#also can I just say it’s been a real pain in the ass trying to design this dude’s adeptus outfit

[niningtori]

freudian

pairing(s): choi beomgyu x you, choi soobin x you

summary: freudian - susceptible to analysis in terms of unconscious desires. or, your parents have forced you to be "best friends" with minji, a woman you're convinced was put on this earth specifically tailored for you to have a mutual hatred with, since elementary school. she's confident, beautiful, and charming; and her boyfriend, beomgyu, is just as formidable. he's been a pain in your ass, an asshole to you to the most severe degree, since they got together in college. now, you're roommates with minji, but you begin to secretly take interest in beomgyu's best friend, soobin. it's just that... beomgyu's been acting weird these days.

genre: angst, romance, smut (mdni), lowkey yandere

warnings: smut (mdni!!!), yandere!beomgyu but more like pathetic!beomgyu, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, impregnation kink, no real dom/sub dynamic bc it didn't feel right but sub!gyu is coming back in a big way in "our deal"

word count: 13.1k

notes: hello my friends! i know i've been gone for a minute and i told myself i would post this on my bday at the latest... mind u it was in may LOL but this is a bit long for me so i hope that makes up for it a little 🥹 thank you all for being so patient with me. i hope you enjoy, and if you do, please leave feedback—it is truly so encouraging! if you don't like it please spare me i beg you cuz i'm still riding the struggle bus n don't want my feelings hurt

( ཀ͝ ∧ ཀ͝ )

“human beings are funny. they long to be with the person they love, but refuse to admit it openly. some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worse, returned. but one thing about human beings that puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection, even if it kills them slowly within.” - sigmund freud

-

you’ve never been one to try to work against the inevitable. some would call it pragmatism, others would call it simply being a fucking loser, but you try not to dwell on its meaning. as it is, when your parents forced you to become “best friends” and “practically sisters” with minji in elementary school, you just let it happen. and when she inevitably drew the attention of every boy your eyes happened to linger on for longer than ten seconds, you also let that happen. as the years passed, and your parents forced you to tolerate all of minji’s, frankly, bitchy behavior, you stopped trying to avoid your fate and became as seemingly unflappable as you are now. 

to say that minji is cartoonishly evil would simply be a lie, no matter how much you feel that way, but even you can recognize that she’s nice to a lot of people. it’s just, for some reason, you’re not one of them. when you two were forced to hang out together with friends, she would always bring up embarrassing stories to try to get them to laugh at you, and she's so damn charming, it worked. and on the rare occasion in which you felt kind of confident in your looks, she’d wait until you all were in public to point out insecurities you didn't even know you had. and the one time in middle school when you finally tried to tell your parents how awful minji was to you after she lied to the boy you liked by telling him that you called him ugly—which somehow resulted in her “comforting” him and becoming his first girlfriend—minji bawled like a baby during the mediation. in the end, you had to apologize to her for hurting her feelings. 

even so, forced proximity is a breeding ground for understanding, and you understood minji from the start. in the same way, she understood you. honestly, regardless of your wishes, she probably understood you better than anyone else; but that is no longer the case. for as much as you two have always hated each other, there used to be fleeting moments of connection. her making a snide comment about an obnoxious neighbor when they compared you to her, and you taking care to make sure nobody ate the rest of her favorite dish when she was late to family dinner. you two may have disliked each other, but there was an undercurrent of… something. it was a twisted relationship, you won't deny that, but it was a relationship, nonetheless. however, all of that dissipated like smoke once you reached early adulthood. to this day, you're not sure why. 

yours and minji’s parents pretty much forced you to room together in college, both stating that it was the only way they’d feel comfortable with you two being on your own. regardless of how quickly the two of you would now dismiss such a ridiculous notion, you were both relieved at the idea. it was almost like having a built-in companion. however, very shortly after you two settled in, things went from mildly bad to absolutely abysmal. undeniable, but ultimately menial, feelings of derision from minji became outright disdain towards you. you won't lie and say you didn't become petty in return, and you’ve never cared enough to fix such a strange dynamic, though you sometimes wonder if you should. 

as it stands, minji could hear you getting slandered to pieces, and she’d probably join in. as for you, you’d indifferently watch someone gorge the rest of her favorite dish at family dinner rather than speak up for her. now, after both having graduated and joined the workforce, you no longer have to worry about threats to cut your livelihood off. realistically, you could stand up to your parents and say, “fuck minji, fuck her parents, and fuck you both for manhandling me into being her friend!” but that sounds awfully dramatic, so you won’t.

besides, minji, for all of her raging bitchiness, is actually the best roommate you could ever ask for. for example, she never leaves her stuff lying around, and she always rinses off her dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. the only consistent downside has been the men she’s brought home since freshman year of college, which you declare are none of your business, but the sounds of her… passionate encounters are a real drag. still, you could mostly tolerate them, but her current—and seemingly permanent—boyfriend seems determined to elicit the most perverse sounds he can out of her. at first, you prayed that it was just the honeymoon phase, but it’s been literal years at this point, and the screams reverberating through the walls of your apartment would be an inconvenience to anyone; but it’s especially troubling on nights like tonight, in which you have to be up extra early tomorrow morning for a meeting at work. 

as you clutch a pillow to the top of your head in a vain effort to muffle out the lascivious noise, you contemplate maybe sending a text message asking minji to try to keep it down. maybe you could knock on the wall, and maybe that'd remind her that you're also a sentient human being who happens to occupy the room right next to hers. but you know it'd be fruitless, know it’d do nothing to actually help your situation. in fact, on the rare occasions that you’ve politely requested that they be considerate of your poor, battered sleep schedule, or even just subtly hinted to having something important in the early morning you needed to be well-rested for, it's always seemed to come back around and bite you in the ass. it's almost like they become even more unhinged than usual when they know you need your sleep, so there's absolutely no point in trying to get them to quiet down. still, as the hour ticks by, you become more and more anxious that you'll be unable to wake up tomorrow morning, so with a sigh, you tentatively knock on the wall between your bedrooms. 

surprisingly, the noise ceases, and you really think standing up for yourself might have just worked out in your favor for once, but then you hear minji and her boyfriend snicker, and then there's the damning sound of their resumed activities. she was loud before, but now, it's like minji is being mauled or something. so much for being well-rested.

-

you wake up the next morning feeling like you got hit by a truck, and you just know you look like shit. you try your best to cover your dark circles, but at this point, who are you fooling? when you finally leave your bedroom, you run into minji’s boyfriend, the one she's been obsessed with since college. beomgyu. 

“good morning,” he says with a lazy smirk as he leans over the counter. “did you sleep alright?” god, he’s such a fucking asshole.

“yep,” you mumble as you push past his shirtless body and reach into the fridge for your lunch.

“really? doesn't seem like it. you look like shit,” he chuckles, and while you don't even spare him a glance, you can just feel the smug look on his face emanating off of him and boring into the back of your head.

“thanks,” you say flatly as you fill up your water bottle. you're unsure why he even talks to you, but if you had to put it into words, it'd probably be something akin to the phenomenon of a cat watching a mouse as it backs itself into a corner. even so, you don't know why he bothers with trying to get a reaction out of you. you've never reacted to his taunts very much, but he still seems hellbent on making life difficult for you.

“you know, maybe if you got some good action, you’d understand why minji's as loud as she is,” beomgyu continues, almost as if he doesn't sense your unwillingness to participate in this—or really any—conversation with him.

“i'll keep that in mind,” you say perfunctorily as you shuffle over to the doorway and slide on your shoes before shutting and locking the door behind you. you don't see the way beomgyu’s fists clench at your unrelentingly dismissive tone, and even if you did, you wouldn't understand it.

-

in retrospect, you didn't have a particularly strong impression of beomgyu when you first met him. you vaguely remember him hanging around minji, and you somewhat recall listening to her rave about him against your will. still, her treating him like he’d been molded by the hands of the muses probably killed any interest in getting to know him in its crib. honestly? you probably should have planted some seeds of doubt in her mind when you two were still somewhat cordial, because if you had, maybe he wouldn't be with her today. your penchant for apathy has cost you peace, it seems, because beomgyu is at every family function and in every family photo, and at this point, it’s only a matter of time before he’s your de facto brother-in-law. 

it looks as though his continuous onslaught of criticisms about your appearance, your demeanor, and your very presence have no discernible end in sight; and minji is more than happy to up the ante whenever he's around, which is fucking always. you almost think that you, in some strange way, make their bond grow even stronger. after all, you're pretty passive prey, and it must be somewhat fun to invent new ways in an effort to push your buttons. still, you're older and more jaded now, and you're pretty resigned to your fate. anyway, there's no way to make a completely clean break from them without your family causing an uproar; and for as much as you resent them, you don't want to do that. 

-

you've been staying out more and more these days. after all, you're not getting much sleep at home, so what's the point of being there? plus, you’re effectively harassed by minji and beomgyu every time you have the displeasure of seeing them, so why bother? at least, that's what one would think your reasoning is, but reality is much more complicated than that. and your reality involves soobin, a guy you met in college, who you happened to reconnect with when you went out drinking with some coworkers a few months ago. 

how do you know soobin in the first place? well, you initially met him through his best friend… beomgyu. so, complicated is putting it very generously. frankly, you’re surprised someone as sweet and mild-mannered as soobin is best friends with an asshole like beomgyu, but then, you’re “best friends” with someone you fucking hate, so you guess that’s just how things work out sometimes. 

even when you are home, you don’t speak to beomgyu, who’s at your apartment so much, you wonder why he and minji haven’t just bitten the bullet to officially move in together and leave you stranded; but you're thankful they haven't because the roommate market is in dire straits. realistically, you never did speak to either of them for any meaningful amount of time outside of deflecting their verbal jabs about how you're an undesirable loser, but now, it’s even less than ever. 

you spend the night at soobin’s pretty much constantly, so tonight, your elusive presence at your own apartment is particularly jarring. the kitchen is dimly lit by the moonlight and the fluorescent lighting above the stove, and the only sounds are from you quietly opening up the plastic of the post-midnight snack you’re making. that is, until you hear the door to minji's room opening as beomgyu creeps out and lightly shuts the door behind him. you immediately register his nearly-naked form, but you're so used to it by now, you don't even blink. 

“hey," he says tentatively, but you've never been particularly in tune with beomgyu's emotions, so you don't catch the hesitation in his greeting.

"mm," you hum as you furrow your eyebrows, focusing on preparing your snack. 

"you haven't, uh, been around much. everything okay?" he asks gently.

