#I mean I like it I just think it’s kind of weird

[steddiehyperfixation]

@steddiebingo prompts: lecture + skull rock | 1.2k words | G/T |

Eddie closes his locker to find Nancy suddenly standing right beside him. “Jesus!” he startles, hand pressed to his chest. He hadn't even heard her approach.

“Sorry.” She has the decency to look apologetic. “I didn't mean to sneak up on you, I just wanted to talk to you for a sec. I hear you and Steve are...together?” She says it carefully, with the inflection of a question, and Eddie has a vague feeling like she's testing him but he has no idea what for.

“Um.” He doesn't know what the right answer is. “Well, I don't know exactly- I mean, kind of? It's not really anything, we've just...made out a couple times.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows. “You just...made out a couple times,” she repeats.

Eddie shrugs, getting a little nervous that he's failing her test. He really cannot get a read on her right now. “Yeah, um, I mean, it was probably just like a one time, two time thing…”

A tiny scrunch flickers across her face and she mutters to herself, “God, is that what I sounded like?”

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry, I just got major deja vu.” She shakes her head and then looks back up at him with those big, serious eyes. “Anyways. Look, you might not think it's anything, but I know Steve and I guarantee you he already thinks you guys are something. So if you only wanted it to be just a one time, two time thing, then you better tell him quick before he gets too deeply attached. He falls fast and he falls hard, don't let him get too serious if you're not.”

She reminds him vaguely of a teacher lecturing some clueless kid, but Eddie feels less chastised and more like he's just been punched in the chest. “Wait, you really think-?”

“He wants something real, he always has,” Nancy continues, “and if you guys haven't talked about it, he's just going to assume that's what you are. He's a hopelessly hopeful romantic, Eddie, he can't help it. He's all in already, I'm sure, so if that's not what you wanted out of whatever you two have got going on, then don't waste his time - don't waste your time. Don't play along and break his heart if you already know you don't feel the same.”

“No, I wouldn't-” Eddie finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, can't do much more than give her a sort of deer-in-headlights stare.

“I'm not judging you,” she reassures him in a slightly softer tone now, clearly misinterpreting something in his expression. “I'm not upset with you. I'm just trying to give a little advice, from my own experience. Just make sure you two are on the same page, alright? That's all I'm saying. For both of your sakes.”

“Right- yeah, thanks,” he stammers. He points his thumb awkwardly over his shoulder. “I, uh, I gotta go…”

He doesn't wait for a response before he turns and hurries down the hall to get outside. A deep breath of fresh air to shake off the weird suffocating feeling Nancy's lecture had given him, and then Eddie's heading straight for the nearest phone. He has to talk to Steve, has to see him.

“Hey, Stevie,” he says the second the other line picks up. “I'm ditching class right now, wanna hang out?”

“Yeah, of course,” Steve agrees immediately, a smile in his voice. “I can meet you at our usual spot in, like, 20 minutes?”

'Our usual spot', aka Skull Rock, the make-out spot--their spot now apparently since that's where it started, since that's where they've met the last three times they've hung out alone, the last three times they've kissed and kissed and not talked. But Eddie can't think of anywhere else to suggest, so he says, “Yeah, sounds good. See you soon.”

He hangs up the phone and heads for Skull Rock.

A short drive and a longer hike and he's leaning against the side of that infamous skull-shaped boulder, watching the surrounding foliage for signs of Steve. He doesn't have to wait long before Steve steps out from the brush in all his gorgeous glory, face lit up in a beautiful smile just at the sight of Eddie.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Steve walks up to him and draws him straight into a kiss, because that's what they do here, at Skull Rock, the make-out spot, their spot. His lips are soft and warm and Eddie melts right into it, draping his arms over Steve's shoulders and kissing back before he remembers that he'd meant to use his mouth for talking instead.

“Wait, Steve.” It takes all Eddie’s willpower to break the kiss and pull back enough to speak. “Is this real to you?”

“Hmm, feels pretty real, but I don’t know, I could be dreaming. I never can tell around you,” Steve flirts easily, voice a smooth murmur as he brushes some of Eddie’s hair out of his face, caressing his cheek. “Might need to pinch me just to be sure.”

“No, I mean-” Eddie ducks out from between Steve and the rock, putting a little more space between them before he can give in to the ever-growing urge to give up on talking and go back to kissing. “Um, Nancy kind of ambushed me in the hall earlier, gave me this whole lecture about how you get attached really quick and how if I only wanted this to be something casual I should tell you fast before you get too serious, because she thinks you're probably already serious and that you want something real,” he provides context in an awkward, nervous rush, not even pausing for a breath, “and I just- I need to know, is that true?”

“Oh.” The previous playful flirtatiousness drains from Steve’s expression and his face falls. “Um.” He shakes his head, more like he's trying to clear his thoughts than anything. “Shit- I’m sorry if she freaked you out. She had absolutely no right to try to speak for me like that. I mean, I really am fine if you just want this to be casual...”

“I don't, I just thought that's what you wanted,” Eddie says. He hasn't been explaining this right. “Because that's all we've been doing - we come here and we make out and that’s it, casual, so this whole time I just assumed that's all it was to you. But then Nancy said all that stuff about you and it gave me this hope I hadn't let myself have before, so can you please just tell me if she was right?” He looks at Steve, eyes big and earnest. “Because I really, really want her to be right.”

Steve just stares at him for a moment, then softens with a sigh. “Yeah,” he admits, a tentative smile tugging at his lips, “she was right. I definitely don't just feel casual about you - it's real; I want real.”

Eddie’s face bursts into a grin. He throws his arms around Steve and pulls him into another kiss. “Then let’s get out of this casual fucking place.” He takes Steve by the hand and starts dragging him away from Skull Rock. “Come on, let me buy you some lunch.”

[drchucktingle]

As an autistic person, did you struggle to make and keep friends? And have you found friends through the writing world? I ask because my mom always said i needed to find my people. I did finally find them (they are neurodiverse trans nerds, haha), but not until i was like 30. And i wonder if its true of other autistic people too. So i guess my question is: did you find your people, and when?

thank you this is good question. i have always had a LOT of CLOSE BUDS even from a very young age. i would actually say that i am unusually socially adept in my way and that it is partially BECAUSE of my autistic trot. LETS TALK ON THAT FOR A MOMENT

'BUT CHUCK YOU SAID YOU ARE ON THE SPECTRUM AND AUTISTIC BUCKAROOS CANNOT BE SOCIALLY ADEPT' some say. and sure it is UNUSUAL overall, technically speaking, but there is also an important reason we talk about this as a spectrum of buckaroos and not a monolith

when buckaroos ask me what it is like to be autistic i try to explain like this: there are certain cues and markers from the outside that serve as a sort of identification checklist but because of masking they are not always correct. instead i see it as question of WHAT IS IT LIKE INSIDE YOUR BRAIN?

internally my brain is different. its taking in way more information all the time, including the stuff that neurotypical buds block out, and that can become overwhelming. it is hard to navigate because i do not have that automatic neurotypical 'here is what is important here is what is not' function

so yes i can be easily distracted and zone out as i watch the patterns and fractals spin off. and yes i can miss certain things in social situations. in many autistic buckaroos this makes large groups overwhelming and the OUTPUT of behavior matches what we typically know as signs of autism

FOR ME however, same thing is going on inside, but i have managed to HARNESS that information. even from very young age i see that everyone is DOING THE HUMAN ACT but instead of rejecting that and shutting off i think 'well okay i am just going to do THIS because thats what they actually want'

in other words, most neurotypical buds say one thing that has a kind of spiraling social-cue-related OTHER MEETING (they do this ALL the time) and instead of rejecting that i have trained myself to be REALLY REALLY good at knowing the hidden meaning. it is EMPATHY but on a sort of LOGIC BASED level

and because i have always been pretty good at that, people like to trot around me and say 'wow this is a good friend they understand me'. now for ME that can be a little exhausting and there are things i need to do and stims and all that to release the effort, but overall it is worth it to me

OTHER THING is that i was a successful CREATOR AND ARTIST BUCKAROO from an early age which is socially seen as 'cool' especially when you are trotting around in your youth. it is not particularly FAIR but it is true that some level of fame makes buds treat you well even if you are 'weird'.

of course it can be a sort of FAKE 'treating you well' but as an autistic buckaroo it is still more of a chance than you might otherwise get. this timeline has sort of carved out a very special little sliver of social grace for the token odd artistic weirdo to have a seat at each cool kids table

ANYWAY that is the trot of my life. it is a unique trot that i dont get to talk on much but since you asked THERE YOU GO. every chance i get to say 'I LOVE BEING AUTISTIC' and talk on HOW MUCH IT HAS IMPROVED MY LIFE i try to take a moment and do that. when i was young i had few autistic heroes

and OF COURSE it can be difficult and overwhelming and we need to have space for those stories and voices, but i want young buckaroos who get this diagnosis to know there are ALL KINDS of stories and trots on the autism spectrum. MINE IS PRETTY DANG COOL and maybe yours will be too. LOVE IS REAL

[beloveds-embrace]

Might we have a nibble of undesignated reader?

🦥

How about a whole… cookie? 🍪

Omegaverse Masterlist

It’s not the first time you’ve heard them talk.

The barracks aren’t exactly known for their privacy. Voices carry through the thin walls, whispers slipping through cracks like smoke, curling into places they don’t belong. You’ve learned to ignore it for the most part, tuning out the idle gossip, the careless words thrown around by people who don’t know you, don’t understand you.

But tonight, the words stick.

“They don’t even have a scent, man. It’s weird.”

“Yeah, but they’re still sharp as hell in the field. Maybe they were supposed to be a Beta?”

“Nah, bet they were meant to be an Alpha, but something went wrong.”

“Or maybe an Omega? That’d be even worse- imagine being designed for pack life and ending up like that.”

Laughter follows, sharp and cruel, and you walk away before you hear anything else.

You don’t go to your room. You don’t go to the common area or the mess, or the nest. You don’t go anywhere someone might find you.

Instead, you find yourself outside, away from the hum of voices and the weight of constant, curious stares. The night air is cool against your skin, crisp and biting, the smell of damp earth grounding you in a way nothing else can.

You breathe in deep- and it doesn’t stick the way it should.

What would you have been, if you weren’t… this?

If something hadn’t gone wrong?

Would you have been an Alpha, all quiet dominance and steady control? Would your voice have carried weight, your presence something that demanded obedience without needing to ask? Would you have had instincts that made sense, a drive to protect, a need to claim?

Or an Omega? Soft, warm, instinctively attuned to the emotions of those around you? Would you have been able to scent your pack, comfort them with nothing but your presence? Would you have been wanted in a way that didn’t feel conditional, based on how useful you could be?

Or a Beta- level-headed, unaffected, fitting neatly into the gaps between extremes? Would it have been easier that way, to exist without feeling like something is missing?

Awful generalizations, you know. But at the same time- you wouldn’t know. You’d never know, bcause you’re none of them.

You’re nothing.

Faulty.

The door creaks open behind you, and you don’t bother turning around to see who it might be.

John doesn’t say anything at first, either. Just stands beside you, looking out into the dark, hands tucked into his pockets. The silence stretches, long and heavy, before he finally speaks.

“Got something on your mind?”

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you swallow hard, staring at the horizon like it might hold the answers you’ve never found.

“…What do you think I would’ve been, Cap?”

John doesn’t ask what you mean. He understands, because of course he does. He hums, tilting his head in thought.

“Dunno,” he admits eventually, lighting a cigar. “Never thought about it.”

You huff a quiet, bitter laugh. “Why not?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

You finally turn to look at him, searching his face for something- pity, understanding, a lie wrapped in kindness. They’ve accepted you into their lives and their nest- but how much of it is real, and how much of is just taking pity on a walking, talking fault?

But there’s none of that. Just certainty, his eyes peering at you with no hesitation.

“You are what you are, love,” he says simply, taking a drag of the burning cigar. “And that’s enough.”

A lump forms in your throat, thick and tight. “It’s not, though.”

“For them? Maybe not.” He exhales through his nose, gaze steady. “For us? It always has been.”

The words land heavier than you expect.

Because for all that you’ve questioned yourself, for all the times you’ve wondered if you were missing some crucial piece, they never have. You are theirs, not because of a designation, not because of instinct or scent or pity.

Just because you are.

John claps a hand on your shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze before turning back toward the building.

“Come inside,” he says. “We’re waiting for you. Simon’s kept a plate of food- actual food, not mess slop- for you.”

And maybe- just maybe- that’s enough.

[batfamgalore]

As much as Bruce, Tim, and Damian help poor people and do good for the world it’s weird to think that Dick and Jason are the only two who didn’t come from money so no matter what they will always have an understanding of things that the others won’t. And it’s not their fault or anything, they all help so many people, but in a way I kind of wish it was addressed a bit more.

(I mean this in terms of the four of them, I don’t know much about other characters so you can add if you know more than me!)

Like Tim and Damian were in giant environments and probably never felt like they wanted something they couldn’t get.

Dick was working as a performer and living in a trailer. He was happy, yes, but to go from a trailer to a mansion is insane.

Jason lived in a small apartment with just his mom who barely provided for him. He has to make things work on his own.

Bruce grew up in the mansion. Obviously he helps people and does a lot of good, they all do, but it really does put things in perspective. Bruce never had to worry about wanting things and not getting them.

I guess sometimes it shocks me that Dick and Jason don’t get along better since it seems inherently they would have the same views on certain things.

Again, not saying Bruce, Tim and Damian didn’t go through their own difficult living situations, it’s just something I thought about.

[cvnt4him]

I think tobios the kind of guy to really REALLY be in love with his first love. I mean this guy would be obsessed with whoever took his virginity, I solely believe that.

He literally would be so in love with you without even noticing. He would love being close to you, he'd get all smiley with you and y'know his smile isn't all that but when he's genuine with it, it's the prettiest thing to see on him.

Holding his face and peppering kisses on him in front of the team, Hinata and tsukishima teasing him for it. He groans but ultimately loves it. He loves you.

When you met his sister she was kind of scary. She had this unapproachable look about her, there was so much stress and pressure to be good and great for his family. But she was actually really sweet, really interesting and a genuinely great sister for the most part.

His grandfather was absolutely hilarious and tobio wouldn't admit it to you or anyone else, but it meant a lot to him that his grandfather actually took a liking toward you. The way you unintentionally made his grandfather crack up at your occasional mishaps on your words and the weird little sounds you made when you realized you fucked up your sentence, or when you sounded so robotic to remember the interesting things you told yourself you were interested in for the sake of his grandfather.

I like to think kageyama is REALLY emotionally constipated to the point he knows NOTHING....about love or even being interested/attracted to someone. He gains such a genuine attraction towards you, it physically hurts him. He can't help but to groan in some sort of annoyance when he sees you because he knows his body betrays him. It always makes it clear that he's happy to have you around.

Whether he becomes a flushed mess, his stupid cheeks filling with blood and getting all warm and red. His ear become impossibly warm as well, he swears he can't even hear you speaking to him. Or whether it be his eyes wandering down to your lips, his thoughts thinking about how he loves it when you kiss him. He prefers those quick kisses you give, to him those are more than enough. His eyes began to trail all over your body, his mind thinking about every part of your body they stop on

His eyes move to your hands, goodness does he love holding them. He really does. When he holds your hand I think he would often squeeze them for a little, like you could just be hiding hands and a for the most part gentle squeeze comes out of nowhere. He holds it in a tight grasp like that for a while before the tightness retreats.

It's so sweet really. You call his name and his blue eyes shoot right back up to yours, kageyama doesn't shy away from anyone but damn why did you have to look at him like that with those stupid fucking eyes of yours..

You offered him a genuine warm smile, your eyes creasing a bit as your smile met them a small chuckle leaving you as you watch him fail to keep eye contact with you. He had a silly little pout on his face as his brows furrowed and his cheeks warmed.

You sigh at your silly boy and pull him into a hug, it was mostly you hugging him. Wrapping your arms around his body as he stiffly stood in your grasp, you give him a long squeeze and groan slightly. You pull away and grab his face pulling his down, with his face in your hands he takes a moment to really feel your hands the softness of them on his cheeks and how he could smell perfume on your wrists.

You give him a couple of kisses on his face causing him to squeeze his eyes shut and groan lightly. He slowly fluttered his eyes open to leer down at you. He's so tall even when you pull him down to level with you.

“ I love you, tobio..”

You whisper to him, clearly not quiet enough because you can hear people snickering behind you. You kiss his nose one final time, you can see the way he's mentally cursing you with his mind. He hates that you had to do this in front of them. He loves you, he swears he does. He may have a funny way of showing it but he genuinely loves you.

“ ...mmn... love...you too..”

Tobio made damn sure he said it quiet enough. He refused to let them hear him say that.

Trust after being with you for a long time he gets out of that. He doesn't care who hears him say he loves you. He's so happy that he's had you for this long.

[lexalith]

FRIENDS || Choi Su-Bong (Thanos)

summary: after late-night sexting with your best friend, everything changes. the bond you thought was purely platonic starts to feel deeper. were these feelings always there, hidden beneath the surface? or did something just… click? is this the start of something real, or the beginning of a mistake that could ruin everything?

warnings: aged up female reader (they’re both in their late twenties) (MDNI), smut (masturbation, fingering, public sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m), sexting, edging, praising, unprotected sex (don’t be silly)) semi and minsu are victims of the reader’s and subong’s freakiness, angst (name calling, miscommunication, pushing, throwing things, lying, deception, fear of commitment, reader refuses to help him at some point, slapping, slutshame remarks), overuse of the words ‘fuck’ and ‘fucking’ (lmaoo), subong should be a warning himself, fwb dynamic, reader uses someone to forget subong, drug use and addiction.

a/n: i’ve never ever written anything here on tumblr before, so i don’t really know what i’m doing, help. also, english isn’t my first language, so mistakes should be present!! lowercase is intentional. this is an au with no games. text messages are in different colors (orange for the reader, purple for subong). the reader’s dialogue is in bold. mind you, this is LOOOONG (it’s a whole fic)

songs that inspired me to write this: friends — chase atlantic || back to friends — sombr || heartbeat — childish gambino || casual — chappell roan

this fic was also inspired by @jedisupernova ‘s writing, check out her page and fics!!! (they’re soooo good)

you’re still thinking about what that guy said. it wasn’t even a big deal, not really. just some random jerk at the club who’d had a few too many drinks and decided to share his unfiltered thoughts about your body. “you’re not really my type,” he’d said, like you’d asked. then he’d laughed and added, “not many guys would go for that.”

it shouldn’t bother you. you know it shouldn’t. but now, a few nights later, it’s stuck in your head, looping like a song you can’t turn off. so, lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly, you do what you always do when something’s bugging you—you text him. your best friend.

subong. are you awake?

yes ma’am. why?

i got a random question. but like, it’s not that deep

???

do you think i’m attractive?

you fire it off without overthinking, like it’s no big deal. it’s not weird to ask your best friend something like this. right?

it takes him a few minutes to reply.

what kind of question is that?

just answer

i’m too high for this shit, bro

you’re not high🙄 liar

i wish i were

omfg can you just say yes or no? please? but be honest, i promise i won’t get mad

yeah, i think u are

really?

sure thinggg, u’re hot mama

dude quit playing, i’m being serious over here

i’m not fucking playing

okay you think i’m attractive but like… what kind of attractive? cute attractive? like awwww. or i’d-fuck-you-raw attractive?

what are we even talking about

why can’t you just answer?😭

what is this for?

for my knowledge

tf is that supposed to mean?

you stare at the screen, mentally deciding whether you should tell him about what happened or not. you hadn’t told him before, not wanting to give it more attention. but this time, you decide to.

ugh, remember i went clubbing the other day? well this dude was being an asshole to me and he said some stuff and i can’t stop thinking about it so just be fucking honest and answer my question

some stuff? what stuff?

he said, and i quote ‘not many guys would go for that’. ‘that’ is me, btw💀

who tf is this dude?

bruh idk, some random guy, it doesn’t matter

it does?

are you gonna answer my question or no?

yeah. i think u r both kinds.

good, good, you think to yourself. his reply makes you relax a little, the knot in your stomach loosening. he thinks you’re attractive. of course he does—he’s your best friend, and best friends are supposed to hype you up.

