#I just have a lot of feels about these two | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jupiterpilgrim · 3 days ago

Text

Someone Like You

Sohyun x Xinyu x male reader

word count: 19K

You push open the door with your shoulder, bag sliding down your arm, earbuds still in, still humming the chorus of the track you were half-distractedly mouthing on the walk back. The apartment’s dim, only the low yellow glow from the kitchen light pooling under the cabinets. It smells faintly like miso and something fried earlier (maybe tofu?) and, ironically, this reminds you that you forgot something. It doesn’t hit you immediately, what you forgot. But then your eyes sweep the counter.

Empty.

The fridge hisses softly when you open it. Half a carton of milk. Some eggs. A bottle of kimchi you’re not brave enough to open. And a lonely, suspicious cucumber. Then you freeze.

Okay. Right.

You were supposed to get groceries today. Actually, you were supposed to get them yesterday too, but Xinyu cornered you after the club meeting and asked for help lifting some stuff into storage—by which she meant do all the hard work while I pretend to supervise. Time got slippery. You left campus past dark and told yourself you’d make a list tomorrow.

Well, tomorrow was today. Now today is too late.

You step out of the kitchen just as Sohyun emerges from her room, barefoot, wearing that oversized sweatshirt she lives in when she’s in a mood. Dark grey, sleeves too long, hair twisted up with two pens stabbing through the knot like she’s some sort of overworked librarian assassin. Her expression is unreadable, which is bad. It’s when she gets unreadable that you know she’s very much read you and is probably two sentences away from verbal murder.

“You didn’t go, did you?” she says. No hello. Just sharp and low. Fair enough...

You fidget, rubbing the back of your neck. “I… got distracted. Club ran long.”

Her eyes flick down to your bag. No plastic handles sticking out, no clinking bottles or leafy greens peeking. She leans her weight to one hip and folds her arms slowly, like she’s savoring the drama of the moment.

“Distracted,” she repeats. “Again.”

“It’s just the second time—”

“The second time this week,” she cuts in, and now you’re pretty sure she’s not even mad about the food. There’s something else threading underneath, something prickly and a little tired.

You drop your bag by the couch and step closer, sheepish. “I know, I know. I really meant to, I just—club stuff’s been a lot. We’re organizing that charity auction and planning the art zine printing and—”

“You’re in a crafts club, not national defense,” she mutters, turning toward the kitchen, but slower than usual, like she’s waiting for you to say something worth staying for.

“It’s called ‘Hands On’,” you remind her, trailing after. “And it’s pretty fun, actually. We’re doing embroidery on vintage denim this week.”

That earns a glance, just a flash over her shoulder, one brow twitching. “So now you’re too busy learning how to sew flowers onto someone’s ass to remember your basic responsibilities?”

You shift on your feet. “You make it sound so much lamer than it is.”

“I didn’t have to try.”

You watch her pull out the rice cooker, expression smoothing into that blank practiced calm she wears when she’s trying not to let irritation sound like concern. The rice cooker clicks, and it suddenly feels very loud in the silence you left hanging.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say quickly, guilt tightening your throat. “Let me cook this weekend.”

She pauses, dead silent. Then slowly turns, both arms now crossed tighter, chin tilted.

“You.”

“Me.”

“You want to cook.”

“For us, yeah.”

“You nearly set the toaster on fire trying to make Pop-Tarts.”

“That was one time. And I was sleepy.”

“You boiled water in a frying pan.”

“I couldn’t find the kettle!”

“It was next to the stove.”

You press your palms together like you’re about to pray. “C’mon. Let me try. I’ll find recipes online. I’ll watch a tutorial or something. I’ll even write down a shopping list this time.”

Her eyes narrow. “You're gonna write down one egg, one cup rice, plus one extinguisher?”

You groan and sag onto the counter dramatically, forehead thunking against the cool laminate. “Have some faith in me, Sohyun.”

“I do, that’s why I don’t want to die.”

You lift your head and grin at her, and she falters. There’s a twitch at the edge of her mouth like she’s fighting it, but her arms are still crossed and her eyes are still doing that sharp thing they do when she’s trying to seem unimpressed. She fails. She always fails.

“You’ve got that face on again,” you say.

“What face.”

“The grumpy ‘my idiot roommate is testing my will to live’ face. I don’t like that face. Gimme a better one.”

She turns away a little, her hip brushing the counter, but you catch the way her lips almost curve. You lean in slightly.

“C’mon, just a little one. Gimme a smile. I’ll even do the grocery run tomorrow and the day after.”

“That’s your responsibility anyway,” she mumbles, but softer.

“Yeah, but I’ll do it extra good. Promise. Just smile.”

She tries to keep her mouth straight, but it’s not fair, because you’re looking at her like a puppy that dropped its leash and still thinks it deserves a treat. And you know what you’re doing; weaponizing that whole innocent soft-boy thing, but it works. She finally lets one side of her mouth curl up, barely, like a crack of sunlight through clouds.

“There,” you say, triumphant, and point like it’s proof. “That’s the one. See? You look way less murdery when you do that.”

“Shut up,” she says, but she doesn’t move away when you lean against the counter beside her. Her shoulder is warm against yours, and she doesn’t pull away. You can feel her relaxing, even if she keeps up the grumble.

“Seriously though,” you say. “Thanks for cooking all the time. I know I suck at adulting. I’ll get better.”

“Yeah, well. Someone has to keep your malnourished ass alive.”

You laugh, and she pretends like that wasn’t a compliment buried in salt. The silence after isn’t tense anymore. It’s familiar. She leans over to rinse some rice, and you stay close, watching the way her fingers move, the easy rhythm of someone who knows what they’re doing. It’s kind of hypnotic. You catch yourself staring a little too long and glance away, ears warm.

“You know,” you say, just to fill the quiet, “Xinyu said she wants to teach me how to make handmade dumplings. Apparently she’s some kind of food goddess outside of club stuff.”

You don’t notice how still Sohyun goes. How her shoulders tighten just slightly. You’re busy thinking about how Xinyu had smiled at you when she said it, the way she tilted her head and asked if your hands were good with dough. Like she was measuring your answer with something hungrier than curiosity.

You don’t notice the way Sohyun’s grip on the strainer shifts. Or the small exhale she lets out, short and flat. But you do catch the quiet that follows your sentence. Heavy again. And not the good kind.

You glance over. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, too fast. “Sounds like she’s keeping you real busy lately.”

“I guess? I mean, she’s just super involved in everything. She’s got all these ideas. And people really listen to her. It’s kinda cool.”

She hums, then dumps the rice into the cooker with a clatter that sounds more aggressive than necessary.

“Cool,” she repeats under her breath, but you don’t catch the tone.

You yawn and stretch your arms above your head. “Anyway. I’m gonna shower before dinner. Thanks for not killing me.”

“No promises,” she mutters.

As you disappear down the hall, you don’t see the look she gives the kitchen doorway. Not angry. Not exactly sad, either. Just a look like someone watching a window slowly shut on something they hadn’t even realized they were leaning out of. The rice cooker beeps behind her, forgotten. Her reflection stares back at her in the microwave door, and she doesn’t like what she sees there.

—

The air outside the lecture hall is too crisp for how warm your neck feels under the collar of your hoodie. Your econ professor dragged out the last five minutes of class with a winding tangent about inflation and donuts, and your brain’s still foggy from trying to stay awake. The hallway hums with the usual end-of-class shuffle—backpacks zipping, shoes squeaking on linoleum, someone laughing too loudly down the hall, the flick of water bottles being opened like a chorus of bored seals. You dig your phone out of your pocket, thumb tapping out a quick message to Sohyun to let her know you might head home soon—and then you hear your name.

Not called. Sung.

“Heeeey!”

You don’t even get the full chance to turn around before something soft and perfume-sweet hooks around your elbow and starts pulling. It’s instinct, at this point. You don’t even resist. You know that voice, and sure enough, there she is: Xinyu. In a velvet jacket the color of overripe cherries, hair twisted in a high braid that bounces with every movement, eyes bright with some new scheme. She's wearing high heels, which emphasizes her height (1.74cm, and she doesn't even need the heels to be taller than you).

“You have legs. You’re walking. Perfect. C’mon,” she says, already dragging you past two people in the hall who double-take like they’re seeing something illegal.

“Uh—hi? What—what’s going on?” You try to plant your feet but she’s stronger than she looks. “I actually need to get home kinda early—”

“It’ll be quick,” she chirps, which you immediately recognize as a lie, the same way Sohyun always does when you tell her you’ll “just check something real fast.” Xinyu gives you a sideways glance, all long lashes and a grin that should be registered as a performance-enhancing drug. “We’ve got a situation and you, my sweet dumb boy, are just the man to solve it.”

“I never agreed to—wait, what situation?”

“You’ll see,” she hums.

That’s how it always starts.

She marches you through campus like she’s late to a parade, and you end up outside the “Hands On” club room (formerly the Sad Little Arts Supply Closet), now upgraded with banners, fairy lights, a suggestion box shaped like a gumball machine, and one extremely passive-aggressive cactus on the windowsill that someone (probably Xinyu) glued googly eyes onto. The room smells like fabric glue and lavender cleaning spray. You can already tell something’s going on. Half the tables have fabric swatches and scissors laid out, while the other half are in chaos—cardboard boxes, paper stacks, craft knives, sticky notes everywhere like a crime scene made by a kindergarten teacher.

Xinyu kicks the door shut with her heel, and immediately spins to face you, hands clasped dramatically.

“Emergency,” she declares. “Our treasurer—bless his little heart—forgot to print half the zine inserts for tomorrow’s showcase. And he left town to visit his boyfriend and won’t be back until Monday.”

You blink. “Okay. And that involves me… how?”

She gives you a look, then grabs a stack of prints and holds them out with both hands, like she’s offering an ancient tome. “We need to trim the inserts, fold them, and pair them with the right zine covers tonight. I would do it myself, but I’m already running final checklists, and I need someone with…” She pauses, eyes dragging slowly down you in a way that makes your spine twitch. “…delicate hands.”

You’re not even sure what that means, but it works embarrassingly well. You shift your weight awkwardly, try not to smile, fail.

“I’ve got readings to do, though,” you mumble, still reaching for the stack anyway.

She leans in, nose almost bumping yours. “Just thirty minutes.”

You know it’s going to be at least two hours. But you’re already sitting down.

You work through the inserts like a factory line, trying not to get glue on your hoodie, trying even harder not to look too happy that she keeps hovering over your shoulder. Every few minutes she passes behind you, laying a hand on your back, leaning to read something over your shoulder, her perfume brushing against your cheek—light and heady, like peonies dipped in honey. When you mess up the first fold, she just laughs and reaches over to fix it, her fingers brushing yours deliberately.

“See? You’ve got the touch,” she says after you finish the third stack, peeking at your neat line of trimmed edges. “You’re careful. Precise. You’d make a good production lead.”

You pause, scissors halfway through a page. “Production what?”

“For the club.” She spins one of the folding chairs around and straddles it backwards, arms folded over the backrest like she’s about to make a TED talk. “We need someone to manage all the materials and oversee project prep days. It’s not super intense, just a couple meetings, task lists, making sure stuff gets done right. I’ve been doing it all myself, but honestly, you’re way more organized than I expected.”

“Uh. Thanks?” You’re not even sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.

She grins. “I'm serious! You’ve got this sort of… reliable energy. Like the kind of guy who double-checks the batteries before a camping trip.”

“Are you saying I’m boring?”

“No,” she says, tipping her head. “I’m saying you’re hot in a very unexpectedly domestic way.”

Your brain short-circuits a little. You drop a sheet. She laughs.

“That’s not—what even is that?”

“Means I could leave you alone in a room with a pet bunny and a glue gun and not worry about either of them dying.”

“…That is the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“And yet you’re still blushing.”

You turn your head away, trying to pretend you’re not. You totally are.

The idea of the position swirls in your head now, even as you keep folding. You picture being in charge of something, even something this small. Making lists. Making things run. Sohyun would probably laugh if she heard it. Or roll her eyes. Or both. Still. There's something weirdly satisfying about the idea of being useful like that. And then there’s the fact that it means more time here. Around her. Around this energy that makes you feel like you’re slightly floating, like maybe you matter in a way you hadn’t thought about before.

“I dunno,” you say. “I’ve never done anything like that before. And I’m still learning how the club works…”

“I’ll help you,” she says immediately. “Seriously. I wouldn’t throw you in alone. I just need someone I trust. And you’ve got this chill thing going on that keeps people from freaking out. I like that.”

You feel your ears heat again.

“I’ll think about it,” you say.

She pouts, and it’s completely weaponized. “But I need you.”

You choke on your breath.

She leans closer across the table. “Please? You’d be perfect. You’re already half in love with this place anyway.”

“I am not.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re literally here folding paper on a Friday night.”

“…Point taken.”

She smiles then, something soft but electric, and somehow the room feels warmer. She taps the side of your hand lightly with a fingernail.

“Just say yes.”

You hesitate.

But it’s barely even hesitation.

“Okay,” you mumble, and you look down because her smile makes it hard to breathe right.

“I knew you would,” she says, sing-song and smug.

You keep working, heartbeat annoyingly loud, the sound of scissors and paper and her humming filling the room like you’ve stepped into a whole different orbit. Something not quite safe. But not bad, either. Just new.

And when you finally look at your phone later—two hours later—you realize you never texted Sohyun back.

—

You fumble with your keys at the door like they’ve suddenly become a math problem, plastic bags hanging heavy off your wrists, sleeves bunched up, hoodie damp with the sweat of a rushed walk to the market. You’re late. Not “forgot the time” late; actual late. Like, over-an-hour-past-the-“I’ll be home by six”-mark late. And that’s with the shortcut through the back alley that smells vaguely like wet cardboard and moldy pizza. You exhale, brace yourself, and nudge the door open with your foot.

Inside’s warm, lit up with the kitchen lights already on, even though you’d planned to turn them on yourself, cook like a responsible adult for once, surprise Sohyun with your flawless (okay, barely functional) culinary debut. Instead, there’s quiet rustling in the living room and the telltale smell of rice already cooking.

Damn.

“Sohyun,” you call out quickly, pushing in and kicking the door shut behind you. “Wait—don’t cook, I’m doing it! I swear!”

She appears before you can get another sentence out, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room with her arms folded like she’s on break from interrogating someone. That same sweatshirt again, sleeves half covering her hands, her hair up in one of those loose, tired buns that somehow makes her look even more intimidating. She doesn’t say anything. Just stares at you.

You lift the bags. “Groceries. All of ‘em. Even got the brand of gochujang you like and those overpriced Belgian chocolate bars you keep ‘not liking’ but always finish.”

That gets her eyebrow twitching upward, just a little. But the frown’s still hanging around her mouth.

“I said I’d cook,” you add. “I didn’t forget this time.”

“You’re late.”

“I know, I’m sorry. There was… stuff. At the club. Unexpected stuff.”

She doesn’t ask what. She just moves aside so you can shuffle into the kitchen and start unpacking the bags. Vegetables. Noodles. Chicken. Soy sauce. Two bars of that milk chocolate with sea salt she thinks you don’t notice her hoarding in the freezer like contraband. She watches silently as you line things up on the counter, sleeves rolled up like you’re about to operate instead of cook.

“Okay,” you exhale, trying to sound confident and not like you’re internally googling how to dice an onion without making it look like a hate crime. “Tonight, we are making… stir-fried noodles. With chicken. And bok choy.”

Sohyun leans against the doorframe, arms still crossed. “You’re stir-frying something.”

“Technically, yes.”

She watches you wrestle the chicken out of its package like it’s a test of your moral fiber.

“You know,” she says after a long moment, “the whole point of you cooking was to not make me do anything.”

“I got this.”

You do not got this. Five minutes later you’re trying to figure out which knife is for chicken and which is for not-dying, when Sohyun lets out a sigh and walks over. She ties her hair up tighter, grabs a cutting board without a word, and starts slicing the bok choy with precision so sharp it’s almost smug.

“Hey—” you protest, “I said I got this.”

“You said a lot of things,” she mutters. “At this rate, we’ll be eating at midnight.”

You shut up and just let her work beside you. There’s something comforting about it, the shared silence while you both prep, the sound of knives on wood, the little clatter of bottles and bowls. You glance over at her hands a few times—how practiced they are, how she moves like she’s not even thinking about it. You’ve never been able to do anything that confidently. Not like her.

She doesn’t look at you when she speaks next. Her tone’s quiet. Even. Too even.

“So. This ‘unexpected stuff’ at the club.”

You clear your throat. “Just Xinyu stuff.

“Of course.”

“She needed help setting up some print stuff for the showcase tomorrow. I told her I couldn’t stay long, but…”

“But you stayed anyway.”

You hesitate. “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it?”

You glance up. She’s slicing scallions now, but her hands have slowed, like she’s not as calm as she wants to sound.

“She just needed help.”

Sohyun sets the knife down, finally looks at you.

“She always needs help, doesn’t she?”

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sohyun wipes her hands on a dish towel. “It means girls like her know exactly what they’re doing when they lean in too close and smile too wide and ask for just one little favor. And boys like you—”

“—what about boys like me?” you cut in, more defensive than you expected.

She studies you. “You’re too nice. Too soft. You think people mean what they say when they smile at you.”

Your chest tightens, and you try to laugh it off. “You don’t even know her.”

“I don’t need to,” she says flatly. “I’ve seen enough. You come home late. You forget things. You’re too tired to eat sometimes. All because some pretty girl with glitter in her hair asks you to fold paper and run errands and smile on command.”

“She’s not using me,” you say, voice low now, trying to keep your hands busy with the noodles, but your pulse is skipping. “We’re friends. She values me. I’m not just—help. She made me a production lead.”

Sohyun lets out a quiet, humorless breath. “Wow. Production lead. That sounds very real.”

You grit your teeth. “You don’t know what it’s like there. The club’s fun. I like it. I feel… useful. Like I matter.”

“You do matter,” she snaps. “Here. With me. But you’re so damn caught up in being liked by her that you don’t see what she’s doing.”

You flinch, then stare down at the noodles, hands cold even over the heat of the pan.

“She’s really nice to me,” you mumble. “She listens. She laughs at my jokes. She makes me feel seen. Maybe you just… don’t get along with people like that.”

Her silence is louder than the stovetop now. You don’t dare look up. You keep stirring, even though the sauce is starting to bubble too fast, even though the smell is getting sharper. Sohyun says nothing for a long time.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter.

“She doesn’t see you,” she says. “She sees what she can get from you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You just stand there, heat rising from the stove, from your face, from the sudden shift in the air around you.

“Let's just... finish cooking, okay?” you finally say, and the conversation ends.

The dinner isn’t bad. It’s not amazing either—one of the noodles is suspiciously crunchy and the sauce might be a little too salty—but it’s edible, and you didn’t set off the smoke detector, so it counts as a win. The kind of win where no one cheers but nobody dies. You both eat cross-legged on the couch, bowls balanced in your laps, watching something vague and unmemorable play out on the TV. Neither of you really pays attention. The show is just there to fill the silence you haven’t figured out how to cross again yet.

She’s quiet. Not in the usual way, where she’s half-ignoring you because she’s pretending to be annoyed. This is the kind of quiet where she doesn’t pick at your uneven chopstick technique, or sigh when you slouch too far forward like a sad noodle boy. She just eats. Occasionally glances at the screen. Mostly doesn’t look at you.

It’s your fault. You know that. You didn’t mean to shut her out, but the conversation from earlier is still coiled up tight in your chest like a knotted cord you can’t unkink. You know she meant well. You also know you didn’t want to hear it. And now it’s sitting between you like a third roommate with bad vibes and no rent.

You stab a stray noodle in the bowl and swirl it for no reason. Then, out of nowhere, you blurt it.

“Hey, uh… do you wanna go to the movies this weekend?”

Sohyun blinks. Turns her head slowly. “What?”

You cough and set your bowl down on the coffee table, feigning casual like you haven’t just rerouted the entire tone of the evening. “That movie. The weird indie horror-romance one you wouldn’t shut up about. You said it’s finally playing at that little theater downtown, right?”

She narrows her eyes like she suspects a trap. “That movie?”

“Yeah. That one with the girl who falls in love with a ghost that might’ve murdered her aunt.”

“You said that sounded dumb.”

“I’ve since developed taste.”

Her eyes flick down to your empty bowl, then back to your face, skeptical. “You wanna go see it. With me.”

“Yes.”

“At the theater.”

“Yes.”

“You, willingly, sitting through a movie where people talk in metaphors and cry in bathtubs for two hours.”

“Yes.”

She stares a second longer, then slowly sets her own bowl down.

“…Are you dying?”

You laugh, relieved that the wall between you starts to crack. “No. I just figured it’s been a while, you know? Since we went anywhere together. Just us.”

She looks at you, and this time it’s different. Softer. A little surprised. Her shoulders uncoil, just slightly.

“Yeah,” she says after a beat. “Yeah, I guess it has.”

You shift closer on the couch, knees brushing. She doesn’t pull away.

“I miss that,” you say quietly. “You and me. Hanging out. You making fun of my popcorn choices and stealing half of it anyway.”

“I don’t steal,” she mutters, glancing away. “You just let me take it.”

“Exactly,” you say, and you slide your hand over hers before you can overthink it. Just resting your palm on top of hers, fingers curling a little, not gripping, just—being there.

She flinches slightly at the contact, just a twitch, but she doesn’t pull back. She lets your fingers settle against hers, warm and tentative, and when you look up at her, she’s not smirking. Not scoffing. Her eyes are flicking down where your hands meet like it’s something foreign and strange and maybe a little fragile.

“You’re my best friend,” you say, simple and true. “You matter a lot to me.”

Her lips part slightly. Her brows lift, and for a second you think she might laugh it off or tell you you’re being cheesy or stupid—but she doesn’t. She just exhales, like maybe something heavy has been sitting in her chest too.

“You matter to me too,” she says.

You smile at her, and this time when your thumb brushes her knuckle, she doesn’t tense. She lets it happen. Lets you stay close. The show keeps playing in the background, some scene with a car chase and overly dramatic soundtrack cues, but you don’t hear it. Not really.

She shifts her hand slightly and laces her fingers with yours. Not fully. Not completely confident. But enough.

“Don’t be late to the theater,” she says softly. “Or I will eat all your popcorn.”

“Fair,” you say, and your heart’s beating like you’ve just run a mile uphill, but your smile won’t quit.

Neither will hers, even as she tries to hide it by turning toward the screen again.

And when she finally squeezes your hand, once, gently… you squeeze back.

—

The week grinds on like a slow, dull blade; long days of lectures that won’t end and projects that never feel done, your hands always on something, always organizing, always fixing. The new position in the club sounded cool when Xinyu pitched it, sounded manageable, even kind of important. And it is. But it's also constant. There’s always something that needs adjusting. A deadline that wasn’t clear. A last-minute supply shortage. Someone who forgot to RSVP to a workshop and now wants to be squeezed in. You spend most of your hours between classes running around campus, typing messages with one hand and juggling printouts with the other. It’s not that you hate it. It’s just… a lot.

And you’ve been deliberately keeping it at arm’s length this week. Showing up when you need to. Doing what’s necessary. But not lingering. Not letting yourself fall into the way Xinyu looks at you when you're both the last ones in the room. Not letting yourself chase that high that comes from being the center of her attention. You're just packing your things at the edge of the classroom when the scent hits you before the voice. Vanilla, sharp berry, something flirtatious. You freeze for half a second before you even look up.

“There you are,” Xinyu says, leaning against the frame of the door like it’s a movie scene. Skirt just high enough to register, blouse knotted loosely at the waist, hair done up in a half-messy twist that probably took twenty minutes to make look that accidental. She’s smiling at you like she caught you doing something bad and she’s this close to forgiving you for it.

“Hey,” you say, more cautious than casual.

“Got a minute?” She pushes off the door with one heel, strides into your personal space like she owns it, which (let’s face it) she kind of does when she wants to. “Just wanted to run a couple updates by you for the zine drop next week. Also, did you see my text?”

You blink. “Uh, I think so? About the schedule?”

“No,” she says, stepping even closer, voice lowering just enough to pull your gaze to her mouth. “The one I sent yesterday. About the mixer tonight.”

You shake your head. “I’ve been a little swamped. Haven’t had time to check.”

Her smile flickers, momentarily amused, maybe faintly disappointed. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve been kind of... scarce this week.”

You shift your bag on your shoulder, trying not to notice the way her eyes track the movement. “I’ve just had a lot going on. Assignments, you know. Life.”

“Sure,” she says, tilting her head. “But it’s not like you to dip right after meetings. And I miss my favorite assistant-slash-handyman-slash-pretty boy.”

That catches you off guard. You cough and glance toward the hallway.

She’s teasing, obviously.

Probably.

Right?

“I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to,” you say, trying to stay focused. “I’ve just been trying to keep my head down and not burn out.”

She studies you for a second, like she’s assessing whether that’s the whole truth. “Mhm. So you’re saying you could come to the mixer tonight but you won’t.”

You laugh nervously. “I already have plans.”

That gets her attention. “Plans?” she repeats, lifting an eyebrow. “With who?”

You hesitate. A beat too long.

“…My roommate,” you say. “Sohyun.”

Her mouth lifts at one corner, interested now in a way that’s different; not just playful, but… analytical.

“Sohyun…” she echoes. “That name’s familiar. I think I’ve seen her around. Quiet girl? Moles on the face? Always in a hoodie?”

You nod. “Yeah, that’s her.”

“Didn’t know you two were that close.”

You try to shrug it off, but your grip on your bag strap tightens. “We live together. We hang out sometimes. She’s just—she’s my friend.”

Xinyu steps closer. Close enough you can smell her perfume again, soft and sweet, like fruit ripened in summer heat. Her fingers trail lightly across your forearm.

“Just your friend,” she murmurs.

You nod, throat dry. “Yeah.”

Her eyes drag over your face like she’s reading a secret written across your skin. She doesn’t blink. Her fingers pause, then curl lightly around your wrist.

“That’s good,” she says, voice velvet-wrapped. “Because you already have an owner.”

Your breath catches. “I—what?”

She doesn’t give you time to untangle the meaning. She just leans forward and kisses you.

It’s soft at first, almost testing. Her lips barely brush yours, but the sensation is instantly overwhelming. Sweet gloss. A breath of warm air. Her fingers sliding up, into your hair, pulling you a half-step deeper before you even realize you're leaning in. Everything disappears, noise, time, the fluorescent hallway lights, it’s just her, kissing you like she’s claiming something that already belonged to her.

You don’t move. You can’t move. Your thoughts are scattering like coins in water.

When she finally pulls back, her face is still inches from yours, her breath warm and her smile damn near criminal.

“You’re cute when you look like you’ve been unplugged,” she says, brushing your jaw with the back of her knuckle. “But don’t worry. I don’t bite.”

You swallow, hard. “I don’t…”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t really know what that meant.”

She laughs. “It means I’m making a reservation, baby. You’re mine.”

You look at her, dumbstruck, heart slamming in your ribs.

Then, before you can collect yourself, she adds, “So, since you’re blowing me off for your roommate tonight, how about you make it up to me.”

“…How?”

She leans in again, lips just by your ear now.

“Ask me out. Just you and me. No club stuff. No excuses.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You should say no. You should stall. But instead—

“…Okay. I will.”

Her smile goes wide and adorable.

“Good boy.”

She kisses your cheek this time, softer, lighter, but somehow more dangerous, and then turns on her heel and disappears down the hall, skirt swinging, a melody of casual destruction.

You’re left standing in the doorway of your classroom, the taste of her still on your lips, your phone buzzing with a new message that you already know is from her.

And somehow, all you can think about now is how the hell you’re going to face Sohyun tonight.

—

You get to the theater with barely a minute to spare, which is honestly a miracle considering your brain's been running on static ever since Xinyu kissed you. You’ve been replaying it like some kind of forbidden cutscene you unlocked by accident. Her perfume is still clinging to your hoodie. Your lips still feel weirdly aware, like your body hasn’t updated the rest of itself on what happened. You texted Sohyun that you were on your way while your fingers were still slightly shaking.

And now she’s standing in front of the ticket kiosk, scrolling on her phone, her expression neutral until she hears your footsteps. She looks up, and her face softens the way it always does when she sees you: shoulders relaxing, lips almost smiling. She’s got her hair down tonight, not tied up like usual, and her eyeliner’s a little sharper than usual, like she put in effort but didn’t want to make it obvious. It kind of punches the air out of your lungs.

“You made it,” she says.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you manage, trying to keep your tone level.

She squints. “You okay? You look like you just ran from a house fire.”

“I’m fine. Just, uh…” You rub the back of your neck, laughing awkwardly. “Got caught up with something right before I left. But I’m good now. Totally good.”

She walks beside you toward the entrance, and the moment you get close, she stops short. Her nose twitches. Her brow furrows slightly.

“Hold up,” she says, sniffing the air near your shoulder. “What is that?”

You freeze. “What’s what?”

“That smell. Are you wearing perfume?”

You nearly trip over your own feet. “What? No. No, no. It’s, uh… probably just my deodorant. I bought a new one. It’s got like, weird… berry something in it. Or… lavender? Maybe both? I don’t know.”

She stares at you like you just said your skin naturally emits essential oils. “You smell like someone else. Like a girl."

You try not to sweat. “Maybe I brushed past someone on the train. Or—maybe someone at the mall sprayed a tester thing. I mean, you know how people get with free samples.”

Sohyun doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press further. Not directly. Just narrows her eyes and says, “Uh-huh,” before moving toward the theater doors again.

You scramble to change the subject, reaching for something, anything. “Hey, by the way… you look really beautiful tonight.”

That gets her attention. She stops walking again. Turns slowly.

“What?”

You blink. “I mean it. You look nice. Really nice. It’s the eyeliner or the hair or maybe both. I dunno. You just do.”

Now her expression isn’t suspicious, exactly. More like… confused. Like you just threw her off balance in a way she wasn’t expecting. She gives you a side glance, narrowing her eyes again.

“Okay, what’s going on with you tonight?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, holding your hands up like you’re being accused of a crime. “I’m allowed to compliment my best friend, right?”

She mutters something like “Not when you’re acting weird about it,” but she walks ahead and scans the tickets, so you follow her into the dark theater, hoping the blackness will hide how flushed you probably are.

You sit next to her, the movie already starting with a low, ambient hum that fills the space between you. But you’re not really there. Not fully.

Your body is sitting beside Sohyun, her knee occasionally brushing yours, the bucket of popcorn between you smelling like synthetic butter and warm salt. But your mind keeps flashing back to the moment in the hallway earlier today—Xinyu leaning in, her lips brushing yours, her voice low and possessive, calling you hers. That look in her eyes like she meant it. Like she wanted you. Not just to help with her club plans, not just to make things run smoothly. You. Specifically you.

You sit still, trying to focus on the film, but the plot flows over you like mist—haunting music, characters whispering in shadowy rooms, a scene with someone walking backwards in slow motion. You’re lost in the echo of what Xinyu said.

You already have an owner.

You don’t know what to make of it. But it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like she was playing. It felt like something real. Like maybe Sohyun was wrong. Maybe Xinyu does care about you. Maybe all the flirtation and teasing wasn’t just a way to get you to fold papers and haul supplies. Maybe she likes you. For you.