“yep,” you reply as you focus on setting the timer.

“have you been working a lot?” he probes.

“not really,” you mumble as you begin to pour yourself a glass of water. it's late, and you've been with soobin all night, only returning home because you didn't bring a change of clothes for work tomorrow, so your inhibitions are lowered. you're not as guarded as usual, and beomgyu is intent on capitalizing off of that.

“you should eat some real food,” he suggests, trying another tactic. “i could… i could make you something, if you want.” this is… weird. beomgyu has never offered to cook for you, and while he's made things before that you happen to like, it’s always been in service of minji; and he’s only ever offhandedly remarked that there were leftovers available to you. of course, you’ve always refused, so his present consideration is daunting, to say the very least. finally, you make eye contact with him.

“uh, thanks, but it's fine. i'm tired, so i want to eat something easy and quick before bed,” you say as you redirect your attention to your timer, willing it to move faster so you can eat and get the hell out of here. you push your hair back as you wait, and you unknowingly reveal a darker patch of skin where soobin had unintentionally sucked too hard on your neck. in the dim light of the kitchen, beomgyu’s eyes immediately zero in on the mark. he draws closer, his tall frame looming over yours as he holds your hair back to get a better look.

“what's this?” you balk at his question and his overly-familiar proximity. you try to pull away, but he just steps closer, essentially trapping you between himself and the counter.

“who were you with?” he asks between clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing with a darkness you’ve never seen from him, or from anyone, really. 

you wave his hand away in annoyance.

“why do you care? you're too close,” you defiantly reply. his jaw ticks as he leans down closer to your face, his intent eyes scanning your annoyed ones.

“who were you with?” he repeats, his voice even lower this time. thank god above that your timer goes off, and you push him off of you as you grab your food and scurry to your room, eager to put some distance between the two of you. you shut your door, as usual, but for some reason, you're compelled to lock it. 

-

you think of your bizarre encounter as a one-time thing, though you're still not sure what to make of it. yours and minji’s families have always tried to push the “family” narrative between you two, and beomgyu by extension, so you briefly entertain the thought that he might actually just be buying into the ludicrous idea, albeit belatedly; but that thought is snuffed out when his previous asshole behavior is dialed up to 100. the groceries you buy are always mysteriously gone before you can even finish eating them, your keys are never where you left them, and you swear minji and/or beomgyu are using your shampoo with the intent of draining it immediately every time you buy a new bottle. is this their way of “hinting” at you to kick rocks and find your own place? if so, how petty. getting a new place on your own would be expensive, and while you're not home much anymore, you feel it's far too early in your relationship with soobin to formally suggest moving in together. you'll just tough it out.

among all the preteen-level hazing tactics, though, there is one thing that genuinely unsettles you: things in your room are always slightly out of place. your mirror is slightly tilted a bit differently than usual, the clothes in your dresser are folded a bit more crisply than you remember, and you're trying not to feel crazy when you can't find a few pairs of your favorite panties.

tonight, you're finally home from a long, long day of work, and all you want to do is relax. you realize that soobin's home is a lot more peaceful, but his parents are visiting from out of town until tomorrow evening, which means they’ll be staying at his apartment until then. soobin still kindly offered to have you spend the night, and while you'd be happy to meet his parents, you’d feel a bit awkward with going any further than a simple dinner for a first introduction. 

so you're home. while you thought you knew beomgyu’s schedule well enough to successfully avoid him, it seems that he's awake far later than usual, and he's lounging on the couch when you walk through the doorway. his eyes immediately dart up when he sees you. 

“damn it,” you mentally curse, and it's like he can hear your unsavory thoughts.

“home late from whoring around again?” he drawls. you roll your eyes while taking off your shoes, but he’s especially relentless tonight.

“that's all you're doing, you know,” he continues. “nobody will ever take you more seriously than that. what do you have to offer other than mediocre sex?” there's a sneer on his mouth, which is normal, but his eyes are burning with the same unsettling intensity you registered when you last saw him; and while you’ve usually considered beomgyu as a mildly annoying pest, you start to feel a real inkling of anger. you don’t care—well, you shouldn't care—but it’s like he's dealing even lower blows than usual. you're about to answer with something —anything—but he does not take kindly to your silence.

“see, even you don't know the answer to my question,” he says with a mean laugh. “that poor bastard must be desperate for pussy to settle for you. but easy is easy, i guess.” 

for the first time ever, you actually do respond, and of all the things you could conceivably say, you unintentionally utter a string of words that happen to be particularly soul-crushing to beomgyu: “you're fucking disgusting.” you don't stick around after that, because he clearly doesn't give a shit, so why should you? you could rub your relationship with beomgyu’s very own best friend in his face, but he's not worth it. you’ll go back to ignoring him like you usually do, and you genuinely consider scouring the web for roommates. you even consider just moving out and paying this city’s exorbitant amount of rent on your own. you'll see.

beomgyu, however, is reeling from what you said. for reasons he can't possibly begin to understand, those three seemingly innocuous words, probably uttered without much thought, seemed to dig at something inside of him he can't quite explain. the pain is there, but its source is buried deep down, down, down in his stomach. he tells himself it meant nothing, that you didn't even think about what you said before saying it; but for some reason, the notion that you didn't have to think about it, that you just said what you honestly felt for him, makes him feel even worse.

he's not sure what outcome he was expecting. after all, he wanted to push your buttons, so why did succeeding for the first time feel so… so strange? he feels a sense of unease unlike anything he’s ever felt before. he’d talk about his feelings, but he doesn't understand where they're coming from, and even if he did, who would he tell? minji? the thought alone is laughable. while she has absolutely no qualms about dumping all of her problems on him, he’s never reciprocated. besides, any mention of you quickly devolves into shit-talking. he could tell soobin, but his so-called best friend has been flaking on him for reasons unknown. 

between the two, the answer is clear: soobin. still, having a non-conversation with him sounds unappealing, so he'll simply make soobin come out with him and the rest of their friend group. even if he can't quite articulate his feelings, just getting wasted with his friends should be enough to tie him over. he texts his group chat naming a day, time, and bar. everyone eagerly agrees, even his recently dodgy best friend.

-

being fifteen minutes late is one thing—even thirty minutes would be acceptable—but when soobin still hasn’t shown up an hour after the agreed upon time, beomgyu is thoroughly irritated. he tries to text, but when they remain unanswered, he harshly pushes out his chair and heads to the bathroom to call his increasingly unreliable best friend. the phone rings… and rings… and rings. beomgyu’s jaw clenches as he begins to accept that soobin, in fact, will not answer. then, just when he’s about to hang up, a groggy voice echoes into his ear. 

“hello?”

beomgyu tries to rein in his temper as he snaps, “soobin, where the fuck are you?” 

“huh?” soobin mumbles.

“you were supposed to be here a fucking hour ago. why are you bailing again? are you hooking up with someone without telling me?” usually, beomgyu couldn't care less about who soobin’s latest fuck is, but he feels the barest amount of dread in his stomach for reasons he will soon understand. 

“uh, no,” soobin replies, his voice a little clearer this time in lieu of beomgyu’s edge. “i’m just… really tired. look, i’m sorry i bailed again. we’ll go out soon, okay?” beomgyu is temporarily placated until the following moment.

“come back to bed,” beomgyu hears someone whine in a sleepy voice. it’s too low for beomgyu to pinpoint whose it is, but the dread he feels makes a resurgence. 

“are you fucking serious right now?” beomgyu snarls. “you keep bailing on me because you're shacking up with someone, aren't you?” he's not sure why, but he's compelled to ask, “who is it?” 

“no! it’s… it’s just the tv, i swear. look, uh, i’ve gotta go. i’ll text you later, alright?” soobin thinks he hangs up the phone, but unfortunately for everyone involved, he does not. beomgyu knows he should end the call and grill soobin for some answers later, but something tells him to keep listening, so he does—which is a decision he will come to regret.

“you're such a baby,” soobin coos as he loudly plants kisses down somebody's body. fuck whatever decision beomgyu thought he was making, he’s hanging up now. but then, a voice he’d know anywhere cuts through the haze. your voice.

“mmm, soobin, i need more.” 

what the fuck? 

beomgyu gasps sharply as if he’s been kicked square in the chest, the breath leaving his lungs until they start to burn. he thinks it can't get any worse than this, but then the real noise starts. it’s all a blur, really, but between the breathy moans, the cries of pleasure, the unmistakable sound of flesh meeting flesh, and soobin’s filthy words of satisfaction, what really stuns beomgyu the most is your stomach-churning praise. he can barely comprehend where he is, can barely register anything outside of the noises that threaten to break a barrier within him that he never even knew existed. 

beomgyu’s eyes squeeze shut, and his voice is nothing more than a rasp as he says, “soobin, i’ll fucking kill you.” he’s surprised at how much he means it, because right now, he really could imagine stringing his dearest friend up like prized game; but soobin’s phone has long been forgotten, tangled up in his sheets as he continues to sloppily fuck you. 

“you feel so goddamn good,” soobin growls. “gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” 

you cry out wantonly, and finally, finally, beomgyu hangs up and rips his phone away from his ear as if it burns him. he’s panting now, and he’s unsure why, but his hands are shaking as he throws his poor phone at the bathroom wall, watching it shatter with reddened eyes.

he won’t let you and soobin do this to him.

-

you’re fast asleep after your passionate indulgence with soobin, snugly curled up in his sheets wearing nothing other than one of his t-shirts. soobin smiles down at you before pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead, murmuring something about loving you. his head whips up when he hears his front door unlocking, and he carefully extricates himself from your tangled limbs, but he’s not quite fast enough to intercept beomgyu before he enters the bedroom. 

beomgyu is shaking with rage in a way soobin has never seen him do, but if beomgyu had the capacity to comprehend it, he’d notice that soobin seems surprisingly calm in what should theoretically be an unsettling situation.

beomgyu, though, is too shaken to wrap his mind around anything except for the sight of you curled up in his best friend’s bed. it’s a brutal confirmation of what he already knew, but wanted to deny. beomgyu can't bring himself to leave the bedroom, but he keeps his voice as low as he can despite his rage. he does not understand why. 

“you fucking bastard. you’re supposed to be my best friend, how could you do this? you’ve been fucking my girl’s best friend for god knows how long now, and you didn’t think to tell me?” beomgyu snarls, his voice low and dripping with venom.

“this has nothing to do with you,” soobin says flatly.