for a moment, you stare at your phone, chewing on your bottom lip. you know you should leave it there, let it go. but something keeps tugging at you.

so, hypothetically, would you… yk, with me?

the second you hit send, panic sets in. your pulse skyrockets, and you almost want to throw your phone across the room. why did you do that? why couldn’t you just shut up? but you don’t have time to spiral, because the dots appear almost immediately.

are u serious?

and you freeze. your fingers hover over the screen, but you can’t bring yourself to type anything back. what kind of answer is that?

alr, imma be honest. yeah i would

your heart stops. you blink at the message, reading it again and again, like the words might change if you look long enough. you weren’t prepared for this.

subong’s typing…

would u? with me?

you want to lie, to brush it off, but your fingers move before your brain can stop them.

maybe

the dots pop up again. then disappear. then pop up again.

maybe?? that means yes. cmon i’m hot as hell, baby, u know it. u’ve probably touched yourself thinking about me at least once

wtf bro you’re giving me the biggest ick rn 💀

but have u?

and you? i bet you jerk off to my insta photos, perv. don’t even start lmaoo

can’t help it when u look that good💯

you stare at his message, your mind scrambling to process it. you feel your breath catch in your throat. the shock should be overwhelming, but instead, you feel a strange warmth spread through you.

you didn’t expect this. the idea that he’s been thinking about you like that… it sends a shiver down your spine. you should probably tell him to stop, tell him it’s too much, but instead, you feel yourself leaning in, pulled toward this conversation in a way you didn’t think you would be.

i may or may not have done the same with your insta pics

i knew itttt señorita 🙏🏼

shut up

how many times?

why do you wanna know?🤨

i answered ur stupid ass questions, now u answer mine

maybe like idk, two?

no fucking way, just two????????

you think it’s not enough or what???? how many times have you done it?

more than u wanna know

how bad are we talking?

so bad i’ve lost count. u really want me to get into details?

maybe i do

bro, let’s just say that everytime u post i’m over here fighting a battle

you do realize i’m your bestfriend right?

yeah, so?

so aren’t there any girls to jerk off to instead of me???

yeah but they don’t make me as hard

you stare at the screen, your heart pounding, your legs squeezing together instinctively. what the hell is happening right now? and then another message comes through.

even saying this shit is getting me worked up

what???😭 you’re hard??

yeah bro, what's a guy supposed to do when his best friend asks if he would fuck her?

it was hypothetical

hypothetically speaking, if a guy was attracted to his best friend, he'd probably be rock fucking hard right now. so yeah, i'm fucking hard, girl

your stomach flips at the bluntness of his words. you can feel the blood rushing to your face as you stare at the message.

too much info, subong

nahhh, u asked. u wanted details, so here they are

okay… should i leave you to it?

fuck no

damn alr, suffer then🙄

could u help me out?

help you out?????????????

with a pic of u or smth

boy whatttttttttt

what?

i’m not sending you fucking nudes wtf 💀💀

no one asked for that, stupid. just a pic of u

just a pic of you. the request feels so simple. he’s your bestfriend—it’s not that big of a deal, right? especially after everything you’ve both just confessed to each other.

your eyes flick toward the mirror in your room. you’re in your pajamas. no bra. you know how it looks. it’s the kind of thing you wouldn’t think twice about wearing around him in person, but now, with this conversation, it feels different. your legs carry you to the mirror almost on autopilot. you pick up your phone and angle it toward your reflection. you shouldn’t even be entertaining this. but instead, you snap the picture. you stare at it for a moment, biting your lip. it’s not explicit—it’s just you. but still… you know exactly how he’ll see it.

your thumb hovers over the send button, hesitation gripping you. a hundred reasons not to do this race through your head, but one single thought drowns them all out: you want to know how he’ll react. before you can second-guess yourself, you hit send. the moment it delivers, your stomach drops, a mix of adrenaline and regret washing over you. you sit down on the edge of your bed, staring at the screen, waiting for his response, your heart pounding louder with every passing second.

hoooooooooly shitttttttttt

it’s just a pic

yeah, a pic of u looking like that

im just in my pajamas

and i’m hornier now, if that’s even possible

subong you can’t just say stuff like that

why not? we always tell each other everything

i should’ve thrown on a hoodie

i’d still be thinking of what’s underneath

well, glad i could help your horny ass🫡 enjoy or whatever

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

subong’s typing…

subong’s online

you watch the dots—flickering like they're mocking you. you can't help but wonder what he's typing—or if he's second-guessing whatever bold thing he's about to say. but then, they disappear. nothing. you frown, staring at the screen, waiting a few more seconds. still nothing. you realize exactly what he's probably doing. you bite your lip, heat creeping up your neck as the image forms in your mind: him, sitting there, hand wrapped around his dick, staring at the picture you sent.

you feel like you need to do something—anything—to distract yourself. you toss your phone onto the bed and reach for the remote, flipping on a random tv show. you let the noise fill the silence, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. it's a few minutes later when your phone dings. the sound cuts through the room like a knife, and you hesitate for a moment, staring at the screen, before finally reaching for it.

it's him. he sent a picture.

these are my pajamas. now we’re even, baby

him, standing in front of the mirror, shirtless and wearing only a pair of tight black briefs. the way he's posing is so over the top... he's trying way too hard. his expression is almost comical, like he's not really sure if he's pulling it off but is hoping you'll think he is. you can't help it—you stifle a laugh. but then your eyes drop, and that laughter dies in your throat. the bulge is so obvious, pushing against the fabric in a way that's impossible to ignore. it's not just visible, it's big. big enough that your pulse spikes, and you forget to breathe for a second. that laughter you were holding back? gone. you glance back at his goofy grin in the mirror, but it's no longer funny. shit. you’re wet.

you don't even know how it happens. one moment, you're staring at his picture, then a teasing comment here, a bold reply there—and before you know it, you're lying on your bed, your phone clutched in one hand and your other slipping between your thighs, pressed against the growing ache he's stoked with every message. you've never gone this far with him before—always ignoring his obvious flirting. but you can’t stop now. and he isn’t shy about it either, telling you with detail everything he would do to you.

u'd look soooo fucking good begging under me, baby

and what if i don’t?

then i'd make u

mhmmm, how?

fuck, i’d bury my face between those thighs and eat u out until u can’t take it anymore

a soft gasp escapes your lips as you read, your body reacting to the vivid images his words paint in your mind. you know you shouldn't be doing this—not with him—but the way he's describing everything makes you forget about all the reasons why. you’re far past the point of feeling shy too. you bite your lip, barely believing yourself as you hit send.

i wish you could feel how wet i am just thinking about you fucking me from behind

god damn girl, i’d stretch that pussy so good my dick is the only thing u’d think about for weeks

and then, it's not just texting anymore—you're sending pictures, even though you swore you wouldn't. the first one is a close-up of your fingers, glistening with your juices. his reply comes almost instantly, not as a text but as a voice message. “shit, baby, you're f-fucking killing me... mhmm... look at that. you're so fucking wet f’me, I can almost taste it through the screen... fuck...” his voice is low and rough, broken by soft, shaky breaths. you can hear him stroking himself, moans slipping out between words. you're losing your damn mind over it, replaying the voice message again and again—fingers curling inside of you as you push them in and out, wishing it were his fingers instead of yours.

he sends a pic too. this time, he leaves nothing to the imagination. it’s a selfie, his face barely visible at the corner. the center of attention is his hard dick, hand wrapped around it, tip leaking precum. and the only thing that comes to your mind right there and then is just how badly you want to take him in your mouth.

one picture leads to another, the messages growing dirtier with every exchange. his words are filthy, his photos even filthier, and the way he talks about your body—what he'd do to it, what he's imagining—fucking hell. your breathing quickens, your body burning with need, and before you know it, that familiar tension starts to coil low in your stomach.

shit, subong… i’m close

u’re gonna cum for me? cmon pretty girl, let me hear you

you hit record just as your orgasm crashes over you, moaning his name loudly as you cum on your fingers. after a few minutes, he sends a voice message back “you sound so fucking good… shit, look what you’ve done t-to me… mmm… fuck, fuck, fuck… i’m gonna cum thinking about fucking you, baby. i’m gonna cum thinking about you making those… s-sounds while i fucking pound into you.”

the next few days are a blur. he hasn’t texted, and you haven’t either. but no matter what you do, you can’t stop thinking about what happened. no matter how hard you try to shake it off, it’s there. his voice, the way he sounded saying your name, the damn nudes, the way your heart raced as you typed those things to him.

you don’t know how to feel about it. on one hand, you can’t deny how much you wanted it in the moment. but now? now you’re not sure. did you cross a line? did he? part of you regrets it, wishes you could just rewind and stop yourself before things spiraled. but another part—one you’re trying to ignore—remembers how good it felt, how right it seemed in the moment.

and then there’s the friendship. years of it. he’s been your best friend for a few years now. he knows things about you no one else does and he’s seen you at your absolute worst. like that night you showed up at his door after a horrible breakup. mascara streaked down your cheeks, and he didn’t say a word—just handed you a blanket, put on your favorite movie, and sat there with you until you fell asleep on his shoulder.

but it wasn’t always serious. like the time he tried rapping one of his freestyles for you, all cocky, and you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe. or like the time you tripped over absolutely nothing at the mall, and he laughed so hard he cried, then spent weeks reenacting it whenever you were around. or when he clogged your toilet and tried to fix it himself instead of just telling you. or when he picked a fight with some guy at a club because the guy bumped into you and didn’t apologize. he got all puffed up and said, “you got a problem, man?” like he was some kind of action movie hero. but the guy was huge, like, rugby player huge, and before you could drag subong away, he swung and missed, and the dude took him down in one hit. he spent the rest of the night with a bloody nose and ice pressed to his face, grumbling, “he got lucky.” you still remind him of how he ‘lost a fight in one punch,’ and it always makes him groan.

you’ve got a thousand stupid inside jokes that no one else would understand, like how you always text each other ‘don’t die’ instead of ‘goodnight’ because of some dumb horror movie you watched together. or the fact that he nicknamed you ‘señorita’ when you said you wanted to visit spain one day.

he’s a walking disaster, an endless source of secondhand embarrassment, and somehow, that’s what makes subong… subong. being around him has always felt easy, like slipping into your favorite hoodie—comfortable, familiar, safe.

but friends don’t do… that. what if it’s never the same again? you’ve always been comfortable with him, never overthinking what you said or did around him. now, you can’t imagine looking him in the eye without thinking about what you two did together. you keep telling yourself that things will go back to normal, but deep down, you’re scared they won’t. because you’re not sure you can go back—not after knowing what it felt like to be wanted by him in that way. not after letting yourself want him back.

one day, out of the blue, he texts you like nothing happened. just casually, like you didn't have your hand between your thighs while listening to him moan your name a few nights ago.

yoooo, wanna hop on call and play videogames? i’m bored

at first, you stare at the text, because... what does this mean? is this his way of brushing it under the rug? of pretending nothing ever happened? still, you say yes. because what else can you do? you hop into the call, and there he is—joking, laughing, completely normal. like the two of you didn't cross every possible line. he's so good at acting like nothing's changed, it almost convinces you. you match his energy, responding with the same casual ease. maybe this is fine. maybe you're fine.

then the group chat lights up a few days later: a cinema meet-up. everyone's throwing out ideas for what movie to watch, talking about snacks, debating over showtimes. he's there, throwing in jokes about popcorn sizes and his infamous sweet tooth, and you're sitting there trying to decide if you can handle seeing him face to face. you hesitate, debating if you should just make up an excuse not to go. but then he replies to the chat, tagging you specifically.

u better be there señorita

i will🙃

the day arrives faster than you’d like, and before you know it, you’re standing outside the cinema, stomach flipping as you spot namgyu, minsu, gyeongsu, and semi waving at you. you force a smile and walk over, doing your best to focus on their chatter and ignore the nerves crawling up your spine. but then you see him—subong, leaning against the wall, vape in hand. and when his eyes land on you, he smirks. he knows damn well. he knows exactly what you’re thinking, and he’s not going to make this easy for you. “finally,” he says when you’re close enough. “i was starting to doubt you’d come.” “why wouldn’t i?” you reply. he shrugs, taking a puff from his vape “thought you might’ve had better things to do.” the way he says it feels loaded, but he doesn’t give you time to respond, turning his attention to namgyu instead.

when it’s time to head into the cinema, you try to position yourself far from him, making a beeline for a seat between minsu and semi. you settle in, thinking you’re safe, but of course, subong has other plans. “yo, minsu, my boy,” he says as he walks down the aisle, stopping directly in front of you. “mind scooting over? i’ll sit here.” “uh, sure,” minsu says, shifting down without hesitation. you open your mouth to object, but before you can say anything, subong is sliding into the seat next to you, drink in one hand and a bag of popcorn in the other. “hope you don’t mind,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer than necessary. you grit your teeth, keeping your gaze locked on the screen as the previews start. “not at all,” you mutter under your breath.

you think that’s it. but, of course, it doesn’t end there. he shifts in his seat, his arm brushing against yours every now and then, like he’s waiting for you to react. you swear you catch him smirking out of the corner of your eye multiple times. you try to focus on the movie, but it’s impossible when his presence is so loud. every little movement, every tiny glance, has your nerves on edge. and he knows it.

then, you feel it. his hand—light at first— rests on your bare thigh, the heat of his palm sending a jolt through you. you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. what the hell is he doing? his fingers trace a soft line along your skin, caressing just above your knee. you stay still, unsure of what to do, but your body betrays you, not pulling away.

his touch grows bolder, creeping higher up your leg, slipping under your skirt. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. he's still watching the movie, acting like nothing is happening, like his hand isn't inches away from your clothed pussy. “what are you doing?” you finally ask, your voice barely above a whisper. he turns his head toward you, looking innocent, like he's just minding his own business. “nothing.” “subong—” “i'll stop if you want me to.” you don't answer, torn between wanting to push him away and not wanting him to stop at all. “do you want me to stop? be honest,” he says, still waiting for your response. “no,” you reply, looking away with embarrassment. he chuckles softly—hand rubbing the inside of your thigh.

you drape the thin jacket you brought over your legs, a flimsy attempt to shield his hand from semi’s view. every nerve in your body screams that you shouldn’t be letting this happen, but you don’t stop him. he spreads your legs with his hand for better access, and soon you feel two of his fingers pressing against your clit over the fabric of your panties. your breath hitches, and you try not to move—not even a sound escapes you—but your lips part at the feeling of his touch. he moves them slow—too slow—in a way that has you shifting against him, your hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more. and he gives it to you. his hand slips beneath your soaked underwear, and a low chuckle leaves him when he feels just how wet you are.

subong knows what he is doing. he rubs your clit in circles, gently but with enough pressure to have you biting your bottom lip. and god, his fingers feel so much better than you ever imagined. when he quickens the pace, a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly slap a hand over your mouth, pretending to be focused on the screen. but the rapid rise and fall of your chest betrays your so-called calm. before you can collect yourself, semi leans in. “are you okay?” “mhm,” you nod quickly, forcing a smile. “yeah, don't worry, i—” your words falter when his fingers move faster. you bite your lip, trying to hold it together, but he's clearly enjoying watching you struggle. “i-i'm fine,” you manage to stutter. semi raises an eyebrow. “you sure?” “yeah,” you nod. “alright,” semi says before shrugging and turning her attention back to the screen.

you let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through you. your head snaps toward subong, eyes narrowing in a glare that’s meant to convey exactly how ridiculous he’s being right now. you dig your nails into his wrist, “are you crazy?” but he only pauses for a second, leaning in close enough to whisper, “relax, girl. no one noticed.” the audacity of him sends heat rushing to your face. but he doesn’t back down, his fingers resuming their slow, torturous movements. and just as you’re about to reach your orgasm… he stops. your body jerks in frustration, and you whip your head toward him, confused. his smirk only deepens as he pulls his hand from under your skirt, bringing his fingers to his lips and licking them clean. “what the fuck?” you whisper, a soft groan escaping at the loss of his touch. “what?” he whispers back, feigning innocence. “you know what.” “i don't. you'll have to spell it out for me.” “subong—” “tell me what you want.” the frustration wells up in your chest. to him, this is probably hilarious—you being so desperate. but for you? it's humiliating. pathetic. begging your best friend for something like this. still, the need outweighs your pride. you lean in, your lips almost brushing his ear, “i wanna... i wanna cum. please, make me cum.” “yeah? be fucking quiet, then.”

his fingers slip back under your skirt. your breath catches, and you press your lips together, your body already trembling from how close you were before—gripping the armrest, barely able to keep still. every nerve in your body feels like it's on fire, and when his fingers circle just right, you're done. the release hits hard, and you muffle your moans by biting down on your lip so hard it stings.

the days after are... strange. again. no texting, no acknowledgment, no teasing, nothing. it's like it never happened. and when he does text again, it's so casual it throws you off. he sends a random picture, a meme he has found on instagram.

this shit is so funny bro loooololol

i fear your humor is broken😐

naahhh u just don’t get ittt babyy

you reply like everything's fine because, well, isn't it? you don’t even know at this point.

another day, he messages the group chat:

pentagon this weekend?🔥

the replies come fast. namgyu’s working that night. semi has plans with her girlfriend. gyeongsu says he’s too exhausted for it. minsu doesn’t even reply. everyone has an excuse, and eventually, the chat goes dead. then, a private message from subong popps up.

wbu? still down to go?

you and subong had gone clubbing together hundreds of times. hell, most nights it was just the two of you, dancing until your legs gave out, taking blurry selfies, and laughing over cheap drinks. it was normal. so, you type:

yeah, sureee

bet. see u saturday, señorita

when the night comes, your phone buzzes as you’re double-checking your look in the mirror.

outside

outsideeee

outsideeeeeeeee

hellooooooooooooooooooo

one minute, let me grab my jacket

i’m freezing man

one minute my ass

patience is a virtue ❤️

cmooooooooon

u knitting the jacket or what

girl i just hit retirement age waiting for u

you’re so dramatic

and u r so slow, balance baby

you grab your jacket and head out, the bass from his car already thudding through the air when you step outside. you see him leaning against the passenger door, dressed in his usual baggy style—a loose graphic tee, cargo pants, and sneakers that probably cost more than your entire outfit (the only damn thing he saves up for…)—vape dangling lazily from his fingers. when he sees you, his eyes trail over you for a second too long. “you’re overdressed,” he teases with a smile. “you’re underdressed,” you shoot back.

the drive to club pentagon is easy, filled with a mix of rap tracks and subong’s singing. when you finally pull up, the line’s already stretching down the block, but subong doesn’t even blink. “namgyu’s working, right?” he asks, sliding out of the car. you nod. “yeah, he’ll let us in.” inside, the music is already pulsing, bass heavy enough to shake the floors. subong grabs your wrist. “drinks first?” “obviously,” you answer. you follow subong to the bar, the pounding music buzzing in your ears. “what are we starting with?” he asks, leaning against the bar. “shots,” you say, already reaching into your bag. he raises an eyebrow. “you’re paying?” “you’re broke,” you remind him, rolling your eyes before ordering four shots of tequila. when the glasses arrive, he grabs two and hands you one. “guess i’ll owe you,” he says, clinking his glass against yours. “you already do,” you reply, downing the first shot without hesitation. the familiar burn of tequila trails down your throat, and you chase it with a quick breath.

you can feel his eyes on you as you throw back the second shot. you don’t meet his gaze, but you can feel it—the weight of it, the way it makes your stomach flutter. shaking it off, you slam your glass on the counter and signal for one more round. “last one,” you say, mostly to yourself, pulling out more cash. he doesn’t argue, just picks up his shot, watching you as you pick up yours. you both toss back the final shot, and the alcohol is just enough to loosen the knot in your chest. but the way his gaze lingers as he sets his glass down makes it tighten again. “dancing?” you ask. he nods. you push through the crowd till you find a spot on the dance floor. the techno track thuds through your chest as you sway to the rhythm. subong moves with you, not particularly in sync with the beat, but in his own way that somehow works. every now and then, his eyes catch yours, and you have to force yourself to look away.

the music builds, and you let yourself get lost in it, the alcohol buzzing through your veins and the tension from earlier slowly dissolving into the haze of the moment. after a while, he stops moving and pulls his phone from his pocket. you glance at him, curious, as he squints at the screen. whatever he sees makes him smile faintly before he shoves the phone back into his pocket. “i need to hit the bathroom!” he says, leaning close so you can hear. you blink at him, confused. “right now?” he nods, gesturing for you to follow. you don’t argue—it’s not exactly safe to hang around the dance floor by yourself. reluctantly, you let him lead you off the floor.

