#PROVE ME WRONG PROVE ME WRONG PROVE ME WRONG

[bajablastflavoredsaxreed]

bari saxthur got lucky in that kayne didn’t write him a part in The Wager so he didn’t have to go to the world’s longest and ugliest rehearsals

EDIT: moanin’ isn’t actually by mingus it was written by bobby timmons for art blakey and the jazz messengers i just listen to the mingus big band version and got confused. my sincerest apologies i love jazz i promise

[tinyravenfeathers]

Kermit for pope!

I was trying to find out if Kermit was eligible to be pope and I found a blog that says he's the perfect example of a catholic priest

[mwphisto]

I’m not sensitive!

Pairings include: Xavier x Reader | Rafayel x Reader | Zayne x Reader | Sylus x Reader | Caleb x Reader

Warning, this post includes: breast play, nipple play, breast kissing, nipple kissing / licking / and biting

A/N: as a girlie that was convinced her boobs we’re not sensitive, I present you this lmao. Of course, it is totally normal for your breasts to not be sensitive and for you to not be into breast play!!!! I am just writing based on my own experiences, and even then, it can be a 50/50 for me lol. Bigger chest = less sensitivity from what I've heard, but it's different for everyone! Much love!!

Moving Banners from @cafekitsune | LaDs men banner by me!

Xavier

A lazy weekend afternoon, comfy clothes, lots of snacks, and some cheesy horror movies playing on Xavier's TV screen. You were more engulfed in each other than anything else, the conversation flowing naturally as you lounged against the armrest of his couch.

"I'm serious, they're not sensitive." Your feet rest on his lap, his long fingers gently stroking up and down the skin of your calf. "I highly doubt it." Xavier countered with ease, blue eyes sparkling as a smirk curled his lips. "I just think you haven't met the right person."

Some way, somehow, the conversation had turned towards intimacy. What parts of you were sensitive, what parts weren't, the whole nine. Tension had been growing, but neither of you were willing to bite just yet. Even as you fought the urge to squeeze your thighs.

"The right person, huh? You're saying you can prove me wrong?"

You boldly proclaimed your breasts were not sensitive, your nipples not all that appealing to yourself when you had time alone. You didn't really touch them, like ever, even when masturbating.

"I believe I can give it my best shot..." Xavier started, using one finger to trail up towards your knee. "... that way, we can be positive that it's not... user error." He grins, something boyish and full of mischief and dammit you're a goner. "Well, you have my permission, Xavi."

Just like that, he's tugging your legs as he lunges. Crushing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. The hand that had been playing with your ankles and calves now splayed over your exposed thigh. Sneaking under your lounge shorts and reaching up towards your underwear.

His other hand snuck under your hoodie - one you had stolen from him - and didn't stop until he cupped one bare breast. "No bra?" a murmur against your lips, he didn't give you a chance to answer before his tongue was slipping into your mouth.

You arched into his touch, the warmth of his hand against your skin making your lips tremble as you tried to keep up with Xavier's needy kisses. He squeezes, not hard enough to hurt but enough to elicit a gasp, a triumphant smirk already curling his lips.

"See... you needed the right person." Saliva keeps you connected as he pulls away, blue irises nearly devoured by his dilated pupils. "The right person with the best touch..." His thumb and pointer finger find your nipple, squeezing it a few times experimentally.

A gasp flees you, body jerking away from the shock of pleasure that zapped up your spine. You'd tried this before, when you had been so convinced that playing with a woman's chest was a key part of her arousal, and you had been so disappointed when nothing really... happened.

Now, Xavier was doing all the things you had tried and quickly given up on, and he was getting the reactions you craved. "Xavier h-how... oh!" You're panting as he rolls the bud between his fingers, adding more stimulation by sucking along your jaw. "You just needed the right person to prove you wrong." it's muffled against your skin, a sigh of annoyance leaving him a second later.

"Take this off." All at once, he leaves you. Just long enough to yank the hoodie up and over your head.

“Let’s try this…” Xavier wasted no time, not bothering to tease you by lingering his kisses. The cool air of his apartment caused your nipples to harden, and Xavier was quick to pull one of the buds into his awaiting mouth.

Your head fell back, hands shooting to grab his head as a feeble cry of his name fled your lips. Heat pooled deep in your belly, leaking slowly and ruining your underwear. You didn’t think it was possible for your breasts to feel this way, never mind for it to cause such a reaction to the rest of you.

“X-Xavier, fuck me, please.”

“Someone’s eager.” He lets go of your nipple with a slick pop, a cocky grin now sneaking up his lips. “I’ve barely got to have my fun, you need to be patient Ms. I’m not sensitive.” You want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

Rafayel

A study of anatomy, sketching various bodies in various shapes, colors, and sizes. You couldn't even pinpoint how or when the conversation switched to personal weak spots, but... "What about your chest? Most people list their chest as a sensitive spot."

"Not me." You pout a bit, hands coming up to cup your chest before meeting Rafayel's eyes. "Maybe I'm just broken."

Your chest had never been all that sensitive from what you could tell. You'd tried a handful of times to make it feel as good as it looks, books, movies, and even porn videos put so much focus on stimulating a woman's breast that you assumed it had to feel good.

And when it fell flat? You had concluded your breasts were simply less sensitive than others. "You're certainly not broken." Rafayel sets his sketchpad down, pushing up from his seat on the floor to stalk towards where you had been lounging on his bed.

"Your body is way more responsive to someone else's touch opposed to your own." You feel your eyebrows raise, glancing between where he towered above you and where his hand was heading. "Can I show you? Or perhaps, prove my theory?" Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip, nodding a little to fast for your liking.

Rafayel sits himself down on the edge of his bed, a hand sliding over the thin material of your tank top. "You get too lost in your own head, of course, you won't be able to focus on how good it can feel." And your breathing stutters as his hand gingerly cups your right breast.

"Just relax, I've got you." As Rafayel speaks, he gently kneads the pliant flesh, silently noting that your nipples harden under his touch. "I-I just see these girls that can't go braless because their nipples are so sensitive and it just doesn't ma-oh!" Rafayel cuts you off by using his pointer and middle finger to squish the prominent bud.

"Ah-ah, what did I say about relaxing? Just enjoy..." Heat is starting to seep into your cheeks, your hand coming up instinctively to clutch Rafayel's wrist as he toys with your breast.

"They're so pretty, can I lift this up?" he's using his free hand to tug at the elastic material of your tank top, smirking when you nod your approval. "Atta girl, let me see these beauties...shit." His cheeks are turning pink, pupils dilating wide as he uses his other hand to cup your neglected left breast. "Fuck, they're so perfect."

You want to open your mouth and retaliate, but you think they are far from perfect. But you swallow it, knowing better than to dare contradict him when it comes to statements about your beauty. "And so responsive, see what happens when you listen to me?"

He seals the deal with a pinch, tugging both of your perked nipples between his thumb and pointer fingers before leaning down to kiss your sternum. "So damn beautiful." Another kiss, one closer to your right breast. "And so not broken, don't ever say that again."

This time, the kiss lands on your nipple, and you're mewling, cheeks burning hot as you clutch his wrist just a little tighter. Rafayel doesn't pull away this time, instead he removes his hand completely so he can suck the now-sensitive bud between his lips.

You're not sure how long he stays on you like that, but you know your panties are drenched and your nipple is swollen by the time Rafayel finally eases up. "Can I?" he swallows, chest heaving as he looks at your chest. He needs to mark them first and then sketch them.

"Can I fuck these after I show you how sensitive they can be?"

Zayne

You loved watching him type his reports, finding his meticulous typing to be both adorable and hot. Maybe it was just because you were so deeply in love with him, but dammit you could watch Zayne work all day. So, when he dragged over a human anatomy chart while typing on a patient file, you felt the need to pop the question.

"Zayne?" You sounded hesitant uttering it, so naturally, Zayne's attention was immediately focused on you. "Is something wrong?" Immediately, you wanted to swallow your words. "I-Uh, no, but I just kinda... had a question." You feel like you're going to die.

"Go on." He relaxed a bit, a telling sign that he could see your anxiety and wanted you to feel comfortable. "Ah, well." You look away, swallowing the lump in your throat before trying again. "I was just wondering if it was normal for... for breasts to not be sensitive."

The surgeon's eyebrow twitches upwards at that, and now you really want to melt into the chair you had been lounging in.

"Well, medically speaking, yes. It depends on the person. Sometimes chest size factors into sensitivity; sometimes it really doesn't. But, overall, it's pretty normal and fairly common...why?" Concluding his answer, Zayne seemed to really process what you were asking.

You felt a tad relieved upon hearing that it wasn't a one-in-a-million chance that you deemed your chest to be lacking sensitivity. "Oh, well, my breasts aren't all that sensitive, I kind of worried it wasn't normal, you know?" Zayne nodded, ears turning a shade of red. "Many forms of media have set unrealistic expectations."

"Tell me about it. I really felt self-conscious." You were ready to resume your lounging, but Zayne was still eyeing you.

"Would you like me to perform an exam?"

You swallow, eyes widening in surprise, but your head is moving faster. A nod escapes you before you can stop it, clearing your throat, you add, "That would be great, actually. I'd appreciate it."

Somehow, you're shirtless and braless on Zayne's exam table. The cool air of his office makes your nipples pebble. "They look perfect." He states it plainly, leaving no room for debate, even as your cheeks begin to burn. With skilled hands, the surgeon cups both of your bare breasts in his hands, kneading and squeezing meticulously.

The sensation sends a shrill of arousal straight to your tummy, and you find yourself gripping the edge of the exam table. "It's also quite common for your brain to pick a side. If you squeeze your own breast, your brain may focus more on what your hand is feeling rather than your chest." He squeezes them both to send the point home.

"And..." Zayne's head lowers, a gentle kiss placed on the top of each breast before he squeezes your nipples. "... different forms of stimulation can really shake things up."

In the blink of an eye, your back is against the cool leather of his exam table. The same table is now creaking as Zayne climbs up on it with you. "Z-zayne, what are you-" But his mouth descends on your breasts again, and suddenly all words die on your tongue.

His nose drags along your skin, inhaling your scent before suckling on one of your nipples. His hand comes up to toy with your other breast, determined to not let it go neglected during his exam.

"Some women find breast stimulation to be more effective when..." he swallows, angling himself so his free hand can slide down your stomach and towards the waistband of your pants. "...vaginal stimulation is provided at the same time."

Sylus

"Your chest is pretty sensitive, huh, Sy?" Your fingers dance lazily across his pecs, watching his expression for any signs. Sure enough, his brows pinch together briefly before relaxing again. "I guess you could say that." A gentle murmur, one that is full of exhaustion despite his eyes scanning over the pages of a book.

You were both supposed to be sleeping, but some days this was the only time you two could really spend time together. Snuggled into the crook of his arm, you found your brain wandering.

"Why are you asking, anyway?" his finger marks the spot he left off on, carmine eyes sliding to look down at where you peered up at him. "I just wish my chest was as sensitive as yours." You said it almost dreamily, as if you didn't realize what that statement did to him.

"Your breasts aren't sensitive?" Sylus countered, the book in his hand being tossed onto the nightstand so he could focus everything on you. "No, not really. I've tried but... nothing really works. I don't get how girls get so worked up when their breasts are touched."

He seemed to think it over for a moment, a small smirk curling his lips. "Do you care if I try something before you come to such a conclusion?" He turns towards you, his free hand resting on your shoulder and pushing you to your back. “You know what? Sure, go ahead. I doubt the outcome will change what I said.”

A little bit of defiance, sure. But Sylus caught the hint of sadness too. Now, he was even more determined.

"Don't be so quick..." His hand cups your breast through the silk of your nightgown, eliciting a small gasp. "...to doubt me, kitten." He's warm, hands that are honed to kill are now gentle as they massage your breast tenderly. "Just relax, let me take care of you."

Your lips are wobbling as he tugs the silky material down, letting both of your breasts spill out for his viewing pleasure. "If it doesn't work, if this doesn't feel good..." he pushed upwards, hovering above you slightly so he could lower his head and begin kissing your chest. "...I'll make it up to you in a way I know you love."

He tugs a nipple into his mouth, and you're arching off the mattress, the sudden sensation making your eyes water. The idea of not being sensitive has simply given Sylus the green light to be rougher.

"Sylus!" Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging as he bites down on the pebbled bud. His tongue lathers your nipple a moment later, soothing any pain from his bite. He lets go a second later, saliva connecting him to your breast even with the new distance.

"Let me..." he's tugging at your nightgown again, instead of your neckline, he's shoving the bottom hem up towards your stomach. "...fuck you while I do this. Nothing but the best, right?" Fuck, your head was spinning, legs parting as you welcomed his offer.

"I'll make you feel so good, promise." Sylus' lips are back on your breasts, kneading and sucking as he fishes his cock out with his free hand. "Sylus, I need you, now." dammit, maybe he was right. Your mind was going fuzzy from the attention he was giving you.

"I know, and you have me. Just..." he's nudging your entrance, sending you into a spiral as he bites down on your nipple and pushes himself inside. A shrill cry leaves your lips, hands gripping his biceps in a feeble attempt to remain grounded.

"Stick with me, Kitten. We've got a long night ahead, I need to be thorough with my research."

Caleb

You were lying on Caleb's bed, phone held high as you scrolled mindlessly. Caleb lies beside you, reading through some pilot magazine you had picked up at the convenience store earlier. A video on your feed has your mind going, chewing on on your inner cheek as you ponder your question out loud.

"I wonder what it's like to have a sensitive chest?"

"You uh... You asking me that, pip?" Caleb was caught off guard, one eyebrow twitching upwards as he turned his head just enough to look at you. Realizing your mistake, you can't help but laugh out of embarrassment. "More so talking to myself."

"Your chest isn't... sensitive?" Caleb jumps right to the point, suddenly more intrigued with your answer now that the initial surprise has worn off. "No, not really. I mean, I've tried like everything and it just doesn't... do all that much."

"Like doesn't feel good at all? Or just not what you expected?" The magazine is long forgotten, Caleb is rolling onto his side to really study you. "I guess... not as good as I hoped? I just feel like they're not as sensitive as they could be." You attempt to shrug it off, but Caleb doesn't seem to want to let it go.

"Can I... give it a shot, pip?" And suddenly it all clicked into place. You click your phone off, tossing it to the side and sighing. "By all means, Caleb. Have your fun." Like a dog who just got praised, Caleb is quick to get to work. Not bothering with touching you over your shirt. In one motion, he has tugged the clothing up and over your bare chest.

"Let's see..." calloused fingers are running up your stomach, his eyes focused on the way your nipples harden due to the exposed air. "...it's not odd for breasts to lack sensitivity." Even as he speaks, goosebumps erupt over your skin. "But sometimes, you just need the right touch to prove you wrong."

Gingerly, your right breast is cupped in his warm embrace, earning a sharp inhale as you flicker between his hand and face. "And hands aren't always what is needed." His head is descending on your chest before you can process it, a shrill cry of his name leaving your lips as he nips at the fat of your chest.

"Different sensations invoke different responses." A lick to soothe the bruise he had made. His tongue is wet and warm as it trails up to your nipple. "Some prefer ice..." a lick "...some prefer heat or wax" a kiss directly on top of the pebbling bud. "Others like tickling." His nose nuzzles it before pulling back. "And others like pain."

Caleb's teeth sink into your nipple, and your back arches off the mattress. "It's all up to you, whatever you deem best." You're seeing stars, a whimper leaving your lips as you guide his hand over to your neglected breast. "Just make me feel good, please."

"At your service, pip."

[exitingmusic]

Sitting on LADS boy's face for the first time...

AU: first LADS fic reqs are welcome, have a couple of ideas but im only so creative... also let me know about any formatting i need

Warnings: Smut (obv), 69ing, masturbating, slight voyeurism, overstimulation

Word Count: 3.1k

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Xavier

You tossed your head back, your hips bucking to meet Xavier’s tongue, your brain turning to mush as you approached your orgasm, thighs tightening around his head.

“Lumie- Xavier,” you corrected, eyes fluttering, praying he didn’t notice.

Oh boy you messed up big time. Mentioning Lumiere while Xavier was between your legs was not a good idea but your head was spinning from the way he held you open and sucked your clit, his fingers teasing your entrance.

He stopped immediately, eyes narrowing as he sat up. You nearly screamed with frustration as he moved his mouth and fingers away.

“Oh do I remind you of him?” Xavier asked, his voice low as he slowly crawled up your body.

Yes. You tried to catch your breath, panting and frustrated from the lack of his touch, “No Xavier, I-”

Xavier cut you off, grabbing your jaw, “Am I no different than him? Nothing special about me? Do you want him more than me?”

He didn’t let you respond, yanking your head back to look at his marks on your neck, tracing them with his tongue, trailing down your body again. He bit and teased your thighs, forcing them open as he neglected the part of you that was aching most. 

After you were fully unraveled, begging for his touches, he sat back, studying your face, your eyes half-lidded in bliss. 

His hand gently wrapped around your throat, pulling you up and switching your positions to where you were straddling his chest, your sensitive core rubbing against his abs. 

Xavier grabbed your thighs, pulling you forward towards his face. You whimpered as your clit dragged along his chest. His hands supported a majority of your weight as he held you over his face. 

“Did Lumiere ever try this?” He hissed, pulling you down harshly against his mouth, his tongue pushing your stretched walls apart.

You shrieked, grabbing his hair, not used to this new position, eyes rolling back as he fucked you with his tongue, his nose nudging your clit. His arms wrapped around your thighs, preventing you from moving, 

Panting, you rotate your hips against his face, chasing your high. Xavier was clearly enjoying himself too, his hips thrusting up lazily, his cock straining from inside his shorts. 

Glancing down, you nearly came right there looking at his lust filled eyes fixated on you, the lower half of his face covered in your slick, his hair messy and tangled around your fingers. Unconsciously, your thighs tightened around his head, tossing your head back as you rode his face.

Xavier saw your reaction and let out a groan, the vibrations traveling through his tongue and face, causing you to arch your back, tossing your head back. 

You came with a loud moan, continuing to rock your hips as you rode out your orgasm, nearly collapsing as Xavier shook his head, his nose stimulating your clit. 

Xavier continued to hold you upright, his pace slowing as he continued to fuck your hole, his arms bracketed around your legs so you couldn’t get up. 

As you came down, he pulled away just enough to get out, “Lumiere could never make you feel as good as I can,” before shoving his tongue back in you.

You cried out, your overstimulated cunt begging for a reprieve but Xavier had no sign of stopping, lazily moving his head in circles as you leaned back, bracing yourself against his chest.

As you tried to get up, hiccupping and trying to catch your breath, Xavier dragged you back, “You’re not going anywhere till you can admit I’m better than him. You started this, I’m just proving you wrong.”

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Zayne

“Zayne, please,” you begged, trying to get him to help your aching cunt. He’d been teasing you for long enough, leaving tender touches and bites on your thighs and clit, slipping his fingers inside of you just enough to get you needy before leaving you to pant and chase after his touch.

You could sense his smirk as he lingered just far enough away that you couldn’t reach him as he forced your legs to stay open with his elbows.

“Please what?” He asked, his husky voice smug as he watched you, all desperate and needy for any source of friction. 

“Please just fuck me, do something. Make me cum,” you pleaded, your voice broken and wet.

You glanced down and saw him tilt his head, looking at your teary eyes. Zayne hummed and pressed his tongue flat against your cunt, chuckling as your hips jerked.

Whimpering, you grabbed his hair, holding him against you weakly, eyelids fluttering as he lethargically moved his tongue against the mess between your legs.

He murmured against you, “I could make you cum simply like this, however, sitting vertically would amplify the pleasure you’d feel.”

You gasped for breath as the vibrations from his words caused you to buck your hips and arch off the bed, nodding frantically, the words not coming out.