“has nothing to do with me? she may be a fucking loser, but she’s family to me, and you turned around and fucked her without asking me first?” beomgyu is filled with righteous indignation, and soobin’s incomprehensible demeanor shifts from dismissive to awed.

soobin silently stares at beomgyu with wide eyes and a gaping mouth before he incredulously asks, “oh my god, you really don't get it, do you? even after all this time… jesus, you’re either stupid or in denial.”

“what the fuck are you talking about?” beomgyu says fiercely, but soobin only sighs in exasperation.

“beomgyu, i knew you were clueless, but i didn’t think you were this clueless. look, she’s your girlfriend’s ‘best friend’, and even that is debatable, and you’re just the guy who happens to be dating her friend. so what? you won’t marry minji, won’t even officially move in with her, even after all of her ‘hints’ for ages now, so what exactly makes you family?” beomgyu falters at soobin’s words, but he doesn't back down. not yet.

“because i’ve known her for years! i’m still a part of her life, and she… she’s basically like family to me. i mean, i see her every day, i’m at every fucking holiday with her, every family dinner, and i know her better than you do.” beomgyu feels a bit pathetic having to explain his place in your life like this, but the words are still asserted with conviction. his next words, though, are not. “and she’s… she’s not like all your other flings. she’s not supposed to deal with bastards like you who only want to use her.” 

soobin, again, sighs. 

“there’s only so much shit you can do behind your ‘protective brother figure’ bullshit, but if you want to go there, we can go there. what kind of brother figure jerks off to his sister figure after he gets done fucking his girlfriend? and don’t lie, because i used to live with you, and i’ve heard you whine her name in the bathroom a million times.” beomgyu turns beet red as his jaw drops in sheer shock at the brazen accusation, no matter how true it may be; but soobin is not near finished. 

“and what guy threatens every man who ever takes an interest in a girl that's 'basically his sister’ before they can even say anything to her? you’ve been doing that shit since college, beomgyu, and the real reason you’re so scared to see her with someone else is partly because you’re terrified that they’ll turn out to be exactly what you are: obsessed—not because you’re waiting for the right guy.” beomgyu opens his mouth to retort, but he finds any words he might say dying in his throat before they can quite make it through his lips. soobin continues matter-of-factly, no room for debate.

“the rest of it is because you want to be the right guy for her, but you know you can’t be, because to her, you’re just the asshole who’s shacking up with the girl she’s hated all her life. you won’t live with minji, because that means you two would probably have to live alone, so you wouldn't be able to see the person you really want. and you won’t marry minji, because then, things would really be over, and you’d have no chance.” 

beomgyu feels like he can’t breathe, let alone speak, at soobin’s merciless deconstruction of his repressed feelings. he desperately wants to deny it, but when he looks at your sleeping form, the only thing he wants even more desperately is to hold you. you look so devastatingly beautiful like this, and he would say he wants to see you like this forever, but that’s not true. what he really wants is for your eyes to flutter open just to look at him, and for him to be the only one you see, just like you’re the only one he sees. he wants you to sleepily smile up at him before letting him touch you, hold you, kiss you, just like he’s wanted from the day he first met you. his eyes turn red as they begin to ache with unshed tears.

beomgyu swallows thickly as he feebly chokes out his next words. 

“i know. i know i'm… i’m a coward. but i love her. what am i supposed to do?” despite soobin’s unforgiving speech, beomgyu has no one else to turn to with this. he momentarily forgets that the man he’s pleading for guidance from is the very man who’s taken you away from him. and that man is now irritated.

“you're not getting it,” soobin scoffs. “you already have no chance, and you never will. instead of just approaching her like a fucking normal person, you were too much of a coward to risk being rejected, and because of that, you’ll never be anything to her. i’m not going to sit here and help you win my girlfriend over. you don't deserve her, and even if you did, i still wouldn't help you.” 

… girlfriend? girlfriend? soobin is many things, a man-whore being one of them, so beomgyu had assumed soobin was just hooking up with you behind his back. truthfully, the thought of anyone in this world having you in that way, the way beomgyu never could, makes him feel like he’s going to vomit; but to know that you’re not just one of soobin’s flings, to know that soobin sees what beomgyu’s seen in you since the moment he first laid eyes on you… that’s what truly makes him feel like he’s going to be fucking sick. 

he's angry. of course, he's angry. but more than angry, he's distraught. he’s never felt so stripped bare—naked and vulnerable for anyone with eyes to see—his usual arrogance failing to cover the ugliness that's been the crux of his true nature for longer than he can remember. he’s been exposed, belly up, with his insides torn out and put on display like a fucking frog stuck under a microscope. and all the while, soobin has been sitting and watching beomgyu squirm as he futilely tries to free himself.

“so, you… you knew how i felt this entire time, and you still got with her?” beomgyu chokes out between strained breaths. this makes soobin pause, and for the first time, he looks like he feels somewhat guilty for what he’s done.

“... yeah. yeah, i did. i thought, well, if you're never going to do anything, why can’t i? i… i’m sorry.” beomgyu knows soobin is not a malicious person, and deep down, he knows he can't blame soobin for seizing the chance to be with you. if he were in soobin’s shoes, if he had a fraction of his bravery, he’d have done the exact fucking same. but still. still, how could soobin do this to him? he could have chosen anyone else in this world, just not you. anyone but you.

“sorry? you’re sorry? you just sat there and fucking ripped me apart, and now you're telling me you’re sorry?” beomgyu accuses with a bitter laugh, his voice unconsciously raising with every word. how could soobin make him confront his unrequited love for you only to rip it out from underneath him? soobin’s supposed to be his best friend, and now he's stealing the love of his life away. but then, he supposes you were never really his in the first place. he's panting now, flushed and angry and at the very precipice of snapping into something unrecognizable. 

soobin pauses before he placatingly says, “look, i know you're overwhelmed right now, and i know you're hurting. but you—”

“are you seriously trying to fucking level with me right now?” and he's pretty much shouting now. “you don't love her the way i love her. you don't even fucking know her. i know everything about her. i know what she loves, what she hates, what she eats, what her favorite words are, what kind of medicine she prefers to take when she's feeling sick. i know fucking everything about her. you don't love her like that, you can't love her like that. nobody can love her like that, besides me!” how dare soobin say beomgyu doesn't deserve you? beomgyu has hurt you, yes, but he still loves you the most. he loves you so much, it hurts.

beomgyu feels his restless fingers aching, and though he's never really been much of a fighter, he wants to wrap them around soobin’s neck to choke some sense into him. 

but then, he hears the bed creaking. you're awake.

you rub your eyes before you sit up with the sheet precariously clasped to your chest, looking disheveled and beautiful and like everything beomgyu’s ever wanted. you're tired from your activities with soobin, but you're also a little disoriented from the wine you two drank earlier. your voice is hoarse when you ask, “beomgyu? what are you doing here? what the fuck’s going on?”

beomgyu feels his heart clench in his chest at the sight of you. he wants to shush you and cradle you to his chest as he coaxes you back to sleep, but you're not in his bed, you're in soobin's. with a longing he's never acknowledged before, he gently pleads, “c'mon, get up and get dressed. i'm getting you out of here.”

the fog over your mind clears and your eyes widen as you finally grasp how potentially cataclysmic this situation is. beomgyu is probably pissed that you're dating his best friend, and who knows what kind of machinations minji will create to tear you two apart when she finds out. you already kind of resent your parents, so if she spreads lies to them about soobin, you wouldn't really mind cutting them off; but how would that make soobin feel? and if minji wants to destroy your reputation to soobin’s friends and family, you know she'll have no trouble doing it. soobin would try to defend you, of course, but you don't want to put him through that.

beomgyu’s deeper intentions fly over your head, and you warily hiss, “what do you want from us?” 

beomgyu’s breath grows even more ragged when soobin’s shirt slips off your shoulder and he sees the mark he left on your neck. god, he wants to scrub every trace of soobin off of you, wants to erase every memory of soobin's treacherous touch from your mind. he wants to occupy every cell of your body, wants to make you forget about every other man who's dared to touch you. he tries to force the thought of what you two and soobin were doing before he got here out of his mind, but his eyes are watery as he pleads, “i want you to come home with me, okay? please? we need to get out of here, we can’t—”

“i’m not going anywhere with you,” you snap. “you're not my fucking family, you're not even my friend. you don't get to tell me what to do.” 

“don't say that, and please… please don't look at me like that.” beomgyu is fully crying now, and the haze of shock finally makes you register how distraught he looks. you're about to ask what the fuck is happening yet again, but he says something you could never imagine he’d say. 

“i love you. all i want to do is love you. please, just let me show you how much i need you, okay? just come home with me—i'm begging you.”

… love? as a pseudo-sister-in-law? you want to believe that's the case, because no matter how far-fetched the notion is, it's still a million times more believable than a romantic explanation. but even so, you simply can't dismiss the way he's looking at you like he needs you to breathe, which is certainly not platonic, let alone familial. 

you're absolutely rendered speechless, and you look to soobin for silent confirmation; but he's not calm, cool, and collected like he’d usually be. he grabs the trembling beomgyu by the collar and drags him out of his apartment. after he pushes beomgyu out of the door, he yells, “i don't give a shit about your fucked up feelings, leave us the fuck alone!” 

beomgyu is far too stunned and distressed to comprehend what's happening until the door is slammed in his face, but when his mind finally catches up, he goes from distressed to hysterical. he's bawling now, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks as he hiccups pleas to you—and threats to soobin—from outside the door amidst his frantic knocks. 

but it's not enough. he can't hear if you two are shuffling around or talking about him, even when he presses his ear to the door and tries to shush his own cries before going back to pounding on the sturdy wood. before any progress can be made—if such progress were even possible—apartment security is dragging him out of the complex and warning him not to return unless he wants to be thrown in jail.

beomgyu trudges back to his apartment. it's quite a bit of a walk from soobin’s place, but he would rather stumble home than call for a ride and risk someone seeing him like this. he cries until he can't cry anymore, and he's still shattered about it all when he finally makes it home. all he wants to do is pass out in his bed so he can briefly forget any of tonight ever happened, but he knows he'll somehow end up producing a few more waves of tears before he can do that. he unlocks his front door and he can already feel his eyes preparing for more tears to fall. 

but, like always, minji has a nearly preternatural knack of appearing when he wants to see her even less than he already does.