he disappears into the men’s room, leaving you standing against the wall, arms crossed. you tap your foot, watching drunk strangers stumble past. a few minutes later, the door swings open, and subong walks out, a small smirk playing on his lips. “what took you so long?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him. instead of answering, he holds up a small plastic bag between his fingers. your stomach flips when you see the little colorful pills inside. “what the hell is that?” you ask, but you already know. he grins, tilting his head. “new stuff.” your brows furrow. “what?” “my plug got these,” he says, holding up the bag slightly. “said they hit different. figured i’d try.” he slides one pill between his fingers, studying it like it’s no big deal. then he brings it to his mouth, about to toss it back. “wait,” you say, grabbing his wrist. he scoffs. “what? you want it instead?” you glare at him. “no, subong. what are you even doing? you don’t need that!” he rolls his eyes, freeing his wrist from your grip. “come on, it’s nothing. we’ve had worse.” “worse?” you scoff. “you’re really gonna compare getting blackout drunk and smoking pot to this?” “you’re fucking overthinking it. it’s just one pill. just tonight. trust me.” he says.

you glance at the bag again, at the little pills that seem so harmless yet scream bad idea. “subong…” you start, but your voice trails off. “look,” he cuts in, his voice softer now. “we’re having a good fucking time, yeah? it’ll be just this once, okay? i promise.” “okay,” you say suddenly, lifting your chin. “but if you do one, i’ll do one.” his smirk falters for half a second. “no.” you frown. “what do you mean, no?” “i mean no. you’re not taking one.” “but you can?” you challenge, crossing your arms.“yeah.” you scoff. “that’s bullshit.” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “this isn’t your thing, señorita.” “since when it’s yours?” you snap. “if you’re gonna do it, then so am i.”

he looks at you, really looks at you. then, with an exasperated groan, he reaches into the bag. “fucking stubborn,” he mutters, pulling out another pill. “just this once.” he holds it delicately between his fingers before stepping closer. “open up,” he says, his voice dropping a notch. you hesitate for a second but eventually part your lips, sticking out your tongue. he places the pill gently on it. “there you go,” he says, stepping back and popping his own pill. you swallow it quickly, trying not to think about what you’ve just decided to do.

you move back onto the dance floor, the pill's effects creeping in like a warm wave washing over you. the flashing lights seem brighter now and everything blurs together—colors, sounds, the heat of the crowd—but it feels good. better than it should. your limbs feel lighter, like you're floating, and the energy buzzing inside you pushes you to move. subong is right there beside you, dancing with his hand raised, and you can't stop staring at him. his messy hair sticks to his forehead, sweat glistening on his tanned skin.

before you know it, your arms are around his neck, pulling him in like it’s the only thing keeping you steady. his eyes burn into yours for half a second, like he’s daring you to close the distance. then his hands are on your waist, rough fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin, and he drags you closer until you’re pressed against him. the music is pounding, but it feels distant—like the only rhythm you can hear now is the way your bodies move together, hips rolling in time, every brush of his skin against yours making you burn.

his breath fans across your lips, hot and tasting of tequila and something bitter—maybe the pill he took earlier—and it makes your head spin. then your mouth crashes into his. there’s nothing soft about it. it’s messy and sloppy, urgent—like you’re both too far gone to think about anything but this. his lips part against yours immediately, and your tongues meet in a dizzying clash of heat and need. his hands slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

you tilt your head, chasing the kiss even deeper. you feel the sharp graze of his teeth against your bottom lip, a bite that makes you whimper before he soothes it with his tongue. the sound you make pushes him further—he groans into your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw, tilting your face exactly how he wants it.

you’re not sure where the desperation is coming from, but it feels like if he stops touching you, you’ll shatter. your fingers clutch at his shirt, twisting the fabric as you grind just a little closer, a little harder. he’s breathing just as heavy as you are, lips red and swollen from kissing you like he never wants to stop.

you’ve kissed people before but nothing’s ever felt like this. nothing’s ever felt this fucking good. the two of you stumble out of the club. your legs feel like jelly as you hold onto subong, and his arm wraps around your waist to steady you. his car is parked a few streets over, tucked away in a dark, hidden corner under some trees. “thank god for this spot,” he mutters as he unlocks the doors.

you barely make it into the backseat before he’s on you again—his lips crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for this forever. his hands are all over you, rough and desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. but you’re not going anywhere. his fingers dig into your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, and the second you straddle him, you feel it—hard and thick, pressing right against the heat between your legs. a soft gasp slips out of you, but he swallows it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. fuck, he’s good.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling as your hips start to move, grinding down on him. his grip tightens immediately, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he guides your movements, rocking you against him harder. the friction creates a delicious, aching pressure that makes you whimper against his lips. “fuck,” he breathes, breaking the kiss just long enough to let his head fall back against the seat. his fingers squeeze your ass, dragging you down against him rougher. “keep doing that.” so you do. you roll your hips, slow at first, letting yourself feel everything. you’re already soaked, already throbbing for more, and from the way his hands are gripping you, the way his breathing is getting heavier, you know he feels it too. “i need to eat you out,” he says, trailing kisses down your neck. “want you to cum on my tongue.” you do exactly what he wants—legs spread wide, thighs trembling as his head dips between them. his breath is hot against your soaked pussy, teasing, before his tongue finally makes contact—slow at first, a long, deliberate lick from your entrance to your clit that makes your whole body jolt.

you gasp at the feeling, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging hard, but it only makes him groan against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure straight through you. he doesn’t hold back. he devours you, eating you out like a man starved, his tongue flicking against your clit before he sucks it into his mouth. and when two of his fingers slip inside you, curling deep, pressing against that perfect spot, you swear you see stars. “you taste so fucking good,” he groans against you, his lips slick with your arousal before he flattens his tongue and laps up every drop. the way he’s working you—his mouth, his fingers, the filthy sounds coming from between your legs—it’s too much, too good, and your whole body is trembling, hips rolling against his face, chasing more. “shit—subong!” your voice breaks as the pleasure crashes over you all at once. your thighs clamp around his head, your body arching off the seat as you cum hard against his mouth. but he doesn’t stop—his tongue keeps moving, drinking you in, dragging out your release until you’re shaking.

when he comes back up to kiss you—chin shining with the evidence of your release— your hand instinctively moves to rub him through his pants, the hard outline of his dick impossible to miss. he hisses at the contact, his hips bucking eagerly against your touch. “you got a condom?” you ask. he pauses. “yeah, hold on.” reluctantly, he pulls away and starts patting his pockets. his brows furrow in concentration as he checks one side, then the other. finally, with a relieved grin, he pulls a condom out and holds it up. “got it,” he says before kissing the wrapper, making you chuckle.

he looks so fucking hot as he rolls the condom onto his cock, his chest rising and falling with anticipation. but nothing gets him off more than watching you climb back onto his lap, your soaked folds teasing the head of his dick as you line yourself up. his breath stutters, his hands gripping your thighs, barely holding himself back. “fuck, you’re so wet,” he says, voice tight with restraint. then, slowly you sink down onto him. inch by inch, he stretches you open, filling you up until there’s no space left between your bodies. “shit,” he hisses, watching as your slick coats him, making every movement easy, effortless—like your body was made to take him. and when you start moving, lifting your hips before sliding back down, a broken moan escapes his lips. “fuck, baby,” he breathes, hands roaming up your back, gripping your ass, anything to ground himself as you ride him. “you feel so f-fucking good—look at you, taking me so… mmm… so fucking well.” his voice is needy, and when you slam down harder, his hips jerk up to meet yours, pushing even deeper. “oh my—fuck, subong!” you cry out, your walls clenching around him so tight it makes his whole body tense beneath you.

he almost fucking loses it the second he feels you clench around him, his face twisting in pleasure, jaw going slack. his hands grip your hips, guiding you—faster, rougher—eyes locked on where your bodies meet, watching his cock disappear inside you over and over again. he forces himself to meet your gaze, even though his eyes keep threatening to roll back. “fuck, if i’d known how fucking good this pussy is… i would’ve f-fucked you sooner.” he moans as you move faster, bouncing on his cock—every thrust making obscene, slick sounds that only turn him on more. his eyes drop to your tits, bouncing perfectly in time with your movements, and fuck, he can’t decide what he wants more—to keep watching you ride him like this or to flip you over and ruin you.

but then you tighten around him, your rhythm stuttering as you throw your head back, moaning so loud he swears the whole damn neighborhood can hear you. “fuck— i’m gonna—! i-i’m gonna cum!” you cry out, your whole body trembling, thighs shaking as you cum around his cock. and that’s it. that’s all it takes to break him. “shit—ngh!” his body jerks beneath you, his abs tensing as he spills into the condom, his head falling back, mouth open.

his hands are still gripping you, holding you down against him as he rides out every last pulse of his release, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. and fuck—you’re still wrapped around him, warm and wet and perfect. you end up laughing for a solid twenty minutes after that, still too high to fully process what the fuck just happened between you two. but even in your haze, every single detail stays with you the next day.

fucking your best friend while high as fuck one night might’ve been an accident. but then it happens again. and again. and again. and you can’t call it an accident anymore.

it happens everywhere.

in his car, where the windows are always fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space. in your apartment, where he barely gets the door shut before he’s got you pinned against it, hands rough and greedy, yanking your clothes off like he’s been waiting all fucking day for this. sometimes he doesn’t even make it past the kitchen—he just lifts you onto the counter, knocking over whatever’s in his way, too impatient to care as his mouth moves down your neck. in his bed, where the sheets are always a mess, tangled from how hard he fucks you into the mattress, his hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head. even in a club bathroom, right after he gives a show, still high off the energy, sweat dripping down his temple. you’re barely inside before he’s got you bent over the sink, hiking your dress up, shoving your panties to the side, fucking into you so deep you have to bite your hand to keep from screaming his name.

wherever. the second you’re alone, it’s happening. it becomes a thing. a need.

you always figured subong would fuck good. he never shut up about the girls he’s been with, the shit he’s done, bragging like he was the best lay any of them ever had. and every time he talked about it, you’d feel heat pool between your thighs, wondering if he was really that good or just full of shit.

now you knew. and fuck, he wasn’t lying.

he’s rough and passionate—the kind of lover who takes without hesitation but gives just as much, maybe even more. he loves watching you squirm, loves the way your body responds to him like it was made for this. like it needs this. his fingers trail down your skin, barely touching, making you shiver before he finally gives you what you want. and fuck, he lives for it—the way you gasp when he finally presses his mouth between your legs, the way your back arches when he fills you up, stretching you wide, making you take every inch.

some days, he drags it out, torturing you with slow touches, lazy kisses, making you beg before he finally gives in. he’ll tease you until you’re trembling, hands gripping at him desperately, “please, subong… need you so bad.” and then, maybe then, he’ll give you what you’re begging for. other days? he doesn’t bother waiting. before you can say a word, he’s got you pinned to the mattress, yanking your legs apart, pressing himself against you, making you feel just how hard he is. “been thinking about this all fucking day.” then he’s inside you, fucking you like he’s been starving for it.

it’s been months now—this thing between you and subong. but you don’t talk about it. not once. there’s no late-night confessions, no whispered ‘what are we?’ between tangled sheets. he doesn’t ask who else you’re seeing, and you sure as hell don’t ask him. but the uncertainty lingers. because he’s still your best friend. you still laugh at his dumb ass jokes, roll your eyes when he’s being his cocky self, and feel that weird, warm twist in your stomach when you catch him watching you from across the room.

and yet, there are a bunch of little things that scream something more. like that time you sat on his rumpled bed while he was writing a song, and you helped him hammer out stupid-ass verses—even when he swore they’d never work. you teased him for his cheesy lines and then watched his face light up like he’d just discovered a new fucking world. hell, he even calls you his muse sometimes, and you hate how damn proud that makes you feel.

or that stormy night. the rain was lashing against the windows, and you two were locked in his tiny studio apartment. one minute you were laughing, taking silly pictures of him with a digital camera while he smoked, and the next, he had your face pressed against the wooden table as he fucked you from behind—your ass cheeks burning from his vigorous spanking. after, he pulled you close, running his fingers through your hair as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

that one night he showed up at your door at 2 a.m., high off his ass, slurring your name with that cocky grin, his knuckles tapping too fast against the wood. “couldn’t sleep,” he mumbled, leaning against the doorframe. “fucking missed you.” you should’ve told him to fuck off, should’ve rolled your eyes and slammed the door in his face because he promised he wouldn’t do that shit again. instead, you let him in, let him collapse onto your bed with a heavy sigh, pulling you down with him. his arms caged you in, the scent of his cheap cologne filling your senses.

then there was the time you caught him staring at you while you were getting ready. you were fixing your hair in his mirror, wearing nothing but his oversized t-shirt, and when you turned around, he was just standing there—arms crossed. “what?” you asked, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. he just shook his head, smirking a little. “nothing,” he said. “you just—you look good in my clothes, mama.”

and when you called him crying after a shitty day at work, voice shaking so bad he could barely understand you. you didn’t even have to ask—he just showed up, no questions. drove way too fucking fast to get to you, and pulled you into his chest so tight it felt like he was trying to hold you together. “who do i need to punch?” he asked, half-joking, half-dead serious. and you laughed, even through your tears, because that was him—always trying to make you smile. he let you cry into his hoodie, let you hold onto him like a fucking lifeline, and then, when you finally calmed down, he kissed your forehead like it was second nature. “you’re okay, baby” he murmured. “i got you.” he always had you.

or the night he took you to some shitty underground concert, knowing damn well you didn’t even like the band. “it’s not about the music,” he told you, grinning like an idiot. “it’s about the experience.” you rolled your eyes, but you still let him pull you into the crowd, still let him wrap an arm around you when the pit got too wild, still let him hold your hand. afterward, sweaty and breathless, you sat on the curb outside, sharing a cigarette while he rambled about how sick the show was. “you should play up there one day,” you told him, nudging his shoulder. “your songs have gotten better.” “you think?” “yeah. you’re good, bong-bong.” the nickname made him laugh. a week later, he showed you something he wrote. something raw and messy and fucking beautiful. he let you hear a part of him no one else ever did.

you even helped him rebrand himself. it started with him pacing his room, muttering to himself, stopping every few seconds like he was about to say something, then changing his mind. eventually, you sighed, rolling onto your stomach while watching him from his bed. “are you having a breakdown or just being dramatic?” he ignored you, still pacing. and then, out of nowhere, he stopped. snapped his fingers. looked at you like he just discovered the secret to life itself. “i’m gonna dye my hair purple.” you stared at him for a long second, waiting for him to laugh or tell you he was joking. but he just stood there, completely serious, shoulders squared like he was about to go to war.

within twenty minutes, you were in his bathroom, gloves on, a box of purple dye sitting between you. you didn’t even ask how he got it so fast. knowing him, he’d probably been sitting on this idea for weeks, just waiting for the right moment to drag you into it. he sat on the closed toilet lid, legs spread, while you stood over him, parting his hair and working the dye through. up close, he looked smug as hell, like he knew he was onto something. the whole rap game was about standing out, and he was done waiting for people to notice him.

the name ‘thanos’ caught on faster than you expected. at first, it was a joke—you called him that to be annoying, and then he used it in a song, and suddenly, people were saying it back to him. dms started piling up. more people started listening. before you knew it, subong wasn’t just some guy making music in his bedroom—he was thanos. and, of course, he acted like he knew it was gonna work all along.

and fuck, the time he brought you home to meet his family. his mom fussed over you like you were the perfect daughter-in-law, laying on your favorite dish and insisting you have seconds. then, saying, “he talks about you a lot”, making subong choke on his food while his sister goaded him about how he treats you like his damn girlfriend. you felt so out-of-place and yet so damn loved by the way he proudly introduced you to everyone, as if you were the missing piece in his fucked-up puzzle. he even opened up to you about his dad—how he never gave a shit about him, never looked at him unless it was to point out everything he did wrong. maybe that was why he kept stealing glances at you like he was trying to make sense of it—of being wanted, of being next to someone who actually cared.

and later that night, when you were both lying on his couch, full and sleepy, he nudged your knee with his. “thanks for coming, señorita,” he mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “they liked you.” you turned your head to look at him, saying, “of course they did. i’m fucking amazing.” he smirked, but it faded quick, his gaze lingering on you a little too long. “yeah,” he murmured. “you are.”

nights that weren’t about sex at all. the ones where he just wanted you close, his hands resting on your back, his lips pressed to your shoulder, his voice low and sleepy in the dark. “you’re warm,” he’d mumble, pulling you closer. “don’t leave.” “i work tomorrow, baby,” you’d say. “i’ll drive you… stay with me,” he’d always replied.

and you did. every single time.

and there were the nights he fucked you like he meant it. not just like you were some girl he was hooking up with, but like you were the only one who had ever mattered. like he was trying to prove something with every touch, every kiss, every time he pressed his sweaty forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer.

like he loved you. but he never said it. and neither did you.

so instead, you settled for the quiet moments—for the way he always pulled you into his lap at parties, his hands resting lazily on your thighs; for the way he let you pick the music when you drove anywhere, even though he always bitched about your taste; for the way he let you steal his fries, let you doodle on his lyrics notebook, let you wear his hoodies even when you didn’t ask; for the way he texted you ‘good morning, baby❤️,’ and it made you smile for no damn reason; for the way you woke up to find him still asleep beside you, hair a damn mess on the pillow, and traced lazy circles on his chest while he mumbled some half-remembered melody. for the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

you can’t help but hope that one day you’ll both just say the damn words and finally admit that all these little moments mean something. you hope that maybe, just maybe, one day you’ll stop wondering if you’re more than just friends with benefits.

are u busy?

no, why?

good, i’ll be there in 10

i’m on my period

who gives a shitttt, i sure as hell don’t, mama

subong.

yeah?🙏🏼

not in the mood❤️

oh

alr cool👍🏼💯

can i still come over tho? we could watch a movie or something

yeah okayyy, bring snacks (or else i won’t let you in)

i’m the only snack u need, girl

you don’t expect him to show up with anything, but when you open the door, subong’s standing there, hands full—one holding a plastic bag, the other gripping a bottle of soda. “what’s all this?” you ask, raising a brow. he steps inside without waiting for an invite, kicking off his shoes. “you said ‘bring snacks’, didn’t you?” he says, dropping the bag onto your coffee table. “figured you’d want something sweet.” you peek inside—chocolate bars, a pack of strawberry pocky, even a container of sliced fruit. your chest tightens at the thought of him actually remembering the little things you like.“what, no painkillers?” you tease, flopping onto the couch. he scoffs, collapsing next to you, way too comfortable in your space. “what do i look like, a pharmacy?”

you give him a knowing look, and his lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. grabbing the remote, you ask, “so, what are we watching?” “something i won’t fall asleep to,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch. “which means no boring indie shit.” you nudge his thigh with your foot. “first of all, my movie taste is elite. second, if you fall asleep, i’m taking pictures.” he grins, lazy and cocky. “yeah? what will you use them for?” heat rushes to your face, and you smack his arm without thinking. “shut up.”

the movie plays, and for a while, it’s normal. easy. you snack on the pocky while subong steals pieces of fruit from the container, acting like he’s doing you a favor by eating the ones you don’t like. he stretches out on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. goddamn.

it's barely been a few minutes when you find yourself on your knees in front of the couch, his strong hand fisting in your hair as you hungrily suck his dick like your life depends on it. you couldn’t help it. he just looked too fucking good. you take him deep, your nose pressing against his abs, gagging slightly but refusing to back off. he lets out a groan as you take him, the head of his dick hitting the back of your throat. His hand tightens in your hair, guiding your head up and down. “fuck, just like that baby... show me how much you love this dick.” his hips thrust forward, making you gag slightly. “you're so f-fucking good for me... mmm such a pretty little mouth, choking on my cock.”