But then you glance sideways. Sohyun’s eyes are on the screen, but she’s smiling. Just a little. The kind of smile you only catch if you’re watching her close, when something in the movie hits right, or when she’s just happy to be there beside you, no pressure, no performance. Just… happy.

You feel it then. Not guilt, exactly. Something messier. Like being caught between two currents pulling in opposite directions. Xinyu’s kiss still burns on your lips. But Sohyun’s hand, resting on the armrest beside yours, feels like something familiar. Something safe.

So you just keep sitting there, the film flickering over both of you, your brain too full and too loud to hear much of anything.

But Sohyun leans slightly toward you halfway through the film, and whispers, “Thanks for coming with me.”

You nod, quiet. “Of course.”

She nudges you lightly with her shoulder. “Even if your deodorant smells suspiciously like high-end seduction.”

You laugh under your breath, and it breaks the tension in your chest a little. She doesn’t ask more.

And you’re not sure where this is all going. But for now, you’re here. With her. Sharing popcorn. Sharing silence. Sharing something you still haven’t named.

But despite all this, somehow, tonight is going well.

Or at least you're pretending it is.

—

It starts subtly. A slow gravitational shift. One day you’re just helping Xinyu reorganize the storage shelves in the club room, joking about how half the boxes are labeled with inside jokes only she understands, and the next, it’s just the two of you sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eating overpriced takeout while she flips through proofs and playfully feeds you shrimp tempura with her chopsticks. Time begins to bend differently around her. Hours pass like they’re minutes when she’s smiling at you like that, fingers trailing casually along your thigh while she talks about themes for the next zine, her head tilted, eyes lit like you’re the only one who gets to hear this part of her.

You try not to let it show too much outside the club room. It’s not like you’re trying to hide it, but there’s something about it that feels too new, too bright to be touched by other people’s opinions.

Especially Sohyun’s.

So you don’t say anything about the kisses stolen behind closed doors or the way Xinyu's hand slips into yours when no one’s looking. But you talk about her. A lot. More than usual. Like you’re hoping repetition will turn perception. Like you’re trying to overwrite Sohyun’s skepticism with enough evidence that she’ll finally admit she was wrong.

At first, you don’t notice how often you bring her up. Like during dinner one night, when Sohyun’s plating kimchi stew and you’re scrolling through your phone with a dumb grin.

“She’s seriously so funny,” you say, half-laughing to yourself. “Yesterday she was trying to teach me how to make those little origami frogs and I kept screwing them up, so she made a whole sad frog funeral out of my mess-ups. Like full-on folded a little casket. It was so dumb, but I couldn’t stop laughing.”

Sohyun glances up from the pot, slow, expression unreadable. “Sounds… elaborate.”

“Yeah, but like, in a cute way,” you say, scooping rice into your bowl. “She’s got this energy that makes everything more fun. Even boring stuff. Like she turned budget planning into a game last week. Made me guess prices on glitter and glue sticks like it was a quiz show.”

“She ever let you win?”

You grin. “Only when I look extra pitiful.”

Sohyun doesn’t laugh. She just places your bowl in front of you without comment, her eyes flicking down to the table as she settles into her seat. You don’t catch the way her fingers tense around her chopsticks before she starts eating.

You miss other signs too. Like how she doesn’t look up when you come home late anymore. Or how she doesn’t ask what you were up to. You used to tell her without prompting, but now your nights are wrapped in something private—lipstick on your neck, her breath on your ear, Xinyu pressing you against clubroom cabinets with that smug little grin that makes your thoughts scatter like dice.

You stop watching movies with Sohyun. Not intentionally. It just slips away. The time you spent together starts shrinking, edged out by late-night print meetings, gallery walks with Xinyu that turn into half-drunken conversations on park benches, and slow kisses that taste like watermelon gum and heat. You keep saying you’ll reschedule movie night. You never do.

Sohyun doesn’t press. But she notices.

She notices how you start smiling at your phone more than usual. How your hoodie comes home smelling like something not yours. She notices how you hesitate when she asks how your day went, how you mention Xinyu’s name like it’s a punctuation mark in every other sentence.

“Did she ask you to talk about her this much,” Sohyun mutters one night.

“What?”

She doesn’t repeat herself. Just stares at the screen. Her shoulders stiff.

You shift on the couch. “I just think maybe she’s not how you assumed, that’s all.”

Sohyun’s jaw tightens, her eyes still on the flickering movie neither of you are watching. “Maybe.”

“She’s been… really kind to me,” you add. “She listens. She gets it. I dunno. It’s just nice having someone who really sees you, y’know?”

There’s a pause. A breath. A sound like something small and invisible breaking.

“I thought I did,” she says quietly.

You turn to her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Forget it.”

You don’t push. And that’s the worst part. You used to. But now Xinyu’s kisses are still on your collar, her texts still open on your screen, little cartoon hearts trailing in your thoughts like an afterimage.

You’re floating. Orbiting. And you don’t see the way Sohyun’s been left behind on the ground, staring at your back like she’s watching a spaceship disappear into a sky that never once asked her to come along.

—

One month has passed.

She’s not surprised when you’re late. That’s just how it is now.

The first few times, she was. At least enough to stay up, waiting in the living room with a show paused halfway through and her phone resting face-up on the armrest. But that phase passed. It’s like training a cat to come home by midnight—you can try, but if it keeps slipping out the window, eventually you stop wasting your breath.

Now it’s routine. You say you’ll be home by eight. She hears the door creak at eleven. You always have a reason. Club stuff. Project stuff. Xinyu needing help. Xinyu needing you. And Sohyun tells herself not to care. She tells herself she’s just your roommate. She tells herself that if she keeps her expectations low enough, they won’t disappoint her when they inevitably fall short.

But tonight is different.

You didn’t say you'd be out late. You said you'd be back in time for dinner. Even said you'd help her prep. She made an actual list. Took the rice out early. Washed vegetables like she believed you.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

Nine o'clock. She tries to study. Fails.

Ten o'clock. She scrolls social media and refreshes your chat twice, looking for a dot that never shows up.

At eleven, she sends a message:

you good?

At midnight:

where are you

No reply.

She starts imagining things she doesn't want to imagine. Hospital beds. Car crashes. You ditching your phone somewhere and bleeding out behind a dumpster. All of it stupid, dramatic, and totally possible in the late-night silence of a too-quiet apartment. She walks the loop from the kitchen to the living room and back again like pacing will keep her from thinking. At 1 a.m. she gives up and goes to her room, sits in bed with the lights off and your chat open on her phone like it might suddenly ping alive and make her look dumb for worrying.

You don’t reply.

Not even the seen-check mark.

She stares at the glow of the screen, the little timestamp beneath her last message like it’s laughing at her.

At 3:04 a.m, the door clicks.

She hears it, obviously. She’s been awake for hours, lying still in the dark, breathing shallow like that might trick her thoughts into falling asleep. The lock turns slowly, like you’re trying not to make a sound. The door swings open with that telltale rubbery groan (it’s always the left hinge) and then soft footsteps. Your footsteps.

She doesn’t move.

You shuffle into the hallway. Then your door clicks shut, soft. No lights turned on. No message sent. No “hey, sorry I’m late.” Just… slipping in like a kid past curfew. Quiet as guilt.

She stares at her ceiling. Her room smells like night cream and too much unsaid.

Something’s wrong. Not in the usual way.

You didn’t just get caught up. You’re hiding something.

She sits up finally, swings her legs over the side of the bed, but doesn’t turn on the light. She just sits there in the dark, jaw clenched, fists curling in her lap.

It’s Xinyu. Of course it’s Xinyu.

Something about that girl makes Sohyun’s skin crawl. Too perfect. Too polished. Too practiced with the way she laughs like music and touches everyone like they’re already hers. And she could see it happening—could see the way you lit up around her, how your eyes chased Xinyu’s every move like a dog waiting for scraps. At first, Sohyun thought it was a phase. Something shallow. A crush that’d fizzle out like most of yours did.

But then the quiet started. The missed dinners. The unread messages. The new deodorant that didn’t smell like you. The way your eyes would dart when she said Xinyu’s name, like it was a window she could see through.

Now, tonight, the way you came in like a stranger. That was the crack that let everything pour in.

She should be angry. She wants to be angry. But what’s worse is this ache: this quiet, hollow ache in her chest like she’s watching something slip out of her hands she never got to call hers in the first place.

You were hers. Not hers-hers. Not officially. But still. Hers in the way you always came to her first. Hers in the way your laugh sounded different when it was just them. Hers in the way you’d watch her cook with that dumb soft look and try not to say anything because you didn’t want to sound sappy. She misses that.

She misses you.

Now all she has is the memory of your footsteps in the dark and the smell of that other girl on your clothes.

And she’s not sure how much longer she can pretend not to notice.

—

Sohyun wakes up earlier than usual. Not because she wants to. Her eyes just snap open like they’re waiting for an answer to a question she didn’t get to ask. The clock on her nightstand says 6:34, and her room is blue and gray and quiet, with the early light crawling across the floorboards like it’s sneaking in on tiptoe. Her pillow still smells faintly like conditioner and sleep and the night she wasted waiting for you to come home. She kicks the blanket off. Her skin’s cold but her chest’s hotter than it should be. A low, smoldering kind of heat that simmers behind the ribs. Not anger. Not yet. Something more corrosive.

You’re already in the kitchen when she steps out. Acting like everything’s fine. Like nothing happened. Even visibly exhausted, you’ve got that dumb, disarming half-smile on, and your hoodie’s zipped all the way up like you think it makes you look more innocent. Like you think you’re just gonna pour some cereal, mumble something about class starting at eight, and coast through the morning without her noticing the parts of you that don’t match.

"Morning," you say. Your tone is chipper. Fake. She hates it. “I made coffee for you.”

She doesn’t ask anything. She doesn’t snap. She just grabs a mug, fills it with that bitter cheap instant coffee you somehow never notice tastes like burnt pennies, and sits at the table. You start rambling.

“I didn’t get a chance to reply last night. My phone died. I was at a friend’s place. We were just hanging out. Time got away from me, you know how it is.”

She hums. Not in agreement. Just to fill space.

“It wasn’t even that late,” you say. “I mean, okay, yeah, technically it was late, but it’s not like—nothing bad happened or anything. Just lost track.”

She keeps sipping her coffee, expression unreadable. Like the mug is more interesting than your entire explanation.

You wait for her to say something. She doesn’t. You keep going. Nervous filler. You always do that when you’re lying.

“I mean, I didn’t even realize what time it was. It was like, wow, already past two? Crazy. And by then I figured I’d just crash and not wake anyone up.”

She sets the mug down too hard. It clinks against the wood laminate. She looks at you, expression flat. “It’s okay.”

That’s it. Just that. No inflection. Not even a glare. You nod awkwardly and start preparing your cereal.

—

The walk to campus is dead quiet. You both step in sync without thinking, but there’s no music between you. No shared earbuds. No small talk. Just footsteps and a silence that stretches so long it starts to feel like another person walking beside you, tall and heavy and suffocating.

At the entrance gate, you break off first. “See you later, yeah?” you say.

Sohyun just nods. You turn. And she watches you go.

But today’s different.

Today she’s not going to sit back. Today she’s done playing passive-aggressive roommate, done standing still while something she doesn’t want to name slips out of reach. Today she’s going to find out. For real. Whatever it is—whatever this thing is between you and Xinyu—she needs to see it. Even if it breaks her.

She heads toward your building at a brisk pace, hoodie pulled low, headphones in with nothing playing. Just for the look. Just to blend in. She waits across the quad from your classroom entrance, leaning against a column like she’s texting, like she belongs there, like her heart isn’t pounding in her ears so loud she feels it in her teeth.

You come out a minute later, backpack slung lazy on one shoulder, head ducked, scrolling your phone. She steps into motion before you can see her. You don’t look back. You don’t notice. She follows you across the paved paths, past vending machines and sleepy undergrads, keeping enough distance to look like she’s just going the same way. No one glances at her twice.

And then she sees her. Xinyu.

Bright red jacket. Short skirt and cropped top, quite inappropriate for the academic environment. Hair curled just-so, like she stepped out of an ad. Leaning against a bench with one ankle crossed over the other like she’s waiting for her date. You slow. She smiles. Arms open.

“There you are!” she chirps, pulling you in.

It’s not just a hug. Sohyun knows what hugs are. This one’s got linger. This one’s got fingertips sliding up your back like they’re trying to memorize every bone. You look caught off guard, but you don’t move away.

Sohyun slinks closer, behind the sculpture garden wall. She crouches low, right by the rhododendron hedge that stinks faintly of wet bark and cheap fertilizer. Her hands are cold.

"We need to go to the club immediately,” she says.

“I thought the club was closed today,” you reply.

Xinyu laughs, and it’s musical and full of knowing. “Exactly. It’s closed. No one’s gonna be there.”

You hesitate. “But like… isn’t that why we shouldn’t go?”

“Aw,” she coos, dragging her nail down your sleeve, “you’re so cute when you’re trying to be good. Come on, just a little visit. I forgot my notebook and I need to do some sketches. Besides—” she lowers her voice, “I like the place better when it’s empty. More room to spread out. More room to play.”

Sohyun’s stomach flips.

You laugh nervously. “I guess… I mean, if you really need help—”

“I always need help,” she says, and leans close again. “And you’re so good with your hands.”

It’s like someone punched the breath out of Sohyun’s lungs. She watches you scratch your neck, look away, not quite answering. But you’re not pulling away either. You’re not protesting. You’re blushing. She’s got her hooks in and she knows it. Sohyun can see it all from here, every smug flick of Xinyu’s lashes, every calculated little lean and brush.

She swallows hard. Her fingers are clenched so tight her knuckles hurt.

No. She’s not letting this slide.

She bolts before she can hear anything else. Takes the side path, sneakers hitting concrete in bursts, weaving through the back courtyards toward the old art building. The clubroom’s there, tucked in behind the supply annex. Her legs burn by the time she reaches it.

The door’s unlocked. Wide open. And inside, a janitor’s sweeping like this is just another fucking Tuesday.

“Excuse me!” she says, breathless, jogging in. The janitor looks up.

“There’s—someone from the admin office looking for you,” she lies, no hesitation. “Something about a sink backup on the second floor? They said it was urgent.”

He sighs. “Again?” and drops the broom.

As he walks out, Sohyun holds the door open like a good little helper, then slips in behind him and closes it tight.

The silence is huge.

The air’s cooler inside. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The clubroom’s a controlled mess—tables littered with fabric scraps, zine proofs, glue sticks half-melted from overuse. It smells like paper and lavender and too many secrets.

She moves fast, eyes scanning for hiding spots. Under the table? No, too exposed. Behind the supply shelves? Not unless she wants to get spotted immediately. Then—there. In the back corner, half-concealed behind stacked poster rolls and bins of foam letters: a janitor’s closet. She darts over and yanks it open.

Coats. Wire hangers. A mop bucket. Miscellaneous crap. She slides in anyway, curling herself into the shadow between a metal cabinet and a box labeled “event props.” Her heart’s still racing.

She pulls the door mostly shut, leaving just a sliver to breathe through.

And now… she waits.

Every creak of the floor outside makes her flinch. Her phone vibrates. One buzz. It’s a message from you.

Hey, forgot to ask—do we have soy sauce left at home or should I pick some up?

She stares at the screen, thumb hovering. Doesn’t answer. Just locks it again and grips the edge of a crate until her nails dig in.

You’re coming. With her. With Xinyu. To this room. This space.

She doesn’t know what’s about to happen. She just knows she has to see it.

She has to know

A few minutes later, she hears footsteps, accompanied by an irritating giggle that she can already imagine who it belongs to.

You enter the club with Xinyu. The door clicks behind you with a soft, unmistakable snap. The kind that doesn’t come from a casual tug—no, it’s deliberate. You hear the rustle of keys before you even process the sound of the lock sliding into place, and that does something to the air. Traps it. Slows it down. Makes it feel heavier somehow.

Xinyu twirls the lanyard on her finger once, lets it slap lightly against her thigh, then drops the keys into her bag without ceremony. “There,” she says, all sugar and satisfaction. “Now we won’t be interrupted.”

You laugh nervously, glancing at the darkened windows. The blinds are half-drawn, a few strips of light slicing across the tables. “You really didn’t have to lock it.”

“Didn’t I?” she says, tilting her head like she’s daring you to disagree. “What if someone wandered in? What if they got the wrong idea?”

You blink. “I mean—if someone walked in, they’d… kinda get the right idea.”

She giggles, high and soft, stepping in close enough that your backpack bumps the wall behind you. Her perfume’s even stronger in here. Berries and danger. She plants both hands on your chest and leans in, the weight of her grin dragging everything out of orbit.

“You really are cute when you’re flustered.”

You swallow.

“We’ve gotta be quick, though,” she says, letting her palms slide down your hoodie, slow and teasing. She pulls back a bit and throws her bag on the floor, then slowly takes off her jacket. “I told my friend I was going to grab a notebook. Don’t want her wondering why I’m gone long enough to start a new semester.”

She kisses you before you can answer. Fast. Hot. Hungry. Like her mouth’s been waiting all morning and now she’s starved for it. Her lips crash against yours in that wild way only Xinyu seems capable of—reckless and commanding, tongue slipping in like she owns the space. Your brain stutters. Her hands drag lower. One slips under your hoodie, nails brushing skin. The other works on the strap of your backpack, removing one at a time until it falls to the floor with a loud thud in the confined space.

And in the closet, twenty feet away, behind a stack of mismatched poster tubes and event bins, Sohyun goes still.

She doesn’t even remember breathing.

But she hears it all.

That kiss isn’t innocent. That kiss is confirmation. That kiss is a final answer to a question she wasn’t ready to ask—and it lands like a brick in the hollow center of her stomach.

Xinyu breaks from you with a little satisfied sound, her lips glossy, eyes bright. “So…” she purrs, brushing your jaw with the back of her hand, “what’d you think of last night?”

You smile, stupid and a little dazed. “It was… amazing.”

Sohyun’s hands clench.

She doesn’t need details. Her brain fills in the blanks. Too many of them. Her imagination paints things she never wanted to see—your hoodie balled on the floor, Xinyu astride you, laughing into your neck, your voice shaking in ways she’s never heard. The thought turns her breath into knives.

Xinyu hums in satisfaction, then drops her gaze—and her fingers.

They land on the waistband of your jeans.

You tense, glancing at the locked door. “Wait—here?”

“It’ll be fast,” she whispers, eyes already glinting. “You’re already hard.”

She says it like she’s proud of herself. Like you being turned on is a trophy she’s just picked up off the shelf. Her fingers fumble with your button, then unzip skillfully. She sinks down onto her knees, casual as anything.

Sohyun’s heart is in her throat.

She watches from that narrow slit between the door and the wall. She sees your pants drop to your ankles. Sees Xinyu’s hands slide up your thighs. Sees the gleam of her smile when she notices the outline straining through your underwear.

You shift, uncomfortable. “Hey, uh… maybe we shouldn’t keep staying out so late. I got home really late last night. I think Sohyun’s starting to get suspicious.”

Xinyu’s head tilts as she hooks her fingers in your waistband. “So?”

You blink. “I just—don’t want her to worry, that’s all.”

She laughs. Laughs. Like you told her a joke. “She’s not your mother.”

“No, but—she’s my best friend. I don’t want her to think I’m—lying or something.”

That makes Xinyu pause. Just for a second. Then her smile sharpens.

“She doesn’t get a say in this,” she says, and her hands tug your underwear down in one quick, fluid motion.

Sohyun sees everything. And it burns.

Your cock springs free, flushed, twitching with the tension of the moment. You make a small sound in your throat, embarrassed and eager all at once. Xinyu just beams.

“Aww, you really missed me, huh?” she coos.

You try to answer but you can’t form words. Not when her fingers wrap around the base, smooth and practiced, stroking once, twice. Your knees buckle a little.

“She’s not gonna come between us,” she adds softly, voice low now, as she leans in, breath hot against the head. “I don’t care who she is.”

“Don’t say that,” you murmur, but it’s weak. Shaky. “Sohyun’s not just… some random girl.”

Xinyu’s eyes flick up. “Sure,” she says, tone mocking. “She’s your 'best friend'. Whatever.” Then she opens her mouth and takes you in.

You gasp. Sohyun nearly doubles over.

The sound is unmistakable. Wet. Slow. She sees the way Xinyu hollows her cheeks, her jaw working, the obscene slide of her lips over you like she’s savoring every inch. Her hand moves in tandem, twisting just right, guiding every pull and suck. She doesn’t blink. Just stares up at you while she sucks you like she’s devouring you, like she knows she owns you now and she’s showing it.

Your fingers tangle in her hair. Your head tips back.

“S-Shit—” you whisper, trembling. “That’s… fuck…”

Xinyu moans around you, like praise is her favorite meal.

And Sohyun sits in the dark, biting her hand to keep from screaming.

Her lips glide down the length of you slow, savoring, wet heat enveloping inch by inch like she wants to claim it. She doesn’t gag—she adjusts, angle tilting, jaw relaxing, one hand bracing at your thigh while the other strokes the base with a rhythm that makes your knees wobble. Every pass of her tongue along the underside feels like it’s wired directly into your spine, like she’s flipping switches you didn’t know you had.

And she loves it. Every reaction. Every twitch of your hips, the shallow breath you try to hold back, the soft curse you can’t keep from slipping out.

Above her, you brace against the table edge with one hand, the other still threaded in her hair, not pulling, just trying to anchor yourself because she’s looking up at you through lashes dark with mischief, mouth full of your cock like it’s where she was meant to be. Like she planned this moment every time she leaned too close in club meetings or brushed your arm on the walk back from the coffee shop.

From the closet, through that sliver of space, Sohyun sees everything.

The bob of Xinyu’s head, the shine on her chin, the way your hips twitch forward helplessly when she lets her tongue swirl the tip and then slides back down again, steady, smooth, obscene. Sohyun’s fingers are curled into her jeans now, nails biting deep through the denim. Her legs are cramped, but she doesn’t move. She can’t. Every instinct screams to throw the door open and drag you out, but her body’s paralyzed with it—betrayal folded in silence.

You make a sound, soft and hoarse—something between a gasp and a whimper. Xinyu hums, and the vibration along your shaft sends a full-body shiver through you. She pulls off just enough to stroke you with her fist, wrist flicking expertly, thumb swiping the bead of precum from your slit before leaning in again—only this time, lower.

You flinch, surprised, as her lips brush your balls.

Her tongue darts out. A single slow lick, teasing. Then another. Then she shifts lower and takes one in her mouth.

Your breath catches.

“Fuck—Xinyu—”

She giggles, muffled, then pulls off, tongue trailing over your skin like she’s tasting you for notes of sweetness. “Mm,” she says, tilting her face just enough for you to see the smug curve of her smile. “Bet she doesn’t do that.”

There’s a pause.

You hesitate. It’s barely a breath.

“…She doesn’t,” you admit, low, shame threaded through the moan that slips out next as her mouth seals over you again.

Sohyun flinches like she’s been hit.

It’s the confirmation she never wanted—real, raw, echoing in your voice, in your hips tilting forward like you need this, like this is something you never got at home.

Xinyu switches sides, tongue painting lazy circles as her fingers resume their slow pump. “I knew it,” she purrs. “She acts all tough, but she wouldn’t dare get on her knees for you, would she?”

You shake your head, lips parted. Your reply is barely audible, wrecked: “No…”

“Mm,” she hums again, hot breath teasing your spit-slick skin. “Guess that’s my job now, huh?”

You can’t even speak.

She shifts again—one hand stroking, the other cradling under you as her mouth wraps around both balls, tongue massaging them gently, rolling with practiced pressure that makes your thighs tense. You groan, deep in your chest, and she moans with you, reveling in the sound, the twitch she feels under her tongue, the way your body gives itself up to her touch.

Your head falls back.

She’s not just sucking you off. She’s showing off.

For you. For herself. And unknowingly—for the girl hidden in a closet, heart shattering beat by beat.

Sohyun watches your hips rock forward slightly, the way you bite your lip to muffle the next sound. The way your hand trembles on the table. You’re trying so hard not to fall apart, and failing beautifully.

Your hand slides against the tabletop, blindly reaching for something—balance, maybe—but there’s nothing steady in you right now. Not with the way Xinyu's mouth keeps working you like she's drawing a map with her tongue, etching you into memory with every slow, deliberate swirl. She’s focused, almost clinical, except her eyes betray her—hungry, gleaming, dark with satisfaction every time your hips jerk, every time a new sound punches out of your throat and hangs too loud in the still air.

“Fuck—Xinyu,” you breathe, the syllables sticky with pleasure, broken by a stuttering inhale. “That feels so good.”

Her lips pop off your tip with a wet little sound, tongue dragging around it in slow circles, teasing. She smiles as she laps again, feather-light at first, then firmer, lashing under the head like she’s tasting something sweet she refuses to finish too soon.

“Mmm,” she murmurs, kissing it. “I love this cock. So thick… god, you don’t even know what you do to me.”

You twitch under her touch, body caught between surrender and overload. Your thighs are tight, your hands shaky, and she’s not slowing down. She wraps her lips around the tip again, deeper this time, sucking just enough to make your breath catch and your knees knock. One hand strokes the base with a slow rhythm while the other rests flat on your stomach, possessive, like she’s holding you in place. Your moans are barely controlled now, soft, breathy things slipping past your lips no matter how hard you try to stay quiet.

In the closet, Sohyun has both hands clamped over her mouth now, but it’s not enough. Her body is shaking. Her teeth are pressed so deep into her palm she doesn’t notice the sting anymore—not until her tongue tastes iron and she realizes her lip is bleeding too. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, locked on the sight of you crumbling under Xinyu’s mouth, on your hands fisting the edge of the table, the way your face is flushed and twitching and so vulnerable.

Then Xinyu pulls back with a wet gasp and a string of spit connects her lips to you. She wipes it with the back of her hand, smirking.

“Shit,” she says, laughing breathlessly. “You’re soaked. I made a mess.”

She doesn’t apologize. She’s proud of it.

Then her expression shifts. Her hands find your hoodie, tugging. “C’mon. Lie down for me.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

She tugs harder. “Down. Now.”

And you obey. You let her guide you down onto the storage cushions scattered across the clubroom floor—the ones usually used for sitting during brainstorm sessions and awkward icebreakers. Today, they’re something else. They’re the mattress beneath your back, the soft collapse beneath your spine as Xinyu hovers over you like a second atmosphere. You barely get your balance before she swings a leg over you and straddles your hips, skirt hiked up already, panties visible in that indecent half-off way that says she planned this down to the hour.

She reaches between her thighs, fingers hooking the waistband to the side. No hesitation. No modesty.

“I wasn’t even gonna wear this skirt today,” she says, her grin downright feral. “But then I woke up and thought… damn, I really want to ride him. And this one makes it easy.”

Your mouth is dry. You can’t speak. Can barely breathe. The visual is too much—the way she sits on your waist, head tilted, hair framing her flushed cheeks. She grips you in one hand again, lining you up against the heat of her, rubbing once—twice—and your whole body jumps like you’ve been shocked.

In the closet, Sohyun is crumbling. Quietly. Violently.

She presses her head back against the wall, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Her eyes are glassy now, not blinking. She watches Xinyu lean forward, planting a hand on your chest as her hips shift just slightly, aligning.

And for Sohyun, the moment cracks. She can’t breathe. Her stomach’s twisted into something unrecognizable. Her hand tastes like blood and skin and the sharp edge of a truth she can’t swallow.

She wants to leave. She wants to scream. She wants to rip the door open and yell your name and tear the whole thing down before it happens. But her body won’t move. Her knees are pins and needles, her vision blurry, her throat full of something that feels like grief and fury mashed into pulp.

And you—flat on your back, arms limp at your sides, chest heaving—you’re watching Xinyu like she’s the only thing that exists right now.

The room smells like heat now. Like sweat and arousal and perfume and that undercurrent of something you don’t recognize but Sohyun does. The smell of losing. Of being replaced.

And Xinyu’s voice cuts through the haze one more time, with that damn victorious purr in every syllable.

“You ready for me, baby?”

The moment she sinks down on you is like being swallowed by heat. Her walls clamp tight, velvet-slick and impossibly wet, and she exhales sharp through her teeth like she’s savoring every inch of stretch. Her thighs flex around your hips, body settling flush against yours, cunt wrapped like a vice around your cock. Warm, pulsing, obscene. You feel it in your knees, in the back of your throat, in the way your eyes blur a little just trying to hold on to the sensation. And she leans in, hands pressed to your chest, nails dragging lightly over your hoodie as she grins down at you—smug, flushed, dangerous.

“Feel that?” she whispers, grinding slow just to make sure you do. “That’s how wet I am for you.”

You nod like you’re in a trance, breath hitched, brain short-circuiting. She rocks her hips once, slow and deep, and your head tips back involuntarily, shoulders hitting the cold vinyl of the clubroom floor. The contrast is dizzying—your back chilled, your cock engulfed in heat. She rolls her hips again, faster this time, and you gasp, hips twitching up into her as she smiles that smile like she’s already won. Because she has. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you, the way her pussy clenches around you just when you think you’ve caught your breath.

“Fuck,” you mutter, hands flying up to brace her waist, fingers digging into her skin like it’ll keep you grounded.

“Mmm, yeah,” she purrs, rolling her hips again, faster now. “You love this. You love how tight I am. How I drip for you. You felt it last night, didn’t you?”

She leans closer, breasts pressing to your chest as she whispers hot against your ear. “That little black set I wore? The garter straps? The thigh-highs? All for you. I was soaked before you even touched me. So wet I could’ve made a mess of my sheets just grinding on your thigh. You remember how I moaned when you slid in? Remember how I told you you were deeper than anyone ever managed to get?”

You remember. God, you remember everything. The way her back arched as she bounced on your cock, the way her fingers tangled in her sheets, how she grabbed your wrists and held your hands against her hips like she didn’t want to let you pull out even if you tried. And it was hot—filthy, desperate, everything you’d never imagined yourself doing until she peeled you open and found all your soft spots.

But then you thought about Sohyun.

You didn’t mean to. It just… happened. Mid-thrust, mid-kiss, some flicker of guilt or curiosity or whatever sick alchemy lives in your gut. You’d pictured her. Not in a voyeur kind of way. Just… wondered. Wondered what her expression would be if she walked in. What her mouth would say. What her eyes would do. And worse, you’d wondered what it would be like if it were her riding you instead—her body flushed and stretched around your cock, her breathy little sighs instead of Xinyu’s practiced moans, her thighs trembling from the effort of keeping rhythm. That made your heart trip into your throat.

And now—now you’re thinking it again. You’re balls-deep in Xinyu, she’s rolling her hips like she’s trying to milk every drop out of you, and your fucking mind is betraying you. You’re picturing Sohyun in her ratty sleep shirt, hair undone, lip bitten, thighs spread across your hips like she’s scared of how much she needs it. You imagine her looking down at you, eyes wide and terrified and wanting, her cunt sucking you in like she doesn’t know how to stop. You imagine her voice cracking as she begs you not to stop, not to leave her like this, not when she finally has you.

The heat in your stomach coils tighter, shame blooming just beneath it.

And Xinyu notices.

“Where’d you go, baby?” she asks, cupping your face in both hands, her pace never faltering, slick heat grinding down on you with maddening precision. “You were staring right through me for a second. Thinking about something?”

You swallow thick. Shake your head. “No, I just—fuck. You feel amazing.”