“beomie, baby, what's wrong?” she asks concernedly as she walks up to him from her spot on his couch and fusses over him. he knows he looks utterly defeated, like he's just got done being steamrolled, and she seems eager to console him. in a way, he thinks she's probably a bit happy to see him so vulnerable, because he never is in front of her; but he doesn't have the time to dwell on that.

he's not really sure what to say, honestly. how does he verbalize tonight's events? how does he tell her soobin uprooted his most twisted feelings for the girl minji has an equally-twisted relationship with? he decides that the best thing to do is to let her go, and that he needs to tell her the truth for once. he sighs and pries her gentle hands off of him. 

“minji, i need to tell you something,” he says shakily. 

“what is it, babe?” she asks with furrowed brows. “what's got you so worked up?” 

he pauses and bites his lip as he tries to figure out how to word things delicately. he may not like her very much, but she still deserves better than what he's given her. he settles on telling her, “i think we should break up. i just don't… don't think i'm the right person for you. i'm sorry.” 

surprisingly, she laughs. “don’t be stupid, you are the right person for me, just like i'm the right person for you.” 

beomgyu blinks as he tries to process her reaction. he finds his voice and tries again. “no, i'm not. and no, you aren't. i—”

“why?” minji interrupts. “because of your weird obsession with my ‘best friend’?”

beomgyu is speechless for the millionth time tonight. all he can seem to squeeze out of his throat is, “w-what?” 

“you heard me,” she shoots back, disturbingly calmly. “what, did you finally tell her how you feel and get rejected?”

“... what the fuck?” beomgyu gasps, too taken aback to say anything else. 

“it's been a long time coming, i guess, but i could’ve saved you the suspense and told you what she'd say,” she snorts. “you didn't have to get all worked up over nothing.”

“you… you’ve known about it all these years, and you never said anything? what the fuck is wrong with you?!” he exclaims. did everyone in the world know besides you and him? he hates the very idea of it. he hates that he's been suffering in silence, and hates that you’ve never cared enough to notice.

minji has been incredibly tame during this bizarre discussion, but now, she’s hurt, and she’ll say anything at all to hurt him back. 

“oh, please, beomgyu,” she sneers with a grating, teary laugh. “you were so fucking obvious with everything you ever did. the way your eyes trail after her like a goddamn puppy, the way you never want to hang out at your place instead of mine, the way you always get so pissed off when she wears a skirt that’s a little too short. do you think i’m stupid? do you think i don't realize that touching me makes you fucking sick? come on, beomie, you make that pretty goddamn clear with the way you only ever fuck me with the lights off, and how you only really want to touch me when she can hear us.” 

beomgyu feels like he might throw up, or maybe even pass out, he’s not sure, but he thinks he’ll find out soon. he’s utterly humiliated and disgusted with himself to a level he previously couldn’t fathom, even more so than before, but he just can’t wrap his head around one last thing.

“then why did you stay with me if you’ve known how i feel this entire time?” he asks weakly, and she lets out a scoff at his cluelessness.

“because i love you. because you belong to me. we just make sense together. she doesn't deserve someone like you, i do.” she says it like it's the most natural thing in the world—like she's mulled over her ridiculous reasoning a million times over, and she has.

“you’re… you’re fucking crazy. you don't—” 

“beomgyu, be reasonable. look at her, then look at me. nobody else in the goddamn world would pick her over me!” her words falter a bit as she says that, a few pesky tears unconsciously escaping her beautiful eyes; but she composes herself enough to continue. “listen, i know you think i'm a crazy bitch, but don't you get that i'm the only one who really understands you? i know who you really are, and it doesn't bother me. as long as you take your feelings for her and put them towards me, i won't be disgusted by you like she is. i'll accept you, no matter what. don't you want that?” 

“why the fuck would i want someone like you?!” he snarls. “you're—”

“i’m what?” she asks as tears finally fall freely from her eyes. “insane? i hate to be the one who has to break it to you, but you're just as bad as me. that's why we suit each other. from the start, you’ve only ever seen her, not me. it’s not fucking fair that she gets to have you when she doesn't even have to try! she doesn't have to try to take you from me, she doesn't have to try to get people to like her, she doesn't have to try at all. i try so hard to be perfect for you, and here you are, telling me you don't want to be with me because of someone who doesn't even like you.” 

no, no, no. this isn't how it's supposed to be. his world has been thrown off its axis in the span of one night, and he’d rather fucking die than hear another word. minji latched onto him because she couldn't comprehend someone wanting you over him, and in her own way, she loves him. and you… you're with soobin because beomgyu is a coward above all else. he wants to go back in time and never call soobin tonight, he wants to live in the thinly-veiled ignorance he's been occupying for years now, he wants to be the person he thought he was mere hours ago. lastly, he wants to feel used by minji, but he doesn't even deserve the dignity to feel that way, because he was using her right back. 

“get out,” he murmurs.

“beomie, come the fuck on. you’re letting your emotions get to your head. think about what you're doing!” minji borderline shrieks.

“you're right, you know,” beomgyu replies after a pause, and minji is temporarily relieved. she steps closer to him and tries to reach for his face, but he snatches her hands and keeps them in his firm grip as he continues. “i'm just as crazy as you are, but that doesn't make me want you. i hate myself, but i hate you, too. all your life, you've been trying so hard to be better than her, but no matter what you do, you can't force me to want you. i love her, and i'd rather keep wanting and never having her than keep pretending that i can fucking stand being around you. now get out,” he growls as he forces her out of his apartment and slams the door in her lovely face.

-

if beomgyu really thinks about it, he's always teetered right on the brink of knowing the truth, but he's been successful in fooling himself just enough to keep his feelings tamped down. when minji made a mocking comment about you losing your virginity in college, he'd gone home and cried, but he told himself it was because of the stress of finals looming over him. when he consequently spread a rumor about you being a mediocre fuck around campus, he told himself it was because anyone who'd believe him simply didn't deserve you. and when he'd zoom into the background of photos taken with minji just to get a better look at you, he told himself he was simply scrutinizing your appearance.

every time he stole your panties, he'd blame it on the taboo principle of it all rather than it explicitly having to do with you in particular. every time he’d get turned on only when you were around, he'd blame it on some secret exhibitionist kink he didn't know he had. every time he’d pretend to come in his condom during yet another unsatisfying fuck with minji, he reasoned that he was only pounding into his fist in the bathroom while imagining it was you because… well, he didn't really read into his actions for fear of what he might find.

it's a miracle he was able to live in denial for so long, and he should be grateful that the truth didn't come out sooner. still, as the weeks since the night he pathetically confessed his feelings to you pass by, he doesn't feel grateful in the slightest. he could stalk you, probably. he could threaten soobin and make him pay for what he's done. there are a million twisted things he could do to get you back in his sight, but he doesn't want to do any of them. because you wouldn't like them. because you might hate him even more than you already do. and if he's learned anything from minji, it's that you can't force someone to love you in any meaningful way.

so, he rots. he wakes up alone, goes to work on autopilot, comes straight home and drinks until he's incoherent, then goes to sleep, well, alone. he should probably try to go back to how he was before he met you, but he feels like that was another life—like he was a different person. time seems to be split before and after he met you, as much as it pains him to admit it.

it's a lonely, rainy night like any other when he's home late from work. he’s been here more in the past month than he has since he began dating minji, but he's adjusting to his newly single life as well as he can. the apartment is devoid of many personal pieces, furnished sparsely and lacking any real character. he cracks open a bottle of whiskey and begins drinking directly from it, not bothering to even use a glass. he sits on his uncomfortable couch, like he always does, and thinks about all the things he's done wrong. he doesn't even get the chance to get tipsy when he hears a knock on his door.

it's probably minji again. she's come by a few times since he dumped her, and while he could probably get a restraining order or something, he kind of enjoys seeing her suffer the way he suffered. it's not healthy, he knows, but it's one of the few forms of pleasure he feels these days. something is different tonight, though. the knocking isn't frantic, it's almost hesitant, and it doesn't last for very long. he furrows his eyebrows, and for some reason, he shoots up from the couch and rushes towards the door. his breath catches when he looks through the peephole.

there you are, standing awkwardly—almost like you're not even sure why you're there. you're drenched from the rain, and one of your arms is wrapped protectively around yourself as the other reaches towards the door, perfectly poised to knock again. just before your fist can quite make it to the door, you pause and retract it—folding it on top of your other arm. you stand still for a moment, and beomgyu is simply too stunned to move. at least, he is until you turn and begin to walk away.

with a speed he didn't even know he possessed until now, he wrenches the door open and grabs your arm before you can even react. 

“wait,” he pants, not from exertion, but from adrenaline. “what… what are you doing here?”

he thinks he sees you gulp, but that could just be wishful thinking. your lips part and close again a few times before you manage to ask, “can we talk?” 

“y-yeah, of course. um, come in,” he stammers awkwardly as he reluctantly releases his hold on you.  

what is this? some kind of psychological torture? you’ve never sought beomgyu out until now, which should give him a spark of hope, but he knows better than to delude himself. 

he steps away from the doorway to let you in and lightly shuts the door behind you. he clears his throat and asks, “if you're—do you need anything? a towel, maybe, or clothes. and i have… i have water, if you want. i mean, if you're thirsty.” he hates how fucking stupid he sounds right now, but it's almost like he can't stop talking.

you're quiet for a moment before asking, “can i have some clothes and a towel?”

his eyes widen a bit before he eagerly nods. “o-oh, yeah. just give me a second.” he tries not to sprint to his room, and he prays to god that he has clean pajamas for you. luckily, he's able to find something suitable. he returns to the living room and offers the clothes and towel to you with trembling hands. “here,” he says. “you can change in the bathroom down the hall. i… i’ll put your clothes in the dryer, okay?” 

you purse your lips and nod. he watches you pad down the hallway until you're no longer visible. he lets out a deep breath he didn't realize he was holding and seats himself on his stone slab of a couch. fuck, he should’ve gotten a better one like minji nagged him to. also, he’s been meaning to wipe down his bathroom mirror for a while. most importantly, though, what the fuck are you doing here?

he doesn't have time to dwell on it before you're walking back into the living room. his eyes snap up, and he feels a lump in his throat when he sees his clothes on you. his clothes, not soobin’s this time. it feels like he's hallucinating, to be perfectly honest, but he's fine with that. he just hopes the illusion continues.

it’s all too real when you plop down on the couch beside him, maintaining a respectful distance. fortunately, the couch is not only hard as concrete, but small to boot, so you end up only being a few inches away. maybe it isn't so bad after all. his thoughts are halted when you clear your throat and speak.

“soobin, uh… well, he told me everything he knows, but i just… i mean, i wanted to hear it from you,” you stammer. he knows exactly what you’re talking about, but he wishes he didn't.