Zayne leaned back and chuckled, looking at your desperate face. He gently helped you sit up and laid down against the headboard, taking off his glasses and setting them on the side table.

His hands threaded around your waist pulling you so you were hovering over his face.

You hesitated, “Are you sure I wo-?”

He shushed you, “I’m a doctor, I think I know what I’m doing,” he said quickly before pulling you down on his face.

And he definitely knew what he was doing.

As your hips were pulled down, you squealed which quickly turned to a moan as every nerve in your body was set on fire from the first strokes of his tongue against you. Gripping the headboard to stay upright, you bent over, shaking as Zayne messily made out with your aching cunt. 

It was sloppy, so unlike the usual calm, composed man that it made you impossibly wetter, the thought of him losing control over you made you nearly feral with pleasure, bucking your hips in his face like a bitch in heat.

For how much he was enjoying teasing you it seemed like he also enjoyed pleasing you even more, lapping furiously at the slick dripping and coating your thighs and his face. 

You started to shake as your already sensitive core was assaulted by his ministrations once again, the hands around your waist moving up your body and to your breasts. 

Zayne’s hands sunk into the fat of your chest, kneading and pinching your sensitive nipples, his hands cold and rough. 

A quick look down showed Zayne unraveling as much as you, his pupils blown and his eyes tracking every movement, adjusting his touch according to your reactions.

You press your head against the headboard, legs starting to shake around Zayne’s head. 

“C’mon baby,” Zayne muttered against your cunt, “Cum on my face.”

Well how could you resist? 

You came hard, back arching as you grabbed his hair, your nails scratching his scalp as your hips stuttered, moaning his name as you collapsed on top of him.

Through your aftershocks, he gently rubbed your trembling thighs, slowing down as he unwound your death grip on his hair, pulling you so you were lying down on his chest, wincing as your sensitive nipples rubbed against his chest. 

“I think you were right,” you said, your voice shaky.

Zayne laughed, “I usually am.”

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Rafayel

You let out a breath as you stretched your back, leaving your ass up in the air as the scent of the yoga mat filled your nose. 

Watching the video, you copied the women’s positions, relishing the feeling of the stretch. 

You were in a spare room in Rafayel’s studio that he used as a makeshift gym with a rack, dumbbells, starmaster, treadmill, and various other machines, all naturally of the most expensive brands.

As you moved into something called the extended puppy pose, your face nearly touching the ground as you arched your back, you heard the door open. 

Ignoring it, you continued to stretch, oblivious to the tightening of Rafayel’s pants watching you, ass up in those tight yoga pants and matching sports bra that he bought you.

After he didn’t say anything, you stopped and looked back at where he stood leaning against the doorway.

Rafayel raised an eyebrow, a smirk on his face as he gestured for you to continue, “Oh don’t stop on my account.”

You roll your eyes but when he gives you a pointed look you continue, now fully aware of every move he makes behind you, including when he steps right behind you, looking down at your form.

He sits down behind you softly, as if not to disturb you, contradicting when his hands which find the waistband of your leggings, his slender fingers slipping between the fabric and your skin.

As you suck in a breath, he starts to pull them down, along with your underwear, kneading the skin with his knuckles as he goes. 

He takes great and gentle care when he lifts up each leg to slip them off, trying not to disturb your balance when you’re too distracted by his actions.

Once your bottom half is completely bare in front of him, he leans down, hands grabbing your ass.

You freeze when you feel his warm tongue lick your slit, going completely still as he lays under you, pushing you to sit up as he eats you out from behind.

Rafayel teases you, letting his tongue dip enough to brush your clit before traveling up and teasing around your cunt, occasionally pushing just enough to have you holding your breath before he stops, keeping you on edge. His hands hold the sides of your ass to keep you spread for him.

With no warning, he slides under you and pulls you down on top of his face, his tongue finding your clit immediately. 

Gasping, you nearly fall forward at the sudden change in position, bracing your hands on his chest. He responds by sucking your clit roughly, hands tracing along your sides.

You can clearly see the tent in his pants, he’s so hard it must be painful. Reaching out, you pull his pants and underwear down enough so you can pull out his cock. 

Rafayel sucks in a breath under you, gently nipping at your clit as your hands slowly trace the head of his cock. 

Whimpering, you spit on your hands, gently rubbing him, trying to focus as he teases you. You lower your mouth to the head, his hips jerking. Once he finds your clit again, he sucks on it harshly causing you to moan around him. 

He shudders, hands moving to clutch your waist, resisting the urge to thrust up into your mouth, not wanting to abuse your throat. He groans, the vibrations pushing you closer to the edge as you moan, taking him deeper, bracing your hands on his thighs. 

It’s a chain reaction, whenever one of you moans it causes the other to respond, both of you getting lost in your pleasure. 

With another suck to your clit you come undone, Rafayel spilling down your throat as you spasm on top of him. He pants under you, continuing to moan against you, oblivious to your overstimulation building. 

You manage to pull yourself off his dick, thighs shaking as you whimper, body giving out as he steadies you, holding you up just above him, his face soaked in your juices and cum.

His hand squeezes your breast through your sports bra, rasping, “I’m buying you more of these sets.”

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Sylus

You moaned, muffled into the pillow as your fingers curled inside yourself, a slight twinge of pain in your wrists at the position but you couldn’t care less, only chasing that high you’ve been craving all day.

Sylus clad in his motorcycle jacket and helmet flashes through your mind and you feel yourself clench around your fingers.

He looked positively delicious this morning, white hair tousled from the helmet and sharp crimson eyes watching you in amusement…

Thighs trembling at the memory, you whimpered again, so close…

But then the door opened.

You froze, fingers still inside your cunt, the wetness still soaking your underwear.

Closing your eyes, you pretended to be asleep, your breath stilling as a figure approached your form. 

Sylus tsked, his tone like honey and silk, “You know you could’ve just asked me, sweetie. I know your hand cramps when you do it yourself.”

He gently pulled the covers back, eyeing your position. You were on your stomach, ass up with your panties pulled to the side, fingers wedged in between your legs, shirt ridden up to expose most of your back and front.

You peered up at him, feeling a bit guilty at getting caught, you just didn’t want to bother him. He was the leader of Onychinus, he had things to do. 

Sitting up, you cleared your throat, looking at him expectantly. 

Sylus laughed, gently pushing you back down on the bed, pressing his lips to yours fiercely. You got lost in the way his lips felt against yours. Whether it was the first, tenth, hundredth, or even thousandth time, you didn’t think you’d ever get used to the passion that exuded from every intimate action. Even while he was devouring you, he’d cradle you in his arms. Or when he’d be pounding into you, overstimulating you to tears, he’d be whispering the sweetest words in your ear. 

His arms came around you, reversing your positions so he was lying under you, hands running along your sides.

With each kiss, every sweet word exchanged, clothing came off, his hands delicate, almost like he was afraid you’d disappear.

Before you could take his boxers off, Sylus stopped you, holding your hands gently as he pushed you up onto your knees, straddling his chest, sliding so his face was right under you. 

Gentle as ever, he pulled you down, immediately attacking your pussy with his tongue, worshipping every inch of your thighs and core. 

Sylus groaned against your core, fucking you with his tongue with enthusiasm. His eyes stayed on you the whole time, watching each time your face would contort in pleasure, listening to every moan, every whimper. 

He licked a stripe down your slit, not paying any attention to the slick that coated his face or his own need. His tongue circled your clit easily drawing you close to your orgasm.

You could feel his smirk as your legs trembled, hips bucking without care as you chased his tongue, interlacing your hands and moving them to your breasts. He squeezed them just as he pushed his tongue into you once again and you fell apart. You could swear you saw white as your eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream as you shook on top of him.

Sylus continued to fuck you with his tongue, slower as to not overstimulate you any more as his hands continued to knead your breasts. 

Panting, you combed your hands through his hair, a low sound coming from his throat, causing you to whimper, your sensitive clit shocking at the vibration. 

He pulled you up just to chuckle, “So sorry, kitten. See what could’ve happened if you had just asked?”

Sighing, you sat back, “It happened anyway, didn’t it?”

Sylus’ eyes flared with challenge, a smirk on his face as he looked up at you, “Well I never did say it was over.”

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅

Caleb

“Sit on my face,” Caleb said, his face completely serious as he stared at your form sitting on his chest. 

Your eyes widened at his command, “What? Caleb are you sur-?”

“Pipsqueak, I want you to sit on my face, I want your thighs around my head. No I won’t suffocate, I can breathe just fine. If I can’t I’ll just move you so I can, got it?”

You gave him a hesitant nod.

Like a flash he pulled you to his mouth, yanking you down with something feral in his eyes. As soon as your core touched his mouth he let out a moan, eyes fluttering as he lapped at you. 

Gasping, you grabbed his hair, needing some stability from his desperation and intensity. 

His eyes flashed with neediness as his arms rocked your hips against his face, groaning with pleasure as he pressed you farther into his face, rocking your cunt against his tongue. 

“Fuck,” Caleb moaned against your pussy, his hands digging into your hips as he shook his head against you, hitting your clit and making a mess of your slick and his spit.

You bit your lip, tilting your head back and closing your eyes, completely in bliss with how good he felt.

Caleb narrowed his eyes and bit the inside of your thigh, “Let me hear you, please.”

Panting, you leaned down to look at him, his eyes were hazy, breathing heavy as he devoured you, using your whimpers and moans as fuel every time he sucked your clit. 

“Fuckkkk,” you moaned, body shaking from the sensations.

“That’s it,” he said against you, “That’s right, I wanna hear you, baby.”

With each word that came from his mouth, another moan came from yours, the vibrations stimulating your clit just right. 

Baby.

That word alone had you quickening the rhythm of your hips, panting brokenly as you pleaded. For what? Maybe for him to keep going, maybe for him to stay… Whatever it was, Caleb took it. 

He was messy against your cunt, not caring about how wet you were or how his face was now smothered and being squeezed by your soaked thighs. 

Maybe you couldn’t tell but he loved it. He loved the weight of you pressed against his face, the slick coating his face and all over you, because of him. He was the one making you feel so good, enough to lose control. He loved that you trusted him enough to try this out, despite your original reluctance. 

And he was determined to make you not regret it in the slightest. 

As he brought you over your orgasm, you screamed his name, thighs trembling at his quick pace.

Only he didn’t stop. 

Caleb didn’t stop licking the cum and slick from you, not when you were grabbing his arms, trying to get off to relieve your overstimulated clit. 

A deep sound came from his throat, almost akin to a growl when you tried to get away. Oh no that was not acceptable. Now that you let him have a taste, you were expecting him to stop with just one? 

That’d be crazy.

Caleb smirked against your cunt as he used his evol to keep you down against his mouth. He’d spend the whole night drawing orgasms out of you if he wanted to. Oh god how he loved the taste and feeling of you, only you, with only him, forever.

[cameronsbabydoll]

sexist!season1!rafe and his podcast !! for @rafeslittlepup

the couch creaks under the weight of rafe and his friends, cheap beers half-drank, a ring light flickering weakly in the corner. the podcast mics are clipped to the coffee table like it’s some serious production. it’s not. they’re in his living room. the air smells like cologne, beer foam, and bad opinions.

you’re curled on rafe’s lap, legs tucked to the side, wearing one of his big shirts and fuzzy socks. totally out of place against the grimy, boyish backdrop. you're absentmindedly tracing patterns on the back of his hand, looking up at him with big, oblivious eyes while he says shit like:

"nah, for real... women want to be led. they crave it. all that independent talk? fake. deep down they wanna be claimed."

he tightens his arm around your waist like he's proving a point.

his friends snicker and nod like he’s preaching gospel.

you just hide your face in his neck, pretending you’re not hearing any of it.

then kelce leans into the mic, laughing,

"and bro, rafe got the softest little thing sittin' here like a trophy. like, tell me i'm wrong."

rafe smirks, leans back into the couch like a king, tipping his beer at the camera.

"yeah, and she likes it too. don’t let ‘em lie to you, boys. the right one wants to be taken care of."

his hand slides up your thigh under the blanket, casual, possessive.

you squirm, embarrassed, but he just holds you tighter, dropping a kiss to your hairline like it’s nothing.

the mic picks up the rustle of fabric, the way he murmurs low against your temple:

"see? peaceful. that's how you know you’re doing it right."

the boys crack up again.

the episode title later?

"why modern women need to be humbled (feat. rafe cameron)"

and you?

you're still half-asleep on his lap when they hit publish.

[rampantrhino]

Prove me wrong.......

“I think part of the reason why we hold on to something so tightly is because we fear something as great won’t happen twice.”

— Unknown

[mortem-writes]

Don't get me wrong Johnny is definitely a passionate lover but I'm a huge believer that to get him to absolutely fuck you through the mattress is to stroke his ego not his cock

Like Soap seeing his pretty girl writhing on his cock isn't supposed to switch a flip in his brain? Seriously?

Johnny's confident, suave, and has definitely got plenty practice under his belt, he knows he's got both a nice cock and the skills on how to use it to have his hen sobbing face buried in his pillow.

Trust me, he knows he's full of himself— but it's entirely other thing when his sweet girl is proving him right, intentionally or not, moaning deliriously "there, right there... more more please— ah!" when he's sheathed entirely in her warmth and then slurring into his shoulder, drunk on the high he's giving her, "so so good Johnny..."

Music to his fucking ears. He's getting absolutely drunk on the affirmation that he's good in bed.

It's addictive, he's petting over the soft skin of your inner thighs that are spread obscenely wide around his thick waist with gentleness that sharply contrasts with how his hips are hammering into yours desperately with renewed vigour and speed to the point of overstimulation. He's grunting and whining low in the back of his throat as your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, babbling gibberish against the slope of your throat as he loses himself in the feel of you, "so pretty bonnie," biting down a few times just to make sure you know you're his.

Johnny reckons he might be egotistical, or maybe he just has a praise kink. Guess he just needs to experiment with you some more to find out which one— your cunt might be bruised for days after though :/

First smut post? Johnny definitely has a praise kink btw

[killishin]

— ♡ right person at the right time.

PART 03.

pairing: jason todd x reader

category: lots of fluff, angst, he fell first she fell harder kinda trope, sfw, thinking of making this a slow burn but we'll see.

content warning: afab, mention of death (reader's mother), violence here and there, mention of blood, inaccurate medical talk, not proofread

summary: reader's just a normal citizen of Gotham, scrambling to making ends meet. after a fateful encounter, when he saw the reader kick ass and save a life- he can't get them off his mind. and fate just keeps pulling them together forcing him to do something about it.

a/n: i finally got the time to finish this, once exams are over I'll make the necessary edits. enjoy :)

wc: 5.3k

fic masterlist. previous. next

dividers by @cafekitsune

"that is not a wound."

"its a cut."

"not deep enough to come to me!"

"i thought you said we were friends— is that how you treat your friends hm?" red mused, though his modulated voice is supposed to be monotonous and blank, you've learned to really listen. and you could hear the amusement rolling off of him just like the easy sarcasm that trickles from his tongue.

its been more than a month since red hood came stumbling down your balcony, literally, and from then he's been coming too often. well too often for someone like him. you had thought that would have been the end of your interactions with the infamous vigilante— but life has a need to always prove you wrong.

sometimes he comes twice a week, sometimes he doesn't come a whole week— it was never steady. he came whenever he felt like it. about now you're certain that instead of 'help' , that he could basically get from his other vigilante... colleagues, he simply uses his injuries as an excuse. sometimes his wounds aren't even that bad! just a scratch or a graze, something he could so easily fix himself.

but, in the past days you've gotten to know him, he'd rather die than admit he enjoys your company.

"now you wanna admit we're friends huh?" you scoffed as your rolled your eyes and grumbled under your breath as you walked to the bathroom to get the kit. you were in a particularly ruined mood since you were just about to head to sleep when he rudely and loudly jumped into your apartment through your balcony.

he's more relaxed on your couch now, one arm on the arm rest while the other rested on the back of the couch, his legs spread. you paused infront of him then scoffed before glaring, kicking his feet lightly.

"is a wounded man supposed to sit that relaxed? at least pretend it hurts." you sit beside him and wait with an impatient frown as he rolls off his jacket. the cut is on his bicep, which he deliberately flexes when you look at the cut.

"it doesn't hurt, i have a good tolerance for pain, sunshine." he utters the pet name mockingly and your glare deepens, "it just needs medical attention. you're the one who always says to 'take care'."

you're almost baffled at how teasing and sarcastic he's gotten, he was guarded in the beginning, still sarcastic but more short and reserved. though you'll admit, it feels nice that he feels comfortable enough around you now.

the same goes for you too, you were cautious around him. mindful of your words and tone, barely commenting on the daily shit that goes in gotham, scared that you'd somehow offend the vigilante with a wrong opinion.

now you glared outright, you scolded more— but you even smiled more, treated him normal enough... like an old friend. it felt refreshing, this sense of normalcy with you. maybe because you weren't a vigilante which most people were in his life, or maybe because you were still untainted from the worst horrors of gotham— he doesn't know. all he knows is that he intends to hide this little something he's found, he cannot leave it he knows, far too selfish for that. so he'll keep you hidden from the people from his world, keep you safe from the claws of the crimes.

"right." you rolled your eyes before cleaning the wound, being more firmer than you should and he simply smiles under the helmet. his lack of response, not even a flinch irriates you further so you dress the wound tight, trying to be aggressive.

"you do know its morally wrong to torment a patient." he murmured and you gave him a pointed look, acting like you're done with him. "it is about to be 3 in the morning red. i have work." you remind him, hoping he catches the hint to not irk you further.

"you never told me about your job. what do you do?" he skirts right past your thinly veiled threat and you sigh before tucking in his bandage properly.

"neither have you." you said pointedly before sighing, "animations. its an entry level position right now. but i also do personal projects on the side." you reply still as you clean up, moving around the apartment.

he leans ahead, intrigued to get to know more about you finally, "and you like it? your job i mean."

"well... its hectic yeah, sometimes too much to make me wonder if its all worth it." you shrug as you head to the kitchen and opened your fridge, "but i think everyone with a job thinks that at one point. so its normal. animation is something i loved so it evens out the frustration of work."

you put the tub of ice cream on the counter before fetching a spoon. as he watches from the couch he realises he never steps in your apartment further than the living room, only till the couch and then out. at first he was... simply keeping distance, the rational self in him telling him to keep himself as untangled as possible.

but now he wants to delve deep, to see your life, to see when you're happy— or sad, what you do when you have nothing better to do. its a curiosity he convinces himself, just that.

and even though he knows it dangerous to keep crossing the boundaries he set for himself, he can't help but say why not just this once? blind leap of faith, something that has always disappointed him, something he never does yet he still wants to try.

he gets up and walks in your kitchen and you gulp down the ice cream quickly before waving your hands to stop him and he immediately freezes, wondering if he made a mistake.

"red! your boots!" you pointed out with a grimace, that were caked with dust and mud, "i didn't say anything about them before because you're always hurt and in a hurry— but not in the kitchen please." you plead as politely as possible, you hoped you didn't come off as too nitpicky or high maintenance but you just can't stand shoes in your apartment.

for a minute he just stares, and you try to discern what he's feeling from those slits in his helmet. then he barks out a laugh, leaning a hand against the wall and doubling over.

"shit– my bad." he does not sound apologetic at all though, and your brows furrow as you fail to see how its so funny, "what?"

"nothing. you just—" he paused as he stifles another laugh, taking off his boots carefully before walking to the balcony and keeping them there. he walked back in the kitchen and leaned against the counter beside you, "i wouldn't have been offended even if you said that when i first came here."

he saw how bothered you looked to see him walking with his dirty boots in your apartment, like literally appalled and he just wonders how had you kept in that request for so long?

"it felt a bit wrong to ask a bleeding man to take off his shoes first." you shrugged before digging in the tub, licking the ice cream right off the spoon and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to not follow that action.

