#When the Tenth Month Comes

[301-302]

Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (When the Tenth Month Comes | Dang Nhat Minh | 1985)

[sacredwhores]

Đặng Nhật Minh - When the Tenth Month Comes (1984)

[byneddiedingo]

Le Van in When the Tenth Month Comes (Dang Nhat Minh, 1984)

 Cast: Le Van, Nguyen Huu Muoi, Nguyen Minh Vuong, Lai Phu Cuong, Trinh Le Phong. Screenplay: Dang Nhat Minh. Cinematography: Nguyen Manh Lan, Pham Phuc Dat. Film editing: Hien Luong. Music: Phu Quang. 

Dang Nhat Minh's When the Tenth Month Comes is a lovely, poignant film about village life in Vietnam after the end of the war with the Americans, but while war was still being waged along the border with Laos. A young woman, Duyen (Le Van), learns that her husband has been killed in conflict with the Khmer Rouge, but decides to keep it a secret from her aging father-in-law and her young son. When she finds it difficult to maintain the illusion that her husband is still alive, she persuades the village schoolteacher, Khang (Nguyen Huu Muoi), to forge a letter from him to her father-in-law. Khang's attraction to the beautiful Duyen causes village gossip. When Duyen, who has been an actress, is persuaded to perform in a scene from an opera about a woman whose husband is leaving to go to war, the similarity to her own life overcomes her and she flees the stage, causing more talk. Dang effectively blends elements of the fantastic into Duyen's story, connecting its contemporary reality to the mythic traditions of rural Vietnam. 

[deathsmallcaps]

I swear. I comprehend I’m not the best teaching intern in the world. I also was not the best camp counselor, cashier, and so on. But if my observer gives me so much criticism that I cry again I’m going to be so motherfucking pissed.

Especially since she’s asking me to stay late just to review me. While I have family visiting. And I’m gone for most of the day. And my commute is over half an hour. Which isn’t bad around here but still.

[cryinglookingatsoulages]

yes, i think eternal october would’ve cured me. would’ve made me feel like myself not “again” but forever. if you even care.

[et6rnalsun]

SHOWIN’ WHAT’S MINE

rafe hates when you dare cover up one of the vulgar hickeys he leaves on your neck while he's deep inside you. he hates it with a burning passion, and would happily let them be permanent just to show everyone that you’re already his.

that’s why every time you do it, he goes crazy.

you climbed into his truck with a small sigh from the rush you had to make to be ready on time, and unconsciously ran a hand through your hair—an action that revealed your strangely smooth neck, without any marks. his blue eyes lingered on that detail as he leaned down to kiss your lips with narrowed eyes, his hand resting on your jaw. “hi, baby”he greeted you, returning your sweet smile with a small one. he couldn't look away from your neck, his gaze darting from side to side because he was pretty sure that somewhere there had to be a hickey he'd left the day before.

“you playin’ at cover up?” he teased, adjusting in his seat. he had no intention of leaving until he understood. you frowned at his words, tilting your head as you took in his uneasy and searching eyes, scrutinizing you like there was something wrong. “what do you mean?” it was a sincere and genuine question, totally lost.

his thumb moved up to trace along your skin, his tongue dragging along his dry lips. “there was somethin’ here yesterday, doll,” he reminded you, pressing a little harder on the spot. “how come it disappeared, huh?”

oh. you let a small giggle escape your lips, and moved your head to give him more room to continue whatever his accusatory touch was. “i need to cover it, rafe. my mom would be so fuckin’ furious,” you huffed, a small pout on your lips as it was the tenth time you’d reminded him of this in a month. “y’know i want to keep it, but it’s too visible” and it was true, the neck was such an easy space to look at, to notice every little detail. and you, your parents' sweet little girl, with a hickey? absolutely not. unforgivable. a painful scandal.

rafe clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head as he stopped touching your neck. “but i don’t care” his head fell slightly to your shoulder, snuggling into you with his arm around your waist. “i really, really don’t care. your mom would understand” his voice was muffled against you, and you could feel his lips dragging down.

“no, rafe, she would never understand. are you crazy? she’d give me a monologue about how i need to have more decency, and how girls my age—“ your monologue of words that he wasn’t even listening to was interrupted by the feeling of his teeth slowly sinking into your soft skin, making your eyes widen briefly in surprise. the sting was stronger as he moved his head to get closer, his mouth closing further around the chosen piece as he switched from biting and licking to straight sucking. “rafe” you tried to stop him, but your hand on the back of his head only pulled him more closer, betraying your words.

his lips, warm and slow, felt too good — with a deliberation that made you lose your train of thought. you felt the heat growing on your skin, a sensation that mixed neediness and the rational side and thoughts. but rafe’s grip tightened on you anyway, not wanting to stop, everything a contrast to the delicacy of the way he left those marks with his mouth, each bolder than the last.

only when he pulled away you took a shaky breath and you looked up at him with big eyes and red cheeks from embarrassment. “tell me it’s not what i think” you murmured in desperation, but his smirk spoke volumes as he finally looked at the sight he truly liked; your marked up neck, barely any normal skin in sight.

@secretlocket @waitforyrlove @sirenedeslily @freshloveee @sosasturns @zweigsangel @sturn777 @carvedtits @sweetestpoetic @sturniolossss @ilovedanielcaesar @jetaimevous @fallbhind @marrykisskilled @lacysturniolorevamp @mattsturniolover @slxtarchive @bluestriips @alesturniolos @rafespreciosa

[smileysuh]

choices

🌙 starring. Johnny Suh & Lee Haechan & Jung Jaehyun x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There’s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, foursome, multiple reader orgasms, oral (both m/f recieving), blow job, pussy eating, overstim, multiple sex positions, dirty talk, praise, size kink, choking, spanking, etc… I pet names: (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 9.7k 

🍭 aus. Uni au, non idol au, best friends to lovers, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This was originally a Pentagon fic from 2022, but that was three and half years ago so I revamped it for this month’s NCT fic :) I put a lot of effort into this fic when it came out, I always liked the story and the way the dynamic flowed, and the NCT fandom is so much larger than the Pentagon one, so I figured why not

“What are you thinking about?” Johnny asks as he takes a seat next to you. You make room for your large friend by lifting your legs off the couch, allowing him to slip under them.

His warm hands find your calves and he brings them to settle in his lap while you both get comfortable on the couch that Haechan has been hauling around since his last year of high school, when he’d won it during a drunken game of beer pong with Lee Taeyong, who was very flustered when he lost and had to actually cough up the couch.

You grin at the memory, pushing your body against the fuzzy blanket that covers the dark leather couch much of the time- Taeyong hadn’t bought the expensive sofa with the intention of it becoming a part-time bed for teenage boys, too lazy to get up after playing video games at all hours.

Haechan has made the stiff, leather couch comfortable with layers of blankets and pillows, and over the years, countless people have worn it down. 

“This couch,” you breathe, leaning your head to the side against the cushion. 

“How high are you?” Johnny laughs, his hand moving to find your foot, where he runs a finger along your heel. The brief contact causes you to jolt yourself away from the mischievous man, who had rolled into your life around the same time Haechan and Jaehyun had, in tenth grade.

The four of you had all been sent to some preppy teenager summer camp. Jaehyun, Haechan, and Johnny had all bonded immediately, and the three were easygoing enough to welcome you wholeheartedly into the festivities of newfound friendship.

What had started off as a ‘year abroad’ for the man from Chicago had turned into him moving to Korea full time, and the four of you have been inseparable ever since, even going to the same university now. 

“For real,” Johnny says gruffly, grabbing your foot to pull it back into his lap before running a ring-clad hand through his tousled locks. “What are you thinking about?”

“Something stupid,” you sigh, cocking your head and studying him. “You?”

Your friend shrugs, flashing you a grin that you’ve come to love so much. “Something stupid.”

“You two really need to work on your social skills,” Haechan sighs, having caught the tail end of your brief interaction.

He collapses on the couch, and you quickly pull your legs to your chest in an effort not to get crushed during Haechan’s process of forcing himself between you and Johnny.

The youngest of your three male friends has a red cup in each hand, and he holds them out expectantly.

“Who needs social skills when we have you and Jaehyun?” you smile, accepting one of the drinks and taking a sip- only to scrunch your face up in disgust. “What is in this?”

Haechan shrugs, leaning back against the couch with a lazy grin. “I confiscated it from Doyoung” 

“No wonder it tastes so bad-” You hold the cup out to Haechan, and he reluctantly accepts it. “Doyoung makes the most stupid yet strong drinks of all of us. Someone really needs to teach him how to actually make a cocktail.”

“He has to find the energy to deal with us crazies somehow,” Johnny chuckles, sniffing his own cup and swirling the contents inside before taking a test sip. 

“Speaking of crazies,” you stretch your arms over your head, looking out at the room, “where’s Jaehyun?”

“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Haechan says, arms finding the back of the couch while he looks around, the cup held by long fingers now resting just by your shoulder.

“Didn’t he go off with that pretty girl in the glitter shirt?” Johnny asks.

“Maybe.” Haechan cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Was she his ‘go to’ tonight?”

“Must be,” Johnny responds quickly. “He didn’t invite the other one.”

You sigh, finding the whole thing to be a little crazy.

Being best friends with three dudes has a lot of positives- but listening to them detail their fuck schedules and fuck buddies is not one of them. 

“Stop being so grumpy.” Haechan shoves you, and you realize you’ve been wearing your feelings on your sleeve for everyone to see. 

“I’m not being grumpy,” you insist, but you can’t wipe the expression of distaste from your face.

“You are. You hate Jaehyun and his fuck buddies.”

“I just- I just don’t get why the three of you are so into hookup culture,” you sigh. “I mean- what's the point?”

“The point is getting your dick wet, Squeak,” Johnny chuckles, and the nickname makes your skin heat.

They’ve tried a number of pet names for you over the years, but Pip Squeak has been the only one that’s truly stuck- and it’s no wonder. It’s completely fitting. You stick out like a tiny little nugget next to your three male friends. 

“She doesn’t need to get her dick wet,” Haechan rolls his eyes, a mischievous grin breaking onto his face a moment later. “She’s already as wet as can be.”

“Haechan!” You and Johnny both react at the same time, your foot kicking at Haechan’s lap while Johnny shoves him, and the obviously tipsy man simply giggles, taking the physical onslaught with a shit eating smile. 

“Why are we fighting Haechan?” Comes a tired voice, and Jaehyun tosses his body onto the couch, landing half on top of all three of you with his head in your lap.

“Haechan’s being a bad boy,” you respond, fingers finding Jaehyun’s soft, dark hair immediately, a habit you’d picked up years ago.

“Am not!” Haechan insists. “Tell me I'm wrong.”

You sigh loudly, rolling your eyes while Johnny chuckles.

“I’m missing something,” Jaehyun says from your lap, looking up at you with those pretty eyes of his, “tell me?” 

“All I said was that Y/N doesn't need to look for fuck buddies to get her dick wet because she’s already wet as shit,” Haechan states factually, which, to be fair, is a complete recount of what he’d said.

“And you know this for a fact?” Jaehyun teases, looking at his friend with an expression of smug disbelief.

“Well-” Haechan visibly shrinks, his shoulders slumping, his skin brightening with pretty pinks. “I mean-”

“For a moment there, I thought I'd missed a massive milestone in you guys' friendship,” Jaehyun says, letting out a sigh of relief as he gets comfortable in your lap again. He turns onto his side so he can nuzzle his face against your thighs, which he’s declared countless times to be the best pillows in the whole universe. “If the two of you started hooking up, I think the world would have to end.”

“It wouldn’t be that crazy,” Haechan fires back immediately, and his ears turn an even brighter red.

“It would be crazy that out of the three of us, she’d choose you,” Johnny says smoothly.

Haechan holds up a hand as if he’s going to hit his friend, and Johnny stiffens in his seat, his carefree expression turning stern in an instant. “It’s my birthday we’re celebrating right now,” he reminds his younger friend. “Show some respect.”

Haechan groans but lets his hand fall to his lap again. 

You’ve never met a trio of guys so centered around their birthdays.

These three are constantly utilizing their positions, whether it’s by Johnny expecting respect as the ‘oldest’, or Haechan playing baby.

“I think she’d choose me,” Jaehyun says in an almost wistful manner from your lap, turning to look up at you so he can reach a hand to play with your hair.

You think it’s interesting to be talking about this, especially since this very question has been on your mind so frequently as of late. It had been on your mind when Johnny first sat down, and now here it is again.

“She’s not choosing you, Jaehyun,” Johnny scoffs. “She hates your hookup culture.”

“My hookup culture?” Jaehyun laughs, lifting his head so he’s able to look at Johnny by his feet. “Says you!”

“How did I ever become friends with three man sluts?” you sigh teasingly, shaking your head at your constant companions, who erupt into chaos. 

“You love us,” Johnny insists, while Jaehyun defends his behaviour, and Haechan pretends to look scandalized at the notion of being a ‘man slut’. 

The bickering subsides when Doyoung’s voice bellows “Haechan!” from somewhere else in the house, and your foursome dissipates quickly thereafter.

You find your way to Jungwoo, who is trying his best to be helpful in the kitchen as the festivities wind down.

It’s just the core group of friends left in the mock frat house now, and before you know it, everyone is in the kitchen. Conversation is easy, and another hour ticks by before Doyoung finally pushes off from where he’s standing by a wall to announce he’s heading home. 

There’s a brief discussion over cars and who is sober enough to drive, and once his friends are accounted for, Doyoung turns to you. “Do you need a ride home?”

“She’s staying here,” Haechan says before you can answer, his arms wrapping around you tightly. It’s not uncommon for you to sleep over at the ‘mojo dojo casa man house’, as Haechan had dubbed it when they moved in. In fact, last year, you’d spent pretty much the entire summer here before the university term had started up again.

“As always,” Doyoung sighs as he puts his shoes on by the door, eyes assessing you and your three best friends. “Be careful with her.”

It’s a lasting joke in the friend group that everyone is waiting for Haechan to accidentally sit on you and break you- or maybe for Johnny to hug you a little too hard one day- 

“No promises,” Haechan grins happily, tightening his embrace around you until it borders on being painful. 

You can’t stand him sometimes.

You love him so much.

“Call me if they’re too demanding and you need an escape,” Doyoung warns you, earning some irritated sounds from your friends, who are eager to have you to themselves.

“She’s ours,” Jaehyun insists, arms wrapping around you so you’re now sandwiched between him and Haechan. 

Doyoung rolls his eyes as the final person in your group slides up against your back, resting his chin on top of your head. “We’ll take care of her,” Johnny promises.

You’re truly trapped now. 

The moment the door is closed behind Doyoung, sealing you in with your best friends, Jaehyun and Haechan jump into action. The younger of the two grabs your arm, dragging you towards the living room, while Jaehyun mirrors the motion on your opposite side, in the direction of the kitchen. 

Johnny tightens his grip on your waist, making it clear he’s not intent on moving. 

“What’s the plan?” The man behind you asks.

“Movie,” Haechan states.

“More drinks first,” Jaehyun insists.

“What do you think, Squeak?” Johnny’s fingers press gently into the skin of your hips, and you can feel the warmth of him through your thin shirt, his heart beating steadily at your back. 

You hate it when he makes you choose between activities. Why do you always have to be the Haechan and Jaehyun tie breaker? 

“I don’t care.”

“Movies,” Haechan states again, pulling on your arm.

Jaehyun tugs your other side. “Drinks first.” 

Johnny sighs. “I’ll go choose a movie with Haechan, and you two can make us drinks. But make it something good, okay? I need to get the Doyoung mix taste out of my mouth.”

“No promises,” Jaehyun grins, pulling you away from Haechan successfully this time.

Johnny catches your eye, and you laugh, a silent agreement to do your best to keep Jaehyun under control in the booze department. 

“You,” Jaehyun grabs at your waist when you reach the kitchen, “go here.” He lifts you up and sets you onto the countertop. “And I’ll make the drinks.” He smiles up at you, and you laugh at how cute he gets when he’s tipsy.

“Did you really need me to come help you then?”

“It’s really helpful for you to sit there and tell me I'm the best bartender in the house.”

“Like that’s a hard title to win,” you roll your eyes.

Haechan can’t cook (or do anything of the sort) to save his life, and Johnny- well, Johnny has a taste for cheap beer, which disqualifies him immediately from the race. 

You have to admit, Jaehyun moves like a professional. He glides from cupboard to counter, grabbing glasses and setting them up next to you. You watch the way his body moves, muscles visible with each motion, and when he shakes one of the drinks, you have to tear your eyes from his biceps.

He might be the leanest of your three friends, but he’s still much taller than you, and most women, for that matter. 

You’re so busy watching Jaehyun’s back that you don’t realize he’s paused his fluid motions. He turns, and you see he’s put an apron on- the one that says ‘kiss the chef’. Jungwoo had bought it for Johnny for Secret Santa one year in an effort to get Johnny to agree to barbecue more often. 

You cock a brow at your best friend as he slips between your legs, hands finding the counter on either side of your hips. “So?” He grins. “You gonna kiss the chef or what?”

You laugh. “Not sure you even qualify as a chef when you just said you’re a bartender.” But you grab his chin all the same, forcing Jaehyun to the side so you can plant your lips on his cheek. 

Jaehyun’s smiling when you let him go, appearing satisfied, and he returns to his drink making.

Within minutes, he has all four orders ready to go, and he carries a tray to the living room with you in tow. 

As Jaehyun sets the tray down, Haechan quickly reads the apron, stands, and sighs. “Well, if you insist.” He grabs Jaehyun and presses his lips to his cheek, much like you had.

Jaehyun recoils with disgust, shoving Haechan, only to be attacked on the other side by Johnny, who manages to get a kiss placed right below Jaehyun’s ear that has him shivering and jumping back, hiding behind you. “Save me, Squeak!��� 

“You wore the apron!” Haechan laughs, and you know he leaps at any opportunity to terrorize his friends. 

“Just drink your drinks,” Jaehyun groans, taking off the piece of fabric that had just cost him another 2 of his 9 Jaehyun Cat Lives- you’ve seen him receive a sneak attack kiss from at least Jungwoo, and you’re pretty sure Taeyong as well, so you wonder how many Jaehyun Cat Lives are even left. 

“Remember when I sat next to you earlier?” Johnny says in your ear, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you down onto the couch. “And asked you what you were thinking?”

“Something stupid.”

“Yeah.” Johnny lets you get seated next to him, but he keeps an arm around you, eyes briefly moving to Jaehyun and Haechan, who are bickering about the movie on the other side of the couch. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

You laugh.

The man from Chicago grins, but there’s something serious in his eyes. “I’ll go first if you want.” His voice is softer this time, and the tone of the discussion has shifted entirely. 

“Johnny-”

“I was thinking about how good you look tonight.”

“Johnny-” Your voice is something near a whimper. You’re shocked and left speechless at the turn of events that have just been orchestrated by your best friend. He’s told you how pretty you are before, but there’s something about the way he’s saying it now- it’s different.

“Your turn,” he says, one large hand finding your thigh, smoothing up and down the denim that covers you from him. “What were you thinking about?”

You can’t tell him that you were thinking about him, Haechan and Jaehyun- that you were trying, for the billionth time, to decide which of the three you prefer the most- because if you were going to potentially ruin things with the other two, you want to know you are doing it with the right one-

But no matter how many times you’ve run it through your brain, you’ve come up empty-handed. Unable to choose. 

How do you say that to him?

“What are you two talking about?” Jaehyun’s voice is your saving grace, and he puts the drink he’d made for you into your hands. “She looks like she’s seen a ghost.”

“I just told her what we were all thinking,” Johnny shrugs.

“Liar. I was not thinking,” Haechan states, turning to look at you as he takes a deep breath. “What wasn’t I thinking?”

“That she looks good tonight,” Johnny says. 

However, when Johnny says it, he says it in a tone that’s friendly. 

He doesn’t say it as he had a few seconds ago, with a voice that was low and seductive. 

You can’t believe him.

“It is a nice outfit,” Jaehyun agrees lightheartedly, leaning back against the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table in front of you.

“Okay, but hear me out.” Haechan sits up in his seat, his hands hovering as if he’s going to say something profound- “I always thought-” a pause, taken to ponder, big eyes blinking, “outfits like that are meant to be ripped off in like, an hour? Two hours- tops. How are you still wearing that?”

You all groan, but Johnny’s grip around you tightens. “He does have a point,” Johnny says. “Do you want to change into a hoodie and some sweatpants?”

You roll your eyes. “Are we all going to ignore the fact that he practically said I look like-”

“A pretty little whore,” Jaehyun interrupts you with a grin, his dimples perky amidst his alcohol blushed cheeks. “It’s okay, you look like that a lot of the time.” 

You stare at Jaehyun with shock for a moment, and then you look at Johnny, confidence flooding through your body. If they’re going to call you a pretty little whore, and touch your thighs, and be like this- well, you can play too.

“The stupid thing I was thinking about earlier was who out of the three of you I want to fuck the most, or at least, who I’d risk it all for.”

Johnny meets your gaze with an intense look of his own, and he licks his lips. “Go on,” he prompts, voice hoarse and sexy. “Who’d you pick?”

“I wasn’t able to pick. I never am,” you respond, turning sideways in your corner section of the couch, facing your body towards the three insanely handsome men you call best friends. 

Haechan is looking at you with wide eyes, jaw dropped, and Jaehyun is sitting perfectly still, and Johnny is meeting your gaze straight on, with an intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

You swallow thickly. “Do you guys want to hear a dirty little secret?”

Johnny’s hand squeezes your thigh, and it’s Haechan who mumbles a whiny, “Yes.”

“Since I’m never able to pick-” you reach out, tracing a finger across Johnny’s collarbone, still hidden by his shirt, “I usually just end up imagining all three of you, and end up even more confused than when I started.”

“Well,” Johnny grabs you by the waist and easily pulls you to be straddling his lap. Dark eyes gaze up into yours. “I think we can help you figure it out.”

He leans in, and just as he’s about to kiss you, you tilt your head, his lips making contact with your cheek.

Johnny groans, fingers digging into your hips, and you laugh. “Come on, you know I can’t just risk all our friendships like this-”

“Why not?” Jaehyun moves closer, a hand reaching up to grab the back of your head, forcing you to look at him.

“Because what if I like all three of you the same?” you ask, looking past Jaehyun’s shoulder at Haechan, who is seated farthest from you on the couch, and is now being all but blocked out. 

“Then you like all three of us,” Johnny says, his hands applying pressure to your hips, forcing you down so you can feel how hard he is against your core. Even with both your pants in the way, you can tell he’s turned on, and it only makes you wetter. You stop a groan just as it’s about to escape your lips.

“I told you,” you breathe as Jaehyun releases his hold on your neck so you can look at the man under you again, “I’m not into your hookup culture.”

“This isn’t just going to be a hookup, and we all know it,” Johnny tells you, leaning up to have access to you again, only for you to turn your cheek at the last moment, repeating your behaviour from before. 

“Have any of you even had a foursome?” you question, and you’re pretty sure the answer is no. If they had, you’re sure you would have heard about it. 

“No, but it won’t be much different from a threesome,” Jaehyun muses, his fingers dancing up and down your arm, eyes taking in your form with a glimmer of darkness that you identify as lust.

He’s never looked at you like this before... at least, not that you’ve noticed.

“Says the guy literally excluding dude number three,” you laugh, meeting Haechan’s dumbstruck gaze again. “What do you think, Hyuck?”

“I think-” the youngest man coughs, clearing his throat. “I think we should take this to the bedroom where there’s more space.”

“Good idea.” Johnny stands abruptly, and you grab his shoulders to steady yourself, his hands slipping down to your ass, effectively holding you up while you cling to his front like a koala bear. 

“Hey!” You turn to nip at Johnny’s ear gently with your teeth, the biggest scolding you can do in this position. “I haven’t even said yes yet.”

