you something he doesn't usually let people see.

Not that you care. Obviously.

The melody wraps around the room, settling into the spaces between your breaths. Your eyes track his hands, the way his fingers move over the strings with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. It's... nice. Which is annoying. Everything about him is annoying, including the way he makes this look so effortless, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates—

Wait.

You know this song.

The notes hit something in your chest—a memory you didn't know you still had.

Your mom's old radio, the one she kept in the garden.

This exact song came on while you were planting flame lilies along the back fence. Then the storm hit—one of those sudden summer downpours that turns the whole world grey.

But instead of running inside like a normal person, your mom just... laughed. Turned the radio up louder, John Mayer's voice competing with the thunder. Grabbed your hands, still covered in dirt, and pulled you into a clumsy dance right there in the rain.

We're slow dancing in a burning room...

You'd both ended up soaked, mud-splattered, spinning in circles while the rain poured down. She'd sung along, completely off-key but not caring. Just you and her and this song, the rest of the world washed away in the storm.

The memory feels wrong now. Too bright. Too clean. Like looking at an old photograph and realizing all the edges have been carefully trimmed, the shadows cropped out.

Because that was before, wasn't it? Before the schedules and the expectations and the constant, crushing weight of—

"Is that—" You cut yourself off, but it's too late. He glances up, catches you staring.

"What?"

You blink. Jungkook's watching you, hands paused on the strings.

"Nothing."

His fingers hover over the guitar. "No, what were you gonna say?"

"Just..." Fuck it. "Pretty sure that's 'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.' Right?"

Something flickers across his face. "You know Mayer?"

"Unfortunately." You pick at a loose thread on your sleep shorts. "My playlist's not just WAP and Carpool Karaoke, contrary to what you probably think."

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds different. Less cocky asshole, more... something else. His fingers start moving again, picking up where he left off. The notes fill the silence between you, and it's... peaceful? Is that the word? No, that can't be right. Nothing about him is peaceful.

And yet.

"Do you sing too?"

His hands freeze on the strings. Just for a second, but you catch it. The way his shoulders tense, how his jaw ticks slightly before he forces that easy smile back.

"Nah." He starts playing again, but it's different now. Mechanical. "That's... that'd be embarrassing."

There's something in his voice. Something raw that makes you think of earlier, of his panic over Griffin and bread. But before you can chase that thought, he's already shifting gears.

"What, you offering voice lessons, phoenix?"

"As if." You roll your eyes, but you clock the way his fingers are slightly less sure on the strings now. "Just thought maybe you'd want to torture me with your whole package of terrible talents."

"Oh, I've got plenty of talents to torture you with."

"Gross."

But he's relaxing again, that weird tension leaving his shoulders as the conversation drifts back to familiar territory. Safe territory. He keeps playing, and you definitely don't notice how the melody gets smoother, more confident, like maybe he needed the distraction of your bickering to find his rhythm again.

Speaking of distractions—you glance around the room, frowning. "Where's Griffin?"

"Thought he was with you."

"What?" You blink at him. "You never let him sleep with anyone else."

"Well." He sets the guitar aside, stretches like some oversized cat. "You can now."

"I can... what?"

"Have him." He shrugs, but there's something careful in the movement. "For the night. If you want."

You stare at him. He stares back, that almost-smile still playing at his lips.

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

"Who are you and what have you done with my asshole roommate?"

He laughs, and just like that, the weird tension breaks. "Aw, you think I'm yours? That's cute, phoenix."

"I think you're a pain in my ass," you correct, but it lacks heat. Maybe because you're tired. Maybe because he just played something beautiful and shared his cat and you don't know what to do with any of it.

"Only sometimes." He stretches again, shirt riding up. You definitely don't look. "Other times I'm a pain somewhere else—"

You throw the nearest object (a pencil) at his head. "And we're back to normal."

His laugh follows you as you leave, hunting for Griffin. You tell yourself the warm feeling in your chest is just satisfaction at finding new ammunition for future arguments.