“what do you want to know?” he asks in resignation. 

“everything,” you tell him, and he purses his lips with a stiff nod. he's had plenty of time to think about the unfortunate circumstances that led him to his sorry state, so the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“i’ve always thought that you were so… so pretty. i saw you laughing with your friends on the way to class one day, and i knew i wanted you to look at me like that. and when i listened to you talk to your friends, i thought you were so smart, funny, and… and nice.” his lips are turned up in a wistful smile, and his eyes are uncharacteristically gentle. “but you never saw me, not really. you just saw me as minji’s friend, and i thought—i don't know—that if i just hung around her more, you'd warm up to me. i don't even think you remember, but i tried to be nice to you, to include you in conversation, to stand up for you. i swear to god, i did. but… but i saw the way you looked at someone else one day in the library. i remember it so clearly—you actually smiled at him and laughed at his jokes, and he wasn't even trying like i was. i was so fucking angry, but i thought i could make you see me if i made you as jealous as you made me, and i thought that there was nobody better to do it with than the girl you hate the most.” 

oh, god. you actually feel… kind of guilty? is guilty even the word? you haven't done anything wrong, you know that, but you feel like you've unintentionally twisted the knife in his chest with your apathy. for as much as you've always wanted him to drop his antagonizing demeanor, you don't like how pitiful he looks right now. “beomgyu, i…”

“yeah, i know. i was wrong,” he continues, his soft smile twisting into a self-deprecating one. “i went from being nothing to less than nothing, and it just… it made me desperate. so, i kept trying, got mean; but you never cared, no matter what i did. i guess i thought that if i could never have you, maybe i should stay with minji, because then i could make you feel something for me. even if it was only hatred and disgust—anything was better than nothing.”

“beom—” you begin to say, but he's so lost in his feelings, so lost in the foreign sensation of talking to you and actually having you listen to him, he can't stop himself.

“i just wanted you to pay attention to me. and i could—you know—keep an eye on you. but you… you don't give a shit about me, you don't even consider me as a man,” he laughs. “if i think about it, maybe i was trying to make myself an option for you, at least, and that i could show you what you're missing if i tried hard enough. but you could never actually see me that way, and… and it's all my fault.” he lets out another harsh laugh, making you wince. 

“i… i didn't know,” you say awkwardly. he takes a shaky breath before continuing.

“i've been begging for you just to give me scraps of you, because i thought it'd be better than nothing. all i ever wanted was for you to at least consider me, but you don't, you never did, and because of what i've done, you never will. i know i was wrong, i know everything is my fault; but i just wanted to be important to you, can't you understand that?” his eyes are pleading like they were when you last saw him. he's not asking for much, not even really asking for anything, and for some reason, it hurts your heart a bit.

because beomgyu is right, of course. you’ve never really cared about him, but that's not all of it, is it? you were resolved to your indifference before he even uttered a word to you, and while the disgust you've always felt for him is his fault, can you truthfully say that you’d have given him the time of day if he were nice to you? probably not, because of his association with minji. in your mind, there was no reason he’d like you if he knew her first, so his intentions were rejected before he could ever even understand them.

“i really didn't know,” is all you can think to repeat.

“i know,” he says with a bitter smile. you lick your lips before continuing.

“but i do know that i wouldn't have liked you even if you were nice to me. i don't… i don't talk to guys who are involved with minji. there's just… no point, i guess. and she liked you, and i thought you liked her, so… so i didn’t bother to get to know you.” beomgyu’s eyes are watery, but he retains his smile. he was doomed from the start, it seems. 

“i should’ve just talked to you myself instead of using her to get close to you,” he whispers.

“yeah,” you reply, and his smile finally drops; but what else could you possibly say? if he hadn't gotten involved with minji, you'd have probably liked him. he's handsome, of course, and you can't deny that he's funny. and, well, you two do seem to have a lot in common based on what you know from small talk he'd make with your parents during family dinners.

“i'm sorry,” he murmurs. “i'm really, really sorry. even if you didn't like me, even if you never would've no matter what, i shouldn't have treated you the way i did. i don't blame you for hating me, and i should be grateful you haven't done anything other than ignore me.” he means what he says, but it doesn't sound like it, because he doesn't feel grateful at all. he feels utterly hopeless. in the end, your indifference was more painful than any intentional retaliation could’ve been. 

you are silent. he's not trying to make you feel sorry for him, and you know it, but that makes you feel even sorrier. you're still struggling to form an appropriate response when he breaks the silence.

“i like listening to you talk,” he blurts out, making your eyes widen. “well, you don't really talk to me, but i overhear you a lot. i like listening to everything you say, and i like the way you say it. i like how you look, how you dress, how you laugh. and i… i like how you see the world.”

“don't you think i'm a little pessimistic?” you ask, your lips subconsciously curling up in a small smile. of all the things beomgyu could tell you he likes about you, that is truly something you never anticipated.

“i think it makes you interesting,” he says quickly, his smile tentatively returning. 

you let out a soft laugh—the first one you've ever directed at him—and he can't help but straighten up with a bit of pride at having made you happy, even if just a little.

after your laughter, though, you think back on all the things you've wanted to ask beomgyu since that night at soobin’s. you know he'll tell you the truth, so you ask, “... were you the one who messed with my stuff?”

“yeah,” he replies with no hesitation. the sheer ecstasy of your attention makes him quite forthcoming, no matter how ugly the answers to your questions may be.

“even my panties?” well, that one is a bit more difficult to answer. 

“... yeah,” he sheepishly mumbles after a pause, but his next words are hurried. “and everything soobin said i did, i did. scaring guys away, being an asshole to you for attention, uh, jerking off to you in the bathroom… all of it. i know i'm fucked up, and i know i probably scare you, but i would never hurt you. i just want to love you. i just… i want you to care about me.” 

you take a breath and begin, “i—”

“wait! before you say anything, i just want you to know, it's… it's okay if you don't like me,” you can tell the words are like lead in his mouth, “but can't you just acknowledge me a little bit?” christ, he's so pathetic. you're not used to him being so… sweet? to you, but maybe you could be. 

for as much as beomgyu has been thinking about his failed confession, you can't lie and say you haven't been thinking about it, too. you really did love soobin, but there was always a bit of reservation on both of your parts—a quiet kind of affection that you were happy to let grow organically; but your love was never all-consuming, never desperate, never aching. but beomgyu… beomgyu looks like he'd prostrate himself at your feet if it meant you'd give him the time of day, and he would. 

“i can,” you say simply, and his eyes widen.

“you… you can? what do you—”

“i can pay attention to you. i can care about you.”

his face tenses and his adam’s apple bobs. his voice is strained when he asks, “what are you saying?”

“i'm saying, i’m willing to get to know you the way you know me. i just want to see how things go, because… i don't know, i kind of... like how weird you are.” 

elation, triumph, and sheer relief overwhelm him. he doesn't want to ask his next question, but he feels like he has to. “what about soobin?”

you purse your lips and answer, “we… we broke up. no hard feelings, we just kind of realized we wanted different things out of our relationship, i guess.”

“oh, thank god,” he murmurs as he releases a shaky breath. theoretically, he should at least offer perfunctory condolences, but you two are way past such insincerity. you both know he's over the moon right now, and he's spent more than enough time lying.

only now do you notice that he's somehow managed to scoot closer and closer to you until your legs are touching without your knowledge. the clothing between you doesn't do anything to tamp down the buzzing sensation at the tentative contact. you look back up at him to meet his gaze, and his eyes are trained on you like you're the only person in the world. now that you think about it, you’ve caught glimpses of this kind of focus before—the kind of focus in which he looks at you as if everything and everyone else besides you has faded away.

his gaze flicks from your eyes down to your lips before refocusing. he leans in so close, you can see every minute detail of his face. long lashes, round eyes, slightly-chapped lips he keeps on licking from sheer nervousness. 

his voice is barely above a whisper when he asks, “please, can i…” he doesn't dare to finish his question, so there it hangs, unspoken yet unfathomably heavy. 

it’s like there’s a strange sort of magnetic pull drawing you to him. before you can recount all of the reasons why this is a bad idea—at least, so soon—you tell him, “okay.” 

that's more than enough, it seems, because in a flash, beomgyu cups your cheeks in his big, warm hands and tenderly traces his thumb along your jaw before pulling you in. 

the first meeting is pure electricity. your lips immediately slot together as if they were always meant to be that way—as if everything else was simply an obstacle leading to this inevitability. the hums of energy you feel at your clothed legs touching is nothing compared to the way every nerve in your body is set ablaze right now. you feel him shudder before he reluctantly pulls away. his eyes never leave yours, and the look in his eyes is so intense—so hungry—you feel breathless under its weight.

“thank you, i've been wanting to do that for forever,” he mutters breathlessly, and he should be finished by now, but his hands remain on your face. he gently pushes your hair behind your ears before adding, “can i… can i show you what else i've been wanting to do? i swear, i'll be perfect, and i'll stop whenever you want. i know it's fast to you, but it's not to me. i just… i want you to feel how much you mean to me. but… but i won't push you.” he’s serious about that, you know, but he looks like he'll die if you don't let him prove himself to you. his cheeks are flushed, and if his squirming weren't enough, the obvious tent in his sweatpants tells you everything you need to know. 

for the second time tonight, you take a deep breath and say, “okay.”

“oh,” he groans as he pulls you back in for another kiss. this one is much more fierce, utterly insatiable. his tongue licks your bottom lip, begging for entry, and you eagerly oblige. he moans into your mouth as his tongue tangles with yours, trying to commit every centimeter to memory. he’s embarrassingly hard humiliatingly fast, but he’s fantasized about this for so long, who can blame him? 

when you two break for air, his eyes are darkened with lust as he gulps and asks, “can i—” 

before he can finish, you cut him off by palming him through his sweatpants. the groan he releases is utterly guttural and animalistic in nature, and you carefully add, “do whatever you want.”

his breath catches in his throat at the permission, and with shaky hands and unsteady steps, he leads you to his bedroom. you're on the bed in an instant, and in mere moments, he's stripped you of the clothes he gave you to wear. you feel a bit uncomfortable, honestly, knowing he’s probably comparing you to minji; but before you can dwell on it, he's gulping and reverently whispering, “you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.”

before you even have the time to feel shy or embarrassed, his hands are all over you—your chest, your hips, your ass—but he won't let himself get lost in clumsy touches and lose sight of his ultimate goal: making you feel better than you ever have. he kisses down your jaw and throat before planting a searing mark at the base of your neck. he soothes the sting with his tongue, outwardly apologizing for the slight pain, but internally, he's buzzing with excitement at the prospect of leaving something tangible on you—something that ties you to him.

his mouth purposefully trails down to your chest, sucking on one peak and teasing the other before switching over. he beams into your chest when he hears you moan. slowly, he pops his mouth off and briefly kisses you again before planting kisses down your stomach, and finally, finally, finally, to your core. you're not sure how much time has passed, but you do know you've never been so wet before in your life. he spreads your legs open and groans when he sees you glistening for him. then, he looks up at you with watery eyes. there's yet another question there, you can see it, so you spread your legs a bit wider in a silent invitation. 

suddenly, his lips are buried in your folds. he leaves kisses, but try as he might, he doesn't have the wherewithal to control his hunger. when he takes his first lick, you feel an infernal heat beginning to consume you completely. he moans in pure ecstasy when he tastes you, and you can feel the vibrations reverberating through your cunt, your legs, your entire body. 