"if you don't mind me asking-" you began as you paused, pushing a stool towards him before sitting on one yourself, "you might. since this might be encroaching all that secret vigilante thing." you said hesitantly, giving him an unsure smile before looking away as you carefully worded the question.

"so do you know all the vigilantes? like personally?" you questioned and he released a breath because he honestly thought you'd ask about his identity and he'd have to leave, "like i do see the news time to time, hear things but you're the source so....?"

you looked genuinly curious, no ill intent. just someone who's curious about his life like that of a friend's.

he shuffled on his seat, clearing his throat and you feared you asked wrong, "its not necessary to answer of course."

"i know." he reassured quietly before shrugging, "yeah i do. our interests, kicking gotham's criminal's ass and keeping citizen safe aligns so yes i do know them." he explains as vaguely as possible, carefully wording it and you know it.

"so who's better?" you ask and he blinks.

"what? in who?"

"you and nightwing."

now he's the one who's appalled. the simple question makes him spiral to a whole world of overthinking. his ego might not be able to handle the unfavorable answer.

"wha— the hell is that question?" he scoffed and you shrugged, taking another spoon of ice cream, unbothered. "of course im better!"

"are you sure?"

he knows he doesn't need to take off the mask to get the glare through, you know he's glaring by the way you cheekily laugh, "geez what a fragile ego."

"what, you his fangirl or something?" he scowls and you heartily laugh at that, shaking your head.

"im no vigilante's fan, red. but you can't blame me for wondering you know?" you teasingly nudged his leg with your foot, "alright another question."

"since when did this become a one sided 20 questions?" he grumbled as he folded his arms, wishing for once he did not have the helmet on so he could actually glare at that innocently charming face.

"since you decided to be a little wuss." you cheekily retorted before leaning in towards him, taking the sleeve of your tshirt in your fingers, you rubbed the grime off his helmet. you don't know why but you liked to see it spotless.

while you went back to being unbothered, eating your ice cream like a fucking brat, his heart damn near exploded. did you just do that? it felt more on his skin than it was on the metallic helmet. he forgot to even breathe for a second, still processing— and then getting mildly irritated at the fact that somewhere in his heart he yearns for you to do it again. its stupid, he tells himself, someone he's known for a just a month— someone innocent.

again, painting himself as the darkness that would snuff out the light in you.

"don't do that." he said, sharper than intended, letting his own overthinking get him. you freeze, your hand suspended in air before you awkwardly yet quickly drop the spoon in the almost empty bucket and tuck your hair behind your ear.

"ah my bad."you said, and suddenly it was harder to smile. and he realised he did it again, pushed someone away again. its for the better he tells himself, this would have happened anyway.

"im sorry—"

"its fine." he cuts you off before getting up, "i should probably leave— city doesn't save itself now does it?"

you were a bit stunned, he hadn't acted like this yet in the times he's visited. it was unnerving to not know how to act, how to tackle this side of him because you didn't quite like the distance that suddenly found its way between you both. you know he is a vigilante, has enemies— tons of 'em, and there's always a good chance that prolonged association with him could get you wind up in all that. it could get messy, it could get dangerous. you wanted nothing to do with danger. you just wanted to lead a simple life which was already too much to ask from gotham.

"take care." and yet you called out behind him, even though he already disappeared. the idea that you somehow offended this new friend of yours, someone you had steadily grown to like— didn't sit quite well with you. you suppose he doesn't like to be touched, of course. that was a bit creepy maybe.

you sighed as you went back to kitchen, putting away everything. you push red to the back of your mind, convincing yourself with that shitty saying that— everything happens for the best.

its a pitiful attempt at consolation, but life moves on.

you sigh as you open the door to your apartment, taking off your heels before walking in. blind dates really don't work for you anymore, not that it ever did actually. you never click with the other person, and somehow they always turn out to be somewhat of an asshole.

today was yet another failed date, boring one. the man chipped away at your braincells one by one as he literally chattered away about his 'big shot position at that big shot firm'— you don't know what it was, you stopped paying attention twenty minutes in.

sometimes you blame yourself, that maybe your standards are too high, you're being the one who's too reserved or shallow— but then your father's voice rings in your ears, 'never ever in your life settle for someone who doesn't make you feel seen and heard from day one.' your parents really had set the bar high for you.

you went into your room and threw your purse on the bed before taking off your coat, it drizzled a bit. your hair's a bit damp but somehow it makes you look more pretty.

sigh, all that effort down the drain.

oh wait! you remembered you were supposed to call your friend, fill her in about about this disaster. you quickly dialed her number in, tapping your foot as you waited, your eyes mindlessly checking your nails.

"it didn't go well did it?" she groaned lightly into the phone and you huffed out a smile, she was so quick to catch on. not that it was hard to, you ended the date pretty quickly.

"yeah.. im sorry but god he was just— not it." you explained with a scrunch of your nose as you press the phone in between your ear and shoulder while taking off your bracelet.

"there's nothing to apologise for, if he ain't it, he ain't it. there's always more to choose from. endless fishes, pretty." she tries to weasel a joke and your lips quirk up fondly, of course she's trying to make her feel better.

"im not sad so you can drop it. he wasn't an eye candy either that I'd feel bad."

"he was loaded."

"i'd be too one day." you retort with a chuckle pretending to be offended when she snorts. you get to your earrings, unclasping one and you gather it in your hand, about to keep it on your vanity—

CRASH!

you jolted, almost dropping your earring and unfortunately dropping your phone too. you cursed loudly, that phone is really gonna die on you at this point.

suddenly two sharp knocks rattled through your house, and they sounded less woody. they came from the balcony you realised. you hurriedly pick up your phone before running to your living room.

that sounded hurried. he never even knocks! but why was he literally banging on the glass?! its not even past midnight—

"hey are you okay?!"

"uh- i— yeah im—"

your breath catches in your throat as you stop dead in your tracks to see the glass sliding doors of your balcony with a bloody handprint, really selling the horror element right now. red hood was knelt down and you could see how hard he was heaving— his body was literally shaking with each breath he took.

your voice closed up in your throat for a second, all the air vanishing into the black hole that suddenly appeared in your lungs.

blood. blood. blood. blood—

you blink your eyes to tear yourself out of it, taking an inaudible deep breath. small wounds and trickle of blood do not unsettle you, not anymore. but anything beyond a cut, beyond mere drops of blood— it brings back the broken little girl in you.

"i— i'll call back yeah?" you hurriedly whispered before hanging up your phone, throwing it on the couch before rushing to slide open the door.

"red? red— fuck are you—" you bite your tongue as you physicslly stop the stupid question from getting blurted out as you knelt down, your hands immediately on his shoulder as you tilted your head down.

christ— even his helmet has a fucking crack.

"red? red say something please." all you got was his haggered breathing and a lousy gesture to the couch, you heard him mumble something but it sounded more like a grunt.

you pull back and your gaze scrutinize him, well as best as it can in the minimum light provided. he is bruised black and blue, you don't see it over all that armour and jacket, which by the way, is ripped, he is also losing blood. way too much.

blood. blood. blood. blood—

"alright no pressure at all." you whispered, voice tight with anxiety as you hawl him up on his feet, his arm over your shoulder while your hand held his waist.

"ugh— easy!" he scolded in his haggard voice and both of you almost stumble due to his overpowering weight on you.

"im trying!" you hiss back, taking a deep breath as you drag him inside. you were gentler, but really the situation had you freaked out, you were almost blanked out and mostly working on autopilot. "don't you die in my apartment. i can't handle the fucking gcpd and batman on my ass." that was your attempt at some humour. to lessen the burden of your anxiety or his, you weren't really sure at the moment.

he had noticed your attire, even in the moment of haze and fatigue, he noticed the singular earring hanging from your ear, dressed up with make up on rather than the oversized he's used to see. it doesn't take a genius to guess it was for a date. maybe that put him in an even more foul mood.

but then he realises the time, its early to be back home from a dinner date. he visits at ungodly hours but today, due to unsavory altercation, he had to turn up so early and unexpected. so he summarizes, all on his own, the date didn't go quite well.

and despite the pain he is in, it puts a fucking smirk on his face. he even leans more on you, he knows he would need to unpack whatever he's feeling, but thats a tomorrow problem.

you slowly put him down on the sofa and stagger back, panting heavily as you put a hand on your hip. that took out a lot of energy from you and you realised just how inactive you are, which is concerning considering you're a citizen of Gotham. you need to be prepared to run for the hills at the slightest hint for danger.

hearing him cough snaps you out of your reverie and you immediately get about your apartment, closing the draps, turning on the light before dashing to the bathroom. you really, really hope its not something out of your limited experience. you don't even care that he ghosted you for two weeks— you just want him alive, probably intact. you honestly do not have the stomach— or the mental state for something bloodier than a graze right now.

but surprise, surprise— its a wound on the shoulder. stab or bullet— you don't wanna know.

"jesus fucking christ red.." you whisper, your skin going a little pale and green as you look at his blood seeping under his hand that he has kept pressed on the wound. "is that— oh shit—"

"yes it is. now come here with that." he sounded more firm and annoyed than he ever did in the frequent interactions you've had with him, and that is understandable. he sounds like he's on his last breath with all the panting and huffing.

"right. sorry." you immediately walk and stand beside him, running your mind through whatever red told you about it. luckily, red had filled you in about different wounds, since you were currently playing nurse. he had mentioned shoulder wounds, hurts like hell and bleeds a lot but it can be patched rather easily, his words.

he lays himself down and you drag the coffee table closer to sit on it, your hands rummaging through the kit which had expanded. you may have had restocked and bought more— obviously for this certain vigilante.

"okay so uh— clean?" you repeat the steps to yourself as you watch him remove the small cloth from his shoulder— you almost puke from how messy it looks. its one thing taking care of cuts and bruises and its another thing to take a damn bullet out of a bleeding, ugly wound. "then remove the—" your brows raise as realisation dawns on you.

for fucks sake you can't fucking take the bullet out—

"you can. you can." he was facing you, and somehow you could feel the resolute stare through the helmet, "i know it'll be hard— but you can—" seeing him wince makes you gulp down whatever doubts you have down to your gut. let it worsen.

you let the adrenaline take over, push the tremors away that threaten to wreck your body. hide. hide. hide.

"if i kill you accidentally don't you fucking dare haunt me." you murmur to yourself as you look for a pair of tweezers, the jab makes him crack a laugh enough to hurt and he instantly winces again.

you clean the blood off first before grabbing the tweezers, taking your sweet time to drag it out— but then he grabs your wrist and pulls it slowly towards his shoulder. "eyes on here. focus, you can do it sweetheart." he murmured, and for a second he even sounded okay. you almost believed this all to be a facade.

"oh god—" you grimace as your fingers shook around the tweezers, you wished he went to some legal doctor who had actual forceps and all those medical instruments, instead of tweezers, but vigilantes are nuts. you have come to understand and accept that. "i will kill you if you die i swear— im so mad at you—" your quivering grumbles simply amuse him more, knowing its a way to distract you enough to dig in and take the bullet out.

and you did, after all the gagging and hurling a myriad of insults at him— you finally did. you slouched back as if you were the one that endured that pain.

"sweets you still need to stich, ya' know."

"no im not doing that." you snap as you sit up again, "i dont even know how to— do you honestly want to die??" you gape at him in utter exasperation, wanting to smash the remaining of his helmet.

"honestly? it sounds better than hearing all that noise from your mouth." he retorts with a scoff and you scoff back at his audacity, "i fucking helped you— and that's how it is huh? when the hell are you going to get proper care from someone who knows their shit?" you scold, your eyes momentarily shifting to the open wound.

seriously what the hell are you doing with your life?

"for that I'd need to go to someone i trust wouldn't yap away about me to my enemies or worse, tattle to the media 'bout me." he stated as he tried to shift, probably uncomfortable in the small couch where his legs fell off the other side. "and you haven't yet done that. so, you're the better choice here."

your lips simply pull into an annoyed frown, looking him up and down with clear exasperation. "should have left the damn bullet in..." you muttered to yourself, annoyed at the fact that his words got to you again. he may sound rational and logical right now as he wants to, you know the underlying meaning. he has come to trust you a bit— and his emotionally constipated self wouldn't accept that.

the stitching was done.

you looked far more exhausted than the poor guy who had to help you navigate through the steps and endure the pain.

you leaned forward with your arms resting on your knees, head dipped forward as you tried to calm yourself down. you've never been good at processing things, your mind has a habit of shoving everything in a box and let it rot in the depths of your mind.

"you okay?" he asked quietly, poking your arm with his gloved finger to get your attention and you blinked before nodding. "yeah. yeah of course."

you took a deep breath as you began gathering everything, while he simply stared at you. he knew for a normal person, seeing blood— a lot of it, can be overwhelming. he lets the guilt wash over him, lets his mind question his heart.

was he ruining you in his selfishness to see you? how long would you tolerate it till you break? how long till you kick him out of your life?

"red?"

"hm?"

"you'll pay for my new couch right?" though you weren't looking, he could see the tug in your lips that you were trying to hide. and just like that, he let himself be selfish.

"why do i have a feeling you'll buy one of those ugly couches that cost a fortune?"

"great idea, red." you smirked dryly and he scoffed, his eyes travelling down that red dress of yours and he poked the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing as he debated whether to thrust himself in your personal life or not.

the glint of the earring caught his eye, like a glare straight to his heart.

fuck it.

"so how was the date?" cool, calm, nonchalant.

your brows furrowed for a moment and that was when you registered the weight on your ear, and looked down at yourself with a soft huff, "right. nothing escapes your eye, detective, even when you're dying." you take a tissue and cover your hands with it before taking off the earring.

"it isn't late yet. so i guess it was some boring prick hm?" he teased smugly and you raised a brow at him, turning your body slightly.

"maybe i just like to stay safe and return home before gotham's street turns rabid. it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with my date."

"but it is."

"it wasn't."

"that so?"

the illuminated slits of his helmet stared at you, and you could feel the amusement and challenge oozing off of him. you maintained the stare, but something about his confidence made your skin tingle and warm.

"kay fine! he was just like any other arrogant corporate asshole." you relented as you broke the stare, brows furrowing as you got up, his lips pulling into a triumphant, cheshire smile. again, this was something to be unpacked tomorrow.

"why'd you even go?" you rounded the table as you threw the bloodied cottons and clothes, walking to the bathroom and turned the tap on to scrub your hands clean. you angled your face away so he doesn't see the momentary quiver of your lips at the sight of blood pooling in the basin as water sloughed it off.

"why does anyone go on dates, red?" you quipped with a sigh, "besides it was a blind date. i was just trying my luck." you unknowingly dug your nails too hard while scratching the blood away, "which, like always, sucks."

you wrung your hands dry before patting it dry on the towel, clenching your hands under the cloth to calm the tremors. you cannot possibly let him see that, you won't. your weakness is your own secret, like his identity is his, and the mere possibility that someone knows even a peek about it... it rattles you deeply.

you maintain the facade. thats all you've ever done.

but in a way, him and you were alike, and he recognised the eyes that didn't seem as bright, the subtle signs of putting up a front. he noticed it, the signs transparent to him.

"do you do this?" you questioned, diverting the attention back to him, which he noticed but let it slide. "dates i mean."

"sure." he shrugged, "i mean i do have all the time in the world to prance around gotham with a beauty in my arms." he added, his tone turning sarcastic and you rolled your eyes, the corner of your lips twitching up.

"come on don't be shy. you must have dated a ton of people in your circle. superheroes and vigilantes." you tacked with a grin as you walked in the kitchen, rummaging around cabinets and fridge. you let out an exaggerated dreamy sigh, "i wish i could date them. just once. way better than those asshole i get."

his gaze narrowed while his lips pulled into a thin line. them? who's them? he is one of them too. you could date him too, he thought quite pettily before freezing up. where the fuck is his mind going?

"what the hell are you even doing there?" he called out, he couldn't hide the irate in his voice but you brushed it off. "to feed your dying ass. you might be built like a truck but even you would need something in you after all that blood."

he couldn't see much except your back and hear the sound of knife cutting against the board. he knows he shouldn't, but he can't help his eyes lingering on your back, how the dress fits your body.

"a sandwich will work right?"

"mhm."

to add fuel, the domesticity of this sudden situation has him by the throat. his mind lost, voiceless in his daydream and admiration. he may be a tough guy with walls no one could ever break, even land a scratch— but deep in the pitt lays his heart that is soft and craving. he may never tell a soul, but the thoughts of loving and being loved, no matter how far fetched it sounds, it always tugged at his soul. the idea of sharing a life, the idea of simply caring, of giving— he has a soft spot for the niceties of life that he knows he doesn't deserve.

"red?" you're holding the sandwich infront of him and he snaps out of his haze, looking at the plate on the table and then at you. he simply looked back and forth, and you sighed at the point he was getting at.

"i'll be in my room so you can have the privacy to eat." you murmured before putting down a glass of water with a pair of wet wipes and walking away to your room, closing the door.

for a moment he simply stared at the plate, not sure if he should eat it. things are getting too familiar between them, too easy— too nice. and he has a bad habit of getting attached. he has an even worse habit of getting his heart broken.

he looks back at your door, the quiet shuffling audible to his ears.

but reasons unknown to him, he takes off his helmet.

he doesn't let his lips smile, doesn't let his eyes soften. doesn't let his heart get smothered when he bites into the sandwich. doesn't let his eyes linger on the silver earring. doesn't let his eyes imagine how you'd have looked with both of them on, all pretty and mesmerizing.

he doesn't.

by the time you walk out, he's gone.

the following night comes and you don't wait for him.

morning comes and your eyes are barely working, but your sight isn't that blurry to not see the small red box on your coffee table. you paused and froze, hands slowly taking it and pulling the satin ribbon off.

a pair of dark ruby earrings stared back at you, intricately designed like it was made for the royals. and a tiny note with a quite neat handwriting.

this is an apology for all the inconvenience caused. and a thank you for the sandwich.

red.

p.s you looked beautiful.

and just like that he sweeped the ground right off your feet.

reblogs are appreciation! :D

taglist : @bmyva1entine @itzmeme

[azulpitlane]

epilogue l fc43

epilogue for we can't be friends💘: in which you are coparenting with franco while he's still trying everything to prove his love for you

part one, part two

🔒yourusername

liked by francolapinto, alexpriv and 286 others

yourusername so in loveee

view all comments

user bring her to argentina already i wanna meet her😩

user too cute

francolapinto amazing, gorgeous, perfect😍 oh and lucia is there too

alexpriv ?!?!?! is this your version of your compliment

yourusername thank you for insulting our daughter

alexpriv get his ass

francolapinto WAIT NO THAT CAME OUT WRONG ARGGHHH

alexpriv so nice and peaceful like why would a man be there

francolapinto 😐

francolapinto

liked by alexpriv, lando and 1,639,027 others

view all comments

user no caption or anything like okay!

user idk why this being posted with no context is sending me

user OMG A Y/N SIGHTING

user i thought y/n went public for a second

alexpriv mine

francolapinto 😡

user how does she look so good postpartum omg

yourusername ?

francolapinto you just looked beautiful here

user awww this is actually soo cute (whens it gonna be my turn😔)

user franco's loverboy era, thought id never see the day

user does bro know the qatar grand prix is in less than a week

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yourusername posted a story

193 views

alexpriv WE MUST STAY FOCUSED BROTHERS WE MUST STAY FOCUSED

alexpriv REMEMBER ALL THE EVIL CRIMES HE COMMITTED

yourusername 😭😭😭

yourusername am i stupid to think hes actually sorry?

alexpriv you’re not stupid. you just have a really really really soft heart. especially for him🤢

yourusername i hate it here

alexpriv ill be honest and give him SOME credit (even though its physically hurting me) but i do think hes sorry too. that doesnt mean you have to forgive if you dont want to though

yourusername yeah i told him i cant promise anything just yet

alexpriv good. hes gotta earn it

yourusername then he proceeded to invite me to the abu dhabi gp😭

alexpriv um what

yourusername he said i deserved a small break and offered to fly me out, have someone watch lucia, and just let me relax. like we used to.

alexpriv ugh. thats actually really thoughtful. i hate thats hes being a decent human rn

yourusername same

alexpriv my first instinct was to tell you not to go. but if you do go…

alexpriv does that mean lucia will be mine for a whole weekend😍😍😍

yourusername obviously. who else?

alexpriv then that sounds like an amazing idea!

yourusername fake loyalty.