He's actually good at something. Who knew?

And if you catch yourself humming "Slow Dancing" as you search for the cat... well. 

Nobody has to know.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[iamalasagnagirl]

Pls, pls, pls I need more WLW book recommendations!!!

Adults, YA, spicy, soft, I don’t care. I just need wlw books because I want to switch from fanfics only to actual books as well

Okay, here we are, enjoy :)

Bright Falls Series by Ashley Herring Blake: 1. Delilah Green Doesn't Care -> Delilah Green swore she would never go back to Bright Falls - nothing is there for her except memories of a lonely childhood - but when Delilah's stepsister pressures her into photographing her wedding with a guilt trip and a large check, Delilah finds herself back in Bright Falls once more. She plans to breeze in and out, but then she sees Claire Sutherland, one of Astrid's stuck-up besties, and decides that maybe there's some fun (and a little retribution) to be had, after all. 2. Astrid Parker Doesn't Fail -> For Astrid Parker failure is unacceptable. When Pru Everwood asks her to be the designer for the Everwood Inn's renovation, which will be featured on a hugely popular home makeover show, Astrid is thrilled. However, Astrid never planned on Jordan Everwood, Pru's granddaughter and the lead carpenter for the renovation, who despises every modern design decision Astrid makes. Is she going to pursue the life that she's expected to lead or the one that she really wants? 3. Iris Kelly doesn't date -> Everyone around Iris Kelly is in love and she’s happy for all of them, truly. Iris doesn’t want any of that—dating, love, romance. She’ll stick to her commitment-free hookups. There’s only one problem—Iris is a romance author facing an imminent deadline for her second book, and she’s completely out of ideas. Perfectly happy to ignore her problems as per usual, Iris goes to a bar and meets a sexy stranger, Stefania, and a night of dancing and making out turns into the worst one-night stand Iris has had in her life. To get her mind off everything, Iris tries out for the lead role in a local play, a queer retelling of Much Ado About Nothing, but comes face-to-face with Stefania, whose real name turns out to be Stevie. Desperate to save face in front of her friends, Stevie asks Iris to play along as her girlfriend. Iris is shocked, but when she realizes the arrangement might provide her with some much-needed romantic content for her book, she agrees. As the two women play the part of a happy couple, lines start to blur.

Falls from grace by Ruby Landers -> Savannah Grace and her band were huge stars in Nashville. Now enlists Noah Lyman - an indie musician - to help her break out of country music and make a name for herself for once and for all. They have to spend the winter in Savannah secluded vacation home in the woods of Vermont, and Noah brings along his best friend Brynn Marshall and pretend she’s his wife? After all, what could possibly go wrong?

The secret of you and me by Melissa Lenhardt -> Nora hasn’t looked back. Not since she fled Texas to start a new life. Now she can live—and love—however she wants. The only problem is that she also left behind the one woman she can’t forget. Now tragedy calls her back home to confront her past—and reconcile her future.

Books by Haley Cass: - Those Who Wait and the follow-up Forever and A Day -> Spencer Sutton, the daughter of a congressman, and Charlotte Thompson, New York City’s youngest deputy mayor, meet on SapphicSpark, a women-seeking-women dating app. Sutton isn’t built for casual, and Charlotte needs to keep a low profile as the race heats up. In spite of that, a friendship blossoms as Charlotte helps Sutton navigate the dating world. - Down to A Science -> Ellie Beckett is a scientific genius finishing a Ph.D. at MIT, sitting on her stool at her favorite bar, putting the final touches on her thesis - her life is predictable and comfortable enough, until the night Mia Sharpe walks in to play pool with some friends and things are never the same again. and On the same Page -> Riley Beckett met Gianna Mäkinen their first year at Boston University, and it changed everything for the both of them. She knows Gianna doesn't do romance or relationships, and she knows nothing could ever come between them. But when a holiday party mix-up sets in motion a domino effect of changes, Riley has to question everything she thought she knew about their relationship. What, exactly, does Gianna mean to her after all? - In the Long Run -> Taylor Vandenberg is busy running a successful travel blog. Brooke Watson and Taylor’s younger brother have been best friends for the majority of their lives. It means that even if Taylor isn’t physically present, she’s always been a part of Brooke’s most monumental life experiences. When Taylor lands back in Faircombe for an extended stay, it leads to more run-ins than Brooke would like. And more feelings than either may want to admit. - When You Least Expect It & Better Than Expected (I haven't had a chance to read them yet, but I have seen them recommended a lot)