“so fucking good,” he whispers, his breath warm against your naked lips, and that's all the warning you get before he begins to lick you and suck up your slick as if he were a starving man.

you can't help but writhe beneath him as his tongue circles over your clit, and he removes one of the hands he was using to keep you spread open for him and presses it on your lower stomach to keep you in place. his other arm remains firmly locked around your thigh, nearly bruising you with his desperate grip. you've never had a man eat you out like you were showing him the greatest kindness of his life by doing so, but he clings to you so hungrily, you know that in his mind, you are. 

you begin to reach your peak far too quickly, and you think you moan something about being close—you're not really sure—when he slides his tongue into your hole and begins to thrust it in and out. his nose remains buried in your cunt, and you let out a cry of his name as patches of white explode behind your eyelids. he looks up at you as you come, his eyes shining with awe and pride. 

as you're coming down, he licks his upturned lips and dazedly whispers, “you came. i did that for you. i made you feel good, right?”

you let out a soft laugh and breathlessly reply, “yes, that was… you made me feel really good. so… what else do you want to show me?” 

his eyes go from innocent to dark again as he processes your words. he anxiously bites his lip as he slowly pulls off his shirt, then his sweatpants and boxers. his cock is painfully hard, pathetically leaking with precum and even redder than usual—because of the way he was humping the bed mere moments ago as you were lost in the haze of getting the best oral of your life. 

it’s pretty, just like every other part of him, and you have no doubt that he'll stretch you out nearly beyond what you'll be able to handle. it twitches traitorously with need as he stares at you, still dripping into his previously-crisp sheets. he unsteadily grabs his base and looms over you as he begins to tease himself up and down your cunt. he shudders at the contact, but he keeps his eyes locked with yours. he wants to watch every minuscule movement in your face as he finally, finally makes you understand how much he can do for you.

he begins to push in, one hand braced beside your head as his fat tip breaches your entrance. you both let out strangled cries at the insertion, and it takes every ounce of willpower and luck he can muster to not come immediately. he's jerked his cock raw for countless nights wishing he were fucking you, and here you are, looking up at him like he's the only thing you see. just like he's always longed for. it's an intoxicating sensation. 

“you're so fucking tight,” he groans as he works himself in. “so perfect around me.”

he draws himself out before thrusting in a little further. then again. then again. each time, he gains a bit more of you, splitting you open further and further with every movement of his hips. his veiny cock drags against the most pleasurable spot in your cunt every time. he's whimpering now, and he'd be shy in any other context, but not right now. he's fucking a girl raw for the first time, and not just any girl, the girl. the girl he’s wanted since… well, always. he couldn't care less about the fact that he sounds like a whore.

when he pulls out and slams back in again, he's finally completely sheathed in you. his eyes roll back in absolute pleasure as he lets out a guttural moan. you, on the other hand, feel so full, feel so right, you're writhing beneath him. with a shuddering breath, beomgyu pulls out almost completely before drilling into you again and again. his pace is frantic—carnal, even. when you thread your fingers in his hair, he lets out a desperate whine. 

“you feel so—mm, fuck!—so perfect. squeezing me so fucking tight, i can't—oh, god!” he babbles as he pounds himself into you. he has just enough awareness to take his skilled fingers and roll your clit as he loses himself in you. he keeps up his brutal pace in an act of frenzy.

“never—nngh—never wanna stop,” he whines as tears begin to pool in his eyes. they fall completely when you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in for a filthy kiss. he tastes like you, and you realize you like it that way. you realize you like how pathetic he is, how much he’s loved you all this time, how much he needs you. you break from him and sink your teeth into his neck like he did to you, marking him as your own, and he lets out an animalistic cry he did not know he was capable of making.

“fuck, yes, yes, yes!” he cries out as his aching balls slap against you with every thrust. “please, please come. need to feel you—ah!—feel you come on my cock.”

his gaze finally parts from yours to look at your stomach. how nice would it be to be one with you completely? as much as he wants to, he can't stay inside of you forever, can't enmesh his body with yours, but he can become a part of you in a different way. he can plant his seed in your stomach, can mix his dna with yours in a physical, living, breathing product of his love for you—if he's fortunate enough. that way, he’ll be tied to you the way he never wanted to be tied to minji, and you’ll be tied to him just the same. but you haven't even agreed to date him. you're just lost in lust, right?

“i’m… i’m gonna come,” he pants as he continues to work your clit and fuck you like a crazed man. “have to pull out.” the words are almost painful to say, but he grits his teeth and says them, anyway.

shockingly, you wrap your legs around his waist and say between labored breaths, “you don't have to.” 

the whine he lets out is laughably emasculating, but he doesn't care. he fucks you even more fiercely and rolls your clit with even more desperation, and you can feel the tension in your stomach about to snap. you let out a broken moan of his name as you come undone beneath him, your mind flooding with nothing but unmarred bliss, and your cunt clenching around him so suffocatingly, he can barely even thrust.

“oh, sh-shit!” he cries out as his orgasm throws his world off-kilter. his cum floods your insides then—thick and hot—and he can feel you squeezing him for every last drop. he gives a few more weak thrusts before collapsing on top of you. you both pant in exhaustion, but once he catches his breath, he buries his face into the crook of your sweaty neck.

“i love you so fucking much,” he whispers, his breath making your skin tingle. he pulls away and looks up at you. “and you… you’ll love me back. i'll make sure everything—i won't let anything go wrong. and if minji tries anything, i'll ruin her fucking life. i swear, i'll be perfect. i'll be the perfect boyfriend, husband, father of—”

“tone down the crazy,” you warn as you lightly pinch his cheek. 

“s-sorry, i just got excited,” he blushes. “but i mean it, you know? i won't waste this, i promise. i'll be good for you every day, and i’ll show you how much i love you until you feel the same way. and our family—i mean, your family, they might be mad, but we'll deal with whatever happens, okay? and if they can't accept us, then we always have my family. they won't treat you badly, i swear.” he means it. his family doesn't even really know minji, and when they did meet her, they didn't care for her. 

beomgyu is looking at you with his watery, pleading eyes, and you know he'd give you the entire world if you let him. if yours and minji’s families hate you after this, he’ll be your family, and you kind of hate your family, anyway. he loves you, and oddly enough, you can really see things working out just as he says they will. 

you can't help but let out a tired laugh. “okay, i believe you.”

he groans in relief as he kisses you again, deeply and tenderly and lovingly, and you can see yourself falling in love with him, too. 

notes pt. 2: i hope u all liked this one! it's been a while since i've written beomgyu this way and i kinda missed him. ik i'm not the best at writing him but pls dont be mean. and again if u enjoyed this please leave feedback!

taglists

permanent: @lonelybutterflytae @sooberryworld @hyueika @boba-beom @vicurious28 @lickingan0rchid @katsukis1wife @notevenheretbh1 @that1sadgrl @archoive @paegesoobin @buttercreamerie @serenityism00 @fairfootedflekk @definitelynotherr @hyunj00 @taehyunluvrs @m00gyu @denleave1088 @hwanghyunjinismybae @todorokiskitten @choikanghuening @thispersonlovesbeomgyu @naoristerling @sunnysidesins @beommieternity @peanutbutterjam505 @tkooooop @fairy-jojo

freudian: @soobsfairy444 @bambammtori @ewsnup @younbeanz @weyukinluv @wildernessuntothemselves @dksfml

[dogydayz]

I have SO many feelings about Skids and Swerve too

I just dunno how to word them gnajakak

For my that I'm working on that is Swerve centric, Skids plays a MAJOR part in Swerve's story and I had to sit down with my friend to study his character and there is SO MUCH I could go on about him!

One major part is how he hates sitting back and doing nothing, but being forced to do so and watch anyway. Due to his trauma that he forgot, but very much still affects him, where he was forced to witness the people he thought he had just saved die.

Skids looked the WORST during the Swearth arc. Like, he looked more miserable seeing Swerve suffer than when he was reliving his trauma istg

Also this scene

Look at how he's so tenderly holding Swerve's face-

And this one too

IT TOOK ME A BIT TO NOTICE BUT SKIDS IS HOLDING SWERVE'S OTHER HAND AND UGH!

Also, look at him piggy backing Tailgate

He also would and has thrown punches for the people he cares for and very easily resorts to violence for them

Also Swerve calls Skids his best friend and would do everything to save his friend and even cried panicking for him (we don't see his visor doing the lil corner tear thing often)

And he also is always so concerned about Skids in general he also gets a lil aggressive when it comes to his friends

And just AAAAAAAAAAAA

I DONT THINK PEOPLE TALK ABOUT THEIR FRIENDSHIP ENOUGH WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE THEY'RE ALWAYS IGNORED WHEN THEIR FRIENDSHIP WAS SUCH A BIG PART IN SO MANY MOMENTS!!!!!!

Ahem

Anyway

Sorry for the ramble I just get a lil passionate about them and I just think more people need to do more stuff about them or know about them 😌

And this isn't even all I have to say, but a lot of it is relating to my au that ties into canon and stuff I explore in general in the story and that is a whole other ramble in itself gkdkakaak

Hope ya don't mind this long ass ask tho TuT

I LOVE THIS!!! Ill be entirely real i dont often go back thru the comic because of how painful so many parts are (it makes me cry really easily) so youve been able to describe it soooo much better than i have. I adore them. i literally adore them. Skids cares so much for people. It’s WHY his trauma affected him so horribly. oh, and also? when he was literally DYING, his only thought was to try to GET TO BRAINSTORM. TO TELL HIM WHAT HAD HAPPENED. TO ADMIT TO IT HAVING BEEN HIS OWN DOING. HE DIDNT EVEN CARE ABOUT HIMSELF!!! Skids’ EVERYTHING is utterly agonizing to me. in my story when he gets revived and everyone is freaking out in unadulterated joy, Nautica feels horrendous because she cant seem to make herself feel more excited to see him again (due to the whole grief thing). And she tries to apologize, but he just grabs her by the shoulders and is like “I literally COULD NOT CARE LESS about that! I’m alive, and all of you still are too-! That’s all I care about, you’re all okay!!”