-

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francolapinto

liked by yourusername and 930,529 others

francolapinto p3. nice way to end the season🏆

view all comments

user don't ever get rid of y/n😭 she's your lucky charm liked by author

user bro knew he had to show out in front of his girl

user was this masterclass fueled by y/n's presence be honest

user love how all these comments are about y/n

user you guys are so cute, im following you home🤣

user do you guys need a nanny, i volunteer

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yourusername posted a story

382 views

alexpriv this looks like a date night outfit...

yourusername shut up😭 other people will be there

alexpriv whatever you sayyy

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🔒yourusername

liked by francolapinto and 238 others

yourusername chat i folded😔

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user I KNEW IT

user i honestly could tell since high school this was how it was gonna end

alexpriv NOOOOOOO

alexpriv i knew something was off when you came back home

yourusername i was gonna tell you i swear

alexpriv i feel like i just got shot

yourusername 😭

francolapinto mine forever hehehe liked by author

alexpriv girl whatever

-

francolapinto

liked by yourusername, lando, and 1,392,329 others

francolapinto my favorite girls

view all comments

user arghaghfgh someone tell baby y/n and franco that they now have a baby of their own

user WAIT HE FINALLY CONFIRMED THE BABYS GENDER AWW

user future f1 academy champion lets gooo

user i love it when hot people date

yourusername you wanna do your favorite girl a favor and change your other favorite girl's diaper?😊

francolapinto fine...

user LMFAOO i love y/n

user my parasocial relationship with these two is getting out of hand cause why did i tear up of the thought of them raising a baby together

user the way it was suppose to end🥹 so cute

-

[gay-dorito-dust]

been thinking about dante with an artist!reader who secretly draws him (he finds out anyways). like he knows they can draw but suddenly stumbles upon a whole different sketch book and sees beautiful drawings/doodles of him in either his human form or devil trigger even. I can imagine he’d be a lil’ emotional bc “never thought someone could see me this way” and then confronts the reader about it (its all cute and stuff*barffss*)

Dante had never once knew a day where you were without your sketchbooks, pens, pencils, a handful of colouring pencils and a incredible talent to bring whatever you drew to life. It didn't matter what it was that you were drawing becuase it always came out looking better then the actual thing; art was a massive part of your life with some of your favourite works were pinned to your walls, showcasing your range as well as your clutered desk filled with half finished sketches and images that you were using as references were strewn about the desk too.

So when you had asked him to grab something from your room, a sketchbook? pencils? that weird manakin that you use when drawing people? He couldn't remeber exactly what you wanted as it went in one ear and out the other. So he thought if he grabbed whatever his eyes landed on and pray that it was the one that you needed, however what his eyes first saw was your open sketchbook on your desk, and on the two page spread was sketches and drawings of him and his devil trigger form.

Dante's breath hitched in his throat as he felt himself move on it's own towards the open sketchbook on your desk to get a better look of the sketches, only to be left without without any air within his lungs as he saw how you saw him; dangerous but in the beautiful way possible with how you made the red within his coat stand out, or how you made gold mingle with the red of his devil trigger pratically glow in a heavenly light as his horns looked more like a halo then actual devil horns.

You even made his wings looked beautiful on their own with how you made them look as though they had collected all the colours in existence and selfishly hoarded them within his demonic looking wings!

You made him look ehtreal, like he wasn't a demon but instead an angel with a unique look that made him look demonic, and it was enough to have dante a little caught up in his feelings as he didn't exactly held a fondess towards his demonic heritage as it was only something that granted him more benifits for demon hunting and nothing more. Yet here you were making him wanting to appreciate this aspect of himslef when he goes through all of your sketches, only to find more of his devil trigger and himself whether it'd be him fast as sleep or eating pizza and strawberry sundaes; You made him look like a work of art only ever seen within a museum along with the other admired masterpieces.

Something he didn't think anyone would ever see him -especially his devil trigger form- in that particular light and you only proved him wrong by drawing him the way you saw him on the daily, and enough to draw him in bulk within the precious pages of you've sketchbook, something you've told him stuck with him about how you didn't draw anything you didn't view as beautiful or was worth showing it's hidden beauty.

So seeing him within your sketchbook only made Dante feel more honoured to be viewed as beautiful by you, to be the muse that you spent countless and tireless hours working on to perfection late into the night, to be something you wanted to display the truest beauty of by drawing him from the heart of an artist and the end result was something Dante couldn't have fathomed at all.

Further forgetting what he had came into your room orignally for, Dante rushed out the door and went down the stairs in a flash as thougg he was running out of time, capturing you within his arms as he burries his head within your neck and catching you by surpise. 'Jesus Dante, what's gotten into you.' you laughed as you heard him purr soflty in your ear, making you smile and begin to run your fingers through his hair gingerly. 'what's going on within that head of yours?' you add barely above a whisper as his arms tightened on your waist.

'I saw you're drawings of me.' was all he said, still in someway in disbelief that you could make someone like him look like something worth drawing, worth any aspect of portayal as anything other then some half demon that people stay clear of.

You stop caressing his hair upon hearing him say this, which only made him groan as he nudged his head further into your neck needily, huffing and pouting like an overgrown puppy dog that desperetly craves affection constantly. 'You did?' Dante hums. 'what did you think of them?' you asked, nervous now of what his thoughts and opinions on them were.

'i've never had someone draw me, or see me like you do.' Dante says. 'You know i've never liked my devil trigger, nor the fact that i'm half demon, but yet seeing your drawings of me have made me want to be kinder to myself and not be so harsh to a part od me that you view as beautiful.' He adds, kissing the side of your neck as you caresed his hair once more, making him purr once more as his eyes closed in content upon feeling safe.

'Silly Dante.' you cooed, kissing the side of his head, 'of course i see you as beautiful, always have and it doesn't matter what form you take because you'll always be my beautiful muse, devil trigger or my sweet toothed man,' you finished, wanting nothing the to make Dante see that he was all the man you ever seen him as no matter what, it was the least you could do in hopes of showing Dante that he was worth the time and effort you put into your drawings of him; You do it a hundred times over again if it meant getting squashed tightly against his chest as he purrs into your neck like an conent cat.

Dante pulls away to look you in the eye, mimicing your soft smile as he rests his forhead against yours, high off of your words as he wished he had met you earlier in his life but regareless he'd treasure you with his whole heart for as long as he can. 'Your too good to me sweetheart, far too good for me but i'm too selfish to let you go now, far too greedy to let anyone else be seen the way you see me.' he says, nudging his nose to yours.

'Then be selfish all you like becuase i'm not going anywhere, im content here in your arms as life with you is an adventure i wake up each morning eager to greet with open arms.' You tell him, pecking his lips soflty as another purr ripped from his throat. 'but please for the love of god don't leave pizza boxes laying about again or i'm cutting you off from having strawberry sundaes for a month.' you added with a pointed look as Dante pales, knowing this was bound to come to light no matter how much he kisses and cuddles you to death.

'Dully noted sweetheart, dully noted.' Dante said, hoping you wouldn't actually cut him off from his strawberry sundaes.

[wonyowonyo]

Melody in the Rain (K. Haerin x M! Reader)

Wc: 14.3k

In a rain-soaked Seoul alley, a struggling busker, and a K-pop idol escaping her polished world, forge a fleeting connection through an impromptu duet, their voices weaving a love story of shadows and stars. A/N: My longest oneshot to date (?), making up for my sudden absence hehe. Also decided to tweak out my scene banners, do tell me if these new banners are great! Hope yall enjoy this one and expect sudden oneshot drops soon. *small letters are flashbacks.

The rain draped Seoul in a shimmering veil, each drop a soft percussion against the cracked pavement of the alley. Y/N perched on a wobbly stool, his old acoustic guitar cradled against his chest like a lifeline. The alley was a narrow, forgotten scar between two looming buildings, their brick walls streaked with moss and faded graffiti—hearts, curses, a smeared dragon coiling into oblivion. Neon signs from the main street cast a faint glow, their colors bleeding into the puddles at Y/N’s feet: pink, blue, violet, swirling like a dream he couldn’t quite grasp. The air smelled of wet asphalt, distant street food—grilled skewers, sesame oil—and the faint tang of rust from his battered tip jar, a tin can that sat forlornly on the ground, holding three coins and a crumpled candy wrapper someone had mistaken for generosity.

His fingers, callused and chilled, danced across the strings, coaxing a melody that felt like a sigh. It was a song he’d written at seventeen, after his father’s funeral, when the world had seemed too quiet without the old man’s gravelly laugh. The notes were slow, deliberate, weaving grief into minor chords and hope into a fragile major lift. They didn’t match the pulsing K-pop beats drifting from a shop down the street, where NewJeans’ latest hit thrummed through tinny speakers, all glossy hooks and electric cheer. Y/N’s music was raw, unpolished, the kind that didn’t stop crowds but might make one person pause, if only for a moment. He hunched over the guitar, his damp jacket—a thrift-store find with frayed cuffs—clinging to his shoulders, his dark hair falling into his eyes, wet strands sticking to his forehead. At twenty-one, he felt the weight of years he hadn’t lived, his breath fogging in the April chill as he played for an audience of rain and shadows.

Seoul had been his gamble, a city of glass towers and endless possibility, where a boy from a coastal town could become someone. Six years ago, he’d arrived with his father’s guitar slung over his shoulder, a notebook of songs scrawled by the sea, and a heart full of defiance. Back in his hometown, the waves had been his first stage, crashing applause to his clumsy chords, and his father, a fisherman with jazz records hidden in a battered trunk, had been his guide. Y/N could still see him on the porch, the salt air thick, strumming a blues riff with weathered hands. “Play like you mean it, Y/N,” he’d say, his voice warm as the vinyl’s crackle. “Music’s how you hold a moment—good or bad.” Those words had anchored Y/N after the heart attack stole his father away, leaving only silence and a guitar with a chipped neck. His mother, practical and worn, had begged him to stay, to take a job at the docks. “Dreams don’t pay for rice,” she’d said, her eyes sharp with fear. But Y/N, stubborn and grieving, had chosen Seoul, believing his songs could prove her wrong.

The city had other plans. Studio doors slammed shut, demo tapes vanished into indifferent hands, and auditions left him with nothing but echoes of rejection. The worst was burned into his memory, a wound he couldn’t stop prodding.

-

The audition room was sterile, all white walls and fluorescent glare, the air heavy with the producer’s cologne—something sharp, expensive, like a blade. Y/N, nineteen and gangly, stood in the center, his guitar feeling too small in his hands. The producer, a man with slicked-back hair and a bored expression, tapped a pen against his desk, the rhythm impatient. Y/N’s song—a quiet, aching piece about his father’s hands, the sea, the moments that slip away—poured out, his voice trembling but true. He’d stayed up all night perfecting it, his fingers raw, his heart open. Halfway through the second verse, the producer raised a hand, the gesture as final as a guillotine. “You’re not special enough,” he said, his tone flat, like he was commenting on the weather. Y/N froze, the notes dying in his throat. The producer didn’t look up, already flipping through papers. “Next.” Y/N stumbled out, the city’s noise swallowing him, the words carving a hollow in his chest that still ached five years later.

-

Now, busking in alleys and subway stations was his reality, his fingers bleeding some nights, his pride bruised but unbroken. Each chord was a defiance, a refusal to let the city win. But the tip jar told a different story—three coins, not even enough for a coffee. He glanced at it, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “Another sold-out show,” he muttered, the sarcasm a thin shield against the sting. The rain fell harder, a steady drumbeat that drowned out the city’s hum, and Y/N leaned into the song, his voice joining the melody, low and rough: “Waves keep calling, but I’m still here / Holding moments that disappear…” The notes hung in the air, fragile as the mist rising from the pavement, and for a moment, he was back by the sea, his father’s hand on his shoulder, the world small and safe.

Another memory flickered, unbidden but vivid.

He was twelve, sprawled on the floor of their tiny living room, the summer heat pressing against the windows. His father sat cross-legged, the guitar across his lap, its chipped neck catching the light. A Billie Holiday record spun on the old turntable, her voice weaving through the air like smoke. “Listen to her, Y/N,” his father said, his eyes bright. “She’s not just singing—she’s telling you how it feels to break and keep going.” He handed Y/N the guitar, guiding his small fingers to a G chord. “Your turn. Make it feel like something.” Y/N strummed, the sound clumsy but earnest, and his father grinned, ruffling his hair. “That’s it, kid. Hold the moment.” That night, Y/N fell asleep with the guitar beside him, dreaming of stages he’d never seen.

-

A sharp clatter snapped him back to the alley. A stray cat, its tabby fur matted with rain, had leapt from a dumpster, knocking over his tip jar. Coins scattered across the wet pavement, glinting like tiny moons in the streetlight’s glow. The cat froze, its green eyes meeting Y/N’s, unapologetic and faintly smug. He laughed, a rough, genuine sound that startled him, cutting through the rain’s murmur. “Tough critic,” he said, kneeling to gather the coins, his fingers brushing the cold, gritty pavement. The cat watched, tail flicking, then darted behind a crate, leaving a trail of pawprints in the puddles that shimmered like a child’s drawing of stars.

As Y/N stood, coins clutched in his damp hand, he sensed a shift in the alley’s quiet. Someone was there, at the mouth where the neon glow met the shadows. A girl stood under a black umbrella, her figure slight but steady, like a note held just long enough to linger. Her hoodie hid most of her face, but her eyes—wide, curious, catching the light like polished obsidian—locked onto him. She wasn’t passing through, wasn’t hurrying to escape the rain. She was watching, as if his song had tethered her to the spot, a moth drawn to a flame she didn’t yet understand.

Haerin’s breath caught as she stood there, the umbrella’s weight grounding her. Y/N’s music had stopped her mid-step, its rawness slicing through the city’s noise like a whisper in a crowded room. She’d been wandering, her sneakers soaked, her heart heavy with the need to escape—escape the schedules, the cameras, the weight of being NewJeans’ “cat,” the girl whose quiet charm hid a storm of unspoken words. His song felt like her journal come to life, each note a mirror to the longing she buried in her lyrics, the ones she’d never dared share. She watched him, unaware of how her gaze pierced him, how it made the alley feel smaller, the rain softer.

Y/N’s pulse quickened, his fingers tightening on the guitar neck. He wasn’t used to an audience, not one who stayed. The occasional passerby might toss a coin or nod, their eyes sliding past him, their minds already elsewhere. This girl’s gaze was different—piercing, not in judgment but in recognition, like she saw the boy behind the chords, the one who’d almost forgotten how to hope. He swallowed, his throat dry despite the damp air, and kept playing, the melody steady but his heart unsteady.

She stepped forward, her sneakers splashing softly in a puddle, the umbrella tilting to reveal more of her face. Her features were delicate, almost ethereal, with a quiet intensity that made the alley feel like a stage lit just for them. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a single coin, and dropped it into his jar. The clink was sharp, a counterpoint to the rain’s rhythm. “That was beautiful,” she said, her voice clear yet gentle, like a melody that didn’t need to shout to be heard.

Heat crept up Y/N’s neck, and he ducked his head, the compliment catching him off guard. “Thanks,” he managed, his voice rougher than he meant. Emboldened by her smile—small, but bright enough to rival the neon—he added, “Your smile’s worth more than the coin, though.” The words tumbled out, clumsy and unpolished, and he winced, expecting her to laugh or walk away. Smooth, Y/N, he thought, his ears burning.

But she laughed, a sound like wind chimes caught in a breeze, light and unguarded. It was the kind of laugh that made the alley feel less cold, the rain less heavy, a spark of whimsy in the gray. “I’m Haerin,” she said, stepping closer, the umbrella casting a shadow over them both. Her eyes flickered with something playful, but her posture held a trace of tension, like a bird poised to fly.

Y/N nodded, unsure how to respond. “Y/N,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself, the guitar, the alley. “Welcome to… whatever this is.” Her laugh came again, softer, and he felt a spark, a fragile connection forming in the space between them. He wanted to keep her there, to hold this moment like his father had taught him, but he didn’t know how.

Haerin’s phone buzzed in her pocket, a faint vibration that cut through the rain’s hum. She silenced it with a quick, practiced motion, her fingers deft but her expression tightening for a split second. Y/N caught it, the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her gaze darted to the alley’s end, as if expecting someone to appear. He wondered what she was running from, what had brought her to this forgotten corner when Seoul offered brighter, drier places to be.

She tilted her head, her eyes settling on his guitar, the chipped neck glinting under the streetlight. “Play another?” she asked, her voice soft but curious, like she was testing the air between them. “If you don’t mind the rain.”

Y/N’s heart skipped, surprise mingling with a flicker of pride. “Rain’s my best audience,” he said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. He adjusted his grip, the wood slick under his palms, and strummed a new melody, shorter, lighter, one he’d written on a rare good day in Seoul, when the city had felt like it might still hold a place for him. The notes danced, bright but fleeting, like fireflies in the dusk. He didn’t sing this time, letting the guitar speak, his eyes flicking to Haerin, gauging her reaction.

She stood still, her umbrella angled to shield them both, her gaze fixed on his hands. The music seemed to pull her closer, her sneakers inching forward, the puddle’s reflection rippling under her step. When the last note faded, she exhaled, a small sound that felt like applause. “You play like it’s a story,” she said, her words quiet but deliberate. “What’s this one about?”

Y/N hesitated, the question catching him off guard. He wasn’t used to explaining his music—most people didn’t ask. “Just… a day when things felt possible,” he said, his voice low, almost lost in the rain. “Doesn’t happen often.”

Haerin nodded, her eyes softening, like she understood more than he’d said. “Those days are worth holding onto,” she murmured, her fingers brushing the edge of her umbrella, raindrops sliding off like tiny promises. Her phone buzzed again, louder this time, and she ignored it, but Y/N saw the flicker of guilt in her expression, the weight of something left behind.

He didn’t know that, hours earlier, Haerin had slipped out of the NewJeans dorm, her heart heavy with the weight of schedules and expectations. The rain had been her excuse, the umbrella her shield, but the truth was simpler: she needed to breathe, to be herself, not the idol, not the “cat” of NewJeans, just Haerin.

-

The dorm was a whirlwind of sound and motion, a stark contrast to the alley’s quiet. Coffee cups littered the kitchen counter, their rings staining the wood, and the TV blared a music show recap, NewJeans’ latest performance flickering on the screen, their synchronized moves flawless under stage lights. Minji stood by the fridge, her arms crossed, her leader’s calm fraying at the edges. “Haerin, we’re a team,” she said, her voice firm but laced with worry. “You can’t just disappear when we’re this close to a comeback.”

Haerin sat on the couch, her knees drawn up, her journal clutched like a secret. The pages held songs she’d never shared—ballads of loneliness and fleeting freedom, words too raw for NewJeans’ polished image. “I know, unnie,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the journal’s spine, where a doodle of a cat curled around a music note. “I just needed air.”

Hyein burst into the room, her energy a spark in the tense air. “You’re our wandering cat, unnie!” she teased, flopping beside Haerin and nudging her shoulder. “Were you writing again? Your songs are so cool—you gotta show us!” Her eyes shone with admiration, but Haerin’s chest tightened. The memory of her rejected song—a melancholic piece dismissed as “too heavy” by a producer—still stung, locking her words away.