She beams like it’s the truth. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s just buried under everything you’re not saying.

“Yeah?” she breathes, sitting upright again, her hands sliding down to pull at her top. She yanks it up and over her head in one swift motion, discarding it behind her like it doesn’t matter. Beneath it—no bra, just smooth skin, delicate collarbones and two perfect, pert breasts. Small enough to fit your palms. Nipples a flushed pink that draws your eyes like magnets.

“Wanna touch?” she asks, knowing damn well you do.

You nod, helpless, and she grabs your wrists, places your hands on her chest with a soft, teasing drag. The moment your thumbs brush her nipples she exhales, hips stuttering on your cock.

“Fuck, yes,” she moans, arching into your hands. “Squeeze them. Harder.”

You do. Palms cupping the weight of her, fingers kneading just the way she likes—gently at first, then rougher when she rolls her hips harder, when she grinds your cock deep inside her like she’s chasing something. Her thighs flex with every bounce, every motion building pressure in your spine. Her nipples pebble under your touch. She grabs your wrists again, pushes them tighter to her chest, pinning you in place as she rides harder now, breath catching with every impact.

“You’re so deep,” she pants, eyes fluttering closed. “I can feel you everywhere. Stretching me so fucking good, baby. God, I wish you could feel what I’m feeling. I’m soaked. I’m flooding your cock. You like that? You like how fucking needy I get for you?”

You groan, jaw tight, hips twitching up to meet her rhythm. You’ve stopped thinking. You’ve stopped pretending you can think. She’s taking everything from you with every roll of her hips, every clench of her cunt, every filthy word that drips off her tongue like sugar laced with venom.

And yet. The back of your mind still tugs. Still whispers.

What would Sohyun think, if she saw this? If she saw your face like this, your body bucking like you’re begging to be used? If she knew how Xinyu talks to you, fucks you, owns you?

What would she do if she saw you like this—flushed, trembling, helpless under another woman’s cunt?

Would she be jealous?

Would she be angry?

Would she want to be in Xinyu's place?

You can’t answer. You don’t get the chance.

Xinyu's pace shifts, frantic now, like something inside her snapped and all that sweet control she loved dangling over you is burning up fast. Her thighs tighten around your waist, nails digging into your shoulders, her whole body chasing friction like a starved thing. Every grind, every desperate rock of her hips sends jolts through your cock, your thighs, up your spine until you can’t even tell where your body ends and hers begins. Wet heat floods down your shaft, slick sounds filling the little space between you like they’re mocking the frantic, filthy rhythm you’ve fallen into.

She leans in, mouth crushing to yours, open, gasping, biting at your bottom lip like she can’t get close enough. Her breath is ragged, her kiss messy, spit-slick and desperate as her cunt clenches around you with every grind. She breaks the kiss for a second, forehead pressed to yours, breath hitching in short, punched gasps.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—” she pants, rolling her hips harder, faster, dragging you deeper every time she slams down. “You’re gonna make me cum. You feel that? You feel how fucking close I am?”

You nod, choking on your own breath. She’s trembling already, muscles shivering under your hands, pussy squeezing your cock so tight it makes your toes curl.

“Please—don’t stop—” she gasps against your mouth, and you hear the cracks in her usually-smooth voice, raw and honest in a way you barely ever hear.

You grab her hips, holding her still for a second, and start thrusting up into her, not gentle now—grinding her down onto you, meeting every desperate rut of her hips with a brutal snap of your own.

“Oh my God, oh my God, fuck—” she sobs, hands scrabbling for purchase at your shoulders, nails raking down your back through the thin fabric of your shirt. “Right there—right fucking there—!”

You don’t stop. You can’t. Your hips slam up into her again and again, cock punching deep inside her soaked cunt, the friction so blindingly good it’s all you can feel, all you can think about. Her walls flutter around you, squeezing tight, milking you, dragging you right to the edge with her.

Then her whole body locks up—legs clamping tight, back arching, head thrown back as she cums hard around you, mouth open in a silent scream. You feel her pussy clamp and pulse and flood hot around your cock, feel her thighs quivering against your sides as you keep pounding up into her, wringing every last spasm out of her until she collapses against you, boneless, panting.

She kisses you then, messy and open-mouthed, tongue sliding into your mouth like she’s trying to pull the breath out of you, hands fisting in your hair. The kiss is wild, uncontrolled, full of leftover shudders as her body rides the aftershocks. She sucks on your tongue, then bites your bottom lip, hard enough to sting, pulling back with a look that’s pure wrecked satisfaction.

“Fuck—you’re not done yet,” she says, grinning breathless against your mouth.

Before you can even catch your breath, she gets off you, stands up and grabs your wrists, pulls you up with surprising strength, practically dragging you toward the desk nearby, knocking over a half-empty box of markers in her haste. They scatter across the floor, forgotten.

She hops up onto the edge of the desk, legs falling open wide, skirt bunched up around her hips, panties obscenely pulled aside. Her cunt is glistening, flushed, still twitching around nothing, and she leans back on her hands, spreading herself shamelessly for you, watching you with dark, lazy hunger.

“C’mere, baby,” she purrs, crooking a finger.

You step between her legs, hands automatically gripping the backs of her thighs, and she grabs your cock, still slick with her cum, throbbing painfully hard, and lines you up, dragging the flushed head along her soaked folds before nudging you right back in.

You don’t ease in. You shove.

Hard.

Her mouth drops open in a guttural, broken sound as you bottom out in one brutal thrust, your hips slamming flush against her ass, your cock stretching her already-sensitive pussy wide again. Her whole body jolts with it, legs wrapping around your waist tight, holding you there, buried deep.

“Fuck yes—” she gasps, nails digging into the edge of the desk for leverage. “God, you feel so fucking good—”

You grab her hips, fingers digging bruises into soft skin, and start pounding into her, desk creaking loudly under the assault. Every thrust drives a choked little noise from her throat, her small tits bouncing with the force of it, her hair falling wild around her flushed, wrecked face.

“You’re so good, baby,” she babbles between gasps, clinging to the desk as you fuck her raw. “You’re—god, you’re perfect—you’re gonna make me cum again if you keep—ahh—keep fucking me like that!”

You bare your teeth, thrusting harder, faster, hips snapping against her ass with every vicious stroke. The wet sound of you hammering into her fills the room, loud and filthy, the slap of your skin against hers echoing off the walls. Her head tips back, exposing the long line of her throat, and you can’t resist leaning down, biting at her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat on your tongue.

She’s trembling again already, thighs quaking against your hips, every muscle in her body winding tighter, tighter, tighter. Her hands scramble for you, clutching your hoodie, your shoulders, anything she can reach, mouth working helplessly like she wants to say something but can’t get the words out past the way you’re fucking her.

“Don’t stop—fuck—don’t stop, don’t stop—!” she wails, legs locking around you again, trapping you deep as you hammer into her without mercy.

Sohyun, hidden behind that narrow closet crack, can barely breathe. She closes her eyes, squeezes them shut so tight it hurts, but the sounds slip in anyway, wrapping around her like smoke, curling in her lungs until she’s drowning in it.

She hears you fucking Xinyu hard enough to shake the table. She hears the desperate slap of skin, the thick wet noises between her thighs, the broken little sobs and gasps you can’t hold back anymore. Every low moan you spill is another nail in her heart. Every grunt, every hitched breath, every whisper of "Fuck, you’re so tight," slices deeper, and she grips the shelf beside her to keep from making a sound, knuckles bone-white.

And you... you’re so far gone you don’t even notice the world outside the space between your bodies. Xinyu’s pussy is swallowing you, so wet you can hear it every time you thrust back in, obscene and filthy and perfect. She clings to you, arms around your shoulders, nails dragging trails of fire down your back as you rut into her harder, faster, chasing the edge you can feel roaring up your spine.

"Fuck—fuck, I’m close," you pant against her throat, voice wrecked, hips stuttering from the effort of holding back.

Xinyu shudders all around you, grinding her hips, milking you with every twist and clench of her desperate cunt. She grabs your face, kissing you hard, sloppy, messy with need, lips sliding against yours as she gasps:

"Cum for me, baby. Please. I want it—I want you to cum for me."

You groan deep in your chest, every muscle tightening, your hands flying down to her waist, grinding her harder onto your cock, feeling that tight, soaked pussy fluttering in urgent little spasms.

"I want it in my mouth," she whimpers into your ear. "Please. Let me taste you."

That snaps what little control you had. You pull out quick, almost shaking with the effort not to cum right then, and your cock slaps wetly against her folds, gliding in her slickness. You drag the thick, swollen head up her entrance, tease her clit with it, grinding, slapping your tip against her until she shivers and gasps, legs falling wide open, fingers clutching at the edge of the desk like she’s about to fly apart.

Your hand wraps tight around your slick cock, jerking it fast and desperate, smearing her juices all over yourself as you stroke. Xinyu drops immediately to her knees, eager, mouth open, eyes wide and hazy with lust. She grabs the base of your cock with one hand, stroking in rhythm with yours, her other hand cupping your balls, massaging them gently.

She looks up at you with that wicked grin just as she leans forward, wraps her lips around the head, and sucks. Hard. Heat and suction explode through you, and your hips jerk forward helplessly. She moans low in her throat, dragging her tongue along the underside of your cock as she bobs her head, saliva glistening at the corners of her mouth, dribbling down your shaft.

She works you like she’s starving for it, alternating between sucking you deep into her mouth and stroking with her fist, twisting just right. The sight of her—kneeling in front of you, cheeks hollowing, spit and slick glistening all over her chin—drives you wild.

Your balls tighten, your thighs tremble, and you grab her hair, trying to warn her, but she just groans in approval, mouth sliding lower, tongue lashing the sensitive underside of your cock.

"X-Xinyu, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—"

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips wrapped tight around the tip, hand still jerking your slick cock, and she nods. Wants it. Wants it bad.

You grip her hair tight as your body locks up and you cum hard, first shot hitting the back of her throat. She doesn’t even flinch. Just hums around you, swallowing every thick, hot spurt, milking you with her mouth and hand as you pulse and shudder against her. Jet after jet, the orgasm tearing through you so violently your knees nearly buckle.

She keeps going until you’re spent, gently sucking the last drops from your twitching cock, then pulls back slowly with a wet pop. She kisses the tip, soft and almost reverent, tongue flicking lazily across it like she’s tasting her victory.

You lean back against the desk, heart hammering, chest heaving, body flushed and trembling.

She stands, fixing her panties between trembling thighs, smoothing down her skirt, picking up the top on the floor. Her cheeks are pink, her lips swollen, her hair wild—and she’s never looked more satisfied.

You fumble to tuck yourself back into your pants, fingers clumsy. Your mind’s fogged with the aftermath. Xinyu steps closer, hands sliding up your chest, resting lightly at your shoulders. Her eyes soften, her mouth tilts into something small and unsure. She looks nervous. That’s rare. She’s always so sure. So in control.

"Hey," she says. “I meant what I said last night, y’know.”

You blink, still trying to catch up. “What?”

She presses her forehead lightly to yours, her hands sliding down to hold your waist, grounding you.

"I’ve never met anyone like you," she says, slow, like she’s scared if she rushes it’ll shatter. “You’re not like the guys I’m used to. All the ones before—they were assholes. Hot, but... just bad news. Guys who wanted me but didn’t actually care about me.”

She leans back, searching your face, biting her lip.

"But you—you’re different. You’re real. You’re sweet. You listen. You treat me like I actually matter."

You swallow hard, heart tripping over itself. You weren’t ready for this. You didn’t expect this.

She smiles, small and nervous, and asks it before you can even think of something to say.

"I want you to be my boyfriend. For real. Like… properly mine. Will you?"

You stare at her—this beautiful, messy, fiery girl who just swallowed your cum like it was candy, who rode you like you were hers before the words ever left her mouth. And something inside you wrenches.

Because you should say yes.

You should want to say yes.

But all you can feel is that gnawing hesitation. That pull. That confusion. That whisper of another name, another face, someone standing just outside this moment, invisible and heavy in the space between your breaths.

Sohyun.

You think about her without meaning to. Think about the way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not paying attention. The way her hand lingers too long when she passes you something. The way she squeezed your hand that night when you invited her to the movies.

You don’t know what you feel. You don’t know what’s real yet. You’re drowning in it.

And it shows.

Xinyu’s face flickers—just for a second. That bright, hopeful light dimming when you hesitate too long.

"I..." You rub the back of your neck, avoiding her eyes. "I just... I need some time to think. Please."

The silence after that is awkward.

She steps back, schooling her face into something neutral, but you can see the crack underneath. The disappointment. The sting. She nods once, slow.

"Okay," she says, and her voice is tight. "Okay. Take your time."

You want to apologize. You want to say something to make it better. But nothing fits. Nothing fixes this.

She grabs her bag from the floor, brushes her hair back, pulls her walls up fast and neat like she’s practiced it a thousand times before.

"See you around," she says, almost breezy, almost real.

And then she’s gone, slipping out the door and leaving you standing there in the wreckage of what you almost had.

You stare at the empty space where she stood, heart pounding, stomach twisting.

You don’t see the faint sliver of movement behind the closet door.

You don’t see the way Sohyun presses her hand over her mouth, trying to keep the sound inside.

Because she heard it all.

And for the first time in weeks, she has hope.

A brutal, aching hope.

Because you didn’t say yes.

You didn’t choose someone else.

Not yet.

And maybe… there’s still a chance you’ll choose her.

—

You drag yourself up the stairs like your body’s filled with sand, the keys slipping in your sweaty palm as you jam them into the lock and stumble inside. The apartment lights are off except for the thin line of glow leaking out from under Sohyun’s bedroom door. You shut the door behind you with a quiet click, kicking your shoes off, backpack sliding down your shoulder and thudding against the floor. Your whole body aches. Not just from exhaustion but from the weight of everything swimming in your head; Xinyu’s kiss still burning on your mouth, her words still echoing under your skin, the guilt, the confusion, the stupid tangled mess you couldn’t figure out if you tried. You sigh, pressing your back to the door for a second, head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut like maybe if you stood still enough, long enough, the world would stop spinning.

You don't notice the shape in the corner until it moves, a small shift of shadow peeling itself away from the wall. Your eyes fly open, heart lurching into your throat. Sohyun’s there—leaning against the wall, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her face half-hidden by her hair, her body tensed up in a way that sets your nerves on edge instantly.

“Jesus—” you blurt, breath hitching from the scare. You try to laugh it off, give her a sheepish little grin even though your pulse is hammering. “You scared the hell outta me. I thought you were asleep.”

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. Her eyes stay locked on yours, too still, too serious. It sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

“We need to talk,” she says, and her tone is wrong, lower, tighter, with a tremble hidden deep under the words that makes your stomach twist.

You straighten a little, stepping forward slowly like she’s a spooked animal you don’t want to startle. “What... what happened?” you ask.

She holds your gaze for a long moment. So long it starts to physically hurt, like she’s looking right through your skin, peeling you open piece by piece. You can see it in her eyes—fear, yes, but something else too. Something desperate, clawing at the edges of her.

“I know,” she finally says. “About you and Xinyu.”

You blink, mouth opening then closing uselessly, your brain scrambling to process it.

“How—” you start, but she cuts you off, shaking her head once, sharp and final.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “It doesn’t matter how I know.”

You’re thrown completely off balance now, stumbling for footing you don’t have. You shift awkwardly, running a hand through your hair, trying to piece together something—anything—to say.

“I was going to tell you,” you mumble finally, and it’s the lamest excuse you’ve ever heard even as it leaves your mouth. “I just... didn’t know how to bring it up.”

Her laugh is short and humorless, a little broken thing that cuts through you sharper than any shout could have. “You didn’t tell me,” she says, voice rising just a little, enough to make your throat close up. “You didn’t. You could have. So why didn’t you?”

You hesitate, weight shifting from foot to foot, wishing desperately for some door, some window, some hole to crawl into and disappear. But there’s no escape. There’s only her, standing there, waiting for your answer like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

“I was scared,” you admit finally, the words thick in your throat. “I didn’t know what you’d think. I knew you’d disapprove. I knew you wouldn’t... approve of me and her.”

Her arms tighten around herself, nails digging into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Her lips press together, trembling, and she looks down at the floor for a second.

“Why do you care so much what I think?” she asks, and her voice is small and raw, like she’s asking herself more than you.

You swallow hard. “I... I don’t know.”

But you do know. Somewhere deep down, you’ve always known. You’ve just never had the guts to admit it.

She lets the silence drag, heavy and awful between you. Then she looks up, and there’s something shattering in her eyes—it makes you want to cry.

“You’re right,” she says quietly. “I would have disapproved.”

You open your mouth to speak, to apologize again, but she cuts you off with a sharp shake of her head, eyes wet now, shining in the dim light.

“Do you want to know why?” she asks.

You nod, too scared to say anything.

“Because I love you,” she says, and it bursts out of her like a dam breaking, like she’s been holding it back for years and can’t anymore. “I love you, you idiot! I’ve loved you for so fucking long it hurts!”

You just stand there, stunned into uselessness, your heart hammering in your chest, your breath stuck somewhere between a gasp and a cry.

She wipes at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, blinking furiously against the tears spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t even realize at first,” she says, “I thought it was just... caring. Being protective. Wanting you to be okay. But it’s not. It’s not just that. I love you. I’m in love with you. And seeing you with her—hearing you moan for her, seeing you smile because of her—”

She breaks off, a choked sob punching out of her chest, and it shatters you.

“It tore me apart,” she whispers. “Because you’re the most special person that’s ever crossed my path. And I was too much of a coward to say anything. I just kept pretending it was fine. That it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter that way.”

You move to step toward her, instinct taking over, but she flinches back half a step, and it feels like a knife between your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “I didn’t know, I didn’t—”

“No,” she cuts you off, shaking her head violently, tears flying. “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault. It’s mine. It’s my fault for bottling it up, for being too scared to tell you, for letting you drift away while I just... watched. I did this to myself.”

You’re breathing too hard, chest aching, head spinning with too many emotions crashing into each other at once—guilt, sorrow, confusion, this desperate, aching affection for the girl standing in front of you with her heart bleeding out at your feet.

“Maybe it’s too late,” she says, crying. “Maybe you’re already hers. Maybe you’ve already moved on.”

She wipes her face again, sniffles, pulls herself together enough to look at you—really look at you.

“But I needed you to know. I needed you to know that someone loved you. That someone loves you. That someone would’ve given anything to make you happy.”

Your feet move before your brain catches up, drawn across the small space separating you like there's a magnetic pull you can't fight anymore. Her face is still wet, tears tracking clean lines through the faint flush on her cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed but locked on you with this terrifying vulnerability you've never seen before. She doesn't flinch this time when you get close, doesn't pull away, just watches you, chest rising and falling too fast, like she’s waiting for the final blow.

You lift your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and gently, so gently, brush the tears from her cheek with your thumb. The skin there is hot, damp. Real. She closes her eyes for just a second at the contact, a shuddering breath escaping her lips.

"Sohyun," you start, and your own throat feels tight, rough, like you’ve swallowed glass. "I'm... I'm so sorry." The words feel stupidly small, inadequate for the chasm that's opened up. "I'm the coward. Not you. Me. All this time... I never said anything because... fuck, because I was terrified. Scared I'd wreck everything. Our friendship, this... us. Everything we have. It felt too important to risk, you know? Too fragile. And I kept telling myself you deserved someone... better. Someone less screwed up than me. Someone confident, someone who had their shit together, not..." You gesture vaguely at yourself, at the mess you feel like you are, the mess you've made. "Not me." You see her lips part, ready to argue, maybe ready to forgive, maybe ready to yell again, but the words are tumbling out of you now, unstoppable, a confession mirroring hers, ripping free after being locked down for so long. "Don't," you whisper, cutting her off before she can speak. "Just... let me say this."

You take a shaky breath, meeting her wide, tear-bright eyes again. "It was always you, Sohyun. Always. Even when I didn't understand it, even when I tried to ignore it. You're the one I love." The words feel huge, terrifying, but also lighter than air once spoken. "Everything. I love everything. That little smirk you get when you win an argument? Love it. The way you wear those baggy sweatshirts every day but still manage to look... incredible? Love that too. How you always know when I'm having a shit day without me saying anything? How you just show up, make me tea, sit there in silence with me until it passes? How safe you make me feel, even when you're pretending to be annoyed?" Your own eyes are getting blurry now. "I love watching you sleep," you admit and, fuck, it's like breaking a chain, a secret you’ve guarded jealously. "Because you look so calm. Peaceful. And I can just... look. At your moles." A faint blush creeps up her neck, her gaze dropping for a second before snapping back to yours, confused, waiting. "You have four on your face, you know? Like a tiny constellation. There's one here," you reach out again, finger hovering below her eyes, not quite touching, "and here, by your nose... one on your cheek... they're the most charming damn things in the world. Seriously."

Her breath hitches, a soft little gasp. She looks utterly lost now, derailed from her pain by the specific, intimate detail. "My... moles?" she echoes, bewildered. You nod, a watery smile finally touching your lips.

"Yeah. My favorite, though? The one right here." Your gaze drops to her mouth, to the tiny, perfect dark mole on the curve of her lower lip. It's always drawn your eye, a little punctuation mark on skin that looks impossibly cute. "That one..." you murmur. "God, that one's made me wonder... so many times... what it would feel like to kiss you. What you'd taste like..."

You trail off, lost for a second in the thought, in the proximity, in the sudden, intense awareness of her mouth just inches from yours. You were going to say more, try to explain the tangle of fear and longing and the stupid, paralyzing certainty that you weren't good enough, but you don't get the chance.

Because Sohyun surges forward like something inside her finally snaps. One second she's trembling, broken open, the next she's pure force, her mouth crashing onto yours with bruising intensity. It's not gentle. It's not tentative. It's a raw, desperate claiming. Her lips are surprisingly soft beneath the force, tasting faintly of salt from her tears and something uniquely her, something warm and real that short-circuits your brain. Her hands fist in the front of your hoodie, yanking you closer, stumbling you backward. Your heel catches on the edge of the cheap living room rug, the world tilting sideways in a sudden, disorienting lurch. You gasp against her mouth, a startled sound swallowed by her kiss, and then you're falling, tumbling backward onto the floor with a muffled thud that knocks the wind out of you.

She lands right on top of you, straddling your hips, the impact solid and grounding even as your head spins. She doesn't miss a beat. Her mouth is still fused to yours, kissing you harder now, deeper, possessive. It's messy and frantic, teeth clashing slightly, tongues tangling with an urgency that borders on violence. Kisses that aren’t asking, they’re taking. Stealing the breath from your lungs, stealing the thoughts from your head, demanding a response you're suddenly, desperately eager to give. Her weight pressing you down, the heat of her body seeping through your clothes, the undeniable proof of her need right there against your stomach—it’s overwhelming. And then, finally, finally, your own arms come up, wrapping around her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and you kiss her back with all the pent-up fear and longing and stupid, crippling love you've kept locked away for years.

You meet her force with your own, tilting your head, deepening the kiss, letting the raw honesty of it burn away everything else. There’s no room for Xinyu, no room for doubt, no room for anything but this—Sohyun, her mouth on yours, her body pinning you down, the undeniable, explosive reality of now. The world outside the apartment fades to nothing, the only sound the ragged gasps for breath between frantic, open-mouthed kisses, the rustle of clothes, the frantic thudding of two hearts beating wildly against each other in the dim, quiet room. This isn't just a kiss; it's a collision, a confession answered, a point of no return you hadn't realized you were racing towards until you crashed right into it, tangled up with her on the floor like this is exactly where you were always supposed to end up.

After seconds that seem like hours, Sohyun finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough for air, her chest heaving against yours, eyes blown wide and dark, still glazed with disbelief and something fiercely possessive. Her hands frame your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like she’s trying to memorize you. "I love you," she whispers, the words thick, raw, tumbling out again like they can't be contained. Her forehead presses against yours. "God, I love you." She kisses you again, shorter this time, desperate, sealing the words. Pulls back. "I love you." Another kiss, harder. "So much." Each declaration feels like another layer stripped away, leaving her completely bare, completely yours in this moment. The fierce intensity shifts, softening just a fraction as the reality sinks in—you're here, you're kissing her back, you feel it too.

Your heart feels like it's going to beat right out of your chest. Hearing her say it, over and over, sinks hooks into places you didn't know were still empty. You shift beneath her, hands sliding up her back, fingers tracing the knobs of her spine through the worn fabric of her sweatshirt. "Sohyun," you breathe against her lips, needing to show her, needing her to feel it. You pull back just enough to look at her, really look, and then you start mapping her face with your mouth.

Soft, adoring kisses trail along her sharp jawline, up to the curve of her cheekbone where the skin is so soft it makes you ache. You kiss the corner of her eye, tasting the lingering salt of her tears, then move lower, pressing kisses against the pulse point throbbing wildly in her neck. She melts under the attention, a soft sigh escaping her, her body going pliant against yours, head tipping back to give you better access. Her hands slide from your face down to your shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring herself as you worship her skin. Every soft press of your lips feels like rewriting history, erasing the doubt and the distance, claiming this closeness that’s always simmered just beneath the surface.

"Hey," she murmurs, her breath catching when your lips find that sensitive spot just below her ear. She nudges you gently, reluctantly pulling away just enough to meet your eyes again. There's a new urgency there, a need that burns hotter than the confession. "My room," she says, her tone suddenly low, almost husky. "Let's go to my room. Now." She pushes herself up, scrambling off you with clumsy grace, and hauls you to your feet like you weigh nothing. You don't argue, don't hesitate. You follow her lead, stumbling towards her bedroom door, hands finding each other again, lips crashing together in the hallway, clumsy and desperate and necessary. You trip over the threshold, laughing breathlessly against her mouth as she practically drags you inside, kicking the door shut behind you with her heel.

The moment the door clicks, she's tearing at your clothes. Your hoodie comes off first, yanked over your head with frantic energy, tossed carelessly onto the floor. Her eyes rake over your bare chest for a beat, hungry, before she crashes back into you, kissing you with renewed fervor. Her hands are everywhere, exploring the lines of your shoulders, the dip of your collarbones, fingers tracing patterns that make your skin prickle. While her mouth works yours, her own hands go to the waistband of her shorts—those stupidly comfortable grey jersey shorts she always wears around the apartment. She hooks her thumbs in, shoves them down her legs in one hurried motion, kicking them free. She's left in just her oversized sweatshirt and a pair of simple, pale blue cotton panties that hug the curve of her hips. You groan against her lips, the sight hitting you harder than you expected. Her thighs look so strong, so soft.

You deepen the kiss, angling her back against the wall, one hand sliding down her spine, curving possessively over the swell of her ass through the thin cotton of her panties. You squeeze gently, experimentally, and she gasps into your mouth, hips instinctively bucking against yours. "Fuck," she breathes against your lips, her hands fisting in your t-shirt now. "Yes. Need you. So much."

Her admission is raw, desperate, stripping away the last vestiges of her usual guardedness. It fuels you, ignites something fierce inside you. You break the kiss long enough to grab the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling it up and over her head just as she did yours. It snags for a second on her messy bun, and you both fumble with it, laughing brokenly before it finally comes free. And underneath… nothing. No bra. Just Sohyun. Her breasts are fuller than you’d imagined, heavier than Xinyu’s, round and pale with darker, pinkish-brown nipples already pebbled tight from the cool air or maybe just the sheer intensity of the moment. They're beautiful. Perfect. Yours.

She looks down at herself for a second, a flicker of self-consciousness crossing her face before defiant heat replaces it. Your eyes meet hers, a silent question asked and answered. You scoop her up—she's surprisingly light—and carry her the few steps to her bed, tumbling down onto the soft duvet with her. The landing is messy, tangled limbs and breathless laughter, before you settle, half-propped over her, the reality of her bare skin under your hands making your head swim. You kiss her again, slower this time, softer, trying to pour all the unsaid years of affection into it. Her hands come up to cup your face, fingers tracing your jawline, her eyes searching yours.

Then your focus shifts. Your gaze drops to her chest, to the soft rise and fall of her breathing. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the valley between her breasts, then lower your head further. One hand gently cups the soft weight of her left breast, thumb stroking the peak, feeling it harden instantly under your touch. At the same time, your mouth closes over her right nipple.

Sohyun arches off the bed with a sharp, choked cry, fingers digging into your shoulders. The sound is pure, unfiltered pleasure, and it sends a shockwave straight to your groin. You suck gently at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive peak before drawing it deeper into the heat of your mouth.

She moans again, a long, low sound vibrating up from her chest. "Oh god... yes... fuck, that feels..." You lave the nipple, licking slow circles around the darker areola, mapping the texture with your tongue, before nibbling gently with your teeth. She whimpers, hips twitching restlessly on the mattress. "So good... oh, fuck, yes, right there... I always... always imagined..." Her sentence dissolves into another shuddering moan as you switch sides, giving the other breast the same devoted attention, sucking and licking and teasing until she's writhing beneath you. "You're perfect," you murmur against her wet skin between ministrations. "So fucking beautiful, Sohyun. Always."

Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, lips parted and slick. She looks completely undone, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache with tenderness and a fierce, protective desire. You trail kisses lower, down the soft curve of her stomach, your lips brushing the faint indentation of her navel. Your hand follows, palm smoothing over the warm skin, feeling the tremors running through her. Your journey stops at the waistband of her panties. Simple blue cotton, dampening noticeably at the center. The sight, the proof of her arousal, makes your own cock strain painfully against your jeans. You press a soft kiss to the damp fabric right over her mound, inhaling her scent—musky, female, intoxicating. She gasps, thighs clenching instinctively. You nudge her legs apart gently with your head, trailing feather-light kisses along the inside of her thigh, right near the edge of the fabric. The skin there is incredibly soft, sensitive. She shivers violently, a choked sound escaping her. "Please..." she whispers, unsure what she's even asking for, just knowing she needs more.

You kiss the wet patch on her panties again, letting your tongue flick out just enough to taste the dampness through the cotton. She cries out, a sharp, high sound, hips lifting slightly off the bed. You look up at her, see the flush creeping down her neck, the desperate wanting in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, you hook your thumbs into the sides of her panties and slide them down. Over the curve of her hips, down her strong, thick thighs, catching slightly at her knees before you pull them free and toss them aside. She lies bare beneath you now, exposed, vulnerable, beautiful. Her pussy is slick, glistening, her folds plump and flushed, dark curls slightly damp. You lean down, pressing a reverent kiss to her mound, right above her clit. She lets out a strangled sob, hands flying down to fist in her own duvet. She looks wrecked, overwhelmed, needy. "Will you...?" she starts, her breath hitching. "Can I...? Please, just... sit on your face? Let me... I need you to eat me. Please." You lean closer, lips brushing her slick folds as you answer:

"Baby, that's all I fucking want.”

You don't even hesitate. You scramble backwards on the bed, shuffling until you're lying flat, head propped slightly against her pillows—pillows that smell like her shampoo and sleep. Your heart is a frantic drum against your ribs, anticipation coiling tight and low in your belly. This. This it's something you've barely let yourself fantasize about, a scenario tucked away in the darkest, neediest corners of your mind—Sohyun, taking control, overwhelming you. Being completely at her mercy. The thought alone makes your cock throb against the zipper of your jeans, a painful, demanding pressure.