If tomorrow doesn't come by Jen St. Jude -> On the morning Avery Byrne plans to end her life, the world discovers there are only nine days left to live: an asteroid is headed for Earth, and no one can stop it. As time runs out and secrets slowly come to light, Avery fights her way home to save the girl she has been in love with her whole life. But can Avery also learn to save herself and find hope again in the tomorrows she has left?

Kiss her once for me by Alison Cochrun -> Ellie had a Christmas Eve meet-cute with a woman at a bookstore that led her to fall in love over the course of a single night. The next year, Andrew, the shop’s landlord where Ellie works, proposes a shocking, drunken plan: a marriage of convenience that will benefit both of them. They make a plan to spend the holidays together at his family cabin to keep up the ruse. But when Andrew introduces his new fiancée to his sister, Ellie is shocked to discover is the mysterious woman she fell for over the year before.

6 times we almost kissed (and one time we did) by Tess Sharpe -> Penny and Tate keep almost kissing. It’s just this confusing thing that keeps happening. You know, from time to time. For basically their entire teenaged existence.  They’ve never talked about it. They’ve always ignored it in the aftermath. But now they’re living across the hall from each other. And some things—like their kisses—can’t be almosts forever. 

Nottingham: the true story of Robin Hood by Anna Burke -> (A retelling of Robin Hood's story with a Female Robin and wlw couples) After a fateful hunting accident sends her on the run from the law, Robyn finds herself deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest. All she really wants to do is provide for her family and stay out of trouble, but when the Sheriff of Nottingham levies the largest tax in the history of England, she’s forced to take matters into her own hands. Relying on the help of her band of merry women and the Sheriff’s intriguing—and off limits—daughter, Marian, Robyn must find a way to pull off the biggest heist Sherwood has ever seen.

Forget me not by Alyson Derrick -> Stevie has a terrible fall. And when she comes to, she can remember nothing of the last two years—not California, not coming to terms with her sexuality, not even her girlfriend Nora. Suddenly, Stevie finds herself in a life she doesn’t quite understand. And Nora finds herself…forgotten.

It goes like this by Miel Moreland -> Eva, Celeste, Gina, and Steph used to play in world-famous queer pop band called Moonlight Overthrow. But after a sudden falling out leads to the dissolution of the teens' band, their friendship, and Eva and Celeste's starry-eyed romance, nothing is the same. Until a storm devastates their hometown, bringing the four ex-best-friends back together. As they prepare for one last show, they'll discover whether growing up always means growing apart.

Dominion Series by J J Arias: 1. Losing Control  -> Talent agent Adriana Ortiz’s world is rocked when she’s thrust into the tumultuous orbit of Roxy, the raw, enigmatic pop rebel with a notorious edge and a guarded heart. Tasked with steering the wild Roxy on a whirlwind tour, Adriana boards Roxy’s opulent tour bus. The nights are filled with roaring crowds, but it’s the electric tension between Roxy and Adriana that sets the air on fire. A forbidden connection that threatens to consume them. Is the wild, unbridled Roxy worth the risk to Adriana’s career, or is she just another woman falling victim to Roxy’s charms? 2. Fighting for Control  -> Lola Barros is a rising talent agent burning with ambition. Carmen Vargas is a dedicated lawyer poised to conquer the legal field. Their shared high-rise is the only thing these two powerhouses have in common. After a trivial parking mishap snowballs onto a full-blown feud, Lola and Carmen are thrust into unconventional anger management sessions and their fiery rivalry gives way to smoldering desire. But yielding to desire isn't straightforward. Between the shadows of demanding careers and familial expectations, their love is tested. Can Lola and Carmen find a balance between ambition and affection? 3. Relinquishing Control  -> Natalia Flores rules her exclusive talent agency with an iron fist, brokering blockbuster deals while keeping everyone at arm’s length. But beneath the cold exterior lies a heart that yearns to be understood. Enter Professor Samantha Reyes—brilliant, fierce, and unwilling to let Natalia manipulate her way into the film rights to her book. Their encounters spark with tension and undeniable chemistry. In a world where control is everything, can two powerful women let go of their fears to find a love that’s worth the risk?