Swerve will probably break down seeing him back tbh. that shit fucked him up. He was like, noticeably more nervous and such after all of that went down (and can we talk about the fact that Cyclonus basically took over in standing up for Swerve and comforting him? Like. FUCK man. goddamn it. im going to be violently ill about all of them.)

[deci-doodles]

Adeptal shenanigans pt. 1 of ???? feat. a much younger Mingli

[semperamans]

hi! i have no clue what i'm doing here, but i've been so inspired by @harrysfolklore, so i decided to try my hand at smaus! i'm also so very new to the world of f1, so pretty please go easy on me <3

in my weird little noggin' - yn is a famous singer dating shawn mendes whom (spoiler) turns out to be a jerk and wittle baby oscar is in love and just wants a chance :'( let me know if you wanna see more <3

fc: gracie abrams

liked by piastrisbakery, teammclaren, landoe04, and others

piastriupdates oscar is never beating the fan boy allegations and we love to see it :')

view all 1,342 comments

sc4rlett_44 LANDOS FACE I CANNOT

↳ vroomvroombois he looks like spongebob after squidward ate the krabby patty 😭

↳ piastrisbakery you like yourusername, don't you oscarpisatri 😏

landoland A FEARLESS RESPONSE SOME MIGHT SAY FDHJFKSDHF

↳ newintown THE WAY YOU CAN TELL THAT'S NOT THE FIRST YN-RELATED PUN LANDO HAS EVER SAID TO HIM

↳ forever_mclaren omg PLEASE go watch the 'oscar being in love with yn for 15 minutes' video on youtube. you'll quickly find that lando is the captain of the yncar ship.

wrongagain osc is soooo cute!! but yn is never leaving shawn. they're too perfect for each other ❤️

↳ oscarsfearless89 idk... oscar talks more about yn than shawn does at this point...

liked by zendaya, oscarpiastri, shawnmendes, arianagrande and others

yourusername shawn peter raul, how i will forever love you :’) the sunshine on my darkest days. i simply don’t know what i would do without you. thank you for choosing me two years ago today <3

view all 1,112,210 comments

love4yn mom and dad mom and dad mom and dad mom and dad!!

↳ starryeyesandbutterflies i think your parents are getting divorced bc shawn didn't even post her :(

↳ ynlover111 SAYING YOUR PARENTS ARE GETTING DIVORCED IS SOOOOO CRAZY WHAT THE FUCKSJDF 😭

forever_yn i love when we get boyfriend pics of shawn but he never posts any cutie pics of our girl :(

timotheechalamet ew

↳ yourusername shouldn't you be clocking in at the chocolate factory right about now? 🤨

vroomvroombois PLEASE oscarpiastri not you liking this like you aren't WAITING for the day they break up 🧐

↳ f1fanatic81 osc would 100% treat yn better

↳ landoe04 i see what you did there...

camilaisqueen shawn and camila were cuter imo 🤷🏻‍♀️

↳ ynsgirly I SWEAR TO GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT KING CHARLES' DUSTY ASS WIFE

↳ speaknowstan arguably the better camila...

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shawnmendes uploaded a story!

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mclaren posted a new video!

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yourusername uploaded a story!

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liked by calilovesoscarp, sc4rlett_44, pitstoppiastri, landoe04, and others

oscarpiastriupdates these spot the difference games are becoming impossible.

view all 453 comments

foreverpiastri ive never seen him look so angry...

sc4rlett_44 the audacity of that interviewer 😬

↳ newintown wait, what happened?

↳ sc4rlett_44 during the pre-quali interviews, someone from press kept dropping shawn mendes song titles in their question and he was making it *really* obvious. Osc was pissed.

↳ vroomvroombois he turned into such a little diva. i love.

↳ piastriprincess no because if someone said "hey Oscar, i'm curious if you would be able to treat YN better than Shawn Mendes? i've heard you're a fan, so i figured you'd be left in stitches following the news. luckily there's nothing holding you back! hopefully YN will have some mercy on you!" i'd kill them

↳ ynoscarsunshine osc is such a gentleman though :( "you know those are actual people you're making a joke out of, right? someone in that situation has real, hurt feelings, and, to be honest, i'm unintrested in joking and capitalizing off someone's pain. next question."

shippingyncar the way he defends her </3 oscar > shawn no contest.

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liked by selenagomez, yourbrother, oscarpiastri, oliviarodrigo, and others

yourusername *taps mic* is this thing on?

well, hi there! i apologize profusely for my sudden absence, but your girl had to touch grass, pick up some new hobbies, catch up with old friends, and teach my nieces how to tell good apples from bad ones (a very important life lesson)! for complete transparency, i've had a really rough go of things lately. the heart was never meant to break with millions of eyeballs upon it, but mine did and boy did it suck. if you find yourself hurting now, please let me be your reminder that hard times *do* pass. things *will* get better. just give it some time.

i'll get off my soapbox! anyway, i am *so* excited to show you guys what i've been working on while cozied up on my parents' front porch swing watching spring roll in :') i'll being seeing you guys oh so soon 💚

view all 1,101,238 comments

drewbarrymore ❤️😘

inlovewithyn istg your instagram posts are like a kiss on the forehead

mclaren 🧡 if you're looking for a new hobby, watching F1 races is highly entertaining! ♥️ by author

↳ oscarpiastri this is true.

↳ landonorris can confirm.

↳ charlesleclerc can also confirm.

↳ lewishamilton 👆🏾

↳ maxverstappen fast cars are fun, yes.

↳ danielricciardo very fun indeed.

↳ scuderiaferrari ❤️🏎️

↳ bestofyn YN HAS THE WHOLE GRID IN HER COMMENTS I CANNOT WHAT IS HAPPENING

↳ boxboxbaby EVEN FERRARI IS HELPING OSCAR SHOOT HIS SHOT IFDSJFISL?!

arianagrande the vid u sent of your nieces singing defying gravity has been on repeat 💖

rarebeauty stunning ❤️

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liked by sainzsmiles, danielricciardo, landoe04, landonorris, and more

mclaren yo bro, who got you smiling like that? 🧡

we are smiling because bahrain is just five days away!

view all 13,210 comments

landonorris i know 😏

↳ oscarpiastri 🤨 mclaren i'd like to request a new teammate

↳ danielricciardo i also know 💁🏽‍♀️

↳ piastrisbakery danielricciardo WHY DID YOU USE THAT EMOJI??? I CANNOT

↳ danielricciardo because i am sassy 💁🏽‍♀️

↳ maxverstappen i know, too!

circuitcutie oh this is absolutely bc yn followed him back

↳ bigmclarenfan ?? can we focus on racing please??

↳ oscpresso no ❤️

↳ danielricciardo no 💁🏽‍♀️

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(part two)

[muqingslover]

[ I've seen how Caleb is often described to be a sex god without any experience at every first time (and I eat it up) but I also think we should discuss the other side of it. Kinda of an addition to my previous post ]

Let's discuss virgin Caleb that since he hit puberty has been struggling with his own desires and when he finally received the green light from you it's like a dam was unleashed.

This man is BEYOND sensitive. And so damn needy too, to the point that greedy would be a much more suitable word for him.

He started having wet dreams about you after the first kiss and the walk of shame to the bathroom every morning to wash his boxers is very real.

He's got a leaking and painful boner every time you kiss him for a little too long and he can't get enough of the taste of your tongue on his.

Having you on his lap is both bliss and torture. He'd try to hide the fact he's hard the first few times, not wanting to scare or pressure you, but each time your hips pressed down against his boner he'd be rolling his eyes back into his head and forcing down a groan.

I'm a dry-humping truther and I firmly believe the first time he came with you was by rubbing himself against your leg like the dog he is while you two were making out.

Caleb is mortified about his first experience with a blow job and he wishes you'd forget such an embarrassing moment of him.

But in all honesty, it wasn't his fault. You offered out of nowhere, which left him no time to mentally prepare, and just by having you kneeling down in front of him with your hand wrapped around his cock had him gripping the edge of the desk behind him, to the point the wood creaked at the sheer pressure.

And when you licked along the precum that was dripping down his length and pushed your tongue against his swollen tip he came and he came hard. His cum coating your face, getting onto some parts of your hair and in your mouth.

It goes without saying that he spent the rest of the day apologizing, but the sight of you swallowing his cum that had gotten onto your lips made him dizzy and hard again.

I'm sure he'll be fantastic in bed eventually, but your first time is a mess. Literally. Caleb is so eager to explore the body he's desired for so long and to please you as much as you do to him.

Everywhere he can reach is littered with dark and very obvious hickeys.

He'd have your hands pinned next or above your head so you couldn't touch him otherwise he knows he won't last at all.

Though, all his efforts bear no fruit because the second this man bottoms out inside of your warm and tight insides he is cumming again.

His body would tremble as he held his entire weight on his forearms to not crush you and he bit down on his lips.

After switching condoms, you'd have to get on top while his shaky legs recover from his orgasm and oh gods he's really trying his fucking best right now.

He's panting against your neck when you roll your hips and cause a loud moan to escape his lips, followed by his strong arms wrapping around your middle like a bear hug as if to keep himself grounded. It's rather cute, really.

He'd come with you this time, if not a little before from you clenching around his cock and the sweet whimpers because he's oh so very sensitive.

His hands would feel up your thighs then shamelessly grab your ass while he looked up at you, loving the view of you on top of him and he's got the cockiest grin you've ever seen on his face.

Now we're talking about someone with YEARS of suppressed sexual desires so you better brace yourself because he's far from done.

Caleb would use the entire night to learn everything he possibly can about your body, besides what he already knew. Each sweet spot that make you cry so good for him and just how deep he can hit inside of you to have you gasping for more.

He's sloppy, he's desperate, he's pathetic and it's messy. He'd ask between shaky breaths and his tone is almost whiny "Does that good? I need you to talk to me sweetheart, c'mon."

"Tell me what you want and I'll do it. Teach me how to make you feel good."