You look up as she moves, crawling towards you on the bed, her expression a mixture of raw hunger and something almost like nervous determination. She straddles your chest first, knees settling on either side of your ribs, leaning down to capture your mouth in another deep, searching kiss. Her bare breasts press against your chest, warm and heavy, the peaks hard against the fabric.

"You really want this?" she whispers against your lips, pulling back just enough to search your eyes. Her own gaze is intense, burning with a need that mirrors yours.

"Fuck, yes, Sohyun," you breathe, hands coming up to grip her waist, fingers digging slightly into the soft skin there. "More than anything. Please."

A slow, predatory smile spreads across her face, chasing away the last remnants of uncertainty. This is happening. She shifts, maneuvering herself with surprising grace, turning until she's straddling your head, her bare ass hovering right above your face. The sight is dizzying—the soft curve of her cheeks, the dark curls nestled between her thighs, the glisten of her wetness catching the dim light filtering in from the hallway. It's everything. You reach up, hands sliding up her strong thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive inner skin. She shivers, letting out a soft gasp.

"God, yes... touch me," she pleads, her hips twitching.

You guide her down slowly, agonizingly slowly, until her slick folds brush against your lips. The scent hits you full force—musky, feminine, intoxicatingly Sohyun. It’s the smell of pure arousal, sharp and sweet, and it makes your head swim. This is your dream, isn't it? To be right here, underneath her, ready to worship, ready to be completely consumed by her pleasure. The idea of being dominated, smothered by the wet heat of her pussy, of her coming undone completely at your mercy while simultaneously holding all the power… It sends a jolt of pure, filthy need straight through you.

"Ready for you," you murmur against her skin, tilting your head slightly to get a better angle.

She lets out a shaky breath and lowers herself fully, settling onto your mouth with a soft sigh. The pressure is immediate, the heat shocking. Her wet folds engulf your lips, your nose, pressing intimately against your face. It’s almost too much: the closeness, the scent, the slick reality of her cunt right there. You take your first real taste, tongue darting out tentatively, exploring the plump outer lips, tracing the slick crease.

Sohyun gasps sharply, her whole body tensing. "Fuck... yes..."

Emboldened, you dive in properly. Your tongue pushes past her outer lips, finding the slick, sensitive inner folds, licking slowly, deliberately. You map her shape, tasting the unique flavor of her arousal—salty, sweet, utterly addictive. You find her clit, that hard little nub hidden beneath its hood, and swirl your tongue around it gently at first.

"Oh my god," she whimpers, fingers tangling violently in your hair, gripping tight but not pulling you away. "Right there... don't stop..."

You obey instantly, focusing your attention, sucking the sensitive bud into your mouth, worrying it gently with your lips and tongue. Her reaction is immediate, explosive. Her hips buck against your face, grinding down instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"Fuck, yes! Like that! Suck it harder!" she cries out, her earlier shyness completely incinerated by raw need. "God, you taste so fucking good... eat me like you mean it!"

You groan into her cunt, spurred on by her dirty talk, by the sheer intensity radiating off her. You suck harder, drawing more of her into your mouth, tongue working relentlessly on her clit while your lips provide constant pressure against her swollen folds. Her slickness coats your tongue, your lips, your chin, slicking the skin, making every movement smoother, hotter. She’s so wet, dripping onto your face, the taste of her flooding your senses. You love it. You fucking crave it. The feeling of being covered in her, drowned in her essence.

"That's it, baby," she pants, her hips starting to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm against your mouth. "Fuck, you're so good at this... Did you practice on someone else? Don't fucking answer that," she gasps out, contradicting herself immediately, lost in the sensation. "Just keep doing that. Lick me. Suck my clit like it's the only thing you care about."

"It is," you manage to mumble against her, tongue never faltering. "Only thing... right now... is you. Making you feel good, Sohyun."

Her hips stutter, a broken little sob escaping her lips. "Fuck... you saying my name like that... while you're... down there... God..."

She starts to ride you then, taking control just like she asked, just like you fantasized. Her movements are slow at first, tentative, testing the pressure, learning how to grind against your mouth for maximum effect. Her thighs tighten around your head, trapping you, holding you exactly where she wants you. The feeling of suffocation is mild at first, just the intimate pressure, the heat, the wetness sealing against your skin. But as her pace quickens, as she gets lost in the building pleasure, she presses down harder, her cunt engulfing your nose and mouth more fully. Your breathing gets shallower, restricted, but you don't panic. This is part of it. This surrender. Giving her everything, even your breath, if that's what it takes to push her over the edge.

"Oh god... oh fuck," she moans, the sounds deeper now, throatier. "It's building... fuck, don't stop... keep sucking... harder!"

You oblige, mouth working frantically now, sucking and licking with desperate abandon, chasing her orgasm alongside her. Her pussy clenches around your tongue, milking it, the muscles fluttering uncontrollably. She’s grinding faster now, rocking her hips with frantic energy, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pressure increases. Her cunt presses down hard, sealing over your mouth, your nose, the wet heat almost overwhelming. You can barely draw breath, getting only small, desperate sips of air mixed with the heavy scent of her arousal. But the lack of oxygen just fuels the fire, heightens the sensation, pushes you closer to a different kind of edge. You feel utterly possessed by her, consumed.

"Almost there... almost... FUCK!" she screams, her body locking up.

Her hips slam down hard onto your face, grinding relentlessly, muffling your own groan of effort and ecstasy. Her inner walls spasm violently around your tongue, flooding your mouth with a thick, hot gush of her climax. The taste is intense, salty-sweet, addictive, unique. You swallow instinctively, greedily, taking all of it, wanting every last drop. She collapses forward, boneless, her full weight pressing your face into the mattress, her slick cunt still pulsing against your mouth as the aftershocks ripple through her. You're completely enveloped, blinded, breathless beneath her, tasting her release, utterly dominated.

She stays there for long moments, just panting, trembling. You lie still beneath her, heart hammering, face sticky and wet, utterly spent from the intensity of giving her that pleasure. Finally, slowly, she pushes herself up, bracing her hands on the mattress on either side of your head. Her hair is wild, sticking to her flushed cheeks, her lips swollen and red, her eyes dazed and unfocused but gleaming with a deep, sated satisfaction. She looks down at you, at your slick-covered face, and a slow, knowing smirk touches her lips.

"Wow," she breathes. "You... you really did it."

You manage a weak grin, licking your lips, tasting her. "Told you," you rasp. "Anything for you."

She leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally your mouth, her kiss still tasting faintly of herself. It's intimate, proprietary. A claiming.

"Good," she murmurs against your lips. "Because we're not done yet. Not even close." Her eyes darken again, that possessive fire rekindling. "My turn to taste you.”

Sohyun pushes herself up fully, kneeling between your legs on the mattress. Her eyes, still hazy from her orgasm but sharp with renewed intent, roam over your face, lingering on your kiss-swollen lips and the faint marks she left on your neck. A possessive satisfaction flickers there. She reaches down, her hands landing on the button of your jeans. Her knuckles brush against the hard ridge straining behind the denim, and she lets out a low, appreciative hum.

"My turn," she murmurs, her gaze locking with yours. "Been wanting to do this for way too long. Way, way too long."

Her fingers work the button free with surprising dexterity, then move to the zipper, pulling it down with a slow, deliberate rasp that echoes loudly in the quiet room. She doesn't just yank your jeans off. She takes her time, hooking her fingers into the waistband, easing the stiff denim down over your hips, her touch feather-light against your skin. You lift your hips instinctively to help her. Your jeans slide down your legs, pooling around your ankles. You're left in just your boxers—boxers that are doing absolutely nothing to hide the thick, hard length straining beneath the fabric.

Sohyun pauses, her eyes fixed on the prominent bulge. She reaches out, tracing the rigid shape through the thin cotton with one curious finger. You twitch involuntarily, a low groan rumbling in your chest.

"Fuck," she breathes, a note of genuine awe creeping in. "I knew... I mean, I saw... before..." She glances up at you quickly, a faint blush rising on her cheeks as she remembers that moment in the club room closet, the stolen, frantic glimpse. "But seeing it like... this... Jesus."

Her gaze drops back down, captivated. She hooks her thumbs into the elastic waistband of your boxers and slowly, reverently, peels them down. Down past your hip bones, down your thighs, revealing you completely. Your cock springs free, thick and heavy, slick already with beads of pre-cum glistening under the dim light. It's undeniably large, thick-shafted, maybe even surprisingly so given your usually reserved, almost nerdy demeanor. It pulses slightly with your heartbeat, utterly exposed under her intense scrutiny.

Sohyun just stares for a long moment, her mouth slightly parted. Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. This isn't like the frantic, hidden view she got before. This is up close, personal, undeniable. The sheer size and thickness of you, fully hard and demanding attention, seems to momentarily short-circuit her brain. She reaches out again, hand hovering just above you, like she's afraid to touch, afraid it might disappear.

"It's... perfect," she whispers. "God, it's so... much. And it's really... mine? Right now?"

"Yes," you manage, your throat tight. "All yours, Sohyun. Please. Touch me."

That breaks the spell. Her hesitation vanishes, replaced by a focused intensity that makes your stomach clench. She leans down, her hair falling forward, tickling your stomach as she lowers her face towards your cock. She doesn't grab it right away. Instead, she inhales deeply, breathing in your scent, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. Then, she presses a soft, tentative kiss right to the swollen, pulsing head. It’s a kiss of reverence, almost worshipful. She kisses it again, lingering, her lips incredibly soft against the sensitive skin. Then she trails kisses down the thick shaft, her warm breath ghosting over you, making you shiver uncontrollably. Her tongue darts out, tasting the slick bead of pre-cum at the tip, humming her approval deep in her throat.

"Mmm," she murmurs against your skin. "Taste good... smell good... God, you feel so hard."

She cups your balls gently in one hand, her touch surprisingly confident, weighing them, stroking the sensitive skin underneath with her thumb. You groan, hips lifting slightly off the mattress, needing more. Her other hand finally closes around the base of your shaft, her fingers wrapping snugly around the thick circumference. Her grip is firm, warm, possessive. She strokes you once, slowly, from base to head, watching your reaction with hungry eyes.

"You like that?" she asks. "Like me touching you? Holding your big, thick cock?"

"Fuck, yes," you gasp out, already close to losing it just from her touch, her words. "Please, Sohyun..."

"Shhh," she soothes, leaning down again. "Let me take care of you. Let me worship this perfect cock. You deserve it."

She starts by licking. Long, slow, wet laps all the way up the shaft, starting from the base where her fingers are wrapped tight, swirling around the thick ridge of the head, paying special attention to the sensitive slit at the very tip. Her tongue is relentless, mapping every vein, every inch, savoring the texture, the taste. She licks your balls too, darting her tongue out to trace the seam, making you gasp and buck beneath her. She seems fascinated, utterly absorbed in the act of adoration, like she's discovering a hidden treasure she can't get enough of. She alternates between licking and kissing, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the throbbing veins, occasionally taking just the very head between her lips, sucking gently, experimentally.

"So pretty," she mumbles against you, her breath hot. "So fucking hard for me. You feel so good in my hand... so heavy..."

She gathers your balls more firmly, lifting them slightly as she lowers her mouth over the head of your cock again. This time, she means business. Her lips seal tight, creating a wet suction that steals your breath. She starts to suck, slowly at first, adjusting her jaw, learning the shape and feel of you in her mouth. Her cheeks hollow slightly with the effort, her eyes fixed on yours, watching your reaction, feeding off the strangled noises clawing their way up your throat. She moans around you, a deep, guttural sound of pure pleasure—hers and yours.

"Mmmmph... fuck... so thick," she manages around you, pulling back slightly before sliding down again, taking you deeper this time.

Her pace picks up, her head starting to bob more rhythmically. She uses her hand in tandem, stroking the lower half of your shaft while her mouth works the upper half, creating an unbearable friction, a slick heat that threatens to make you explode. Her tongue works magic inside her mouth, swirling around the head, flicking against the frenulum, driving you absolutely insane. Saliva spills from the corners of her mouth, mixing with your pre-cum, coating your cock in a thick, slippery sheen. She doesn't seem to care about the mess; she seems to revel in it, smearing the wetness down your shaft with her hand, slicking up your balls until they shine.

"Drooling all over you," she gasps, pulling off for a second to look at her handiwork, eyes glazed with lust. "God, look how wet I'm making you... covering your pretty cock in my spit... you like that, baby? Like being my messy boy?"

"Yes," you choke out, nodding frantically, hands fisting in the duvet beside you. "Fuck, Sohyun, please... don't stop..."

"Never," she promises, diving back down, sucking you deeper than before, her throat muscles working as she takes as much of you as she can.

She alternates speeds, sometimes sucking slow and deep, milking you, other times bobbing her head frantically, her hair whipping against your thighs, her lips and tongue working you over with relentless abandon. She cradles your balls constantly, rubbing, squeezing gently, rolling them between her fingers, ensuring no part of you is neglected. The sounds are incredibly hot—the wet sucking noises, her low moans, your own choked gasps and pleas. She's not just giving you a blowjob; she's pouring all her love, all her pent-up longing, all her newly unleashed desire into worshiping you, pleasuring you, claiming you.

"You feel so good in my mouth," she pants, slicking her lips. "Best cock I've ever tasted... fuck, I wanna swallow you whole..."

She picks up the pace again, sensing you getting closer, her hand pumping furiously at the base while her mouth works magic on the head. Your hips are bucking off the bed now, completely involuntary, chasing the friction, begging for release. Your balls are drawn up tight, the pressure building unbearably.

"Sohyun... Sohyun, I'm gonna..." you gasp, vision starting to blur at the edges.

She hums, a deep vibration against your shaft, and pulls back just slightly, letting her lips drag slowly, wetly, all the way up to the tip. She kisses the head one last time, her tongue darting out to catch a final bead of slickness. She looks up at you, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, a satisfied smirk playing on her spit-slick lips. Your cock is practically vibrating in her hand, flushed, aching, coated in her saliva, impossibly hard, utterly ready.

"Good," she breathes, her gaze flicking down at your cock, then back to your eyes. "Keep it just like that for me. Hard and ready. Because now... now I need you inside me.”

Sohyun levers herself up, straddling your hips now instead of your face. Her knees press into the mattress on either side of you, boxing you in. Her gaze is locked on your cock, still hard and glistening, twitching slightly in anticipation. She reaches down, wrapping her fingers around the thick shaft again, her touch possessive, almost proprietary now. She strokes you slowly, deliberately, watching the way your hips lift instinctively off the bed, chasing her touch. A dark, satisfied smile curves her lips. She looks powerful like this, kneeling over you, naked from the waist down, her hair a wild halo around her flushed face, her breasts full and bare, nipples still tight and dark from your attention. The dynamic has shifted entirely. She's in control, and she knows it. And fuck, you love it.

"God, Sohyun," you gasp out, the words shaky. "I've... I've thought about this. So many times."

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, questioning, curious.

"About you," you clarify, needing her to understand. "About you being like this. On top of me. Taking charge. Riding me... dominating me..." The confession feels scandalous, ripped from the deepest, most submissive part of you, but seeing her like this, strong, determined, radiating need, makes it impossible to hold back.

A slow, understanding heat dawns in her eyes, chasing away any lingering shyness. She leans down slightly, bracing one hand on your chest, her thumb brushing your nipple through your t-shirt, making you jolt.

"Yeah?" she murmurs. "Funny. Me too."

Your breath catches. "You... you have?"

She nods, her smile turning wicked. "Oh, yeah. More times than I can count. Thinking about this..." She squeezes your cock gently, making you groan. "...this perfect, thick cock sliding inside me. Stretching me out. Filling me up." She leans closer, her lips brushing your ear. "I might have... borrowed one of your pillows a few times. When you were out late. Pretended it was you I was riding." Her confession is a hot whisper against your skin. "Imagined you were balls-deep inside me while I rode it until I came."

The image—Sohyun, alone in her room, desperate for you, grinding on your pillow—is almost too much. It makes your cock pulse painfully hard in her grip.

"Fuck, Sohyun," you choke out. "Tell me... tell me what you want."

"You," she says simply, fiercely. She lets go of you for a second, putting the panties aside. She guides the thick, wet head of your cock to her entrance, her own slickness making the contact incredibly slippery, incredibly hot. She looks down, watching intently as she aligns herself. "I want you. Inside me. Now."

With excruciating slowness, she begins to lower herself onto you. You feel the head of your cock nudge against her tight entrance, feel her slick folds parting, stretching. She gasps sharply, her eyes squeezing shut for a second as the thick ridge pushes past her outer lips, beginning to invade her.

"Oh my god... fuck..." she breathes, her hands gripping your shoulders tight enough to leave marks. "You're so... big..."

She sinks lower, inch by agonizing inch, taking you deeper. Her pussy feels incredible; impossibly tight, hot and slick and welcoming. The feeling of a body claiming something it’s desperately wanted for far too long. You groan deep in your chest, hands coming up to grip her hips, steadying her, steadying yourself. You can feel every internal ripple, every clench of her muscles as she takes you all the way down, settling onto your cock until you're buried to the hilt inside her.

She sits there for a long moment, just breathing hard, letting her body adjust to the thick invasion, letting you feel the sheer, glorious fullness of being completely sheathed inside her. Her head is tipped back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of her throat, her expression a mixture of intense pleasure and almost unbearable sensation.

"Fuck," she sighs out, a long, shuddering sound. "Just... feeling you stretching me out... God, it's..."

"Amazing?" you supply.

She nods mutely, eyes still closed, biting her lower lip. Then, slowly, she begins to move. Just a small lift of her hips, dragging your cock almost out before sinking back down again with agonizing slowness. The friction is electric, making your toes curl.

"Like that?" she whispers, eyes fluttering open to meet yours.

"Yes," you gasp. "Fuck, yes. More."

She starts to ride you properly then, finding a rhythm. Slow and deep at first, her hips rolling deliberately, learning your shape inside her, learning how to angle herself to hit just the right spots. Her hands rest on your chest, fingers splayed, feeling your heartbeat hammer against her palms. With every downward slide, her tight channel grips you, massages you, threatens your control. With every upward pull, the sensation of dragging your thick head along her sensitive walls makes you groan aloud. Her breasts sway gently with the motion.

"Mmmm... god, you feel so good," she murmurs, her hips picking up the pace slightly. "So fucking thick inside me... filling me up completely..."

She rides you with a growing confidence, her movements becoming bolder, faster. She shifts her weight, grinding down harder, experimenting with angles, a low moan escaping her lips every time she hits a particularly good spot. Sweat begins to bead on her forehead, plastering strands of dark hair to her temples. Her cheeks are flushed a deep pink, her lips parted as she pants for breath. She looks wild, primal, completely lost in the act of taking you, claiming you.

"Fuck, Sohyun, you feel incredible," you gasp out, hands tightening on her hips, tilting her slightly to drive yourself even deeper. "So tight... so wet..."

"Yeah?" she pants, a triumphant grin flashing across her face. "Like this? You like how I ride you?" She increases the pace again, hips pumping faster now, slamming down onto your cock with deliberate force. Her breasts bounce more vigorously, the sight mesmerizing. "You like watching my tits bounce while I fuck your cock?"

"Yes! Fuck, yes!" you cry out, completely overwhelmed by the sight, the sound, the feeling of her riding you with such abandon.

She leans forward, bracing her hands on your shoulders, riding you harder, faster, moving into a frantic, desperate rhythm. The bed starts to shake beneath you, the only sounds the wet slap of her pussy gripping your cock, her ragged pants, your answering groans. This is frenzy. Pure, raw, unadulterated need pouring out of her as she fucks you, possessively, relentlessly. Her eyes are locked on yours, fierce and unwavering, like she's daring you to look away, daring you to think of anyone else.

"Am I...?" she gasps out between frantic thrusts, her stare pinning you down. "Am I better? Better than her?"

There’s no coyness, no game-playing like Xinyu. Just raw insecurity wrapped in fierce possessiveness. She needs to know. Needs the validation. Needs to erase the ghost of the other girl.

You meet her intense gaze without flinching, hands gripping her waist tight, pulling her down harder onto your next upward thrust.

"Yes," you say, the word ripped from your throat, raw with conviction. "Fuck, yes, Sohyun. So much better. No comparison. It's always been you. Only you."

The confirmation—that she’s better, that it’s only her—fuels Sohyun like high-octane gasoline. The frantic energy shifts, solidifying into something harder, more deliberate, more dominant. She rides you with a vengeance now, hips slamming down onto your cock, grinding her clit against your pubic bone with every brutal downward thrust. Her pace is relentless, punishing, her body slick with sweat, moving like she’s trying to fuck you right through the mattress. The wet, slapping sounds fill the room, obscene and rhythmic.

"Fuck yes," she pants, head thrown back again, eyes half-lidded with ecstasy. "That's what I needed to hear. Needed you to say it." She leans forward, bracing her hands on your shoulders again, her stare burning into you. "Now give me more. Don't just lie there like a fucking doll. Touch me. Own me."

Her demand sparks through you, overriding the pleasant haze of submission. Your hands fly up to her breasts, cupping the heavy, sweat-slicked weight. They feel incredible, full and responsive. You squeeze them firmly, kneading the soft flesh, thumbs finding her nipples, still hard, aching pebbles, and rolling them roughly between your fingers.

"Ah! Fuck—yes!" Sohyun cries out, her hips stuttering in their rhythm for a beat before slamming down even harder. "Like that! Squeeze them harder! Play with my nipples while I ride your cock! Make them sore! Fuck, yes!"

You obey instantly, pinching and tweaking her nipples, pulling gently, rewarded by her sharp gasps and the way her pussy clenches impossibly tighter around your shaft. She grinds down onto you, moaning your name, lost in the dual sensations. She rides you like she owns you, like she’s branding you with every slam of her hips, every tight clench of her cunt.

Then, her eyes snap fully open, locking onto yours with a terrifying, desperate intensity. The frantic pace slows just slightly, becoming more deliberate, each thrust deeper, more meaningful.

"I need you to come," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Now. Inside me."

You falter for a second, your hands stilling on her breasts. "Sohyun... wait, are you serious? We didn't... I don't have..."

"I don't fucking care!" she cuts you off, her voice raw, almost frantic. She grips your shoulders tighter, leaning down until her face is inches from yours, her breath hot and ragged against your lips. "I don't care about condoms. I don't care about anything! I need it! I need you to fill me up. Mark me. Make me yours, understand? Breed me. Right now. Cum deep inside my pussy."

Your brain whites out for a second. Breed her. The words, the raw need behind them, the sheer possessive desperation—it hits you like a physical blow, igniting a primal heat deep in your gut you didn't know existed. The idea of planting your seed deep inside her, claiming her womb…

"Fuck, Sohyun," you choke out, overwhelmed.

"Yes!" she urges, her eyes blazing. "Every day. I want you filling me up like this every single day. This pussy?" She grinds down hard, milking a groan from you. "It's yours. Only yours. No one else ever gets to touch it. No one else gets to fuck it. No one else gets to breed it. Only you. Promise me!"

"I promise," you gasp, the words ripped from you without thought, only instinct. "Only you, Sohyun. Always."

"Good," she pants, a wild, triumphant grin spreading across her face. She throws her head back again and starts riding you with renewed, almost violent frenzy. "Fuck yes! Breed your girl! Fill my womb up with your cum! Make me swell up with it! I want your baby! Fuck, put your baby inside me now!"

Every filthy word, every desperate demand, every slam of her wet cunt onto your aching cock drives you closer and closer to the edge. The friction is unbearable, her walls clenching and milking you, her words painting pictures in your head that are setting your nerves on fire. You can feel your own climax rushing towards you now, unstoppable, a tidal wave building behind your balls.

"I'm gonna... oh god, Sohyun, I'm so close!" you cry out, hips bucking up wildly beneath her.

"Me too! Fuck, yes, me too!" she screams back. "Cum with me! Cum inside me! Breed me! Breed me now!"

She rides you faster, harder, a desperate, frantic pounding as you both chase the peak. Her moans turn into high-pitched keening sounds, her body trembling violently. You feel the tell-tale clenching deep inside her, the spasms starting just as your own orgasm rips through you.

"FUCK! SOHYUN!" you roar, your body locking up as you explode deep inside her.

Hot, thick ropes of your cum pump into her womb, filling her, coating her insides just like she demanded. You feel her pussy clench violently around your cock, milking every last drop out of you, her own orgasm crashing over her in wave after wave. She continues to ride you even as you both come, slamming down onto your still-pulsing cock, drawing out the very last shuddering spurts, her own cries echoing yours in the small room. The intensity is blinding, shattering. Your eyes roll back in your head, vision whitening out completely as the pleasure finally crests and breaks, leaving you utterly spent, trembling, muscles twitching.

Sohyun collapses forward onto your chest, boneless, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps against your sweat-slick skin. Her weight is heavy, comforting, grounding. You can feel the frantic thudding of her heart against yours, feel the faint, lingering pulses deep inside her where you just emptied yourself. You wrap your arms around her trembling body, holding her tight, burying your face in her damp hair, inhaling her scent. Neither of you speaks for a long time, just clinging to each other in the aftermath, adrift in the wreckage of shared pleasure, bound together by the intensity of what just happened.

The silence stretches, filled only by the sound of two bodies recovering, hearts gradually slowing from their frantic race. Finally, she lifts her head slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. Her expression is soft, unguarded, the fierce possessiveness momentarily banked by sated exhaustion and something that looks overwhelmingly like love.

"I love you," she whispers, the words quiet but solid, no desperation this time, just simple, profound truth.

Your chest aches with the force of your own feelings, a wave of tenderness washing over you, so potent it almost hurts. You lift a hand, brushing damp strands of hair from her forehead, your thumb tracing the curve of her eyebrow.

"I love you too, Sohyun," you murmur, the words feeling more real, more right than anything you've ever said. "So fucking much."

A slow, beautiful smile spreads across her face, reaching her eyes, making them shine. She leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. It’s different from the frantic, claiming kisses before—this one is slow, sweet, full of affection and the dizzying relief of finally being here, together, like this. You kiss her back gently, pouring all your affection into it, letting the kiss deepen naturally, tongues tangling lazily, exploring rediscovered territory. You stay like that for a long while, just kissing, holding each other, limbs tangled, the sticky evidence of your climax cooling between her legs and inside her. The world outside her bedroom ceases to exist; there's only the warmth of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the steady beat of her heart against yours.

But even as you drift in the peaceful afterglow, your body betrays you. Deep inside her, nestled snugly in her tight, creamy pussy, your cock gives an involuntary throb. It’s still undeniably hard, thick and heavy within her, nowhere near satisfied despite the intensity of your release. Sohyun stills, her eyes widening slightly as she feels the distinct pulse deep inside her cunt. She shifts her hips experimentally, just a tiny grind, and gasps softly as your cock throbs again in response, pressing against her sensitive inner walls. She pulls back slightly, looking down between your bodies, then up at your face with bewildered amusement.

"Seriously?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "How the hell are you still hard? I thought I killed you."

You let out a shaky laugh, tightening your arms around her waist. "Guess not." You shift your hips slightly, letting her feel the solid length still buried inside her. "It's you, Sohyun. You drive me fucking crazy. Always have."

A pleased, almost smug flush creeps up her neck. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, grinning. "Seeing you like this... hearing you... knowing you want me this bad..." You shake your head. "It does things to me."

Her smile turns predatory again, that dominant spark reigniting in her eyes. "Good." She leans down, whispering against your ear, "Because I'm not done with you yet." But before she can reclaim control entirely, a surge of boldness rises in you.

"Neither am I," you murmur, and with a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you roll her over.

She lets out a surprised yelp as you maneuver her beneath you, ending up positioned between her legs in the classic missionary pose. The sudden shift in dynamic makes her blink, but she doesn't fight it. Instead, a curious, excited glint enters her eyes. You brace your hands on either side of her head, leaning down to capture her mouth in another deep kiss, taking charge this time, setting the pace. Your cock slides almost fully out during the roll before you sink back into her with one smooth, deep thrust.

"Fuck!" she cries out, back arching off the bed as you fill her again. "Oh my god, that feels..."

Her pussy is impossibly sensitive now, slick and creamy with the mixture of her arousal and your own cooling cum. Every slight movement sends shivers through her, her inner walls fluttering and clenching around you instinctively. The friction is insane, almost unbearable, slicker and yet somehow tighter than before. You pull back slowly, deliberately, dragging your thick shaft along her hypersensitive walls, then thrust back in deep, hitting that spot low in her belly that makes her gasp and her toes curl.

"Still feel good?" you ask.

"Y-yes! Fuck, yes!" she pants, gripping your biceps hard. "So good... it's almost too much... so sensitive now..."

"Good," you growl, starting to fuck her with a steady, driving rhythm. "I want it to be too much. I want to make you fall apart."

You fuck her hard, hips slamming against hers, driving deep with every thrust. Her legs instinctively wrap around your waist, pulling you even deeper, locking you in place. She meets your rhythm, hips lifting off the bed to take every inch, her head thrashing side to side on the pillows, dark hair fanning out. Her moans are louder now, higher pitched, broken sounds torn from her throat with every impact.

"Fuck! Harder! Please, harder!" she begs, completely lost to the sensation. "Right there! Oh god, oh god, yes!"

You obey, increasing the force, pounding into her relentlessly. The sound of your bodies colliding, the wet, sloppy sounds of your cock sliding in and out of her creamy cunt, fills the room. Her breasts jiggle wildly with the force of your thrusts, the sight driving you wilder. You lean down, capturing one nipple in your mouth again, sucking hard while you continue to hammer into her.

"Ah! Fuck! Yes, please—suck them! Bite them!" she cries out deliriously.

You lave the nipple, then bite down gently, just enough to make her cry out again, her pussy clenching violently around your cock. You switch sides, giving the other nipple the same rough treatment while your hips maintain their punishing rhythm. She's trembling all over now, completely overwhelmed, on the ragged edge of another climax.

"I'm gonna... I'm gonna cum again!" she gasps, eyes rolling back slightly. "Fuck, I can't stop it!"

"Don't stop it," you command. "Come for me again, Sohyun. Let go."

You focus your thrusts, angling slightly, grinding against her G-spot relentlessly, pushing her over the edge. Her body tenses like a drawn bowstring, muscles locking up, a high, keening whine building in her throat.

"Oh FUCK! I'm—!"

Her climax hits her like a lightning strike. Her whole body convulses, legs locking tight around your waist, back arching so high off the bed only her shoulders and heels are touching. A torrent of clear, slick fluid suddenly erupts from her, soaking the front of your body, spraying onto the sheets beneath her. She's squirting, a hot, copious gush that just keeps coming as her orgasm tears through her, wave after powerful wave. The sight, the feeling of her body spasming around you, the hot spray coating your skin, the sheer, unbridled intensity of her release—it shatters your own control completely.

"FUCK! SOHYUN!" you roar, unable to hold back any longer.

You feel your own orgasm roaring up your spine, too intense, too soon after the last one, but unstoppable. You pull out at the last second, cock slapping wetly against her drenched belly, still spasming from her squirt. You brace your hands, aiming carefully, and explode all over her chest. Thick ropes of your cum spray across her collarbones, coating her full breasts, dripping down between them. Shot after shot erupts from you, hot and heavy, until you're completely drained, collapsing forward slightly, bracing your weight on your elbows, chest heaving, heart pounding like it wants to escape your ribs.