11:59 by Erica Lee -> TJ Edmonds has created a whole brand around not getting attached to other people. She has a best-selling novel and a popular phone app both dedicated to helping people stay detached from their significant others, so they don't get hurt. But the only reason she can move on so quickly now is because she still hasn't let go of someone from her past. It's easy to guard her heart when she no longer has it to give away. TJ texts Brooke everyday at 11:59 pm with no answers. What happens when, in a moment of weakness, this someone reaches out to TJ?

Price and Prejudice and the city by Rachel Lippincott -> Seventeen-year-old Audrey Cameron has lost her spark. After an embarrassing run-in with her ex-boyfriend, she’s told that she needs to get back out there and take risks. What she doesn't expect is to be transported to Regency England! Lucy Sinclair has her own problems when Audrey lands into her life, claiming to be from two hundred years in the future, it's a welcome distraction.

Never ever getting back together by Sophie Gonzales -> Maya and Skye are invited to star on the reality dating show Second-Chance Romance, to compete for their now famous ex-boyfriend's affections while the whole world watches. Skye wonders if she and Jordy can recapture the spark she knows they had, but Maya has other plans.

The art of us by KL Hughes -> Charlee and Alex fell in love at nineteen and dated for four years. Theirs was an enviable love — evergreen and growing. Unbreakable…Until it broke. Alex’s job now brings her back to Boston, after five years. When, by chance, they meet again, Charlee and Alex are swept up in a whirlwind of heart-rending history, tossed between past and present, and lovers old and new. Will their lingering connection be enough to convince them that some loves are meant to last? Or should the past remain in the past?

That secret something by Emily Wright -> Rebecca Lawson is off-limits. Jess knows this, but Rebecca has captured her heart for as long as she can remember. She’s sporty, tall and confident—all the things Jess is not—but most of all…she’s her best friend Lily’s sister. But when Jess and Rebecca are forced to spend time together the forbidden feelings intensify and sparks begin to fly. Amidst the chaos of raging bridezillas and other wedding disasters, can Jess resist temptation for the sake of her friendship?

The seven husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid  -> Aging and reclusive Hollywood movie icon Evelyn Hugo is finally ready to tell the truth about her glamorous and scandalous life. Summoned to Evelyn's luxurious apartment, Monique listens in fascination as the actress tells her story. From making her way to Los Angeles in the 1950s to her decision to leave show business in the '80s, and, of course, the seven husbands along the way

That summer feeling by Bridget Morrissey -> Turns out you're never too old for a summer camp romance. Or a change of heart. When a divorced woman attends a sleepaway camp for adults only, she reconnects with a man from her past - only to catch feelings for his sister instead.

Some of these are my absolute favourites, I've lost count of how many times I've read them. I cannot get enough of "the bright falls series", "One the same page", "Those who wait", "The secret of you and me" and the last entry "Falls From Grace". No matter how many times I read them. And sometimes I wish I could read them again, as if for the first time, if that makes sense. Anyway, I have a lot more titles. Let me know if you want them or not. Enjoy the reading

[naomihatake]

I love you just as much as I hate you

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ pairing: caleb x fem reader / love and deepspace

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ tags: angst, hurt (with too little comfort), slight smut at the end, are they enemies or are they lovers? (I don't know)

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ summary: She took revenge on his behalf; however, that doesn't mean she hates him any less.