“Sure you haven't,” Johnny breathes, continuing through the house towards the bedrooms. 

Jaehyun and Haechan are following close behind, and they walk shoulder to shoulder. You let your eyes take in their differences. There’s Haechan with his mischievous expressions and all black aesthetic- then there’s Jaehyun, looking as ethereal and statuesque as always. 

“You guys really think this won’t ruin anything?” you ask, letting your anxieties truly show as Johnny steps over the threshold into his room.

“How could it ruin anything?” Johnny retorts, placing you onto his bed before straightening to look down at you.

“It could ruin everything,” you frown. “What if one of you gets jealous-”

“Jaehyun?” 

“Yes, Johnny?”

“Are you going to get jealous if I fuck her brains out?”

“No.” A pause, then; “Hey, Haechan, are you going to get jealous?”

“Nope.”

“See?” Johnny grins down at you, and you groan, grabbing one of his pillows and covering your face with it. 

“You’re not getting it-” you whine, removing the pillow after a moment. 

“Then explain why you’re so worried.” Johnny reaches down and grabs one of your socks, pulling it off your foot even as you try to kick him away- he’s always going after your ticklish spots and you are not interested in him being a freaking tickle sadist right now. 

“I’m worried, because you say it’s not going to be a hookup, but then you also say that you can all apparently promise not to catch feels and get jealous-”

“Who promised not to catch feels?” Now it’s Jaehyun snatching at your foot to remove your second sock, and you’re left kicking at the three men at the end of the bed with bare feet. 

“Our little Pip Squeak doesn’t get it,” Johnny tuts with a grin. “Haechan, explain things to her.”

Your gaze moves to the youngest man in the room. He’s off center, on Jaehyun’s right side, and he’s watching you with an oddly pure expression. 

Haechan rubs the back of his neck, cocking his head at you. “You’re not the only one who’s thought about all this stuff,” he says. “The three of us- we’ve talked about this sort of thing happening-”

“You have?” you ask in shock, this being the first time you’ve ever heard of this.

“Of course we have Squeak,” Jaehyun says, using your distracted state to grab at you, striking faster than a snake, and getting your ankle in a harsh grip that he uses to drag you down the bed towards them.

“And we all agreed,” Johnny explains, “that whoever you choose, the other two won't get upset.”

“And now that we know you want all of us-” Jaehyun has dragged you all the way to the foot of the bed, and he releases your ankle in favour of latching onto the rolled cuff of your jeans, tugging gently. “What’s there to be upset about?”

“Besides,” Johnny lets out a small chuckle, “Haechan’s already been telling girls who hit on him at bars that he’s dating you so they back off. He’s a little more committed to you than Jaehyun or I can afford to be without knowing you return the feelings.”

Your eyes shift to Haechan again, and you notice how the redness has returned to his ears. He’s looking down at the floor, and your heart swells with emotion.

You look between your best friends, “So you three-” 

“Have been hopelessly in love with you for years, Squeak.” Johnny finishes for you. “So let us take care of you. And don't be worried about the consequences. There are none.”

“Are you sure about that?” You cock a brow. “I think if Doyoung finds out about this, he might have a heart attack.”

“Like I said, only good outcomes,” Johnny chuckles, then he holds out a hand for you. “Come here.” You reach for him, and Johnny easily pulls you to your feet, bringing you close until you’re chest to chest. “Let us help you learn not to worry so much, hmm?”

One of his hands comes to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone lovingly. Johnny looks down at you with dark eyes that have stars in them, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. 

You trust Johnny, and you trust Jaehyun, and Haechan. 

With one final ‘please, Lord Jesus or whoever is up in the sky- please let this not end badly,’ you feel a surge of adrenaline run through you, and it gives you the courage to lurch onto your tiptoes, throw your arms around the back of Johnny’s neck. You press your lips to his for the very first time, and it’s as if a wave of electricity runs through your entire body.

Johnny’s hands immediately slip down to your waist, and he tugs you closer, kissing you back. He captures your lower lip between his own, suckling on it for a moment before letting his teeth drag against you, earning a small sound that rises out of your chest before you can even stop it.

Johnny grins against your lips briefly before kissing you harder, prompting you to open your mouth and allow his tongue to glide across your teeth. His hand slips down from your waist to your ass, giving you a delicious squeeze-

And then two new hands are grabbing your hips, forcibly making you turn, taking Johnny with you. Someone presses against your back, and it’s easy for you to guess who it is. 

Jaehyun’s fingers dig into your hips, pulling your lower body away from Johnny and back towards the new man behind you. Jaehyun grinds against you, his lips finding your neck and sending a shiver through your body at the new, unexpected contact. 

You find yourself reaching behind you, finding Jaehyun’s hair and lacing your fingers through it, tugging gently and earning a groan that reverberates against your throat. 

Jaehyun’s teeth graze your jugular and Johnny breaks your kiss in favour of going at the other side of your neck, one of his hands grabbing at your jaw and pushing up, giving both men more space as they suck little love bites into your skin. 

Now that your mouth isn’t covered with Johnny’s, your sounds slip out unhindered, little whimpers of delight that earn growls of interest from the men all but claiming your throat - your very breath - as theirs. 

Then you remember the youngest man missing from this equation, and his name tumbles from your lips. “Haechan-”

Johnny's knuckles darkly against your throat, and then he adjusts the grip, still pushing at your chin, so he can insert two fingers into your mouth. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Johnny asks, nipping at your earlobe. “Saying Haechan’s name while Jaehyun and I worship you like this.”

You moan around his fingers, blindly grabbing at Johnny’s belt to drag him closer. 

“You want him first, don’t you, Squeak?” Jaehyun hisses against your neck. “You always care about your baby boy first, isn’t that right?” He pulls his face away from your skin, and a moment later, his fingers are wrapping around your throat, squeezing. 

You moan around Johnny’s fingers, and he removes them from your mouth, both men giving you enough space to answer them.

“Yes,” you gasp, pushing your ass back against Jaehyun, “Haechan deserves it.”

Fingers squeeze your neck again, and Jaehyun’s lips brush by your ear when he asks, “And we don’t?”

You let out a groan when Johnny pushes his leg between your thighs, and it’s the first real contact on your core, sending shivers of pleasure through your body. “You two stole my socks.”

The men caging you in begin to laugh, and if you weren’t so distracted by their hands on you- their massive bodies locking you in between them- you might have laughed as well, but the most you can do is latch onto Johnny’s shoulders when he pushes his thigh up against you harder. 

“Fine,” Johnny says, voice low. His hand comes to cup your face, and you open your eyes to look up at him. “You can have Haechan first. But if you were anyone else- I’d make him wait.”

“Let's make him wait,” Jaehyun suggests behind you, and a moment later, he’s latching his lips onto your neck again, finding your sweet spot and exploiting it for the pretty gasps that immediately leave you.

“So you’re going to say no to her?” Johnny laughs, rubbing his nose against yours gently before kissing you with the same softness.

Behind you, Jaehyun groans, and you know he’s been defeated.

“How are we going to do this?” Jaehyun asks, and you realize nearly immediately that he’s not talking to you.

Johnny stops kissing you to consider it for a moment, even turning to look at the bed. Then he says, “Haechan sitting against the headboard, Squeak on his lap, you can be behind.”

“And you?” You grab the front of Johnny’s shirt, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“I’ll wait,” he assures you. “Someone has to tell these two which positions are going to work.”

“I know positions,” Jaehyun mutters behind you, making both you and Johnny laugh.

Jaehyun must not like being laughed at, because his hands grab your hips and he roughly turns you to face him, looking down at you with a dark gaze. “You think this is funny?” He grabs your face, nearly shaking with what looks to be repressed emotion, and all your laughter dies in your throat. “You have no idea how long we’ve-” he groans, unable to finish his sentence. 

“Then show me.”

He grabs your face with both hands, smashing his lips to yours.

If Johnny had been eager but collected, Jaehyun is the opposite side of the same coin, eager and extremely enthusiastic, his tongue clashing against yours immediately. His thumb presses against your cheekbone as he kisses you, and then his hands disappear for a moment, only for your shirt to be torn off your body.

Jaehyun’s lips move to your neck, and you let out a gasp, fingers threading in his hair while his mouth begins its descent.  His lips press sloppy kisses to your collarbones and then the swell of your breasts, one of his large hands splaying across the small of your back-

He grabs at the latch of your bra, and you whimper, body tingling with anticipation-

While Jaehyun undoes the clasp, a new set of hands finds your shoulders, pushing the straps of your bra down gently. Lips press butterfly kisses against the nape of your neck and your shoulders, a stark contrast to Jaehyun, who successfully gets your bra off and moves his attention to your breasts. 

“Fuck-” Jaehyun groans, cupping your left boob in his hand and kneading it while his tongue darts out to tease your other nipple- then he’s grabbing at your legs, lifting you up while the man behind you gets out of the way, allowing Jaehyun to toss you onto the bed, his body landing on top of yours. 

Jaehyun’s mouth continues its downward trajectory, and then his fingers are finding the waistband of your jeans, tugging roughly- only to allow the denim to fall back to your skin. Jaehyun looks up at you and you gnaw at your lower lip, your own hands moving to undo the button, then the zipper- and when you lift your hips, Jaehyun immediately follows through and helps you pull your jeans off. 

“You’re in for it now,” Johnny chuckles darkly, and your gaze shifts to the man from Chicago, who has moved to sit in his gaming chair and is facing the bed with an amused expression on his face. 

You don’t have to ask what Johnny is talking about.

It’s a running joke amongst your male friends that Jaehyun loves giving oral- it’s one of the things you’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about, and now that he’s between your legs, he definitely delivers.

Jaehyun pushes your thighs up to your chest, letting out a soft groan when he brings his mouth to your panty-covered core. He places an open-mouthed kiss on your entrance, tongue pressing against the fabric of your underwear and making your legs twitch.

“Are you seriously going to tease her while we’re standing here waiting?” Haechan groans next to you, and you have to admit, you agree with his exasperated tone.

“I'm not forcing you to stand there and watch,” Jaehyun responds quickly, fingers hooking in your panties. When he pulls the fabric to the side, his breath fanning over your heated core. A shiver runs across your body, and your hands instinctively reach for his hair. 

“Jaehyun-” you whimper, voice betraying your need.

Your friend looks up at you with mischievous eyes and a grin, then he brings his face to your heat, dragging his tongue across your entrance teasingly. His hands adjust your legs, pushing them up against your chest harder, spreading you open as he places his entire mouth onto you, tongue pushing into your wet hole.

Your fingers tug at his hair, and you gasp, back arching. It feels like little shocks of happiness are scattering across your skin. 

The bed dips next to you, and then a familiar hand covers your breast, thumb brushing over your pebbled nipple, earning another sound of pleasure from deep within you. 

Haechan looks down at you, eyes full of focus, and your heart lurches in your chest. You grab your youngest lover boy, pulling him to your lips.

He’s surprised at first, but it only takes a moment for Haechan to start kissing you back, his body shifting as he shuffles closer, leaning half over you so he can kiss you harder while his fingers pinch at your nipple. 

Everything feels so good- you don’t even know where to focus. Being touched by two of your best friends while the third watches is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. There��s something building inside of you, call it lust or love- regardless, it’s undeniable, and to make matters worse, it’s all-consuming too. 

Jaehyun sucks at your clit, and you shiver, legs closing around his head as a sudden orgasm erupts through your body. You grab at Haechan’s shoulders, moaning desperately into his mouth while Jaehyun continues to lick and slurp at your entrance. Then, a moment later, two of his fingers push into you, and you think this must be the most wonderful feeling your body has ever felt.

Jaehyun’s digits curl up, and you can hear your pussy squelching even over the gasps and whimpers that are escaping you.

Haechan’s moved his kisses to your neck, and your noises of pleasure fill the space, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Jaehyun lets up when your legs truly begin to shake, and when he pulls away, your feet fall flat on the mattress, knees closing.

Haechan’s still working on your neck, one hand worshiping your breast, but after a moment, the hand begins to move downward. He drags his palm along the outside of your leg, up to your knee, then he applies a bit of pressure, prompting your thighs to open. 

Haechan adjusts above you, moving between your legs slowly. He gives you time to push him away, but the moment he’s pressing down against your core, your thighs tighten around his waist. 

“Haechan?” You blink up at him.

“Yeah?” His voice is shaky, as if he’s as confused about this turn of events as you are.

You push at his shoulders, and Haechan lets up, allowing you to roll, switching positions so you’re now on top of him. Your friend’s hands find your hips, and you grab at his shirt, prompting him to sit up so he can remove it easily. 

His lips find your breasts the moment he discards the fabric, and his fingers splay across your back, keeping you close while he moves his kisses up to your neck. He reaches your lips moments later, and you push on his shoulders, causing you both to fall back onto the bed, your hands pressed to his chest, which flexes beneath you. 

You roll your hips, and you can feel Haechan’s cock pressing up against his jeans. You avoid the obnoxious buckle on the belt that he’d found thrifting last December, you’d always known there was a reason you hated it, but have never been able to put your finger on it- now, you realize it’s because it makes Haechan’s crotch about as inviting as a chastity belt. 

“Off,” you mumble against your friend’s lips, reaching a hand between your bodies to tug at the belt buckle before releasing it. Haechan had the audacity to put the damned thing on, he can remove it too.

Large hands fumble, metal brushes your exposed abdomen and makes you shiver, Haechan kisses you deeper in response, managing to get the belt off with one hand while the other returns to cup your face. He’s pulling the leather band completely out of the rings of his pants and throwing it to the side a moment later, and as soon as it’s gone, your hands return to the waistband of his jeans. 

The two of you make quick work of undressing him, and before you know it, he’s bare in front of you, and you’re practically drooling at how big he is.

You lick your lips, kissing Haechan quickly, then begin your descent. He shivers when you kiss his abdomen, and your fingers wrap around his cock a moment later, earning another hiss, as well as a hand in your hair.

Haechan looks down at you and you meet his eyes, bringing your mouth to the head of his cock and kitten licking. The gorgeous man lets out a strangled gasp, throwing his head back into the pillows, hips lifting off the bed, and he releases his hold on your hair to grip the bed sheets. You humour the needy man, sinking your mouth onto his length, taking as much of him as you can.

A hand lands on your ass, surprising you and making you jolt, which sends Haechan into the back of your throat. You gag, pulling away from Haechan while your hand continues to pump him, and you look over your shoulder at Jaehyun. 

“I know you said you wanted him first.” The pretty man grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling you up and away from Haechan so your back is now to Jaehyun’s chest. He runs his tongue from your shoulder up to your ear, and you shiver at the cool stripe it leaves in its wake. “But what if I fuck you while you suck him off? There’s no reason you can’t take us both, hmm?”

You gnaw on your lower lip, nodding eagerly, and Jaehyun releases a deep chuckle of amusement. He lets you go, shoving your back down roughly, and you eagerly return to your task, mouth wrapping around Haechan once more.

You feel Jaehyun rip your panties at the waist, and you can’t bring yourself to care; taking them off completely would have required you to adjust positions, and it would have taken way too long. 

One of Jaehyun’s hands lands on the small of your back, and it glides down your spine while you feel him lining up with your entrance. He coats himself in your slick first, rutting against you but not pushing inside, and you groan around Haechan, toes curling with anticipation.

Jaehyun chuckles behind you, and then he thrusts into you all at once, both hands moving to grip your hips. “Try not to choke, sweetheart,” Jaehyun warns, and you just know he’s grinning like the complete asshole that he is-

His first thrust sends you forward suddenly, and you nearly gag, groaning at how quickly he’d almost made you fail his warning. You pull your mouth off of Haechan, fist pumping up and down his length while you suckle on the head, finding this less risky with Jaehyun behind you and at full energy. 

Haechan doesn’t seem to mind the change, and one of his hands comes down to cover yours, applying pressure that tells you to squeeze him harder. You follow through, and the man below you lets out a groan. 

The sound of praise goes straight to your core, and you feel yourself tighten around Jaehyun, who reacts with a laugh, then smacks you across your ass just enough to sting.

You whimper, a little shocked at just how much you’re enjoying Jaehyun being rough with you. An orgasm is building in the pit of your stomach, and you rest your head on Haechan’s thigh, eyes closing, allowing yourself to enjoy the feeling of Jaehyun fucking you silly with even more intensity. 

“She feels so good,” Jaehyun groans, and you whimper in response, adoring how he’s ignoring you and talking about you to the others like this.

“Don’t rub it in,” Johnny’s deep voice sends a tingle rushing through your entire being, you’d almost forgotten he was there.

Jaehyun simply laughs, and his hips rut into you faster and harder- you’d thought he’d be losing energy by now, not fucking you even better-

“Gonna cum for me, Squeak?” Jaehyun grabs your hair, and he hauls you up to his chest for the second time tonight. His hand moves to your throat to keep you where he wants you, and his strong forearm is like a security bar holding you up where it presses across your chest, allowing his other hand to grasp your breast roughly. 

You can’t respond, but you manage a nod, and Jaehyun’s amused laugh at the motion sends you over the edge. You throw your head back onto Jaehyun’s shoulder, pulse thumping loudly in your head from the way he’s cutting off your oxygen with the hand still on your throat.

You can feel him everywhere. 

Your fingers latch onto his wrist, not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure wash over your entire body. Jaehyun is steady behind you, and he works you through your orgasm with a pace that turns erratic as his own high becomes nearly too much for him to bear.

When he finally slows down, releasing your neck, you take a strangled breath. You feel a soft kiss to your shoulder, and then the roughness returns, with Jaehyun pushing you onto Haechan’s chest.

The maknae catches you, holding you close while you try to find your breath. But when you shift, and feel Haechan’s cock twitch with interest where it’s pressed between your bodies, you’re determined to pull yourself together and fuck all three of your friends. You can’t stop now.

Your hand forms a fist, and you push yourself up, looking down at Haechan. Then you lift your hips, grabbing your friend’s cock to guide him to your entrance. You sit down just as Haechan’s hands find your waist, a wide-eyed look on his face. 

He's big. Considering the fact that Haechan is the shortest of your three friends, you’re shocked at how thick he is. 

And with you sitting on top, he fills you completely

Your wet core flutters around the new intrusion, and you curse yourself for ever having thought prep with Jaehyun - who to be fair, had felt to be quite well endowed himself - would prepare you for Hyuck, who is spreading you open deliciously.

You press your palms flat to Haechan’s chest, and you lift yourself a few inches before sinking back onto his length, a whimper leaving your lips as your body adjusts. He feels so good splitting you open like this-

Haechan’s fingers press into your hips, lifting you slightly, only to slam you back down onto his cock, and you nearly wail from pleasure. He adjusts his feet on the bed behind you so he can thrust up into you better, and you find yourself becoming practically a rag doll for your friend below you, who manhandles you despite your top position. 

You don’t care that Haechan’s taken the power from you. Your mind goes blank, unable to think about anything other than how good he feels-

“Sit up and move to the headboard so you can lean against it.” Johnny’s voice interrupts your pleasure haze, and your eyes open when Haechan moves, following through with the instruction and dragging you with him. 

“Now you, Squeak,” a hand brushes by your shoulders, and you shiver, “turn around. Face away from Haechan for me.”

You do as you’re told, and two pairs of hands help you. They even ensure you sit back on Haechan’s cock, and he groans. You feel him press against your back, his hand snaking around your front to play with your clit, lips finding your shoulder.

Haechan’s legs are spread ever so slightly, and Johnny is kneeling there in front of you. 

In this position, it’s almost hard to look up at Johnny, and your hands press down into the bed, arms straight and holding you above Haechan’s knees while you grind back against him in something like reverse cowgirl.

The good thing is, you don’t have to look up at Johnny, and your eyes immediately lock on your target. Your hands move to undo Johnny’s pants- only for Haechan to push into you, making your balance falter, almost causing you to fall flat on your face- but you catch yourself at the last moment. 

Johnny laughs above you. “Our little chew toy,” he says fondly, beginning to undo his belt. “I'd love to hear you squeak, but I need your mouth for other things.”

He pushes his pants down, revealing the largest cock of all three of your friends. You’re practically drooling now, your core tightening around Haechan, who is still gently fucking up into you. 

Johnny guides himself to your lips, and you eagerly accept him, whimpering with delight when his hand finds your hair. He’s going to facefuck you while Haechan thrusts into you from behind in the reverse cowgirl Eiffel Tower hybrid position you’ve found yourself in, and you know it’s going to be absolutely delightful. 

You give yourself up completely to Johnny and Haechan, their little chew toy, and your whole body floods with pleasure from them using you. 

You hollow your cheeks around Johnny, and he fucks your mouth harder, cock hitting the back of your throat.

“Fuck!” Haechan groans loudly behind you. “She gets to fucking tight when you do that-”

“Then I'll do it again,” Johnny says simply from above you, and he continues to fuck your face, making sure to press into your throat a second time. 

Haechan moans even louder, fingers digging into your waist, confirmation that choking onJohnny’s cock makes your pussy squeeze like a vice grip.

He continues to fuck your face and you get lost in the sensation. Usually sucking cock isnt your favourite thing in the world, but in this position, time seems to slip away from you. 

“Can you just cum already?!” Johnny says, and you know by his tone that he’s speaking to the man behind you.

“No, you cum! I’m not cumming in this position!” Haechan argues back.

“The fuck you aren't!”

“I’m not,” Haechan says, voice something near a growl.

Johnny groans a moment later. “Guess it’s my turn,” He mutters, pulling out of your mouth suddenly.

You look up at him with teary eyes as he pumps his cock-

“Don’t cum on her, or in her mouth!” Haechan commands from behind you.

Three “what!?”’s ring through the room, one coming from yourself, but with another massive groan, Johnny follows through with even this ridiculous command, and Jaehyun tosses him a shirt in record time to use in lieu of your body. You all look at the fabric, realizing it’s Haechan’s- and Johnny explodes into his friend’s shirt with a laugh.

Haechan groans loudly, lifting you off of his cock and tossing you onto the bed next to him. He’s between your legs an instant later, pushing back into you as he captures your mouth with his own.

He fucks you fluidly, with a rhythm that’s just the right speed, and he fills you so perfectly-

You dig your fingers into Haechan’s shoulders, your orgasm washing over you like waves of warm sunshine. You bury your face against Haechan’s neck, whimpering while Haechan echoes your sounds with groans of his own.

One of his hands is on your hip, and he squeezes you gently there, rhythm faltering, thrusts becoming slower but harder, more intimate. 

You find yourself lacing your fingers in his silky hair, dragging his face from your shoulder so you can kiss him, losing yourself in his lips as your orgasm subsides and Haechan slows down to a standstill. 

Neither of you moves for a few seconds, simply breathing together, feeling each other’s hearts racing through your compressed chests. Then Haechan takes a deep breath and pushes himself off of you. 

“I’m going to the shower,” he announces. 

Johnny groans, following the younger man a moment later, and you’re left with Jaehyun.

Jaehyun has his sweat pants on, and he comes to sit on the end of the bed, fingers brushing against your ankle. You pull your leg away, looking down at him suspiciously. You don’t want to be tickled right now, and you definitely can’t go another round-

“Relax,” Jaehyun says with a laugh, shifting closer. He shows you a wet cloth in his hand. “With Johnny in the shower, there’s no way you’d get any water, and something tells me Haechan’s going to monopolize on space too,” he muses, bringing the warm fabric to the soft flesh of your inner thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

You take a deep breath and rest against the pillows, closing your eyes and spreading your legs for Jaehyun. You let out a whimper when he brushes by your clit, and then his lips press a gentle kiss to your inner knee as if to say ‘sorry’, then he proceeds with more caution. 

“Jaehyun?” 

“Hmm?” He nuzzles his cheek against your knee, finishing his work.

“What you guys said earlier, about being in love with me-”

“You think we didn’t mean it?” He pulls away from you, hands closing your knees. 