You stay like that for a moment, catching your breath, looking down at the beautiful, glorious mess you've made of her. Sohyun lies beneath you, utterly wrecked, limbs trembling, face flushed, eyes glazed and unfocused. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, coated in your thick, white seed. The sheets beneath her are soaked from her squirt. She looks debauched, thoroughly fucked, completely claimed. And she's never looked more beautiful. You lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"You," you whisper, "are the most beautiful girl in the world, Sohyun. Absolutely fucking perfect."

She manages a weak, trembling smile, lifting a shaky hand to cup your cheek. Her eyes finally focus on yours, filled with so much love, so much raw emotion, it steals your breath all over again. She doesn't say anything, doesn't need to. The connection between you is palpable, electric, forged in confessions and tears and sweat and cum and squirt, solidifying into something undeniable, something unbreakable, right there in the messy aftermath on her tangled sheets.

A long, shared sigh escapes both of you almost in unison. You lie down next to her, Sohyun rests her head back on your chest, her breathing still slightly ragged, her fingers tracing idle patterns over your cum-splattered chest. You stare up at the ceiling, your own mind racing, trying to process the whirlwind of confessions, the raw intensity, the spilled fluids currently cooling on both of you and the sheets. It feels surreal, like a dream you're afraid you'll wake up from.

"Holy shit," Sohyun whispers after a long silence, her tone full of dazed wonder. "That... actually happened."

You let out a shaky laugh, tightening your arms around her. "Yeah. I... I can hardly believe it either."

She shifts slightly, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at you, her expression serious now, practical thoughts cutting through the haze of pleasure.

"Hey," she starts, biting her lip slightly. "I'm... uh... gonna need to get a morning-after pill. Just... you know..." She gestures vaguely towards her lower body, where your seed still rests deep inside her. "We kinda... really overdid it on the whole... breeding thing."

A flush creeps up your neck, embarrassment mixing with the lingering thrill of her earlier demands. You nod quickly.

"Yeah," you agree, clearing your throat. "Yeah, we definitely did. Sorry, I should have... pulled out the first time too, I just... lost it."

She shakes her head, reaching out to cup your cheek gently. "Don't apologize. I told you to. I wanted you to." A small, almost shy smile touches her lips. "It was... really good. All of it."

Relief washes over you, potent and warm. "Yeah?" You meet her gaze, searching her eyes. "I thought so too. More than good. It was... everything."

She smiles fully then, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. The easy affection, the simple intimacy after the storm, feels grounding. You kiss her back, pouring all your confused, overwhelming feelings into it. After a moment, she pulls back again, her expression turning thoughtful, hesitant.

"So..." she starts, tracing the line of your jaw with a fingertip. "What... what happens now? With us?"

You shift awkwardly beneath her, suddenly very aware of your nakedness, your vulnerability. This is it. The moment you’ve simultaneously dreaded and longed for.

"Well," you begin, swallowing hard, forcing yourself to meet her searching gaze. "I was kinda hoping... um..." You fumble for the words, feeling ridiculously shy after everything you just did together. "Do you... maybe... want to be my girlfriend?"

Her breath catches, her eyes widening slightly before breaking into the most brilliant, radiant smile you’ve ever seen on her face. It lights her up from the inside out.

"Yes!" she breathes, relief flooding her features. "God, yes! Of course, I do, you idiot!"

She crashes down onto you again, capturing your mouth in a fierce, joyful kiss that tastes like hope and relief and the start of something new. You kiss her back with equal fervor, laughing against her lips, pure happiness bubbling up inside you. When she finally pulls back, breathless and beaming, her expression clouds slightly again.

"Okay, good," she says, settling back against your chest, but her fingers fidget slightly. "But... what about... Xinyu?"

You swallow hard, the name like a stone dropping into the pit of your stomach. Guilt immediately floods you, chasing away some of the euphoria. You owe Xinyu honesty, even if it’s going to hurt.

"Right," you sigh. "Yeah. I... I need to talk to her. Be straight with her." You hesitate, forcing yourself to be completely honest with Sohyun now, no more secrets. "She, uh... she actually asked me out today. Like, properly. Asked me to be her boyfriend."

"Oh," she says, her tone carefully neutral. "Really? Wow, I'm surprised… What did you say?"

"I didn't accept," you say quickly, meeting her gaze earnestly. "I told her I needed time to think. I was... confused. Uncertain." You reach up, cupping her cheek, needing her to believe you. "And now I know why, Sohyun. It was never about being confused between you two. It was about me being too scared to admit what I really wanted. Who I really loved." Your thumb strokes her cheekbone. "It's you. It's always been you."

Her eyes soften, glistening slightly, and she leans into your touch, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Okay," she whispers. "Just... be careful, okay? When you talk to her."

"I will," you promise.

—

The fluorescent lights of the campus bathroom hum overhead, casting a sterile glare on the tiled walls. Sohyun leans over one of the sinks, splashing cool water onto her face, trying to wash away the lingering exhaustion and the slightly dazed feeling that’s followed her all day. Everything feels different now. Knowing you feel the same way, knowing you're hers, officially... it’s like the world has tilted on its axis. She pats her face dry with a rough paper towel, catching her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes still look a little red-rimmed, her hair is messier than usual, but there’s a softness around her mouth, a lightness in her gaze that wasn't there before. She almost smiles.

The main door swings open, letting in the muffled sounds of the hallway, and Sohyun glances up automatically. Xinyu walks in, head down, scrolling intently on her phone, her usual bright energy noticeably absent. She looks... agitated. She heads towards the mirrors further down, seemingly not noticing Sohyun at first. But then she looks up, her eyes scanning the room, and freezes mid-step as her gaze lands on Sohyun. The recognition dawns instantly.

"YOU!" Xinyu finally spits out. She drops her phone onto the counter with a clatter and points a trembling finger directly at Sohyun.

A couple of other girls who were fixing their makeup quickly gather their things, exchanging wide-eyed glances before scurrying out, leaving the heavy tension simmering between just the two of them. The door clicks shut behind them, amplifying the sudden silence.

Xinyu takes a step closer, her face pale beneath her usually perfect makeup, her eyes blazing with hurt and anger. "It was you, wasn't it? You're the reason he dumped me!"

Sohyun straightens up slowly, leaning back against the cool tile, crossing her arms defensively. Her heart pounds, but she keeps her expression carefully neutral, refusing to rise to the bait immediately.

"Dumped you?" Sohyun asks, raising an eyebrow slightly. "What breakup are you talking about? As far as I know, you and he never actually had anything official to break up from."

Xinyu recoils as if slapped, offense flashing across her features. "Excuse me? We were having something! We were figuring it out, discovering each other! It was real! He kissed me, he fucked me, he was going to be mine! Until you!" she jabs her finger towards Sohyun again, voice trembling with suppressed tears. "You got in his head! You ruined it!"

A cold wave washes over Sohyun. Hearing Xinyu talk about you fucking her, even knowing it happened, still feels like a physical blow. But she pushes the hurt down, replacing it with a steely resolve.

"He was always mine," Sohyun says.

Xinyu lets out a choked, incredulous laugh. "Always yours? That's bullshit! You've known him for years, lived with him, watched him date other people, watched me flirt with him, and you never did a damn thing! You never had the guts! And now, now that I finally decided to go for it, now that I did what you were always too scared to do, now you decide to swoop in and get in the way?"

The accusation hits home, sharp and true. Sohyun flinches slightly, the guilt churning inside her. Xinyu isn't wrong about her cowardice, about her inaction for years.

"You're right," Sohyun admits quietly, dropping her gaze for a second before forcing herself to meet Xinyu's furious stare again. "You're absolutely right. That was my mistake. My biggest fucking mistake, letting fear stop me for so long." Her jaw tightens, her own fierce possessiveness surging forward. "But I finally acted. Because I wasn't going to lose him. Not to you. Not to anyone. I would never let myself lose him."

The raw conviction in Sohyun’s declaration seems to finally break something in Xinyu. Her furious facade crumbles, shoulders slumping, tears finally spilling over and tracking messy lines down her cheeks. She wipes at them angrily with the back of her hand.

"So what now?" Xinyu asks. "Are you going to make him quit the club? Tell him he can't hang out with me anymore?" The question sounds desperate, surprisingly vulnerable. "He... he still wants to be friends. And he's really important for the zine production... We need him."

Sohyun watches her cry, a flicker of unexpected pity stirring beneath her own lingering anger and possessiveness. She remembers your hesitation earlier, your insistence that Xinyu wasn't just using you. Maybe you were right. Maybe Xinyu did have genuine feelings, however tangled up they were.

"Look," Sohyun says, sighing, her tone softening slightly. "I'm not his mother. I don't tell him what to do." She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "And I know he actually likes that stupid crafts club, for some reason."

"It's not stupid!" Xinyu snaps automatically through her tears.

"Whatever," Sohyun dismisses with a small wave of her hand. "My point is, if he wants to keep going, that's his choice. It's fine with me." She levels a steady gaze at Xinyu. "As long as you understand the boundaries. As long as you don't try anything. At all."

Xinyu sniffs, wiping her eyes again, nodding quickly. "I won't," she promises, her voice small. "I get it. I won't."

An awkward silence hangs between them. Sohyun feels a pang of something akin to regret, not for claiming you, but for the collateral damage.

"I am sorry," Sohyun says quietly, genuinely. "Sorry you got... deluded, I guess. Caught up in the middle of all this."

Xinyu offers a watery, humorless smile, shaking her head. "It's okay. My fault, really." She lets out a shaky breath. "Rule number one: don't fall for the guy who has a female best friend with obvious unresolved history with him. Never ends well, does it?" She attempts a laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. She grabs a paper towel, dabbing at her eyes, trying to pull herself together. The confrontation seems over, leaving behind only the wreckage and the uneasy truce born from shared heartbreak over the same boy.

—

Walking into the "Hands On" club room later that day feels different. There's a knot of uncertainty low in your stomach, a leftover echo of the drama, the confrontation you know happened between Sohyun and Xinyu, and your own awkward conversation looming. You push the door open tentatively. The usual creative chaos greets you—fabric scraps littering tables, the faint smell of glue and paint, half-finished projects everywhere. Several members look up as you enter, their chatter dying down for a beat as they take you in. You can practically feel them sense the lingering tension, the potential for more trouble. A silent ripple of awareness goes through the room.

Xinyu, who was overseeing someone wrestling with a sewing machine, immediately straightens up, clapping her hands together with forced brightness.

"Alright people, less gawking, more gluing!" she calls out, her usual commanding tone back in place, though maybe a little strained around the edges. "Those zine covers aren't going to embellish themselves!"

The members quickly avert their gazes, busying themselves with their tasks, pretending they weren't just bracing for round two. You take a deep breath and approach Xinyu, stopping a few feet away, hands shoved awkwardly in your pockets.

"Hey," you manage, the word coming out quieter, shyer than you intended.

She turns, offering you a small, tight smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hi," she replies, equally subdued.

You shift your weight, glancing around the room before forcing yourself to meet her gaze. "Look, have you thought about what I said earlier? I just... I came to see... Am I still, like... welcome here? In the club?"

"Yes, of course," she says quickly. "Obviously. You're still production lead, aren't you?"

“Yeah. Thank you. I really enjoy being part of this club. Hmm, by the way, Sohyun told me you two talked today."

Xinyu nods, fiddling with a stray thread on her perfectly coordinated velvet jacket. "Yeah. We ran into each other." A flicker of her old cattiness surfaces as she gives a small, dismissive sniff. "Still don't really get what you see in her, honestly. She's just so... plain. Basic."

"Hey," you cut in gently but firmly. "Don't start, okay?"

Xinyu immediately holds up her hands in mock surrender, though a genuine look of apology flashes in her eyes. "Sorry! Sorry. Force of habit. Old rivalries die hard, I guess." She offers a more genuine, albeit still slightly strained, smile. "Seriously though. We're glad to still have you. I'm glad. You actually get stuff done around here."

You manage a small smile back. "So... it's not going to be weird? Between us? After everything?"

She laughs, a short, sharp sound, but it holds genuine amusement this time. "Oh, it'll probably be weird for a bit," she admits honestly. "But we'll manage. I'll just have to make you work twice as hard on club duties to make up for breaking my heart."

You laugh, the sound easing more of the tension. "Okay, that's fair."

She leans against the table beside her, her posture relaxing slightly. "Look," she says, her tone turning serious again. "I meant what I said, you know. That I liked you." She avoids your gaze for a second, staring down at her perfectly manicured nails. "Okay, fine, maybe at first I was kind of just taking advantage of how nice you are to get help with lifting boxes and shit," she confesses with a wry twist of her lips. "But somewhere along the line... I actually started to fall for the sweet, reliable guy underneath all the errand-running. You're... genuinely good. Different." She sighs dramatically. "Turns out I have a weakness for dependable soft boys who blush easily."

"Xinyu..." you start, feeling a pang of guilt again. "I'm really sorry I couldn't... feel the same way."

She waves a dismissive hand, finally meeting your eyes again, her expression resigned but composed. "Eh, it's okay. Don't sweat it." She shrugs, trying for nonchalance. "Honestly? I should've known it wasn't totally there the second you hesitated when I asked you to be my boyfriend. Nobody hesitates with me." She strikes a pose, hand on her hip, chin tilted defiantly. "I mean, hello? I'm perfect."

You can't help but laugh genuinely this time. "You're right," you agree easily. "You are pretty amazing, Xinyu."

"Damn right I am," she says, grinning, the familiar confidence flowing back into her. "Clearly you just have questionable taste." She winks. "But hey, your loss. I still want to be friends though, if you're cool with that? Awkwardness aside?"

"Yeah," you say warmly. "I'd really like that." You hold out your hand uncertainly.

She looks at it for a second, then takes it, her grip firm and decisive. A handshake. A truce. A new beginning.

"Good," she says, releasing your hand and immediately pivoting back to business mode, clapping her hands together again. "Okay, Production Lead! Less standing around looking relieved, more figuring out how we're going to afford that iridescent cardstock for the spring showcase invites..."

You listen intently as she dives into project details, pulling you back into the familiar rhythm of club tasks. And just like that, things start to feel... normal again. Different, yes. Tinged with the memory of drama and hurt feelings, but manageable. Xinyu, you realize, is great. Complicated, sharp-edged, maybe even a little ruthless sometimes, but also vibrant and passionate and, in her own way, surprisingly understanding. You're genuinely glad you can still have her in your life, even if it's just as friends wrestling over glitter glue and budget spreadsheets.

—

Later that same day, you push the apartment door open, balancing two large grocery bags against your hip. You check the clock on your phone; only 6:30 PM. You’re not late. In fact, you’re early. A small, ridiculously pleased smile spreads across your face. Adulting: achieved.

Before you can even call out, Sohyun appears from her room. She’s wearing comfy lounge pants and one of your old band t-shirts that’s way too big on her, hair pulled back loosely, face free of makeup. She stops when she sees you, sees the bags, sees the time. A slow, soft smile lights up her face—the real kind, the one that reaches her eyes and makes your heart do a stupid little flip. She walks towards you, and without a word, stands on her tiptoes and presses a sweet, welcoming kiss to your lips.

"Hey," she murmurs against your mouth. "You're home early."

"Made sure of it," you reply, kissing her back gently before setting the groceries down on the counter. "Got everything on the list. Even the fancy mushrooms."

"Ooh, fancy mushrooms," she teases, peering into the bags. "Feeling ambitious tonight?"

"Tonight," you declare, pulling out flour, yeast, cheese, and various toppings, "we are making pizza. From scratch. Together."

Sohyun raises an skeptical eyebrow, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, but the fondness in her eyes gives her away. "Oh really? We are making pizza? Or I am making pizza while you try not to set the oven on fire or mistake salt for sugar again?"

You laugh, feigning offense. "Hey! I've improved. Slightly. Maybe." You grin at her. "Okay, fine. You'll be teaching me. But we're doing it together."

And so you do. You measure flour (incorrectly at first, earning a playful swat from Sohyun), knead dough (getting more on your shirt than in the bowl), chop vegetables (under her extremely close and critical supervision), and grate cheese. She patiently guides you, corrects your technique with gentle touches and exasperated sighs that don't quite hide her amusement.

There's teasing, there's flour dusted on noses, there's comfortable silence punctuated by easy chatter. It’s chaotic and messy and absolutely perfect. Gone is the sharp-edged tension that used to simmer beneath the surface, replaced by an open affection, a shared warmth that fills the small kitchen. As you slide the misshapen but lovingly topped pizzas into the oven, Sohyun wraps her arms around your waist from behind, resting her cheek against your back. You lean back into her embrace, covering her hands with yours.

"This is nice," she murmurs.

"Yeah," you agree, turning your head slightly to kiss the top of hers. "Yeah, it really is."

You eat on the couch later, cross-legged, sharing slices of slightly burnt but delicious pizza, watching some dumb movie you'll both forget by morning. Her head rests on your shoulder, your arm draped comfortably around her, fingers idly playing with a loose strand of her hair. It feels easy. Right. Like all the broken pieces, the misunderstandings, the years of unspoken feelings, have finally clicked into place, settling into this quiet, comfortable harmony. No more secrets, no more fear, no more wondering. Just this. Just you and her, finally, simply, being together. It’s not a dramatic fireworks finale, but a soft, warm glow settling over everything, promising quiet mornings and shared dinners and the simple, profound comfort of knowing you’re finally home.

#sohyun #sohyun smut #sohyun triples #Sohyun x reader #Xinyu x reader #xinyu smut #xinyu triples #triples smut #triples sohyun #triples xinyu #kpop m!reader #kpop male reader #m!reader #kpop gg smut #kpop smut #gg smut #Sohyun x Xinyu

684 notes · View notes

strang3lov3 · 17 hours ago

Text

Honey-Do

“You’re gonna work on these every day. And I’m gonna check to make sure you did ‘em all, and if you did, you get to put a sticker down. And if we fill this sheet all the way up by the end of the week, I’ll make ya cum,” Joel explains. “That’s how you can earn back your privileges, Pumpkin.”

Tags - one shot, smut, unprotected piv, creampie, orgasm denial, ddlg dynamics, fingering, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, sneaking around with bad influence uncle tommyyyyy, joel jerks off, sex before dinner, angst + tension, spankings, rewards and punishments, elements of abuse, hurt/lots of comfort, pinky promises, dark. this is a work of fiction, and all characters are adults.

A/N - have I ever not delivered. here’s your uncle tommy fill, as promised. thank you to two anons who know who they are for helping with the creation of this fic, and thank you to my dear L for editing with me! anyway, it's been a minute but i'm happy to see you all :) hope you enjoy. i wrote this through a splitting headache so i'm going to chill now.

Your bedroom door clicks as Joel unlocks it from the other side, and the hinges groan and creak as he pushes it open. He looks at your figure lying in your bed, warm sunlight painting over your skin. Joel knows you’re not sleeping. You’re just lying in the quiet room, soaking up the sun like a kitten.

“Hi, kiddo,” Joel greets softly, smiling before taking long strides across the room to meet you. He’s stepping over your clothes and tripping on other odds and ends before he reaches you - you’ve been picking out your own clothes lately. Apparently you’ve been less than impressed with Joel’s sense of fashion. Ooohkay, he thought. You’re such a messy girl with the way you try on all of your clothes, then leave them all on the floor. Those, coupled with old, expired bottles of nail polish and lip gloss. Joel told you not to use those lip glosses, but they’re just pretty to look at sometimes.

“Jesus, girl. Fuckin’ room’s a pigsty,” he says, and he sits on the end of your bed, springs creaking with the shift in weight.

You ignore him. Joel leans over and kisses both of your cheeks and then your forehead, then your nose. “Don’t smile,” he teases, “Don’t you dare laugh.” And he repeats this, his facial hair tickling your skin, until you’re giggling and your eyes finally open.

“Ohh, there she is. Mornin’, Pumpkin,” Joel says, chuckling at the way you squint through the bright sunlight.

“Mmm…morning, D–” you’re interrupted by your own yawn, which makes Joel laugh. “Daddy.”

Joel pushes some hair out of your eyes. “Lazy ass,” he mumbles. “Listen, kiddo. M’on patrol today, so you’re gonna be home all alone. Y’gonna be alright?” he asks, softly stroking the skin on your cheek. “Gonna be a good girl?”

He wonders if he can trust you. If he can give you this inch, and you won’t take a mile. The doors and windows will stay locked, of course, but there’s other things he worries about. Joel knows you, you know. You’re never as sneaky as you think you are.

“Mhm. I’m always good, Daddy.”

Joel rolls his eyes. “Uh huh, fuckin’ smartass. You can make eggs an’ toast for breakfast, and there’s leftovers in the fridge for lunch. We’ll figure out supper later, hm? Maybe we’ll go to the cafeteria. See what they’re cookin’ up.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you smile.

“Good.” Joel pats his thighs and then stands up, knees popping loudly. “And I want you to clean all this shit up, alright? Didn’t raise ya to leave messes.”

You sigh heavily. “I know. I’ll do it.”

“Good girl.” Joel bends down and kisses your head one last time. “Eat all your lunch an’ have a good day. I love ya.”

You love days where you’re home alone. You used to hate it, and Joel wouldn’t let it happen a whole lot. You hated how lonely it felt, how quiet. You’d hear things go bump that weren’t there, and you’d feel just…nervous. Joel came home once and found you all scared and trembling, and he promised he’d be home with you as much as he could.

He made good on his promise. And you liked being home with him until you didn’t, until you found it suffocating and boring. Scary. Joel’s house went from being a quiet safe haven away from the horrors of the world to a sort of horror in and of itself. A Sisyphean loop, where nothing ever changes. And it never will, no matter how much you tug on your windows that are bolted shut, or yank on your door that only Joel can unlock. You can never leave.

You’d stare longingly out the window, hoping to go outside on your own. Just once, maybe. To go in the woods and wander, pick at strange flowers and plants and everything else. Just be alone. Joel grants you so much, and yet, you want so much more than that.

It makes you feel bad, if you’re being honest with yourself. You know what’s out there. What he saved you from. You know you’re safer with Joel, and you know everything he’s done to keep you safe and comfortable and happy. You’re in good hands with him, even if they’re hands that hurt you sometimes. Hit you. Spank you. Choke you. They’re still Joel’s hands, and they’re warm, right? And they love you.

He said when the weather warms up some more he’ll take you to the lake. You really hope he does.

You spend the day reading, drawing, watching birds and other critters that come by. Joel thinks it’s cute, the way you’ve named the chipmunks and squirrels that frequent his patio. How you recognize them like they’re your friends.

Joel tries to leave his bad mood away from home. He knows he’s got a habit of carrying it with him, and regrettably, taking it out on you. You take your moods out on him too, though. Not that it matters. He curses himself for even acknowledging the fact. He’s older, he’s wiser, he’s more patient. You’re not. He’s the parent, you’re the child. But when he comes home, you can tell it was a bad day. You can hear it in his footsteps and in the way he breathes, and it makes you tense. “Y’ready for dinner?” he asks, voice tired.

“Mhm.”

“Didn’t hear ya, kiddo. Speak up.”

“Mhm.”

“No, no mumblin’. Use your words and tell me, yes or no,” Joel demands, feeling his blood pressure begin to spike.

“Yes.”

Oh, you fucking…you. You’re always going to match Joel’s temper. You stare at him and he glares back, balling his fists before turning on his heel to get changed. You both need something to eat, before this goes from zero to one hundred.

But then Joel goes upstairs, and he walks past your bedroom and sees that nothing - nothing is picked up. He’s back downstairs before he even thinks it through. Before he showers and takes a moment to breathe, even.

“What’d I fuckin’ tell you?”

Your stomach drops at his tone. “What?”

“I asked ya to take care of your room, and I come home to see you’ve done fuck all.”

“I guess I just forgot, Daddy. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Joel scoffs, “Yeah, uh huh.” He pauses for a moment, then puts his hands on his hips. “We talked about this, Pumpkin.”

“Talked about what?” you ask, and it makes Joel fucking irate that you won’t turn your head to look at him.

“Look at me when you’re speakin’ t’me,” he barks, startling you. Looking at him from across the room, you can see he means business. Joel’s eyes are already dark to begin with, but they’ve gone black - so depthless and so endless that you can’t tell what’s behind them.

“You’ve been slackin’,” Joel says in a low tone, breathing heavily as he takes heavy steps toward you. “S’gettin’ old, kid.”

“I know, I just–”

“Jus’ what?”

You pick at your chipping, poorly-applied nail polish as you roll the answer around in your mind. “I don’t really want to do chores. I mean, I know my room is…but the other stuff, I–”

“Tough. You live under my roof, y’live under my rules.”

“Then it’s your roof, your mess.”

The words come out before you can even think about them. You press your lips together immediately, shrinking in your seat a little at the way Joel cocks his eyebrow and puts his hands on his hips. “Wanna try that again?” he asks, and you know what this is, what it is he’s doing: he’s giving you an out. And it’s awfully generous of him, considering. “Don’t make this a bad night,” he warns.

You pause this time, thinking about what you want to say next. I’m sorry, Daddy is that fucking close to rolling off of your lips when you notice that little wren sitting on the windowsill. She’s a frequent visitor, and Joel says she’s just like you. Fiery, assertive, sometimes. Vocal. A pistol.

She looks at you for a minute, then flies off. It sends a pang of longing through your heart, and perhaps even jealousy that that beautiful little bird can spread her wings and fly away and you…can’t. Not with the locked doors and windows, not while eternally existing under Joel’s fucking microscope.

“I didn’t ask to live here, Joel,” you bite.

“Oh, s’that’s how we’re doin’ this? This is how tonight’s gonna go?”

“Yeah.” You get up from your place on the couch and shove into Joel’s shoulder, but he shoves you right back down. He glares at you, and you glare back as hard as you fucking can. Staring at him like you wish you could fucking…you don’t even know. You’re blinded by the same rage and upset that Joel is at this moment, but without the agency to do one fucking thing about it. Joel, on the other hand.

He takes your jaw in his hand, squeezing your bones tight enough to bruise the soft flesh that covers them. When you jerk your head away, he squeezes tighter. “You don’t get to walk away from me,” he growls, leaning in close enough that you can feel his hot breath on your face. “I do a lot for ya. Done a lot for ya,” he says in a low tone.

“You never let me leave,” you argue. “You trap me.”

That gets Joel, wounds him a little. His face changes when you say that, before twisting back into something darker. “That’s what you think, huh? That I trap ya?”

You swallow thickly, then part your lips to speak. Joel cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “I keep you safe,” Joel whispers. “Fed. Happy. An’ all I ask is that you follow a few simple rules. That’s all. You wanna go back out there on your own, with the fuckin’ raiders and clickers, I can make that happen. Watch.”

Joel’s jaw ticks as he glares at you, fuming at the indignant little look on your fucking face. He could hit you right now, right across your cheek. Or maybe he’ll bend you over his knee and beat you until your ass is fucking raw and bleeding. That’ll teach you, that’ll fuckin’ teach you…

The anger flows through his veins like a fucking poison, and only when one of Joel’s knuckles crack, startling him, does he let your face go. He didn’t realize he was holding you so hard.

“I don’t like you,” you whisper.

Joel makes a face at the statement, then nods, because he’s heard it all before. It hurt the worst the first time you said it, but you came back to him crying, hours later when you’d had a nightmare and needed him. Not want - that wasn’t the word you picked. You said you needed him, Daddy, and you were so sorry. You didn’t mean it. You love him and you need him.

He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “M’not too keen on you either, right now, Pumpkin.”

The room is tense as you and Joel stare each other down, and neither of you budge until Joel tells you to go to your room and stay there. He tells you that you can forget going out to dinner, and you can stay in your bedroom until he feels like looking at your face again. You’re grounded, too - he doesn’t say from what. Now get out of his sight before he fucking hurts you.

You’re in your room forever, the hours alone spent alone passing like days. The sun went down forever ago, and you can’t stop yourself from crying. You held it together long enough downstairs while fighting with Joel but the moment you stepped foot into your room, you burst like a dam.

And it sucks to cry alone, to not have Joel there to hold you and wipe your tears. But is that what you’d want? Is that what would make it all better? Maybe. Joel has a special way of being your heaven and hell, all in one man. He’s both your nightmare and your solace after a bad dream. What are you supposed to make of that? What are you supposed to do other than cry like this?

You don’t bother wiping your tears when there’s a double knock at the door. “S’me,” Joel says. “M’comin’ in.”

You keep your back turned to him as he enters your bedroom with a plate and a glass of water, and he sets both down on your nightstand. “Went and grabbed some food. I gotcha…let’s see here. Chicken, mashed potatoes, corn.”

“Not hungry.”

“Not even for some pumpkin pie?” Joel asks, noticing the way your eyes widen at the mention. “Still your favorite, right?”

You pause. “No,” you answer, eventually.

“No?” Joel asks. “Hmm. Guess I’ll eat it myself. M’gonna get even fatter than I already am…this is a very unhealthy thing to do to your dear old man, y’know,” Joel says, cutting into the pie with the side of his fork, which scrapes against the ceramic plate. You flip over and sit up, and Joel feeds you the bite instead of eating it himself. “There she is,” he murmurs.

That’s how you got the nickname. Joel asked your name many times back in that cold, shitty cabin. You wouldn’t tell him. He understood, of course, and he told you his name anyway. You were always such a stubborn girl. For the life of him, Joel could not figure out why you wouldn’t come back to Jackson with him, why the hell you were so apprehensive about trusting him. Most people jump at the opportunity to stay in the cozy, warm settlement but…not you.

You were a tough nut to crack. It took a lot of time for you to trust Joel. He used to sit in that cabin with you while on his patrols - Tommy would show up sometimes, too. He’d just sit with you, talk a little, the way you’d do with a stray dog in a shelter. He’d bring you warm thermoses full of soup or tea and sandwiches for you to eat, and he was just patient.

And it was pumpkin pie that finally got you to come home with him. He brought you a slice one day, and you scarfed it down quickly and asked if he had more. “Nope,” he answered. “Gotta come back to Jackson f’ya want more. Got all the pumpkin pie you could eat.”

You mulled it over in your mind more than you ever had. And this was after weeks of Joel visiting you, bringing you food, sometimes dry wood to keep your fireplace warm. You didn’t trust him yet, but you didn’t…not trust him. And you really wanted that fucking pie.

It was your choice to live with Joel, too. When he brought you back, they offered to put you in a house with other girls around your age. Nope. You wanted to be with Joel. Somewhere deep down, you know you picked him to be yours before he picked you to be his. Doesn’t that make you a little responsible for where you are now?

“Yeah, alright, Pumpkin. I guess I could make some room for ya,” he winked.

“Breakin’ rules here,” Joel murmurs. “It goes dinner first, then dessert. Right?”

You ignore him as you swallow your bite. He’s only teasing. And besides, this is not a battle he wants to fight. At least you’re eating, anyway. Joel puts his hand on your knee and speaks softly, “I shouldn’t have gotten on your ass the way I did.”

“No. You shouldn’t have,” you snap, and Joel feeds you another bite of pie. You take the fork and eat the rest of the slice quickly, then lay back down and flip over.

His poor, sweet, tender-hearted girl. Don’t you know that attitude of yours is only gonna get you in trouble? Joel thinks it's just where you’re at in life - he thought he knew the world like the back of his hand when he was your age, too.