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ content warnings: it contains spoilers (even in the author's note), tension, toxic relationship, manipulation, descriptions of torture and violence, they match each other's freak

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ word count: 2.4k

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ theme song: "See You Bleed" by Ramsey

⠀⠀⠀⠀➺ A/N: I don't know how I ended up writing for Caleb out of pure spite and the burning need to get this toxic idea out of my head. Imagine that this isn't the first time they kiss or have sex. At the end, I'll explain a few details that mean a lot to me because they were intentional. Their relationship is toxic and if there's softness portrayed, that's just a glimpse of their complex feelings. I wanted her to mirror his behavior, and no, she doesn't have a chip. I fully believe she has the potential to turn twisted because of the events she went through. What she does isn't moral and I give zero fucks — I like it only when they're both twisted for each other. If you've watched the main story and Caleb's myth, the fact that she killed several people will make more sense to you. If you didn't read them, however, there are only small hints as to why she's done it.

There was a faint scent of something in the apartment. Familiar and metallic, it had Caleb scrunch his nose as he frowned deeply. 

Then, his eyes widened in pure horror and he sucked in a quick breath. Boots and uniform still on, he rushed to her room, fingers gripping at the knob as he pushed the door open in a hurry. The door hit the wall, getting the attention of the young woman who just took off her shirt, exposing her back and the straps of her bra. 

The pristine, white shirt was stained in red, in blood. Curtains drawn open, the moonlight fell in eerie waves over her figure, accentuating the soft lines of her body. Soft, except for the unusually sharp gaze she shot Caleb. Dangerous, murderous even. A pair of dark eyes, cold and unforgiving. Splatters of blood on her face — on her beautiful face, on the mesmerizing face of his very obsession. 

“Is there an issue?” she arched her eyebrow at him. 

He doesn't even remember a time when she acted like this with him. So unforgiving, just like her gaze, her tone sent a shiver down his spine. It was unsettling. 

“What's with the blood, pip-squeak?” he almost growled. “What happened? Who did this?” 

Coming closer, boots hitting harshly against the floor, he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw a cruel smile curl her lips up. 

“You're so stupid sometimes,” she shook her head, chastising him in a soft tone. 

She threw the bloodstained shirt on the chair at the desk and turned to him. 

His gentle fingers gripped at her shoulders firmly — what a contrast — as he raked his gaze over her body. Dry blood, but no wounds and no bruises except for some old ones. A greenish bruise on her ribs, a fading scar from her side running down under her jeans. After spending so much time training and fighting, he recognized each and every kind of injury and none of the ones on her body was new. 

“Enlighten me, then,” but his tone turned to a whisper as he realized she wasn't, in fact, hurt. 

It was someone else's, then. 

“You're an idiot for thinking of me as naive, gege.”

Oh, the light and almost scary chuckle that left her lips, the way she looked at him with some kind of pity, like he had been wrong about her this entire time. As if the view he had of her was wrong, so inaccurate. 

And she was glad. More than that, even. She was delighted to watch the confused and worried look on his face, to watch her gege recognize nothing of the woman he once knew. 

It's because of you. You did this to me. You ruined me, you turned me like this. 

And I kind of like it. 

The young hunter stepped closer to him, pressing her own hands on his shoulders as she made him step back in sync with her. Until his legs hit the bed and she pushed him harder. He relented and the mattress dipped under his weight. 

She harshly gripped at his jaw with one of her hands, thumb and pointer finger pressing against his face with force. Pulling, she tilted his head towards her. 

Caleb could only see the crazy look on her face as she leaned over, covering his view with the strands of hair falling in a curtain around their faces. He curled his own hand on her wrist, applying the same amount of pressure. Just to test her resolve, to see if he could put a stop to her tantrum. 

“I hate you,” she murmured. 

Crazy eyes locked on each other, harsh grips of their fingers on each other's bodies. Her blunt nails dug into his face and he was left breathless. 