You open your eyes, worried you’ve upset him, but then Jaehyun is lying down next to you, covering you both in a blanket and adjusting your body to turn you into his little spoon.

He curls around you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

Your heart melts for him, especially when his hand slips over your waist, sneaking down to the bed in search of your fingers, which he promptly finds and captures between his own.

“This just feels like a dream,” you sigh, closing your eyes, trying to enjoy being with Jaehyun in this way without overthinking it.

Jaehyun laughs against your shoulder, pressing more kisses onto your skin. “Well, I promise to be here in the morning when you wake up, and the morning after that, and the morning after that-”

You laugh, rolling your eyes at your friend, who nips at your earlobe. You shiver at the contact of his lips on the sensitive shell of your ear. “Where did you learn to be so rough?” you ask. “I knew you had a reputation in bed, but you’re usually a lot more gentle in real life, and that was-”

“Did you like it rough, Squeak?” He squeezes you tightly, lips trailing along your neck. 

“Yeah.” You let out a breathy sound, toes curling when he focuses on the sweet spot below your ear, and you can feel Jaehyun smiling against it a moment later.

“I’ve noticed you have a thing for pain,” Jaehyun says. “Sometimes, when I hug you too tight, you let out these little sounds-” You feel your skin heating, knowing exactly what he’s talking about, and Jaehyun chuckles, squeezing your hand. “And what can I say?” Jaehyun’s teeth graze your shoulder. “I'm nothing if not a giver in bed.” 

Your pussy throbs at his words, and you push your ass back against him.

Jaehyun lets go of your fingers, and then his hand finds your thigh, moving from the outside in, and gliding up to your core. “Let me give you another one?” he asks, kissing your shoulder.

“I can’t believe you two.” Johnny’s voice always seems to shock you, and you think you’ll have to get used to being intimate with one person while two others watch and can jump in at any moment- 

“How was your shower?” Jaehyun asks, his warm body leaving yours in favour of sitting up to stare at the man standing in the doorway. You mirror the motion, pulling Jaehyun’s blanket with you.

“Haechan’s been in there the whole time. He just finished.” Johnny’s eyes move to you. “Come on, Squeak.” 

“I’ll come when you and Johnny are done,” Jaehyun tells you, turning and grabbing your jaw to keep you still while he presses a kiss to your lips. He’s gone much too fast for your liking, letting you go with a grin before collapsing back into the pillows. “Oh-” He says as you crawl from the bed, his hand grabbing the fabric that’s still wrapped around you, “and leave the blanket.”

Johnny laughs, grabbing your hands and pulling you to your feet. The air is cold against your exposed skin, but Johnny is quick to pull you to his warm chest. He turns you so you’re facing away from the door, and then he steps forward, forcing you to move back, step by step, all the way to the bathroom. He does this sort of thing with you frequently, usually when you’re clothed, so you’re used to this wordless behaviour.

You bump into Haechan, literally, as he’s exiting the bathroom, and suddenly it’s two warm bodies pressed against your own. 

Haechan is still wet from the shower, and droplets of cold water land on you, making you squeal.

Both men chuckle, and you begin to giggle, pressing up to Johnny in an effort to escape Haechan from dripping onto you. Your best friend, like the dog he is, deliberately shakes his head out to coat you even more. 

Johnny shoves Haechan before he can get too much splattered on the two of you, and pushes past the younger man. He helps you to the shower first, then kicks off his sweatpants, joining you under the warm water. 

Neither of you says anything, but you’ve been at this comfort level in your friendship for years now, and have often shared pleasant silences in each other’s company. 

Jaehyun keeps his promise and shows up when Johnny leaves. He holds you close to his chest, sharing the warm water with you.

When you exit the shower, Jaehyun hands you a shirt and some boxers, an outfit you’ve worn during many impromptu sleepovers here.

“My bed is biggest,” Jaehyun says as you exit the bathroom, and you laugh, knowing full well that all three men have queen mattresses because they’d gotten them in some weird three-for-one closing sale in your first year of university-

“Jaehyun-” You turn to argue, but your best friend bends down, lifts you up by your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder. When you say his name this time, it’s a scream, and it makes him laugh. 

It also earns a groan from Johnny’s room, and a moment later, he appears, following the thief. 

Jaehyun tosses you onto his bed, getting under the covers with you and regaining his spot as the big spoon. He tucks you close to his chest, letting out a contented sigh.  

Johnny claims your other side soon after, lying on his back, allowing you to tangle your legs with one of his.

Haechan is last in the room.

He takes one look at you, sees you’re all but monopolized on either side, and in one motion, he flops his body over all three of your tired, and completely unsuspecting forms. 

There’s an immediate commotion and struggle, and you’re too tired to do anything but laugh, closing your eyes and knowing that you’re safe with your three best friends in the entire world.

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! Blast from the past, revamped and newly edited

🍭 support me by. sending a tip here or here - or become a patron to access monthly bonus content and extensions for fics like this one :) find the Patreon teaser below! 

🔮 preview.  You may have bitten off a little more than you can chew by being in a four-person coupling with you at the center of it, but you’re not stupid. You’re never going to forgo ultimate pleasures for the sake of other people’s moral leanings.

cw/ tw.  Unprotected sex, threesome, foursome, eiffel tower, blow job oral, vouyerism, masturbation, cum kink, bukkake, dirty talk, praise, man handling, Johnny once again has the monster cock syndrom, etc…   I petnames. (hers) Squeak.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 140

🌙 starring. Johnny & Jaehyun & Haechan x afab!Reader

bonus

“I still don’t like it,” Doyoung sighs, watching you chat with Mark Lee while Haechan and Johnny block you in.

Jungwoo simply shrugs. “I guess it’s not about you liking it or not. They seem happy.”

“Too happy,” Doyoung notes, eyes narrowing in on the way Johnny’s hand has slipped down to your ass.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jungwoo scoffs. “I think you’re just jealous.”

“Me? Jealous?” Doyoung shakes his head and forces a laugh. “What’s there to be jealous about?”

“The fact that you’re in pre-med, so you’re super busy, and you have zero game and haven’t kissed a girl in like, months,” Jungwoo points out. 

Doyoung’s glare shifts to the younger man, and with a final scoff, he turns to leave.

Jungwoo doesn’t mind, in fact, the energy in the room immediately brightens with Doyoung’s departure.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 2.3k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

👹 or check out what else is on my patreon here

🔮if nothing strikes your fancy, check out my m.list

general taglist

@gotshinct - @subhyuck - @fraechan - @learnthisfeeling

@runahways - @d-abin - @milkteade - @woogyuhae 

@anothershorthuman - @nihxxy - @vantxx95 - @bangshii

@poutypoutybin - @notbeforelong - @creepybakeoven

@ninetechculture - @yungiland - @suhsfam - @binchangf

@meowniee - @learnthisfeeling - @gigilame - @cumtrov3rsy

@mocha000 - @darthlunaa​ - @just-here-to-read-01​ - @shiningnono

@lovelyhan - @grilledbananas - @sourkimchi

I'm also taggling those who I thought might like this :)

@bobathi - @amazinggraxia - @bluempire425-blog -

@twililty - @cheolaholic - @babieculture

@meowniee - @ridenotpark - @ollieollieoctopus

@axo-l0tl - @blspphr3 - @roseandpeaches

[myfictionaldreams]

Hey, I was wondering if you are still going to write for Natasha Romanoff x reader. If you are, imagine something where the avengers don’t know that they are together, until one of them (maybe Tony because he talks too much) sees reader with hickies and messy hair early in the morning after an intense night 🤭. And then maybe Natasha would be wondering why she’s taking so long away and comes in after. 🤭🤭🤭🤭

⁀➷ Classified // Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: A quiet night at Avengers Tower turns into something much more intimate when secrets begin to unravel—and nothing stays hidden forever.

Requested by: I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to write! I've actually had this drafted for months and months, but I'm so glad to finally get around to finalising it.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, soft dom!Nat, sub!reader, doctor reader, secret relationship, marking (hickeys), hair pulling, minor injuries, fingering, oral, praise kink, protective nat, power play

Words: 2.4k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

Restocking the medical supplies was usually a monotonous task that dragged endlessly. Today, however, you completed the task with the precision of someone trying not to think about worst-case scenarios.

Gauze, antiseptics, sutures—each item slid into place like it could stop your hands from shaking. The mission was supposed to be routine—in and out. But they were late. No one had heard a word from the jet in hours. 

While wiping down the already sterile and clean surface for the tenth time in the last two hours, you tried to avoid your colleagues’ quizzical looks, but your phone buzzed.

Heart thudding painfully in your chest, you snatched it up.

Natasha. Thank fuck.

You answers, relief flooding your chest. “Romanoff.”

“Mm”, came her voice, low and sultry. “I love it when you call me that. Makes me feel like a bad girl.”

Turning your back on the other doctors and nurses in the room, you tried to act casual, ignoring her remarks that had already caused heat to creep up your neck at her teasing. “How can I help you, Miss Romanoff? Are you in need of some medical assistance?”

Natasha laughs lightly down the phone at your professional response. “I need you to come to my room and check on me. My face has been missing its home between your legs.”

Her words caused an immediate reaction between your legs, your core tightening with arousal. Coughing to release some pent-up frustration, you tried to casually answer, “Your left knee? It hurts? Can you come to the hospital level, or do you need me to come to you?”

“You can come alright. I’m in my room. Alone.”

“I’ll be there shortly with my medical supplies.”

“That’s my girl.” The line went dead.

Pocketing your phone while turning to your colleagues, you tried to explain that you needed to attend to Black Widow’s knee. Slinging a medical bag over your shoulder, you tried to walk and not run like you wanted to out of the medical bay and into the elevator.

When stepping onto Avengers’ personal floor, you could see no other individual. Tentatively, you knocked once on her door before entering.

The room was dimly lit, and soft orange light from the setting sun cast through the ceiling-to-floor windows. Natasha, beautiful as ever, stood near her bed in just a sports bra and leggings. Her red hair was still damp from a quick shower, and the room was sweet from the scent of her body wash.

Those fierce green eyes clash with yours as you close the door.

“Shirt off”, she commands, her tone light but firm.

Blinking in response, you remark whilst dropping the bag onto the floor. “I thought I was here to check on you, baby.”

Natasha gives you her signature smirk. “You are. But I’ve missed you. And you’re wearing too many clothes for that, even though I love seeing you in those scrubs.”

Still, you stepped toward her first, fingertips brushing against her bare stomach that tensed at the action as you stared at the discoloured bruise along her left side. All excitement had quickly manifested into worry.

“How’d you do this?”

“Threw a guy over a railing. He didn’t go quietly. You know how it is.”

You sigh, pressing your palm gently over the bruised skin, checking how significant the bruising is. The lack of reaction from Nat was reassuring; you knew that her pain tolerance was higher than most of the US population.

“You need to rest. Ice. Maybe you shouldn’t be on your feet.”

She leans in, her voice a purr against your ear. “Then you’ll just have to keep me in bed, won’t you, Doc?”

There was barely any time to react before she was kissing you- hard and hot, like she’d been waiting days, weeks, too long. Her hands tangled in your hair, guiding your mouth open so she could taste you deeper. She tasted sweet, like cherries and gum.

Nat walked you backwards until your knees hit the bed. Collapsing onto the mattress, she’s quick to follow, straddling your hips with a predator’s grace.

It took entirely too long – seconds – for your shirt to be removed, but her lips are all over the moment it’s removed. From your neck, biting and licking, to your stomach, kissing and caressing with her tongue like she wanted to taste your entire body.

“You taste like antiseptic”, she murmurs against your skin, her admission not stopping her actions at all as she gently nipples on your collarbone, her fingers massaging your breasts through your bra. “And anxiety, did you miss me, hm?”

Tugging her closer, your nails dig into the flesh of her hips, “And you smell like trouble, baby.”

“Mmhm,” she hums in agreement, “but you love trouble, don’t you, Sugar?”

Her lips are on yours again with renewed hunger, but slower, like she savoured everything you had to offer. Your hands move to cup her arse, pulling her hips closer until you’re both grinding together.

“Let me take care of you for once.”

Natasha arched a brow. “You think I need taking care of?”

Flipping the two of you with surprising ease - meaning Natasha allowed you to do so - you hover over the assassin, taking a moment to admire the redness of her hair, mixing with the orange streaks of sun beaming through the window.

“You’re so fucking beautiful”, you breathe the words out as your fingers bring down the waistband of her leggings and underwear as she removes her own bra, leaving her completely naked beneath you.

While mindful of her bruised side, you eased her to the edge of the bed. Sinking to your knees, Natasha’s eyes darkened as she bit her lips, thighs spreading as you ease each leg over your shoulder.

“You’re going to ruin me, aren’t you?” she asks as she idly plays with her own nipples until they’re taunt, rosy and peaked.

You didn’t answer. Just pressed your lips to her inner thigh, slowly kissing your way upward. Her fingers laced through your hair, but her grip faltered when your mouth finally reached her. Tongue lickign up the length of her hairless pussy, adding pressure to slip betweens her softness to feel the firm, throbbing clit that drew out a choked sound from the back of her throat.

“Fuck,” she goans, her eyes closing and head tipping back.

You work her slowly. Needing to memorise her taste, the sounds she makes, the way her body moves from her hips, trying to dictate your movements by a subtle role, to the way her strong thighs nearly suffocate you between them. 

“Don’t stop,” she rasps, the hand in her hair tightening to the point of pain. “God, baby, just like that.” 

You were never going to stop, even if you couldn’t breath as your lips sealed around her clit. Two fingers slipped inside, curling in time with your pulsing mouth, the other hand pressing lightly above her pubic bone, attempting to keep her hips on the bed so you can have some form of control.

You watch, memsorised as her cunt begins to pulse around your fingers. Back arching, thighs unbelievably tight around your face, a moan so breathtaking that you’re sure your own arousal is now staining your scrubs with how turned on you were. She was utterly fucking beautiful.

Ever the dom, Natasha’s orgasm hadn’t even subsided fully before she’s pulling your body back onto the bed, swapping your positions so you’re lying against the sheets.

“That was dangerous,” she teases against your mouth, nipping your lower lip between her teeth until it snaps back to place. Now, I’m going to have to remind you who’s really in charge.”

Her slender fingers skim beneath your waistband, teasing and lingering.

“Say it”, she says against your throat. “Say you missed me.”

“I missed you.” Your voice quivers as her fingers finally dip lower, brushing beneath your underwear, touching exactly where you want her most.

She was always like this, dominant and teasing, but you’re always rewarded.

“That’s my girl, always so wet for me”, she compliments before sucking on the skin to the point of pain beneath your ear. You grunt at the mix of discomfort and pleasure as her fingers idly stroke over your soaked pussy.

There was no rushing Natasha, not when she’d been kept from you for so long. A small part of you worried that the other doctors and nurses would wonder where you’d disappeared, too, but all rational thoughts escaped you as she spread your labia, pressing her finger directly there.

One finger, became two, slipping inside as you gasped and arched into her, rolling your hips until her palm is pressing against your clit. With slow, deep curls, Natasha's fingers have your thighs trembling and breathy moans becoming desperate in no time at all.

All the while, she keeps her forehead pressed against yours, eyes locked on your face, studying every moan, every flutter of your lashes.

“God, look at you,” she whispers, voice rough. “Fall apart for me. Are you going to cum on my fingers, Sugar?”

You nod your head, whimpering as she applies more pressure to your clit. Bucking up and grabbing her shoulders. “Please - Natasha-!”

“I’ve got you”, she promises, lowering her face now until she’s biting your nipples through your bra in a sharp sting of pain.

You came with with a startled cry, your cunt pulsing around her fingers, sucking her in deeper, like your body never wanted to give up. She keeps the pressure, continues to curl her fingers as your orgasm draws on and on until you’re a pile of numbness, still half dressed from work.

Nat withdraws her fingers with slow movements, leaving you twitching in the sensitive area. Watching her movements, you groan deeply as she sucks her wet fingers into her mouth, tasting your juices with a pornographic moan, her eyes clossing as she savoures the taste.

She curls around you protectively, damp fingers brushing against your cheeks whilst kissing your temple, then your shoulder. Lazily dragging her lips down your neck, sucking another deepy hickey against your skin. 

Groaning whilst half-laughing, “You’re marking me on purpose”.