Joel turns your face and wipes your tear-stained cheeks, all swollen and raw. Eyes rimmed red as more tears well up, then spill down, back into your hairline. “Oh, sweetheart. What am I gonna do with ya?” he sighs, gently thumbing away those tears again. He wipes a few crumbs of pie crust from your lips, too.

You sniffle and shrug, avoiding his gaze. A hiccuping sob escapes your lips. “S'okay. Drink some water,” Joel tells you, pulling you upright. He gives you the glass, has you take a few sips, and he notices the way you look at his hand between your thighs. He notices your muscles twitching, eyes widening…knows exactly what you want as he rubs his thumb over the skin. Joel knows you want him to fuck you, to make you feel good, because you always feel better after he gets you off. Presses your little reset button. He’d reckon those pretty pink panties of yours are a little soaked, too. Poor thing. And isn’t this part of tonight’s problem?

You can’t get anything past Joel. You’ll never be able to.

“Daddy–”

“Not tonight, kiddo. Y’lost them privileges.”

“Please,” you beg. Joel takes your glass of water and sets it down on the nightstand.

“No,” Joel bites, pulling his hand away. He pulls your blankets over your shoulders, then turns off your lamp. “Daddy’s gonna have to think of a way for you to earn ‘em back.” He kisses you on the forehead, saddened by the way you turn away from him. “I love ya with my whole heart, Pumpkin, but you are gonna learn that there are consequences for your actions. Now get some sleep.”

Joel takes the glasses and checks to make sure the baby monitor is on, then leaves you. A night of sleep will be good for you both.

But it is a hard night, isn’t it? You spend the night tossing and turning - Joel can hear it on the tinny, crackling speakers of the receiver. He doesn’t rest any easier either, so he gets in the shower late at night. Maybe the distant noise of the running water will soothe you to sleep.

He washes his hair and his body, then grips his cock tightly in his fist. He strokes himself slowly, top to bottom and over and over again, building to a quicker pace in short time. “Ohh, Pumpkin,” he whispers, cumming over his knuckles. Joel rinses himself off and dries himself, then checks on you in your bedroom - you’re out like a light. Good. Fuck, he hates fighting with you.

In the morning, you tiptoe down the stairs, stopping first behind the wall to steal a peek at Joel before he sees you. He’s got breakfast made already - French toast, eggs, hash browns. You take your place at the table, yawning as you twirl a fork between your fingers. “Mornin’, sweetheart,” Joel murmurs, pressing a kiss against the crown of your head. He serves you a large helping of breakfast, your Felix the cat cup is already filled with juice. “Sleep okay?” he asks, sitting next to you and serving himself.

You shrug.

“Yeah, me too,” Joel agrees. You and he eat in silence for a couple of minutes, the only sounds being the chirping birds and the cutlery scraping against the plates. Joel finishes his food before you do, and when he does, he gets up from the table. You watch him set his dish by the sink, then grab a couple of papers or something from the counter and bring them back to the table. “Been thinkin’ about how you can earn back your privileges,” Joel begins. Your attention is immediately caught by a few shiny, sparkly papers, decorated in little stars. “Stickers,” Joel explains, peeling one off and sticking it on your nose. “See?”

“Mhm.” You grab the packs of stickers, but Joel tugs them back.

“Ah, ah, ah. Can’t have those yet. You gotta earn ‘em.” Joel shows you a larger paper next, something he made and drew up himself. ‘Pumpkin’s Honey-Do List’.

“What’s honey-do?”

“S’a chore chart,” Joel explains. “Honey, do this for me. Honey, do that. Get it?” You nod. “We’re gonna use this chart to keep track of your chores, okay?”

Before you answer, you take some time to look over the chores Joel wants you to do. Sunday through Saturday Joel wants you to tidy your room every day. “Every day?” you whine, thinking of the enormous mess sitting in there right now. It’s gonna take for fucking ever to deal with all of that.

“Every day,” Joel answers. “F’ya stay on top of it, it’s not much of an issue. Been tryin’ to tell ya that, Pumpkin.”

The rest of the daily chores listed are no surprise. Do the dishes, set the table, make the bed, sweep. But there’s some new ones at the bottom of the chart - dust all the shelves and baseboards, wash the windows, mop. Joel explains that they only have to be done once at some point this week.

“You’re gonna work on these every day,” Joel says. “And I’m gonna check to make sure you did ‘em all, and if you did, you get to put a sticker down. And if we fill this sheet up by the end of the week, I’ll make ya feel good again. That’s how you can earn back your privileges.”

You think about it, looking over the chore chart. Joel’s all capital letter handwriting, and the silly pumpkins he drew at the top of the chart. “Hey, you,” Joel taps your arm. “We square?”

You still don’t know. You don’t know why you’re hesitant. You’re just…that’s just who you are. Stubborn, indignant. A rebel with a heart of gold.

“Psst. Take the fuckin’ deal, kiddo.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Joel holds out his fist, pinky finger extended. You wrap your pinky around his, and then he brings both his and your hands to his lips and kisses your knuckle.

You get started after breakfast, cleaning up your room while Joel takes care of some other stuff around the house. It’s not so bad when you have a goal in mind and a better attitude about the entire thing. It goes by quickly, too, and you feel better when your room is put back together. You don’t know why you let it get so bad. Maybe it’s reflective of your mood.

Dishes come next, and it’s made easier because Joel cleans as he cooks. It’s just a matter of washing and drying a few plates and forks and glasses, then putting them back into the cabinets. Sweeping comes after that, and then you’re done until dinner tonight when Joel needs the table set.

It is nice to walk through the house with him as he inspects your work. The concentrated frown on his face as he looks in your closet at all your clothes all hung up and folded neat, and the way it splits into a smile of approval. “Y’did good, kiddo,” he murmurs as he kisses your head. It takes you a moment to decide how exactly you want to place the stickers down, but you like doing it. It’s going to look so pretty when it’s filled in.

Tomorrow is the same, and the next day, and the next day. Joel does his walk throughs every evening, and then you do your stickers at the table. “Mm, doin’ some neat patterns there, I see,” Joel says gently.

“Mhm.”

“Very pretty, sweetheart. I’m so proud’a ya,” he smiles. “Couple more days, right? Finish strong.”

When you wake up on Friday, you feel excited. There’s really not much in your room to clean, not much to sweep around the house, not much of anything to do, really.

…Until Joel reminds you about the specials. “Ahem,” Joel says, pointing to the chores at the bottom of the chart. “These need’a get done, too.”

“Oh, fuck.” You cover your mouth before Joel has a chance to scold you. “Sorry.”

He makes a face at you, but he lets it go. If letting a dirty word slip is the worst thing you’ve done all week, then so be it. You probably picked it up from him, after all.

Joel quickly makes you a sandwich at the counter, then slices it in half and puts it in the fridge. That’ll be your lunch later. “Uncle Tommy’s coming by today,” Joel says. “But don’t think you can sweet talk him into helpin’ you with those chores, Pumpkin. This is still a punishment.”

“Mhm. I know, Daddy.”

“Good girl.” Joel kisses you quickly on the cheek, then he’s out the door. “I love ya. Be home later.”

When Joel leaves, you go upstairs and shower, then pick out something to wear - just a pair of shorts and a tee, neither of which you particularly like, but that’s okay. You don’t want to dirty your favorite clothes. After checking your list, you get started with dusting first. You’ll work top to bottom, and then do the windows at the very end, per Joel’s suggestion.

Dusting is tedious. It’s tedious to take every little knickknack and tchotchke off the shelves, but you do like the way the wood sparkles after you wipe it clean. And it feels better, too. There’s a noticeable difference when you clean the place, like you’re washing away everything bad that’s built up over time and starting anew.

You pause cleaning briefly to eat the sandwich Joel made you, and then you’re back to cleaning, on your hands and knees as you wipe the baseboards. You still have some tall cabinets and shelves to dust, but you’ll figure that out later.

The back door opening startles you, and in comes Tommy, handsome as ever and smiling so big when he sees you. “Hiya, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Uncle Tommy,” you greet. You feel Tommy’s eyes on you as you dust, tracing over every inch of your figure. It’s awkward as you clean and Tommy stands there. You’re not exactly sure what he was sent here to do. Maybe he’s your babysitter or something.

He peruses the house, and you wonder what he’s thinking. You have a more difficult time reading him than you do Joel, though that doesn’t mean Joel is always easy to read, either. Tommy notices your chore chart and smirks at it. Good fucking god.

Baseboards are done now, so it’s time to finish those cabinets. You drag a chair over to the kitchen counters, but even with the added height, you can’t reach the tops. “Uncle Tommy?” you ask.

“Yeah, honey.”

“Do you know if Joel has a step stool or something around here?”

Tommy holds up a finger before he’s off to check for you. There’s nothing in the closet, nothing in the garage, either. “Don’t think so, sweetheart.”

“Hmm…”

“Whatcha thinkin’?”

Joel would throttle you if he knew what you were about to do, but he’s the one who didn’t account for your inability to reach the tops of the cabinets he wants cleaned. You hoist yourself up onto the counter top with a rag in hand, wobbling as you stand up tall.

“Woah, woah, woah. Let me use the chair an’ I’ll get ‘em myself, darlin’,” Tommy says as he stands behind you, his fingers tapping against your legs as he gets ready to catch you. He gets a nice look up your shorts from this angle, too, llikes the lace on your panties. “Gonna crack your goddamn skull open, girl.”

“You’re not supposed to help me,” you tell him, frowning at how disgusting the tops of these cabinets are. “Ew.”

“Says who?”

“Daddy,” you answer.

“Ohhh. Daddy says so, huh?”

You sigh, “Yep.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Get down, honey. I don’t like ya up there like that.”

You know better than to argue with Uncle Tommy. He’s fun, sure. But he does have the authority to do whatever Joel does to you, too. Joel’s made it clear that when Tommy’s around, you are to listen and obey him the same as you listen to Joel himself. You turn around and bend down slowly, feeling nervous and unstable on your feet. “C’mere, sweet pea. I gotcha.” Tommy grabs your waist and steadies you, grunting as he helps you down.

“Can’t believe your old man’s gotcha doin’ all these chores without any music,” Tommy says. You shrug, and Tommy’s off toward the living room where Joel’s got a turntable and some vinyls. He puts them on every once in a while, but you’re not always into the music he picks.

Tommy puts on Jim Croce and does a little dance that makes you giggle. He wiggles his hips and snaps his fingers, biting down on his bottom lip. “Alright,” Tommy claps his hands together. “Let’s get to work.”

He takes the rag from your hand and stands on the chair, dusting the tops of the cabinets himself. “I appreciate this, Uncle Tommy, but you really shouldn’t…if Joel finds out–”

“You gonna tell on me, sweetheart?”

“N-no…” you mumble, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Then your daddy won’t find out,” Tommy replies.

He finishes the cabinets quickly, then gets off of his chair with a grunt. “Okay, darlin’. What else ya gotta do?”

“Uhmmm…” you trail off, mentally tallying the chores you’ve already done. With Tommy’s help, you’re just about finished. “Windows are last,” you tell him.

Tommy nods. He grabs a spray bottle from a closet as well as two squeegees, then hands you one. “You wanna do the outsides or the insides, sweetheart?”

“Insides,” you answer. “I’m not supposed to go outside without Joel.”

Tommy makes a real show of looking around, raising his eyebrows and squinting dramatically. “Funny, darlin’, I don’t see Joel anywhere,” he says, then pauses. “Why don’tcha wash the outsides and get some fresh air, honey?”

“Okay,” you smile. Tommy gives you the spray, then opens the door and tells you to meet him at the kitchen window. You feel exhilarated as you leave and round the house, loving the sun on your skin and the breeze in your hair. When you meet him on the other side of the window, he motions for you to spray yours down, which you do. Then Tommy opens the window and reaches for the spray, then shuts the window. You flinch when he squirts it at you, and laugh when it hits the glass and not yourself. Tommy winks, then squeegees his side of the window as you do the same.

He nods his head to motion to you to go to the next window, where you and he repeat the routine. You do the same with the next one and the one after that, and when you’re finished, you come back inside and rest on the couch.

“Think that means we’re ‘bout done, huh?”

“Yep,” you answer, then pause. “You won’t tell Joel, right?”

Tommy sits next to you and zips his lips. “M’not a narc, honey. So we get to put stickers on your chart now, don’t we?”

You shake your head. “Nope. Joel has to do a walk through,” you explain.

“Ahhhh,” Tommy nods, understanding. “So whatcha gettin’ for fillin’ in all the stickers?”

Your cheeks heat up at the question and you shy away from Tommy, which makes him laugh. You have no poker face at all.

“Uh huh,” Tommy winks. “Oh, I get it.”

You squirm in place a little, wondering if you should talk more about it. You kind of want to, honestly. Joel tells you that you can tell him anything, but you know you can’t. Not just anything. “It’s been a week,” you admit finally to Tommy, and immediately you feel relieved to have someone else to talk to about this. About Joel. “Well, almost. Tomorrow makes a week.”

Tommy scoffs. “Well shit, kiddo. Your old man’s a fuckin’ hard ass.” You shrug silently, and Tommy raises an eyebrow at you. “You can agree, y’know. Ain’t gonna hurt. An’ I won’t tell him if ya do, either.”

“A little,” you admit, quietly. But Tommy hears, and he smiles.

“Can’t go a day without it, myself,” Tommy tells you, stretching out on the couch a little. He rests his hand on your thigh, drawing little patterns down to your knee and back up again, patterns that make your skin tingle and make you feel funny inside. Nervous, excited…in almost the same way Joel makes you feel nervous and excited. But there’s an added layer here. You know you shouldn’t be letting Tommy do this to you.

“I think you should reward yourself, ‘f I’m bein’ honest. You did all your chores, after all. Right?”

“...yeah.” Uncle Tommy has a funny way of making the guilt in your belly disappear, if not for just a moment. It’s in the way he speaks and the words he chooses, and it’s in his sparkling brown eyes and his charming smile.

“Why don’tcha go to your room and take care of yourself, then? Hm?”

You shake your head. “Joel - Daddy says I’m not allowed to,” you reply.

“Ohh. Not allowed to do it by yourself.” Tommy clicks his tongue and turns his head toward you. “S’too goddamn bad. Joel’s gotcha on a short fuckin’ leash, don’t he?”

He slides his hand up your thigh, inching his pinky finger past your shorts. Tommy likes the way your breath hitches in your throat when he traces the thin, damp fabric of your panties with just his fingertip. Sensitive fuckin’ girl.

“And you’re really hurtin’ for it too, I can tell. A fuckin’ week, good lord,” Tommy whispers, then pauses before speaking again. “Well, I’d reckon you’re not doin’ nothin’ wrong by lettin’ Uncle Tommy make ya cum, huh?”

“I-” you stutter, “I really - I don’t know, Uncle Tommy.”

Tommy grins, his eyes so warm and so black, so endless. “Oh, sweetheart. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it in my book.” He wriggles his fingers up your shorts a little more, and slips them past your panties. That little gasp when he touches your lip, lightly teasing you there. Good lord.

“Then s’gonna be our little secret,” Tommy whispers. “Somethin’ special, jus’ for me and my sweet girl,” he says. “How ‘bout that, darlin’?”

You nod before the little voice in your head telling you not to do this becomes too loud. You can trust Tommy, right? He wouldn’t do anything to get you into trouble with Joel. And like he always says, what Joel doesn’t know won’t kill him.

You can’t ever pull one over on Joel, but you can try. And if Tommy’s right, and he probably is - you’ll succeed.

“Good girl,” says Tommy, pulling your body into his lap. He unbuttons your shorts and pushes them down your legs, then cups your pussy with his large hand. You sigh at the relief that comes with the pressure, resting against Tommy’s chest. “C’mere, honey. I gotcha.”

You spread your legs for him and he rubs you through your panties, just lazily at first, feeling you dampen the fabric. He traces your clit next, “Oh, fuck,” you moan, leaning into him. “More,” you gasp.

Tommy slides his hand under your panties, touching your bare heat. You’re so fucking warm and so fucking wet, with that pool of arousal he’s created. And it didn’t take much, did it? No, no. Of course not, not when you’ve been starving for it for so long. Longer than a week, too. Tommy knows the way you look at him and what goes on in that head of yours. And if he were a betting man, he’d bet that when you do summon the courage to get yourself off on your own fingers, despite Joel’s rule, that you’re thinking of him. Maybe not every time, but enough.

“Uncle Tommy,” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as you arch into his touch. You rock your hips as he circles your clit, reaching for his thick bicep. You hold him tightly, whimpering, “Oh my god.”

“Y’wanna hold onto me?” Tommy chuckles quietly, rubbing you slowly. “You can hold onto me, sweet pea. M’not goin’ nowhere. Jus’ you and me right now, sweet girl.”

He’s so warm, and he smells so fucking good. It’s nice to be in a pair of arms that are safe and dangerous, but different from Joel’s safe and dangerous. You watch yourself in the freshly cleaned windows, all wrecked as Tommy pleasures you.

He’s sliding his fingers down your seam next, then pushing two into your entrance. And it’s when he curls them rhythmically, looking for that special, sweet little place deep inside you, that you really start to moan. “Relax,” Tommy whispers, squeezing you tightly. “Hold still, honey. Be good.”

Tommy shifts the positions a bit so he can rub your clit with his other hand while fucking you on his fingers. It’s not long before release is right around the corner, with all of that hot, sparkling pleasure blooming deep in your gut. Your thighs begin to shake and twitch, “You cum nice for me now,” he whispers. “Show Uncle Tommy how hard you can cum.”

And that’s all it takes for you to fall apart, crying out loudly as he fucks you through your orgasm. Tommy doesn’t let up until you’re a shuddering, gasping mess, until he’s made certain that your needs have been met. A goddamn week, he thinks. That’s fucking ridiculous.

“You cum so pretty, sweetheart,” Tommy whispers, pulling his fingers away from your cunt. They’re all shiny and drenched in your arousal, and he brings them to his lips and sucks them clean. He pats you twice and you get up and off of him, all shy and bashful as he stands up and stretches, his rock-hard erection bulging through his denim. “Fuck, look whatcha do t’me,” he groans, pressing his palm against it. “I’m off, kiddo. Gonna let me leave without a hug and a kiss?” he asks.

You wrap your arms around his thick middle quickly, perhaps needing the hug more than Tommy even does. You kiss his cheek, and Tommy squeezes your ass. “Alright. Keep outta trouble, honey. I’ll see ya when I see ya.”

A few hours later, Joel’s barely got a foot in the door before you’re taking him by the hand and leading him through the house, showing him how well you cleaned everything. “Jesus, girl. Can’t a man eat dinner first?”

“No,” you answer. “Look at the windows.”

Joel laughs, “I know, I see ‘em, Pumpkin. They’re sparklin’.”

“And the baseboards–”

“Are nice and dusted, I see it all, sweetheart. You did good. Wanna go get your stickers?”

You show Joel that you’ve already got your stickers and your chart in hand. “Go ‘head and put ‘em on then, honey. Y’did good,” Joel says, then pauses as you put the rest of the stickers down. The only one that’s missing is dishes and table setting for today, but that’s because it hasn’t been done yet. Joel tells you he trusts you, and you can put the stickers down anyway. “And you did do it all by yourself, right, Pumpkin?”

“Mhm,” you lie.

“An’ if I ask Uncle Tommy if he helped, what’s he gonna tell me?”

“No,” you lie again.

“Good answer,” Joel replies, then pauses. “Did you play with yourself this week?” he asks.

“No.”

“Promise?” Joel asks. “Did anyone else play with ya?”

“Nope,” you tell him. Joel smiles, then kisses you on the head and sits down on the couch as you admire your chart. You join him on the couch, sliding onto his lap instead of taking your usual place right next to him.

“Hey, you,” Joel smiles. “What’re you makin’ me for dinner, hm?”

You shrug. “I’m not even hungry,” you tell Joel, and he makes a face.

“Sure you’re not.”

You think you know what that means, what he’s doing. He’s deliberately quiet, waiting for you to ask for what you want. But you say nothing as you sit on his lap, eyes wide as you wait and wait and wait for what you’ve earned, squirming on his lap a little. “Whatcha so squirrely for?” he asks finally.

“You know, Daddy.”

“Mmm. Don’t think I do,” Joel drawls. “M’not a mind reader, Pumpkin.”

But you’re too shy to say it out loud. So you take Joel’s hand and stand up, yanking him with you. He groans as he stands up, knees cracking. You hold his hand as you lead him toward the stairwell, “Where ya takin’ me?” he asks.

“Mmmuhno,” you mumble, walking up the stairs with Joel trailing behind.

“You dunno, huh?” he teases, amused as you take him towards his room. “Mmm, Daddy’s room. Okay,” he sighs dramatically. “Guess it’s bedtime, since Pumpkin says so. And I was gonna let ya stay up an’ everything, but alright.”

You’re such a quiet, shy girl as you sit on the end of Joel’s bed, swinging your feet as he undresses himself. You pull at a string on your shorts, waiting for Joel to get the hint. You’re sure he does, but he’s just dragging this out, the same way you are, really.

Joel, standing naked except for his boxers, turns to you. “Y’look like you’ve got somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart.”

“Mm-mm,” you lie, unable to hide the smile that makes your lips curl up.

“Oh, I think ya do. Wanna tell me what it is?” Joel asks.

Finally, you relent. “Did I earn back my privileges?” you ask, biting down on your smile.

Joel chuckles. “Was wonderin’ when you’d ask,” he says, leaning in close. He puts both of his hands on your knees, squeezing you there. “Yes. You earned ‘em back, Pumpkin.”

You hum in delight and smile so big, then whisper something in Joel’s ear. “Well lie on down, then,” Joel murmurs. “You know what to do.”

It takes no time at all for you to take off your clothes and lie on Joel’s bed completely naked, legs folded in half and swaying side to side as you wait for that inevitable dip in the mattress that comes from Joel settling between your thighs. It arrives all in good time, and Joel spreads you wide so he can devour you alive.

He pushes your knees toward your chest and wears a crooked smirk at how anxious you look, ready for him to start. You’re wiggling your fingers, fidgeting with his comforter. Joel teases you with a couple of kisses pressed against your knees and your inner thighs. “Daddy,” you whine, pushing your hips toward his face.

“Oh, I know, I know,” Joel murmurs, quieting your whines with a kiss to your pussy. “Iiii know, sweet baby girl.” He licks you from bottom to top with his tongue flattened, dragging it slowly through your slick folds. And Christ, how swollen you are - poor thing. But you did it to yourself, didn’t you?

“I am so–” Joel interrupts himself to suck on your clit a little, “So proud of you, Pumpkin,” he says, “My girl. You did so good for me, baby.”

His beard tickles your inner thighs as he kisses you all over, then goes back to your clit. He circles it a few times with his tongue, then licks lower, burying his tongue in your soft, dripping entrance. You reach for his beautiful aquiline nose as he fucks you on his tongue, drawing up that gorgeous slope and past his forehead, tangling your fingers in his curly, graying hair.

“Daddy,” you moan, whimpering for Joel as he drags his tongue back up and down your folds. He builds a rhythmic pace then, circling your clit repeatedly, all while allowing you to rock and grind against his face. He guides you orgasm quickly, savoring the way you gush into his mouth, your clit throbbing beneath his tongue.

You’re fucking soaked, a mess of both Joel and yourself. Joel shoves his boxers down his thighs, erection springing against his soft tummy, and swipes his fingers through your folds. He collects your arousal on his hand, then uses it to coat his hard length. “Ready?” he asks, hovering over you.

“Mhm.”

“Y’wanna help Daddy put it in?”

You nod quickly. Joel knows you like to have some semblance of control over the pace at which he enters you, so he likes to grant you that. Not always, though. Sometimes he’ll split you in half just to remind you of who’s in charge here, usually when you get a little mouthy or something like that.

You take Joel’s cock in your hand, tracing the bulbous head and the veins that climb up the shaft. You tilt your hips and drag him through your folds, sighing softly at the way you tease yourself.

“You’re killin’ me here, kid,” Joel grunts, taking your wrist in his hand to stop you.

“Sorry.”

“S’all good, baby.”

You notch his tip at your entrance. “Your turn, Daddy,” you tell Joel softly.

And in he goes. He slides into you slowly, filling you with the entirety of his length. “Ohh, big stretch. Attagirl,” he praises, grunting as he bottoms out.

It always takes you a minute to get used to him. You do your little routine, make your little faces as you squirm and get used to his cock stretching you out, and when you’re ready, Joel begins to move. “Watch,” he says. “Look, look. Wanna show you something,” Joel tells you softly. You lift your head as he pulls out, his thick length all coated in your arousal. “Ain’t that somethin’?”

“Yeah,” you agree, letting your head fall back again. Joel braces himself on his forearm as he thrusts back into you, building to a slow pace. He’s in no rush, really, not when he’s sliding his big hand up your waist and over your ribcage and squeezes you there. He could crush you, you know. His delicate girl. He could do it.

Joel bends down and skims his mouth and the tip of his nose over your breasts, taking time to wrap his lips around both of your nipples. He loves you so much, the elegant, gentle shapes of your body. All of those curves, all for him.

The special way he fucks you - nothing comes close to this. No matter what, good day or bad, this will always be yours and Joel’s to savor.

His cock is dragging against your g-spot, his pubic hair grinding against your clit. It’s all becoming too much, too sensitive for you to even cum. But Joel tells you to anyway. “Can’t, Daddy,” you whimper.

“Sure ya can,” Joel says. “S’been a week, honey. I know you’re needin’ it.”

But are you, though? Not really, when Tommy took your punishment and reward into his own hands and made good and sure that you were well satiated before he left. And with the orgasm Joel pulled from you using his tongue, well.

“One more, nice and big,” Joel encourages. “Show your daddy how hard you can cum on his cock, huh?”

Funny. Didn’t Tommy say the same thing?

Joel rubs your clit in practiced circles, coaxing along your release as he thrusts into you harder, faster, and deeper. And then it’s happening, and Joel’s name is spilling from your lips in breathy moans as you cum so hard on his cock, feeling indescribably full as your pussy pulses around him. It’s such a weighted, overwhelming feeling, and it washes over you in wave after wave. “Oh, baby girl.” Joel’s right behind you, breathing your name as he milks himself with your cunt, spurting rope after rope of his cum. “Take it nice an’ deep f’me,” he says, and like the most perfect girl you are, you take it all.

Joel pulls out of you, not worried about the cum that spills on his comforter. It’s seen better days anyway, he thinks.

After you both come down, Joel breaks the silence. “Think we should redo our date?” he asks, still breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you answer.

“I think so too,” he says. “Go pick somethin’ pretty to wear, and meet me in the shower to get cleaned up. Maybe we’ll see Uncle Tommy there or somethin’ too, huh?”

more dark daddy!joel here

anyway, i love ya. thank you for reading ♡ please dirty talk me in my inbox and reblog, because your words go a very long way in keeping me motivated to write. wouldn't be doin' this without ya.

aaaand the cat tax. remember that when it takes me a while to publish a fic, THIS IS WHO IS MAKING IT DIFFICULT TO DO SO!! okay!! do you see this! he's sitting on my arm like a fuck. fricken gizmo.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller smut #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x reader smut #Tommy miller smut #joel miller #tommy miller #dd!joel #dark daddy!joel #uncle tommy #dark!joel miller #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #tommy miller/reader #tommy miller/you #tlou joel #tlou hbo #tlou fanfic

654 notes · View notes

beloveds-embrace · 1 day ago

Text

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.

#noona.posts #cod x reader #cod x you #noona.writes #cod #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 x you #tf 141 #cod imagines #john price x reader #john price x you #john price imagines #john price drabble #john price imagine #captain john price

829 notes · View notes

seumyo · 2 days ago

Text

malleus likes your lipstick very much.

NOTE. Fem!Reader a teensy bitsy suggestive <33

Malleus was not a fae easily enchanted by the mundane. But for some bizarre reason, he liked your lip products very much. More so than he’d like to admit.

It was ridiculous; he knew that. A thing so small, so utterly insignificant by the standards of the world he ruled. Lipstick, lip gloss, lip oil—there was a lot he still had to learn about your cosmetics, but he’s doing his best. Such trivial cosmetics. Meant to stain lips, leaving fleeting color and fleeting impressions. But on you? On you? It became something else entirely. It became a brand—a seal of ownership you didn’t even realize you were placing upon him.

And Malleus… Malleus was addicted.

And for all he knew, this encounter had been sudden, unscheduled. He’d come across you in the palace garden at dusk, fireflies beginning to float in slow arcs between the hydrangeas and tall ornamental grasses. You sat on the stone bench under the arching willow tree, humming to yourself, completely unaware of how the fading sunlight gilded you like a painting brought to life.

You were absolutely divine.

He wanted to devour you, lovingly, of course.

And when you turned at his approach, he saw it. That shine. That familiar glimmer on your lips, slick and soft and just a little bit too inviting.

“You’re late,” you teased, rising to your feet. “I waited a whole five minutes.”

“An eternity,” he replied smoothly, though his throat felt tight. “Pardon me for my tardiness, beloved. Allow me to make it up to you.”

You raised a brow, quite curious as to where this was leading. You’ve always known Malleus as someone with a taste for the peculiar. “With a gift? Chocolate? An ancient relic? Perhaps your eternal devotion?”

He took your hands, drawing you close. And Malleus thinks that this is nice, having someone close without them cowering under his mere presence. So this is what it feels like—to love someone so dearly.

“Something sweeter.”

And then he kissed you. No hesitation this time, not like the first kiss you two shared, where you had taken the lead. No gentle testing of the waters. He kissed you with the full weight of all the nights he’d dreamed of your mouth and all the mornings he’d woken wanting it. Your lips were warm and pliant beneath his, tasting delightfully sweet with the kind of joy he hadn’t known existed before you.

You gasped softly against him, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tilting his head, feeling the way your hands fisted gently in the front of his coat. And Malleus was right, as always; you tasted divine—the kind that he’ll never grow tired of. If this is how the normal mortals share their passion for one another, then he’ll gladly do it over and over again until you plead for him to stop.

“Mmph! Malleus…”

“Forgive me,” he murmured, already pressing more kisses along the line of your jaw. “I cannot seem to stop.”

You laughed, breathless and golden in the dying light. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It might be,” Malleus said solemnly, before licking his lips and tasting your gloss again. “I may be addicted.”

“Oh,” you rolled your eyes, pulling back slightly to look at him. “Let me see—oh my god, Malleus, you’re covered in it.”

He blinked at you, dazed.

“Am I?”

He dares to ask, as if he didn’t have the most smug and contented smile on his face.

“Look,” you said, pulling a small mirror from your pocket and holding it up to his face.

He saw himself: normally regal and composed, and now… now he looked utterly loved. His lips were a mess of smudged gloss, shiny and tinged pink. There was even a faint streak across his jaw where your mouth must’ve dragged in the heat of his embrace and the eager fever to have you this close to him.

“Beautiful,” he said, still breathless.

You sputtered. “Beautiful? You look like someone attacked you with a cosmetics counter.”

He didn’t answer. He was staring at you again, eyes fixed on your lips, still gleaming and slightly panting from the force of your kiss.

“You’re doing it again,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said. “I can’t help it. It’s that lipstick.”

You laughed and took a half-step back, trying to straighten your clothes, only to realize his arms were still around you. “Alright, alright, I’m reapplying it. But if you ruin it again, I will make you carry my bag through the entire academic procession next week.”