drool slips down your chin as you struggle to breathe but maintain eye contact, wanting him to see how much you love taking him in your mouth. the wet, obscene sounds of you slurping and gagging fill the room. he watches you intently, pupils blown wide with lust, his dick throbbing against your tongue. moaning around him, the vibrations make his thighs quake. "shit... you’re gonna make me fucking c-cum," he breathes out. “you gonna… you gonna let me cum in that s-sweet mouth of yours, hm?” “mhmm,” you purr around his length, looking up at him with hooded eyes. you double your efforts, sucking him hard and fast, your hand pumping what you can’t reach. he holds your head in place as he comes, making you to swallow every last drop. you take a moment to catch your breath, wiping your mouth before sitting back up.

the bathroom lights hum to life as you rinse your mouth and splash cool water on your face, trying to shake off the heat thrumming through you. you press your palms against the sink, inhaling deep in an attempt to look less flustered. the movie’s still on when you come back. you get comfortable, leaning into subong just slightly. he doesn’t say anything, just lifts his arm and lets you settle in against his side. the warmth of him seeps into you, and you rest your head on his shoulder. subong smiles at you before kissing your forehead, something that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow does.

you shift slightly, but he just pulls you in closer, his body solid and warm against yours. your heart stutters in your chest, and the thought of what you are—what you actually mean to him—becomes impossible to ignore. the longer you sit there, the harder it is to pretend this is normal. your heart is beating too fast, your mind racing with thoughts you’ve been shoving down for months. finally, you tilt your head to glance up. “subong,” you start, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. he hums, eyes still on the screen, but you can tell he’s listening. you swallow, suddenly nervous. “what… what are we doing?” that gets his attention. “what do you mean?” you sit up a little, putting some space between you—enough to see him clearly. “this. us. it’s been months, and we’ve never talked about it.” “what’s there to talk?” “i mean, is this just sex to you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tenses, his eyes flicking away for a second like he’s weighing his words. “does it feel like just sex to you?” he finally asks. your chest tightens. “no.” his lips part slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to admit it so easily. like maybe he’s been trying to convince himself of something different. “right. it’s not just sex, we’re friends, too,” he says. “then why are we acting like this?” you push. he rubs a hand over his face. “i don’t know.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. the silence stretches thick between you, but you refuse to let it suffocate you. you need to know. “what do you want this to be?”

subong exhales hard, dragging a hand through his hair. he looks frustrated, like he doesn’t even want to have this conversation. like you’re ruining something by asking. “why do we have to call it something?” he says finally, and your stomach twists. you blink, sitting up a little. “because it’s been months, subong. because we’re not—we’re not just fucking and then going our separate ways. because we’re sitting here, cuddling, watching a damn movie, and it feels like more.” his jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around his knee. “it doesn’t have to mean anything.” that stings. worse than you were expecting. you swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “it does to me.” his face twists, like he hates hearing that. “shit, don’t fucking do this,” he mutters, shaking his head. “why can’t we just keep things the way they are?” “because i’m tired of pretending this is casual when it’s not,” you snap, your voice cracking. “not for me, at least.”

he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, like he’s trying to hold something back. when he looks at you again, his expression is unreadable, but his next words hit like a punch to the gut. “then maybe you shouldn’t have let it get this fucking far.” you feel like the air has been sucked out of the room. “what?” “i never promised you shit.” the words cut deep, sharper than anything he’s ever said to you before. you open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. because he’s right. he never did. but the way he touched you, the way he held you after—none of that felt like nothing. you shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your voice steady. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he hesitates for a second too long. and that’s all you need to know. you force yourself to nod, pressing your lips together. “okay.” his brows furrow, like he wasn’t expecting you to take it like that, but you don’t give him the chance to say anything else. you grab the remote, press stop on the movie, and push yourself off the couch. “you should go.” “are you fucking serious?” you cross your arms over your chest, fighting to keep your composure. “yeah, i’m serious. get the fuck out.” “we have one fucking shitty conversation, and now you don’t want me here?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “what the fuck do you want from me, subong?” your voice shakes, and you can feel it crack, but you force it out. “sit here and pretend like i didn’t just fucking tell you how i feel? pretend i’m not fucking hurt because you—” you stop yourself, biting your lip so hard it almost bleeds. his jaw clenches. “what?” you let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. “because you don’t fucking care.” “i never said i don’t care.” “you might as well have,” you snap, voice breaking with frustration. “you just don’t give a shit enough to do anything about it.” he presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, breathing hard through his nose. “just because i care doesn’t mean we have to slap a fucking label on it!” “and i just have to be okay with that?!” you snap, your voice rising. “i have to sit here like a dumbass and pretend this is fine when it’s not?”

he throws his hands up, his face twisting in frustration. “for fuck’s sake, why do you have to make everything so fucking difficult?” “difficult?!” you let out a humorless laugh. “you’re the one acting like a fucking idiot, subong! you want to fuck me, cuddle me, act like i’m your fucking girlfriend, but the second i ask you to be honest about what this is, suddenly i’m the problem?! you even introduced me to your damn family!” he freezes for half a second when the words leave your mouth, then he stands up, jabbing a finger in your face. “what the fuck did you just call me?!” you swat his hand away, your glare burning into him. “don’t fucking point at me like that!” his jaw tightens, and his nostrils flare like he’s barely keeping himself from snapping. “you wanna talk about being a fucking idiot?! look in the fucking mirror!” he spits. “you’re the one acting like some needy little bitch because i won’t say what you wanna hear.” “fuck you, subong!” you don’t say anything else. you just turn on your heel and walk out of the living room, heading straight for the kitchen. your hands are shaking, your chest tight, and you just need to put some distance between you and him before you completely fall apart. behind you, you hear him scoff. “seriously? you’re just gonna walk away mid-fucking-conversation?”

you grip the edge of the counter, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you stay quiet, he’ll take the fucking hint and leave. but of course, he doesn’t. you hear his footsteps as he follows you in. “you always do this shit,” he mutters, his voice dripping with irritation. “running off the second things don’t go your way.” you whirl around, your eyes burning. “what should i do, then? hm? get on my knees and suck your fucking dick again?!” he clenches his fists at his sides, his mouth opening like he’s about to argue—but then he hesitates. because the truth is, you do mean something to him. he just doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. subong has never done this before—never been in something that wasn’t just fucking around, never had to deal with real feelings, real expectations. and the idea of fucking it up? it scares the shit out of him. but instead of admitting that, instead of being honest for once in his life, he just does what he does best—pushes, lashes out. it seems easier than dealing with what he feels when he’s around you.

“why do you care so fucking much about not calling it something?” you ask, your voice softer now. “if we’re not seeing other people, if we’re always together, if you do care about me, then why?” his throat bobs as he swallows hard. and then—because he’s a fucking coward—he lies. “who says i’m not seeing other people?” you freeze. his face is unreadable, but you can see the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he already regrets saying it. “you’re lying.” your voice is quiet. he just shrugs, “i’ve been seeing this girl.” “who?” you raise your voice, taking a step closer as tears start falling down your face. “who?!” “i’m not fucking telling you!” “are you serious?! aren’t we supposed to be friends too?! we used to tell each other everything!”

his eyes flick to yours, and for a second—just a second—something flashes in them. something like guilt. but then he shuts it down, scoffing as he shakes his head. you continue, “but we’re not even friends anymore, are we?” “don’t say that.” “why not? it’s true, isn’t it? friends don’t do what we do,” you wipe at your face, even though the tears won’t stop fucking falling. he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, pressing it against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying to hold something back. but then he just shrugs again, voice flat. “guess we’re not fucking friends either, then.”

your vision blurs as you cry, no matter how hard you try to keep it together. “get the fuck out, subong.” your voice breaks on the last word, and you hate how fucking weak you sound, how pathetic. and the second the first real sob rips out of your throat, something in him shifts. “fuck. no, i—” he exhales, raking a hand through his hair, his voice softer now, like he’s realizing he went too far. “i didn’t mean it. i’m sorry—i’m sorry, baby.” “don’t fucking call me that!” “you gotta listen to me!” you shake your head, taking a step back, your whole body trembling. “no. i’m done listening to your fucking bullshit.” “baby, please.” his voice cracks, and his hands reach for you—hesitant, like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him touch you. “please.” you slap them away instantly. “don’t fucking touch me.” “you’re really just gonna shut me out like this?!” “you shut me out first!” “i fucking care about you!” “not enough!” his breath catches in his throat, and for a second, he just stares at you. “you’re being fucking dramatic.” “get the fuck out of my house, subong.” “why are you being such a fucking—” “say it.” your voice is a challenge, daring him to go there. he doesn’t hesitate. “bitch. a fucking bitch. you—you’re acting like a bitch.”

you’ve had enough. without thinking, you shove him—hard. he stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but you don't stop. you shove him again, your palms flat against his chest. “you’re a fucking asshole! fuck you! get out! get the fuck out!” his jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, like he wants to throw something else back at you, but you're already stepping forward again, grabbing his arm and shoving him toward the front door. subong wrenches his arm away, but you don't let it stop you. you push him again, shoving him past the threshold. but he’s not moving, so you grab the nearest thing—his damn sneakers—and chuck them at him, one after the other. the first one bounces off his chest, the second one catches him square in the shoulder. “what the fuck, man?!” subong barks, flinching back, his face twisting in irritation. he barely catches the second shoe before it can hit the ground. “you’re a crazy bitch!”

“fuck off!” your voice cracks again, but you don’t care. you’re already stepping forward, already reaching for the door—and you slam it in his face. the sound echoing through the room. for a moment, silence. a long, awful pause where your breath hitches, where your chest tightens so much it feels like you’re suffocating. then—“open the door. c’mon, open—open the fucking door!” he slams his fist against the wood. “stop being so fucking childish!” “you’re calling me childish?! grow up, subong! you’re twenty six, you don’t know what you want and you still dress like a fucking kid!” he bangs the door. “you’re one to talk, girl! always dressed like a damn slut!”

you squeeze your eyes shut and stumble to your room until your knees hit the bed, and then you’re collapsing onto it. the first sob breaks out of you before you can stop it, and then another, and another. you curl into yourself, pulling the blanket over your head, pressing your hands against your ears. but it doesn’t block him out. “fucking talk to me!” another bang. you hear the doorknob rattle. “baby, please! i’m sorry, okay?! c’mon, don’t do this! we’re fucking friends!” your voice is muffled when it finally comes, thick with tears, but loud enough for him to hear you. “go away!” “not fucking happening! open the damn door!” “go away or i’m calling the fucking cops, motherfucker!” that seems to work. you curl tighter, press your face into the pillow, and sob until the sound of his fists against the door fades away. he did this. he made you feel this way. and he fucking hates himself for it. but it’s too late.

the next few days are absolute shit. you barely leave your bed at first. your body feels too heavy, your chest too tight, your eyes too sore from crying. when you do finally move, it’s only to go through the motions—brushing your teeth, pulling on the same oversized hoodie, forcing down a few bites of food even when everything tastes like nothing, and going to work. you don’t check your phone at first. you can’t. but eventually, the screen lights up, and you don’t have to look to know who it is. subong. you let it ring. he calls again. and again. when it finally stops, the texts start.

pick up the fucking phone

cmon baby please

i fucking miss u

don’t do this shit to me

u make me so fucking angry

bro istfg

please

you turn the phone face down. but he doesn’t stop. every time you glance at your screen, his name is there.

i know u r reading these

don’t fucking ignore me bro

at least tell me u r okay

minsu asked why u didn’t come with us today

just fucking answer

is it that hard?

years and years of friendship man and u throw it all away like that?

u r fucking selfish

i hope u know that

the texts keep coming. always at random times. but the worst ones come at night. one day, at 4:12 a.m., your phone buzzes against your nightstand. you try to ignore it, try to pretend you’re asleep, but something tells you to look.

im highhg as fuvckk bro

look whatu vdone to me

fukcing bittvhhh

its urA fault

i mis uu

u r myybhaby❤️❤️❤️❤️

its fucking 4am. i wake up at 6 to go to work, stfu and leave me alone

can i cone over? plewaasse

answer bitchj

fuck you, subong. i don’t want to see you again

come bsck

i loveyouy

you block him, roll over, and squeeze your eyes shut. but sleep doesn’t come easy. not when the last words he sent are still glowing behind your eyelids, burning into your brain.

blocking him should have brought peace. should have been the final step, the clean break. but it doesn’t feel like that. instead, it feels like holding your breath underwater, waiting to resurface, except there’s no hand to pull you up this time. the first few days, you keep checking your phone out of habit. unlocking it without thinking. but there’s nothing. you still reach for him in small ways—almost texting him when something funny happens, almost turning to tell him about your day. but you can’t do that. you won’t do that. so you keep yourself busy. you pick up a book, let your eyes scan the words without really absorbing them. go on long walks, let the cold air bite at your skin, hoping it shocks you out of your thoughts. start journaling, writing down everything except his name, except the way your chest still feels hollow. you even try new things—take a yoga class with a friend, bake cookies at 2 a.m., cut your hair just to feel something different. but memories of him are stitched into the fabric of your life.

you hear his voice on the radio sometimes now, when they play a song of his that went viral. see him in the reflection of dark car windows, like he’s just a step behind you. hear a joke and immediately think about how he’d laugh, head thrown back, eyes crinkling at the edges. you tell yourself that eventually, you’ll forget. but some nights, you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he’s staring at his too. if he’s thinking about you. and the ache doesn’t go away.

your phone rings one night, when you’re already in bed. you almost don’t answer, but when you see semi’s name flash across the screen, you pick up. “hello?” your voice is groggy, tired. “hey,” semi says. “sorry, did i wake you?” “no,” you lie. “what’s up?” there’s a pause. hesitation. then, “it’s subong.” your stomach drops. “we’re worried about him.” she rushes the words out, like she’s been holding them in for too long. “he’s been acting weird lately—worse than usual.” you close your eyes, already knowing where this is going. already knowing what she’s about to say before she even says it. “he’s been taking those pills,” she continues. “the ones he used to mess with sometimes, but now he’s on them all the time. it’s like he’s not even—shit. he was out,” she says, frantic. “namgyu couldn’t wake him up at first, it was fucking bad, dude. and now he’s still high as hell, barely making sense, and he keeps—” she hesitates. you frown. “he keeps what?” “he keeps mumbling your name.” you feel like you’ve been punched in the chest. you press your fingers to your temple, trying to stop the pounding in your head. “fuck.” “he’s not okay,” she says. “he’s barely sleeping, barely eating. he looks like shit. well, he always does, but you know what i mean. and when he does talk, it’s like he’s—like he’s not there.”

you take a shaky breath. you shouldn’t care. you don’t care. he’s not your problem anymore. but your stomach still twists at the thought of him like that. “maybe you could talk to him?” semi says, hopeful. “when he feels better. i think he’d listen to you. gyeongsu is gonna take us to the hospital in a few minutes, maybe you could come too? we’ll pick you up. we’re at namgyu’s apartment, we had to take him—” “we’re not friends anymore, semi,” you cut off, swallowing down the lump in your throat. silence. “what?” she says. “what do you mean?” “he hasn’t told you?” “told us what?” “it doesn’t matter,” you say finally, letting out a heavy sigh. “i can’t help him.” “but—” “i can’t, semi.” the words come out sharper than you mean them to. she falls quiet. after a long moment, she sighs. “alright, okay,” she says, voice heavy with disappointment. “i just… i didn’t know.”

and even though you tell yourself it’s not your problem, even though you tell yourself you did the right thing—you don’t sleep that night. maybe you’re the most horrible person ever. for not helping him. that’s what you think to yourself as the days go by. you don’t go to see him. you don’t text semi back. you tell yourself that there’s nothing you could have done, that he made his choices, that you’re not responsible for saving him. but the guilt sticks to your ribs.

you keep moving forward. and then, somewhere along the way, you meet him. he’s nothing like subong. not really. but sometimes, in the way he leans back in his chair, in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, in the way he laughs when he’s had one too many drinks—he almost is. (he even likes rap!) and maybe that’s why you let him take you out. why you let him kiss you. why you let him press his hands against your skin and pretend it feels right. it doesn’t. but you let it happen anyway. because it’s easier. because when you close your eyes, you can almost pretend it’s subong. it’s fucked up. you know it’s fucked up. but you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that this is what moving on is supposed to look like. but it’s not fair. you know you shouldn’t be doing this. and when he asks what’s wrong, why you get quiet sometimes, why you look at him like you’re seeing someone else—you just smile. shake your head. press a kiss to his lips and hope he never realizes that you don’t mean it. hope he never realizes that no matter how hard you try—subong is still the only one you see.

he invites you to a show one night, says it’ll be fun. you don’t really know much about it—just that it’s some rap battle tournament called ‘rap battlegrounds’—but you’re bored, and it’s something to do. you don’t ask too many questions because, honestly, you don’t care that much. he picks you up, and you follow him through the neon-lit streets to a club you’ve never seen before, the bass already thumping from inside. he leads you through the crowd to a small corner of the club. it’s dark, gritty, with exposed brick walls and dim, flickering lights that barely cut through the haze of smoke hanging in the air. the floor is sticky. it’s the kind of place you usually avoid, but tonight, you let it slide.

you're barely paying attention, your eyes drifting over the crowd, the noise just background filler. the battles blur together, the hype not really doing anything for you. you're zoning out, tapping your foot to the rhythm of the beat, hoping this night will pass quickly—regretting all your life choices when he wraps his arm around your shoulders. when suddenly, a voice crackles through the mic, cutting through the noise. “yo, yo, yo, we got a real one up next! fresh off that new heat, straight killin’ the game—make some noise for ‘thanos’!” you freeze, snapping your head to the stage as the crowd cheers. “…and he’s goin’ up against the beast, the local legend, the one and only jace ‘the hammer!’”

there’s no way. you blink, trying to process it, but everything’s too dark, shadows everywhere, making you second-guess yourself. but then, you hear it—his voice. your stomach sinks. this is real. subong is here. for a second, you think you might pass out. he’s standing there, center stage, all cocky confidence, rapping like he owns the room. you wish you could ignore it, wish you could pretend he’s just another guy on stage, but he isn’t. and you can’t. and then it happens. his eyes sweep across the crowd, like he’s eating up the attention, and then they land on you. he freezes. just for a second—just long enough for his flow to falter, the words dying on his tongue. the beat keeps going, but he doesn’t, and the guy he’s battling jumps in, taking advantage of the opening. subong blinks, shakes his head, tries to recover—but it’s too late. he’s lost the rhythm, lost the momentum, and the battle ends with subong’s opponent eating up the win. the crowd erupts, but subong doesn’t hear any of it. he stands there for a second, chest rising and falling like he can’t believe it—like he can’t believe he actually lost. then, without another word, he shoves the mic into someone’s hand and disappears behind the stage.

someone else takes the spotlight almost immediately, the next rappers stepping up, music booming through the speakers again. you turn to the guy beside you, grabbing his wrist. “i wanna leave.” he frowns. “what? why?” you glance toward the side of the stage, your stomach twisting. subong won’t just leave it alone—you know him. “i’m just—i’m kinda tired.” the nervousness in your voice alarms him. “are you okay? what’s wrong?” “nothing. i just don’t wanna be here right now.” he studies you, and you can tell the exact moment he realizes how tense you are, how your shoulders are stiff, how you haven’t stopped glancing over your shoulder. his expression softens, just a little. “hey,” he says, voice quieter now. “it’s okay. i’ll take you home.” “yeah?” “of course.” you don’t move when he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. and it feels like… nothing. just lips on lips, a fleeting warmth that barely registers. your chest feels tight, like you need to shake something off, drown something out. so you kiss him back, harder this time, pressing in, searching for something. maybe it’s the adrenaline, maybe it’s the way seeing subong on that stage messed with your head, knocked you off center. maybe you just want to prove to yourself that you can feel that rush with someone else. but you don’t. no matter how deep the kiss goes, no matter how much you try to lose yourself in it, there’s nothing there.

and just a second later, he’s ripped away from you—shoved back so hard he stumbles, nearly knocking into the bar behind him. and when you look up, you already know. subong stands there, shoulders tense, and his eyes locked on you. “what the fuck are you doing?!” “me?! what the fuck are you doing, subong?!” the guy composes himself and goes back next to you with a strained expression, one of his hands caressing his side. “what’s your problem, man?!” “who the fuck is this?” subong demands, his eyes never leaving yours. you exhale sharply. “just leave me alone.” disbelief flashes across his face like you’ve just insulted him. “nah, what the fuck is this?” he gestures vaguely between you and the guy. “this who you’re with now?” the guy straightens up. “is there a problem?” subong laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “yeah, there’s a fucking problem. who the fuck are you?” “just go, subong.” you cut in quickly. “no. i’m not fucking leaving.”