Hanni, leaning against the counter with a mug of tea, caught Haerin’s expression. “You don’t have to hide them, you know,” she said softly, her voice warm like a hug. “Your heart’s in those songs. They’re you.” Her encouragement was gentle, but it only deepened Haerin’s fear—what if “her” wasn’t enough?

Danielle, sprawled on the floor with a sketchpad, looked up, her smile bright as sunlight. “Yeah, Haerin, your songs are like… secret magic. You’ll share when you’re ready, right?” Her optimism was infectious, but Haerin could only nod, her throat tight. She loved her members, their warmth, their trust, but their faith felt like a weight she couldn’t carry.

Minji softened, her gaze settling on Haerin. “Just… tell us where you go, okay? We worry.” Haerin forced a smile, promising herself she’d be back before anyone noticed. But as she slipped out later, hoodie up and umbrella in hand, the city’s rain-soaked streets called to her. She wasn’t running away, not really—just chasing a moment where she could be free, where her voice could be hers alone.

-

In the alley, Haerin’s gaze returned to Y/N, her tension easing like a chord resolving. “Do you always play like that?” she asked, her voice pulling him back to the present. “Like you’re telling a secret?”

Y/N’s fingers stilled on the strings, her question catching him off balance. He shrugged, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “Only when no one’s listening,” he said, his tone light but his eyes betraying a flicker of truth. “Crowds don’t usually stick around for secrets.”

Haerin tilted her head, her eyes glinting with something that felt like mischief, or maybe understanding. “Maybe they should,” she said, her words soft but deliberate. “The quiet ones mean the most.”

Her words landed like a stone in still water, rippling through Y/N’s chest. He didn’t know who she was, didn’t know the weight she carried, but in that moment, she was the only audience he needed. The rain fell softer now, a gentle rhythm that seemed to hum in time with his pulse, and the alley felt like a stage for something new—a song, a connection, a moment he wanted to hold onto. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Haerin’s phone buzzed again, a sharp intrusion, and her smile faltered, just for a second, before she tucked it away.

“Keep playing,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, as if she sensed the moment slipping. “I want to hear more.” She stepped back, the umbrella tilting to shield her, but her eyes stayed on him, bright and unwavering, like a promise the rain couldn’t wash away.

Y/N nodded, his fingers finding the strings again, the melody picking up where it left off. He played for her, for the alley, for the boy he’d been and the man he still hoped to be. And as Haerin stood there, a stranger who felt like a song he’d always known, the rain seemed to sing along, weaving their moment into the city’s endless hum.

-

The rain had softened to a drizzle, its rhythm fading into a gentle hum that wove through Seoul’s restless pulse. Y/N followed Haerin out of the alley, his guitar slung over his shoulder, its chipped neck grazing his damp jacket. The city’s heartbeat grew louder beyond the alley’s shelter—car horns bleating, the sizzle of skewers on a nearby vendor’s grill, the chatter of umbrellas bobbing through neon-lit streets. Haerin walked ahead, her black umbrella a dark halo against the flickering glow of a convenience store’s sign, its green and orange stripes smudged by mist. She glanced back, her eyes catching his with a flicker of mischief, a silent invitation that made his chest tighten. “Coffee?” she asked, her voice light but laced with a warmth that felt like a melody he hadn’t heard before.

Y/N hesitated, his sneakers scuffing the wet pavement, the coins in his pocket—barely enough for a bus fare—jingling faintly. His jacket, frayed at the cuffs and heavy with rain, clung to his shoulders, and he was suddenly aware of his reflection in a puddle: a busker with chapped hands, hair plastered to his forehead, a shadow of the boy who’d dreamed of stages. Haerin’s hoodie was plain, her sneakers scuffed, but there was a quiet grace to her, a polish that made him feel like a smudged sketch beside a finished painting. Yet her smile was warm, unguarded, and it tugged at him, a chord he couldn’t ignore. “Sure,” he said, his voice rough, a half-smile breaking through his nerves. “But only if they start accepting soggy dreams as payment.”

Her laugh rang out, that wind-chime sound from the alley, cutting through the drizzle like a sunbeam. “My treat,” she said, tilting her umbrella to shield him as they crossed the street, her shoulder brushing his for a fleeting moment, a warmth that made his breath catch. The street stall was a small oasis, its plastic tarp flapping in the breeze, steam rising from a dented coffee machine that hissed like an old radiator. Two wobbly tables sat under the awning, their surfaces scarred with cigarette burns and carved initials—J+H, a lopsided heart, a faded star. A single lantern hung from a pole, its golden glow dancing on the wet pavement, turning puddles into pools of liquid light. The vendor, an older woman with a perm and crow’s feet etched deep, stirred a pot of instant coffee, her hands steady despite the chill. Her apron, stained with grease and faded flowers, fluttered as she hummed a trot song under her breath, the tune clashing with the faint K-pop beat from a shop down the street—NewJeans, their latest hit looping through tinny speakers.

Y/N ducked under the awning, the guitar case bumping his hip as he settled onto a plastic stool, its legs uneven on the cracked concrete. The air smelled of burnt coffee grounds, sesame oil from a nearby cart, and the clean, wet scent of rain. Haerin slid onto the stool across from him, folding her umbrella and shaking droplets from her hoodie, each one catching the lantern’s light like a tiny prism. The vendor slid two paper cups across the counter, the coffee black and steaming, its surface swirling with faint bubbles that popped like distant stars. Y/N wrapped his hands around his cup, the warmth seeping into his chilled fingers, grounding him against the city’s restless hum. Haerin’s hands stayed still, her fingers tracing the cup’s rim, her eyes flicking to him with a curiosity that felt like a question she hadn’t asked yet.

The silence between them was soft, not awkward, like the pause before a song’s next verse. Y/N sipped the coffee, its bitterness sharp on his tongue, and glanced back at the alley, its shadows blurred by the drizzle. The stray cat from earlier perched on a crate, licking its paw with regal indifference, its green eyes glinting under the streetlight. He chuckled under his breath, a sound that drew Haerin’s attention. “What?” she asked, her lips curving, the lantern’s glow catching the faint flush on her cheeks, like a watercolor bloom.

“Just the cat,” Y/N said, nodding toward the alley. “Thinks it owns the place. Knocked over my tip jar like it was judging my setlist.” His tone was light, but his fingers tightened on the cup, the memory of the jar—three coins, a candy wrapper—stinging anew. He pushed it down, focusing on Haerin, on the way her laugh made the stall feel like a refuge, a bubble carved out of Seoul’s chaos.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her eyes bright with amusement. “Maybe it’s a critic with taste,” she teased, her voice playful but soft, like she was testing how much he’d let her in. “Your music’s too good for a tin can, though. It deserves… I don’t know, a stage? A crowd?” Her words were gentle, but they landed like a stone in Y/N’s chest, stirring the hollow left by years of rejection—the producer’s voice, “You’re not special enough,” echoing in his mind like a bad refrain.

He shrugged, his smile wry, his gaze dropping to the coffee’s dark surface, where his reflection wavered, distorted. “Crowds don’t stick around for guys like me,” he said, his voice low, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He tapped the cup, the sound a faint rhythm against the drizzle’s hum, his fingers restless. “I’m just the guy in the alley, playing for the rain and stray cats. Not exactly K-pop material.” He gestured toward the shop down the street, where NewJeans’ song pulsed, its polished beat a world away from his raw chords. The contrast stung, a reminder of the city’s hunger for shine, not shadows.

Haerin’s expression shifted, a flicker of something—recognition, empathy, maybe pain—crossing her face. She leaned back, her fingers curling around her cup, her gaze drifting to the puddle at the stall’s edge, its surface rippling with neon reflections. “K-pop’s not everything,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Sometimes the music that matters most is the kind you play for yourself.” Her words carried a weight, a truth she seemed to hold close, and Y/N wondered what lay behind them, what made her sound like she knew the cost of dreams.

Her fingers paused on the cup, and she tilted her head, her hoodie slipping slightly to reveal a glimpse of a silver necklace, its pendant tucked under the fabric, a secret she didn’t share. Y/N studied her, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks, the way her silence felt like a song waiting to be sung. He felt a pull, a need to know her story, to understand why she’d stopped for him when the city rushed on. “You sound like you get it,” he said, his voice tentative, testing the air. “You… play? Sing? Something?” He gestured to his guitar case, its worn leather scratched and peeling, a silent invitation to bridge the gap between them.

Haerin’s lips parted, then closed, a hesitation that spoke louder than words. She smiled, small and guarded, and said, “I sing. Sort of. Not like you, though.” Her fingers tapped the cup, a nervous rhythm that mirrored the drizzle’s patter, and she looked down, her expression softening, almost wistful. “Your music feels… real. Like it’s part of you. Mine’s… complicated.” The last word was barely audible, swallowed by the vendor’s hummed trot and the distant honk of a taxi, but it hung between them, heavy with unspoken stories.

Y/N’s heart thudded, her words stirring a spark of kinship, a flicker of hope. He leaned forward, the stool creaking under his weight, and took a chance. “This guitar,” he said, patting the case, its leather cool under his palm, “it’s like my heart’s out here, for anyone to step on. Sounds stupid, but… it’s all I’ve got.” His voice was raw, the confession slipping out like a note he hadn’t meant to play. He looked at her, half-expecting her to laugh or change the subject, but her eyes met his, steady, unguarded, and he felt seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.

Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers pausing on the cup. She leaned forward, her hoodie brushing the table’s edge, and her voice was soft but firm. “It’s not stupid,” she said, her gaze holding his, unwavering. “It’s… brave. I write songs, too, but I keep them hidden. They’re not… what people expect.” Her words were a confession, small but heavy, and her fingers curled into her palm, as if to hold the secret close. Her eyes flickered to the puddle again, its neon ripples like a canvas of fleeting dreams, and Y/N sensed a story she wasn’t ready to tell—a story that felt like his own, in a way he couldn’t yet name.

He swallowed, his throat dry despite the coffee’s warmth. “Hidden’s not the same as gone,” he said, his voice tentative, like he was testing a new chord. “Maybe they’re waiting for the right moment. The right… listener.” He didn’t know what he was promising, only that he wanted her to keep talking, to share the piece of herself she guarded so fiercely. His fingers brushed the guitar case, a grounding touch, and he added, “I’ve got songs like that. Ones I don’t play for anyone. Like… one I wrote about a lighthouse back home. Sounds dumb, but it was the only thing that stayed steady when everything else fell apart.” His voice softened, the memory of his father’s death, the sea’s endless pull, rising unbidden. He hadn’t meant to say so much, but Haerin’s presence, her quiet intensity, loosened something in him.

Haerin’s eyes widened, a spark of curiosity lighting them. “A lighthouse?” she asked, her voice gentle, coaxing. “What’s it about?” She leaned closer, her elbow on the table, the lantern’s glow catching the curve of her cheek, and Y/N felt the air shift, the space between them shrinking.

He hesitated, his fingers tapping the cup, then spoke, his voice low, almost a murmur. “It’s… about standing still, even when the waves keep coming. About holding light for someone, even if they’re gone.” He thought of his father, the porch, the jazz records, and his throat tightened. “I don’t play it much. Feels too… bare.” He looked at her, expecting pity, but found only understanding, her gaze like a mirror to his own vulnerability.

Haerin nodded, her lips parting as if to speak, then stopping. “I get that,” she said finally, her voice barely above the drizzle’s hum. “I’ve got songs like that, too. Ones that feel… too much like me. Like if I let them out, they’d break something.” Her fingers traced the table’s carved heart, a slow, deliberate motion, and she added, “One’s about a shadow that wants to be seen, but… no one looks.” Her voice faltered, and she looked down, her lashes hiding her eyes, but Y/N felt the weight of her words, the echo of a dream caged by expectation.

Their eyes met, a silent chord resonating between them, and Y/N felt a pull, a need to keep her here, to learn the song she kept hidden. “Sounds like a song worth hearing,” he said, his voice soft, earnest. “Shadows deserve light, too.” His words hung in the air, a promise he hadn’t planned, and Haerin’s smile, small and almost sad, lit her face like the lantern’s glow.

She picked up a napkin, her fingers nimble, and doodled a tiny music note, its lines curling like a cat’s tail, then added a small shadow beside it, a whimsical nod to their talk. She slid it across the table, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting second, the contact sending a jolt through him. “A souvenir,” she said, her voice playful but laced with something deeper, something that made Y/N’s chest ache. “For your sold-out show.”

He took the napkin, his callused fingers careful, as if it were a treasure. “For my one-person audience,” he joked, but his voice was soft, his eyes holding hers, searching for the story she wasn’t telling. The cat, still perched in the alley, meowed—a sharp, impatient sound that broke the moment, making them both laugh, a shared spark that felt like a secret.

Haerin’s phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with a message. Y/N caught the words: Haerin, come back soon. We miss you. – Hanni. She silenced it, her fingers lingering on the phone, her smile faltering. “I should… stay a bit longer,” she said, almost to herself, her voice a mix of defiance and guilt. Her eyes flicked to the alley, where the cat now chased a droplet, its paws splashing in a puddle, and she smiled, a fleeting whimsy that eased the tension.

Y/N nodded, not pushing, not questioning, but feeling the weight of her choice. He sipped his coffee, the bitterness grounding him, and glanced at the napkin, the music note and shadow a tangible piece of her. “Tell me about your shadow song,” he said, his voice gentle, a dare wrapped in curiosity. “What makes it… too much?”

Haerin’s breath hitched, her fingers pausing on the cup. She looked at him, her eyes searching, as if weighing whether to let him in. “It’s… about wanting to be seen, but being afraid of what people will see,” she said, her voice low, each word a careful step. “I wrote it after…” She stopped, her gaze drifting to the puddle, its neon ripples like a fractured stage. “After someone told me my music wasn’t right. Too heavy, too… me.” Her voice cracked, just slightly, and Y/N’s heart clenched, recognizing the echo of his own rejection.

-

The producer’s office was a glass cage, all sharp edges and cold light, the city sprawling beyond the window like a promise Haerin couldn’t reach. She stood, her journal clutched to her chest, her song—a melancholic ballad about a shadow in a spotlight—laid bare on the table. The producer, a woman with sharp nails and sharper eyes, skimmed the lyrics, her lips pursed. “It’s well-written,” she said, her tone clipped, “but it’s too heavy for NewJeans. Fans want light, Haerin, not… this.” She gestured to the journal, dismissive, and Haerin felt her heart shrink, her voice silenced before it could sing. She nodded, her smile forced, and left, the city’s noise swallowing her as she tucked her journal away, vowing to keep her shadows hidden.

Back in the dorm, Hanni had found her curled on the couch, her journal closed but her eyes distant. “Hey,” Hanni said, sitting beside her, her voice soft as a lullaby. “Your songs are you, Haerin. Don’t let them take that away.” She squeezed Haerin’s hand, her warmth a lifeline, but Haerin could only nod, the rejection still burning.

Danielle, sketching at the table, looked up, her smile bright despite the tension. “Your songs are like secret magic,” she said, her voice lilting. “You’ll share when you’re ready, right?” Her optimism was a spark, but Haerin felt the weight of her members’ faith, a pressure to be more than a shadow.

Minji, pacing by the counter, sighed. “Haerin, we’re a team,” she said, her voice firm but worried. “You can’t disappear when we’re this busy. We need you.” Hyein, bouncing in with a banana, teased, “You’re our wandering cat, unnie! Show us your songs!” Their love was a tether, but it made Haerin’s escape—hoodie up, umbrella in hand—all the more urgent, the rain her only witness.

-

At the stall, Haerin’s gaze returned to Y/N, the memory of her members fading but their voices lingering—Hanni’s warmth, Danielle’s optimism, Minji’s worry, Hyein’s spark. The producer’s rejection echoed, but Y/N’s music, his raw honesty, felt like a door she could open, if only for a moment. She wanted to stay, to let this bubble of warmth and coffee steam stretch, to be Haerin, not NewJeans’ shadow.

The vendor hummed louder, her trot song clashing with the K-pop beat, and the cat splashed in the puddle again, its antics drawing a soft laugh from Haerin. She doodled another note on the napkin, a tiny lighthouse beside the shadow, a nod to Y/N’s story, and slid it back to him. “For your lighthouse song,” she said, her voice playful but earnest, her eyes holding his, a silent thank-you for letting her in.

Y/N took it, his fingers careful, the lighthouse a spark in his chest. “You’re building me a whole setlist,” he said, his smile shy but warm, his heart racing at the thought of her listening, truly listening. The stall, with its scarred tables and steaming cups, was their refuge, a place where the rain couldn’t wash away their words. And as the drizzle hummed outside, the lantern’s glow wrapping them in gold, Y/N felt the first notes of something new—a melody they might write together, if only for this fleeting, rain-soaked moment.

-

The drizzle clung to Seoul like a whispered secret, its soft patter blending with the city’s distant hum as Y/N and Haerin stepped back into the alley. The street stall’s warmth lingered in Y/N’s fingers, the coffee’s bitter tang still sharp on his tongue, but the alley felt like coming home—a narrow, shadowed crevice where neon light barely reached, where his music could breathe without judgment. The brick walls, streaked with moss and faded graffiti, glistened under the streetlight’s amber glow. A heart scrawled in red paint bled into a curse in black, beside a smeared dragon coiling into oblivion, each mark a story of nights lost to rain and longing. Puddles shimmered on the cracked pavement, reflecting slivers of pink and violet from a flickering sign down the street, their ripples swirling like miniature galaxies, fragile and fleeting. The air carried the clean scent of rain, undercut by the musk of wet cardboard, the smoky tang of a distant barbecue cart, and a faint whiff of motor oil from a scooter idling nearby, a reminder of the city’s restless pulse just beyond their refuge.

Y/N adjusted the guitar on his shoulder, its weight a steady anchor, the chipped neck cool against his damp jacket. His sneakers squelched softly, leaving faint prints in the puddles, and he glanced at the tip jar, still overturned from the cat’s earlier mischief, its three coins glinting like lost wishes. Haerin walked beside him, her umbrella folded, her hoodie damp but her steps light, as if the alley’s quiet had loosened a knot in her soul. Her sneakers splashed in a puddle, sending ripples that caught the light, and she glanced at him, her eyes glinting with a playful spark that made his heart stutter. The lantern’s glow from the stall faded behind them, replaced by the alley’s dim intimacy, where shadows danced like notes waiting to be played. The stray cat, their silent critic, lounged atop a crate, its tabby fur slick with rain, its green eyes tracking them with lazy curiosity. It flicked its tail, a slow metronome, and Y/N caught its gaze, chuckling, the sound rough but warm, a thread connecting him to Haerin’s wind-chime laugh from the stall.

Haerin stopped near his stool, the tin can’s rusted edge catching a droplet that slid down like a tear. She knelt, picking up a coin from the puddle, its surface dulled by grime, and placed it back in the jar with a deliberate clink, her fingers brushing the metal with care. “Your stage deserves better than this,” she said, her voice soft but laced with conviction, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that made the alley feel smaller, the rain softer. Y/N’s breath caught, her words echoing the napkin’s music note and lighthouse, now tucked in his pocket, a tangible piece of her belief in him. He saw his reflection in her eyes—worn jacket, damp hair, a busker who’d almost forgotten how to dream—and felt a flicker of something, not hope exactly, but possibility.

He shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips, his fingers tightening on the guitar strap until the leather bit into his palm. “Stage is a strong word,” he said, his voice low, the self-doubt creeping in like a dissonant chord. “It’s just… me and the rain, most days. Not exactly headlining.” He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement, its arc swallowed by a puddle’s neon glow. The memory of his audition failure—the producer’s cold “You’re not special enough”—flared, a wound he couldn’t stop prodding. His shoulders slumped, the guitar heavier, and he glanced at Haerin, half-expecting her to see the failure etched in his callused hands, but her gaze was steady, not pitying, like she saw the music he still carried, the boy who’d once played for the sea.