Did it arouse him or did it scare him? Did it worry him? 

A mixture of feelings swirled in his purple eyes, intense as they clouded his judgment. Those words shot like an arrow through his already broken heart and some shards scattered around at their feet. But none of the sharp shards seem to touch her, because she didn't move an inch. 

His hurt gaze didn't move her. 

“But you can't hate me with every fiber of your being,” he whispered softly, like a snake promising her eternal knowledge with a beautiful, red apple caught in his fangs. “Right?” 

“That's one thing you're right about,” she hummed lowly, counting his promises and words, the pros and cons. 

At the end of the day, she was not an ordinary civilian anymore, hasn't been for years. She hadn't become a hunter just to be underestimated, she hadn't become a weapon for others to treat her like a soft little thing. A hunter who's seen blood and death, who had almost died, who had cut her own body while trying to save another's. It all had led to the person she was at that very moment. 

But they all made that mistake lately — of acting like a human couldn't do horrifying things out of rage, out of hatred. Everyone thought there was sanity left within her, but she knew they weren't right, not anymore at least. 

They thought of her as weak, as frail and fragile. The only fragile thing within her was her sanity, and Caleb pulled at the last string in the past days. 

“Because I hate them more, Caleb. And their biggest mistake was choosing you as their lab rat. They thought they did something, he believed he had finally found the perfect person to put to test. But they were so, so wrong, gege.” Such a sweet voice, such a soft and mellow tone, dipped in secrets and crimes. 

She ran her thumb over his jaw, leaning in closer, so close their noses almost touched. 

Tilting her head, she whispered softly at his ear, like a little devil wrapped up in silk. 

“Because they all screamed when I ripped off their limbs. Because they all begged when I cut their fingers, one by one.” 

He gulped, eyes widening slightly at the information. The actions in itself didn't sound scary, no, but the fact that she was the one doing it all, the fact that she was most probably not lying. The scent of blood filled his lungs in a disgusting manner, despite how many times he's felt it. 

“Someone told me at some point,” she started off as a sweet, loving story of a long time ago, “that the best revenge was to keep someone alive, because one can only feel pain when they're alive. And I followed that advice. I kept them alive for as long as I could and they were in pain the entire time. I woke them up every single time and I ruined their bodies, until they died of pain.” 

He felt hot underneath those clothes, like fire was licking at his spine, at every inch of his skin and flesh. 

However, no matter how insane and almost good it felt to hear those words, Caleb didn't believe it. Not fully, no, because she wouldn't do that, she was not the type to—

“Do you want to see their fingers arranged like beads on a necklace? You look at me like you don't believe a thing I've said.”

The next thing that slipped from her mouth was a sweet laughter, filled with joy and amusement. 

“I can't fucking believe you either, gege,” she spoke through chuckled, eyes sparkling. “I can't believe you're so dumb when it comes to me. I can't believe you refuse to see what's in front of your eyes.” 

Just like that, she put one knee on the bed, next to his thigh. Doing the same with her other knee, she straddled him as she caressed his cheeks with the back of her fingers. So gentle, contrasting with her gaze, with her words and behavior. His gloved hands curled into her bare waist, settling on her body. Somewhere in a corner of his mind, he thought he felt her warmth seep through the leather material. 

Leaning in, she pressed her nose against his cheek. All he had to do for her body to soften just slightly was to wrap an arm around her waist. 

“Only I can hurt you, Caleb. I deserve to do that. You've put me through so much pain and yet—” she scoffed darkly. “They dared to touch you. They had it coming. This entire time, they should've known. Their idiocy was their own decision.”

Breathless, wordless, and so confused. That's how he felt at that moment. 

“I told you not to stick your nose into it.” Of course. Her ever-loving, overprotective, gege. 

“Do not order me around,” her fingers slipped to his neck, pressing lightly. “I am not your subordinate. You are not my Colonel. They are the dogs following you around, not me.”

“You've never been a dog—”

“Oh, you are wrong,” and she let out a nervous laugh, gulping. 