the guy beside you steps in, placing himself between you and subong. “you know this asshole?” he asks you. you sigh, “he’s… we used to be friends,” you reply. “yeah, and i’ve probably fucked her more times than you have, bro,” subong adds, a smirk on his face. “don’t listen to him,” you tell the guy before redirecting your attention to subong. “you’re being more than ridiculous right now. stop it. leave us alone.” he just stares, like he didn’t even hear you. like you didn’t just tell him to fuck off. “ridiculous?” he repeats, like the word itself it’s funny to him. “you wanna know what’s fucking ridiculous? you showing up here with—” he finally looks at the guy, eyes dragging over him like he’s barely worth acknowledging “—this.” “enough! i said… leave us alone.” “no, we need need to talk.” “she told you to leave, man.” the guy interrupts. wrong move. subong’s lips curl into something mean. “and who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” he sizes him up, scoffing. the guy doesn’t back down. he squares his shoulders, keeping himself between you and subong like he actually thinks that’ll stop him. subong steps closer, just enough to invade his space. you step forward, grabbing the guy’s arm. “seriously, let’s just go—”

subong’s hand shoots out, grabbing his collar. the guy shoves him back instantly, and that’s all it takes. subong’s always been quick to anger, and now he’s pissed. “relax,” the guy says, lifting his hands like he’s trying to de-escalate, but subong’s past that. “relax? you want me to relax when you’re out here kissing my girl?” the guy exhales through his nose. “you wanna fight me over her that bad?” he shakes his head. “man, you already lost once tonight.” subong’s expression shifts in an instant. his shoulders go tense, his nostrils flare, and his jaw locks so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. he snaps, swinging first. it’s fast, a punch aimed straight for the guy’s jaw, but he dodges, stepping back just in time. the guy doesn’t waste time. he drives forward, ramming his shoulder into subong’s chest, sending him stumbling back. for a second, you think it might end there—but of course, it doesn’t. subong recovers quick, too quick. he surges forward, grabbing the guy’s shirt and yanking him down just to throw a knee into his ribs. the guy grunts, shoving him off, and then they’re both swinging. fists connect, curses fly, and you can barely keep up. the guy tries to hold his own, landing a few hits, but subong barely flinches. he’s fueled by something else, and he’s not stopping. one punch lands hard against the guy’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. another follows, a brutal hit to his jaw that makes him stumble. then another. and another. the guy grunts, arms coming up to shield himself, but subong doesn’t let up. he grabs the front of his shirt, yanking him forward just to slam his fist into his face again.

blood splatters. and that’s when you snap out of it. “subong, stop!” he doesn’t hear you. “subong!” he pulls back for another hit, and you move before you even think. you grab him by his shirt, using all your strength to shove him back. he stumbles, losing his grip on the guy, his eyes wild when they snap to yours. “what the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, chest heaving. subong’s nostrils flare, hands still clenched into fists like he’s seconds away from going back for more. the guy groans, wiping blood from his face. “you broke my fucking nose, man! you’re insane!” he yells. “shut the fuck up,” subong spits, but before he can go at him again, you shove him harder. “leave him alone!” his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark, burning into yours. for a second, you think he might listen, that the fight might finally be over. but then, in one swift movement, he grabs your wrist. “what are you—” you barely get the words out before he pulls you with him, dragging you through the crowd, past the stage. “let go of me!” you struggle against his grip, but he doesn’t stop. people turn to look, but no one moves to intervene. they just watch. before you know it, you’re backstage, away from the lights, away from the eyes—trapped in a space that feels too small.

subong finally stops, shoving you back against the wall. you barely have a second to catch your breath before you’re shoving him off. “what the fuck is wrong with you?! what the fuck was all of that about?! huh?!” you slam your hands against his chest, but he barely moves. his jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is rough. “what the fuck is wrong with me?! you’re really asking me that?! when you’re the one out there acting like a desperate fucking slut?!” your head jerks back, a bitter laugh ripping from your throat. “are you fucking serious right now?! you just beat the shit out of him, and you’re mad at me?! for what?! for moving the fuck on?!” “yeah, i fucking am!” he snaps. before you can react, he steps in, closing the space between you in an instant. his hands come up, slamming against the wall on either side of your head. your whole body tenses. he’s seething, breath ragged and reeking of cheap liquor and god knows what else. “why?!” “because you’re mine!” “yours?! fuck off!” you shove at him again, hard. “and take a goddamn shower while you’re at it. you smell like a fucking alleyway.”

his nostrils flare. “yeah? well, you smell like a cheap whore.” rage flares hot in your chest. “right, because you’d fucking know, wouldn’t you?” you sneer. his head tilts, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. “at least i don’t pretend to have fucking standards. what’s his name, huh?” your stomach turns, but you don’t let it show. instead, you smile. “why? you jealous? go cry about it, asshole.” he leans in, voice dropping to a whisper. “you know he’s just using you, right? you’re nothing but a warm hole to him.” your hand flies up before you can think better of it, shoving his face away. “yeah. like that wasn’t exactly what i was to you too, motherfucker.” he stumbles back a step, running a hand over his jaw. “we never talked about what the fuck we wanted, or what we expected from each other. so don’t—don’t—” “that’s what you tell yourself? that you didn’t lead me on? that you didn’t fuck with my head for months?!” you cut him off. “you’re a fucking coward, subong. too fucking scared to admit you wanted me, but the second i move on, suddenly you give a shit?” “move on? to who? that fucking loser? you think he actually gives a shit about you?” “and you do?” “you can’t just act like we never fucking happened!” “we didn’t happen, that’s the thing!” you shoot back. “you didn’t want to be with me like that,” your voice wavers, but you force yourself to hold your ground. “so you don’t get to fucking act like this. you don’t get to be jealous, you don’t get to start fights over me, and you sure as hell don’t get to drag me back here like you own me.”

his throat bobs as he swallows. he looks away for a second, like if he doesn’t meet your eyes, this won’t sting as much. like he can pretend this isn’t hitting him the way it is. his fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s trying to hold onto something—maybe the last shred of whatever this used to be. his breath comes sharp through his nose, the kind that’s meant to steady him but doesn’t do a damn thing. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters, voice rough around the edges. “i don’t—i don’t own you.” but there’s something bitter in the way he says it, like he hates that it’s true. like he hates that he ever let it get to this point. you’re not his anymore. you never were, really. “then stop acting like it! don’t try to ruin everything just because you can’t handle the fact that i moved the fuck on!” for a second, he doesn’t say anything. his eyes flick over your face, tongue running over his teeth like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something worse. but then— “if you had, you wouldn’t have let that motherfucker shove his tongue down your throat right in front of me.” you scoff. “you think i did that on purpose?” he steps in, too close, and you instinctively take a step back. “fuck yeah, you did. you wanted me to see it. you wanted to fucking piss me off.” “you piss yourself off, subong! newsflash! not everything is about you! get over yourself.” “get over myself? you made me look like a fucking idiot out there!” “what the fuck are you talking about?” his eyes flash. “you made me lose the fucking battle, man!” you blink, caught off guard for half a second, then roll your eyes. “first of all, i’m not a man. second of all, don’t blame that shit on me.” “right. it’s never your fucking fault, huh?” he shakes his head. “you just get to do whatever the fuck you want and act like it doesn’t affect me.” you throw your hands up. “if you weren’t such a fucking asshole, maybe this wouldn’t have happened!” “yeah?!” “yeah!”

and then there’s silence. thick, heavy silence. his breathing is still ragged, his hands still curled into fists at his sides. your heart is pounding, your own fists clenched just as tight. then subong scoffs, shaking his head. “you’re so fucking full of shit.” “excuse me?” “you wanna talk about me being an asshole when you’ve been ignoring me for months? like i didn’t fucking exist.” the pain in his voice is evident and it catches you off guard. “i wasn’t—i didn’t ignore you. i was trying to heal. you’re seriously throwing that in my face right now?” “yeah, i am. don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.” “don’t do that.” “do what? tell the truth? you fucking blocked me, girl!” “no! don’t—don’t twist shit around just to make yourself feel better,” you snap. “you know exactly why i did it. don’t act like you’re the fucking victim.” “who is it then? you?” he scoffs. “oh, eat shit, subong! you never fucking came to see me!” you throw your arms out, exasperated. “not once! you could’ve fixed this, but you didn’t.” his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t look away. “you think i didn’t want to?” “i don’t know what the fuck you wanted!” your voice cracks, but you don’t care. “i called! and texted you every single fucking day!” “and you think that’s enough?! after everything?!” "i almost fucking overdosed!" he yells. "i was at my fucking lowest, and you—" he lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "you weren't there." you shake your head, anger bubbling in your chest. "don't put that on me, subong. you did that to yourself," you snap, voice sharp. "don't fucking guilt trip me with that." "are you serious?" “what do you want me to say? did you expect me to just forget everything and come back to you like nothing happened? you promised me—how many times?—that you weren’t gonna do that shit anymore, and here we are! and not only are you trying to make me feel like a fucking piece of shit for it, but you’re also acting like this—all of this—is my fault? when you were the one who decided i wasn’t good enough to be anything more than a fuck buddy?”

his expression falters—just a flash of something almost guilty—but then he scoffs, masking it with anger. “you’re really trying to act like you didn’t fucking replace me the second i was gone?” “replace you?” you repeat, incredulous. “you can’t be serious right now. i wasn’t the one fucking other people when we were…. whatever we were!” he freezes, his face draining of color for a split second. “don’t bring that shit up.” “oh, I’ll bring it up, alright. because you can’t say that shit to me when you were too busy screwing around while i was waiting for you to call me your fucking girlfriend.” he opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a group of people walk past, glancing over at the scene. a couple of them whisper, eyes flicking nervously from you to subong. his face hardens, irritation flashing across his features, and without warning, he grabs your wrist. “what the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps at them. the group quickly averts their gazes, pretending they weren’t just watching him. he yanks you away and you struggle for a moment, trying to free yourself from his grip, but he doesn’t let go. you’re too caught up in the heat of the moment to really think about where he’s taking you. before you know it, you’re being shoved through a door into a dimly lit room backstage, the door slamming shut behind him with a force that echoes in the silence. the room is small, cluttered with his belongings—bags, jackets, and scattered items. a mirror with round vanity lights casts a dull glow over the space, reflecting the mess on the counter: a half-empty water bottle, energy drink cans, his vape, a lighter, a bunch of candy wrappers and a few crumpled papers.

“you need to stop doing that!” you snap. “dragging me around like i’m—i don’t know—like i’m some puppet!” he ignores your words. “listen,” he says, “i tried to make it right, okay? i did.” “calling me? texting me?” you scoff, disbelief laced in your voice. “that’s what you think making it right looks like? all you ever did was send bullshit messages—half insults, half nothing at all.” you shake your head. “if you actually meant it, you would’ve come to me. you know where i live, where i work—you had every chance to show up, to prove that you actually gave a damn. but you didn’t.” his voice shakes now. “i thought… i thought you didn’t fucking need me anymore! i thought you’d be better off without me!” “better off without you?! that’s the dumbest excuse i’ve ever heard!” before you can stop yourself, you shove him, hard enough that he stumbles back a step. “you were my fucking best friend, you idiot!” your voice cracks as a tear rolls down your cheek, and you have to look away. “and i…” the words tangle in your throat. you swallow hard, forcing them out. “i fucking loved you.”

the words hit him like a fist to the gut. he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. because he knows. he knows exactly how that feels. he’s loved you too—probably longer than he even realized. but he’s never said it. not properly. not in a way that mattered anyway. and now? now it sounds like it’s too fucking late. “loved,” he repeats. “past tense?” you don’t answer. “you don’t—you don’t love me anymore?” the words slip out before he can stop them, and he hates how pathetic they sound, how fucking vulnerable they make him. “subong i—i’m sorry, i can’t… i can’t do this,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “answer me,” he presses, stepping closer, his pulse thundering in his ears. “please.” “i’m not talking about this,” you say firmly, reaching for the door. but he moves faster, pressing his hand against it, keeping you trapped in the small room with him. you squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling sharply. “i don’t want to see you again, subong.” “i do.” “well, i don’t.” “why not?” “because it fucking hurts!” the words barely leave your lips before the weight of everything crashes down on you all at once. “it… it hurts.” your throat burns, and suddenly, you can’t hold it back anymore. a choked sob rips through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re crying.

subong’s eyes widen for half a second, like he doesn’t know what to do with the sight of you breaking down in front of him. but then, without hesitation, he reaches for you. “i know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “i know, baby.” the warmth of him, the familiarity, the way he holds you…it all feels too fucking good. too safe. too much like home. you sob into his shirt, fists clutching at the fabric, body shaking as months’ worth of pain and anger pour out of you. he holds you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other resting firm against your waist. “i’m sorry,” he breathes.

you suck in a sharp breath, realization slamming into you. and just like that, the warmth turns suffocating. “no,” you whisper, pushing against his chest. he stiffens. “what—” “get off me.” he hesitates, grip loosening slightly, but you shove harder, forcing space between you. “fuck, subong, what the hell am i doing?” he looks at you, confused, almost dazed, like he doesn’t understand why you’re suddenly pulling away. “baby—” “don’t call me that,” you cut him off. “i can’t—i can’t do this with you.” his jaw tightens. “you don’t mean that. you know you don’t.” “i do! because you fucking broke me!” you yell, hands trembling. “and i hate that you still make me feel like this!” you pause, trying to catch your breath, wiping at your face furiously. you hate the way the tears cling to your skin. you hate even more that he’s standing there, watching you cry. you force yourself to steady your voice. “i’m leaving.” “no, you’re not.” he’s there—blocking the door. you let out a frustrated breath, shoving at him again, but he doesn’t move an inch. “subong, move.” nothing. he doesn’t even blink. “is he your boyfriend?” the question throws you off balance. your brows furrow, and for a moment, the anger is eclipsed by confusion. “what?” “that guy. is he your boyfriend?” you exhale sharply, shaking your head as you glare at him. “jesus christ, subong, really?” “is he?” “it’s none of your business,” the words are clipped, laced with venom. his eyes darken. “none of my—?” he drags a hand through his hair, like he’s barely keeping himself together. for a second, it looks like he might actually lose it. “seriously? you can’t even say no?” “why does it matter?!” you snap. “it fucking matters to me!” your heart pounds. you don’t know why it’s so hard to answer, why the words feel like they’re lodged in your throat. his patience wears thin. “fucking hell, just—” “no!” you cut him off. “he’s not my boyfriend, okay?!” you shake your head. “did you fuck him?” “are you serious right now?” “answer the fucking question,” he demands, stepping closer. you scoff, shaking your head. “you’re actually insane.” “fucking answer!” “yes!” the word rips out of you before you can stop it. “yeah, i did. happy now?”

for a moment, he doesn’t react. he just stares at you, like the air has been knocked from his lungs. his jaw clenches, his nostrils flare. but nothing can stop the thought from sinking its claws into him—someone else touching you, having you, getting what he let slip through his fingers. it makes him sick. and it’s his own damn fault. he knows he has no right to be angry. no right to feel this way. but the jealousy curdles in his stomach, and before he can stop himself, the words tear from his mouth like a whip. “you’re a fucking whore.” the second he says it, he hates himself for it. but he doesn’t take it back. your fury is instant, white-hot.“fuck you! don’t call me that!” “i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want!” he snaps. he needs to hurt you, to make you feel even a fraction of what he’s feeling. “you really don’t see how fucking pathetic that is? spreading your legs for some guy who doesn’t even matter?” the words taste like acid in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway. he doesn’t know how else to deal with the anger, the self-hatred he feels. it’s easier to take it out on you than to admit the truth—that he ruined everything, that he’s the reason you were with someone else.

your vision goes red. before you can think, before you can stop yourself, your hand swings up and smacks across his face. his head jerks to the side from the impact, and for a moment, everything is dead silent except for the sharp sound of your ragged breathing. then, slowly, he turns back to you, his jaw tightening, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek like he’s tasting the sting of your palm. “did you just hit me?” his voice is low. oh, he’s angry. “yeah, i fucking did,” you say, your hands trembling. “because you’re a fucking piece of shit!” “you’ve got some fucking nerve!” he seethes, shoving your forehead with two of his fingers, forcing your head back slightly. you slap his hand away, your own anger doubling at the touch. “do that again, and i’ll break your fucking fingers, motherfucker,” you warn. “you just slapped me!” “and you called me a whore twice, subong! i wonder how the fuck i was ever friends with you! you’re a hypocrite!” he steps closer, jabbing a finger in your face. “don’t fucking talk to me like that!” “and i told you many times not to fucking point your finger at me!” you yell, shoving his hand away harder this time. so hard his arm jerks back. “who the fuck do you think you are?! you can’t fucking judge me when you’re the one who—”

his patience snaps. he grabs a nearby chair and hurls it at the wall. it hits with a loud crack, rattling from the impact before toppling over. you flinch, but you don't back down. “real fucking mature.” “you don’t fucking get it.” “why do you even care, huh? you have plenty of other girls to fuck, don’t you?” you spit. “so why the fuck does it matter who i’m with? why is it a problem when you do the exact same shit?” he doesn’t say anything. fine. you’re done here. you reach for the door again, shoving past him. “i’m leaving—” “i lied.” his voice stops you cold. slowly, you turn back, brows furrowing. “what?” he swallows hard. “i lied about it. there was never another girl.” you stare at him in disbelief. “i just—i said that shit to piss you off. to make you hate me. but i never—” he exhales sharply, shaking his head. “i never touched anyone else when i was with you.”

your mind spins, struggling to piece together what he’s saying. he’s lying again. he has to be. “you expect me to believe that?” your voice is defensive. “i don’t give a fuck if you believe me,” he snaps back. “it’s the truth.” your throat tightens. there’s something in his eyes, something desperate, something you’re not used to seeing. “why?” he hesitates. his lips part, then press into a thin line. “because i—” he exhales sharply, looking away for a moment before forcing himself to look at you again. “because i love you. i’ve—” “don’t fucking lie to me, subong.” frustration flashes across his face. “i’m not lying, okay?! i’ve—” “sure as hell you aren’t.” “jesus—can i fucking talk?!” you huff, arms crossing tightly over your chest. your jaw aches from how hard you’re clenching it. but you don’t interrupt again. you let him speak. “i’ve loved you for so fucking long, and it scared the shit out of me. you were my best friend and i didn’t—i didn’t know how to do it. how to be with you without fucking it all up.” you shake your head, gripping your arms tighter. “you can’t just say this shit and think it fixes everything,” you whisper, voice trembling. “you loved me, and you never told me. you preferred this… this shit between us rather than just… being fucking honest. you—” your breath shudders and you stop to breathe for a moment. “you’re confusing me, subong.”

he sighs. you can see it in his eyes—the regret, the pain, the anger at himself. then, he steps closer. his hands find your face, fingers gentle as they cup your cheeks. his thumbs move carefully, wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were still falling. his touch is soft—so fucking soft it almost breaks you. you squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing against the lump in your throat. you shouldn’t let him do this. shouldn’t let him hold you like this, shouldn’t let yourself sink into the warmth of his hands. but you do. because it’s him. “i’m sorry, baby” he murmurs, his breath warm against your face. “fuck, i’m so sorry.” his voice is lower now, and when you open your eyes, he’s already looking at you—his brows furrowed. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continues, his hands steady on your face. “i swear to god, i didn’t.” “but you did.” “i know,” he whispers. “i was a fucking idiot.” his thumbs still trace slow paths along your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of you. you try to look away, but he won’t let you. his grip isn’t forceful, but it’s firm—just enough to keep you there. “i can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his brows furrowing deeper, like it physically hurts him to admit it. “no matter what i do—it’s always you.” “don’t—” “it’s the truth,” he cuts in, his hands sliding down to your jaw, his fingers just barely brushing your neck. “i wake up thinking about you. i fall asleep thinking about you. every fucking song i write is about you. every stupid little thing reminds me of you.” you shake your head, blinking back tears. “stop it.” “i can’t,” he breathes. “i don’t know how.”