She smiles against your skin. “Obviously. You’re mine.”

~~~~~~~~

Later, you were lounging on one of the couches at the tower’s low-key celebration, which was never really low-key when it came to Tony Stark. Thankfully, you owned a turtlenecked dress that was soft and comfortable on your sensitive, heavily marked skin.

Something Natasha noticed as she caught you in a dark crevice, easing away your neckline to admire her artwork with a bite of her full lips. That wasn’t all, though. Usually, at public events, the two of you would stay on opposite sides of the room, but tonight, Nat couldn’t help herself.

Frequently, she would walk back, her warm hand brushing the small of your back, her eyes watching your every sip, every shift in your chair; your secret girlfriend missed nothing.

Since then, the party has dwindled to only a handful of individuals, who are, for the most part, members of the Avengers or close friends.

“You know,” the billionaire loudly declared while holding up his glass of scotch. I know I’m a genius, and you guys never really appreciate it, but I’ve just cracked a code, and I need to share.”

Not thinking anything of it, you continued to idly sip from your drink, eyes flicking to the red-haired woman sitting across from you in the circle of couches.

“I know who’s been sneaking around like hormone-crazed teenagers.” Tony grins widely. You stiffen, eyes once more flicking to Natasha, who remains nonchalant. Her reaction has you calming. Of course, he wouldn’t know about you and Natasha. She’s an assassin; she could keep secrets, hide in plain sight, and, of course, your relationship was still hidden.

However, as your eyes moved back to the billionaire staring only at you, you knew nothing good would come from his next words. “Our very own medbay angel and Miss Romanoff. Caught the Doc here leaving her bedroom with messy hair and a constellation of hickets. Pretty classic evidence, honestly.”

A beat of silence followed. Every head turned to look at you. At Natasha. At the space between you.

All you can do is freeze. Not blinking. Not breathing. They knew. They all knew. The attention made your skin feel too tight, like your heartbeat had jumped outside your body.

It wasn’t just embarrassment—it was vulnerability. The intimacy you’d guarded for so long was exposed. It was no longer a private, secret thing. It was no longer yours and Natasha's alone.

Finally, dragging a deep breath in, the urge to flee the room came over you, but an enraged redhead stepped into your path. Her arms rested comfortingly on your upper arms, thumbs stroking in slow circles. The energy rolling off of her was unmistakable. She was protective, sharp, and unapologetic.

“That’s enough”, she said evenly, tone calm but laced with authority. “We kept it private for a reason, Tony.”

The man blinked, taken aback by the reaction from the room. “Hey, it’s not a bad thing-”

“She’s not a punchline,” Natasha continues to defend you. “And this isn’t gossip. I don’t want the whole world, including our enemies, Stark, knowing what she means to me. Understand?”

You felt her hand slip behind you, curling gently around your wrist, anchoring. But the tremble of anger was evidently there.

“Nat,” you whisper, stepping closer to her side as your heart hammered.

Turning away from her friends and colleagues, her features soften, eyes tracking every emotion written across your face. “You okay?”

You nod, even if you weren’t entirely sure.

She leans in, her breath tickling your eye. “You’re mine. And I’m not letting anyone make you feel small about it. Not even Stark,”

There was another beat of silence until Clint, of all people, groaned and toasted an empty beer bottle at Tony’s head. “It took you this long to figure that out? I’ve had fifty bucks on them for months.”

“Same,” said Sam, raising his hand.

Steve snorted, “I told you she wasn’t just icing her injury in the medbay.”

Tony looked around, betrayed. “You all knew?”

Bucky shrugged. “It wasn’t that subtle.”

Laughter filled your ears from those surrounding you. Natasha’s grip on your wrist eased, but her hand kept you close. Exhaling shakily, you watched the group ease back into their jokes and drinks, the weight slowly lifting from your chest.

When you glanced back at Natasha, she was already looking at you. She pressed a sweet kiss to your cheek. “Not a secret anymore. Now there’s no hiding that you’re mine.”

And somehow, that made it all ok.

[itsnesss]

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐞 | kimi antonelli × fem!reader

summary | after accidentally posting a meme about kimi before he got his first pole position, you’re called to his team truck. what starts as a tense confrontation quickly turns into flirtation

warnings | fluff, mild language, flirting, romantic tension, kissing

word count | 1.0 k

🖇 more ka12 🖇️ f1 masterlist

It wasn’t intentional. Well… maybe just a little.

The meme had been ready since Friday. Kimi Antonelli: the prince of Free Practice Fridays, the ghost of Saturdays. It was funny, harmless… at least until he pulled off a magic lap in qualifying and got his first pole.

And you, on autopilot, posted it right after.

"When you make more shade than lap times," the caption read, over a photo of Kimi stepping out of the car, serious face, dark sunglasses. It was clever. It was viral. It was... a big mistake.

Your phone explodes.

First, the retweets. Then, the messages. After that, PR calls. And finally, the message you were dreading:

Kimi Antonelli: “Can you come to the truck for a second?”

You swallow hard. Take a deep breath. Walking toward the team area has never felt this long.

You find him leaning against the side door, still in his race suit, unzipped to the waist, a white shirt clinging to his chest, hair a little damp from the heat inside the helmet. He’s not smiling. He’s not even blinking.

“What was that?” he asks, in that tone so... Kimi. Serious. Calm. Lethal.

You try a nervous laugh.

“It was a mistake. I had the post scheduled before quali. I didn’t think you were gonna… well, pull off magic.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“So my mistake was proving you wrong today?”

“That’s not what I meant…”

“No?”

There’s a pause. You cross your arms. He studies you like you’re one of his corners on a brand-new circuit. Something shifts in his gaze. It's no longer just irritation. It’s curiosity. Playfulness.

“You know how many memes I’ve seen in the last three months?” he says, stepping closer. “Each one made me want to prove I’m more than just potential.”

Your heart drums. The air between you gets thicker than a gridlock in Monaco.

“And what do I have to do with that?”

“You’re the one posting them.”

“And you’re the one who got a pole. I fixed it, deleted it, celebrated it. What else do you want?”

Silence.

“An apology. In person.” Kimi barely smiles. “Because I want to hear if you sound as sarcastic as you write.”

You look at him. Long. You step closer. Your lips are just inches from his ear when you whisper:

“Sorry, Kimi. I really thought you’d qualify tenth.”

He chuckles. Drops his head for a second like he can’t believe it. Then looks up again. Closer. Sharper.

“You’re worse than I thought.”

“And you’re more intense than I expected.”

“Intense?” he repeats. “This isn’t intensity. This is passion. Whole different thing.”

That tone heats your cheeks. You look away. He notices.

“But you kinda like it, don’t you?”

“Don’t answer that,” you say, smiling even though you didn’t want to.

Silence again. But this time, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s loaded.

The distant noise of the paddock fades as he runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms.

“You know what bothered me most about that meme...” he begins, lowering his voice, “wasn’t what it said. It’s that it came from you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re good. Too good. And I didn’t expect you to be the one doubting me.”

That hits harder than a badly taken chicane.

“I didn’t doubt you,” you murmur. “I laughed a little. But I never doubted.”

Kimi looks at you. Strong. Steady. Then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he steps closer. Your back touches the side of the truck. His hand rests just beside your head.

“Wanna buy me a coffee to make up for it?”

“Coffee?”

“Or whatever you drink when you wanna make things right with someone who’s looking at you the way I’m looking at you.”

You hesitate for a second.

A coffee. Any excuse would work, but you know it’s not about that. Not when he looks at you like this. Not when his eyes scan your face like they’re trying to memorize it. Not when his voice is no longer a challenge, but a whisper full of intent.

“I could buy you something,” you say, barely audible. “But I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

He tilts his head.

“No?”

“No.”

Your eyes drop to his lips, unintentionally. He notices.

What happens next is quick, but it doesn’t feel that way. Everything slows down.

Kimi leans in, just enough. Close enough for you to feel the brush of his breath on your lips. He smells like hot engine, adrenaline, and something fresh you can’t quite name—but it feels right. Familiar. The air between you vibrates with silent tension.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper. “But if you don’t say anything…”

You don’t say anything.

You can’t.

Because deep down, you’ve been waiting for this.

And he knows it.

His lips brush yours like he’s testing the moment’s temperature. Like he’s giving you one more second to back out.

But you don’t.

So you kiss him.

Or he kisses you. You’re not even sure. What matters is that it happens.

Slow. Intentional. Almost tender, though there’s fire underneath. Your heart pounds like it might burst through your chest. Kimi holds you by the waist, not hard, but firm—like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Your hands end up on his chest, feeling the same wild rhythm that says just one thing: he wanted this too.

The kiss deepens. Your lips find his with a terrifying ease. There’s no awkwardness. Just need. Just desire.

When you finally pull apart, just barely, both of you are breathing like you just ran a qualifying lap.

He smiles. This time, for real.

“I think that made up for the meme.”

“Only a little?”

“A lot.”

“Then maybe I should post another.”

Kimi laughs. And this time, it reaches his eyes.

“Post whatever you want. But I’ll need the right to reply.” He pauses. “Privately.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Emotional contract. After that kiss, you’re officially my personal community manager.”

You laugh. He looks at you like you’re his new trophy. And you, who were just there to do your job, realize the most important pole wasn’t the one he got on track.

It was the one that made you fall headfirst into this.

Into him.

[usedpidemo]

Alive (tripleS Seoyeon)

15k words

—————

“For the last time,” huffs Seoyeon, tone playful but showing a tinge of disdain toward her friends, bothered by their insistence. Raising her voice through the ear-thumping club music, she says, “I’m not interested.”

“Oh come on, don’t be so cold.” Yooyeon replies, bumping shoulder to shoulder, poking at her sternness. “You haven’t gone out with us once the entire time. We’re headed back to Korea tomorrow, mind you. We don’t know when we’ll have another opportunity to spend time like this together.”

“Okay, and what about it? Someone has to be the adult around here.” Seoyeon remains uptight, crossing her arms and shaking her head. If not for the neon lights gleaming throughout the place, her face would be seen lit bright red with rage. “I’m down to follow you around and maybe have a drink or two, but please leave me out of your bullshit.”

“Bullshit? You mean us flirting with the guys here?” Xinyu points at one such man, in a ragged business suit, clearly a few bottles in and on the verge of falling over. “They won’t remember a damn thing when they wake up.”

“And what if they do remember? What about the rest of us then? Have you considered what you’re doing can harm our career, hell our personal lives?”

“Hasn’t done anything, so I think we’re good,” Xinyu fires back, as if it were a gotcha moment. Drinking another round to prove her point, she adds, “Look, I’m saying you should have fun every now and then. A little party never killed nobody, after all.”

“I don’t think that saying is true these days,” replies Seoyeon, tilting her head, unconvinced. She rises from her seat to leave, unwilling to hear any more of her friends’ yapping. “Like I said, I’m not interested. Just call when you need me to take you home.”

As she walks away from her two friends, disappearing into the energetic crowd, Xinyu and Yooyeon stare at each other, shrugging their shoulders before returning to the club’s backrooms. 

—————

“Look, for the last time, I’m not interested,” you tell your friend, looking left and right. Clubs have never been your favorite place nor have parties been your favorite pastime. Nevertheless, you’re still accompanying a few workmates there because of bullshit office culture and so-called teambuilding. For a weekday, the energy is surprisingly electric. “I don’t mind having one drink, but I’d rather be home right now over anything, so—”

“Dude, this is where all the rich people and celebrities hang out. No way on earth you’re not going,” your friend tells you, as if the last thing you wanted was to share the same space with more men and women in the upper tax bracket when you’re not even making a tenth of their monthly income. Nevermind the fact that most of you unceremoniously decided on this excursion at the eleventh hour—you’re all still in your office attire, evidently worn out and in need of a laundry service. “I mean, there are some gachas nearby, since you seem to like them a lot—”

“Hey. I haven’t bought a gacha in two weeks!” you fire back, but your reply is drowned out in a sea of colleague laughs and party music. 

You can only shake your head and sigh, taking an embarrassing defeat on your character. 

As you scan your surroundings, you can’t help but recognize that you’d fit right in with all the groggy strangers and passed out drunkards filling out the seats and the corners of the club. Your sleep-deprived brain might as well be a few rounds in with how overworked and pushed it has been with all the overtimes, assignments, and take-home work you’d been receiving. All that for the bare minimum with no consideration for promotion nor any hints indicating such. But to be fair, you’d only been around for a handful of months; most of your peers have found their careers stuck for up to years. 

And based on some of the other salarymen you’ve seen knocked unconscious, they seemingly feel the same way. So you can conclude that it’s only right that you should drink your worries and sorrows away, at least for tonight.

It doesn’t take long for jovial merrymaking and intoxication to set in. You swear that your coworkers emptied out two buckets full of alcohol bottles in mere minutes, with plenty of liquor in great abundance to pass around. It gets to a point where you have to take at least one.

And so you do—in tiny, barely recognizable sips to blend in.

Some of your colleagues are singing their hearts out, others end up on the dance floor, but most fall head first onto the table, completely inebriated. Their minds filled with poison, your cue to weasel out of there.

Making your way through the crowd, unsure of where the entrance and exit was, you head down some steps, uncaringly bumping every person that passes by you and vice versa. You’re one bad move away from an incident. It could be anyone.

It ends up catching up to you.

“Oh!” A frantic shout rips through your ears and to everyone nearby, sending you careening onto the floor—except it’s your body crouching by impulse. Glancing to your side, a phone falls onto the stairsteps with a not so audible thump. Your natural instinct is to grab it, while the party goes on without a care.

The person turns around and immediately realizes what’s happened. Reaching out her hand, it intertwines with yours. Your eyes meet. An air of familiarity flows between you two. It’s a slow-motion, time-freezing scene straight out of any cliche drama—the ones you’d make fun of for being too unrealistic and predictable. And now, you’re put in that exact same scenario. Not a soul could have written your story any better.

Looking into her eyes, you’re taken back to not that long ago, at the tail end of a busy day like this one:

—————

As the clock struck the top of the hour before midnight, a command blared through the subway station speakers, telling all passengers that there’s only 30 minutes remaining before all services will come to an end. And yet, even this late, every terminal is brimming with life. 

All the more reason to rush through the crowd and head home. Another overtime shift in the books and you’re running on fumes to get back to your apartment. You’re dead set on crashing as soon as you hit the bed or the couch, whichever is the first you see. 

You barely make it, narrowly entering the train mere seconds before the doors close. Before you’re forced to stay the night in some convenience store to get some semblance of sleep.

Inside, the carriage is filled with people from all walks of life, from single parents and families with their children, businessmen from salarymen to executives, to partygoers going club hopping. The city never sleeps. Like everyone else, you occupy yourself in your own earphones and music to get by until you reach your stop.

Shuffling your way out the train and down the steps, you recall this exact moment. It should have been an afterthought, but you still remember everything vividly: a bump—a borderline tackle—that sends you tripping down the stairs. No wonder that scream sounded so familiar.

Instead of a phone, it's a patchwork of documents and paperwork flying in every direction. The girl frantically grabs for whatever she can retrieve while you recover the rest. She’s quite apologetic doing so, repeatedly saying ‘Sorry’ in the tiniest voice imaginable, that you overlook how she’s got all your files mixed up with no cohesion or continuity whatsoever. 

“God, I’m so—so—sorry—” she mutters, clutching the last of your paper before straightening the pile she collected and handing them back to you. Bowing her head, she follows with: “I really am sorry. I was in such a rush to get home and—”

But you never hear the rest of it, because you promptly take the papers back and hurry out of there.

—————

Deja vu is working overtime. 

Your fingers are slowly pointing at each other, mouths slowly gaping, eyes also widening, stunned speechless. The girl is first to speak:

“It’s you again.”

And to be quite honest, you don’t have a response to that.

“You’re the guy I ran into at the train station last week,” she recalls, her eyes widening more, her shocked expression turning into a look of genuine delight, like you’re distant friends reconnecting after a long time apart: “I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Glancing left and right, you scramble for a quick answer. It comes out awkward: “Y--yeah. Me neither. That’s crazy.”

“Small world, huh?” she quips, quickly grabbing her phone off the floor and pocketing it. “Didn’t I also see you the morning after?”

“Morning after?” you ask, puzzled by what seems to be a second previous encounter.

“Yeah. I was going to the convenience store for some coffee and I saw you across the street,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “You were still wearing the same suit you wore the night before.”

Knowing that you did, in fact, crash onto the couch once you got home and went to work the next day without changing clothes proves to be embarrassing. You get completely flustered. What a spectacular first impression.

“I—yeah, I—I guess I did,” you reply, scratching your head, unable to look her directly in the eye in light of this revelation. You can only chalk it up to one thing. “Work.”

The girl laughs, covering her mouth. “Can relate.”

“So,” you swallow your throat, tugging on the collar of your shirt. Feeling sweat trickle down your face and  new tension brewing. “What brings you here?”

“Oh, some friends,” she remarks, rolling her eyes seemingly at the thought of them. “I was about to leave for some fresh air. And you?”

You stifle your laugh, toothily smiling, hoping you’re not turning her away. She looks at you intently, like you have something important. “Oh, funny. I was gonna say friends, too, if coworkers qualify as friends.”

“Really now?” She scans you from head to toe and recognizes that you’re one of those men. “I’m not surprised. My friends dragged me here as well. I’m guessing you didn’t wanna come along too?”

Your eyes widen at how quick she is at reading you. Like she’s known you for so long. “Wait, how’d you—”

“I guess we share quite a lot of things, huh?” she comments, beaming. The realization hits her: it’s destiny, it’s fate. “Gosh, it does really feel like we’re meant to cross paths.”

“Now that you’ve said it, you might be right.”

The girl looks around, and a realization dawns on her: that you’ve been making casual conversation on some narrow stairs, unknowingly being a mild inconvenience to partygoers. It’s only afterward she notices the growing pileup of disgruntled people cutting past, cursing you both out for indirectly acting as human roadblocks.

Glancing up the stairs, she remarks, “I think we should take this outside, you know, so we can hear each other better. My ears are hurting.”

—————

Despite reacquainting yourself with fresh air, your ears are still reeling in aftershocks from deafening party music. 

Across the street, from the club, lies a humble cafe serving customers 24/7. Despite the music being so loud that you can still hear it from behind these walls, the place is empty and solemn. Evidently most people here prefer their drinks with alcohol, not coffee. And looking at the girl, you do seem to share something common: that you’re both fishes out of water, living in a way that your peers might describe as ‘foreign’ and ‘weird.’

She’s on her phone, sighing as she fires back text after text to what seems to be her friends, annoyed about being bothered. Occasionally shooting you a meek, apologetic smile. You can make out her name even through the little font on the screen; ’Seoyeon-unnie, where did u go?’ reads one of the messages, and she catches on right as you’re reading them, concealing it, her face turning red and cheeks puffing.

“You’re not from around here?” you ask, genuinely curious. She’s blended in with the locals effortlessly.

“Afraid not,” she tells you, rapidly mashing through her phone before putting it away. Sipping on her drink, her eyes fixate on you, reciprocating interest. She inhales deeply, adding: “We’re here on a scheduled trip, so we’ll be leaving soon. Don’t know when we’ll come back.”

If this is her attempt to dissuade you from developing this little date into something more, then she’s failed. She has a natural glow around her, a magnetic pull that has you hooked. Even when she sounds direct, she’s as gentle as a candle’s flame. You can imagine the stars revolving around her; she’s that charming.

“That’s unfortunate,” you reply, frowning, hoping to earn some sympathy points from Seoyeon.

She doesn’t really notice, or sees through your act. Either way, she doesn’t react. “Yep,” she sighs, stirring the straw on her drink, glancing down on the table’s surface. “Tonight’s actually our last night before we leave tomorrow, so we went out. Not a party animal, so—”

She should have probably led with that. Hearing that this encounter will be as brief as your previous ones rips through your hopes and dreams like a gun shot straight through your heart.

It leaves you speechless for a moment. Unable to take even a little sip of your own drink too. 

And maybe it’s better off this way. Cherish the brief time you have before you part ways again. 

“Hey, are you alright?” Seoyeon asks, snapping you from your daze.

Shaking your head loose, you adamantly lie. “Y-yeah. I’m good.”

She’s leaning her head forward, staring into your eyes intently. Something appears off. “I don’t think so.”

Fucking hell. Seoyeon’s smarter than you thought.

She pulls the rug from underneath, catching you further off-guard. 

“Let me guess: work, huh?”

It’s the perfect alibi and escape. There’s some truth behind your excuse to stand on. Countless hours of a thankless job, being forced out of your comfort zone by peers that you hardly know and vice versa, when all you want is to separate your work life and personal time. Clock in, clock out.

“Yeah. Something like that. I don’t really drink; I wanna go home, but you know—”

“I understand. I mean, I’m not saying my job is as bad, but the hours eventually catch up and weigh down on you. I don’t sit behind a desk in an office for hours everyday, like you do, but the feeling is mutual.”

“Way to kick a man when he’s down,” is your reply, throwing a light jab at what appears to be a misguided attempt at empathizing. She lost you when she said she doesn’t work office hours. 

Seoyeon seems to take offense to it, shooting a pout, firing a glare in your direction. “I didn’t mean to make your life sound boring and monotonous. If anything, I’ve got it worse—well, we do.”

You remain silent. Suspect.

“Imagine getting up at two in the morning, putting on makeup, being in front of cameras at nearly every waking moment, having to put on your best behavior, no matter how tired you are. Having to sing and dance the same song a dozen times without making a mistake. And when the day is over, you only have 30 minutes of sleep before you do it all over again. Rinse and repeat.”

A dour feeling hits you right in the gut. Not even you get overworked this terribly, even if your company’s policies are borderline unethical. 

“Well—shit,” is your only response to quite the expository dump.

“Sometimes I wonder if this is even worthwhile,” she adds, pausing to take a prolonged drink. “I mean, I’m not alone; the responsibility is on all of us to look out for one another, but I wonder if they share the same feelings as me.”

Tilting your head, you reply, “Pretty sure they’re just as good as hiding it as you are. I mean—there’s a reason why my coworkers keep asking me to drink with them almost every other day.”

“I guess, but—someone has to be the levelheaded one in our group,” she says, her brows furrowing, reminding herself of the responsibility. “As much as we want to let loose, we still have to be careful. Getting drunk can be the worst sometimes.”

“True.”

Seoyeon has already emptied her drink while yours is still halfway unfinished. She looks directly into your eyes, reaching out her hand across the table, which you instinctively hold. Despite the little time you’ve spent together, your interactions mostly a string of mere coincidences, you feel a sense of warmth and familiarity with her that only close friends share. 

“Sorry for going on a tangent like that,” she says, gently caressing your hand beneath hers, resting her head on the table, her gaze staring out the window, visibly looking tired and defeated. “I get really stressed out sometimes, and I can’t show weakness in front of anyone. I’m just—” she abruptly pauses, huffing, sighing wistfully. “I’m not ready to get back out there.”

Admittedly, you hardly know her, nor will you ever get a chance to, if she’s to be believed, but you can’t let the opportunity slip away for good. There’s no way she’s confiding this much of herself in some random stranger.

“Well, we can still stay in touch, for when you leave,” you tell her, drawing her attention. “Unless you don’t wanna exchange numbers with a guy you just met properly for the first time.”

She pauses, takes a moment to quietly chuckle, before looking up at you, grinning. “Technically, we already met twice. Just not in a conventional way.”

“Still won’t let me live that down, huh?” you remark, annoyed, much to her amusement. Meanwhile, she’s straight up laughing.

“I don’t know. I think it’s cute, actually,” is her reply, her ear to ear smile and upbeat expression infectious. “Shows that you’re committed.”

“Or that my workplace has no qualms about overworking their employees to death, but sure. Committed.”

“Hey, you’re not the only one overworked here, like I said.” Seoyeon raises her arms defensively, feigning innocence. “I thought we were on the same page.”

“You’re making me look like I enjoy it.”

“Never said you did. Did you not listen to me?”

“I heard you—I just don’t see it that way, honestly.”

“Then stop being an uptight dick about and move on.”

“You won’t let me.”

“Are you this insufferable with your coworkers?” Seoyeon mocks, resting her chin on her palm, eyes gleaming with mischief.

You lean back, feigning offense. "Only when they drag me to clubs late at night on a Wednesday." She laughs—a bright, clear sound that cuts through the cafe’s drowsy hum. "Fair. But you’re bearable. Surprisingly."

"Wow. High praise," you deadpan, swirling the ice in your half-finished drink. A comfortable silence settles, the kind that feels earned. Her thumb traces idle circles on the tabletop, and you notice the chipped polish on her nails. The neon glow from the club across the street paints her face in fleeting streaks of flashing colors.

Seoyeon sighs, the playful edge softening. "This was—nice," She glances at her phone lighting up again. Another ignored message. "I should probably face the music. Literally."

The neon glow from the club across the street pulses through the café windows, painting alternating stripes of violet and gold across her cheekbones. You watch as she absently traces the rim of her empty glass, the ice long since melted into a sad, diluted puddle. There's a quiet intimacy in the way the condensation clings to her fingertips, in the way she hesitates before finally pulling her hand away.

"You don't have to go back yet." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. 

She looks up, one eyebrow arched. "Oh? And what exactly would we do instead?" There's a challenge in her voice, but beneath it—something softer. Something hopeful.