Intense feelings crawled up her throat, cutting her breath as they clouded her mind. Wrath bubbled to the surface once again. 

“I was a dog, Caleb. I was a dog every single time I weeped at your grave, I was a dog every single time I thought of you while I thought you were gone for good.”

She pressed her fingers against his neck a little tighter, a little more. 

“I was a dog when I felt my world crumble every time I looked at our photos together. But not anymore.”

The grip on his neck loosened up and she took in quick breaths, eyes a little hazy as the adrenaline washed over her. 

Still, he dared to regard her with that loving and worried look in his eyes. 

“But you don't hate me.” A plea. “Right?” So pitiful. 

“I do,” she shook her head softly. 

Softening in his hold once again, she looped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face into his neck. The dry blood on her cheeks was uncomfortable against his skin, but she didn't move just yet, especially when he wrapped his other arm around her, pressing her closer to him. 

“But if I tell you that I also care about you, it'll get to your head. You'll ignore the other side of the coin like the idiot man that you are. I love you just as much as I hate you, and my hatred is nothing kind of shallow.” 

Behind her back, he peeled off his gloves and placed his bare hands on her body. With something akin to a whimper, she melted further into his body. Lava licked at her chest, falling like hot droplets into her stomach. 

Caleb whispered her name, but she refused to hear him out any further. With a press of her palm over his lips, she regarded him with her dark gaze. 

“You'll dig yourself a deeper grave if you continue talking. So be a good boy for once, darling.”

He parted his lips against her palm and nibbled at the skin, gaze mirroring hers. With a gulp, he pulled her hand down and pressed their mouths together. Heavy breaths and heated kisses, his warm hands and her cold touch. Languid and hot, deep and hungry for each other. 

A groan escaped him when she bit at his lower lip hard enough to draw blood and she licked at it, pulling him further into that burning ocean of passion. Her kisses didn't soothe the pain in his lip as it only worsened, but he's already grown addicted to the drug that stole her name. 

“Say my name again, Caleb,” she ordered him in a soft tone, pressing her thumb against his pulse. 

The beats of his heart right under her fingertip. And like the idiot that he was, instead of moving away, he let his head fall back and exposed more of his neck to her. 

“I could kill you right now,” a breathless whisper left her lips. 

“But you won't.” Such a defiant man he was. Putting so much trust in her hands it was hard not to give in, not to give him exactly what he wanted. 

She intended to take just as much. To take his kisses, his conscience and his sanity, to occupy his every thought and steal his freedom. Just like he had stolen her soul when he left, when he supposedly died. 

Hips pressed together and clothes thrown onto the floor. Bodies glistening with sweat and wanton moans. Soft curves and harsh bites on their skin. They gripped onto each other and took. 

Drinking up her pleasure, he lifted his hips and she threw her head back. Caleb took the opportunity to leave hickeys on her neck and chest as he pressed her down on him, drawing more sounds from her lips. A sweet melody dipped in sin, a few hushed whispers of ‘I need you’ and ‘you feel so good’.  But she never said anything, simply listening to the endearing pet names, the way he desperately tried to get a word out of her. It was with no avail. 

They took and took from each other until there was nothing left. Until she fell limp on top of him and curled her fingers beneath his shoulders, gripping onto his body. In utter silence, they both looked at the night sky outside the window. 

His fingers curled tighter into her as he pressed her body against his, chests glued together. Caleb found himself in a strange position; almost vulnerable. She gave no signs of love and something within him broke. From the high he's been through a minute ago, he felt himself spiraling into the abyss. 

“This is how my pain felt like,” she whispered softly as she drew circles on his bare shoulder. As if she knew what he was thinking, like she willingly chose not to call his name when their highs reached their peak. 

He couldn't find it within himself to argue. He accepted the pain just like a dog, until she decided it was enough. 

With a lift of her head, she cupped his face in her palms and kissed his forehead. A tender gesture that he gripped onto with his teeth, closing his glossy eyes.