he leans in slightly, his lips barely an inch from yours. “tell me you don’t feel the same, and i’ll go.” your heart pounds so hard it hurts. he’s so close… and the way he’s looking at you, like he’s daring you to push him away, makes something snap inside you. before he can say another word, you grab his shirt and yank him down, crashing your lips against his. subong freezes for half a second, like he wasn’t expecting it, but then he groans into your mouth, his hands gripping at your waist as he kisses you back just as hard. he barely gives you a second to breathe before he’s backing you up, walking you straight into the wall. the impact makes a sharp gasp escape you, but he swallows it down, one hand threading into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth moves against yours.

then it happens—your breath catches, and before you can stop it, a tear slips down your cheek. he stops. his lips hover just over yours, his chest rising and falling against you, and he pulls back just enough to look at you. “are you okay?” you don’t answer. instead, you pull him back in, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. you kiss him harder, and he lets you—lets you take what you need, lets you pour everything you can’t say into this. his fingers tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to pull your head back before pressing his forehead to yours. “tell me what’s wrong,” he murmurs, breath hot against your lips. in a broken whisper, you finally say it. “i need you.” he’s been waiting to hear that. for months, it’s been the only thing on his mind—you. every time he got high, every time he tried to flirt with someone else, every time he told himself it didn’t matter, that you didn’t matter. but it was all a lie. because you did. you always did. and now you’re here, in his arms, needing him. and he’s so fucking mad at himself for wasting all this time, for pushing you away, for pretending he didn’t want this when you’ve been the only thing he’s wanted.

that’s all it takes. he’s on you in an instant, his hands gripping your waist as his mouth crashes against yours. he walks with you, never breaking the kiss, his fingers pressing into your sides, guiding you until your legs bump against the edge of a small table. before you can steady yourself, his hands move to your hips, helping you up until you’re perched on top of it. his lips leave yours, dragging along your jaw and your neck. one hand slides up, fingers curving over your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt. the touch alone makes a soft moan slip past your lips. he swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and greedy, before tugging your shirt up, his palms skimming your skin as he pulls it over your head. his other hand moves with purpose, working the clasp of your bra. the second it falls away, his mouth is on you. you gasp when his tongue flicks over your nipple, your head falling back as pleasure shoots through you. “gonna make you feel good, baby,” he promises, his breath hot on your skin as he switches to your other breast, his teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you squirm. his free hand slides down your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with practiced ease before slipping between your thighs. you spread them instinctively, your breath hitching when his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your panties. “you’re so wet for me already,” he says, pulling back to look at you, his eyes dark with hunger.

subong takes his time peeling your pants off, pressing soft kisses to your thighs, your knees, your ankles. once they’re gone, he hooks his fingers into your panties, dragging them down at the same agonizing pace, his lips following their path. he tosses them aside without a second thought. then he’s on his knees, hands spreading your thighs wider as the cool air hits your skin, making you shiver. “let me show you how sorry i am, yeah?” you nod slowly in response. subong leans in, his breath hot against you, and you bite your lip, anticipation coiling tight in your stomach. and then his tongue is on you, licking a long stripe up your center, parting your delicate folds, exploring your wetness. you gasp when it finds your clit, your hands flying to his purple hair as his tongue swirls around it in slow circles. “f-fuck, yeah, right there,” you whimper, and he hums against you in approval.

he focuses all his attention on it, flicking his tongue over the sensitive nub before sucking it gently into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing out as he applies gentle pressure. you feel one of his fingers slide inside you, then two, curling them upwards and hitting that spot that makes your eyes roll back. his tongue never leaves your clit, licking and sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers, and you can feel that familiar pressure building in your lower stomach. your hand travels to the side of his face, your thumb caressing his cheek as he works you. moans grow louder, your hips bucking involuntarily against his face. “subong—” you try to speak, but the words die in your throat—the pleasure too strong. he smirks, feeling you tightening around his fingers. “that’s it, baby” his voice is muffled against you. “cum for me.” and you do, your back arching, knuckles white from gripping the side of the table, a cry tearing from your throat as you fall apart. his mouth never stops, drawing every last wave of pleasure from you until you’re boneless, panting.

you try to catch your breath as he stands, pulling you into him, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. your fingers tremble slightly as they find the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric. he shudders under your touch, muscles tensing before he exhales, letting you lift the shirt over his head. it falls somewhere behind him as your hands roam his chest. this isn’t like before. like the other times you’ve had sex. there’s something different in the way his fingers brush your skin, in the way he watches you like he’s afraid to blink, afraid to miss a second of this. you reach for his waistband, tugging at it, and he lets you, his breathing uneven as he watches your hands work him free. his pants and boxers slip to the floor, and he steps out of them, never once breaking contact.

“do you… do you have a condom?” you ask quietly. he stills, his hands resting on your hips as he looks at you. his brows pull together slightly. “no,” he admits, then asks, “do you?” you shake your head. “no.” “shit,” he exhales, his forehead falling to your shoulder. you can tell he’s frustrated—not at you, but at the situation. “it’s… it’s okay. we don’t need one,” you add softly. his head snaps back up. “you sure?” he asks, and you nod. “i want to feel you.” your words are the confirmation he needs. he grabs your thighs before pulling you closer to the edge of the table, spreading them apart to find room between them. his raw tip presses against your clit and you take a deep breath when he starts grinding against you, his stiff dick sliding across your wet slit. you both moan at the feeling, but nothing compares to the gasp that escapes both of your lips the moment he slides inside of you.

he’s slow at first, letting you adjust to the feeling, his hands holding you in place as he sinks in deeper, stretching you around him. you try to steady yourself, holding onto the side of the table with one of your hands again. his breath is uneven, and each slow, measured thrust makes you ache for more. but then his pace shifts. his grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back and thrusts in harder and faster. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the space between you, mixed with your breathless moans and his ragged groans. when you meet his gaze, his brows are furrowed, his lips parted. you can see it all written on his face: how much he’s wanted this, how long he’s been waiting, how badly he’s yearned for you. he looks like he’s barely holding himself together, like he’s afraid he won’t last because you feel too fucking good. “fuck,” he grits out, voice strained, his fingers flexing against your hips. “i missed you s-so fucking much…” his words cut off in a groan, his head dropping forward, forehead pressing to yours as he fucks you like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time. “i missed this… mmm… missed this pretty pussy of y-yours.” he drives into you harder, like he’s trying to claim you, like he’s trying to erase every trace of anyone else who’s ever touched you—muttering curses under his breath like he’s punishing himself as much as he’s fucking you. your nails scrape down his back, leaving red streaks in their wake, and he groans at the sting, at the way you cling to him. “fuck, baby—” he gasps, voice rough. “was he better than me? tell me,” he demands, his thrusts turning brutal, each one punctuating his words. “did he—did he fuck you like this? mmh? shit… did he make you cum like i-i do?” there’s anger in his voice. not at you—at himself. for waiting too long, for not telling you the truth when he had the chance, for letting someone else have you. you shake your head in response. his hand grips your chin, forcing you to look at him. “answer me.” “n-no!” you whimper “he… he didn’t, baby. only you—mmph!—only you make me f-feel this good.”

his grip on your chin tightens for a second before he releases you, his hand sliding down to wrap around your throat instead. not squeezing, just holding—just feeling you. his pace doesn’t slow, if anything, it gets rougher, like your answer wasn’t enough to satisfy the anger. “that’s right,” he grits out, sweat slicking his skin. “he could never…he could never fuck you like this.” his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise as he slams into you, making you cry out. you hold onto him, and he loves it—loves feeling you claim him the way he’s claiming you now. and fuck, he needs this, needs to remind himself that you’re here, wrapped around him—that you’re his. “look,” he mutters, commanding. “look how fucking g-good you’re taking me.” your breath hitches as your eyes drop, and fuck—seeing it is different. watching the way his dick disappears inside you, the way your body clenches around him, the way he’s completely buried in you, over and over again… “see that?” he pants. “you were made for me. this was fucking made for me.” his hand moves again, sliding between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, precise circles. “shit—subong!” you let out a broken moan. “y-yeah… fuck, yeah, just like that!” a whimper slips from your lips when subong fists your hair, tugging your head back up until your eyes meet his again. “say it,” he practically pleads. “say that you're mine.” “i-i'm yours!" you gasp, your voice shaking, your whole body trembling from the intensity of him. “i'm fucking yours…mmm… always been.” “i’m yours too, baby.”

his thrusts grow frantic and his breath comes in harsh, uneven bursts. all he can hear is the sound of his name falling from your lips in desperate, breathless moans. he swears he’s never heard something as beautiful. you can tell he is close, holding you in place as he leans over you, his forehead pressing against yours. your body tenses, your gummy walls clenching around him, his fingers still pressed on your clit as he pounds into you, making it impossible for you to hold back. your body tenses, and your free hand clings to the back of his neck with desperation as you kiss him, trying to muffle your whimpering. “gonna cum for me, b-baby?” he whispers, pulling away for a moment. “gonna—mmh! gonna cum on my cock?” you can’t even nod. his words are like a spark, and you can’t hold it back anymore. your body snaps, the pleasure flooding you. “subong!” you cry out, legs shaking. he watches you, his name on your lips, and the sight of you completely undone drives him to the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he follows you, quickly pulling out, his release spilling into your lower stomach. his face contorts, a strangled gasp escaping him as he rides out his own climax. he stays there for a moment, his body pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily, sweat-slicked skin sticking together. “i love you,” you whisper, hands running through his messy hair. “i love you too, señorita,” he smirks, his hand cupping your cheek before leaning in to give you a small peck on the lips. “i missed you.”

subong is a good boyfriend. or at least he tries to be. he still messes up sometimes, still says things without thinking, still gets into fights he shouldn’t, but he’s trying. you see it in the way he waits for you after work, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to play it cool, but you know he’s been standing there for a while. in the way he walks on the outside of the sidewalk, even though you never asked him to. you see it in the way he always grabs an extra drink when he stops by the convenience store, handing it to you without a word, like he just knew you’d want one. in the way he texts you did you eat? before he even says hello. in the way he always grumbles about carrying your bag when it looks too heavy, but takes it anyway. in the way he lets you steal his hoodies, rolling his eyes when you show up wearing one but never actually asking for it back. you see it in the way he lets you mess with his hair, even when he pretends to hate it. in the way he looks at you, like he still can’t believe you’re his. in the way he says your name, soft around the edges. in the way he tells you he loves you—not just with words, but in a hundred different ways, every single day.

there’s no confusion anymore. no second-guessing, no wondering where you stand with each other. he wants you, and he’s not afraid to say it. he tells you all the time, in every way he knows how. sometimes it’s casual, like when he looks at you in the middle of a conversation, something soft in his eyes, and says, “you know i love you, right?” like he just needs you to know. and then there are times when he’s shameless about it. like the time he made it his entire mission to embarrass you in front of both of your friends, throwing an arm around your shoulders and grinning as he declared, “isn’t my girlfriend the prettiest woman you’ve ever seen? no offense to you, semi.” there’s a beat of silence before half of them go “what?!” while the others just exchange knowing looks. “wait—dude, since when?!” namgyu asks. “oh, come on,” semi scoffs, rolling her eyes. “like we didn’t all see this coming.” subong just smirks, pulling you a little closer, dropping a kiss to your cheek. he’s here, and he’s yours, and he makes sure you know it.

you’re still best friends. you still laugh until your stomach hurts, still steal food off each other’s plates, still shove at each other like you’re kids. except now he kisses you after. or before. or sometimes instead of shoving you back. he’s still stubborn, still gets on your nerves more than anyone else. he’s not perfect, but he never pretends to be. and maybe that’s what makes it feel so easy. there’s nothing to prove, nothing to question. just the two of you, exactly as you are, exactly as you’ve always been. just you and him.

if you’ve read this far, i love you, let’s get married pookie ong

[rosierin]

blondes aren't your type, huh? │ atsumu miya

synopsis; atsumu miya can handle a lot of things— intense volleyball matches, late-night cramming for exams, even his friends' relentless teasing about his not-so-subtle crush on (y/n). but what he can’t handle? the latter casually saying blondes aren’t her type.

a/n; college au where you're besties with the miyas & suna

for more fics including these four, feel free to check out my masterlist!!

The living room was a mess of half-eaten snacks, empty soda cans, and textbooks no one had touched in the past two hours. The four of them— Atsumu, Osamu, Suna, and (y/n)— were sprawled across the couch and floor, basking in the lazy glow of a movie no one was really paying attention to. The vibe was easy, comfortable, the kind of friendship where silences weren’t awkward and teasing was a love language.

Atsumu sat at one end of the couch, legs stretched out, one hand lazily tossing popcorn into his mouth. (Y/n) was next to him, leaning against the armrest, her focus half on the screen and half on scrolling through her phone. Osamu was on the floor with his back against the couch, munching on chips, while Suna lay completely flat on his back like a starfish— looking more dead than alive— his phone held above his face.

It was peaceful. Until Suna decided it shouldn’t be.

“Hey, (y/n),” his voice was nonchalant, like he was about to ask for the time or the Wi-Fi password. But the glint in his eyes said otherwise. “You ever think about dating an athlete?”

A pause. Then—

“Like… a setter? Like… Atsumu, specifically?”

Silence.

Atsumu, mid-bite into his popcorn, choked.

Osamu went rigid for half a second before his shoulders shook with laughter, almost choking on his chips as he slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to contain the half-shock, half-hysteria threatening to burst out of him.

(Y/n) blinked, eyebrows raising slightly at the sudden question. She tilted her head in thought. “Huh? I mean, I dunno, I guess?”

Atsumu's blood ran cold—icy, frigid.

At that point, Osamu absolutely lost it. His laughter shook the entire couch, and he nearly knocked over the snack bowl in his fit. Suna, completely unbothered, simply turned his head toward Atsumu with a slow blink and the most blank expression, like he hadn’t just sent him into cardiac arrest.

Atsumu, however, felt his soul leaving his body.

“YA CAN’T JUST SAY STUFF LIKE THAT, YA FREAK!!” he hollered, throwing a couch pillow directly at Suna’s face.

Suna dodged the attack with ease, barely moving. “Why not? Just curious.”

“YA WERE NOT ‘JUST CURIOUS,’ YOU ASS—”

(Y/n) giggled, glancing between the chaos unfolding. “Wait, why are you freaking out so much, ‘Tsumu?”

Atsumu froze.

Osamu, still wheezing, attempted to compose himself before asking, “Yeah, ‘Tsumu, why ya freakin’ out, huh?”

Suna smirked, playing along. “Something to confess?”

Atsumu’s hands twitched with the urge to wrap around both their necks. His face was alight— and not just from anger. “I— NO— YER BEIN’ WEIRD.”

(Y/n), still confused, just shrugged and went back to her phone.

Osamu and Suna exchanged a look, their grins identical.

Oh, they were going to milk this.

But before Atsumu could fully combust, (y/n) suddenly sat up, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn. “Okay, no, but on a serious note,” she mused. “I’d happily date an athlete for the…” She trailed off, rubbing her thumb and index finger together in the universal 'money sign.'

Osamu and Suna both nodded along approvingly, like this was the most reasonable statement ever made.

Atsumu, for just a second, felt his heart flip.

Then—

“But I dunno about Atsumu, specifically,” (y/n) added, tilting her head from side to side as if actually pondering the thought.

Atsumu visibly tensed. So did Osamu and Suna as they exchanged another look— one that screamed, we fucked up.

Osamu, deciding to soften the blow, cleared his throat. “Ya know... he’s not that much of an asshole… sometimes.”

Atsumu scowled, glaring between his brother and Suna. “Guys, what the hell is happenin’??”

(Y/n) laughed, waving a hand. “No, no, it’s not that— it’s just… I’m not really into blondes.”

Atsumu blinked— he didn’t exactly know how to take that. “That’s yer reasonin’??”

Suna, ever the instigator, smirked. “What about Osamu, then?”

(Y/n) glanced at Osamu’s head of chestnut hair, giving him a once-over, eyes narrowing in consideration. Then, with a satisfied nod, she hummed approvingly, a look of content settling on her face.

Atsumu gawked.

Suna cackled.

Osamu, meanwhile, smirked and straightened his shoulders, subtly puffing out his chest— like a rooster trying to impress another chicken.

“It’s not easy bein’ the better-lookin’ twin,” he fake-sighed, shrugging and looking far too smug.

Atsumu groaned, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. Instead of arguing, he flopped back against the couch and turned his focus to the TV, pretending none of them existed.

Everyone immediately noticed his shift in behaviour. They knew they’d gone too far.

Osamu smirked, prodding his brother’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, don’t sulk.”

Suna grinned. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu, you still got a great personality. Kinda.”

Despite the smile on her face, (y/n) took pity on him, feeling a tiny pang of guilt. Nudging his shoulder, she leaned in with a grin. “Don’t worry, ‘Tsum, you’ve still got your handsome face.”

Then, before he could react, she leaned over and planted a deliberately sloppy kiss on his cheek.

The act wasn’t even remotely romantic— more like a mum kissing her kid before school— but it still made Atsumu’s ears burn bright red. He mumbled something under his breath, refusing to make eye contact.

Satisfied, (y/n) stood up and stretched. “I’m getting more snacks.”

As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, Osamu and Suna turned to Atsumu, their grins absolutely feral.

They puckered their lips, making exaggerated kissy noises.

Atsumu shot them a withering glare. “You guys fuckin’ suck.”

Suna snickered. “Aw, our little ‘Tsumu is in looove.”

Osamu wiped a fake tear. “They grow up so fast.”

Atsumu grabbed the nearest couch pillow and hurled it at their heads.

He knew, right then and there, that he was never going to know peace again.

[niniwritesxo]

‘what happened?’

hamzah x fem reader (fluff)

summary:

as martins roommate you quickly made friends with HIS best friend hamzah, one day you come home from box training and hamzah seems a little TOO concerned

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―୨୧⋆ hamzahs perspective

hamzah was sprawled across martin’s couch, controller in hand, half-focused on the game and half-scrolling on his phone. martin sat on the other end, muttering under his breath as he tried and failed to beat hamzah in tekken.

“bro, i swear this controller is broken,” martin grumbled, throwing it onto the coffee table.

“yeah, yeah, blame the controller,” hamzah said, smirking.

martin rolled his eyes. “whatever, man. hey, when’s our next stream?”

“tomorrow. thinking of doing something cursed, like a five nights at freddy’s vr stream. but, like, blindfolded.”

“that’s the dumbest idea i’ve ever heard.”

“thank you,” hamzah said proudly.

just then, the front door opened. both of them looked up as you stepped inside, dropping your gym bag by the door with a heavy sigh.

hamzah sat up straighter immediately.

your eye was bruised, swollen and darkening into an ugly shade of purple. a cut split your bottom lip, the dried blood making it look worse than it probably was. you had a couple of red marks on your knuckles too, like you’d been throwing punches without wraps.

hamzah didn’t even think.

“what the hell happened?”

you blinked at him like you’d forgotten he was here. “boxing,” you said simply, kicking off your shoes.

hamzah’s jaw clenched. “yeah, no shit. but why do you look like you lost a fight with a brick wall?”

“gee, thanks.” you snorted, heading toward the kitchen. “i was sparring with someone bigger than me, and they kind of beat my ass. it happens.”

hamzah exchanged a glance with martin, who just raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

without thinking too much, hamzah went to the freezer, grabbed an ice pack, and wrapped it in a kitchen towel. by the time you turned around, he was holding it out toward you.

you hesitated. “i don’t need that.”

hamzah gave you a look. “okay, cool. then i’ll just stand here holding this like a dumbass.”

martin snorted. “i mean, you do that anyway.”

“shut up, martin,” hamzah said without looking at him.

you sighed, stepping closer. “fine.”

hamzah pressed the ice pack lightly against your bruised eye, and you flinched at the cold, grabbing his wrist instinctively. his breath hitched, but he didn’t move.

up close, he could see the faint sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your lips parted slightly from the sting. his fingers curled around the ice pack tighter, as if that would stop him from thinking too hard about the fact that you were so close.

“you shouldn’t let people get hits on you like that,” he muttered.

your grip on his wrist tightened. “that’s kinda how boxing works, genius.”

hamzah exhaled sharply. “yeah, well. pick someone your own size next time.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you volunteering?”

he scoffed. “i’m not trying to die today, thanks.”

martin, still watching, snickered. “damn, hamzah. you taking care of her like she’s your wife or something.”

hamzah shot him a shut the hell up look, but his ears burned anyway.

you, on the other hand, just laughed. “relax, hamzah. i’m good.”