Haerin tilted her head, her hoodie slipping to reveal a strand of dark hair, damp and curling against her cheek like a painter’s stroke. “Then let’s make it a stage,” she said, her voice a mix of mischief and defiance, a spark that lit the alley like a match in the dark. “Play something with me. Just for now, just for us.” Her words hung in the air, a dare wrapped in a dream, and Y/N’s heart raced, surprise mingling with a flicker of fear. He wasn’t used to sharing his music, not like this, not with someone whose laugh felt like a song he’d always known, whose presence made the alley feel like a world of their own.

“Together?” he asked, his voice rough, his fingers already itching to strum. He set the guitar case down, the leather creaking, and opened it, the instrument’s worn wood catching the streetlight’s glow, its scratches like a map of his failures and hopes. Haerin nodded, her smile small but bright, and she stepped closer, the drizzle dusting her hoodie like tiny diamonds. The cat meowed, a sharp, approving note, and Y/N laughed, the tension easing. “Guess we’ve got an audience,” he said, settling onto the stool, the guitar across his lap, its strings cool under his callused fingers. He adjusted his grip, the wood slick with rain, and felt Haerin’s gaze, steady and warm, like a spotlight he didn’t mind.

He strummed a gentle chord, a G major that resonated like a deep breath, its warmth cutting through the alley’s chill. The notes were tentative, searching, like a question he didn’t know how to ask. His fingers trembled, not from the cold but from the weight of her watching, her belief pressing against his doubt. Haerin stood close, her shoulder inches from his, her presence a quiet anchor. She hummed softly, a haunting melody that wove around his chords, her voice raw, unpolished, nothing like the glossy K-pop pulsing from the shop down the street. It was hers, unguarded, a whisper of the journal she kept hidden, and it sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine, not from the rain but from the way it felt like she was singing his own heart back to him.

Y/N’s fingers found a rhythm, a slow, hopeful progression that echoed the lighthouse song he’d shared at the stall. He didn’t sing, letting the guitar speak, its notes bright but fleeting, like fireflies in the dusk. Haerin’s hum grew bolder, her melody curling around his, and she added words, soft and improvised, drawn from her secret lyrics: “Shadows sway where no one sees / A fleeting light, a whispered plea…” Her voice trembled, not with fear but with release, each note a rebellion against the constraints she carried—schedules, spotlights, a producer’s dismissal. She closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her cheeks, and swayed slightly, as if the music had untethered her, letting her float free.

Y/N’s heart swelled, his fingers responding with a bridge, a hopeful lift in C major, its chords steady like the lighthouse’s beam, a light for her shadows. He added a soft riff, a delicate flourish that danced with her melody, and Haerin’s voice rose, her lyrics evolving: “Hold the dark, let it be / A spark of truth will set me free…” The words felt like a confession, raw and unfiltered, and Y/N’s chords deepened, a D minor that grounded her flight, a conversation woven in sound. Their music became a duet, their notes intertwining, raw and unpolished but alive, a tapestry of hope and longing that filled the alley like a pulse.

The alley seemed to listen, the rain’s patter a soft percussion, the puddles’ ripples a silent applause, their neon glow pulsing like a heartbeat. The cat, now curled on the crate, watched with half-closed eyes, its tail flicking in time, a whimsical critic turned fan. It stretched, leaping to the pavement with a soft splash, and circled Haerin’s feet, brushing against her sneaker, its wet fur leaving a faint mark. Haerin laughed mid-note, a sound that blended with her melody, and Y/N joined her, his chuckle a low harmony, their shared joy a spark that lit the shadows. The cat sat back, licking a paw, its green eyes glinting as if to say, Keep going.

Y/N’s fingers faltered, a single wrong note breaking the spell, and he winced, his cheeks warming. “Sorry,” he muttered, but Haerin shook her head, her laugh brighter, like the drizzle catching the streetlight. “Not bad for a first take,” she said, her voice playful but warm, her eyes holding his, a silent thank-you for letting her sing, truly sing. She stepped closer, her sneaker brushing his, the space between them charged, like the air before a storm. Y/N’s pulse raced, his hands trembling as he set the guitar down, the strings humming faintly, an echo of their duet.

“That… felt real,” he said, his voice low, raw, his eyes searching hers. “Like we were saying something.” His fingers flexed, still tingling from the strings, and he took a breath, the confession spilling out. “I’m always scared my music’s too… ordinary. Like it’ll never be enough for anyone.” The words were a wound laid bare, the producer’s voice—“not special enough”—ringing in his ears, and he braced for Haerin to brush it off, to see the failure he feared defined him.

Haerin’s expression softened, her eyes tracing his face, the streetlight’s amber haze casting shadows on her cheek, like a canvas of unspoken dreams. She knelt beside the guitar case, her fingers brushing its worn leather, a gesture that felt like understanding. “It’s not ordinary,” she said, her voice firm, almost fierce. “It’s… you. That’s enough.” Her words landed like a chord resolving, and she paused, her fingers twitching as if to reach for him, then curling into her palm. “I’m scared, too,” she added, her voice softer, a confession matching his. “My songs… they don’t fit where I am. They’re not what people want from me.” Her gaze dropped to the puddle at their feet, its neon ripples like a fractured stage, and Y/N saw the weight she carried, the echo of his own fear in her trembling voice.

-

The NewJeans dorm was quiet that evening, a rare pause between schedules, the air heavy with the scent of lavender candles Hyein had lit on a whim, their flames flickering like tiny stars. Haerin sat on her bed, her journal open, her pen tracing a lyric: “A voice the light won’t free…” Hyein, sprawled on the floor with a manga, looked up, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Unnie, teach me one of your songs,” she said, her voice eager, almost pleading. “They’re so… you. Like, they feel real.” She reached for the journal, her fingers brushing its edge, and Haerin pulled back, a reflex born of fear. Hyein’s smile faltered, but her trust remained, a spark in the dim room. “You’ll show me someday, right?” she asked, her voice soft, a promise Haerin wasn’t sure she could keep.

The memory of her rejected ballad—a shadow in a spotlight—burned brighter, the producer’s dismissal (“Too heavy for NewJeans”) a wound she hid even from her members. Hyein’s admiration, her faith that Haerin’s songs were enough, felt like a weight, a love she didn’t know how to repay. Later, alone, Haerin had hummed the song to herself, her voice barely audible, a rebellion she kept from the dorm’s warmth, from the members who loved her but couldn’t see her shadows.

-

In the alley, Haerin stood, her fingers brushing her hoodie’s cuff, a nervous gesture that betrayed her vulnerability. “Singing with you… it felt like I could be me,” she said, her voice barely above the rain’s hum, each word a step into uncharted territory. “Not what I’m supposed to be.” Her confession hung fragile as the mist rising from the pavement, and Y/N’s heart clenched, recognizing the courage it took to bare that truth.

He leaned forward, the stool creaking under his weight, his voice tentative. “You sounded like you,” he said, his eyes searching hers, bright under the streetlight’s glow. “Not supposed to be anything else.” His words were a promise, a light for her shadows, and he wanted to say more, to tell her how her voice had lit the alley brighter than the neon, how it had made him believe his music could matter. But his throat tightened, the words caught like a missed note, and he settled for a small smile, his fingers brushing the guitar strings, a faint hum resonating.

Haerin’s smile was shy, almost radiant, warming her eyes like the puddle’s neon glow, a galaxy they’d created together. She stepped closer, her sneaker brushing his again, and reached out, adjusting his guitar strap, her fingers grazing his shoulder. The touch was brief, electric, a spark that made Y/N freeze, his pulse racing, the air thick with unspoken possibility. Her hand lingered, her breath hitching, then pulled back, her cheeks flushing under the streetlight’s amber haze. The cat meowed, a sharp, teasing note, and darted to a puddle, splashing with a playful flick of its tail, its pawprints shimmering like a constellation. They both laughed, the sound a shared spark that eased the tension but deepened the connection, a melody only they could hear.

Haerin knelt, extending a hand to the cat, which sniffed her fingers, then nuzzled them, its wet fur leaving a faint mark on her wrist. “Our critic’s a fan now,” she said, her voice light but laced with warmth, her eyes meeting Y/N’s, a silent thank-you for this moment, this song, this stage. The cat leapt back to the crate, curling up with a contented yawn, its approval a whimsical seal on their duet.

Her phone buzzed, a muffled ring cutting through the drizzle, and Haerin’s expression faltered. She pulled it from her pocket, the screen glowing with Minji’s name, the call insistent. A faint, worried voice leaked through before she silenced it: “Haerin, where are you? We’re behind schedule.” Her fingers tightened on the phone, her gaze flicking to the alley’s end, where the city’s neon glow pulsed like a siren. Guilt shadowed her eyes, but she didn’t move, her defiance a quiet rebellion against the world waiting beyond the alley, the expectations that caged her voice.

Y/N’s heart sank, sensing the pull of her other life, the weight of names—Minji, Danielle, Hanni, Hyein—that meant nothing to him but everything to her. He didn’t push, didn’t question, but his voice was soft, a gentle anchor. “You’re here now,” he said, his eyes holding hers, steady as his chords. “That’s what matters.” He picked up the guitar, strumming a single chord, a C major that resonated like a promise, its warmth a light in the alley’s shadows.

Haerin’s smile returned, faint but real, like a star breaking through clouds. She stepped back, her sneaker splashing in the puddle, its ripples glowing like a dream she wasn’t ready to wake from. “Keep playing,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, as if she sensed the moment slipping. “I want to hear more.” Her eyes lingered on him, bright and unwavering, like a lighthouse in the rain, a promise the drizzle couldn’t wash away.

Y/N nodded, his fingers finding the strings again, the melody picking up where their duet had left off. He played for her, for the alley, for the boy he’d been and the man he still hoped to be. The rain fell softer now, a gentle rhythm that seemed to sing their song back to them, and the alley, with its puddles and shadows, became their world—a sacred stage where their music had carved a refuge, where shadows and lighthouses could coexist, if only for this fleeting, rain-soaked moment.

-

The alley exhaled as the duet’s final notes dissolved, the rain’s soft patter giving way to a fragile stillness, like the hush after a song’s last chord. The drizzle had all but stopped, leaving a glistening sheen on the cracked pavement, where puddles held fleeting reflections of neon—pink, violet, a fractured blue from a sign that flickered like a faltering pulse. The brick walls, streaked with moss and graffiti’s ghosts, loomed closer in the dim streetlight, their stories etched in layers: a red heart bleeding into a black curse, a smeared dragon coiling into oblivion, a faded name scratched with a key, each mark a whisper of nights lost to rain and longing. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of wet asphalt, the faint smoke of a barbecue cart, and a trace of jasmine from a nearby vendor’s incense, a fleeting sweetness that clashed with the city’s encroaching pulse—a car horn’s bleat, the chatter of late-night pedestrians, the thrum of K-pop from a shop, no longer NewJeans but another group’s polished beat, sharp and alien against the alley’s quiet. The stray cat, their whimsical critic, lounged on its crate, its tabby fur drying in patches, its green eyes half-closed but watchful, as if guarding the fragile stage they’d built.

Y/N’s fingers lingered on the guitar, the strings still humming faintly, their duet’s echo a warmth in his chest that battled the chill creeping into his bones. He sat on the wobbly stool, his damp jacket clinging to his shoulders, its frayed cuffs brushing his wrists like a reminder of his threadbare dreams. His hair fell into his eyes, damp strands catching the streetlight’s amber glow, and he brushed it back, his callused fingers trembling, not from the cold but from the weight of the moment slipping away. The guitar felt lighter now, its chipped neck a badge of their shared song, but his heart was heavy, sensing the shift in Haerin’s posture—the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers curled into her hoodie’s cuffs, as if bracing for a storm only she could see. She stood beside him, her sneakers scuffing the pavement, her gaze fixed on a puddle where neon ripples danced like a tiny galaxy, a dream she couldn’t hold. The silence between them was no longer soft but taut, a string stretched to its limit, vibrating with unspoken fears.

Haerin’s phone buzzed, a sharp vibration that cut through the alley’s hush like a misplaced note. She pulled it from her pocket, the screen’s glow casting her face in stark relief, her eyes darkening as she read the message. Y/N caught a glimpse—Haerin, we need you. Schedule’s tight. – Minji—before she silenced it, her thumb swift but her expression faltering, a flicker of guilt shadowing her delicate features. Her lips parted, then closed, and she tucked the phone away, but her fingers lingered on the pocket, her knuckles pale against the dark fabric. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she murmured, her voice barely above the puddle’s ripple, her eyes flicking to the alley’s mouth, where the city’s neon glow pulsed like a siren calling her back to a life she’d paused.

Y/N’s heart sank, the words landing like a stone in his chest, heavy and cold. He set the guitar in its case, the leather creaking under his touch, and stood, his sneakers splashing softly in a puddle, the ripples distorting his reflection—worn jacket, slumped shoulders, a busker who’d never be enough for Seoul’s shining stages. He wanted to ask who she was, what tethered her to that insistent phone, but her guarded gaze stopped him, a reminder of the fragile trust they’d built through chords and confessions. Instead, he took a step closer, his shadow merging with hers in the puddle’s neon glow, a fleeting union that felt more real than the city beyond. “But you’re here,” he said, his voice low, steady, a chord meant to anchor her, but his hands fidgeted, betraying the fear that she’d slip away, that the alley’s magic would dissolve like the rain’s last drops.

Haerin’s eyes met his, wide and searching, the streetlight catching the damp sheen on her cheeks, like tears she hadn’t shed. Her breath caught, a small, shaky sound, and she nodded, a barely perceptible motion that carried the weight of her defiance. “It’s… complicated,” she said, her voice cracking, a note of vulnerability that echoed their duet’s raw honesty. She stepped back, her sneaker scuffing the pavement, leaving a faint arc in the dust, and her gaze dropped to the cat, which stretched with a lazy yawn, its tail flicking like a metronome keeping time for their fading moment. A faint smile curved her lips, a whimsical spark in the growing tension, but it faded as her fingers brushed the silver necklace hidden under her hoodie, its pendant a secret she guarded like her journal’s pages.

Y/N’s throat tightened, his own fears rising like a tide, threatening to drown the warmth of their duet. He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter into a puddle, its ripples blurring their reflections—his tired eyes, her guarded stance, two shadows on the edge of something real. “I get it,” he said, his voice rough, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “I’m scared I’m nobody, you know? Just… the guy in the alley, playing songs no one wants. Never enough for this city.” His fingers flexed, the calluses rough against his palm, and he thought of the producer’s voice—“You’re not special enough”—a refrain that haunted every chord, every empty tip jar. He looked at Haerin, his heart bare, his chest tight with the fear that she’d see the failure he carried, the boy who’d come to Seoul with a guitar and a dream, only to find rejection in every closed door.

Haerin’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening on her necklace, the chain glinting faintly as it slipped from her hoodie, its pendant—a small, silver star—catching the streetlight’s glow. She stepped closer, the space between them shrinking, the puddle’s neon glow framing her sneakers, their laces frayed but steady. “You’re not nobody,” she said, her voice firm, almost fierce, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made the alley feel like their universe. “Your music… it’s real. It’s you.” Her words were a lifeline, a chord resolving the dissonance in his heart, but her expression wavered, a crack in her resolve as her own fears surfaced. “I feel like a puppet sometimes,” she admitted, her voice dropping to a whisper, each word a confession torn from her journal’s hidden pages. “Like my voice isn’t mine. Like I’m just… what they want me to be, smiling for a stage that doesn’t know me.” Her shoulders trembled, her fists clenching, and Y/N saw the weight of a world he couldn’t name—a stage far brighter than his alley, but no less lonely, its spotlight a cage she couldn’t escape.

He took a breath, his voice tentative, a step into her shadows. “You’re not a puppet,” he said, his eyes searching hers, bright under the streetlight’s amber haze. “Not here. Not when you sang with me.” His words were a lighthouse, steady in her storm, but his hands shook, the fear of losing her to that other world a weight he couldn’t shake. He thought of their duet, her voice weaving with his chords, raw and free, and added, “Your song… it was you. The real you. I heard it.” His voice cracked, raw with the truth, and he braced for her to pull away, to let the city’s pull win, but her gaze held his, a galaxy of trust and longing that made his heart ache.

Haerin’s lips parted, a shaky exhale escaping, and she stepped closer, her sneaker brushing the guitar case, the puddle’s ripples slowing, like a stage dimming. “You make me believe that,” she said, her voice soft, almost a plea, her eyes tracing his face—his damp hair, his tired eyes, the hope he couldn’t hide. “But… they’re my home, too. The people waiting for me… they’re everything.” Her words were a bridge between her worlds, torn between the alley’s freedom and the loyalty she carried for names Y/N didn’t know—Minji, Danielle, Hanni, Hyein—names that tethered her to a life beyond the puddle’s glow.

-

The air was thick with the scent of chamomile tea Danielle had brewed, its steam curling like a lullaby. Haerin sat on the couch, her journal closed, her fingers tracing its spine, where a doodle of a cat curled around a music note, a silent rebellion against the sting of her rejected song—a melancholic ballad dismissed as “too heavy” by a producer’s sharp voice. The wound burned, a secret she hid even from her members, who saw her as their quiet “cat,” not the girl whose shadows bled into her lyrics.

Danielle, sprawled on the floor with a sketchpad, looked up, her smile radiant despite the late hour. “Haerin, your songs are magic,” she said, her voice lilting, a spark in the dim room. “Don’t give up on them, okay? They’re you.” Her optimism was a balm, but it deepened Haerin’s fear—what if “she” wasn’t enough for the spotlight’s demands?

Hanni, curled in an armchair with a guitar she rarely played, nodded, her eyes warm with empathy. “Yeah, they’re like… a piece of your heart,” she said, strumming a clumsy chord, her laugh softening the tension. “You’ll share when you’re ready, Haerin. We’ve got your back.” Their support was a tether, a love that made Haerin’s chest ache with gratitude and guilt, knowing her silence hurt them, too.

Minji, standing by the counter with a mug of tea, caught Haerin’s distant gaze and sighed, her leader’s calm fraying. “We’re a team, Haerin,” she said, her voice firm but laced with worry, her eyes searching. “Your songs, your quiet… they’re part of us. But we need you to let us in.” Her words were a plea, a reminder of their shared dream, and Haerin nodded, her smile forced, the weight of Minji’s trust heavier than the stage’s spotlight.

When Hyein later teased, “You’re our wandering cat, unnie!” and hugged her, Haerin felt the pull of their love, a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. She’d slipped out that morning, hoodie up, umbrella in hand, chasing a moment where her voice could be hers, not the idol’s, not the “cat’s,” but Haerin’s—a moment she’d found in the alley, with Y/N’s chords and a stray cat’s whimsy.

-

In the alley, Haerin’s gaze lingered on Y/N, the memory of her members’ warmth—Danielle’s optimism, Hanni’s empathy, Minji’s worry, Hyein’s spark—fading but their voices echoing, a reminder of the home beyond the puddle’s tiny galaxy. The duet had been her rebellion, her voice unshackled, but Minji’s text pulled at her, a thread she couldn’t cut. She stepped closer, her sneaker brushing the guitar case, and reached out, adjusting Y/N’s strap, her fingers grazing his shoulder with deliberate care. The touch was electric, a spark that made Y/N freeze, his pulse racing, the air thick with unspoken longing. Her hand lingered, her breath hitching, her eyes searching his, as if memorizing the boy who’d given her this stage, this fleeting freedom.

Y/N’s heart thudded, his hand twitching as if to reach for hers, but he stopped, his fingers curling into his palm, the moment too fragile to break. “You don’t have to be what they want,” he said, his voice low, raw, a confession born of their duet. “You’re enough. Right here, right now.” His words were a lighthouse, steady in her storm, but his eyes betrayed his fear—that she’d walk away, that the alley’s magic would fade like the rain’s last drops. He thought of the napkin in his pocket, its lighthouse and shadow a promise of someday, and added, “Your song… it’s still in you. Don’t let them take it.” His voice trembled, a plea for her to hold onto the Haerin he’d heard, the one who’d sung of shadows and set his heart alight.