Caleb knew what she was doing and he let her. Just like she's known how she was manipulated and had let him do it. 

rant warning! so. why is he vulnerable at the end? she did just use sex as a way to make him feel bad; that thing where you feel emotionally exposed after orgasms is a thing and I wanted to show that. she uses it, but in the end, she relents - she still cares about him.

they're both very self aware individuals and know what the other is doing, but they just let it happen. when they're stubborn, they're stubborn at the same time. she gives him a taste of his own medicine.

if you wonder who exactly is the man she killed; well, it's Professor Lucius. just because that man is dead, doesn't mean there's a happy ending.

also, I called him a 'dog' at the end because I used the same word in her speech when she talked about how she felt - it was intentional. I showed more of her twisted behavior (instead of adding his own crazy shit) because that was the detail I wanted to portray in this oneshot.

I hate a lot of thoughts about him, ngl. anyways, I'd appreciate opinions and criticism. have a great day! <333

[neverpathia]

crappy rant/analysis about the Voice of the Paranoid because I'm very normal about him

with that said.

It's pretty clear that he's not just scared. Anxiety isn't his only personality trait, and the game makes it incredibly prominent that he's no helpless victim. He's a starved animal backed into a corner, straining his chain thin, clawing and biting. He's desperate and frantic and charging at it all with nothing left to lose.

But I don't really think people talk about his spite and resentment as much, and it's a little surprising given how much he moulds it to his advantage. Still, he's not just sassy for the hell of it: he genuinely hates what he's being forced to do. He's incredibly frustrated. He's very, very done with your bullshit—and that includes his own bullshit too, because he's the scared part of you (Quiet) that turns your fears into reality.

So he despises everything that he's being put through (by you, himself and the other voices), and I think he definitely despises the rest of the Quiet to some extent. He's mainly driven by sheer desperation, but petty spitefulness is also very much involved—in Nightmare, he gets very quick to snipe at Hero despite having a job to do. He even prolongs the argument for a while before Narrator urges him to resume the chant.

And I think that just like the Contrarian, the Paranoid hates what he himself is too. Granted, @/sssilverspades and @/salty-an-disco brought this up, but all the voices probably have that same capacity for self-loathing and I think he's no exception.

He's the most perceptive voice, but at the same time he twists his perception against himself a lot. He's the reason Nightmare happened. He's the reason his fears manifest. And given how quick he was to figure stuff out in Cage and Apotheosis, I think he'd figure that his biggest problem by then was himself.

It's because he's not okay that they could stand a chance against Apothy...but it's also because he's not okay that she happened in the first place. He's very far gone here. At that point, there wasn't much left for him to do but pretend it all away—just a dream, just a dream—and shut his fears off.

He wants it all to be over with, which is especially apparent at the end of Apotheosis's Grace ending, or at the beginning of Nightmare-Wraith. He's doing what he can and keeping it going, but it's not because he wants to. It's because it's the only thing he's even capable of doing anymore. And it's turning him bitter, turning him resentful.

This is what you've done, and he's a part of you. He's regretting and atoning just as much as he's fighting, yet it's what he must do.

Let's not completely rid him of accountability, by the way, which is another thing I wish fandom acknowledged more. You often get him by abandoning the Princess and denying her what she wants. This is what you did: what he did from beneath you. And he's suffering for his own actions.

This is what fear does—it's perfectly natural to be scared and anxious, but you're not the only one it affects. Let it fester, and you lock yourself in. Let it fester, and you hurt yourself more and more. Let it fester, and you lash out against this hurt. Let it fester and you turn others as hollow as you've become. Fear helps no one. All you can do is amend and atone, which in a way is kind of what he ends up doing sometimes. Or you get Moment of Clarity.

As much as I love him, it's a bit hard to see people just praising him for being the goat (even though he is lol) because of how much he helps. Yes, he's a very useful voice. But he's the very reason he has to be useful, not that he even wants to be here.

I might just be completely misinterpreting his character here, though.