―୨୧⋆ your perspective

hamzah was still holding the ice pack to your eye, but his expression was unreadable. he looked… annoyed? maybe? or just focused.

either way, it was weird.

you had known hamzah for a while now. he was your friend, chaotic, loud, always cracking jokes. but this? this quiet, almost gentle concern? it was throwing you off.

his fingers brushed against your temple, adjusting the ice pack, and you suddenly became hyper-aware of how close he was.

you swallowed. “dude, i can hold it myself.”

hamzah rolled his eyes but handed it over. “whatever.”

the second you took it, he shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket, rocking back on his heels. “just don’t go breaking your face again. or at least warn me next time.”

you smirked. “why? you worried about me or something?”

something flickered across his face just for a second. and then it was gone, replaced with an eye roll.

“please,” he scoffed. “i just don’t wanna see your ugly-ass bruises while i’m trying to eat.”

you shoved his shoulder lightly. “wow. thanks.”

hamzah grinned, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat too long.

and even though he didn’t say anything else, you could tell.

—————-—————————————————————

first hamzah fic and lowkey i hope ppl want to read this lol, please let me know if you like it ;)

authors note: thank y’all for the crazy support it means the world, requests and second parts of stories will be written but right now i am lowkey focused on different fandoms <3

[oikarma]

muse

pairing: lando norris x poet!reader

summary: you're notoriously picky about your muses. no wonder lando's all flattered when he manages to figure out that you've written a few poems about him.

a/n: please enjoy! as per usual any songs/poems i reference are not my work. thank you so much for the request, i didn't follow it entirely but i loved the idea of an artistic!reader

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

liked by mothercain and others

yourinstagram found a new muse

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user1 new collection WHEN

user2 that cat is so cute is it yours? ♥︎ liked by yourinstagram

yourinstagram yes! her name is stevie

user3 she's picking up the pen again!

mothercain well? show it to me

yourinstagram i'm in the editing process 🤕 art takes time mothercain or you're getting shy

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liked by alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourinstagram oh...technology

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user1 y/n and f1 crossover??

user2 collab we didn't know we needed

user3 we see you alex

alexandrasaintmleux send me the pictures you took please 🩷 think i found my new favorite photographer

yourinstagram too kind. usually i'm more of a pen and paper girl alexandrasaintmleux well the artistry certainly carries over user4 i KNEW they'd like each other

user5 waist who

user6 love you SM

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liked by f1 and others

yourinstagram teaser

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user1 OH MY GOD WHERE CAN I ORDER

user2 ur such an inspiration y/n

mothercain proud of you

yourinstagram thanks ml <3

user3 wtf is f1 admin doing here

f1 we love y/n's poetry, doesn't everyone? user4 is she doing a f1 special or sth

user5 the signature is sooo cute

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liked by mclaren and others

lando i'm literate, i promise.

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user1 his jawline...

user2 on holiday?? don't you have a car to be driving

oscarpiastri as long as you believe it!

lando you're a horrible friend

user3 WAIT GUYS THAT'S Y/N'S BOOK

user4 who's y/n user3 @/user4 @/yourinstagram she's a poet and she recently came out with a new poetry collection user5 woah. hear me out: it's about lando?? user6 bfr no educated girl would go for that man

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mclaren Celebrated poet Y/N L/N in our garage today 🧡 Wanna write something about our cars, too?

tagged: yourinstagram

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user1 i would cry if i wrote a poem about a driver and he read it and his team read it and then they invited me and asked me to write about their cars

user2 mclaren really trying to cement their legacy

user3 oh she's STUNNING

yourinstagram was it fun tormenting me

mclaren do you not like our company ☹️ user4 @/mclaren she's only there for lando

user5 so we're basically accepting that her new collection is about a freaking racecar driver

user6 lando's fine but is he THAT fine user7 love does weird things to people user8 i mean he liked the post

lando guess i'm just more interesting

user9 y/n hasn't responded guess she's busy dying of mortification user10 oh he's going to be insufferable user11 the dad lore will go crazy "that poem you're reading in english class? yeah! it's about me!"

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f1gossipofficial Is that Y/N L/N with Lando Norris? We think it might be.

tagged: yourinstagram, lando

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user1 oh my god it's real

user2 are they car-shopping together??

user3 i'm so confused who is she

user4 YN NATION RISE SHE HAS A MAN. I REPEAT. SHE HAS A MAN!

user5 lowk can't believe the guy who bagged our girl y/n is an athlete user6 i thought she'd go for like a random college prof. or a nerd. idk. user7 remember when we thought she was dating daniel radcliffe 😭 and then it turned out she was coaching him for the kill your darlings promo LMAO let's not rush into this user8 @/user7 that was so embarrassing...we all got tricked but this time y/n's been writing about him user9 @/user8 are we SURE though

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lando thought it was time to return the favor x

tagged: yourinstagram

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user1 don't be shy, lando. show us the picture

user2 they're so book couple coded?

user3 if i write enough fanfiction will my celeb crush notice me too

yourinstagram not bad, norris.

lando so now you're all nonchalant? didn't seem like it last night user4 HELLO? freaks. FREAKS, i tell you. user5 well y/n it might be time to write your man a pr manual

user6 well she's definitely an artist for the ages. he'll be immortalized in her work. and her? her legacy speaks for itself but i suppose she might treasure that photo just as much

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a/n: have a great march!

[navi-the-flying-bee]

Valentine's day

(a/n): okay. I know i am VERY late,but to arrive late is better than not arriving. So... Forgive me?

Characters: Atsushi, Fukuzawa, Dazai, Fyodor, Mori, Chuuya, Ranpo, Poe, Nikolai.

Warnings: use of y/n. This took me too long but mostly because i had writing block while writing it (which was a month ago? Or two?) then i had to drag myself to continue it.

Nakajima atsushi

Valentine’s Day at the Armed Detective Agency was… chaotic.

Not that you were expecting anything less.

You had no real plans for the day. romance wasn’t exactly your forte. You were more of a “wait until the 15th and buy discounted chocolate” kind of person. But apparently, Ranpo had figured that out.

And that was a mistake.

“You’re telling me,” he said, eyes gleaming like he had just solved the world’s greatest mystery, “that you, didn’t think ahead about Valentine’s Day? How tragic.”

You groaned, burying your face in your scarf. “Leave me alone. It’s a capitalist trap.”

Ranpo took a slow, exaggerated bite of the expensive chocolate he had somehow acquired (probably by guilting Kunikida into buying it for him). “Ooooh, Kunikida’s gonna lecture you again.”

And just as he said that-

“Y/N!”

You flinched.

There he was. Kunikida Doppo, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking every bit like a disappointed teacher about to give a very long lecture.

“As a member of the Agency, you should have at least some consideration for your coworkers,” he scolded. “Valentine’s Day is about appreciation, not just romance.”

You nodded. “Understood.”

Kunikida blinked. “...Wait. Really?”

“Yeah,” you said, already sidestepping toward the exit, “I’ll write you all a heartfelt letter about how much I appreciate you later. Sound good? Okay, bye-”

“come back here-!”

You turned too fast and crashed right into Atsushi.

“Oh!, I was actually looking for you,” he said, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “I got you something.”

You blinked. “...For me?”

Atsushi held out a small box of chocolates, tied with a golden ribbon.

“Well… yeah,” he said, smiling shyly. “You always make sure everyone’s okay, so I figured you deserved something too.”

Your heart melted a little. “That’s-” You shook your head. “Atsushi, that’s unfair. Now I feel bad for not getting you anything.”

“No, no! It’s not about that,” he said quickly. “I just wanted to. You don’t owe me anything.”

You stared at him for a moment before smiling softly. “...Thank you.”

And that’s when it happened.

From across the room, Dazai smirked.

“How sweet,” he teased. “Ciel, did you just get a confession?”

You choked on your own words. “I- NO. Dazai, stop.”

Atsushi, now bright red, waved his hands wildly. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

Dazai, clearly enjoying the chaos, dramatically clutched his chest. “Ah, young love! So pure, so fleeting-”

Ranpo, still munching on chocolate, leaned over. “Ten bucks says Kunikida tries to shut him up in the next five minutes.”

You scoffed. “Two minutes.”

And sure enough.

“DAZAI, GET BACK TO WORK.”

Fukuzawa Yukichi

Look. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to give President Fukuzawa something for Valentine’s Day. You just… didn’t know what.

I mean, what do you give someone so wise, composed, and effortlessly cool?

You couldn’t just hand him some cheap chocolates and call it a day.

“Just write him a letter,” Atsushi had suggested.

“Or get him cat-themed tea,” Ranpo had added with his usual knowing smirk. “He’ll love it.”

And that was how you ended up standing outside Fukuzawa’s office, holding a neatly wrapped box of cat-shaped tea bags (shoutout to Yosano for the shopping advice) and a small letter.

You hesitated.

What if this was weird? What if this was too much? What if he thought you were trying too hard?

Before you could spiral any further, the door slid open.

Fukuzawa looked down at you, calm as always. “y/n?”

You straightened up. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sir.”

His gaze shifted to the gift in your hands. “For me?”

“Uh… yeah.” You hesitated before handing it over. “It’s nothing special, just some tea. And, um, a letter. You don’t have to read it or anything-”

Fukuzawa accepted the gift with a small nod. “Thank you.”

You exhaled. “Oh. Cool. Okay.”

You turned to leave when-

“I will read it.”

You froze. “Huh?”

Fukuzawa regarded you thoughtfully. “You are an expressive person. If you took the time to write something, it must have meaning.”

Oh.

Your face suddenly felt warm. “I- Uh- Yeah, I guess so.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then, in an uncharacteristically soft tone, he added:

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

…

Did you just get praised by the President of the Armed Detective Agency?!

Atsushi and Kunikida found you five minutes later, sitting in the hallway, staring into space.

“She looks like she just saw a mythical creature,” Atsushi whispered.

“She basically did,” Ranpo replied, grinning.

Dazai Osamu

You messed up.

The second you hesitated in front of Dazai’s desk, you sealed your fate. Because that was all the invitation he needed to turn your day into a performance.

“Ohhh?” His eyes lit up with the thrill of chaos. “Could it be? y/n-chan, are you giving me a Valentine’s gift?”

And that was when you knew.

You were done for.

“No,” you deadpanned.

“What’s that in your hand, then?”

“Nothing.”

Dazai gasped. Full, dramatic, hand-to-chest levels of betrayal. “A confession?! Oh, Ciel, I’m flattered! But you should know, my heart belongs to the endless embrace of-”

“It’s chocolate, Dazai.”

He stopped mid-monologue. Just froze.

“Eh?”

With the patience of someone who had long accepted their suffering, you dropped the small box onto his desk.

“It’s just chocolate. Because it’s Valentine’s Day. And because if I didn’t get you something, you’d be insufferable about it.”

Dazai picked up the box, turning it over in his hands like it held the secrets of the universe. “So this is how much I mean to you, huh?”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Oh, I want it.” His smirk returned, far too pleased with himself. “I just didn’t expect you to be so bold”

You saw red. “I swear to God-”

“Did you put poison in it?”

“No, but I should have.”

“Ah, how cruel!” He collapsed against his desk like a tragic widow. “To think, my dear Ciel-chan, the one person I trusted, has betrayed me so—”

So you threw a piece of chocolate at his forehead.

It hit with a satisfying thud.

“Just eat it and shut up.”

And that should have been the end of it.

But then, Dazai looked at you, a real smile tugging at his lips.

Not the teasing kind. Not the act.

A small, genuine one.

“Thank you.”

…And for some reason-

That threw you off way more than the flirting.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

You weren’t sure why you were doing this.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was stupidity. Maybe it was some self-destructive impulse that made you think, Wouldn’t it be interesting to see how Fyodor Dostoevsky reacts to a Valentine’s gift?

So now you were here. In a dimly lit room. Sitting across from him.

Fyodor watched you with an unreadable expression, fingers tapping lightly against his teacup. “A gift? For me?”

His voice was smooth, polite-like he already knew your intentions and was simply indulging you.

You cleared your throat and placed a small box on the table. “Yeah. It’s… nothing special. Just chocolate.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Ah. How thoughtful.”

He picked up the box, examining it with unsettling amusement. “Tell me,” he mused, violet eyes gleaming, “is this an act of goodwill? Or do you simply wish to see how I would respond?”

You hesitated. Damn it. He saw through you so fast.

“I mean…” You leaned back, crossing your arms. “Maybe both.”

Fyodor chuckled. “Honest. How refreshing.”

He unwrapped the box with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment. “You intrigue me,” he admitted, plucking one of the chocolates between his fingers. “A human with a unique power… yet you walk willingly into the lion’s den.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’re the lion?”

He smiled. a slow, knowing smile. “And what else would I be?”

Oh.

Oh.

You suddenly felt very, very aware of the fact that you had voluntarily given Fyodor Dostoevsky a Valentine’s gift. This was probably a bad idea.

He took a bite of the chocolate, his gaze never leaving yours. Then, tilting his head slightly, he asked:

“Tell me, … do you believe in fate?”

Your pulse quickened. “That depends,” you said carefully. “Are you about to make me regret this?”

Fyodor chuckled again, slow and deliberate. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Or perhaps… this is just the beginning.”

You swallowed. Yeah. This was definitely a bad idea.

Mori Ougai

You would never give Mori Ougai a Valentine’s gift. Ever.

It wasn’t even about him being the leader of the Port Mafia-hell, you’d already given Fyodor chocolate, and he was arguably worse. No, Mori was just… dangerous in a different way.

The kind of dangerous that smiled too kindly while pulling the strings behind the scenes.

So imagine your absolute horror when you walked into your regular café, to your daily table and found a beautifully wrapped gift box waiting for you.

With a card.

Signed: Mori Ougai.

…You stared.

No. No, no, no. This was bad.

You immediately turned on your heel-only to find Mori standing right behind you.

“Going somewhere, y/n-chan?” he asked pleasantly.

You barely stopped yourself from jumping. “Nope.”

Mori smiled. Too kindly. “I heard you were handing out gifts today, so I thought I should return the favor.”

“…I didn’t give you anything.”

“Not yet.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m never giving you anything.”

Mori sighed dramatically. “Ah, so cruel. Even after I went through all this trouble?”

Your gaze flicked to the box. Suspicious. “Is it poisoned?”

He chuckled. “Now, now, what kind of man do you take me for?”

“The exact kind who would absolutely poison a gift.”

Mori only laughed. “It’s nothing dangerous, I promise. Just a small token of my appreciation.”

Yeah, right. That sounded ten times worse.

“…Appreciation for what?”

“For being so interesting, of course.” His smile widened. Too wide. “I do hope we continue to cross paths.”

You picked up the box like it might explode.

“Great. That’s definitely not ominous.”

Mori simply chuckled, stepping away. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear.”

You decided right then and there that you were never opening that box.

Nakahara Chuuya

You had debated this for days.

Giving Chuuya Nakahara a Valentine’s gift? Risky.

He wasn’t exactly the romantic type... well, not in the cheesy way, at least. And honestly? You weren’t even sure if he’d want chocolate from you.

But after hours of overthinking, you finally decided: screw it.

Worst case scenario? He’d mock you and move on.

Best case scenario? …Well, you weren’t sure yet.

So here you were, standing outside Mafia HQ, clutching a small bag of premium dark chocolate truffles and second-guessing your entire existence.

Before you could change your mind, the door swung open.

Chuuya stepped out.

And paused immediately when he saw you.

You blinked. “…Oh.”

He frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“I-” You hesitated, then just shoved the bag at him. “Here.”

Chuuya looked down at it, confused. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s-” You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “It’s chocolate, okay? For Valentine’s Day.”

Chuuya stared.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into an amused smirk.

“Well, well,” he drawled, taking the bag. “Didn’t take you for the type to hand out gifts.”

You groaned. “If you’re gonna make this weird-”

“Nah.” He shook his head, opening the bag and popping a truffle into his mouth.

Immediately, his eyes widened.

“…Shit. This is actually good.”

You crossed your arms. “Of course it is.”

Chuuya chewed thoughtfully, then glanced at you. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze.

“…Tch.” He looked away, a little flustered. “Thanks, I guess.”

You blinked. “Wait, did you just-”

“I swear to god, don’t make a big deal out of it.”

You grinned. “You totally just-”

“Shut up.”

You laughed, watching as he pointedly refused to meet your eyes.

For someone so tough.

He sure was easy to fluster.

Ranpo Edogawa

You should have known this would happen.

Giving Ranpo Edogawa chocolate on Valentine’s Day? That was practically signing up to be made fun of for the rest of your life.

But at this point, you’d already given chocolate to Dazai, Chuuya and Fyodor (questionable life choices). What was one more?

So you marched up to Ranpo’s desk, dropped the small box of sweets in front of him, and crossed your arms.

“Here.”

Ranpo didn’t even glance up from his snacks. “Oho? A bribe?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day, you idiot.”

He finally looked up, grinning like the little menace he was. “So… a confession?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw the ceiling. “It’s just chocolate. Don’t make this weird.”

Ranpo picked up the box, turning it in his hands with a thoughtful hum. His green eyes twinkled like he was already three steps ahead of you.

“Hmmm… I already knew you were gonna give me some, of course.”

“Sure you did.”

“I did! After all, I’m the greatest detective in the world.”

You smirked, leaning forward. Oh, you were gonna enjoy this.

“Okay then, Mr. Detective.” You crossed your arms. “What flavor is it?”

Ranpo blinked.

You saw the exact moment the gears in his head stuttered.

“…What?”

“You heard me.” Your smirk widened. “If you’re sooo smart, you should already know what kind of chocolate it is.”

He squinted at the box like it might reveal its secrets if he stared hard enough. Then-without breaking eye contact. he popped the box open and ate one.

“Hazelnut.”

Your jaw dropped. “You-”

“See?” He grinned, smug as hell. “Told you I knew.”

“YOU JUST TASTED IT.”

“Still counts.”

You groaned, resisting every violent urge in your body.

“I should’ve given it to Kunikida instead.”

Ranpo was already reaching for another chocolate. “Nah. You like me too much for that.”

You did not dignify that with a response.

Edgar Allen Poe

You hadn’t originally planned to give Poe a Valentine’s gift.

Not because you didn’t like him. Poe was actually one of your favorite people. It was just that… well, you weren’t sure if he even cared about Valentine’s Day.

But then you thought about how happy he’d look if he received a gift.

And, well… how could you resist?

So you made your way to a quiet, dimly lit corner of Yokohama’s library, where Poe usually hid away to write. You found him at his usual table, Karl curled up beside him, as he scribbled something in an old notebook.

You placed a carefully wrapped package in front of him.

Poe jumped slightly, blinking up at you. “y/n?”

You grinned. “Valentine’s gift.”

There was a long pause.

Then-

“Karl! She brought me something!”

You barely had time to react before Poe snatched the package with surprising speed, unwrapping it as if it held some ancient secret.

Inside was a beautifully bound, leather-cover notebook with delicate gold-embossed edges.

Poe froze.

His hands trembled slightly as he picked it up, eyes scanning every little detail. “This is…” His voice was almost a whisper.

“I figured you might like a new notebook,” you said, shrugging. “Y’know, for all your writing.”

Poe slowly looked up at you.

You blinked.

Was he… tearing up?

“…Poe?”

“This is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received,” he declared dramatically, clutching the notebook to his chest. Karl squeaked in agreement.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Glad you like it.”

Poe nodded furiously, then froze-as if remembering something important.

“Wait here!” He rummaged through his bag, then returned holding a small, carefully wrapped package.

“For me?” you asked, surprised.

Poe nodded eagerly. “Karl and I prepared it just in case!”

You opened the package to find a collection of beautifully handwritten short stories, bound together in a small book. The title page read:

“To y/n, A Collection of Mysteries & Dreams.”

Your breath hitched. “Poe…”

He flushed slightly. “I, um… I hope you like it.”

You grinned, holding the book close. “I love it.”

Karl climbed onto your shoulder, squeaking happily.

Best Valentine’s exchange ever.

Nikolai Gogol

You knew something was wrong the second you stepped into the Agency.

Everyone was staring at you. Some with curiosity. Others cough Kunikida cough with visible irritation.