Outside, the bass from the club thrums through the pavement, vibrating up through the soles of your shoes. A group of drunk salarymen stumbles past the window, their laughter sharp and raucous in an otherwise quiet street. The contrast is jarring; the chaotic energy of the night pressing in closely against this fragile bubble you've created.

"I don't know," you admit. "Walk. Talk. Find somewhere that doesn't smell like stale beer and poor decisions." 

A slow smile spreads across her face. "You had me at 'doesn't smell like stale beer.'" She stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. "But if we're doing this, we're doing it properly." 

Before you can respond, she's shrugging out of her jacket and tossing it to you. "Put this on."

"Why—"

"Because," she interrupts, already pulling her hair into a messy bun, "if anyone recognizes me, I'd rather they think I'm some random girl out with her—" She trails off, gesturing vaguely at you. 

"Ugly salaryman boyfriend?" you supply dryly. 

She barks out a laugh. "I was going to say 'tragically overworked acquaintance,' but sure. Let's go with that." 

The jacket is too small around the shoulder, the fabric still warm from her body heat. It smells faintly of her perfume—something floral and expensive, undercut with the sharp tang of citrus. 

"You look ridiculous," she informs you playfully, stepping out into the night. 

The cool air hits your face like a slap, sharp and bracing. Seoyeon tilts her head back, inhaling deeply as the city lights reflect in her eyes. For a moment, she stands there, perfectly still, as if savoring the simple act of breathing. 

"Where to?" you ask. 

She turns, and the smile she gives you is different now. Less guarded, more alive. 

"Let's get lost." 

—————

The alleyways twist and turn like a maze, the sounds of the main streets fading into a distant hum. Here, the air smells of frying oil and damp concrete, of laundry hung out to dry on cramped balconies overhead. Seoyeon walks half a step ahead of you, her fingers trailing along the graffiti-covered walls as if reading some secret braille only she can understand. 

"You know," she says suddenly, "I used to do this all the time as a trainee. Just—walk. No destination. No manager breathing down my neck." 

A cat darts across your path, its eyes gleaming in the dim light. Seoyeon crouches down, making soft clicking noises with her tongue. To your surprise, the creature actually approaches, butting its head against her outstretched hand. 

"Traitor," you mutter. 

She grins up at you. "Animals love me. It's my one true talent." 

"What, and the whole singing-dancing-being-ridiculously-good-looking thing is a happy accident?"

The words are out before you can stop them, too honest by half. Seoyeon goes very still, her fingers pausing mid-scratch. The cat, sensing the shift, slinks away into the shadows. 

"Sorry," you start, but she shakes her head. 

"Don't be." She stands, brushing invisible dirt from her jeans. "It's just—strange. Hearing someone say that like it's a fact. Not a PR talking point."

There's a rawness to her voice that makes your chest ache. You want to reach out—to bridge the gap between you—but the moment stretches, fragile and uncertain. 

A distant siren cuts through the silence. Seoyeon blinks, as if waking from a dream. 

"Come on," she says, nodding toward a flickering convenience store sign at the end of the long, narrow alley. “I'll buy you a drink that doesn't taste like regret."

—————

It’s half-past midnight. The air inside Room 408 hangs thick with ghosts of cheap perfume and spilled beer. Neon lights pulse across soundproof walls as Seoyeon kneels on the carpet, her fingers hovering over the touchscreen. The menu glows unnaturally bright in the dimness, a constellation of song titles scrolling into infinity.  

“New rule,” she says, not looking up. “If you pick anything released before 2010, you automatically lose.” 

You sink onto the pleather couch beside her. The material groans, releasing a puff of dust that dances in the projector’s beam. “That eliminates eighty percent of good music.”  

“Your definition of ‘good’ is suspect.” She finally meets your eyes, a challenge in the tilt of her chin. “We’re playing ‘Answer Me.’  

“The kids’ game?”  

“Adapted.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The motion is quick, practiced. “I ask a question. You answer while staring at the ceiling. If you blink, you sing first. If I blink, then I do.”  

“What’s the question?”  

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  

She rises, standing before you. The shift alters the room’s gravity; suddenly, the space feels smaller, charged. The thump of bass from next door vibrates through the floor.  

“Ready?”  

You nod, leaning back. The ceiling tiles are water-stained, patterned like old tea leaves.  

Seoyeon’s voice drops to a murmur, cutting through the muffled chaos beyond the door. “What did you wish for at the train station? That night we collided.”  

Your breath hitches, heart pumps erratically, endlessly going through a million probable answers. 

“A promotion.”  

She doesn’t move. “Liar.”  

“How would you—?”  

“You blinked.” Triumph curls her lips. “Twice.”  

You scowl, your brows furrowing. “Fine. I wished I had asked for your number when you apologized.”  

Silence. The neon shifts from blue to violet, catching the startled dilation of her pupils. Her throat moves as she swallows.  

“My turn,” she says, too quickly.  

You stand, closing the distance. Her shoulder brushes your chest. “Rules are rules. You blinked.”  

“I did not!”  

“Your left eye. At ‘apologized.’ 

She glares, but it lacks heat. “Cheap shot.”  

You chuckle.“Sing.”  

Indignantly turning away from you, she complies.

She picks the song almost a little too fast. ‘Into the New World’ by Girls’ Generation flashes on the screen. A classic. A rite of passage for every female aspirant looking to get into the industry.

The opening notes shimmer, crystalline and familiar. She takes the mic like a weapon, her knuckles clenched, white.  

“You know this one?” she asks, back still turned.  

“Who doesn’t?”  

“Right.” A bitter edge. “National anthem.”  

When she faces you, the transformation is jarring. Her posture straightens, shoulders pulling back. Chin lifted. Even her breathing changes: measured, controlled. The girl who tripped on alley cobblestones is gone. In her place: a performer. A born to be idol.

Her voice is clean, technically sound—every note placed with surgical precision. But it’s hollow. A perfect mannequin singing a perfect replica of joy.  

Halfway through, she stumbles. Not on the notes, but on the choreography. Her hand rises automatically for a fanchant that isn’t there, then aborts the motion, fingers curling into her palm. She doesn’t look at you. A glance here and there, but otherwise, you’re nowhere in sight.

The final chorus fades. The screen flashes 99.7%. Artificial applause crackles from the speakers. She smiles naturally as if she performs for thousands, not for one man.  

She drops the mic onto the couch. It bounces, hurling toward your knee.  

“Your turn,” she says, her voice tight.  

You don't pick a song. Not right away.  

“My question now.” You hold her gaze. “What did you wish for? That morning you saw me in this same suit.”  

The air conditioner whirs. A drop of condensation slides down a beer can, pooling on the table.  

Seoyeon looks down at her hands, deep in thought. A moment that could be its own eternity. She holds her breath, before her lips curl into tangible words: “That you’d look up.”  

It barely registers in your head.

“—What?”  

“At the convenience store. You were staring at your shoes. I wished you’d look up so I could wave. Say sorry properly for the stairs.” She picks at a thread on the couch. “Stupid, right?”  

You step forward. The scent of her shampoo cuts through the stale air—pear blossoms and salt. “Why didn’t you?”  

“You seemed—” She searches your face, blinking slowly. “Like you carried something heavy. I didn’t want to add to it.”  

The admission hangs between you both. Raw. Unrehearsed.  

“Just sing,” she whispers, her voice shrinking, body lightly jittering. “Please.”  

Turning around, you scroll past Hotel California, then Gee, eventually landing on Spring Day.

Seoyeon’s breath hitches. “That’s—”  

“Yeah.”  

The piano intro spills into the room, slow as honey. You don't bother to face the screen. Don’t need to. You watch her instead, keenly observing the way her lashes lower at the first line, how she knots her fingers together.  

Your voice cracks on the high note. Not idol-perfect. Human. Rough with the weight of overtime shifts and convenience store dinners and wishing for things you couldn’t name.  

Seoyeon doesn’t move. But when the bridge begins, her lips shape the words silently. A secret shared.  

On the final chorus, your voice breaks entirely again. When the song ends, the screen flashes 72.1%. ‘Better luck next time’ flashes brightly on the screen, as if it were a divine message from some higher power. You don't care in the slightest. At least you did your best, and you have no regrets.

Silence floods the room, for real this time. No fake applause.  

Seoyeon reaches out. Her fingertips graze the back of your hand: feather-light, electric.  

“You blinked,” she says, soft as the neon bleeding through the curtains. “During the second verse.”  

“I know.”  

“So I win.”  

“Do you?”  

Her thumb brushes your knuckle. A tremor runs through her. “No.” 

—————

The air in Room 408 hums, thick with the bass bleeding through the walls and the raw scrape of your own voice battling the final lines of Fix You. Hours have dissolved into a blur of flickering lyrics, shared laughter that rattles cheap speakers, and the warm, drowsy haze of cheap drinks. Empty beer cans and soju bottles gleam like fallen soldiers under the relentless neon pulse, cycling across Seoyeon’s face as she watches you, chin propped on her hand, a soft, unfocused smile playing on her lips.

Your voice, which was never strong to begin with, has been steadily ground down by belting out everything from Bon Jovi to Gee. It’s a ragged thing now, tearing on the high notes of Iris, collapsing into a cough that bends you double, one hand braced against the sticky tabletop. You try to push through, clinging to the mic like a lifeline to no avail. The sound you make is pure gravel, like a wounded animal rasping against the soaring melody still pouring from the speakers.

"Okay, okay! Stop!" Seoyeon’s laugh cuts through the noise, warm and slightly breathless. She’s on her knees beside you in an instant, her hand landing firmly over yours on the mic. Her touch is electric, sending a jolt through the pleasant fog of alcohol and shared exhaustion. "You sound like you’re gargling rocks. Give it!"

She tugs gently, but you cling on, stubbornly trying to croak out the next line. It’s truly pitiful. Painful, even.

"Seriously!" she insists, her laughter fading into genuine concern. She leans in closer, her other hand landing on your shoulder. Her face is inches away, the neon catching the flecks of gold in her wide, amused eyes. "You’re going to ruin your throat forever. Stop." There’s surprising strength in her grip as she pries away the mic from your weakened fingers. She tosses it carelessly onto the couch beside her, the clatter loud in the sudden vacuum left by the abruptly silenced backing track.

Silence crashes down, dense and immediate. It amplifies everything else: the frantic thudding of your own pulse in your ears, the soft, quick rhythm of Seoyeon’s breathing so close to your face, the faint, sweet scent of pear blossoms and alcohol clinging to her skin and hair. Neon washes over her; blue highlights the curve of her cheekbone, red stains her parted lips, green catches the sudden intensity in her gaze. She’s not laughing anymore. Just—looking. Scanning your face.

Her hand is still on your shoulder—a warm, grounding weight. You don’t pull away; neither does she. The air crackles, thick with the unspoken weight of the hours spent here, the confessions whispered between songs, the shared cynicism about work and life, the unexpected comfort found in mutual exhaustion. The ridiculousness of your dying-frog impression evaporates, replaced by something else entirely. Something fragile, terrifyingly potent, and charged with the raw intimacy of the dying night.

You see the shift in her eyes, a softening, a question forming in the slight tilt of her head. Your own gaze drops to her lips, then flickers back up, held captive. The scant distance between you feels like an impossible chasm and a magnetic pull all at once. The noise of Shibuya, the weight of her impending flight, the looming dawn—it all recedes, muffled by the soundproofed walls and the sudden, profound quiet binding you together. You lean in, your movement barely a fraction. An unconscious yielding to gravity. Her breath catches a tiny, audible hitch. Her eyes widen slightly, dark pools reflecting the fractured light, but she doesn’t retreat. Her fingers flex slightly on your shoulder, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just holding. Waiting.

Her face is but a hair away. You can see the faint smudge of eyeliner beneath her lower lashes, the almost invisible scar just above her left eyebrow, the delicate flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. The scent of her is intoxicating—floral, malty, and something uniquely, essentially her. The world narrows to the point where your noses might brush, where shared breath mingles in the charged space between your lips. Her eyelids start to drift shut, long lashes casting feathery shadows on her cheeks, a silent surrender, an unspoken invitation held in that fragile darkness. Your own eyes begin to close, the chaotic neon dissolving into warm anticipation, the space between you measured in heartbeats. You lean in further, the distance collapsing into millimeters, the world reduced to the scent of her and the roaring silence—

The door crashes open with a force that rattles the entire booth.

"Unnie! There you are! We were wondering where you—" A woman’s voice, shrill and triumphant, cuts through the intimate silence like shattering glass. It dies instantly, choked off into a stunned gasp. 

You jerk back as if electrocuted, your heart pounding unceasingly against your ribs. Seoyeon recoils violently, snatching her hand from your shoulder and scrambling backwards on her knees until she bumps the low table, sending an empty can clattering to the floor. Her eyes, wide and dilated a moment ago, are now huge with pure, unadulterated panic. Not embarrassment, but fear.

Xinyu and Yooyeon stand frozen in the doorway, silhouetted by the harsh fluorescent glare of the corridor. Their faces, flushed with alcohol and the thrill of the hunt, morph from gleeful excitement to slack-jawed disbelief. Xinyu’s mouth hangs open, her finger still raised in a pointing gesture that now feels accusatory. Yooyeon’s sharp eyes dart rapidly: from Seoyeon’s flushed face and dishevelled hair, to your proximity, to the scattering of empty beer cans, the discarded mics, and finally, landing pointedly on her jacket shared between your shoulders. Her expression hardens, a flicker of cold betrayal sharpening her features into something diabolical.

The silence is absolute, heavier and more suffocating than before. The only sound is the relentless, cheerful thump of an uncaring, soulless pop song bleeding from the room next door.

Seoyeon finds her voice first, thin and strained. "Xinyu. Yooyeon. What are you—"

"We’ve been looking everywhere for you!" Xinyu explodes, stumbling into the room, her voice regaining volume, thick with indignation and cheap soju. "Ignoring our calls! Texts! We thought you got lost! Or mugged! Or worse!" Her gaze sweeps over you again, lingering with undisguised disgust on the jacket, now spread on the couch after falling away. "And this? This is where you vanished to? Cozied up in a karaoke booth?" She spits the word like it’s filthy, her finger pointed at you like you’re dangerous. "With—him?" 

The pronoun is a weapon. A curse. A byword.

Yooyeon steps in beside Xinyu, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her voice is lower, colder, cutting through Xinyu’s drunken hysteria. "Manager-nim has called eight times, Seoyeon. Eight. He’s downstairs in the lobby. Right. Now." Her icy gaze flicks over to you, then back to Seoyeon, heavy with accusation. "Care to explain? Or were you too busy?"

Seoyeon flinches as if she were physically struck. Color drains quickly from her face, leaving her pale and suddenly fragile looking. The vibrant, almost luminous girl from moments ago is gone, replaced by a cornered idol, defenses visibly crumbling. She pushes herself shakily to her feet. "I—I just needed air. Somewhere quiet. We—we ran into each other. We were—talking. Singing." The lie is paper-thin, pathetic against the evidence littering the room and the intimacy they had shattered.

"Talking?" scoffs Xinyu, stepping further into the cramped space, invading it with her presence and the smell of stale cocktails. She gestures wildly at the scene: the beers, the mics, the close proximity. "In a private karaoke booth? At 2:00 AM? Looking like that?" She waves a hand dismissively at Seoyeon’s messy bun and slightly smudged lip tint. "Singing? Is that what they call it now?"

"It’s not what you think," Seoyeon insists, her voice gaining a desperate edge. She takes a step towards her friends, but Yooyeon’s glacial stare stops her cold.

"Funny," mocks Yooyeon, her voice dangerously quiet. She takes a deliberate step forward, her eyes locked on Seoyeon’s. "That’s exactly what it looks like. Looks like you ditched us. Ditched all of us. After all that righteous indignation earlier." She lets the words hang, sharp as knives.

Seoyeon swallows hard, looking worse by the second, evidently guilty. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don’t play dumb," Xinyu cuts in, her voice rising again. She steps right up to Seoyeon, jabbing a finger near her shoulder. "Remember? Back at the club? ‘I’m not interested.’ ‘Leave me out of your bullshit.’ ‘Someone has to be the adult!’" Xinyu’s mimicry is viciously accurate, laced with venom. "You looked down your nose at us for wanting to have a little fun, for maybe flirting with some harmless, wasted salarymen." She spits the last word, her eyes flicking contemptuously towards you. "And then you sneak off to do what? Exactly the same thing? But oh, it’s different when you do it, right? Because you’re the responsible one? Because your taste in men is so much better?"

The accusation lands like a wicked blow. Seoyeon’s face crumples for a split second before she forces the idol mask back on, but it’s deeply cracked. Her hands, clenched at her sides, tremble slightly. You see the shame flood her eyes, hot and bright, before she looks down at the garish carpet.

"It’s not the same," Seoyeon whispers, the protest weak, barely audible.

"Isn’t it?" Yooyeon presses, her voice blisteringly cold, simmering with a deeper hurt. "You judged us, Seoyeon. You called it bullshit. You acted like you were above it. And now here you are, hiding away, drinking," she gestures at the cans, "getting cozy with some random office drone you bumped into on the subway. What’s the difference? Because he looks a little more pathetic than the ones we were talking to? Because you feel sorry for him?"

Each word is a lash on her back and her heart. Seoyeon flinches with every syllable. The hypocrisy laid bare is brutal, undeniable. The jacket you’ve gripped with your fingers feels suddenly heavy, suffocating, a symbol of a critical lapse in judgment. You want to speak, to defend her, to deflect, but the words choke in your raw throat. You’re paralyzed, a spectator to her public flaying.

"We were worried," Yooyeon continues, the ice cracking slightly to reveal genuine anger. "We were looking for you. We thought something happened. But you were—here. Doing exactly what you scolded us for. Only sneakier."

Xinyu snorts derisively. "Yeah, real adult behavior."

Seoyeon says nothing. Her shoulders are hunched, her head bowed. The vibrant spark that animated her while singing, while arguing, while laughing with you, is utterly extinguished. She looks small, defeated, drowning in the harsh light and her friends’ cruel judgment.

Yooyeon lets the silence stretch, thick with condemnation. Finally, she sighs, a sharp, dismissive sound. "Whatever. Manager-nim is waiting downstairs. We’re leaving in five hours. Get your things. Now." 

It’s not a request. It’s an order.

Xinyu grabs Seoyeon’s discarded wallet from the floor. "Unbelievable," she mutters again, loud enough to carry, shaking her head as she turns towards the door. "Just—unbelievable."

Seoyeon doesn’t look at you, nor does she look at her friends. She turns mechanically, her movements stiff, robotic. She walks towards the door, shoulders slumped, head still down. As she passes Yooyeon, the taller girl grabs her elbow, not roughly, but with firm, impersonal efficiency, steering her out into the harsh corridor light.

Yooyeon pauses in the doorway, turning back. Her gaze sweeps over the wreckage of the booth—the cans, the couch, the abandoned mics—until it finally lands on you, still frozen on the couch. Her expression is unreadable, a mix of disdain and something colder, more calculating. "Stay away from her," she commands, her voice flat, final. "You’ve caused enough trouble."

Moments later, they’re gone, pulling the door shut behind you with a soft, definitive click.

—————

Silence. Not the warm, charged quietness of moments before, but a hollow, echoing void. Once again, you’re all alone. The relentless neon continues its mindless cycle—red, blue, green—flashing idiotically over the empty couch, the scattered cans, and the silent microphones. Her jacket now hangs over your shoulders, the scent of pear blossoms now sickly sweet, a cloying reminder of an intimacy violently ripped away. The phantom warmth of her hand on your shoulder lingers, a faint touch against the sudden, profound chill settling into your bones. This karaoke booth, previously a sanctuary, a pocket universe, now feels like a desolate crime scene. The taste of cheap beer persisting in your mouth has turned into ash. The city outside, hurling relentlessly towards dawn, feels vast, indifferent, impossibly cold. The space where her lips almost met yours is a vacuum, sucking all the air from your lungs. 

You sink back against the groaning pleather of the couch. Deathly silence presses in, broken only by the relentless, mocking, cheerful beat bleeding through the wall from the next room, a grotesque soundtrack to your shattered intimacy. The echo of Xinyu’s mocking words—’Because you feel sorry for him?’—reverberates in the hollow space, sharp and corrosive, scathing.

You can only stay here for long before it feels like a prison sentence. A crime for breaking from a predetermined path. A crime against normalcy.

The click of the karaoke door shutting behind you echoes with unnatural finality in the suddenly oppressive hallway. The cheap, overloud music from surrounding booths feels like a physical assault after the hollow silence you left behind. You’re adrift, unmoored, with Seoyeon’s jacket still draped awkwardly over your shoulders like borrowed skin. The scent of pear blossoms and lager clings to the otherwise soft fabric, a cruel, intoxicating reminder that feels invasive now, tainted by Xinyu’s sneer and Yooyeon’s glacial dismissal.

You walk. The corridor stretches, gaudy and endless, each numbered door leaking its own brand of musical chaos. The sticky linoleum tugs at your soles. You don’t look back at Room 408. That booth, as far as you’re concerned, is tainted and cursed. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone, even your worst enemy. Elsewhere, the lobby is a blur of overtly bright lights and the tired, vacant stare of the night attendant. The automatic doors hiss open, releasing you into the pre-dawn chill of Shibuya.

The city breathes differently now. The frantic, electric pulse has dulled to a weary, dead thrum. The crowds have thinned, leaving behind stragglers—stumbling groups clinging to each other, lone figures hailing cabs with the desperate focus of the profoundly exhausted. Neon signs still scream into the fading darkness, but their messages feel hollow, advertisements for a party that’s already moved on. The air is cool, damp, smelling of exhaust, stale beer and litter. It washes over your face, a feeble attempt to clear the fog of cheap drink, raw emotion, and the phantom sensation of Seoyeon’s breath so close to yours.

You keep walking, directionless for a block, her jacket heavy on your shoulders, every step dragging your feet. The memory of her cowardly flinch, the shame flooding her eyes under her friends’ assault, replays in your mind on a loop: 

"Because you feel sorry for him?" 

The words scrape like sandpaper against your raw throat. You shrug the jacket off, clutching it bunched in your fist instead of wearing it. The pear blossom scent is stronger now, released by the movement, a bittersweet assault.

A vacant taxi crawls past, its roof light a beacon. You raise a hand, the motion muscle memory. It pulls over, the tires whispering on the slightly worn asphalt. Opening the rear door, the vinyl seat feels warm against your legs. The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and old cigarettes.

“Sorry,” you rasp, your voice still wrecked from all the singing, from all the tension. You give the driver your address, your own apartment building, a place that suddenly feels impossibly distant and devoid of anything resembling comfort. You lean against your seat throughout the ride, closing your eyes, the city lights streaking past the window in blurred ribbons of color. The jacket rests on your lap as a crumpled weight.

The taxi navigates the quieter streets, leaving the core of Shibuya’s nightlife behind. The buildings grow more residential, the neon less aggressive. You recognize the familiar turn onto your street, a canyon of mid-rise apartments and shuttered family-run shops. The taxi slows, pulling towards the curb opposite your building. You fumble for your wallet, motions sluggish, your mind still trapped in that neon-lit booth, in the shattered moment before the door crashed open.

You pay the fare, the transaction silent and efficient. The driver somberly nods in appreciation, the partition sliding shut as you open the door and step out onto the pavement and back out into the real world. The cool air hits you again, now sharper. You take a step towards your building’s entrance across the street, clutching the jacket. You need water. You need silence. You need to avert your mind from thoughts of pear blossoms or panicked brown eyes or the acidic taste of hypocrisy.

“Hey! Wait!”

The voice slices through the pre-dawn stillness, high-pitched, slightly slurred, but unmistakable. Her voice.

Your heart stutters, then drums hard against your ribs. You freeze mid-step, turning slowly, disbelievingly, towards the sound.

She’s standing maybe twenty feet down the sidewalk, on the same side of the street as your apartment building, swaying slightly. Seoyeon. No Yooyeon, no Xinyu, no manager. Only her, silhouetted under the harsh glow of a singular streetlamp, wearing the same jean shorts and thin top from the karaoke booth, her arms wrapped around herself against the relentless cold. Her hair is way messier, escaping the bun entirely on one side. Her eyes are wide, searching, slightly unfocused.

“You!” she says again, pointing a finger that wobbles unsteadily in your direction. She takes a stumbling step forward. “You have—” her voice rises and falls, as if she were winding up. “You have my jacket!”

You stare, dumbfounded. The taxi pulls away, its taillights disappearing around a corner, leaving you stranded on the curb facing her. The street is completely deserted. The only sounds you can hear are the distant hum of the city and the frantic pounding of your own pulse.

“Seoyeon?” Your voice is rough scraped gravel. “How are you here?”

She ignores the question, focusing entirely on the bundle in your hands. “My jacket!” she insists, lurching towards you with more determination than coordination. “Give it! They’ll—they’ll smell it on you—or something,” Her logic is drowned by the evident alcohol still swirling in her system. She covered it better in the booth, fueled by adrenaline and shared rebellion. Now, outside, alone, the full weight of the drinks hits her like a truck.

She reaches you, close enough that you catch the stronger scent of layered soju and see the hectic flush high on her cheeks under the streetlight. Her eyes are glassy, pupils dilated, but beneath the intoxication, there’s a frantic, almost panicked energy. She makes a grab for the jacket crumpled against your chest.

“Seoyeon, stop,” you say, instinctively taking a half-step back. “You shouldn’t be out here alone. Where are the others? Your manager?”

“Fuck them,” she slurs, swiping at the jacket again. Her fingers brush the fabric. “Judgy—hypocrites—‘Feel sorry for him’—fuck them!” Her voice rises, echoing slightly in the quiet street. “Just gimme my jacket!”

This time she lunges with reckless abandon, off balance, her weight tipping dangerously forward as she snatches at the bundle. Her fingers clutch on the fabric, tugging hard. Caught by surprise, you instinctively hold on for a split second. The opposing forces—her drunken momentum, your reflexive resistance—are disastrous.

She gasps, her eyes flying wide with sudden, sobering terror as her feet teeter and tangle. She pitches sideways, not towards you, but towards the unforgiving pavement of the sidewalk.

Instinct screams louder than thought. You drop the jacket and lunge forward, shooting out your arms. You catch her not gracefully, but desperately, one arm hooking awkwardly around her waist, the other hand grabbing her upper arm right as her knees buckle. Her weight slams into you, solid and warm and terrifyingly limp. You stagger back a step, boots scraping loudly on the pavement, struggling to keep both of you upright.