Haerin’s eyes glistened, unshed tears catching the streetlight, and she nodded, her voice a whisper. “You don’t know how much that means,” she said, her fingers brushing her necklace, the silver star glinting like a vow. “But I… I don’t know how to be both. The me here, and the me they need.” Her confession was a crack in her armor, and she stepped closer, the puddle’s glow framing her sneakers, her breath mingling with his in the cool air. “You make me want to try,” she added, her voice soft, a melody of hope and fear, her eyes holding his, a universe of trust and longing that made the alley feel infinite.

The cat, sensing the weight, leapt from the crate, splashing in a puddle with a playful flick of its tail, its pawprints shimmering like a constellation scattered across a canvas. It circled Y/N’s feet, brushing against his sneaker, its wet fur leaving a faint mark, a whimsical claim on their moment. Haerin laughed, a soft, bittersweet sound, and Y/N joined her, their laughter a shared chord, fragile but real. “Our critic’s got opinions,” he said, his voice light but warm, his eyes meeting hers, a silent thank-you for holding this space with him. The cat darted to Haerin, nuzzling her hand, and she knelt, her fingers gentle, her smile a spark in the alley’s shadows.

“Look,” Haerin said, her voice soft, whimsical, pointing to the puddle where the cat had splashed. “A tiny galaxy, breaking apart.” The reflections—pink, violet, a flicker of blue—swirled like stars scattering, a fleeting universe they’d created, now fraying at the edges. Y/N crouched beside her, their shoulders brushing, the puddle’s glow framing their faces, their reflections blurred but close. “We’ll write about it someday,” he said, his voice low, a half-joke laced with longing, the word someday heavy with the truth they both felt: this moment was borrowed, their worlds too different to hold it forever.

Haerin’s smile was bittersweet, her eyes tracing the puddle’s fading stars. “Someday,” she echoed, her voice a whisper, her fingers brushing the guitar case, as if to anchor herself to the alley, to him. She stood, her sneaker scuffing the pavement, and her gaze lingered on the cat, now curled on the crate with a contented yawn, its approval a whimsical seal on their fragile stage.

Her phone buzzed again, the screen lighting up with another text: Haerin, please. We’re waiting. – Minji. Haerin’s expression clouded, her fingers tightening on the phone, her shoulders slumping under the weight of duty and love. She silenced it, but her gaze drifted to the alley’s end, where the city’s neon glow pulsed, a relentless reminder of the life she’d paused. “I… have to go soon,” she said, her voice cracking, each word a step away from the alley, from him. Her eyes met Y/N’s, bright with unshed tears, and he saw the battle in her—freedom versus loyalty, shadows versus light, the Haerin of the alley versus the Haerin of the stage.

Y/N’s heart twisted, his hands clenching, the urge to hold her here warring with the need to let her go. He stepped closer, the puddle’s glow fading under their shadows, and his voice was raw, a final chord. “You’ll find a way,” he said, his eyes steady, a lighthouse in her storm. “To be both. To keep your song.” His words were a vow, a belief in the girl who’d sung with him, and he reached into his pocket, brushing the napkin’s lighthouse and shadow, a reminder of their someday. “And if you ever need an audience… I’m here,” he added, his voice soft, his smile shy but real, his heart laid bare.

Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers brushing her necklace, the silver star a silent promise. She stepped closer, the space between them a breath, and her voice was a whisper, a melody of gratitude and longing. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes holding his, a galaxy they’d built in a puddle’s glow. “For seeing me.” Her words were a gift, a note that lingered in the alley’s hush, and Y/N felt the ache of a song they might never finish, a love they might never name, but one that would echo in every chord he played.

The cat stretched, its paw dipping into the puddle, sending ripples that blurred their tiny galaxy, a whimsical reminder of time’s passage. Haerin’s laugh was soft, a spark in the fading light, and Y/N joined her, their laughter a shared refrain, a moment they’d hold against the city’s pull. The alley cradled them, its shadows and puddles a stage for their unspoken vows, but the neon glow crept closer, the city’s pulse louder, a reminder that their time was borrowed, not owned. Y/N’s fingers brushed the guitar case, the napkin a weight in his pocket, and he looked at Haerin, her hoodie damp, her eyes bright, and felt the promise of a song that could outlast the rain, if only they could find their way back to this alley, to each other.

-

The alley shimmered with the echo of their laughter, a fleeting chord sparked by the cat’s puddle splash, its pawprints glinting like fading stars in the neon-streaked water. The city’s glow—pink, violet, a fractured blue—pressed closer, its light swallowing the puddles’ fragile galaxies, as if Seoul itself was reclaiming Haerin from the shadows. The brick walls, etched with moss and graffiti’s ghosts—hearts bleeding into curses, a dragon’s smeared coils, a name scratched in desperation—faded under the streetlight’s amber haze, their stories dimming as the alley mourned the magic slipping away. The air was cool, heavy with the scent of drying asphalt, the distant char of a barbecue cart, and a faint trace of motor oil from a scooter idling beyond the alley’s mouth, where Seoul’s pulse grew louder—car horns, laughter, the glossy thrum of K-pop from a shop, its polished beat a harsh intruder in the alley’s raw hush. The stray cat, their whimsical critic, lounged on its crate, its tabby fur nearly dry, its green eyes glinting with a quiet sorrow, as if it sensed the farewell weaving through the night.

Y/N stood by his guitar case, his fingers brushing the journal scrap in his pocket, Haerin’s star doodle a weight that anchored her cheek graze—“Thank you… For seeing me”—to his heart, a melody he’d carry forever. His jacket, damp and frayed, clung to his shoulders, its cuffs brushing his wrists, a reminder of his place in Seoul’s margins—a busker whose songs barely filled a tin can. His hair fell into his eyes, damp strands catching the streetlight’s glow, and he pushed it back, his callused fingers trembling, not from the chill but from the grief clawing at his chest. Haerin, this girl who’d sung with him, who’d made him feel enough, was slipping away, her world of spotlights and schedules pulling her from the alley’s refuge. He glanced at her, her hoodie damp, her eyes bright with unshed tears, and saw the storm in her gaze—love for her unseen family warring with the freedom she’d found here, a girl torn between stars and shadows.

Haerin stood by the puddle, its last ripples fading, a mirror to her faltering resolve, her sneakers scuffing the pavement, leaving faint arcs in the dust that caught the streetlight’s amber haze. Her fingers clutched her phone, Hanni’s call—“Haerin, we’re worried. Come back, okay?”—a tether she couldn’t cut, its weight heavy in her pocket. Her necklace, the silver star pendant glinting under the streetlight, was a beacon of her hidden self, the Haerin who’d sung of shadows and lighthouses. Her eyes flicked to the alley’s end, where the city’s neon pulsed like a spotlight she couldn’t outrun, and she took a shaky breath, her voice a whisper, “I don’t want to wake up from this.” Her gaze settled on Y/N, a silent plea that pierced his chest, as if she could hold onto him, their song, the alley’s fleeting magic.

A flicker of light caught Y/N’s eye—a makeshift setup at the alley’s end, where a battered table held a microphone, a tangle of wires, and a glowing radio transmitter, its antenna swaying like a metronome. A quirky DJ, her hair streaked with purple, adjusted a headset, her voice crackling through a small speaker: “Midnight Waves, broadcasting raw Seoul to whoever’s listening.” The setup was rogue, unpolished, a rebellion against the city’s glossy soundscape, and Y/N’s heart raced, a spark of possibility igniting. He glanced at Haerin, her eyes wide with curiosity, and said, his voice low, “What if… we share it? Our song. Right now.” His words were a dare, a chord born of their duet, and he braced for her to pull away, but her gaze held his, a galaxy of courage and longing.

Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers brushing her necklace, the silver star trembling against her skin. “With strangers?” she asked, her voice cracking, a mix of fear and defiance. But her eyes flicked to the radio, its static hum a siren call, and she nodded, a small, resolute motion. “Let’s do it,” she said, her voice soft but fierce, a rebellion against the idol mask she’d worn too long. She stepped toward the setup, Y/N beside her, their shadows merging in the puddle’s faint glow, a fleeting union against the city’s pull.

The DJ grinned, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You’ve got a song?” she asked, handing Haerin the mic, its weight cool in her trembling hands. Y/N lifted his guitar, its chipped neck steady under his fingers, and strummed a G major, the chord resonating like a deep breath, their duet’s echo reborn. Haerin’s voice joined, raw and unpolished, her shadow lyrics weaving with his chords: “Shadows sway where no one sees…” The broadcast carried their music into the night, to unseen listeners in Seoul’s corners—taxi drivers, night owls, dreamers like them. The alley transformed, its shadows a stage, the cat their silent critic, its tail flicking in approval.

Y/N’s heart swelled, his chords bolder, a C major bridge lifting Haerin’s melody like a lighthouse’s beam. Her voice trembled, not with fear but with release, each note a defiance against the polished world waiting for her. The DJ nodded, her headset bobbing, and whispered, “You’re reaching them,” her words a spark that lit the alley brighter than the neon. Haerin’s eyes met Y/N’s, bright with tears and courage, and he saw the girl who’d sung his heart back to him, the girl who’d made him believe he could be heard.

-

The NewJeans dorm was a sanctuary that night, the air soft with the scent of lavender candles Hyein had lit, their flames flickering like stars against the walls. Haerin sat on her bed, her journal open, its pages heavy with lyrics too raw for the stage—a voice the spotlight wouldn’t free, a shadow yearning for light. The sting of her rejected ballad, dismissed as “too heavy,” lingered, a bruise she hid from her members, who saw her as their quiet dreamer, their “cat.”

Hyein, sprawled on the floor with a manga, looked up, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Unnie, your songs are like… stories we need,” she said, her voice eager, a melody of trust. “You’ll share them someday, right?” Her faith was a spark, but it deepened Haerin’s fear—what if her truth was too heavy for their shared dream?

Danielle, curled on the couch with a sketchpad, nodded, her smile radiant. “They’re you, Haerin,” she said, her voice lilting, a balm against the bruise. “Don’t let anyone silence them.” Her optimism was a weight, a love Haerin cherished but couldn’t fully repay, her silence a wall she hadn’t meant to build.

When Minji later sighed, “We worry when you wander,” and Hanni hummed one of Haerin’s melodies, Haerin felt their bond, a home she couldn’t abandon. She’d slipped out that morning, hoodie up, chasing a moment where her voice could be hers, a moment she’d found in the alley, with Y/N’s guitar and a stray cat’s whimsy.

-

The broadcast ended, the mic’s hum fading, and Haerin handed it back, her fingers trembling, her eyes meeting Y/N’s, a silent thank-you for this defiance, this stage. The DJ leaned in, her voice low. “You’ve got a gift, both of you. I run this every week—want a slot, guitarist?” Y/N’s breath caught, the offer a horizon he’d never dared imagine, a platform to reach beyond the alley. He nodded, his voice steady, “I’m in,” a vow sparked by Haerin’s courage, a step out of his isolation.

Haerin’s phone buzzed, a text from Hyein: “Unnie, where are you? We miss you.” Her eyes glistened, her fingers tightening on the phone, but she took a breath, her voice resolute. “I’m going to pitch one,” she said, her gaze steady on Y/N. “A raw song, to my label. They might hate it, but… I need to try.” Her promise was a rebellion, a spark of the Haerin who’d sung in the alley, and Y/N’s chest swelled, pride mingling with grief.

The crowd at the alley’s end grew louder, their phones flashing, whispers of “It’s her!” sharp against the night. A new call cut through—Haerin’s manager, her voice clipped: “Haerin, you’re late. Car’s here.” Haerin tensed, her hand dropping to her hoodie, her eyes flicking to Y/N, a silent apology. The alley’s refuge crumbled, the crowd’s gaze a spotlight she couldn’t escape. “I have to go,” she said, her voice cracking, her gaze returning to the puddle, its lost constellations a mirror to her heart.

Y/N nodded, his jaw tight, the grief of losing her warring with the hope she’d sparked. He stepped closer, his hand hovering, as if to touch her, but stopped, the crowd’s presence a barrier. “Sing it,” he said, his voice steady, a lighthouse in her storm. “Your song. And I’ll play mine, out there.” His eyes held hers, a vow to carry her belief into Seoul’s corners, to a radio’s waves, to a new stage.

Haerin’s eyes glistened, her hand reaching out, fingers grazing his, a touch so brief it felt like a dream, yet it lingered, a note that would echo in every song he played. “You’re my constellation,” she said, her voice a melody of gratitude, her eyes tracing his face—his damp hair, his callused hands, the hope he couldn’t hide. The cat leapt from the crate, nudging Haerin’s sneaker, its purr a whimsical farewell, and she laughed, a sound that mingled with Y/N’s, a final refrain.

Haerin turned, her hoodie a dark silhouette against the neon glow, and walked toward the crowd, her steps heavy but resolute. Y/N watched, the radio’s static hum a promise in his pocket, and picked up his guitar, the alley’s shadows cradling their someday. The cat meowed, a final note, as Y/N stepped toward the DJ’s setup, ready to play, to send their constellation into Seoul’s heart.

-

The Hongdae streets pulsed with life, a kaleidoscope of neon and noise where summer’s last warmth clung to the air, mingling with the scent of grilled skewers, bubble tea, and the faint tang of spray paint from a street artist’s mural. Fairy lights crisscrossed above, their golden glow swaying in the breeze, casting constellations onto the pavement where buskers strummed, dancers spun, and crowds flowed like a river—students with neon bracelets, couples sharing earbuds, vendors calling out for takoyaki. The energy was electric, a far cry from the alley’s quiet shadows, yet the hum of raw music—guitars, beatboxes, a lone violin—carried the same defiant heartbeat Y/N had felt months ago, when Haerin’s voice had woven with his under a rogue radio’s static hum. The city’s pulse was louder here, neon signs flashing—blue, pink, a violet flicker—over shops blasting K-pop, but the festival’s stage, a wooden platform draped in lanterns, was a haven for the unpolished, where Y/N’s chords now rang.

He stood under the lanterns, his guitar steady in his hands, its chipped neck a badge of every alley note he’d played. His jacket, still frayed but cleaner, hung loosely, the journal scrap with Haerin’s star doodle a quiet weight in his pocket, her cheek graze a melody that hadn’t faded in five months. His hair, longer now, fell into his eyes, catching the lantern’s amber glow, and he pushed it back, his callused fingers steady, no longer trembling. The Midnight Waves broadcast had given him a voice, a small but loyal following tuning in each week, and tonight, he was here, a guest performer at Hongdae’s street festival, his chords reaching a crowd that swayed, clapped, and tossed coins into his open case. The producer’s echo—“You’re not special enough”—was distant now, drowned by the listeners who’d heard his shadows, by Haerin’s belief that had carried him here. He strummed a G major, the chord that had started their duet, and sang, his voice low, raw: “Shadows sway where no one sees…” The crowd hummed, a few singing along, and Y/N’s chest swelled, a quiet confidence blooming where despair once lived.

Across the street, Haerin wove through the festival, her hoodie swapped for a denim jacket, a baseball cap shielding her eyes, though her silver star pendant was gone, left with Y/N in the alley’s final moments. She walked with Hyein and Danielle, NewJeans’ schedule loosened for a rare fan event—a pop-up booth where fans waved lightsticks and snapped photos. Haerin’s smile was practiced, her idol mask softer now, tempered by the shadow song she’d pitched to her label, a raw ballad NewJeans had recorded as a B-side, released last month to quiet acclaim. The victory was hers, a piece of the alley woven into her group’s light, but her heart still wandered to that rainy night, to Y/N’s chords, to the boy who’d seen her. Hyein nudged her, her eyes bright under a bucket hat. “Unnie, you’re daydreaming again,” she teased, waving a glowstick. Danielle laughed, her arm around Haerin’s shoulders. “Let her dream,” she said, her voice warm. “She’s earned it.”

A familiar chord caught Haerin’s ear, a G major that pierced the festival’s din, and her breath hitched, her steps faltering. She turned, her eyes scanning the crowd, landing on the lantern-lit stage where Y/N stood, his voice carrying their duet’s echo: “…a lighthouse calls through endless seas.” Her heart raced, the alley’s shadows rushing back—the puddle’s stars, the cat’s nudge, his steady gaze. She slipped away, Hyein’s call—“Haerin, where’re you going?”—fading as she wove through the crowd, her cap low, her pulse loud in her ears. The stage drew her like a beacon, Y/N’s chords a thread that hadn’t snapped, a constellation they’d drawn together.

Y/N’s song ended, the crowd’s applause a soft roar, and he bent to scoop coins from his case, his fingers brushing the journal scrap, Haerin’s star a quiet vow. A shadow moved at the stage’s edge, a girl in a denim jacket, her cap casting her face in shadow, but her posture—hesitant, intense—stirred his heart. He straightened, his breath catching, and their eyes met, Haerin’s wide and bright, no longer hidden by a hoodie but shining with recognition. The crowd blurred, the festival’s noise fading, and the alley’s magic bloomed again, a stage for two.

Haerin stepped closer, her sneakers scuffing the pavement, a faint arc in the dust that echoed their alley nights. “Y/N,” she said, her voice soft, a melody that cut through the din, and his name on her lips was a chord he’d waited five months to hear. He set his guitar down, his hands trembling, not from fear but from the weight of her presence, the girl who’d lit his shadows. “Haerin,” he said, his voice low, raw, and he took a step, the space between them shrinking, the lantern’s glow merging their shadows as one.

-

Weeks after the alley, the air thick with the scent of chamomile tea Minji had brewed, its steam curling like a lullaby. Haerin sat on the couch, her journal open, the shadow song she’d recorded in secret now a demo she’d shared with her members, its raw notes a rebellion against the label’s polish. Minji sat beside her, her leader’s calm softened by pride. “It’s beautiful, Haerin,” she said, her voice firm, her eyes warm. “It’s you. We’ll fight for it.” Her support was a tether, a love that eased Haerin’s guilt for wandering.

Hanni, sprawled on the floor with a guitar, strummed a clumsy chord, her laugh bright. “It’s like… the alley came with you,” she said, her eyes teasing but kind. Danielle nodded, her sketchpad forgotten. “It’s our heart, too,” she said, her voice lilting, a spark in the dim room. Hyein, curled in an armchair, grinned. “Our cat brought back a treasure!” Their love was a home, a stage where Haerin’s voice could breathe, and she’d smiled, the alley’s echo—Y/N’s chords, the cat’s nudge—a promise she’d kept.

-

In Hongdae, Haerin’s breath caught, her fingers brushing her jacket, the absence of her star pendant a quiet ache. “I heard you,” she said, her voice cracking, a confession born of their broadcast. “On the radio, sometimes. Midnight Waves.” Her cheeks flushed, a shy admission, and Y/N’s heart thudded, the thought of her listening, miles away, a thread that hadn’t snapped. “I got a slot,” he said, his voice steady, a quiet pride. “And… an opening gig, for an indie band. Because of you.” His words were a vow, his eyes tracing her face—her cap’s shadow, her bright eyes, the courage she’d sparked.

Haerin’s smile was soft, bittersweet, and she stepped closer, the crowd’s hum a distant tide. “We recorded it,” she said, her voice firm, fierce. “My shadow song. It’s out, a B-side. They loved it.” Her triumph was a lighthouse, a victory over the industry’s chains, and Y/N’s chest swelled, pride mingling with longing. “I knew you would,” he said, his voice low, a melody of faith, and their eyes held, a galaxy they’d built in a puddle’s glow.