You blinked. “Uh… what?”

Dazai smirked, nudging you forward. “Why don’t you check your desk, (Y/N)-chan?”

A sinking feeling settled in your gut.

Slowly, you turned-

And froze.

Because sitting on your desk was a massive, gift-wrapped box with a tag that read:

“To My Dearest, From Your Secret Admirer (Guess Who~!)”

You felt actual fear.

“No.” You turned to the others. “I am not opening that.”

Ranpo, casually eating a snack, snickered. “Smart choice.”

Before you could destroy the box yourself, the lid burst open-

And out popped Nikolai Gogol.

“SURPRISE, MOYA LUBOOOOV!” he sang, arms spread wide.

You screamed. Kunikida almost had a stroke.

Nikolai cackled, hopping out of the box. “Did you like my present, my dear? A gift from the heart- ME!”

You stared at him in horror. “Get back in the box.”

“Aw, but I worked so hard on this!” He spun dramatically. “I even thought about filling it with doves-maybe a few fireworks, but apparently, that’s ‘too dangerous indoors’ or whatever.”

“You-” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What do you even want?”

Nikolai grinned. “Just your reaction, of course! And to see if you’d join my villain arc!”

You crossed your arms. “Hard pass.”

Nikolai pouted. “Booooring.” Then, with a snap of his fingers, he vanished.

You sighed in exhaustion.

Then, from somewhere above you, his voice echoed:

“Check under your desk, love~!”

You did not. You simply walked away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Help! I feel the writing block coming back again. So i may disappear till then if you have any questions or requests? You know where to send them. Anyway i am going to my corner rn. Bye..

[tmasc-confessions]

I read a post once where this person wore a suit to their choir concert and this woman was like “omg!! girl power!! Ur so brave for wearing a suit” and the person was like “I’m nonbinary” and the woman’s whole demeanor and face changed and she became disgusted

I can’t find the post rn but wow it’s so horrible to think that kind of stuff happens like it’s somehow more “progressive” or “transgressive” to be a girl wear a suit than just being a nonbinary person wearing a suit and existing but idk

I mean, just a few days ago a post was going around implying that being a masc-presenting woman was "more transgressive" than being a trans man, and I've also seen a lot of people shaming transhet trans men when they praise cis lesbians.

It's weird. I don't like it. They clearly just don't like us.

[angelackless]

LOVER

Joaquin Torres x Stark!reader

"YOU KNOW WHAT,SAM?I CHANGED MY MIND" JOAQUIN STOPPED IN FRONT OF THE TOWER.

"what do you mean you changed your mind?I got you a date with the girl you wouldn't shut up about for months now" Sam stopped to look at him "you can't do this man, she was so excited!"

"she was?" Joaquin asked, his voice filled with hope

"she was, when I told her about you she really seemed interested, and if you bolt right now, Stark gonna beat my ass and then yours when he finds you, and you don't want that,right?"

"I guess no" he shaked his head "alright, i'm just gonna give her this flowers, say she looks pretty and have a fun night with her" Joaquin said, mainly to reassure himself "Yeah, I can do it"

"yes,you can, now get inside pretty boy because I don't want (y/n) to think I pranked her again"

"wait,again?" Joaquin asked as he followed Sam inside the huge tower.

As they arrived at the level where the living room was, he immadetly saw (y/n), and Joaquin felt like he is gonna faint right there, he saw and was with some beautiful woman in his life but, you?hell, he thought he saw a freaking goddess, how the dress that you picked hugged all your curves in all the right places,yeah, he wasn't sure he can keep his hands to himself.I mean, come on, everyone thought (y/n) Stark is gorgeous, and he sure as hell didn't felt ashamed anymore for begging Sam an entire month to set this up.

"Hi, you're Joaquin, right?" you stepped closer to the boy with a kind smile "Sam told me a lot about you"

"only good things I hope" he glanced at Sam for a minute

"just good things" you answered giggling and he had to stop himself from the huge grin that just wanted to appear on his face "really, don't worry, I trust Sam, I know he wouldn't set me up with a bad guy"

"Yeah,yeah, cause i'm not bad, i'm a great great guy" he nodded his head "uhm...you look beautiful by the way, and I got you tulips"

"it's my favorite, thank you" you said as you took the bouquet from him "how did you know?"

"I know a lot of-" then he felt a sharp pain in his side, which was because of Sam elbowing him there "I mean, I asked Sam,yeah, I asked him"

"how about you two get going?the restaurant is not gonna wait for you two all night" Sam interrupted

"Yeah, let's go" Joaquin said and glanced at you "ladies first"

After a thirty minute drive you two arrived at the restaurant, it wasn't that popular nor fancy, which meant the paparazzi wouldn't take pictures of you and your dad, who is on a vacation, won't find out about your date through the internet.

After the waiter led you two to your table, and even got your orders there were a few moment of very very awkward silence, which he decided to break "Sam said that you're in university, what are you studying?"

"Stem" you answered smiling "which is not as cool as your job"

"what?no, don't say that" he shaked his head "I would die in your place, you're much more cooler than me"

"because i'm Tony Stark's daughter?"

"no, because you're you" he answered "you're smart,pretty,you always stand up for what is right,did I mentioned that you're smart? because I think you're incredibly smart" at his words a faint blush appeared on your face accompanied with a giggle

"you barely know me"

"Yeah,well I'm serious about what I said still, besides, I like you"

"you know, I think I like you too, maybe it's weird because we just met, but I feel like i've known you for twenty years" you looked straight into his eyes

"which means I can take you out again?"

"Yeah, you can take me out again" you nodded "but we will go to my place and I cook for us then"

"sounds like a plan" Joaquin winked at you.

[echstacy00]

every breath you take: stalker!landlord!kimsunoo

when you first moved in, the apartment felt like a dream come true—affordable, safe, and run by a landlord who actually seemed to care.

sunoo was young—weirdly young for a landlord. but he had explained early on that it was a family business, passed down by his father. “i practically grew up managing this place,” he said with pride and a sheepish smile—it was cute . and either way, he seemed extremely responsible. he was polite, charming, always ready to help with the warmest smile. he made a great first impression, kind and attentive without being overbearing.

what you didn’t know was that from the moment he saw you, sunoo was infatuated. how could he not be? you were… different. unlike anyone he had ever met. there was something so effortless about your presence, like you were truly heaven-sent. the way you carried yourself, the warmth in your voice when you spoke to others—it was mesmerizing. you were perfect. and perfection needed to be protected.

on your first day, while giving you a tour of the unit, sunoo casually mentioned the security cameras.

“they’re only for emergencies, of course” he quickly reassured you, flashing that signature sweet smile. “no daily surveillance or anything like that—just in case..something happens.”

and of course to you it made sense. the world was dangerous, after all.

and yet, nothing ever happened to you.

a pipe burst in the unit next door, but yours was fine. a power outage hit the entire floor—except for you. The one time you forgot to lock your door, you panicked, only to find everything exactly where you left it. It was like you were protected.

you didn’t think too much of it.

not even when sunoo started mentioning things about you that you never remembered telling him.

at first, it wasn’t the way he spoke that unsettled you. It was the missing things.

little things at first. a necklace you swore you had left on your nightstand. a sweater that you thought was in the laundry basket. then the more..intimate things. things you would never misplace.

it was ridiculous—wasn’t it? you were usually so organized. was your washer eating up your clothes? or… was this deeper than you thought?

still, you told yourself it was nothing. that you were overthinking it.

then, one day, sunoo asked you—casually, like it was nothing—

“how’s that book you’re reading?”

you blinked and slightly furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. you had been reading in your bedroom. alone.

sunoo immediately backtracked, laughing a little and rubbing the back of his neck. “oh—uhm, i saw it during the unit check-up,” he added quickly seeming somewhat nervous? “didn’t mean to sound weird or anything.”

you let it go. because he wasn’t weird. sunoo was sweet, maybe a little awkward, but harmless. right?

then there were more moments.

“you’ve been looking tired lately. staying up too late again?”

again?

your curtains had been drawn. your lights had been off. how did he know?

at first, you brushed it off, but doubt slowly began to creep in. something about the way he said things, how he always seemed to know—it felt off. but then guilt set in almost immediately. you had always been the paranoid one, overthinking every little thing. this had to be the same, didn’t it? sunoo was too… casual for any of this to be real. you must’ve been imagining it.

then the little slips started.

one night, you came home late from dinner with friends. not even ten minutes later, your phone buzzed.

sunoo (landlord) : Saw you got home safe. Good.

your slightly stomach twisted. the hallway cameras didn’t even face your door.

another time, you mentioned trying a new café across town. sunoo hummed thoughtfully.

“the one near the park? you didn’t really like it, did you?”

your breath caught. you had gone alone. you hadn’t told anyone.

the realization crept in slowly, a sickening weight settling in your stomach. you were being watched. the feeling had always been there—subtle, easy to brush off—but now, it was suffocating.

no. you shook your head, forcing the thought away. you were overreacting. he was just observant, that’s all. he paid attention. it was nice, wasn’t it? to have someone looking out for you?

so you tested it.

one evening, you placed your keys on the kitchen counter and made a show of searching for them. you sighed, muttered to yourself, and paced around the apartment like you were frustrated.

not even five minutes passed before there was a knock at the door.

your blood ran cold.

when you opened it, sunoo stood there, smiling softly, holding your keys.

“you left these in the bathroom.”

your heart pounded.

you hadn’t.

And that’s when you knew.

the cameras weren’t just for emergencies.

they were for you.

please do not motify my works.

© echstacy 2025 - all rights reserved.

[justcat-judging]

₊ ⊹ 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞! ⊹ ₊

˚ʚY/N told them her ideal type which was the complete opposite of them. ɞ˚

˚ʚKaiser Micheal x Reader, Ness Alexis x Reader(seperate)ɞ˚

˚ʚpt.5, pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4ɞ˚

---

₊ ⊹ 𝐊𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥 ⊹ ₊

You and Kaiser are hanging out after practice, his usual self-absorbed chatter filling the air while you scroll through your phone.

“So, what’s your type?” he asks, that smug grin creeping across his face.

You glance up, pretending to think. “Hmm… I like guys who are quiet, humble, and down-to-earth. Maybe a little shy. Definitely not someone who’s always showing off.”

Kaiser freezes. His smirk falters for just a moment before he leans in, eyes narrowing. “You’re really gonna sit here and tell me that’s your type?”

You nod, keeping a straight face. “Yeah, I think it’s cute. Totally my type.”

Kaiser lets out a low, incredulous chuckle. “That’s funny. You’ve been hanging out with me for weeks now, and I’m anything but humble. You’re full of shit.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

He laughs, loud and confident. “A challenge? Babe, you don’t have to look any further. I’m exactly what you want. I’m the best, and you know it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep the grin from spreading. “Sure, whatever you say, Kaiser.”

His smile widens, fully aware of what he’s doing. “Admit it. You’re hooked on me. I’m exactly your type—you just don’t want to say it yet. But I’m already in your head.”

You snicker, finally giving in. “Fine. You’re right. Michael Kaiser is my type.”

He leans back, arms crossed, looking utterly victorious. “I knew it. You don’t need to hide it. No one can resist me.”

₊ ⊹ 𝐍𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐬 ⊹ ₊

You and Ness are sitting on the benches after practice, him leaning a little too close as usual. His eyes are practically glued to you, that dreamy smile never wavering.

“So… what’s your type?” he asks, tilting his head like a puppy waiting for praise.

You pretend to think, tapping your chin. “Hmm… I guess I like guys who are really serious, kind of intimidating. The quiet, brooding type who doesn’t let anyone get too close.”

For a moment, Ness just stares at you, blinking. Then, to your surprise, his cheeks turn red, and a tiny, breathy laugh escapes him.

“Oh,” he mutters, almost giddy. “So… someone who would completely ignore you? Push you away? Maybe even be a little mean?”

You narrow your eyes. “Uh… yeah?”

His smile widens. “That sounds kinda nice.”

You blink. “What.”

Ness sighs, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically. “Imagine… the person you love looking down on you, refusing to acknowledge you, barely giving you the time of day… ahh, my heart aches just thinking about it.”

You gape at him. “Ness. That’s not—”

He suddenly grabs your hand, squeezing it tight. “But I love a challenge! If that’s what you want, I’ll just have to make you fall for me harder!”

You groan, finally laughing. “Ness, I was messing with you! That’s not my type at all!”

He blinks. “Oh?” Then, without missing a beat, he leans in closer, voice dropping. “So… does that mean you do like me?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe I’d like you more if you weren’t so weird.”

Ness only grins, unbothered. “Ohh, so you do like me a little! That’s enough for me!”

You sigh, shaking your head. There’s no winning against this guy.

(Guys I think this is enough to feed you all.. I think I shall end this already)

[wlwsoccerfics]

Caught by Surprise(VicPelovaXCatleyReader)

A/N: this Is just my own experience with it. Can look different for someone else.

Warnings: seizures(epilepsy)

Summary: after being seizure free for years they are back & your girlfriend is really concerned.

You are on the trainings pitch with your team. That included your girlfriend Vic. You were doing drills.

It was no secret that you enjoyed drills and that you were competitive. So when you stopped in the middle of the dribbling challenge everyone was confused & some even concerend. You were smacking your lips together repeatingly. Your sister Steph was the first one to react. Running over to you. Just holding you in place. Which raised even more confusion. All of sudden your girlfriend was by your side as well. It took around a Minute before you looked at Steph and then at Vic.

"you okay Babe?" Vic asked. Steph rubbed your back gently.

"y-yeah!" You answered.

"what happened?" Katie asked.

"seizure." You admitted.

"she used to have them when she was younger!but they stopped around 6 years ago." Your sister explained.

"i was diagnosed with epilepsy when i was 8 years old." You told them.

"why didn't you tell anyone on the Team?" Lia wanted to know.

"cause i don't have them anymore! The seizures i mean! I didn't want to anyone to think i was broken!" You explained.

"we don't think you are broken. we just want to know what to do in case something happens!" Caitlin told you.

"okay let's give y/n a few minutes to rest. We can talk about this later! Vic if you want to go inside with her feel free to do so!" Renée told your girlfriend.

"yes. Babe let's get inside and sit down for a bit. Maybe have something to eat!" Vic answered.

"i am fine really." You replied but still went inside with her.

You sat in the Lunch break room with her. In fact you sat in her lap. Cuddled up to her while sipping on a bottle of water.

"are you sure you are okay?" your girlfriend asked you, holding you close. You smiled at her.

"i am. It's a weird feeling afterwards, that i almost forgot about cause it has been such a long time!" You admitted.

"is there anything i can do when this happens again?" Vic asked. You played with her fingers gently.

"Just what Steph did. Hold me and be there for me when it's this kind of seizure." You explained. Telling her about different kind of seizures and what to do If one of them is ever gonna show up.

"that sounds scary, not gonna lie! But i will always be there for you. Because i love you so very much!" She told you. You pecked her lips.

"Love you too Babe!" You replied. "Thank you for caring so much! I will have a talk with my doctor about it just in case and i would like if you would come with me." You let her know.

"whenever you need me i will be there! Always and forever!" Vic whispered out, holding you close.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Logan idea: him being married and starting a family with his wife 😍

OMG UGH The way I'm so in love with that man

I actually have two fics related to this in my drafts! One is reading finding out she's pregnant, the other is just a peak into family life with reader and logan. it's gonna be teeth rotting fluff. I hope you'll enjoy them <3

implications of sex below the cut, also pregnancy mentions!

Marriage with Logan:

I mean not to be cheesy but...

it's bliss

you all saw him in origins with kayla (gag)

that man is a total lover boy

hes on his knees for you

he will do anything for you

He didn't think he'd get to do something like this. to experience the whole joy of getting engaged, planning a wedding, getting married

just finding his other half....He considers himself the luckiest man in the world

He takes on the role of a hubby proudly

He'll laugh and pretend the wifey and hubby mugs you got him were cliche but he uses the hubby mug every single day proudly and ignores any comments regarding it

He'll proudly introduce you as his wife (or hubby, or partner, whichever term you prefer!)

everyone sees how so in love you both are

holding hands, your arms around each other

he'll admire the ring he put on your finger all the time.

"this is a nice look for you baby"

if you going through with having a wedding wedding, logan is going to be so damn nervous

he fights all sorts of bad guys. standing in front of family and friends, being vulnerable? thats a different kind of fight

but he finds when he sees you, all prettied up walking down that aisle

well, maybe this isn't so bad

but if you end up having a something small and simple, hes just as happy

either way, he's grinning ear to ear by your side. no ones seen the wolverine happier than when he married you

theres a comfort that settles between you both after marriage. a trust that the other is going to be there. you don't have to worry about a thing with him.

If you're getting or already have your own place, your engagement/marriage kicks off nesting in him. Hes' gotta make sure that his baby is taken care of...

Speaking of babies...

Starting a family!

Oh boy

or girl?

However the conception happens, planned or accident

logan will be thrilled (after he gets over the nerves)

he'll be so supportive to you. he may take a moment and go vomit out in the bins outside but he's happy, truly

hes so supportive

i mean i talked about pregnancy headcanons before but imma go into it again

he hates seeing his love in pain, suffering, etc etc. will hold your hand the entire way.

Hold your hair back during those morning sickness events uggh

will make you tea, slice apples, whatever the hell helps you

will rub your back, feet, shoulders. whatever

he thinks your mood swings are adorable (he won't say that to your face though. he knows you'll just tear him apart)

very handsy. can't help it. you looked good pregnant w his kid

every doctor appointment. hes there.

hes strong for you, god knows you're doing the heavy lifting but he's definitely going to be anxious. worried about every little groan and huff you let out. worried about labor. your safety. the babys safety.

hes so happy to be here but he's also terrified of losing it

yes, if you wake him up at 2 in the morning, he'll go get you those weird things you're craving. he'll do it happily. no you're not bothering him.

loves when you get a burst of hormones and become feral over him. he literally wants to bang you all the time but you're pregnant and not in the mood usually

you give him small kisses at first that end up getting intense and becoming more bc you're both just so happy and your hormones is making everything so intense and he's the only thing you want and need

anyhoo...

When you're big, big, like 8-9 months. He's all over you. You could bite his head off over his clingyness but the most he's gonna do is sit across the room with his tail between his legs

his instinct screams to stay close and to protect. he's not going anywhere

designing the babies room together

SHOPPING

bad bad wolverine is holding up lil jammies with sheep on it. "This is cute" he mumbles.

you can't even bring yourself to tease him over it because he's so damn cute like this. also hes' right. those are cute jammies. put em in the cart

Logan really doesn't care about the babys sex. he's just happy to even.. have all of this. and with you.

he'd be a great boy or girl dad honestly.

they're both gonna have him wrapped around their finger

you buy a plush wolverine animal for the babys crib and logan gets emotional over it

"yknow sweetheart these things are pretty mean in real life." he says as he holds back tears. "don't know if we should..."

he's gonna go into slight shock when they baby comes. like. woah, this is happening? really? actually happening?

Of course when you start reacting to your contractions, hubby mode is going to kick in. He's all over you, talking you through everything as you go the hospital

hes scared, terrified, but hes not gonna worry about himself when you need him more than ever

WILL cry when he meets yalls baby for the first time.

Going to feel like he'd been waiting his whole life to meet them.

He's going to be an amazing dad. hes got all sorts of life experience to share with them

your kid(s) will adore their dad (and you!)

they may have their teenage phase where everyone annoys them

but Logan having memories of how his family/parents were broken apart. he doesn't want that to happen

no ones a perfect person/partner/parent. logan tries pretty damn hard

movie nights

waking up to the kids running into yalls bed

him literally trying to steal ONE private moment with you, but your child is in a "i only want this parent phase!" for one of you and won't leave you alone.

your kid(s) gagging whenever you kiss or get affectionate. it happens often.

"mom and dad are really gross"

Im gonna add adoption in here too

he's gonna be really nervous because he doesn't want to scare whoever you adopt with his mutation, and just his general self. hes big and scary.

but you meet the child you two are meant to raise and he's in love

he adores the kid just as if it was his biological because to him it doesn't matter

thats you and hims child and he's going to do his damn best to take care of you and any child you may raise together

I just love him and I want me and him to build a lil life together on a farm or a cabin and have little ones that look like him running around and just *sobs*