For a heart-stopping moment, she’s dead weight against you, her face buried against your shoulder, her breathing ragged and hot through the fabric of your shirt. The scent of alcohol, pear blossoms, and sheer, unadulterated panic washes over you. You tighten your grip, bracing your legs, holding her suspended inches from the ground.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” you repeat, your own heart hammering against your ribs. “I’ve got you. Don’t move.”

She doesn’t struggle. She sags against you, a shudder running through her frame. “Told you,” she mumbles, her voice muffled against your shoulder, thick with tears, or exhaustion, or both. “Screw them. I just—wanted my jacket—”

The near-disaster shocks some clarity into the situation. She’s out here alone, drunk, stumbling, and clearly in no state to navigate back to wherever her group is staying, let alone face her manager. The memory of Yooyeon’s icy command—’Stay away from her’—wars with the immediate, undeniable reality of Seoyeon trembling against you, inches from cracking her head open.

You look across the street. Your apartment building entrance is right there. Safe. Contained. A world away from judgmental friends and furious managers.

The jacket lies discarded on the damp pavement. You ignore it for now. Carefully, shifting your grip to better support her weight, you turn her slightly, keeping one arm firmly around her waist. She doesn’t resist, leaning heavily into your side, her head lolling against your shoulder. Her eyes are half-closed now, the frantic energy draining away, replaced by sheer, drunken exhaustion.

“Come on,” you say, your voice low, firm. “My place is right there. Across the street. You need to calm down. Get some water.”

She mumbles something incoherent, but allows you to guide her, her steps shuffling and uncoordinated. You half-walk, half-carry her a few steps to the curb, glance quickly for non-existent traffic, then navigate the short distance across the street to your building’s entrance. The automatic door slides open with a soft sigh.

The fluorescent-lit lobby is starkly quiet after the street. The night concierge glances up from his phone right as he’s about to walk away from the front counter, his expression carefully neutral as he takes in the scene: you supporting a clearly inebriated, strikingly beautiful young woman inside. You avoid his eyes, steering Seoyeon towards the elevators. She stumbles again on the smooth floor, and you tighten your hold, pulling her closer. Her warmth, her weight, the softness of her hair against your jaw—it’s overwhelming, charged with a different kind of tension now, born of necessity and shared vulnerability.

Punching the elevator button, waiting feels eternal under the concierge’s silent observation, but he eventually leaves you alone to your own devices before the doors finally slide open. You maneuver her inside, leaning her against the mirrored wall as you press the button for your floor. The reflection shows her slumped posture, her flushed face, her eyes slammed shut. She looks impossibly young and utterly spent. You pick up the jacket from where you’d managed to grab it off the pavement without dropping her.

The elevator ascends in silence, the hum of machinery the only sound. The mirrored walls amplify the awkward intimacy, the sheer strangeness of the situation. You hold her upright, her body a soft, trusting weight against yours, the events of the last hour—the singing, the almost-kiss, the shattering interruption, the street rescue—collapsing into a single, surreal point of contact in this sterile, ascending box. Her jacket, previously a symbol of stolen connection, now feels like a burden, a complication clutched in your free hand. Dawn is creeping closer, and with it, her inevitable departure. But for now, she’s here, leaning against you, breathing softly, entirely in your care.

It takes a herculean effort to fish the keys to your apartment from your pocket, with the weight of Seoyeon on your shoulders, but you unlock the door and take her inside your flat. Approaching the lone couch in your living room, you gently lay her down on her back as she releases her grip on you, settling in and taking up every little space. Leaving her to rest, you rush to the kitchen fridge and grab a glass and a pitcher of water, pouring it as you return to her, sprawled and deeply wasted. Well aware of the dangerous precedent you’re setting and its disastrous consequences, you can only pray she comes to her senses.

Placing the half-full glass of water and the pitcher on the table, you gently mutter, “Oh, Seoyeon. If only—” 

The rest are words you don’t have the heart to openly declare. You share equal amounts of accountability as her, except you won’t get half the lashings, whether from her friends or from upper management.

As you scan her, peaceful and asleep, you come to the realization that she genuinely does not want to get on that plane in the morning. Beneath that quiet exterior lies unfettered frustration and rage against her so-called friends. The one time she decides to loosen up and have a night all to herself, it almost causes a near career-ending situation. She’ll probably live with that guilt for the rest of her idol days. Such is the unfortunate nature of the beast, of the industry. To be perfect always, to make no mistakes.

As the night approaches the point of fading away, you’re reminded of your own path. So different, yet so similar to Seoyeon’s. And considering what you’ve been through these last several hours, that’s a lifetime till you’ll get to experience something like this again. Admittedly, it’s liberating. A breath of fresh air from your otherwise repetitious life.

The only thing you want to see is her glow, that bright sparkle permeating from her face. If only you had more time.

Once you’re certain she’s unconscious, you hop from your crouch and walk away, readying yourself for a brief night’s rest, only to hear her faint, incomprehensible mumbles, drawing your attention.

“Seoyeon? What’s up?”

The cool plastic of the water glass beads with condensation against your palm as you turn back. Seoyeon hasn’t moved from where you laid her on the couch, a crumpled starfish against the worn dark fabric. Her face is turned towards the back cushion, half-buried. The soft, distressed mumble comes again, muffled.

“Seoyeon?” You crouch beside the couch, setting the glass and pitcher carefully on the low table. The floorboards creak under your knees. “Hey. Can you hear me?”

She stirs, a small, restless shift. One hand flails weakly, fingers brushing the air before falling back onto her stomach. Her eyelids flutter, but don’t open. “—no,” she slurs, the word thick and indistinct. “—don’t wanna—”

“Don’t wanna what?” You keep your voice low, gentle, trying to pierce the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. The pre-dawn light seeping through your thin curtains paints everything in shades of weak blue and grey, making the scene feel fragile, unreal. “Water? Here.”

You reach for the glass, but her hand flails again, this time connecting loosely with your forearm. The touch is startlingly warm. “—go,” she breathes, the sound catching on something wet. Perhaps a tear or her saliva. “—don’t make me go—”

The fragmented plea hits you like a physical weight. ‘Don’t make me go.’ Back to the hotel. Back to the manager. Get on that plane. Back to the life where moments like tonight are impossible, dangerous contraband. 

You lower the glass. The urge to brush the stray strands of hair stuck to her damp temple is almost overwhelming. You curl your fingers into your palm instead.

“Nobody’s making you go anywhere right now,” you murmur, the lie tasting like ash. Dawn is making her go. Responsibility is making her go. Millions of fans around the world are making her go. The harsh reality Yooyeon and Xinyu represent is making her go. “No one else is here but me. Please rest.”

A small tremor runs through her. “Liars,” she whispers, the word barely audible, aimed at the cushions or the universe. “—all—hypocrites—” Her breath hitches, a soft, wet sound that twists something inside your chest. She’s crying. Silently, drunkenly, the tears escaping beneath closed lashes, tracking paths through the faint smudges of makeup still clinging to her skin.

The sight undoes you. The fierce performer, the exasperated friend, the girl with the sharp tongue but secret softness—reduced to this shivering, tearful vulnerability on your worn out couch. It’s a raw exposure far more intimate than any almost-kiss. It’s the crumbling of the last wall.

Carefully, slowly, you reach out. Not to touch her face, but to gently pry the crumpled jacket from where it’s still tangled near her hip. You smooth it out, the familiar scent of pear blossoms rising faintly, and drape it over her like a makeshift blanket, tucking it loosely around her shoulders. The gesture feels absurdly inadequate.

As the fabric settles over her, her hand moves. Not a flail this time, but a slow, searching crawl across the couch cushion. Her fingers brush yours where they rest near the edge of the jacket.

You freeze.

Her touch is hesitant, clumsy with intoxication, but undeniably deliberate. Her fingers, cold at the tips, curl weakly around your index finger. A silent cry. An anchor.

You don’t pull away; you let her hold on, her grip loose but desperate. Her crying softens to hitching breaths, her face still turned away, hidden. The silence stretches, filled only by her ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears. The pale light strengthens incrementally, outlining the contours of your small, cluttered living room—the overflowing bookshelf, the takeout containers forgotten on the table, the silhouette of her curled form on the couch, clutching your finger like a lifeline.

This is the precipice. This quiet, tear-stained connection in the fading dark. The world outside—the furious manager, the judgmental friends, the looming flight, your own precarious job waiting in a few short hours—presses in like a crushing weight, an inevitable that will pull you apart. But here, now, there is only the warmth of her hand around yours, the slight tremor running through her, the impossible fragility of the moment.

You shift slightly, settling more fully onto the floor beside the couch, your back against its sturdy arm. You don’t speak. There are no words that won’t shatter this. You simply stay. You become the anchor she’s silently asked for. Your finger rests in her loose grip, a point of contact in the vast, terrifying loneliness of her world and the quiet desperation of yours. The pitcher of water sits forgotten on the table, beading coldly. Dawn is no longer approaching; it’s seeping into the room, minute by minute, a slow, inevitable tide washing away the fragile sanctuary of the night. But for now, you hold the line. You hold her hand. You watch the light grow stronger on her tear-streaked face, and you wait.

The apartment is quiet, but not silent. Only the faint hum of the fridge and the soft whistle of wind nudging the balcony glass. Dawn creeps in inch by inch, peeling shadows off the room like skin from fruit. You shift slightly, your back pressed against the arm of the couch, her fingers still curled loosely around yours. Seoyeon hasn’t moved, but you can feel her breathing change—steadier now, more aware.

Her fingers tighten.

You look up and find her eyes open, red-rimmed and puffy, lashes clumped from dried tears. She doesn’t say anything at first, merely stares at you, as if trying to anchor herself in reality. You hold her gaze, patient, silent. The world beyond this room is still waiting to collapse around her. You both know that. But right now, it hasn't.

“You stayed,” she whispers, hoarse.

“I said I would,” you reply, matching her softness.

A beat passes. Then another. Her eyes search yours with something deeper than gratitude—something raw and reverent. And then, without warning, she pulls herself up, slowly, until she’s sitting beside you again. Her legs are folded beneath her, her hands rubbing nervously at the sleeves of the jacket you returned to her sometime in the night.

She doesn’t meet your gaze now. Instead, her voice, tentative and low, breaks the stillness like a ripple across glass.

“I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”

You don’t need to ask what this is. The industry. The expectations. The constant dissection of her every move, every breath. The public self, flawless and unbreakable. The private self, unraveling at the seams.

“I try to be the adult,” she continues, fingers curling into fists in her lap. “The one who keeps everyone safe, who doesn’t step out of line. But it’s so exhausting. I'm tired of holding it together just because I'm the one who looks like she can.”

She finally glances at you, eyes trembling. “And then I meet you. And it’s so stupid—this random accident. A bump on the train. A karaoke booth. But it’s the first time in a long time I felt like I didn’t have to—perform. Like I could truly be myself.”

You don’t speak. You reach out instead, brushing your thumb across the back of her hand, and her breath catches. Slowly, cautiously, she leans forward. Her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. Then her whole body follows, small and warm and vibrating faintly with emotion as she folds into you.

You wrap your arms around her without thinking.

She smells like soap and sleep now, the faintest trace of pear blossom perfume clinging to the crook of her neck. Her body melts into yours, burying her face in your shirt as though trying to disappear inside your ribs. You hold her there, unmoving, your cheek resting against the top of her head.

“I’m scared,” she whispers. “That I’ll forget this. That I’ll go back tomorrow and none of it will matter.”

You close your eyes, fingers threading gently through her hair. “Then don’t forget about tonight. Don’t forget about the good times.”

She shifts, enough to glance up at you. Her eyes search yours again, but this time, the desperation is replaced with something quieter. Trust. The kind of trust that hurts because it’s so fragile, so undeserved, and yet she’s giving it to you anyway.

Her hand comes up, cupping your jaw with tentative care. You lean in without hesitation, like gravity’s been pulling you this way all night. She closes the distance the last few inches, her breath warm against your lips. 

And then—she kisses you again.

It’s not careful; it's fierce—urgent. Like she’s trying to pour all the things she can’t say into the press of her lips against yours. Her fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer. You respond in kind, sliding your hand up her back, pressing her into you, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The kiss deepens, not messy, but aching. Like a dam bursting. Like the moment before a fall you no longer want to stop.

She tastes like citrus, alcohol, regret, and everything else in between, like all the things you should have said earlier. Perhaps this night was always meant to end here.

When she finally pulls away, breath shallow and lips red, her forehead rests against yours, your noses brushing. Her eyes are closed, her voice small. You can hear her heart through her gentle breaths.

“I’m not sorry.”

You shake your head. Neither are you.

Her breath mingles with yours, shallow and unsteady, the heat between you both rising in quiet, unstoppable waves. Seoyeon’s hand remains against your cheek, her thumb gently stroking your skin, but there's tension behind the softness—an urgency beneath the surface, waiting to break through.

Then it does.

She kisses you again, harder this time—less hesitant, more driven. The kind that demands something, not just offers. Her fingers tighten at the back of your head, pulling you closer, until your teeth barely graze and your breaths tangle, ragged and warm.

Your body moves on instinct. You shift, climbing onto the couch, one knee sinking beside her hip, the other anchoring you against the cushions as your hands cage her in—one planted beside her head, the other skimming her waist. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. Her eyes burn into yours for a fleeting second before she tugs you down into another kiss, fiercer than the last.

Your hand slides up her side, her thin shirt wrinkling beneath your touch. You feel the tremble in her breath as your fingers graze the hem. She answers by hooking her hands beneath your shirt, tugging it upward in fits and starts between kisses. When she finally peels it halfway up your chest, she lets out a soft, frustrated sound and rips it the rest of the way. The fabric stretches, then tears at the seam near the collarbone.

You blink. “That was my—”

“I’ll buy you another,” she murmurs against your mouth before pulling you back in, her teeth catching your bottom lip with intent. Pushing it off you, she tears the rest of it off your body, landing on the ground. She takes lease of your bare chest, claiming you as hers. “It was looking worthless anyway.”

You can’t even argue. In fact, you’re too far gone to care. 

Your hands fumble at the hem of her shirt now, working fast, your pulse roaring so loudly in your ears it drowns out the city beyond your window. Digging through her shirt, slowly lifting it off her svelte body, eventually getting a little assist from her hands. Over her head, then sliding it off her shoulders, tossing it aside and joining the other discarded piece of clothing on the floor.

Seoyeon pulls you flush against her, her legs parting slightly to make room as you sink into the cradle of her hips. Your lips move along her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—tracing heat and longing across every inch of skin you find. She gasps your name into the quiet, and it doesn't sound like a whisper. It sounds like a need.

The moment has the weight of something irreversible.

You pause, your forehead resting against hers, your chest rising and falling against her ribs. Her hand rises to the side of your face, her eyes searching yours through the hush.

There’s no pretense left. No posturing. No industry rules. No office culture. Just the two of you: lonely souls, pressed together in the dying hours of a borrowed night, clinging to something fleeting and real.

And when she pulls you down again, lips parted, body arching to meet yours, it’s more than passion—it’s rebellion. It's a confession. It’s all the things she can’t say with a manager waiting in the lobby, with fans watching her every breath, with friends who pretend support but demand perfection.

Your mouths meet again. And again. The world blurs around the edges. Time unspools into something slow and molten.

Neither of you have anything left to lose. But in this fragile, fleeting moment—you have each other.

As the clock goes from 4 to 5, your kisses intensify, burning brighter than the neon lights that have blinded your eyes for hours. Your hands are all over each other, exploring the other’s bodies, leaving no opportunity wasted, leaving no room for regret. She kicks up a leg, giving your hand new territory to travel. Wrestling skin and fabric, your primal urges get the best of you. Like your mind hasn’t already hit the gutter, the temptation is something you can barely fight.

Still, you never forget your place. Hiking your hand up those jean shorts of hers, you ask her: “Can I?”

She nods vigorously, seemingly wanting it more than you. 

You oblige, slowly working through the buttons, followed by the zipper, sliding it down along with the rest of the obstructive fabric. Getting a feel of her thighs, she trembles; whether it's due to the cold seeping in or from your touch, you have no clue. But what do you know is there’s barely anything beneath. A thin piece of black underwear separates you from her heat.

Dipping between the lines, the space between you merely breaths, you slip a finger through—and she keens.

Letting out this airy, thick sigh as your digit curls into her slit. Her core aches. Her mouth hangs wide, singing a profound note that’s music to your ears. 

“Oh my God—” she whines, holding onto that last word with every fiber of her being. The newfound pleasure is heavenly.

“Don’t worry about anything, just focus on me,” you mumble, softly kissing down her neck between commands, hitching your breath as you feel her pussy begin tightening around your finger. 

With her grip slowly arresting you like a vice, you slip a second digit in, eliciting a nasally moan from her saccharine lips. The chant is clear. ‘Need it, need it,’ she repeats, every word heavy, like it’s her lifeline, like it’s something she can’t do without. 

Keeping your focus on her pleasure-laden face while her features are constantly shifting and morphing. Your fingers are pushing into her cunt, pressing the buttons that make her go wild. As she writhes and wriggles beneath you, you’re holding her steady with your other arm to keep you both from falling off that couch. She grows more and more restless with each pulse, each stroke, the sensation becoming too overwhelming to resist.

“Ah—fuck—this—is—so—” Seoyeon can’t help but rattle on, even with the endless rush of ecstasy flowing through her nerves. Still having the clarity to remember everything. It’s embedded into her mind like a deep scar. “Bet they’re jealous that you’re fucking me—”

You immediately cut her off kissing her hard on the lips, stretching that cunt a little too deep for comfort. She hums into your mouth, her body fighting against you by instinct before you quickly pull away. Gently shaking your head, you hush into the air, comforting and reassuring her, “Remember. Only me.”

She nods emphatically, bracing for impact. Through the talking, your fingers remain buried inside her cunt. They’re a match made in heaven, like she’s meant for you.

Fast on her clit, you’re regaining your rhythm as quickly as you’ve lost it. Everything falls naturally into place. Seoyeon lets out these quick whimpers, unable to keep herself together under duress. She looks so good like this, so vulnerable, so helpless in your grasp. With each sigh supplementing her moan, her body pushing against you in kind like you’ve been railing her for hours. You can feel how long she’s bottled it up, and how you’ve unlocked this side of her.

“Yes—God—yes—” she mewls, wrapping her arms around your neck and dragging you close, releasing any hope you have of letting go. Not that you had any intention to, considering how alarmingly wet and tight she feels around your grip. You can only imagine what it’s like when you finally make the move on her. 

But at this moment, you can only focus on bringing her to that apex. Everything around you blurs except the heavy breaths and sighs, the natural squelch of her cunt with every drag of your fingers, and the tiny, desperate pleas for more.”‘So close,” she murmurs, biting harshly on her lower lip, using what remains of her dwindling resolve she has left to hold on, but she knows she’s on borrowed time. You’re there to accelerate the process.

Anytime now, she’ll come undone in your arms, so you savor every moment you can get. 

“It’s okay, babygirl,” you whisper, your fingers inside her delicate, but ardent. “Cum for me. Cum all over my fingers. You’re so wet, God.”

Your voice activates her. Sets her off in a way that only you can.

Arching her back, you feel every inch of her fighting—resisting—only to fold right after. Her walls tensing, rigid against your digits, before it all comes together in a perfect concoction. 

Seoyeon’s jaw drops hard. Lips forming a shape vaguely resembling an O, letting out a guttural whiny as her body locks beneath you, violently trembling. Brain going blank, having no other thought but the climactic bliss, the culmination of a dramatic night reaching its expected end. Fucking all sense and sanity out of her, if there’s even anything left to begin with. Your fingers take it all: a torrential downpour of slick and nectar coating your filthy digits, spilling onto your already worn couch, now past the point of repair. 

You guide her through the aftershocks, never moving an inch inside her needy cunt, showering her with heaps of praise and soft, tender kisses on her skin. “Good girl—you’re cumming so much for me—” you tell her, comforting and reassuring your presence will stay for as long as she wants.

As her breaths shift from quick and erratic to slow and heavy, you take this opportunity to scoop her in your arms, taking her to somewhere a bit more—spacious. Your bedroom.

Her body instinctively clings to you, arms hooked around your neck, legs coiling around your hips as she finds an air of solace from the madness. Resting her head on your shoulder, you figure that she’s actually light as a feather when she’s not burdened by the weight of her world. Caressing streaks of raven colored hair and back, unhooking her bra and letting the panties halfway down her legs fall to the floor, leaving a trail of your whereabouts. 

Gently setting her down on the bed, still in a wayward haze from her climax, the rest of your clothes follow; pants, shoes and boxers all kicked aside as you join her. Your bodies are pressed together, chest to chest, both of you sharing another passionate kiss. There’s nothing in between keeping you apart. Seoyeon looks incredibly pretty like this: so delicate and peaceful, the afterglow of her orgasm and her sticky juices clinging to her skin making her glow under the little light.

Already hard and finally loose, you line your cock on the edge of her aching core, the touch setting her alight, rekindling a dying fire. She keens, bites on her teeth, bracing herself for what’s to come, though she knows she’s not ready.

“Gonna put this inside you, babe,” you whisper , dangerously close to leaving a bruise on her skin, calling you to mark her, to claim her. She waits with bated breath, nodding vigorously in approval, as eager as you are. “Tell me if it’s too much,” you add, leaving pecks from her cheek down to her chin, finishing up at her lips. You don’t know when you’ll get a chance like this again, so you’ll make every moment something meaningful. “I’ll ease into you, but I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

“I know you won’t.” sighs Seoyeon, tilting her head back, gently smiling. “Not like you can hurt me as much as they have.”

“Need I remind you that we’ve only known each other for hours?” you reply, much to her amusement. She laughs, heartily—like you didn’t fuck her to pieces minutes ago. 

“Not bothering to ask me if I’m on the pill?” she says, trying to throw you off. 

“You’re an idol. I think we both know the answer to that.”

“And what if I wasn’t?”

You remain silent, brushing strands of hair blocking her otherwise perfect face away, seeing through the facade.

“Gosh, I will seriously get in so much trouble. I mean—they’re probably looking for me right now.” Seoyeon looks away, finding some clarity through her mostly drunken haze, even if her words feel heavy. “And if they see me here—with you—”

“Don’t worry about that,” you interrupt with a kiss, shaking your head. “Just—don’t forget this night. Forget about me, but not tonight. Ever.”

With that, you slip your cock inside her spreading core, feeling the sensation of her walls stretch against you upon making contact. Looking into Seoyeon’s twinkling eyes, seeing lifetimes in each other’s gaze, before the clench utterly breaks her. More than anything, more than your fingers ever have with a single stroke.

Lips parting, moaning against you, breath hot, laced with a dangerous concoction of  alcohol and ecstasy. Her eyes slam shut as she takes you in. It’s all too much for Seoyeon to handle at once. 

“Oh, holy fuck. Holy fuck,” she cries, her breath hitching, her body nearly jumping at the depths you’re reaching. “You feel so large inside me—”

“Does it hurt?” is your first question. It’s your top priority, caring more for her wellbeing than your own gain. Because fuck, she’s incredible. Too much for words to explain. Tight, intoxicating warmth envelops your cock as you bury yourself deep in her sopping cunt, unwilling to release you from its ironclad grip.

Vehemently, she shakes her head, her face burning red from sheer pressure. “It’s okay. I can handle it, I can handle it,” she pants, though her tone remains low, giving you second thoughts. But then she follows up with: “Don’t worry. There’s nothing you’ll do that can hurt me. Not when you’re giving this to me. Like you said: let loose.”

Further spurring you on is her hand delicately brushing up and down your arm. The only thing to really seal the notion is a kiss signed with her lips.

It takes every bit of strength to draw your hips back; she has you wrapped in a magnetic pull. Slick, wet, hot. Testing your resolve with every second you stay embedded inside her pussy, daring you to break right then and there. It’s nothing like the porn you’ve been watching during the little time off you have from work.

Swallowing your throat, holding onto a breath like you’re drowning (you are), the sound is sloppy yet so satisfying. Her juices coat your shaft, making it easier to plunge right back in. Stretching her cunt a little deeper with every thrust, overwhelming your muscles with a rush of adrenaline and blissful rapture as you fuck Seoyeon at a steady, perfect rhythm.

Doing all the little motions in between: kissing her temple, burying your face against her neck, finally leaving a bruise as a memento, whispering all the things she wants to hear.

“So fucking tight—” you mumble, brushing up against her ear, letting your tongue have a taste. As daylight begins to break and the night dies, you’ve never felt more alive with anything or with anyone than with Seoyeon, especially when you’re fucking her like this. Raw, intimate, passionate.

You can feel her body respond in kind. Her nails leave scratches all over your back, hugging you so tightly it’s suffocating. Moaning with desire, with intent. Demanding you go harder, she’s not as fragile as you believed.

“More, baby—” she whimpers, kissing your side, her embrace now inescapable. “This fucking cock—it’s so, so good—”