A fan’s voice broke the moment, a girl with a lightstick pointing: “Is that Haerin?” The crowd stirred, phones flashing, and Haerin tensed, her cap low, her eyes flicking to Y/N, a silent apology. Hyein and Danielle appeared, weaving through, Hyein’s grin wide. “Unnie, you found a stage!” she teased, but her eyes softened, seeing Y/N. Danielle nodded, her smile warm. “We’ll cover for you,” she whispered, pulling Hyein back, giving Haerin this moment.

The festival’s noise pressed closer, but Haerin stepped to the stage, her hand reaching for Y/N’s guitar, her fingers brushing his, a touch that lingered like their duet. “One more,” she said, her voice soft, whimsical, a spark in the farewell’s weight. She strummed a G major, shaky but sure, and sang, her voice raw: “Fading stars still guide the night…” Y/N joined, his chords steady, their voices weaving: “…a song for shadows, burning bright.” The crowd hushed, a few swaying, and the lanterns glowed, their light a constellation they’d drawn together.

The song ended, their voices fading, and Haerin handed the guitar back, her eyes glistening. “I like you,” she said, her voice a whisper, a confession torn from her journal’s pages, and Y/N’s breath caught, his heart laid bare. “I like you, too,” he said, his voice raw, his hand hovering, as if to touch her, but stopping, the crowd’s presence a gentle barrier. “Find me,” she said, her voice a melody of hope, her eyes holding his. “On the radio, in a song… I’ll be listening.”

Y/N nodded, his fingers brushing the journal scrap, her star a vow. “I’ll play,” he said, his voice steady, a lighthouse in her storm. “For you.” Haerin stepped back, her denim jacket a soft silhouette against the neon glow, and rejoined Hyein and Danielle, her smile shy but real. A stray cat, tabby and familiar, darted through the crowd, brushing Y/N’s sneaker, its green eyes glinting, a whimsical echo of their alley. Y/N laughed, the sound mingling with Haerin’s, a final refrain, and picked up his guitar, the festival’s stage a new beginning, their love a song that would find its way, carried on Hongdae’s lights, on radio waves, on the stars they’d scattered together.

[hearts4hughes]

honey bee stubbornly refusing rafe’s help carrying something heavy and him letting her struggle alittle before stepping in and carrying it with one arm just to get her riled up. I LOVE THEM!!

𖥨᩠ׄ݁.ི𒂭۪۪۪۪᳝۟ HONEYBEE!READER

you’re already halfway across the barnyard before you hear his boots crunch after you.

the crate in your arms is a mistake. you know it, you feel it, but you’ll be damned if you let him see that.

“jesus christ, honeybee,” rafe calls lazily, like he’s laughing at you. “you’re gonna snap yourself in half tryin’ to prove a point.”

“bite me,” you grit out, arms trembling as you stumble forward. the load in your arms weighs and extra pound as he trails behind.

he laughs. actually laughs. that low, infuriating rasp that sends a prickle down your spine. he doesn’t hurry, doesn’t swoop in to help you. just drags behind you slow enough to make it clear he’s letting you struggle.

you dig your heels in, hissing under your breath when the weight shifts wrong, pulling you sideways. rafe catches you by the elbow right before you eat shit into the dirt.

“alright, stubborn,” he murmurs, grin splitting across his face as he pries the crate out of your hands like it’s a damn pillow. “have your tantrum later. ’m not about to watch you bust your ass and break somethin’.”

he swings it up into the back of the truck one-handed. like it weighs nothing.

you glare at him. “i had it.”

he steps closer, his body nearly brushing yours, voice a low hum against your ear. “nah, sweetheart. you just think you did.”

your whole body bristles, heat rushing to your cheeks. and rafe? rafe just smirks wider, tipping his hat back with a lazy flick of his fingers, like he’s proud of himself for getting you all riled up.

“keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmurs, “and i’ll think you like it when i show you up.”

you want to hit him. you want to kiss him. you want to scream. you want to melt.

you shove his chest. it’s hard enough to make him stumble a step and stomp off back toward the barn, leaving him chuckling low behind you.

and of course, he follows. because that’s what he does—he sticks like bees to pollen.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @13hischiers @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @xoxosblogsblog @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae

[courdorygirl]

Ehrm that's quite a take. I have a biological brother, I love him dearly in a very fraternal way. No desire. Like, at all. If he ever made heart eyes in my direction I might puke.

I have a husband I love dearly, in both a sexual and agape way, and I consider him my bestest friend. It's hard not to when you live together.

I also have a lifetime male friend-with-benefits (I also have a female one but since I don't have any sisters that's moot) that I love in both fraternal and sexual ways. I have no desire to have any kind of long term commitment with him, but i do still love him "like a brother." And sometimes we do things. And yes, my husband knows about it, because we aren't prudes and we have a line od open communication at all times.

Your incest take sucks and I hope you get some life experience to prove you wrong. Don't @ me.

"having sex with your friends is basically incest" is a take of all time

[subbmissivesuccubus]

Watch your mouth

Ya'll fucking with fear play?

~~~~~

"Fuck you."

the words left your mouth without even realizing, an instinctual curse as a response to your boyfriend finally- finally- sinking his cock inside you. He was torturing you this whole time; hours spent between your legs where he edged you over and over again, driving you crazy with his skilled fingers and tongue. He ignored your countless pleas to just fuck you already, having a lot more fun devolving you into a blubbering mess. So when he finally pushed his length inside your dripping, stretched out cunt, you gasped out a curse that was more meant to convey your satisfaction but of course, that's not what he interpreted from it.

"What was that?"

"Nothing- nothing- sorry-"

"Did you just curse at me?"

"Nononono- I didn't- I didn't-"

"No? Really? Because it sounded to me like you said 'go fuck yourself'. Was I wrong?"

"Nono- I wasn't serious- I couldn't control it- Please- I didn't mean-"

Uzui clicked his tongue at your babbles and whimpers, your words getting lost among your ramblings.

"Five. Four. Three-"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it- I didn't mean it!" you whined, your heart leaping in your throat at the countdown, your instincts immediately taking over in fear of him reaching one.

"So you did curse at me."

"I did b-but it was an accident! I promise- I didn't mean to say it."

"I bet it was cause I know you're not that fucking stupid that you think cursing me out is a good idea. What were you even thinking?"

"I wasn't- I wasn't thinking Daddy. I'm sorry! Please- please-"

"Where's your hairbrush?"

"Daddy- please!" you babbled, heart jumping up to your throat at the implication, your behind already stinging just from the idea of what he was going to do to it, "I'll be good. I'll be so good for you Daddy please- please don't spank me!"

"If you're going to be good for me, you have to prove it. Now tell me where it is before you piss me off even more."

Rengoku tilted his head like a dog confused, his lower lip jutting out in a pout, eyebrows furrowed like he was about to cry even as he pushed his whole cock inside you, inches burying deep in your weeping cunt.

"Why would you curse at me, my love? That really hurt my feelings..."

"Sorry- i'm sorry- I didn't mean it- hah-"

"No? You didn't mean it?" he asked, hissing as your cunt throbbed around his shaft, squeezing him tightly as his heavy balls pressed against you, "Then why did you say it? Don't you know your words have meaning?"

"I know- i'm sorry- it was instinct!" you cried out, whimpering as he stayed completely still inside of you, his body pressed against yours, rendering you unmovable underneath his weight.

"You wanna show me how sorry you are?"   "Y-Yes- okay-" "Yeah? Then we're going to stay like this." "W-What?"

"Yeah~" he cooed, tickling your nose with his own, "You're going to cockwarm me for as long as I want. If you're really sorry, you'll do this for me, right?"

Sanemi gripped your face harshly, growling as he squished your cheeks between his fingers, forcing a silly pout on your face.

"Do you think I’m stupid?" he warned, grip unwavering at your whimpers,

"No- no- sorry- I didn't mean to Daddy!"

"Fucking brat. Just when I was going to take pity on you- you cuss me out?"

He ignored your continued apologies as his free hand went down to your ankle to grab at your panties that was still dangling off of it. Bunching it into a ball, he roughly shoved it into your mouth, muffling your squeals as you tasted your own essence, the fabric soaking up the remaining saliva in your mouth. He then flipped you over, a hand on the back of your head before pushing your face down on the mattress harshly.

You gasped against your panties as he pressed his cock against your entrance, the heat of his fat tip kissing your pussy making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Fuck. You were in for a night.

"You know, I was going to be nice." he said, gripping the base of his cock before he started to push inside you again, "Make love to you for being so good for me. Too bad. That's off the table now."

Gyomei pressed a heavy hand onto your chest, pressing down gently and that was enough to get you to stop talking.

"You know I don't like it when you lie. And you know I don't like it when you curse."

"It-It was instinct- no like- not instinct but-" you whimpered, "I didn't mean it Sir, I promise!"

"I don't care. You never curse at me. Understand?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry Sir."

"Why have I told you not to curse?"

You sniffled, thinking back to your training- "B-Because I'm a strong and intelligent w-woman and I don't need to use b-bad words to- hah- to make my point."

"Good girl. I'm glad you remember. But we're stopping here."

"No- please- please- don't stop-"

He pressed down on your chest more, making you whimper as you bit back your words. He always knows how to render you speechless with just a touch. With just a word.

"You need to learn. You're going to suck me off and once I cum down your throat, we're going to bed. You'll be lucky if I decide to touch you tomorrow. Now, get on your knees."

Obanai raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed by your whines and whimpers of apologies as he brought a hand up and wrapped his fingers around your neck. You gasped, air getting caught in your pipe as he choked you, fingers gripped you tightly from the sides.

"Since you can't control your potty mouth, maybe you don't need to speak at all." your boyfriend said, tightening his grip on your neck as he pushed back inside of you, walls parting for his meaty cock. You grit your teeth, mouth opening in a pathetic attempt to moan but you just felt lightheaded, your man giving you just enough to keep breathing but not enough to speak or gasp.

"That's better, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically, looking down at you with a dark look in his eyes, "Dumb little thing like you doesn't need to use words. Especially since you can't think before you speak."

He knew you could take it as you were a formidable Hashira yourself- a bit of choking wasn't going to really hurt you but you could feel his cock grow harder inside you as you struggled, gurgling nonsense as your eyes filled with tears, overtaken by the various sensations.

"S-Sor- I- Sorr-"

"Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and take my cock."

Giyuu clicked his tongue as he took his cock away from your cunt, ignoring your cries of protest. He stroked himself once before he started to crawl up, pinning your body down as he did. Eventually, he reached your chest, giving a nipple a harsh pinch and a twist to make you control yourself, unable to focus on babbling apologies as you had to focus on the pleasurable pain.

"Are you done?" he asked coldly, referring to your cries. You nodded quickly, gasping as he let go of your tit. "Good." he said before crawling up some more. You stayed still, obediently waiting as he straddled your face, knees on either side of your head as he towered over you.

"Open."

You obeyed, opening your mouth wide. He not so gently started sliding his cock into you, able to taste a little bit of your own juices as he did. While he'd usually take it slow, now he pushed in inch after inch, not stopping even as he hit the back of your throat.

You gagged around him, eyes starting to water as he mercilessly drove his dick into your mouth, his thick member sliding down your throat. Your legs kicked up and down as he stuffed himself balls deep, the tuft of hair on the base of his cock tickling your nose. You tired your best to breathe, blood rushing to your face, making you dizzy.

He rolled his hips against your face, a whisper of a laugh leaving his lips before he started to move, thrusting his hips back and forth, making you gag and choke as he started fucking your face.

"Since I don't have soap to wash your mouth out, my cum will have to do."

~~~~~

[heavenlybodies333]

Florida Kilos - R.C

Dealer!Rafe Cameron x bsf!reader

You should’ve known Rafe was going to fucking kill you for this.

you were barely standing, sticky with sweat, body buzzing from the free molly Barry’s boss slipped you like a bad little party favor. the strings of your white little bikini cut into your flushed skin, tits practically spilling out, denim shorts riding so far up your ass they were basically a denim thong at this point. and you loved it. because when you looked across the yard, Rafe Cameron was staring at you like he was ready to fucking murder you.

Rafe, who never got jealous. Rafe, who didn’t give a fuck about shit unless it was coke, cash, or a faster way to piss off his dad. Rafe, who called you his best fucking friend while he watched you climb into Barry’s boss’s lap thirty minutes ago to seal the deal.

you had never seen Rafe that angry. and you knew it would work.

he’d thrown this entire party to prove he could bring the clientele, move the weight, make the money. but Barry’s boss didn’t give a shit about Rafe’s promises—not until his beady little eyes landed on you, all bright eyes and glossed lips and sexy set of tits.

It took all of fifteen minutes of you pretending to care about his stories for him to agree to move half a kilo through Rafe by the end of the month. easy fucking money.

and you did it all for him. for Rafe. because you were a stupid, hot, high, horny bitch in love with her best friend.

you found him out back, standing with Barry and that greasy fuck. they were laughing, all passing a blunt around, and when you flounced up—hips swinging, tits bouncing—Rafe’s jaw locked up tight.

“Jesus Christ,” you heard Barry mutter, flicking his eyes up and down your body. you ignored them, slipping your arms around Rafe’s neck from behind, pressing your cheek against his back.

“m-missed you, rafe,” you whispered, drunk and smiling against the cotton of his shirt. Rafe didn’t move. didn’t say shit. just stood there, his body stiff, fist tightening around the beer bottle in his hand.

“Bro’s got it made,” Barry’s boss slurred, laughing. “I might need to reconsider the pricing if she’s included in the deal.”

you felt Rafe’s muscles flex under your palms, hard and hot. you pressed closer, pressing your tits against his back so he could feel exactly what you wanted from him. his voice dropped low and quiet as he tilted his head towards the side so only you could hear. “princess you better behave or—”

"you owe me whatever I fucking want," you demanded.

for a second, he didn’t move. then suddenly, Rafe’s hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist so tight you gasped.

"you're fucking right, baby," he muttered low, dragging your hand off him, spinning to face you. "I do owe you whatever you fucking want." he grabbed you by the waist and hauled you through the yard,

you stumbled after him in your little cut off shorts. "you're welcome,"you said sweetly, shoving your tits out shamelessly as he dragged you through the crowd like you were nothing but a little ragdoll—tight fingers bruising into your hips. “Rafe,” you whined, laughing, stumbling into him when he yanked you into his bedroom and slammed the door.

“you think you’re fuckin’ funny?” he barked, voice sharp.

you blinked up at him, innocent. "What's wrong, Rafe?" you teased, cocking your head, walking backward toward his bed, swaying your hips.

"you thought you’d get me the deal and then—what—what, princess? You want me to say thank you? Get on my fucking knees for you?"

you grinned, lips shiny and parted, hips rolling against his without even thinking. you were drunk on him, on the way his jeans were stretched taut around his cock, the way his hands were shaking from trying not to snap.

"I got you the deal, didn't I?" you purred, tilting your head up, eyes glittering. "I thought you'd be... grateful." you blinked up at him, the very picture of innocence—except for the way your hips kept grinding against the muscle of his thigh, desperate, shameless, already wet through your stupid little denim shorts.

"you want me to be grateful?" he repeated, voice rough, dangerous. he took a step forward. you matched him, step for step, "Grateful," he echoed, tilting his head like he couldn't quite believe you. his fingers slid into your belt loops, yanking you closer until your tits pressed into his chest. "you wanna see how fucking grateful I am, princess?" he growled, hands shooting out to grab your waist, shoving your bikini top up over your tits, squeezed them, bruises into the soft skin. he shoved your shorts down so fast you almost tripped, hiking your leg over his hip, not even bothering to unbuckle his jeans — just pulling himself free, thick and leaking and so hard it made your mouth water.

"look at you," Rafe sneered, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your soaking folds. he pushed in slowly — inch by inch — like he wanted to feel every second of it. like he didn’t want to miss a single fucking moment of being inside you.

you gasped, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by how good it felt — how full you were, how perfectly he fit. "you like that?" Rafe gritted out, pounding into you, each snap of his hips jarring a high-pitched whimper out of you. "you like bein' my little whore? my good fuckin' girl?"

Rafe ducked his head, mouth latching onto one peaked nipple, tongue swirling slow and filthy, hands roaming down your stomach, splaying wide over your hips to hold you still. you gasped, fingers diving into his hair, tugging when he bit down just enough to make you cry out.

"Fuck," he muttered again, voice wrecked. "you're so fucking pretty, baby. you don't even know." you arched into him, wanting more, wanting everything.

Rafe fucked you through it, watching you with possession in his blue eyes, "you gonna cum for me, baby?" he panted, forehead pressed to yours. "take it," he grunted, hands bruising your hips, hips pounding mercilessly into yours. "cum for me princess. you fucking earned it." two more brutal thrusts, and he was spilling inside you, feeling warmth spirting inside you.

you were still trying to catch your breath when Rafe pulled out, the loss leaving you empty and aching. you whined softly, reaching for him, but he caught your wrist midair, pinning it down against the mattress with one big hand.

"don’t," he warned, voice rough, like it hurt him to even look at you.

you blinked up at him, dazed and desperate, still high off the crash of it all — the fucking, the fighting, the feeling of being wanted by him, finally, after all these years.

"Rafe," you whispered, unsure if you were begging or apologizing.

but he just shook his head once, jaw clenching. he grabbed your jaw forcing you to look at him, "you’re gonna regret this shit in the morning, princess," he muttered, voice low and wrecked, like he already knew exactly how bad this was gonna hurt when the high wore off. but he didn’t let you go. didn’t move away.

"Fuck," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, yanking hard enough to make his whole body tense. he turned away, like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. What’d we just do"

the shame slammed into you like a freight train.

this was Rafe. your goddamn best friend. the one who used to sneak into your window at night just to bitch about his dad. the one who used to call you "kid" and mess up your hair, who dragged you to parties and held your hair back when you threw up, who said he'd kill anyone who looked at you wrong.

fidgeting with your hands you stuttered, “shit I’m sorry rafe, w-we shouldn’t of done that, I shouldn’t of—”

looking back up at him you felt him guide your hand to wrap around his hard cock, "you wanna regret it?" he drawled, voice slow and thick like syrup, cocky and careless. his hand snaked around your waist, yanking you onto him, your bare thighs straddling his jeans.

"fine. regret it tomorrow." he grinned then, hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your still-bare tits. "but right now, you’re gonna fuckin’ stay right here," he murmured, voice commanding, "and you’re gonna let me enjoy it."

a/n: can’t blame a girl for trying

MASTERLIST

[scarlethood]

so many fanfics- even and especially jason centric ones- revolve around this victim blaming idea that jason is just stupid and needs to see the truth aka bruce is god always right and he is always wrong and he shouldnt trust his own thoughts and intuition

there'll be a fic where jason thought bruce was a pedophile all through his days in the manor and the finale is 'jason just needed to accept that he was stupid to think that and say sorry to bruce' instead of 'an adult couldnt convince a child in his care that he wasnt going to rape him after three whole years and needs to change something in his behavior'

fic says jason comes back to gotham after bruce beat him into a coma and told him never to return and fears retaliation and the thesis is 'jason is stupid for thinking his ~family~ would ever hurt him brucie is so sorry he somehow made jason think hes not welcome here' instead of 'beating anyone near death is a severe crime and the psychological pain of that doesnt just go away when the abuser aggressor says oopsie'

fic has an injured jason not feeling safe in an unsecured home and every one of the batfamily makes him open the doors and windows and walk on a broken leg and prove they can break in without him knowing and this is heartwarming? them ignoring his emotional well being to show they care? making someone scared and hurt is good family behavior and jason is just too stupid to understand that

how does that make sense? why do we do this? what do i have to block out of my ao3 searches to not see it anymore? fics will have straight up cult like emotional manipulation played as heartwarming... this shit is so triggering to me as an abuse survivor

tag your fics victim blaming, horror, mind break, emotional manipulation, anything please i beg