“I would carry ten of them,” he said earnestly, “if it meant I could do this again.”

“You helpless sap,” you replied fondly, and kissed him once more—just a soft peck, but enough to freshen the smear of gloss on his mouth.

So, Malleus was absolutely wrecked to let you go. But he had to, for he and you both have responsibilities before getting some sleep.

But he still hadn’t wiped his lips; the glossy, shimmering stain that had a sweeter aftertaste was still evident. He didn’t try to hide the evidence. He simply walked, dreamy and unhurried, and basically floated—because there was no other word for it—floated back to his tower chambers like a man possessed. Everything was a blur to him.

He barely noticed the occasional startled glances from guards or the aghast stare of Sebek, who nearly dropped a scroll upon seeing the normally stoic prince wander by with flushed cheeks and pink-glossed lips.

“Lord Malleus!” Sebek barked, scandalized. “You have… there is… your face is—!”

Malleus didn’t break stride. “She kissed me.”

“I—Yes, but—your appearance—!”

“She kissed me,” Malleus repeated and continued walking, unbothered.

When he finally reached the quiet of his room, he sat on the edge of his vast bed in utter silence for a long moment. The fire in the hearth crackled softly as per his usual request, but he didn’t even notice. His fingers ghosted over his mouth. Still sticky. Still sweet. He leaned back slowly, resting against the pillows like a man struck by lightning and only just realizing it.

“My beloved,” he murmured aloud, reverent. “What have you done to me?”

No courtly intrigue, no diplomatic meeting, and no threat to the kingdom had ever unraveled him like this. Not like the trail of strawberry gloss pressed to his skin. Not like the giggle of his beloved, who kissed him and teased him and unknowingly marked him as yours in every smudged kiss.

He lay there for a while, completely dazed, utterly in love, and positively glowing—still wearing your lipstick like a crown.

So he likes your lipstick and kissing you, so what?

528 notes · View notes

dixons-sunshine · 3 days ago

Text

‘Cause I’m So Into You | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: Everyone could see the hearts in your eyes whenever Joel Miller entered the room. The way you naturally gravitated towards him, the way you sought him out in a crowd, all of it. Joel, however, appeared oblivious to your crush, not having any idea about your feelings... or did he?

Genre: Smut

Era: Jackson!Joel

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of unrequited feelings, smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv (wrap it up), creampie, a lot of petnames from Joel (darling, baby, etc), no use of y/n, maybe ooc Joel.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: This took embarrassingly long to finish writing, and I’m not 100% sure how I feel about this, but I hope you all like it nonetheless! And thank you to the amazing @dixonsdarkelf for hyping this up 💜 (and for having to listen to me say “I need to finish this Joel fic” for two weeks lol)

Anyone could see that you had the biggest crush on the brooding, grumpy Joel Miller. Anyone could see the way your mood brightened whenever he entered the room, how you hung on to every word he uttered, how you jumped at any opportunity to be around the man, no matter how insignificant the task was you offered to help him with. Anyone could see the hearts in your eyes whenever Joel Miller was the topic of discussion or anywhere in your vicinity.

Everyone except the man himself. Joel appeared completely oblivious to your feelings, and it both relieved and frustrated you to no end. Relief because he didn’t know about them, yet frustrated because maybe if he did know about them, he could inevitably let you down and you could try and get over the crush you had on him.

But he didn’t, and despite your best efforts, the man infiltrated every crevice of your mind. He was the starring attraction in your daydreams, and that was not about to change anytime soon.

Bounding up the porch steps with a heavy sigh but a polite smile, you knocked on the front door and waited for a response. You tightly gripped the container in your hands, two sandwiches inside of it. You quietly braced yourself as you heard the unmistakable sound of Joel’s voice yelling “come in!” from someone inside the damaged home, opening the door and pushing inside.

“Joel?” you called out tentatively, your eyes scanning over the mess that was the inside of the run down house. Dirt and grime covered the walls, the wood of the floor had begun to rot and somehow, an astonishing amount of small rocks covered every area of the house.

The home had been neglected for years, and it clearly showed.

“In here!”

Following the direction of his call, you made your way down the narrow hallway and into what appeared to be a bedroom, if the lone mattress in the corner was anything to go by. There, smack in the middle of the room, sitting cross legged on the floor, was Joel Miller, clad in a gray button down shirt, black jeans that had seen better days, his hair an unruly mess of curls on top of his head, and sporting a pair of reading glasses. His eyes, brown like the sweetest chocolate, flickered up from the object in his hand to meet yours, sending a nod of acknowledgement towards you.

“What can I do for you, darlin’?” Joel asked easily, his gruff, southern twang sending shivers over your spine. Was it just you, or was there something insanely hot about the way his accent made his speech sound?

Clearing your throat, you lifted the container in your hands, showcasing the sandwiches you had prepared for him—all under the guise to potentially spend more time with the man. “I made lunch,” you said, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Tommy said that he couldn’t get you to leave and eat something, so I thought I’d bring you some food.”

Joel didn’t say anything for a moment. He simply stared at you, peering up through his glasses—the glasses that made him look so much hotter, if that was even humanly possible—before allowing a small smile to tug at the corners of his lips. Clearing his throat, he placed the object—what appeared to be a broken cuckoo clock—down on the ground and pushed himself up, dusting his hands on his jeans before stepping closer to you.

“Well that’s awfully kind of you,” Joel began, reaching to take the Tupperware from your grasp. “Thank you.”

When Joel’s fingers brushed against yours, it was like electricity shot through your veins and spread through your whole body. Your heart sped up to a rate that was unnatural, your skin felt warm and your palms felt clammy. It was insane how Joel could affect you this much with something as simple as a mere brush of his fingers against yours.

Taking a deep breath, you attempted to compose yourself. You would think that after months of this one-sided pining, you’d have gotten better at pretending like Joel didn’t have any affect on you. But alas, he did.

And those goddamn reading glasses did nothing to stop your mind from drifting in far more nefarious directions.

“You’re welcome,” you said with a smile, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your pants. After a few beats of silence, you spoke up again, “What are you working on?”

Meeting your eyes once more, Joel offered an easy—albeit slightly awkward—smile, something that you’d seen him do more and more as he settled into Jackson and got familiar with life inside the safety of the walls, though it never failed to make your heart skip a beat. “A clock for Maria,” he explained, opening the lid of the container and taking one of the sandwiches out. “I accidentally broke it a few days ago and she seemed real upset ‘bout it. Figured it’d be a good way to get back into her good graces, fixin’ it and whatnot.”

Laughing lightly, you nodded. “Oh, so that’s why she told me not to waste the ‘good meat’ on you.”

“Probably.”

Joel managed a small chuckle, taking a bite of the sandwich and closing his eyes in satisfaction, a deep, low groan resonating from his chest, and it made a jolt of heat flash through your body. Not now, you reminded yourself. Now is definitely not the time.

“Good?” you asked shakily, your eyes unwillingly trailing down to the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

Joel nodded. “Real good.” He took another bite. “I didn’t even realize how hungry I was,” he told you through the mouthful, his words truthful. He hadn’t eaten all day, so this meal was a godsend.

You were immensely surprised by his admission. You remembered the time you could barely get a word out of the man, much less a confession like that.

Subtly shaking your head to bring you back to reality, you smiled at him. “That’s what happens when you don’t take care of yourself, Miller,” you joked, trying your hardest to keep your eyes locked on his.

Joel chuckled a little. “Guess so.”

The silence between the two of you stretched on for a good number of seconds. In the few months that you’d known Joel, you had come to realize that he was a man of few words, keeping conversations straightforward and to the point. This was probably the longest conversation you’d had with the man since meeting him.

Yet despite that fact, your crush grew stronger with each day that passed.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, nervously fiddling with your fingers. You tried your absolute best to appear confident, nonchalant, like his mere presence wasn’t doing things to you, making your mind wander in every unholy direction it could. The term “down bad” fit you like a glove to a hand.

“Well I should probably leave you to… all this.” You vaguely gestured around the room. “You probably didn’t just come here to fix a broken clock.”

Joel took the last sandwich and closed the lid of the container. “Wish it was that easy.” He handed it back to you, and you watched the way those glasses of his slightly slipped down the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for the food. Appreciate it.”

“No problem. See you later?”

Joel nodded. “See you.”

With a parting smile, you walked out of the room, before stopping in the hallway. You wanted to leave, but you also wanted to plant yourself down with him and keep him company. However, you knew Joel liked the silence, and he hadn’t asked you to stay, so you didn’t want to overstay your welcome. You knew what you had to do. You needed to leave, go back home, possibly go immerse yourself in tidying up the place or relaxing on the couch with one of those crappy romance books you borrowed from Maria.

So why couldn’t you bring yourself to leave?

Your feet started moving on their own accord. You made your way back into the room where Joel was, and you stopped in your tracks when you saw he hadn’t moved from the spot you left him in. The sandwich you had made him was gone, probably eaten in your temporary absence, his glasses perched atop the small, wobbly table behind him, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at you…

Knowingly? Was he looking at you knowingly?

Your breath got caught in your throat, your heart speeding up at the prolonged eye contact. Joel stayed still, silent, waiting for you to make the first move. His brown, coffee-like eyes flickered over your face, and you suddenly felt naked under his gaze, despite being fully clothed. It was like he could see into your soul, read your thoughts like they were words in a book, and it sent shivers over your spine.

And then, unable to stop yourself, the words came out like word vomit.

“I like you,” you blurted out quickly, your mouth working faster than your brain. Stop, you told yourself. Run away and forget this ever happened. Say that you were just joking and move on with your life.

Joel quirked an eyebrow at you, his face stoic and neutral, not showing anything about what he might be feeling. “What?”

Fuck, now look what you did, you chided yourself. However, despite your fight or flight kicking in, with the latter feeling extremely tempting, you didn’t go anywhere. You sighed and straightened your posture, deciding that it was now or never. Maybe by doing this, he could finally let you down and you could move on with your life. Maybe by letting you down, you would be able to look back on this moment years from now and laugh at how ridiculous this little—well, huge—crush was. Just maybe.

“I like you,” you reiterated, screwing your eyes shut. “I like you a lot, more than I’m probably supposed to like you. I tried not to, but I can’t help it. You’re just… you, and this stupid crush just keeps getting bigger. So please, let me down so that I can get over it and move on with my life.”

The silence that followed your confession was almost deafening. One could hear a pin drop, that’s how quiet it was. You kept your eyes closed, unable to even look at Joel. You weren’t sure what you would see on his face. Would it be anger? Amusement? Indifference? Or worse... disgust?

The sound of the floorboards creaking filled the air, and then you felt a presence in front of you, accompanied by the press of something warm against your cheek. You gasped and opened your eyes, standing nearly toe to toe with Joel, his eyes locked on yours. If your heart was beating fast before, it was nothing compared to the way it galloped like a horse now.

“Oh, darlin’,” he spoke up, his words slow, careful, almost like he was testing the waters, “you think I didn’t know?”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

Your breathing grew quicker, Joel’s gaze intense as he peered at you, that half smirk you had grown accustomed to present on his handsome features. His hand—still cupping your face—was rough, calloused, marked with years of hard work and labour, both before and after the world went up in flames, both metaphorically and literally speaking.

“You really think I’m that blind?” Joel spoke up, snapping you from your thoughts. “Sweetheart, I don’t need glasses to see how you’re feelin’.” He gently stroked your cheek with his thumb, the action sending goosebumps over your flesh, and used his other hand to remove the now infamous reading glasses. “You think you’re so good at hidin’ it, but you ain’t. Not really.”

You were left speechless, both from the close proximity to Joel—you had never been this close to him before—and the fact that he knew. He knew all along? No, that wasn’t possible. Wouldn’t he have said something?

“I—what? You—I—”

Joel’s smirk grew the tiniest bit. “Sh, sh, sh. It’s okay, baby. Calm down.”

Calm down? With him standing close enough that you could feel his body heat? With his hand on your cheek, his thumb caressing your skin so softly, so tenderly, like you were fine porcelain he was scared he would break? With his lips so close, all you had to do was lean in and capture them with yours and finally make that dream a reality?

Yeah, you definitely would not be calming down anytime soon.

“You knew?” you finally managed to choke out, your eyes wide.

Joel nodded, raising his other hand so that he could cup both of your cheeks in his hands. “Subtlety ain’t your strong suit.” He tilted his head slightly, his eye contact never wavering. “You want me to let you down? Say that I don’t think ‘bout you?”

“I—” you began, before getting cut off.

“You want me to lie to you? ‘Cause if that’s what you want, I’m afraid that I can’t make that happen.”

You were speechless. There was absolutely no way this was happening right now. You must be dreaming, because there was no way Joel Miller was saying all these things to you.

Joel wet his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, his eyes darting down to your lips. “May I?”

Your heart was pounding out of your ribcage at this point. There was no way this was happening. You were convinced you were dreaming. Was Joel Miller actually asking if he could kiss you?

Slowly nodding, you said in a quiet whisper, “Yes.”

With that, Joel ducked his head and slanted his mouth across yours, capturing your lips in a deep, searing kiss. There was nothing gentle about this kiss; it was messy, urgent, almost yearning, like two lovers reuniting after years apart. You wrapped your arms around his neck and eagerly matched his movements, savouring the feeling that you had wanted, had craved, for so long. If this was the only time you would be able to experience this, you wanted to have it engraved into your mind for eternity.

Joel’s hands moved from your face, trailing down your shoulders, the curve of your waist, down to your hips and curling around your body to gently squeeze your ass. You gasped, and Joel didn’t hesitate to slip his tongue into your mouth, and you moaned at the taste of him—the aftertaste of the meat that had been in his sandwich, mixed with the faintest hint of whiskey and something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He tasted delicious.

Joel pulled back slightly to look at you, your mouths connected by a single string of saliva. “Jump,” he said breathlessly, tapping the side of your leg.

Eagerly complying with his command, you jumped, easily being caught and held in Joel’s strong embrace. Without wasting a second, his lips were back on yours, kissing you deeply, like it was the last thing he’d ever do and he wanted to make it count. He carefully walked over to the mattress in the corner of the room, his hold on you not faltering, and without breaking the kiss, he slowly crouched down and lowered you onto the mattress. How he did that without falling over, you did not know, nor did you particularly care in that moment.

Unwrapping your arms from his neck, your hands trailed down to the buttons of his shirt, slowly unbuttoning the top one. Joel pulled away from the kiss, his hands working at the buttons and helping you remove his shirt, albeit a bit clumsily. When the grey fabric parted and slipped from his shoulders, it made way for the most mouthwatering sight you had ever seen. Joel looked like he was sculpted by Greek gods. Salt and pepper hairs littered the skin above his defined pecs, his stomach soft with age but simultaneously still toned, and good lord, the trail of hair that disappeared down his jeans made your imagination run wild.

“Your turn.” Joel grabbed the hem of your T-shirt, tugging it up and over your head, being met with absolute zero resistance from you. You wanted this. You had dreamed of this. You’d be damned if you backed out now.

As soon as your shirt was off, Joel skillfully reached around to unclasp your bra, letting the garment fall from your shoulders and carelessly tossing it somewhere to the side. Joel sat back and let his eyes roam all over your body, his chest heaving and his eyes darkening, black covering the beautiful brown hues you’d come to love. His tongue swept over his bottom lip, almost like he wanted to devour you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, before leaning back down to press his lips to your jaw, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, down your chest and going lower.

Your breath hitched in anticipation when he kissed the skin right above the waistband of your jeans. However, you didn’t stop him. You wanted him to do this. And you showed him just that by kicking off your shoes, allowing him easier access to pull your pants down.

With practiced ease, Joel swiftly unbuttoned your jeans, tugging both your jeans and underwear down your legs and tossing them to the side with your shirt and bra, leaving you completely naked and exposed to his gaze. He groaned at the sight before diving in face first, licking a long, delicious stripe from your core up to your clit.

The moan that escaped your chest was damn near pornographic. Throwing your head back against the flimsy mattress, you arched your back, pushing up against his face. Joel groaned, sending vibrations through your body, which only drew another moan from you.

After kissing the skin on your thigh a few times, nibbling at the tender flesh right next to where you craved him the most, Joel dove right back in, devouring you like a man offered a banquet after weeks of starvation. His tongue moved in and out of your core confidently, showcasing skills you never would have known he had. He groaned at the taste of you, which only added to the blinding hot pleasure that you felt.

Whining and bucking your hips up against his face, your fingers disappeared into his curly locks of hair, lightly tugging on the roots in the hopes of grounding yourself back to reality. Not even your wildest, wettest dream could have prepared you for how absolutely amazing Joel was making you feel. He definitely knew what he was doing, and he was doing it extremely well.

“Joel,” you moaned softly, gasps and breathy whines slipping past your lips. “Oh my god, Joel! Jesus… Christ!”

The noises you made were like music to Joel’s ears. They only spurred him on, and without even really thinking about it, his hand trailed up your thigh, brushing against your clit—which made you jolt—and he slipped his middle finger into your hole, replacing his tongue. Instead, he used his mouth to suck on your clit, pumping his finger in and out at a steady pace.

You were full-on whining at this point, quiet. Breathy ‘fucks’ and ‘Joels’ filled the air, accompanied by the lewd sounds of Joel pumping his fingers into you, his middle finger now joined by his pointer- and ring finger. The pleasure was toe curling, star seeing, absolutely fucking amazing. You could feel the coil in your stomach winding tighter with record speed. You were teetering right on the edge of pure ecstasy.

Joel could tell you were close. He upped his game, curling his fingers in a “come here” motion, flicking his tongue against your clit just right. He wanted you to finish all over his face. He needed it, in fact.

And he didn’t have to wait long.

With one last pump of his thick digits and one final suck on your clit, the knot in your stomach snapped. You came undone with a shout of his name, pulling at his hair and bucking your hips up against his face. Waves upon waves of pure, unadulterated bliss washed over you, and you were sure that if Joel wasn’t holding onto your thighs, you would descend into heaven.

Slowly coming down from your high, you lifted your head with great effort, peering down at Joel, and you gasped at the sight. Joel had lifted himself onto his knees, his face coated with your juices, sucking his fingers clean of your arousal. His pupils were blown with lust, and when you looked down, you finally noticed how rock hard he was.

“Joel…” you trailed off in a way that almost resembled begging, your voice shaky and breathless.

Joel knew what you meant. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he quickly made work of removing his jeans, somehow managing to kick his shoes off while he was at it. When his jeans were taken off, followed by his boxers, his cock sprung free, red at the tip and leaking with precum, and your mouth watered at the sight of it. You wanted to scramble up onto your knees and take him down your throat, show him the pleasure he showed you. However, as if reading your mind, Joel shook his head and moved to hover over you, his body warm and solid against yours.

“Next time, baby,” he promised you, not even needing to give any context as to what he was talking about, because you knew exactly what he meant.

Swallowing hard, you nodded. “I’m keeping you to that.”

A deep, throaty half-chuckle resonated from Joel’s chest. Lowering his head, he slanted his mouth across yours, all teeth and tongue. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and you moaned into his mouth as Joel gripped his cock and slid it through your folds a few times, the tip catching on your oversensitive bundle of nerves each time, making you moan even louder.

After repeating that action a couple of times, Joel lifted his head to peer down at you, his eyes—brown like the earth—searching yours for any indication that you didn’t want this. That he was crossing a line you didn’t want crossed. However, he was met with nothing but pure need, your legs wrapping around his hips and pulling him closer, silently pleading with him to make the next move.

And he did. Lining himself up with your entrance—and quickly giving himself a few light squeezes—he slowly pushed his cock in, groaning at the way your warm heat welcomed him, the way your walls hugged him just right, beckoning him closer and closer until he was fully sheathed inside of you. You felt like heaven.

Oh, but when he slowly pulled back and thrusted back in, the noises you made were anything but holy.

“Fuckin’... Christ,” Joel cursed through gritted teeth, keeping his pace slow and steady at first. A slow pull out, a gentle thrust back in. Another slow pull out, another gentle thrust back in. And repeat.

“Joel,” you whined, your eyelids fluttering when his tip nudged that one spot deep inside of you. “Joel, please.”

“Please what, darlin’?” he asked, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

He snapped his hips forward, making you gasp loudly. “Joel!” you nearly yelled, your hands coming up to grip at his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh.

“That what you want, baby?” he cooed almost condescendingly, lowering his head to nibble at the skin on your jaw. When you eagerly nodded, he merely chuckled. “Gotta use your words.”

“Please, Joel,” you began, sounding almost desperate as he continued with his slow, torturous pace. “Please. Need—ah!—need you to go faster.”

Lifting his head to look at you, he smirked. “Good girl.”

With that, he snapped his hips against yours, making your body jolt. And he didn’t stop. He set a brutal, unforgiving but delicious pace, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. Your boobs moved in time with his movements, and Joel couldn’t help but admire them, moving one of his hands down to grasp a handful of your right breast, thumbing your perked, sensitive nipple.

The noises you were making were downright sinful. Your grip on Joel’s broad, muscular shoulders tightened, desperately trying to keep yourself tethered to reality. You were already sensitive from your first orgasm, and you could feel your second one approaching faster than the first one did. And Joel could tell as well. It was like he knew your body better than you did.

“You gonna come f’me again, baby?” he asked breathlessly, his thrusts not faltering. He let go of your boob and instead snuck his hand between your legs, pressing his thumb against your clit and rubbing small, tight circles against it. He let out a noise that resembled something close to a gasp and close to a groan when he felt your walls squeeze him tightly, drawing his cock even deeper. “Yeah, you are.” Thrust. “Can feel how close you are.” Thrust. “Squeezin’ me so tight, eager for it.” Thrust. “Then let go for me, baby.” Another thrust. “Come all over my cock. Wanna feel it.”

With one last snap of his hips against yours, you came undone, your shouts of pleasure echoing off the walls. Your orgasm washed over you like a river, making your legs tremble and your vision blur from pure bliss, the kind you haven’t felt in a while. It all felt so good.

Joel followed closely behind you. With one final thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, his seed spilling deep inside of you. All types of profanities spewed past his lips as he came undone, his arm trembling and struggling to keep his weight up. He quickly brought his other arm back up to support his weight, not wanting to crush you, but he let his head drop down to hide in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of your deep, heavy breaths. You were slowly coming down from that euphoric high, your mind still foggy and trying to distinguish between fiction and reality. You couldn’t remember the last time you’ve felt this good. Hell, you don’t know if you’ve ever felt this good. No amount of dreaming could ever compare to the real thing.

Coming back down from whatever ether his mind had disappeared to, Joel raised his head, his eyes sweeping over your face. He was still heaving like he had just ran a marathon, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t say anything, just looked at you in a way you couldn’t quite decipher.

Deciding to break the silence, you spoke up. “That was… wow.”

Joel allowed a small, barely noticeable smile to tug at the corner of his mouth, and you counted that as a win. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly.

And then it was silent again. You knew there was a lot to talk about. You knew that this made things between you and Joel difficult, made it different. But for now, you chose to bask in the afterglow of what happened, chose to enjoy it.

The difficult stuff could come later. For now, you would enjoy the moment.

Everything taglist: @francisofthespook @angelsanarchy @negansbestie (Comment/DM me to be added/removed!)

636 notes · View notes

alisonsfics · 16 hours ago

Text

overheard

pairing: bucky barnes x thunderbolts!reader

summary: alexei persuades the thunderbolts team that they need to throw a costume party at the tower. your costume has a certain effect on a certain super soldier, but he’s too stubborn to admit it. you go to talk to him after the party and find him masturbating to the thought of you.

word count: 3.7k

warnings:⚠️thunderbolts spoilers (barely)⚠️ smut, unprotected sex, masturbating (male, reader watches, oral sex (m receiving), fingering (f recieving), multiple orgasms, dirty talk, size kink kinda, just pure filth, minors dni (18+ ONLY)

“C’mon, we are the Thunderbolts. Throwing fun party is perk of being superheroes.” Alexei said, trying to convince the group to host a costume party at Avengers Tower.

Alexei was standing up in front of all of you while you sat on the couch. “A costume party? Really?” Bucky asked, his disgust clear in his voice.

“Who knew the world famous Winter Soldier would be a party pooper?” Alexei said, frowning at Bucky.

Bucky glanced over at you for help. You were sitting right next to him as his arm rested behind you on the couch. “I’m with Bucky on this one.” You agreed.

There were a couple of scoffs from the group. “Oh, we’re really surprised.” John said, sarcastically.

“What the hell does that mean?” Bucky snapped, jumping to your defense.

John stared back at him. He knew there was no way Bucky was actually oblivious enough to not see the fact that you both liked each other. “Calm down, Buck. Nobody’s trying to take your girl. I’m just saying you two are practically inseparable.” He elaborated.

Bucky shifted in his seat. He hated when the others tried to analyze his relationship with you. “I vote in favor of your party. These two need to loosen up and have some fun.” Yelena said, pointing at you and Bucky.

“I agree.” John and Ava both echoed.

Alexei’s hands shot up in the air in victory. “A party set for heroes.” He cheered.

Bucky huffed and stormed away to his room.

“Nice going, Walker.” You said, flicking him in the forehead. Of course John was right about all of it. You and Bucky had been best friends since Steve introduced the two of you back in the day. And sure, you liked him, you liked him a lot.

But it was way too complicated.

You were in such a good spot with Bucky recently, and you felt so comfortable with him that you didn’t want to mess that up.

“C’mon, he didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” Yelena defended John.

“Are you really going to try to tell us that you have absolutely no romantic feelings for Bucky?” Ava added.

You were stuck. You couldn’t say anything, but you knew they were right. They knew they were right too. They didn’t need you to confirm it to know that the way you and Bucky looked at each other was nothing short of lovestruck.

“Maybe you all should stay out of my relationship with Bucky because it’s none of your business.” You snapped, walking off in a hurry.

You got to Bucky’s bedroom door and knocked softly. “Come in,” he called from the other side of the door. You stepped inside, closing the door behind you.

Bucky was sitting on the side of his bed with his head in his hands. “Hi, doll,” he said, when he finally looked up to see it was you.

The smile he gave you went straight to your gut and made your stomach do flips. You sat beside him. He kept his eyes trained on the floor instead of looking at you.

You grabbed his hand and held it in your lap. It was like there was an electric current pulsing between his hand and yours. He slowly interlaced your fingers. “Don’t let John get to you.” You whispered.

Bucky leaned his head over on your shoulder. He may have been six feet tall and made of pure muscle, but he was practically butter in your hands. You were Bucky’s one weak spot.

You used your free hand to run your fingers through his hair. He almost moaned as your nails scratched against his scalp.

He knew he wanted more from his relationship with you, but he couldn’t risk what you had.

“C’mere,” he mumbled, needing to be closer to you.

He scooped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his lap, so you were straddling him. You giggled to yourself at how clingy he was being.

“What’s so funny?” He asked you. You shook your head, dismissing it. “If John could see you right now. He’d tell you that you were full of shit out there.” You joked, looking down at him as you rested your hands on his shoulders.

He chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I don’t care about him right now.” He said, nestling his face into your neck. His arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close to him.

You both stayed like that for a while, you weren’t sure how long it had been.

You were Bucky's peace. He treasured any moment he got to be that close to you.

“So what do you think about this costume party tonight?” You asked him, softly scratching up and down his back. He shuddered under your touch. “I don’t really think I have a choice.” He mumbled against your skin.

You got up off his lap. “Maybe it’ll be fun,” You suggested, trying to cheer Bucky up.

He missed your warmth the second you left. You went back to your room to find a costume, and he collapsed back onto his bed.

He wondered how he’d survive being around you any longer without telling you how he felt.

On your way back to your room, you passed the living room and saw the rest of the team still hanging out.

You caught Yelena’s eye and waved her over to you. She snuck away from the group, and they carried on with their conversation.

You grabbed her forearm and tugged her behind you. “Am I going to help you pick out a costume to impress Bucky tonight?” She asked as you dragged her across the compound.

As soon as your cheeks turned pink, Yelena knew she was right.

A couple hours later, you were standing in the room admiring the costume you and Yelena had picked out. She’d suggested you dress as a dark angel. You bought a black lace corset top and ruffled short black skirt. Then, Yelena found an old pair of black wings and a black choker for you to wear.

As you stared in the mirror, you started to rethink the whole idea.

It was a great costume. Even you knew you looked hot. But you didn’t know if it was too much. Like what if Bucky thought you were trying too hard.

You headed downstairs to the party before you could change your mind.

Bucky was standing against a wall talking to Sam, when he saw you. He felt the words stolen from his lips as you left him speechless. Sam followed his gaze and saw you walking down the stairs. Bucky couldn’t remember what he and Sam were talking about. All he could focus on was the way your corset was hugging your form.

“Oh, fuck,” he mumbled under his breath.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Sam teased, patting Bucky on the back.

You skillfully weaved your way through the crowd towards Bucky.

“Uh hi, doll,” his breath got caught in his throat.

His gaze rolled down your body. All he wanted to do was pull you into his arms and kiss every inch of your skin.

“You look…wow, I mean” Bucky was completely losing his ability to talk around you.

“Thanks, Bucky.” You said, doing a twirl for him. He was wrapped around your finger and ready to worship the ground you walked on.

“How about I go get you a drink?” He suggested. His brain had gone fuzzy, and he needed to get away from you before he made a fool of himself. You nodded and thanked him, making sure to look up at him through your eyelashes.

Bucky didn’t know what had gotten into him tonight.

“You’re here? I was starting to think you’d bailed.” Someone exclaimed beside you.

You turned to see John walking towards you, dressed in a very bad pirate costume. The only part that was good was his eyeliner, which you assumed Yelena helped with.

John stuttered as he finally got a good look at your outfit. “You look really pretty.” He mumbled. Even if he hadn’t been slurring his words, you’d know he was drunk because he was complimenting you. He never did that sober.

“C’mere,” he said, grabbing your hand and tugging you behind him.

He pulled you over to a bench a few feet away and sat down. “What’re you doing?” You hesitated. He frowned up at you and patted the seat beside him.

He leaned in closer to you, brushing his lips against your ear. “You want to make Bucky jealous or what? You gotta play along.” He whispered.

You jumped as he rested his hand on your knee. “John, this’ll never work.” You protested. He shook his head. “He’s been drooling over from the bar over there. It’ll work.” He argued.

You saw Bucky heading back towards you. “Fuck it,” you mumbled.

You pretended to giggle at something John said, and slowly brushed your fingers through his hair. He leaned in closer to you, letting his hand sneak up your thigh.

“Oh, Bucky!” John pretended to finally notice him standing next to you both.

“Walker,” Bucky greeted bluntly.

“Doesn’t she look amazing tonight? I mean, oh my god.” John said.

Bucky’s grip on the two glasses tightened. He clenched his jaw as he looked at where John’s hand was placed on your thigh. “Yeah, she really does. Do you mind?” He snapped, cocking his head to the side.

“Oh yeah yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” John lied as he rejoined the crowd.

“Here you go, doll.” Bucky said, handing you your drink and taking John’s place on the bench.

“Thank you,” you said, softly. You let your hand wrap around his forearm and rested your head on his shoulder. He melted into your touch.

“Walker's such an asshole.” Bucky grumbled to himself.

You bit your tongue to stop from laughing. “Oh really? For what exactly?” You asked. Bucky sat in silence, slowly realizing John hadn’t actually done anything wrong.