It’s now beyond your control. Hammering into her cunt, pinning her deep into the mattress to the point of splitting it in half. You’re working her throat overtime; unfazed and barely muffled, her voice strains and cracks with every curse and whine, clearly breaking apart at the seams. She leaves chills down your spine through vibrations of her obscene noises against your ear, accompanied by the echo of your skin slapping skin. It’s only pushing you further and further over the edge.

Pushing your hips against hers, your noses create a connection, allowing you to meet halfway in a torrid, frenzied kiss. You can hardly call it a respite, as you continue to pound into Seoyeon without quit, like you’ll burst into flames if you ever stop. Hardly a thought worth considering when you feel the intrusion of dusk piercing through the windows of your apartment bedroom. 

She doesn’t have much time left—and so do you.

“Promise you won’t ever forget about me,” you beg, despite going against your own word and Seoyeon losing herself in her own bliss. A few minutes more and she might disintegrate into nothing right before your very eyes. Forget about pace at this point, it’s only about surviving the night till the world comes calling again.

“Never,” she manages to spit, moaning against your face, body trembling. Pulling you close to her like you’re her lifeline, shifting into millions of pieces that have no well-defined identity. “Not when you make me feel this good, this alive—”

God, no wonder you’ve fallen so hard for Seoyeon. Even when she’s shaking and pressed beneath your grip, she still finds ways to make your heart flutter.

“So close, again—” she whines, and that’s all you needed to hear. “I hope you are too—”

She activates something in your head. Right there, she’s set your body on fire. Like a ticking time bomb, minutes turn into seconds in an instant. As if her clench stifling your lungs wasn’t enough. Your senses are working overtime to salvage what’s left. It’s right there—the inevitable, the end. 

You just have to give in.

A couple more thrusts into her; you’ve stopped thinking about it and choose to let go. Seoyeon keens, and then: she softly grins.

“There you go—give it all to me—”

Surprisingly, it’s a quiet affair. A deep moan escapes your mouth, sure, and it’s mostly you filling up the air with your weak groans, but she lets the moment pass by with an air of peace and finality. Like she’s already accepted her fate. And you pour it on; shot after shot of cum painting her cunt, not wasting a single drop. Falling beside her, burying your face into the sheets, now you’re the one desperately clinging to Seoyeon. 

It should feel euphoric, a grand triumph. But knowing what’s waiting on the other side, it isn’t. It’s bittersweet.

You kiss her. Leave a second bruise on her neck. It will eventually disappear, but the memory never fades.

And so remain together like this: glued to each other in bed, while your orgasm dies and the morning rises. You don’t wanna look; the sight of Seoyeon’s little smile is the last image you want to remember. It finally catches up to you: the fatigue, the drunkenness, the wear of your emotions. 

Eventually, your world fades to black.

————— Sunlight slants through the half-drawn curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled duvet where Seoyeon had been. The space beside you is hollow, the indent of her body already fading. A crushing weight settles on your chest, immediate and suffocating. The vibrant, tangled intimacy of the night—the moans, the desperate kisses, the raw vulnerability, the fierce claiming—feels like a dream punctured by the sterile silence of your bedroom. 

The digital clock on the nightstand screams 10:47 AM. You’re catastrophically late.

Panic flares, cold and sharp, but it’s instantly drowned by a deeper, more profound realization: she’s just—gone. Like the last notes of a song fading into silence. 

You push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, the phantom warmth of her body against yours still palpable. The room feels too big, too quiet, haunted by the ghost of her laughter, the memory of her trembling beneath you, the echo of her whispered confessions against your skin. The faint, sweet scent clinging to the pillow is a cruel reminder of what you lost.

Stumbling out of bed, legs unsteady, the pleasant ache in your muscles a stark counterpoint to the hollow feeling expanding inside you. The living room is a tableau of the night’s chaotic intimacy: your torn shirt discarded near the couch, the empty water pitcher and glass on the low table, the cushions still bearing the deep impression where you’d coaxed her climax with your fingers. The memory is visceral, electric, making your breath catch. But the space feels abandoned. Sterile, despite the mess.

Then you see it.

Draped carefully over the back of the armchair, not crumpled on the floor where you’d both shed clothes in a frenzy of need, is her jacket. The soft, expensive-looking one she’d made you wear, the one that smelled like her. It’s folded with a care that feels deliberate, almost reverent. And beside it, resting squarely on the seat cushion, is a single, tiny square of paper, torn from something larger. Maybe a receipt, maybe a notebook page.

Your heart stutters, then hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird. Crossing the room slowly, the worn carpet feels rough under your bare feet. The silence is eerie, deafening. You pick up the paper. The handwriting is small, neat, a little rushed, but unmistakably hers:

> Had to go. Flight. Idol stuff. You already know. 

> Don’t forget.  

> 010-XXXX-XXXX  

> - S1

Below the number: a single, hastily drawn puppy. Like something she might doodle in a margin during a boring meeting.

The simplicity of it steals your breath. No grand declarations. No promises she couldn’t keep. Just a lifeline. 

‘Don’t forget.’ 

As if you ever could. 

The scent of pear blossoms seems to intensify, rising from the jacket, from the paper held tightly in your suddenly trembling fingers. It’s not the scent of loss anymore. It’s the scent of her, preserved. A tangible connection.

You trace the numbers with your thumb, the ink slightly smudged, but real. The frantic worry about work, the looming dread of facing your boss, the mountain of emails undoubtedly piling up—it all recedes, muted by the sheer, staggering significance of this tiny square of paper. She didn’t merely slip away. She left a part of herself. Deliberately. Hopeful.

You remember her fierce kiss in the grey dawn light, her whispered "I'm not sorry." You remember her vulnerability, the tears, the way she clung to you like an anchor. You remember the rebellion in her touch, the way she shattered her own carefully constructed walls against your skin. She wasn’t merely escaping her friends or her manager last night; she was claiming a moment of pure, unvarnished self.

And she wants you to remember. She wants this—this connection forged in shared exhaustion and unexpected understanding, the intimacy that bloomed in the cracks of their pressured lives—to mean something beyond the frantic hours before her flight.

You pick up her jacket. It’s soft, still holding a whisper of her warmth or maybe the memory of it. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply. Pear blossoms, beer and soju, the faintest trace of her perfume, and underneath it all, something uniquely Seoyeon. Not the idol, but the girl who tripped on subway stairs, who rolled her eyes at her friends, who confessed her fears in a quiet cafe, who kissed you like it was her final act of defiance.

A slow, hesitant warmth begins to spread through the hollow ache. It’s not happiness—not quite. It’s something quieter, more profound. A fragile kind of hope, delicate as the paper in your hand. The world hasn’t changed. Your soul-crushing job still waits. Her life as an idol, governed by rules and scrutiny, continues relentlessly. The distance between Seoul and Tokyo remains vast.

But—she left her number. She asked you not to forget. She reached back.

The frantic panic about work resurfaces, much sharper now. There will be consequences. The weight of your ordinary, monotonous career presses in. Life goes on.

Yet as you stand, still holding the jacket and the precious slip of paper, the dread feels—different. Manageable. It’s merely noise. Background static to the quiet hum of possibility resonating from the number in your hand.

You carefully fold the paper, slipping it into the pocket of your sleep pants, a lucky charm against the mundane hell awaiting you in the office. You drape her jacket back over one of the dining room chairs, not putting it away. Let it stay. A reminder.

You head towards the shower, the hot water a necessity to face the day. The steam rises, filling the small bathroom. As you close your eyes, letting the water sluice over the scratches on your back—her marks—the image that surfaces isn’t of spreadsheets or your boss fuming. It’s Seoyeon’s face in the dim karaoke light, fierce and alive as she sang, then vulnerable and trusting as she fell apart on your couch. It’s her smile, small and real, in the grey dawn after. It’s the lone puppy drawn beside her number.

The day ahead is a gauntlet. Deadlines and apologies and the ruthless grind of an indifferent corporate world. But beneath the surface tension, beneath the fatigue and the lingering scent of her on your skin, something else thrums. A quiet, persistent current. A purpose.

“Don’t forget.”

—————

(A/N: Thank you for the commission! Again, would like to apologize for the inactivity, semester just ended and thesis work is brutal. But I am getting into tripleS a little. A bit too many members to remember, but I really like Sohyun especially. Haven't had time to listen to their new music, but Girls Never Die was one of my favorite 2024 songs. What started as a fun prompt turned into something a bit more emotional and sentimental. I do wonder if I'm just repeating elements from older works, especially since it takes a lot from Instant Crush. Hopefully with more free time, I can post a bit often than usual, even if it's only temporarily. Thank you for reading!)

[kirammanswoman]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES *ੈ✩‧₊˚

part 1 part 2 (wip) part 3 (wip) masterlist

three hockey player roommates that are in desperate need of a fourth roommate after their original one moved out on a whim. a professionally trained, braniac figure skater who needs to move. what’s the worst that could happen?

hockey!vi/ellie/abby x figureskater!fem!reader

warnings: reader is mentioned to be a lesbian!!!

a/n: im back n sorry it took so long, i forgot to say i was gonna make this n smau as well TEEHEE!! also ik i made a typo on the smau portion stfu ik…IF YOU KNOW WHERE THE ART FROM THE BANNER ABOVE IS FROM PLEASE LMK I FOUND IT ON PINTEREST AND CANT FIND THE ORIGINATOR

lowercase intended, unedited.

the moment you woke up to your upstairs neighbor banging on his drums at 5 am for the tenth time this week,

you knew.

sitting up from your tousled bed sheets and wrinkled pillows, you dig through the thick comforter to find your pj pants that you lazily threw off the night before. you dont know whether it’s your upstairs neighbor banging on his drums to metallica at 5 am (he for sure hasnt slept yet) or your head, but something was pounding. as you walk over to your mini kitchen in your tiny studio apartment, formula sheets, periodic tables, and notes were sprawled across the floor from the previous night’s panicked “i have to review this now or else i’ll die of anxiety before i sleep” study session.

you took a step forward, stepped on an eraser. another step, a pencil. and one more, lo and behold you’re at your kitchen counter, after two measly, groggy steps. so small, so crammed, so stuffy.

yeah. you had to move out.

morning practices weren’t your favorite, like at all. you studied for chem the night before, now you’re getting rewarded with two hours of coach medarda nit-picking at your every move. every axel, every jump, every loop. all. of. it. being medarda’s prized figure skater out of the bunch of girls was great, i mean, you were olympic bound because of her. however, the physical repercussions that come with exhausting your body in order to move so beautifully on ice wasn’t fun. you hurriedly tamed your bed ridden hair, threw on your practice clothes, stuffed your pristine white skates in your bag and sped off. that is, before almost eating shit on your tile floor because you tripped over your air fryer that was placed on the ground because the counter was far too small to stuff it in a corner. you curse to yourself as you clutch your foot— your very important foot— and you hop outside to lock the door.

when you finally locked the door (which took ages bc the dusty ass lock is older than you are) you sped walked to your car with a one track mind, a throbbing foot, and a repetitive thought.

i have to move out. fast.

-

-

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE JUST PACKED UP AND LEFT?”

“meant it how i said it you loud dipshit. her room’s empty, abby”

“yeah ellie and i tried to stop her and get an answer, i even ran out to the driveway shirtless but all she said was ‘im sorry vi but i have to go, my last payment for rent will be in for next month’ and she drove off”

the three hockey players stood in their living room, now missing a roommate, thus, missing a fourth person for rent. their former roommate, korra, insisted that she had other matters to attend to and had to move out urgently. they were perplexed, clueless, and a little angry at the sudden decision, but lo and behold, they can’t do anything about it now can they.

“alright— okay, sit down you shitheads— and put a shirt in vi, we gotta figure this out.”

“she did give us at least some allowance of time to figure something out right?” ellie responded to abby, fiddling with her silver rings. abby nodded and bit her lip while thinking if their next move.

“okay— here’s the deal.” she sat down and signaled the other two to sit as well. “i’ll ask my dad to cover the payment for the month after next month if we dont find one in time—”

“wait wait wait— what do you mean find one in time? you’re gonna go looking for a new one like a fuckass model agency recruiter?” ellie raised a brow

“no you fuckin idiot, im gonna post something on the locker room’s bulletin that we’re looking for new roommates.”

“like that’s gonna fucking find us one abby” vi scoffed

“okay listen you fuckasses— i can guarantee” she cut herself off “vi put a shirt on for fucks sake—“ she said as she threw a shirt to vi as she hurriedly threw her shirt on overtop her nike bra “im the damn captain of the team— i’ll make the rest of them look at it and convince them if we have too.”

“so— we’re taking anyone?”

“no, just hockey players”

yeah. right.

-

-

“ONE MORE TIME. CHIN UP.”

coach medardas demanding voice reverberated within the enclosed rink as you went through the last stretch of your routine again.

fuck fuck fuck ow ow ow shit shit shit—

was all you could think while repeating the final move of your routine for the fifth time now. as you hit your ending pose, medarda’s neutral face flickered a slight smile.

“good. much better. you’re free to go” she nodded you off. you thanked her and skated off the ice. everything hurt. every. single. thing. which was crazy considering you’ve been skating since 5 years old. never get used to it you suppose.

“how’s little miss perfect’s ice skating practice go?”

a voice breaks your thoughts off while you retrieve your stuff from your locker. you smile warmly at the girl with beautiful brown eyes and dark hair leaning against the door.

“hi D” you smile as you put your skates in your duffle.

“geez, medarda beat you black and blue again?” Dina asked as she walked over to one of the benches by your locker.

“black, blue, red, orange, green— the fuckin rainbow” you laughed

“ohhhh— i get it, because you’re a LESBI—” you covered dina’s mouth before she could finish.

“i swear to god—”

“no one’s here!” she muffled from her covered mouth, as she took your wrist into her hand and gently lifted it from her mouth. “plus i wasn’t actually gonna say it for real for real” she laughed.

it’s not like you had a problem with being a lesbian, fuck, if anything you thank every possible part of your existence for being attracted to women. it’s just—you had a reputation— and sometimes hiding a part of yourself was just easier to maintain that reputation. (a/n: this is fucking false, be so authentically you because you’re fucking beautiful, dont let anyone make you think otherwise. i love u.)

you shook your head at your best friends antics.

“sooo…find a place yet?” she said, fiddling with the charms on your duffle.

you sighed and scratched your forehead “no— skating and classes have been eating at my literal ass lately” you slumped at the space beside her

“babes, come on. that place is hella sketchy—“ she paused. dina never pauses. she’s always speaking, so this leads you to believe something’s turning with the gears in her head.

“anyway you need to leave soon— oh wait hold on!” she sprung up slightly. her eyes were wide and her smile was so bright it could blind people. oh no. you thought. she’s thinking. thats bad.

“you remember ellie? hockey player, short hair, green eyes, really actually very hot?” she perked up

“yea…? what about her—“ “they need a roommate!”

and there it is. a thought. from dina. she didnt even let you finish your sentence, so you didnt even let her convince you.

“no.” you deadpanned, glaring at her. “dina i refuse to room with the infamous women’s hockey trio league who probably disguised frat boys.” you started to pick up your stuff to walk out of the lockers.

“come onnnnnnn!!! its a perfect opportunity!” she walks a little behind you. “its literally falling on your lap!”

“no dina i wont—” “LOOK!” she said, as she abruptly stopped and basically yanked you by your ponytail to look at the bulletin board. with a yelp and a ‘what the fuck D!’ you stare at the slip of paper right smack dab center of the bulletin board.

“dina woodward, no.”

“dina woodward, yes.” she said as she ripped a piece of the tags hanging below with the email and number of whoever put the sign up.

what the fuck are you gonna do with her.

-

-

“see, i told you fuckers it would work.”

a sweaty, glistening abby was smirking at her roommates that were sitting on the bench. the Jackson University women’s hockey league sit at the rink’s locker room, packing up after a long practice. ellie and vi sit at the bench, staring up at at abby.

“okay?? and who is it?”

“ummm…a girl named (you)? dunno its kinda vague. she emailed ‘Good Morning, I am interested in potentially being a roommate. Let me know when and where we can discuss the details and we can decide if it’s a fit. Thank You.’”

“she sounds 45 years old.” ellie said

“and like a bossy-stuck up princess bitch” vi added, handing ellie her water bottle for her to drink out of it.

“okay shut up, she cant be that bad.”

“she’s a hockey player?” ellie asked, swinging the water bottle back like its a shot.

“she should be—“ she headed over to the bulletin board “it says here hockey players onl— oh no.” she said, while looking intently at the paper pinned to the board. abby’s eyes were hopelessly searching for where it says hockey players only.

the other two stood behind her, looking for it as well.

and alas,

nothing.

“you fucking idiot.”

-

-

after a long day of practice and a three hour lecture, you were finally fucking home.

throwing your bags onto a nearby chair by your counter, you strip off your practice clothes and make a B line to the bathroom. the relief of the hot water hitting your sore muscles felt like you were meeting an angel. truly a spiritual experience. you wash your body and hair off of the dried out sweat after practice and put on your usual giant sleep tee and headed to heat your food in the microwave. this was the usual after you got home after a long day of practice and more lectures that were frying your brain. you finally had time to relax at home.

just as you were settling down on your couch next to your cat named Dog, an email notification pinged on your phone.

📧: Abby Anderson a.anderson@email.com

Good Evening, this is Abby. I saw that you emailed about a roommate inquiry? I was wondering if you could meet at the Bison Cafe to discuss the details. Also, please feel free to leave your number so communication is more seamless. Thanks.

you’re gonna punch your best friend.

-

-

[girliism]

trailer park trash!patrick x trailer park princess!reader

-

patrick’s lived in trailer parks his whole life. his father in and out of his life before he decided to just be out months before patrick’s tenth birthday. raised by a single mom who did the best she could.

he smells like he bathed in cigarette smoke and car oil. was just as bad as the guys he grew up with despite swearing he was different.

one thing he never did was fuck girls from his own lot. doesn’t want to deal with the drama that comes with. but he couldn’t resist your pretty pout begging him to come fix your mom’s boyfriends truck.

“please, he’ll kill me if he finds out.”

he could see you weren’t gonna take no for an answer, and it was a simple fix that he got done in under thirty minutes. the plan was to go inside to get his money but he ended up fucking you on the kitchen floor. your thighs covered in faint oil marks from his stained hands, and his back aching from your scratches.

that was months ago, and now patrick can’t seem to get rid of you. not that he wanted to.

-

“are you gonna be working late today?” you laid out wrapped up in patrick’s sheets watching him walk around the small room getting ready.

“mmm, not too late. you gonna be here when i get back?” he grumbled around the unlit cigarette in his mouth. “maybe.” you shrugged. patrick finished getting dressed before walking over to you. “well, make sure you lock up if you don’t end up staying.” before he could leave you pulled him down, taking the cigarette from his lips to place a small kiss that quickly turned in to something deeper. patrick liked to kiss with his whole mouth, all tongue and teeth. if he didn’t stop now he’d be late.

“ok, alright.” patrick was trying to pull your arms from around his neck but you fought against his grip. “stay.” you sighed against his lips. “no.” your hold on him was surprisingly strong. “why?” patrick stared down at you. “cause i said so, and i’m older so you have to do what i say. let got.” you did so reluctantly.

patrick stood to his full height.

you looked up at him with your arms stretched out beside you. the sheets had slipped down exposing your bare torso that was covered in marks from the night before. the look you were giving him almost worked if it were for his phone going off.

“maybe next, babe.”

then he was gone, leaving you to satisfy your needs alone.

-

patrick’s couldn’t have gotten off of work earlier. it was 7pm the sun was beginning to set, and he was tired. and horny, with a slight knot starting to form in his neck.

he knew you were still there when he pulled up to his trailer house. the light coming from the lamp in his bedroom told him that much.

you were laid out on your stomach flipping through a magazine. you were so caught up with listening to your friend rant on the phone that you didn’t hear the key turning in the lock, or patrick’s heavy footsteps creeping towards you. you didn’t notice him until you felt the familiar roughness of his hands sliding up your bare thighs.

“was talking on that.” you said in response to patrick taking your phone out of your hands, hanging it up.

“so.”

he placed slow open mouth kisses on the back of you neck.

“m-made dinner for you. it’s in the microwave.” patrick smiled against your jaw. “well aren’t you the perfect little housewife, hm. did you mope around here waiting all day for me to get home?” he was teasing. you shook your head. “no, went home to make sure my mom didn’t pass out with oven on again.” you huffed a laugh that patrick copied.

your felt his hands take hold of your waist turning you onto your back. patrick took a minute taking in your figure. your were only wearing polka dots panties, his oversized band-tee that you seemed to live in, your plump lips that he slide a thumb over before pushing it into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue.

“been thinking about you all fucking day.”

he freed his thumb from your mouth and moved to pull your his shirt over your head. “fuck.” patrick’s thumbs brushed over your taunt nipples, before he brought his head down taking on in between his teeth. “ah, p-pat.” he took your whole nipple into his mouth, sucking softly.

patrick is nothing of not fair, taking his time on both your tits switching back and forth. soft pants fell from you as your hip grinded up into him desperate for attention there.

“touched myself after you left today.” you confessed breathlessly. “did you?” patrick’s words were muffled against your skin. “mhm, needed you and you left. couldn’t help it.” thick fingers traced along the waist line of your underwear. “how many fingers?” he asked, ghosting his own over your clothed cunt.

“two.”

patrick smirked, pulling your panties to the side exposing your soaked core. “you can take more than that.” you responded with a moan when he eased three fingers in. he worked his fingers in and out of you getting you stretched for what comes next.

you were already a mess and now even needier than before. “patrick.” he undressed quickly, his cock hard and ready to be buried inside you. the man in front of you kneels between your legs, hiking your them up and wider. you signed a moan when patrick slide his dick through your slick folds, your panties pushed to the side.

“tell me how bad you want it.” the tip of his dick nudged against your clit, and pressed just barely into your opening.

“need it so bad patrick, please, please.” you put on a deep pout and the puppiest puppy eyes you could muster. patrick cooed, thumbing the underside of your jaw.

“anything for you.”

finally what you’ve both been waiting for all day. the stretch of your pussy conforming to patrick’s size. patrick backed out until just the tip was left in before he thrusted forward hard and deep.

“god, you’re so tight for me baby.”

patrick’s hips fell into a steady rough rhythm that had the headboard banging against the wall, and your whiny moans echoing in his ears.

“been w-wanting this all day.” your arms hooked around patrick’s shoulder. he hummed into neck where he was leaving harsh sucks. “this what you thought about while fucking yourself?” he raised his head up to look down at you. his hand coming up to wrap around your neck. “fell apart on your fingers thinking about my cock?”

“u-uh huh.”

the hand resting on your neck tighten, and patrick’s pace picked up. his strained moans mixing with your clearer ones.

your eyes shot open when you felt his cock slipping out of you. “what are-” your confusion was cut short when patrick flipped onto your stomach, and lifted your hips up leaving your upper body pressed against the sheets.

pulling your underwear all the way down taking in the view of your wet pussy clenching around nothing. “i swear you were made for me.” patrick says mostly to himself. you flinched at the feeling of spit hitting your tight ring of muscle. patrick just teased his finger over your hole, moving to feed his cock back into your cunt.

a too loud moan ripped out you. the walls of these trailers were paper thin, and sweet older couple that lived next door didn’t deserve to hear this.

“why so quite?” patrick caught on to the way you muffled your moans in the his pillows. his hands took hold of your hair, yanking you up. “get loud. let them hear. let the whole lot hear who’s fucking you so good.” the sounds of his hips beating against your ass echoed. “who is fucking so good, hm?

“you.” a moan got caught in your throat. “you’re fucking me so good o-only you.”

you could feel patrick’s smile in the way he started fucking into you faster,harder. tugging at your hair with more force.

the squelching sounds of patrick’s dick ramming in and out of your wet heat was almost as loud as the groans and wails coming from the both of you.

“oh god, oh fuck, right there pat!”

the head of his cock knocked right into that soft spot inside of you. “gonna fucking cum.” your fingers flew to your clit rubbing fast circles until your body tighten up and your orgasm came crashing down on you. strings of curses mixed with patrick followed after a silent scream.

patrick fucked you through your orgasm, setting off his own. his hips stilling and his cum filling you up. “shit.” he collapsed on top of you catching his breath for a moment before sliding out of you. he laid out next to you and began rifling through his drawer for his “after sex cigarettes.”

“did you want your dinner now?” you asked, watching his light the white and orange stick. “in a minute, wanna just lay with you.” he pulled you closer to his chest. the of you pass the stick back and forth.

-

[anaktoria-of-the-moon]

As an addendum to my last handler/pilot dynamic post, consider the found family dynamic:

You became a handler to find your baby sister, whom you know only was taken from your arms twelve years ago by a man bearing the Collective’s red-winged eagle on his shoulder, whom you’ve never seen again. (That is the way it goes with children who show promise for the pilot program - some call it destiny, others law, still others stealing; you don’t care to put a word to it, but you won’t rest till you’ve seen it undone.)

Your first pilot dies in a day, your second in a week. This too is the way it goes. Not every promising child becomes a proven soldier. Some blades shatter in the tempering: metal too poor, fire too hot.

You say the lines: Hunt there, Go north, Well done, Not yet, Wait here, Go home, Glory to the Collective - a litany in which you don’t believe. Now your pilots last longer before they die (missile strikes, overtaxed reactors, and each time you hurt a little less, and whisper thanks that they are not your sister, at least). Weeks before the next, then months, then years - how many? - you’ve long since stopped counting the days, for each that passes without finding what you seek is one that may as well not have come at all.