“Did you see the way he was looking at you, doll?” He complained. You sat up straight and saw how tense he looked. You interlocked your fingers with his. “Why can’t you just tell me the real reason you’re mad at him?” You asked.

Bucky blinked at you with a blank stare. “Wh-what do you mean?” He asked.

“You’re just jealous. It’s okay to admit it.” You tried to encourage him.

He started to distance himself. He couldn’t admit his feelings to you. But he didn’t know a way out of this conversation. He pulled his hand away from you and stormed off.

Bucky sulked in the corner for the rest of the party. You made a point to spend more time with John that you normally would have. Every time you caught Bucky’s eye, he pretended he hadn’t been staring.

Eventually, he stormed away to his room when he couldn’t take anymore.

After the party ended, the only thing you could think about was talking to Bucky.

You and Bucky never fought, and you hated the thought of him being mad at you. You knew flirting with John was petty, but you were really just desperate for Bucky to make a move already. You’d liked him for so long.

You walked down the quiet corridor towards Bucky's room. You didn’t know what you’d say. You didn’t even know if he was still awake.

You walked up to his door and saw that it was cracked open about an inch. Looking through the crack, you saw Bucky lying on his bed. You nearly choked when you noticed he was, in fact, not sleeping.

He was lying on his bed, with his legs dangling over the edge. His hand was shoved down the front of his pants, softly tugging on his cock. You could hear low moans coming from him as his hand started to move faster.

You tried to quietly back away but then you heard your name.

You panicked. Had he spotted you?

You looked back at him and saw his eyes were still closed. Your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t calling your name, he was moaning it.

What were you supposed to do?

It was wrong to just watch, but your feet stayed planted. You tried furiously to get your legs to move, but couldn’t. If Bucky caught you, it would end your friendship.

Then, your name again, followed his a long string of swearing.

“Fuck, doll. You look so fucking good. Oh my god, your tits in this dress? Can’t think straight around you. All I can think about is fucking your tight little cunt while you wear this outfit. Oh, so fucking tight for me.” He moaned.

Heat was radiating off your skin. A warmth pooling in between your thighs. The dirty words fed into your confidence.

You tiptoed into the room, quietly shutting the door behind you. Bucky was so distracted that he didn’t even hear you.

You grabbed his wrist, causing his eyes to shoot open. “Doll? Oh fuck!” He exclaimed. Bucky's heart had never beaten this fast. He panicked, trying to think of an excuse.

“You want to cum, baby?” You asked, running your fingers across his thighs.

“Wh-what?” He stuttered the word. He couldn’t actually process what was happening.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll take care of you. I can see how much need it.” You told him, kneeling in front of him.

If it was possible, Bucky’s eyes got even wider. He bunched up the sheets in his hands, bracing for whatever came next. You slid his pants and boxers down his legs and threw them to the side.

You licked a stripe along the underside of his cock. “That feel good?” You asked him, pretending you didn’t already know the answer.

He furiously nodded his head. “Gotta use your words,” you teased, pressing kisses against his inner thigh.

“Yes, oh fuck, doll. You feel like heaven. Please just make me cum.” He begged you. You wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock. His hand flew to the back of your head, grabbing a fistful of your hair.

His salty precum coated your mouth. You took more of him into your mouth, until his cock brushed up against the back of your throat. Bucky glanced down at you taking all of him. Your eyes started to water, smudging your mascara.

“Taking me so well, good girl,” he praised. He held you still while he shoved himself further into your throat. His whole body shuddered and your name fell from his lips.

You used to your free hands to massage his balls, while he continued ramming his hips against you. “Letting me fuck your sweet little mouth. I’m not gonna last long.” He moaned, as his hips stuttered.

His thrusts sped up, and you felt him twitch in your mouth. His eyes started to flutter shut. You felt cocky watching the effect you had on him.

You pulled your mouth off of him with a popping sound, and wrapped your hand around his length. His hips bucked up against your hand.

All he needed was a little encouragement.

“C’mon, baby. I know you can do it. Let go for me. You wanna cum all over my tits? I heard you talking about them.” You coached him.

A choked groan left his lips as his hips bucked up and he shot warm ropes onto your chest. Bucky struggled to catch his breath. He collapsed back on the bed, sweating and panting.

He looked down at your doe eyes and swollen lips. “You look so fucking sexy right now.” He said, reaching out to smooth out your hair. His hands snaked down to your waist, picking you up and plopping you down on his thigh.

You squealed feeling the contact of his thigh against the wet patch growing in your panties. He started to smirk. “You that desperate for me that even my thigh can make you feel good?” He whispered against your lips.

He pushed his thigh up against you again. This time, a low moan escaped your lips. He softly kissed your shoulders. “Guess I should repay for you for letting me cover these sweet tits. You look so beautiful like this.” He praised.

You rolled your hips against his thigh. “I need to cum, Buck. Please,” you begged him. Goosebumps ran up and down his body as he heard the neediness in your voice.

He didn’t even waste the time to remove your panties. His metal digits slipped under your skirt, caressing your thigh.

He brushed his thumb against the wet patch that was growing in your panties. You moaned his name, sinking your nails into his shoulders. “You’re soaked, doll.” Bucky groaned.

His fingers snuck into your panties. His cold fingers were a stark contrast to the burning between your legs. He ran a finger through your folds. You felt your hips squirm against his hand.

The room felt like it was spinning. All you could focus was Bucky luring you closer and closer to your high. He was only using one finger, and you already felt that familiar feeling building in your stomach.

You harshly pushed your hips against his hand. “You hungry for more? You gonna take everything I give you?” He asked. You furiously nodded your head as you bit down on your lip. “I’ll take it so well, I promise. I can handle it.” You moaned.

He added another finger. You rested your forehead against his shoulder. You continued rolling your hips against him, seeing how it affected him. You could feel his erection pressing up against your knee. “God, doll. I’m gonna cum just watching you hump my hand like this.” He moaned.

You jumped when you felt his thumb start rubbing tight circles on your clit. They started slow but sped up. “Bucky, Bucky, oh my god…I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna cum.” You yelled as your orgasm hit you.

He clasped his other hand over your mouth, trying to keep you quiet. His fingers slowed down helping you come down from your high. “Such a good job, doll.” He said, kissing your temple.

He pulled his hand out from under your skirt. His fingers were dripping with your arousal. “You made such a mess, doll. You gonna clean this up for me?” He asked, moving his other hand away from your mouth.

You looked into his blue eyes as he slid his fingers into your mouth. You closed your lips around them, tasting yourself on him was like a drug.

He pulled his fingers away from you and pressed a kiss against your lips. He nipped at your bottom lip, causing you to whine.

“Please, Bucky?” You mumbled against his lips.

“Can you take another one, doll?” He asked, pulling out of the kiss.

You nodded your head. “Please. I can take it.” You pleaded.

He picked you up with ease and laid you down on the bed. You tried to undo the laces of your corset, but Bucky grabbed your hands and stopped you.

“This dress got me all worked up. I’m gonna fuck you while you wear it.” He growled, bunching your dress up around your hips. You nodded in agreement as he ripped his own shirt off over his head.

“You ready, doll?” He asked you, protectively. You quickly mumbled a “yes”.

He grabbed your hips and pushed his length into you. Your eyes rolled back. You grasped for the sheets or anything you could get your hands on.

He felt so much bigger than you imagined he would. “Can’t take anymore. It won’t fit.” You mumbled. It felt like he was splitting you open. He slowly pushed the rest of his cock into you until he bottomed out. “Look at you taking all of me. You fit me so well.” He said.

Your eyes opened and immediately went to where his cock was buried in your pussy.

You missed the warmth when he pulled himself out, but it wasn’t long until he pushed his cock back through your folds. His thrusts were deep, reaching deeper inside you each time.

You clung to his shoulders. His hair was stuck to his sweaty forehead as your bodies moved together. He fucked you into the mattress. The headboard thudded against the wall with each thrust.

His grunts only turned you on more. You wrapped your legs around his waist. The new angle only encouraged Bucky to go faster. He tightened his grip on your hips, slightly stinging the skin.

This was one of those moments where you were reminded of the super soldier serum coursing through Bucky’s veins.

He rammed into you faster and faster. “Fuck, doll. Your pretty little pussy is takin’ me so well.” He moaned.

His cock hit your g-spot. “Right there, Bucky,” you begged.

“Cum with me. Gonna look so pretty,” he mumbled. His cock brushed against your clit, making you felt dizzy. His metal fingers found your clit again, drawing figure eights.

You tried to tell him, but you were too busy panting. “I know, I’m close too.” He said, reading your mind. He sealed your lips with a kiss to muffle your moans.

You bucked your hips up against him. He swore against your lips.

Then, he pumped you full. You raked your nails down his back as you felt your orgasm rip through you.

He swore under his breath. He slowly peppered kisses across your face and then down your neck, while he slowed down his thrusts.

He collapsed next to you on the bed. “And my goal for the night was just to get you to kiss me.” You said, giggling as you looked over at Bucky. He was practically glowing.

“You should’ve known showing up in this outfit.” He said, running his fingers down the tight corset. You curled into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Do you think the others will figure it out tomorrow when I can’t walk at training?” You asked him.

He let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah probably, if they didn’t hear you already.” He teased you. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, despite your previous activities.

“Not that I’m complaining, of course. I fucking love hearing you like that.” He whispered in your ear.

“We should probably shower and get cleaned up, so maybe you have another chance.” you winked over at him. Bucky’s eyes went wide as he picked you up and practically ran into the bathroom.

taglist: @laurakirsten0502 @miraclesoflove @nathaliabakes @millipop18 @lillyssh-tposts @shyinadarkplace @vanteguccir @missroro @guiltandguitarstrings @sw33t-cupid @ice-dtae @leyannrae @sia2raw @nyx2021 @just-a-littlebit-of-everything @shyconversationalbookworm @shadowhuntyi @iamavailablesstuff @ruzannetheseahorse @superdeath @wandaswifeyforlifey @spookyqueen @mcuswhore @astheskycries @n3ssm0nique @peakascum @cjand10 @namsey1987 @supernaturalstilinski @stephv213 @sunwardsss @studentville-struggles @impossibleapricotlampbat @infjwinchester44 @weirdfishy @lickmymelaninn @eternally-timeless @andreasworlsboring101 @glassesandthunderthighs @holding-on-to-my-youth @fanofalltheficsx @spiderstyles04 @mostly-marvel-musings @madisondelstan @spookyparadisesheep @beyondthesefourwalls @basicfangirlx @rivirox @i-wish-i-knew-what-i-was @reniescarlett @multiplums @alotofrandomfangirling @bbl32 @bob-fucks

Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for all my fics or for a specific character/fandom!!

#bucky barnes #thunderbolts #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes oneshot #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts fic

547 notes · View notes

vettelsvee · 2 days ago

Text

ARGUMENTS AND UNWANTED SHARED SECRETS | Charles Leclerc

⋆ PAIRING: Dad!Charles Leclerc x Mum wife!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Charles is back home for summer break, and a message he receives from Lando to hang out in a club makes the two of you argue in front of your daughter because all you want is her to enjoy her dad... or maybe, is just your nervousness and hormones making you overthink a lot ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1462 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: First ever fic i’m posting as a university graduate and officially a teacher, so I can say that apart from some exams my nightmare after 4 years is finally done! 🫡 I'd love to read your thoughts about this one, so feel free to comment and reblog, I'd appreciate it a lot! <3 ↳ TALK TO ME/MAKE YOUR REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

The long-awaited summer break had arrived, and finally, Charles Leclerc could return to his beloved Monaco to spend three weeks with you, his wife, and your four-year-old daughter, Julia.

There was no doubt that traveling so much, and especially being separated from his little family for long periods of time, was exhausting emotionally and mentally for the Monegasque. Still, he knew he had to continue with his career if he wanted to achieve the goals his younger self had set for him: becoming a world champion. That's why videocalls with the women of his life, and the support of some of his mates, especially the newly dad on the grid, Max Verstappen, made the season more bearable.

That's why, even while having dinner in pajamas, talking about any topic that came up while enjoying a simple homemade dinner they had cooked together, Charles felt grateful.

"How's the season going so far, daddy?" your daughter asked, looking at your husband curiously as she held her glass of water.

Charles sighed, feeling a little uncomfortable. He didn't want to tellyou anything related to his disastrous season at Ferrari, especially not in front of your daughter.

"It's been tough so far," he replied as calmly as he could, "but we still have the second half ahead to fight. It’s not like we’re winning the championship, but we could still fight for some points."

The 6-year-old girl, sitting to Charles' left, looked saddened to hear her father's words.

"Why can't we go see daddy at a race?" she asked, looking at you, who tried to smile the best you could.

At that moment, the Monegasque was overwhelmed with love even your face said otherwise. It seemed like your daughter had read his mind as he was going to suggest it to you in the following days.

"Would you like us to come see you race, honey?"

"I wouldn't like it, I would honestly love it," Leclerc nodded enthusiastically. "Having you in the paddock, just like when you were pregnant with Julia, would be a dream."

The little girl was over the moon about the idea, kicking her little legs with enthusiasm.

"Does that mean we can go see daddy, mommy? I want to go see him race! And maybe I can see Lewis too!"

You savored your daughter's excitement.

"Of course, honey. We'll try to go to a few races if possible, of course."

Charles took another bite of his meal before speaking again.

"Oh, come on," your husband replied, taking another bite of dinner. "You just have to make sure that Juls wears sunscreen and drinks enough water."

Suddenly, Charles heard the ringing tone of his cellphone in the distance. With a soft apologise, he immediately got up to answer the call, thinking it might be some work-related issue requiring his attention. As he returned, you and little Julia were discussing which races you could attend to see her father.

"It was Lando," the driver commented. "He told me he’s going out tonight."

"And are you going?" you frowned, not getting any response from your husband. All he did was staying silence, as if he was hiding something from you, as if he was scared. You knew him all too well, and that’s exactly what he was doing. "Charles, I'm talking to you," you insisted. "I don’t mind you’re going, but… I don’t know, I thought having you here, with us, for the summer break, meant you were spending time with us."

Leclerc sighed.

“I just wanted to hang out with Lando and with you as well. You know, having some private time and trying to relax as much as possible without laying on the couch the whole day when I’m not at the gym.”

Julia sat quietly in her seat, sensing the tension between her parents filling the room even at her young age.

You stood up, abruptly dropping the fork she was eating with.

"It's not just about you relaxing or us having a good time," you shouted, a bit desperate, and immediately regretted it. "You’re… I don’t know, Charles, I feel like you’re always kinda prioritizing your career over our family. Plus, what are you going to do with your daughter tonight? Are you going to leave her alone? Or should we call your mother at nine thirty at night on a whim?"

"It's not fair for you to make me feel this way, you know?" Charles retorted, getting defensive. "I work hard to provide everything you need. Besides, you can stay here with Juls if you can't, or don’t, want to come."

"I work too, and I handle other chores as well," you said simply, trying not to stick to his words, which were definitely hurting you. "Oh, and I also take care of your daughter and try to make her see that her father still loves her despite not being there for her when she needs him the most."

The tension building up between you in the dining room could be cut with a knife, and your daughter’s cries were what snapped you out of your anger.

"Daddy, I don't want you to fight! I want us to be together and happy!"

"Juls," Charles approached his daughter slowly, "it's okay, mommy and I are just exchanging opinions..."

"What's going on, mommy?" the girl interrupted her father, still with tears in her eyes. "Why are you and daddy fighting? Are you going to divorce like Lily’s parents?"

Charles and you realized what you were doing. You weren't used to fighting this hard, especially not in front of your daughter. Immediately, they both sat on the couch, putting Julia between you both.

"We're sorry for yelling, sweetheart," you apologized to the little girl. "Dad and I are just having a disagreement because, sometimes, adults have different points of view on a particular issue."

Charles nodded, agreeing with you and, at the same time, trying to calm the situation:

"That's right, Julia. Sometimes people don't agree, but that doesn't mean mom and I don't love each other anymore!"

Julia nodded slowly, still confused and saddened by the argument she had witnessed.

"Are you going to be okay then? Are you not going to separate? Can we go see daddy at a race, mommy?"

You and Charles exchanged a quick glance, increasingly realizing that the argument had really hurt their daughter.

"Of course, princess," the driver replied, planting a kiss on her forehead while getting up from his seat. "Hey, why don't you go to our room and pick a movie?"

Julia smiled shyly and left the living room without saying anything, a sign that she had calmed down a bit.

"Hey. Come here, please."

Charles took your hand, seeing in your eyes a feeling he promised never to cause again every time you had an argument.

Pain. Disappointment. The feeling of not being good enough.

Overthinking it all.

"You're right, love," he said, wiping away the tears starting to fall from your face. "I'm so sorry for acting like a jerk, I just wanted us to have a good time and for you to be able to socialize with the guys like before Juls came into our lives."

"Don't worry, Charles," you tried to give him a niec smile, but it wasn’t really worth the try. "I got a bit intense too. I guess it's the hormones, they're changing every now and then and..."

You realized you messed up at that moment. Quickly, like a reflex movement, you put you right hand on your mouth, but it was already too late.

Once again, you fucked up even it was supposed to be a surprise...

"What do you mean, hormones?"

"I'm pregnant," you whispered. "I know we weren't planning it, but..."

The Monegasque was speechless, and a broad smile began to spread across his face.

"That's incredible!" he exclaimed, hugging you affectionately. "We're going to be parents again. I mean, it’s not like I was expecting this news but honestly, I can't believe it..."

"Mommy! Daddy! When are you coming?"

Julia appeared again. Now, she was wearing her father's Ferrari cap which, despite being too big for her little head, she loved. Her face immediately covered with a smile as soon as she saw her parents hugging, quickly forgetting you two were talking more loudly than you should moments before.

"Great! We're all together and happy now!" she shouted down the hallway until she reached the bedroom Charles and you shared.

Once the growing family lay down on the bed and started watching Cars for the umpteenth time —because to Julia, Lightning McQueen reminded her of her father—, Charles couldn't help but think how lucky he was to have his family by his side, even he was far from stupid sometimes.

474 notes · View notes

oatmealaddiction · 3 days ago

Text

A lot of people aren't really understanding what I'm trying to say here, which granted this was an off the cuff post on a complicated subject. Let me try again.

I think some of you guys think art that wasn't made with your tastes or preferences in mind is automatically bad because it doesn't adhere to your own criteria for judging art. Because something is lame, or amateurish, or is just kind of easy to consume popcorn art, that it therefore is made lesser than other art, but to say that is to imply that the people who find meaning in making or engaging with that kind of art are also lesser. To me, as long as there is human expression in art, that art will always have value, even if it's a bedazzled watermelon that's rotting in your fridge.

Right now culturally there is a move to remove artists from the creation of art, either through wage theft, AI, or leashing of creative control. People working in artistic fields are reporting worse working conditions, lower pay, and less creative control. As a result, art that should be a collaboration between many people, like movies, is becoming more and more monotonous and empty as the writers, directors, actors, costume designers, set designers, lighting crews, puppeteers, animators, and digital effect creators are all being shoved to the margins, while spreadsheets and data trends are given leeway to do all the actual artistry. We as consumers of art suffer too because we miss out on the opportunity to see the actual original ideas that artists were passionate about making.

I honestly feel like the two worst kinds of art out there, is the art that didn't get to be made, and the art nobody wanted to make, and this problem in the industry contributes to that.

This is not a post to just shit on whatever popular art trend annoys you right now. I'm not here to shame erotica, any specific genre or art movement, or things pertaining solely to taste. I especially am not here to make that "not all art is equal" argument. This is a post about how artists should be allowed to make art even if it's bad and unprofitable, and they shouldn't have the value stripped from their labor or their voices silenced because a Reddit poll didn't like their ideas.

I feel like some of you guys think "bad art" is like someone gluing rhinestones to a water melon, or a guy who made his own armchair out of Ohio license plates, or a trashy romance novel where someone says "the blue-eyed one kissed the brown-eyed one," when in reality bad art is a 1000000 Billion Dollar movie where none of the workers got paid and every single creative decision was market tested to see how lucrative of a profit it could foreseeably make to wow shareholders.

41K notes · View notes

papayasector · 3 days ago

Text

the day i made it to f1 - lando and oscar cut

transcript below the cut!

q: do you remember the day you made it into formula one? lando: i was racing formula two in monza. think we just had a good race with george. i can't even remember to be honest, whether zak told me, or i think my manager told me. [flashback clip] q: let's speak to formula one's lando norris! how does that sound, my friend? lando: yeah! i guess it's always good news and it's an exciting moment cause it's a big step forward in my career. so, i look forward to it! oscar: uh, well! it seems like an easy question to answer. not that easy to answer for me! i signed my first contract to be an F1 driver in a parking lot in the services in the UK and that was it. signed it in the backseat of their car, in the middle of nowhere!

q: who was the first person that you told? oscar: well, i think, it would've been – i can't remember which order i did it in – but my mum and my dad.

q: can you remember how long you had to wait after receiving the news, signing the contract, and being able to tell people? oscar: about a month? then it was– it was pretty public at that point!

q: was there a sense of relief when you made it into formula one? oscar: it was definitely a sense of relief when you make it. flashback clip: in his rookie season, oscar piastri wins the sprint! oscar: it's a sense of relief, but a sense of kind of starting again. because you do all the hard work in the junior categories to get there, and then you feel like you're starting from pretty much zero again. so, relief, but then some nervousness and excitement. lando: bit of relief. mmh, hopefully just happy!

q: when did it feel real to you? lando: i think on the grid for the first time in australia.

q: who from your personal life has helped you the most? oscar: the personal people that have helped me the most are my family. my dad going to all the races, my mom supporting me and supporting my sisters and giving me the free time to go racing. lando: uh, my dad and my mum. flashback clip: (cisca norris saying) voor lando!

q: what has kept you driven in this sport? oscar: i think wanting to become a professional racing driver is what kept me driven. and trying to get to the top of the sport and trying to race against the best people and trying to prove i'm the best. lando: i enjoy what i do and i want to win a championship.

#made me emotional ngl #oscar was definitely fighting demons in this video though #lando norris #oscar piastri #landoscar #f1 #mclaren

261 notes · View notes

casssmalefantasy · 17 hours ago

Text

i never stopped being yours - paige bueckers x reader!

s: you and paige were best friends that turned into something more in high school. but then uconn, fordham, and distance happened. now it’s christmas, and she’s in your house again—looking at you like you’re still hers.

w: angst, emotions, old feelings, cursing, kissing, heartbreak to maybe not so heartbreak

word count: 5.9k

you remember every detail of the first time she kissed you.

you were sixteen. it was a saturday night, summer soft and thick in the air. she was sleeping over like she had a hundred times before. you were in your room, half watching netflix, half scrolling your phone, legs tangled in hers like always.

then, out of nowhere, she said your name.

softly. like she needed to say it just to hear how it felt.

you turned your head, eyes locking with hers. and she kissed you. no warning, no question. just lips on lips and her heart in your mouth.

everything changed after that. but also… nothing did.

you didn’t make some big announcement. there wasn’t a post or a reveal. just quiet touches in hallways. late night drives with music low and fingers laced. soft, secret moments that belonged to you and her.

and that was enough.

because it was real.

even when the rumors started—people whispering about how close you two were, how no one else ever stood a chance, you kept it between you.

even when paige started getting more attention, offers, interviews. she posted you here and there, a silly selfie. a birthday post on her story. a video of you dancing during a family vacation. from an outsider, it wasn’t obvious that more was going on.

“they don’t need to know everything,” she told you once, your head on her chest, her fingers in your hair. “i just want to protect you.”

you weren’t mad. not really. she was trying. and you didn’t want the attention either. your dream wasn’t cameras and crowds. it was press passes and press boxes. you wanted to write about sports, not be part of someone else’s headline.

when you got into fordham, she hugged you before your mom could. picked you up off the floor and whispered, “i’m so proud of you” into your neck like it was a secret only the two of you could know.

and then the world fell apart.

covid hit. her season was cut short. everything went still. except her. except you.

you convinced your parents to let her quarantine with you. “she’s practically family,” you said. and she was.

those months were some of the best of your life. quiet and chaotic at the same time. making tiktoks in your pajamas. late-night baking. falling asleep mid-conversation and waking up with her hand on your back.

but then july came.

and with it, packing. she was leaving for uconn. you were leaving for fordham. things started to change—subtle at first. shorter replies. less eye contact. hugs that didn’t last as long.

then came the text.

paigeyy 💗

can we go for a drive?

you knew what that meant. it’s what you always did when something needed to be said.

you got chick-fil-a and drove to your spot—a hill that overlooked the city, quiet and half-forgotten. you sat there in silence, fries untouched. the air thick with what you didn’t want to say.

“how you feeling about leaving for college?” she asked finally, not looking at you.

you laughed, too light. “shouldn’t i be asking you that?”

she smiled. but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“i’m excited. and scared.”

“you’re gonna kill it,” you said, meaning every word. “uconn’s lucky to have you.”

she went quiet again.

“i’ve been thinking about… us.”

your heart dropped. you turned to her, suddenly cold. “what about us?”

she still wouldn’t look at you.

“i think we should take a break.”

you blinked. “what?”

“not because i don’t love being with you. it’s just, this next chapter is gonna be a lot. and maybe it’s better if we focus on school and our goals. just for now.”

you felt like you’d been slapped. “so that’s it?”

“no,” she rushed. “you didn’t do anything. you’re everything, you are. but this. us. it’s a lot. and i’m scared it’ll get harder.”

“you promised me,” you said, voice shaking. “that if we ever did this, it wouldn’t end badly.”

“we were kids.”

“we still are.”

she looked away. “i just don’t want to hurt you.”

“too late.”

you asked her to take you home. she didn’t argue.

you left her car with a tight “i hope you get everything you want at uconn.” and that was the last time you really talked.

—

you got a text when you moved into fordham.

paige

heard you moved in! hope everything is good. i’m here if you ever need a friend to talk to ❤️

you hearted it. nothing more.

you followed her career from a distance. saw her face on espn. watched her games late at night, volume low. your mom would mention things her mom said, and you pretended not to care.

you heard about the girls she was seen with. you didn’t ask questions.

you tried to move on. went on dates. let people kiss you who didn’t taste like cherry chapstick.

it wasn’t the same.

—

when your mom told you the bueckers were coming for christmas, your stomach flipped. you told yourself you were fine. you’d see her, say hi, act normal.

and then she walked through the door.

she looked different. older. more confident. still paige, but sharper around the edges. she looked you up and down, then smiled, soft and unsure.

“hey.”

then she was upstairs in your room like nothing had changed, laying on your bed like she hadn’t shattered you five months ago.

“fordham treating you good?”

“yeah. busy.”

she nodded. “i saw your tweet about the knicks. still delusional, huh?”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re lucky you’re barely on twitter or i’d ratio you.”

she grinned. “you still watch my games?”

you hesitated. “sometimes.”

she raised an eyebrow. “just sometimes?”

you looked away. “okay. most games. you’re good, i guess.”

she went quiet for a second.

“i missed you.”

your throat tightened. “i missed you too.”

“no. like…i missed you. not just the idea of you. you.”

you stared at her. “you ended things.”

“i know,” she said, voice thick. “and it was the dumbest thing i’ve ever done.”

you didn’t say anything.

she sat up, eyes locked with yours. “i was scared. not of you. of what loving you might cost. of the noise. the pressure, but mostly of how much i cared.”

you swallowed. “you said it was for the best.”

“i lied.”

you blinked.

“i tried to forget,” she whispered. “i tried to let go, but all i could think about was you. and being here now, seeing you again—it’s just made it worse.”

you were quiet for a long time.

“it never stopped for me either.”

she reached out, tentative. “can i kiss you?”

you nodded.

and then she did.

and everything you’d been holding in fell apart and came back together all at once.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #ncaa women’s basketball #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x black!reader

241 notes · View notes

zeropro · 3 days ago

Note

Hey, I was wondering. You've done some StarBee stuff here and there, and although I know you don't do a lot of romance stuff, I'm wondering if you still have any StarBee fanfic recs?

Your recs so far have been pretty good, and I'm wanting kinda wanting more of these two.

Actually, it doesn't even have to be romance or heavily romantic, just anything with the two interacting. I sorta have the same sentiment you have of them where Bee was my favourite character for a long time and I also like Starscream and just having the two interacting together is fun XD.

sure, here’s some ive enjoyed!

I already recomended this one but it’s my favorite so I have to include it: Ghostly Touch by Baird Crevan where Starscream gets attacked in his apartment and Bee can do little more than watch.

I usually dont recommend works with nsfw content in it, but You Remember Her Differently by funeralpigeon was a big inspiration to me for my Starscream: Origins fic. tw: SA, implied CSA

this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore by postapocolyptic cryptic, another one I’ve recced before but it’s so good

Perchance to Dream by galateaGalvanized has Windblade delving into Starscream’s mind in order to rescue him from his own self destructive escapism.

Tried to Wash You Away by ThunderstormandMemories is a short fic covering a conversation between ghost Bee and Scream.

Home is Where the Spark is by Replica of Divinity is a short but cute 300 word drabble

Another short one: Come Back to Me by MeinongsJungleBook

Choose Your Bot by Graceful Storyteller is a short but fun piece where Bee tries to set Starscream up with a partner

You make me feel like a shooting star by MeinongsJungleBook is another short one exploring how Starscream feels about having Bumblebee’s good influence in his life

Embraced by Spruudle has a touch averse Starscream requesting some cuddles from Bee and it’s very soft

I debated recommended this one cuz I feel like it’s a little above my reading level, but Photonic Bodies by FourthFloorWrites is a fascinating read.

Insecurities by EvalynnMesserli, StarWindBee threesome anyone?

Disbelief by ambustested is another one that explores Starscream’s insecurities about being with Bee, this time with more involvement from other bots

Melt Like Ice by tasmc, in which Bumblebee confesses his feelings to Starscream and Starscream has a really hard time accepting this

A little Speck of Color by RoboHippie sees Bumblebee processing his grief after Starscream sacrificed himself to defeat Unicron

In Simulacrum, Starscream’s the ghost this time and they read together. Implied past Megastar

When you’re sad and when you’re lonely and you havent got a friend by MeinongsJungleBook shows the moment Starscream’s ghost appears to Bee after the Unicron thing

Dreamcatcher by MeinongsJungleBook is as far as I can tell an IDW AU where eldrich dream entities are invading Cybertron. its a metaphor

Pick up All the Pins by postapocolyptic cryptid, in which Starscream has a nightmare and Windblade tries to help. also bee is there

A Lesson in Patience by deadlysoupy has Bumblebee making a surprise gift for valentines day but the secrecy makes Starscream paranoid

The Precipice of You and Me by deadlysoup, an Earthspark continuity fic taking place after season 3 believe it or not!

Bleeding Out for You by deadlysoup, in which Starscream and an injured Bumblebee are stuck underground together

A Silent Scream by theunseeliemperoress is a really good one that tackles themes of disability

And lastly I did start reading Too Far by rainoverthemountains, it’s a slow read so far but it does have some cute Trine Bee interactions, so I’d be remiss to not mention it

#transformers #fic rec #starbee #most of these are ghost bee idw continuity stuff cuz thats how I got into the ship XD

250 notes · View notes

tacoguacamole · 2 days ago

Text

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark’s sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the tress start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You��re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

293 notes · View notes