Then one day as you murmur the lines in your loyal hound’s ear a shriek pierces the sterile peace of your ivory tower, and your world erupts in flame. They’ve found where you direct from through some trick of triangulation; they’ve brought down an orbital strike, right upon you.

You wake amid the ruins to the screech of missiles, the groan of metal and shattering ceramic plating. And in your ear the first sound your pilot has ever made: a long, unbroken scream.

You watch her pick up the enemy and tear it in half, in a burst of steel and sparks, and then you are gone again.

When you wake next she is carrying you, strangely, gingerly, balanced atop her gun arm and held in place with her machete. You struggle upright and she grinds to a halt. They taught you early on how to work the emergency hatch from the outside; you do, now, and see to your shock that the pilot is just a scrap, a red-eyed white-bleached little thing tangled in too many strangling black cords, crying piteously, starved.

You needed her then. She needs you now.

So you unwrap her from the coffin of synthetics and wiring and carry her, cumbersome, down from the cockpit. While she thrashes in your arms (not used to the touch of mortal flesh, doubtless, not used to being so small and soft and terribly mortal at all), you reach into your still-intact coat and fish for the last snack there and feed it to her (gently, gently, she isn’t used to much besides intubated protein slop) and wait for the flutter of her chest to slow a little before you go on.

The sound of running water nets you a quiet pool to bathe in. She struggles too when you unzip her suit - she is like a wild animal, kicking and biting and scratching - you repeat the same soft assurances from your radio, Wait here, Easy, Don’t shoot yet, and she stills, and though there is a little blood on you you feel it’s a triumph. You guide her to the pool and then turn and walk five paces away, just far enough to know you can run back in case you hear her start to flail too much - or not at all.

It takes a few tries, getting her to figure out how to bathe. But by the fourth night she at least comes out free of that old coating of sweat and tears and machine lubricants, smelling no longer of grease and oil, and by the tenth night she sits and lets you untangle the long fall of her hair.

It is an ugly meager white, this hair, like the rest of her, skin and all, only her eyes that same strange red. This is how you think you know she is not your sister, who had the same rich loam brown skin you do - or perhaps this is just how pilots look; perhaps they are all bleached by their cockpits like plants in lightless winter.

She doesn’t speak, your pilot, they never do, they only ever growl or shriek or hiss or groan. They did not need to speak in the cockpit; you understand that somehow they and the mechs speak without talking, that it must be part of the dullness in her eyes that she has lost that way of speaking, for her mech has run out of fuel after a fortnight and, though you have worked out how to articulate its legs by sheer force and a bit of cleverly tied wire (so that you can walk it alongside the two of you as you go), you cannot manage to get it to wake again. So in the long hungry evening you try to teach her another way of speaking, with her hands and not her mouth.

You speak to her still, of course, as you always have, using the same soft key-in phrases you’ve always done (throwing in new words here and there, signing them at the same time). You understand now that you were never really talking to her to talk, but to soothe, the way you lull babies in the cradle. It is slow going, even so. At first you do not think she even listens. She does not look at your hands. She stares somewhere past you, out at the stars, or the next ridge, and does not move at all.

But on the hundredth day that changes. She looks suddenly, sharply, at you while you roast your catch over the fire, and she signs, Sun.

Sun? you sign back, heart racing.

Sun, she says. Sun rabbit. Sun rabbit food.

Another forty days and you find out Rabbit is the name of her mech.

In winter you come across the burned-out remains of an enemy outpost. Your pilot is off like a shot, and against your instinct you do not call out to her or give chase. Sure enough, she comes back, arms full of thin sheets that glitter like obsidian.

Sun food! she signs, hands shaky (she still is not used to such delicate gestures - in her mech, all her movements were big and sharp and final). Rabbit food!

The next days are spent swaddling Rabbit in the salvaged panels, and then, on the seventh day after you arrive at the ruins - in the midst of the coldest night yet - something inside the mech’s infernal innards chirps, and beeps, and comes to life.

That isn’t the only thing that wakes. Turns out dormant drones in this outpost have sensors tuned to mech handshakes.

It’s too late to run. You yell, RABBIT!, and you throw yourself over your pilot in the middle of her still-open cockpit, right as the drones converge upon you, and your world becomes day-bright.

You wake to find it is still night. Your leg aches. In the light of smoldering embers, your pilot shakes you. Tears glitter on her face like ice. Behind her you see Rabbit - the smoking hulk, having awoken just enough to sync with her pilot and turn and shield you both.

Your pilot signs, You not dead.

I’m not dead, you sign back, and now you begin to cry too, for the first time in twelve years. I’m not dead.

Rabbit dead, she signs. And you cling to each other and her little body (so stunted it is the size of a girl some twelve years old, despite that you know pilots are only enlisted at fifteen) wracks with sobs, over and over.

But in the morning, once her crying has subsided enough for her to fall asleep, you untangle yourself from her and go limping down into the ruins and wrap up your leg, and then you find yourself something approximating a screwdriver.

She finds you deep in the corpse of Rabbit. She is angry, maybe, by the look on her face - maybe she thinks you are desecrating the grave. Hastily you hold up your prize, and she falters - doesn’t recognize it.

Rabbit, you sign. Rabbit head. Rabbit - Rabbit soul.

Soul? She clearly doesn’t know the word. Nobody has ever told it to her. Of course.

You shake your head in frustration and gesture her over, and she comes, haltingly.

You carefully part the hair at the base of her neck. You slip the little black disc into the waiting slot.

It takes a moment. Then - oh then -

She nearly collapses into you. Her sobbing is louder than ever before, and her fingers are a shuddering outburst, over and over, Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.

You don’t wander anymore. The ruins where you found the solar panels have cans and cans of preserved food hidden in some abandoned Doomsday bunker, turns out, and when those run out there are many animals you know you’ll be able to hunt here - you see their burrows and footprints in the thawing snow already. And as the sun grows stronger, you have noticed a little streak of black in your pilot’s white braid.

She chatters to Rabbit all day, every day. At least you think so - you see nothing, hear nothing, but she wanders the grounds with you (your limp growing ever more sure, thanks to a splint you made in the aftermath of the drones) and she helps you festoon the little makeshift hut you’re putting together with solar panels, and by turns she smiles, or frowns, or laughs suddenly, a bright peal undimmed by the closeness of any cockpit. Down in the middle of the village the old body of Rabbit lies still and steady, a little majestic in a forlorn way, you think.

Come spring you find yourself settling between the legs of Old Rabbit, New Rabbit and Beetle (thus your pilot has named herself, after her other favorite sort of animal) tucked happily against your arm; she has filled out much since you first pulled her from her cockpit and now eats the fish you roast for her with great enjoyment, smacking her lips and humming. When you are done she turns to look up at you.

Yes, Beetle? you ask her, aloud and with hands.

Will they find us? she asks you.

No, you tell her honestly. You lost your trackers that day in the fire, burned out of the tower in which you sat; to the Collective you are as good as dead. So is Rabbit now that her body has been torn apart, her disc removed. And the Collective doesn’t come back for expendables, for rusted blades they can no longer use. (Above you, flowers sway in the hollows of Rabbit’s arm cannons.)

Will you leave me? she asks you next.

You pause. You say, Do you want me to?

This is not in pilot vocabulary, to be asked a question. She has to pause also to take in what you’ve just done.

Then she says, No, never, and, If you do, I’ll go looking for you.

Like you went looking all those years ago, no? When did it change? You told yourself then: She’s lost out there somewhere; I must find her, or die trying. Now you look at the little girl beside you and you think, Maybe you were the lost one all along. Maybe you’ve found each other.

You ask her, Why do you say you’d look for me?

She considers this. After a long moment, she says, You had an order for me. At the end of every hunt. Told me where to go. I could not ever stop going until I got there, and I am there now, and if it goes away from me then I will have to go looking for it again.

She looks at you straight on, now, with eyes that reflect the night sky. It occurs to you that maybe this is her way of, at last, trying to give you a name; you forgot yours the moment you joined the force, for you weren’t interested in personalizing yourself to anyone, especially not the short-lived pilots, who didn’t need your name anyway, only your title, Handler.

You say, What do you mean?

She smiles. It’s you, she says. This place. The place is you.

You know now, but you need her to say it, the way she needed you to say those things back then, to keep her going, to keep her from going mad. So you ask her, What is the place?

She smiles again. In the darkness, an owl hoots.

She says, Home.

[thesirencult]

What Will Your FS Love About You?

Pile 1

9 Of Cups, 5 Of Cups, The Magician, 6 Of Swords

Channeled Songs: I wanna be with you-DJ Khaled, Positions-Ariana Grande

My dearest one,

You are a tiny bit dramatic, aren't you? You have attachment issues when it comes to your person. You want them around all the time as they are wish that came true out of seemingly nowhere! You would jump through hoops for them. I'm getting the image of someone cooking, doing laundry, plucking their eyebrows, hitting the gym all for their person. Like, your person is your INSPIRATION+MOTIVATION to live a specific lifestyle! Your person adores your innocent heart and your personal evolution.

You might have met your person duriong a period of emotional turmoil. You could have been closed off or emotionally unavailable the period you met them. You guys could have also gone through a period of separation because you couldn't confront your feelings for them or "expose" your true self.

Your person admires the way you bossed up and went after them. You are whipped, they don't ahve to worry about you cheating or leaving them. You have invested into them and the marriage in a tangible way (cars, houses) and a spiritual/emotional way. The way you treated them from the first month of your relationship made them made you a priority. I think that this person wouldn't even know what you went through to "get them". During a period of a couple months in your life you totally dedicated yourself to this cause, you bettered yourself for this person, for your person, not out of despair (well, at first it could have been that lol) but because you realized ytou belong to them and they are your soulmate and your doorway to a higher path.

Your FS will love how you aren't repressing your emotions anymore and how you opened your heart up to love even though you were jaded. You've been brave and that makes them want to take care of you. You passed all the tests with flying colours. When you are married to them you will be in the energy of a master manifestor. This is what those 2 months taught you when you were trying to better yourself. They taught you how to manifest and be intentional. Your FS is very proud of you and the way you overcame your past wounds and tumultuous childhood. Before you guys tied the knot they noticed you had an awakening and elevated yourself to get to their level rather than taking the path of least resistance. You worked on yourself and your connection.

You never had a hard time asking for help from them and they love how you innocently ask them questions or want their input. It's not that your person likes the way you depend on them, it's just that they love how much you cherish and value them, to the point you let them guide you and baby you.

Choosing you was choosing joy and playfulness, you may think they were your dream person but your FS manifested you into their lives and intentionally chose you because of your kindness and pureness. You are very greedy when it comes to them and they enjoy slapping your hands away and teasing you. They never get tired of your jokes or childish antics, they get entertained by them. They will love the look of frustration when you are fixing something and how you look at them with those big sad puppy eyes. They love making your eyes light up with excitement and hearing you yap on the phone after calling them for the tenth time from work to ask what's for dinner or another mindless question, just to hear their voice or talk to one of the kids (all excuses to talk to them).

Your FS will not love you for commiting to them but for commiting to a harder path that led to your evolution in this lifetime <3

Pile 2

9 Of Wands, 2 Of Pentacles

Channeled Songs: You Da Baddest-Future, Diamonds-Rihanna, Down In The DM-Yo Gotti, All Eyes On You-Meek Mill

Your FS loves that you are unbothered, authentic, inspiring, influential, a tiny bit b*tchy and a menace to society (quietly).

This person will feel like they are always HIGH around you. You are protective over them and loyal to a fault. I'm hearing love at first sight, a diamond that is forever. You are a sun ray in their life, a natural beauty. Your hair is bouncy or *other areas* lol, you could also have a bounce in your step and this person will love that.

Your person knows you are someone who could get with anyone and there are times they do not feel like they can keep you. They will feel very lucky you chose them (simp). They will want to show you off cause they consider you OUT OF THEIR LEAGUE. Other women/men are jealous of you and men/women are fighting over you. Your FS considers you a MAN SNATCHER if you are a feminine, hahaha. You are a rare commodity (YAS QUEEN).

Also, a bit freaky energy here, your person will love how you text, if you get my drift and also how wet you are during sexy time! They are saying "it's your world, I'm just living in it!"

You might have an hourglass figure and they are drooling over that and they also love how you look during the summer! You are a leader, always in the driver's seat especially when it comes to the relationship. They also admire your mindset because they know what it took for you to get here. You are an equilizer, resilient and pushing through obstacles. You have a "never give up" attitudeand you always strive to show up as your BEST SELF. You are graceful and adaptable.

You might have long curly hair is what I'm hearing and they will find it so beautiful when it cascades down your back all natural. You look LOVELY when you get out of the shower is what they are saying. Expect frequent kisses and foot rubs, lmao!

[drgnflyteabox]

Soap finds himself a lucky charm // Soap x fem!reader // kidnapping, noncon, gambling, post-injury soap, unreliable narrator (he's crazy), johnny hears simons voice in his head <3, breeding kink, unwanted pregnancy, ghoap elements but simon isnt in it

Johnny finds himself at the horse track of all places, six months to the day since his injury.

Simon doesn't know where he is, but he knows that Simon could find him as easily as anything. He hasn't yet. Space, is what Johnny had asked for. Space is what he's getting. It both upsets and pleases him.

Spending money is too easy. He splurges everywhere, on everything. Takeout, booze. His apartment's a pigpen of bottles and containers. All thanks to his honourable discharge stipend, which is generous thanks to Price, though he hasn't returned any of his calls.

Price could find him easily, too, but their relationship's been tight since the signing of the paperwork.

Not my choice, John had said tightly. My hands are tied.

A couple thousand down already, his lucks been off. Ever since the accident. It's not any of the post-TBI symptoms, it's spiritual. He feels it, deep in his gut.

Cosmic.

He should be in the field, but he's not. Something has shifted the wrong way. Everything feels, looks, is, slanted. Off.

Bonnie Bouquet is the horse he's been betting on. A few hundred at a time. She's a fast girl, but she's been finishing off the board lately. Losing him a lot of cash.

He can hardly focus as he a group of squawking, stumbling partygoers elbow in beside him.

There's a pulse that begins in his temples as he watches her fumble, outpaced by a horse called Apple Cider of all names. He feels a hot coal settle in his chest, frustration morphing into anger as costs him again.

That pulse turns to sharp, digging pain, the bullet back again and tunnelling it's way into his head. He can practically feel the thick, cottony fog come back on, the dizziness. His vision pinpoints onto the downturned arrow on the screen. He hears the gun cock again,

Bonnie Bouquet finishes tenth out of fourteen, and he swivels to snarl at the pack of harpies beside him when—

It's been a while. Longer than before the injury, even, since he's had pussy. That's why he deflates, chokes up, lets the swell of pain in his head wash over him without so much as a twitch when he sees you.

The answer. The solution he's been waiting for, right here in front of him, sent by God or the universe or fuck, he wouldn't put it past the team to have sent him a little consolation prize.

"There you are, Johnny," he hears Simon say. His voice is right there, in the room. You're for him. You're his light at the end of the tunnel, the reason he's been booted.

"S'all worth it now, isn't it?"

It'll be worth it when he can fit his cock in your snug little cunt, and make a new purpose for himself through your womb.

He doesn't think of how he looks when he approaches you, pushing past your clucking friends, eyes razor sharp and shoulders squared.

"What one are ye bettin on?" he opens, staring down at your surprised face, petal-soft mouth in a sweet little 'o'.

His cocks rock hard in his jeans, straining, and distantly he hears one of your friends gasp. He doesn't give a fuck. Look, hen, it's for ye. That's all for ye.

"Um," you stutter. Cute wee lamb, he thinks. "I think, uh, The Scottish Thistle."

The Scottish Thistle. As clear of a sign as any. Simon laughs, grating, "Picked a Scottish horse, didn't she? What else do you need, Johnny? A kick in the arse?"

Nothing. He needs nothing else to push out again, betting on The Scottish Thistle and winning for the first time in months.

You're terrified when you discover him in the backseat of your car.

Poor little lamb, trying to fight. Bleating and pushing against him with arms that haven't seen even a shade of what he has. But he's still strong, still got it, puts his arms like a vice around your throat until you're docile enough that he can take your keys and drag you back out into his truck.

It's alright. You'll understand soon enough, that you're meant for him. That you're gonna be his lucky charm, his cause, his justification. He'll make it all back and more. In droves.

And he if doesn't come back? He's still got warm, soft thing to sink right into. A comfort for his weary head.

You learn eventually, that this is destiny. That you're meant to be right here, tidying his house, taking his come right in that pretty pussy. Keeping it safe, he jokes to you. Creating a life for him where before he had died.

He could cry, when he sees the test. Johnny's gonna be a father.

You still tremble, even after all this time, wide little cow eyes looking up at him, teary. Beautiful.

"Look at that, hen," he shows you the stick, smiling at your happy tears, "awe, it's okay to be nervous. Ah ken you'll be a good mam."

He fucks you that night to celebrate, slots himself deep, crushes you with his body the way you like it. You don't really speak often, but that's okay. You're just naturally shy, and he doesn't mind living off your cute little sounds instead of words.

"Ah, good girl," he grunts, pumping, "gooood girl."

You squeak, pant, cry. Face wet with overwhelmed tears. You've stopped trying to fight, stopped pushing his hand away when he fingers your swollen clit and makes you come again.

Soon, he'll have a family.

"Purpose, again, Johnny. That's a good lad, give it to her good."

And when he brings you, belly swollen with the life he planted there, to the races again— he's sure you'll pick the right one.

[pupkashi]

boyfriend!jinwoo headcanons

a/n: hi hi friends !! I’ve become reobsessed with solo as season 2 comes out + i started the manhwa and i have fallen head over heels for jinwoo so enjoy ! i am so sorry if it’s ooc im still trying to get a feel for his character </3 this got really messy and all over the place my bad yall i have alot of thoughts okay that’s all bye :3

warnings: maybe minor manhwa spoilers ?? that’s about all :P

- if jinwoo met you before his reawakening he definitely did not make the first move, instead opting to try and spend time around you without making things too obvious

- to say you weren’t charmed by the hunter would be a lie, you were absolutely smitten with him, stomach in knots everytime you saw him, giving him care packages after any missions and trying to warn him to take it easy

- your words and actions would always make him flush, “i promise I’ll be more careful” he’d smile, holding a bag of frozen peas to the side of his head

- he was the best boyfriend he could be, always getting you little things when he could, even finding wildflowers to make a bouquet for you when he couldn’t afford store bought ones

- he would take you out to picnics and any little date that he could afford anytime he could, romanticizing every moment with you and making you fall for him more and more

- he would save up anything he could to buy you jewelry or clothes or something you’d mentioned wanting in passing, surprising you with it with a goofy grin

- you’d tell him constantly he didn’t have to worry about buying you fancy things or spending money on you, but he would have none of it, assuring you his other expenses were handled and his sister was well taken care of

- jinwoo is the most supportive boyfriend in the world, if you were awakened and decided to become a hunter he would be your biggest cheerleader

- he wouldn’t have a bruised ego if you were a couple ranks higher than he was, instead he’d be incredibly proud of you, boasting to everyone “that’s my partner by the way”

- if you were a regular civilian he would support whatever career path you wanted to take, going to college? jinwoo is helping you study late at night and wishing you luck on exams. wanting to be a baker? jinwoo is there trying all your recipes and giving you honest feedback (and taking home test batches)

- you awaken as a hunter but don’t want to be a hunter? jinwoo is there to reassure you to live your life how you wanna, not once judging you

- reawakened jinwoo ,,, strap in yall

- the first time he sees you he feels like he’s an e rank hunter again the way he’s blushing and his heart racing, when was the last time he felt this nervous?

- he can barely get out a ‘hello’ as you’re smiling softly at him, he isn’t sure if you recognize him, you giggle softly and shove your friend slightly, eyes darting to him before catching his gaze, embarrassed and looking away quickly

- beru is quick to encourage his master, “his majesty is worthy of any he may choose” he reassures jinwoo, making the hunter flush and dismiss him quickly

- jinwoo finally works up the courage to talk to you, turning on his charm, he fought insanely strong enemies all by himself, he can ask you out on a date, right?

- he stumbles over his words, sentence jumbled up and you can help but smile at him and nod, “I’d love to get dinner sometime” you reply, exchanging phone numbers before excusing yourself and catching up with your friend group

- at first jinwoo is skeptic once he gets home, what if you were just using him because you knew he was the tenth S rank hunter? were you in it for money? fame?

- after your first date together jinwoo is weak at the knees and ready to give you the world, he’s already assigned one of his soldiers to your shadow

- one month after your first date he’s asking you to be his, a bouquet of your favorite flowers in his hands and a picnic spread behind him as the sun set

- calls you a handful of pet names mainly baby, doll, my love and sweetheart

- you call him honey, lover, baby, handsome and any other silly thing you can think of to make him roll his eyes; a lot of times you’ll just shorten his name, calling him jin, jinny or just woo (you once called him your woo woo bear and he was so flustered you decided to reserve it for only certain occasions)

- jinwoo was not one to cheap out on things when it came to you, if you mentioned wanting something you’d get it as soon as possible

- he’d buy you expensive jewelry and any clothing you’d like, even paying your rent and bills behind your back, a sheepish smile on his face when you confront him about it

- “doll you spend most of your time at mine anyway, how about we just move in together hm?” easily persuades you with the promise of letting you decorate the whole place, giving you his credit card to buy whatever you wanted

- jinwoo wouldn’t say he’s a jealous boyfriend,, you however would say he definitely is ! he’s also very possessive and protective when it comes to you

- if he even senses that someone else is looking at you he’s quick to flash his eyes blue, shadows whipping around him and scaring off anyone even thinking of looking at you

- if anyone is stupid enough to actually flirt with you he will not shy away from intimidating them, eyes glowing as he stares down the person, practically snarling at them until they’re running with their tail between their legs

- “alright tough guy let’s tone it down a bit” you chuckle, letting your arms slide around his waist and pulling him close to you, jinwoo just scoffs, melting into your touch and turning to face you, pulling you by the waist and kissing your lips

- “all mine” he whispers against your lips, you smile and press another kiss to his lips, “all yours” you assure him

- he goes INSANE if anyone hurts you omg like next level crashing out he’s demolishing them into oblivion if they lay a finger on you

- “who did this to you?” his voice is deeper than you’d ever heard it, a wobble in it from the pure rage coursing through his veins, his knuckles are white and his eyes don’t have the usual warmth and love they usually do

- he can barely control his ragged breathing absolutely pummeling them into the ground, his whole body glowing and shadows crackling around him

- it’s a sight to behold, his gaze and demeanor switching in an instant when he turns to you, “let’s get you home sweetheart”

- he’s very silly when it’s just you or his family around, cracking stupid jokes and being absolutely terrible at video games during any game nights

- jinwoo is absolutely a clingy and touchy boyfriend in private, the most PDA he’d show is holding your hand or an arm around your waist (unless he’s jealous then he’d full on just make out with you to prove a point)

- im talking he wants to be IN ur skin, as close as he can be; he’d nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, wrap his arms around you and pull you into him, he’d place a flurry of kisses on your face and any exposed skin, soft giggles filling the air

- he giggles SO much with you, any compliment you give him or joke you make he’s giggling and giving you the softest look you’d ever seen on the man

- he isn’t stoic at all, eyes always bright and attentive anytime you’re talking to him

- he often leaves multiple shadow soldiers with you, having very rotate between you and his sister and mom to keep tabs on the three of you

- jinwoo falls deeper in love with you when he sees how much his sister and mom like you, with his mom teasing him and asking when he was gonna marry you after the second time he brought you to dinner with them

- even though he’s a busy man, he will always make sure he makes time for you, reassuring you that you’re a priority in his life and giving you any quality time you need

- he plans at least one date every two weeks, spending as many nights or afternoons he can with you, making sure he’s home for dinner if you were cooking and watching shows together on the couch

- jinwoo is VERY in tune with your emotions, catching on to the slightest shift in your tone or actions, he’s always quick to address anything bothering you and doing anything in his power to make you feel better

- he gives you all the reassurance you need and then some anytime you feel insecure, never making you embarrassed for how you feel, instead making sure you know how much he loves and cares for you

- boyfriend!jinwoo who is always helping you with anything you need, wether it be studying or cleaning or running errands, if he’s free he’s helping you with it; even if he’s busy if his soldiers can help you then you’ve got them at your disposal 24/7

- he is just such a good boyfriend i need him so bad