"Can I go deeper? Fuck- Please? Please? you feel so good-"

"I can't stop— Just one more, I'll make it good for you too, please, gods please, I need more of you or I'll go insane."

Caleb is the type of pathetic loser that would get a nosebleed while he pounded into you for the nth time.

He'd kiss you when you showed concern, spit trickling down your chin as the taste of iron would spread on your tongue before he pulled away to admire the sight of you completely disheveled for him. Because of him.

He licks the few drops on your chest, the crimson smearing with the sweat glistening on your skin and leaving a trail that only added to the perverted satisfaction that you're his.

Almost every position is crossed off the list in a single night and he's willing to do anything you ask of him. You want to ride him again? He's sat. You want him to hit it from the back? He's got you on your hands and knees already. You want him to eat you out? Please, by all means take a seat on his face. You have complete control over everything that happens most of the time.

It's morning by the time you two pass out, or run out of condoms in the box honestly, but you can fully expect him to try something when he gets into the shower with you the next day. Hey, he's just helping you clean up like a good boyfriend should ;) .

[spider-stark]

SWORN RIVALS

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!Reader

Summary - Taking up sparring with your sworn rival is likely never a good idea.

Warnings - barely edited, blood, implied fighting, suggestive language but no real smut, likely ooc given that the episode hasn't even aired yet lmao

Word Count - 1.1k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Pain splinters throughout your hand as your knuckles collide with his jaw. He stumbles backwards—just barely managing to keep himself from falling right onto his ass. 

“You fight like a girl,” you jeer, purposefully antagonizing him. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected of a Blackwood.” 

A raspy laugh rumbles through Benjicot Blackwood’s chest—a bitter, deep sound that sets your toes curling. 

“You’ve got quite a mouth on you.” Forcing his chin high, he flashes his crimson-stained teeth in a wry grin, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He muses, “But perhaps we should put it to better use, don’t you think?” 

You cut your eyes at the bawdy implication. “You’re disgusting, Ben.” 

Another chuckle as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, inadvertently smearing blood along his bottom lip. The sight is entrancing—in a morbid sort of way. It glistens like pomegranate juice and, for a mere breath, you wonder if it would taste half as sweet. 

“C’mon!” Ben’s teasing tone slices through your thoughts, forcing some sense back into you. “Don’t act like you’ve never thought of it before,” he says, waving a hand between you both, “the two of us–” 

You don’t let him finish his sentence, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “I haven’t,” you practically snarl, taking a half-step towards him. “And you shouldn’t either,” you add, “I’d much prefer to be left out of your…" you blow out an exasperated breath, "depraved fantasies!” 

“Oh, but you are my depraved fantasies, sweetheart.” Ben’s grin widens as you groan, shaking your head at him. “You're also a liar, Bracken,” he adds, “and a shitty one, at that!” 

“You can believe whatever you want, Blackwood—but that won't make it true.” 

“Just admit it,” he continues. Swinging one foot forward, he takes a lazy step towards you—then another. “That’s why you train with me, isn’t it? ‘Cause you’re so desperate for someone to put you in your place—and none of those pansies along the Red Fork are fit for the task, are they?” 

You grit your teeth, knowing that his words aren’t entirely false. 

Training with Ben hadn’t necessarily been a purposeful decision. It was something that just sort of happened. Yet, in spite of the rivalry between your families, you’re willing to admit that you do prefer training with him over the Tully or Roote boys. 

He fought you like a true opponent—unlike the others, who felt the need to pull their punches or slow their own strikes, forever treating you like a helpless maiden rather than an equal. 

In many ways, you found Ben to be more tolerable than any other boy in the Riverlands, anyway. He was fierce and tough and undeniably skilled with both blade and fists, making him your ideal sparring partner. 

You still despise him, though—if only because that is what’s expected of you by your father, the Head of House Bracken. 

“Big talk from the boy who hasn’t gotten a single hit in today,” you smugly remind him. “Perhaps if you spent as much time training as you do thinking with your cock, you might actually stand a chance at victory, Benji.” 

Less than a foot-or-so of space separates the two of you when he finally stops, his grin souring like rotted fruit. 

“Don’t call me that,” he chides, his bottom lip jutting slightly. Your brow furrows, trying to discern if he’s pouting or if it’s simply swelling from when you hit him. “Besides,” Ben continues, “have you ever considered that maybe I’m just going easy on you?” 

You don’t buy his weak attempt at goading you—though you do entertain it, asking, “And why would you do that?” 

His shoulder lifts into a languid shrug. “Maybe I like it when you push me around,” he drawls, teasing. 

Another step and he’s towering over you, his chest mere inches from yours. His scent—a blend of leather and rich sandalwood—floods your nostrils, stirring your senses and leaving you dizzy. 

“Although,” Ben’s smirk returns, laden with his usual mischief, “I think I’d like you even more if you were on your knees-” 

A scoff rips from your throat, cutting him off with a rough swat to his chest. “Oh, go fuck yourself, Blackwood!” 

“Only if you’ll watch, Bracken,” he croons, mocking you. 

Every inch of your body is suddenly humming to life, an unrelenting blaze of rage—or was it desire?—setting your nerves alight. Before you can muster a response, a comeback, his fingers have closed around one of your wrists. 

“Go on,” Ben murmurs, his voice tantalizingly low. Your breath hitches as he presses your hand to his chest, feeling his pulse beat beneath your palm. “Hit me,” he dares, louder now. “Push me.” 

You don’t speak—don’t move, as those storm-cloud eyes dip once again. “Fucking do it—” 

You cut him off, fingers curling around the scarlet fabric of his tunic—you should kill him for being so crude, for acting so utterly lascivious! 

And yet, despite all logic and reason, you tug him closer. Pulling him down to your level in one swift motion, crashing your lips together in a kiss that is anything but soft. 

On instinct, your other hand slips to the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in soft, brown hair. You feel his heartbeat stutter beneath your fist, still gripping his tunic. For no more than a breath, you worry you’ve fucked this whole thing up. 

This is wrong! You scream at yourself. Wrong wrong wrong! 

But then he moves—hooking an arm around your waist, his nails sinking into your hip in an effort to bring you closer—and you loathe just how right this feels. 

Your legs tremble as his tongue slides along your lower lip, a soft moan spilling into his mouth. You feel him grin against you—can taste the blood on his lips, the bitter sweetness dancing on your tongue as he utters, “Eager, are we?” 

Tightening your grip on his hair, he hiss slips from his teeth. “Shut up.” 

He obliges—his mouth drifting from your lips to your jaw, leaving a bloody trail of kisses in his wake. You try not to think as he finally reaches your neck, earning a soft whine as he nips at your flesh. You try to forget who he is—that you’re supposed to hate him—as he shoves his leg between yours, offering you the very friction you so desperately desired. 

“This changes nothing, Benji,” you pant. 

He bristles at the nickname, letting his teeth sink deeper into your flesh, a deep bruise already blooming along your neck. “Sure." His own breathing is frantic and uneven as he rasps, “Whatever you say..” 

Your hand falls from his chest to his breeches, fingers already fumbling with the laces when you choke out, “I still think you’re disgusting, Blackwood.”

His own touch disappears beneath your tunic, fingertips trailing along every inch of your skin until his palms finally skim along your bare breasts. He gives one a rough squeeze before flashing that stupid, bloody grin of his. 

“And you’re still a liar, Bracken.”

a/n - writing fan fic for a character that hasn't even appeared on screen yet is wild. (hbo, this better be bloody ben or else I'll riot because this is perfect casting). anyway, I don't wanna be held accountable for how terrible, short, and rushed this is (I was bored and didn't feel like putting more effort into this than necessary rn) OR how wildly ooc this will likely prove to be come Sunday.

also---turns out that writing without actually knowing the character is hard! who'd have thunk, am I right?

[sugawhaaa]

JEONGIN SMUT HEADCANONS

Sex with Jeongin would...

[Dom ver]

Warnings//genre:: SMUT, oral, fingering, BDSM, spit play, sweat fetish, auralism, probably more I forget 😭

Pairing:: dom!jeongin x sub!fem!reader

A/N:: I accidentally used the same photo twice but...Shh I'm too lazy to re-edit the thingy. Also the tiles for each section are a little vague, it's just for the vibes

Skz masterlist:: 🎀

🎧::

Feel like::

☆-Jeongin is a sucker for deep and fast sex...like listen Jeongin can be impatient as hell and he just needs to get in there yk what I mean?

☆-I can see him being a bit of a tease with this like when he first goes inside he waits like a few second before just putting in all of his pent up lust into pounding into you.

☆-Jeongin has been getting big asf lately and I can see him kinda having a size kink, ofc in the sense that he's bigger than you, so doing things like lifting you by your hips or guiding your body by the waist is totally his thing.

☆-Messy kisses with a fuck ton of tongue while fucking you 😫

☆-he likes to put his hands around your face and neck area. Not deliberately choking but just asserting his control, you know? Also making a mess of your spit, dipping his fingers into your mouth and making you suck on them.

☆-some spanking every now and then ^^

☆-He loves to roam his hands all over your body, your tits, thighs, ass, tummy, back, wherever he has access to his hands are gently massaging.

☆-hes so gentle when taking your clothes off ggrrr but once in a blue moon he doesn't give a fuck, he needs you naked right fucking now.

☆-You'll find his fingers in your hair quite often. Sometimes it's to pull your head back and add just a twinge of pain or other times it's just to ground himself and pull your head closer to kiss you deeper.

☆-his fingers are so long and feel perfect against or in your body. He'd use this kind of method where he sorts through your folds with his fingers by gently gliding his finger down the seam of your pussy.

☆-his fingers also hit very deep inside you to the point he has to curl his fingers so he doesn't hurt you <3

☆-hes not very into anal or anything but he would like to put a vibrator in one of the two holes and then fuck the other 😩🤌

Sound like::

☆-this man loves dirty talk so much that he is just rambling and rambling the entire time in between moans and cries. He'd say all kinds of kinky things you wouldn't imagine him to say but...he does have a freaky side.

☆-"I love it when you make that pretty face" "stick your tongue out," "awh is my baby crying?" "Shh, it's okay, you can cum soon,"

☆-He really likes hearing the sounds of your bodies colliding in anyway, the sound of your tongues dancing, the bed creaking, his hips slapping against your ass, his tongue sorting through your folds, and the sounds you make when you suck him off 😩

☆-sometimes he'll play music in the background to set the mood as well, something lofi and more relaxing than sexual unless, of course, it's one of those real freaky nights.

☆-wet noises <3 when he fingers your wet pussy so deep and he can hear your arousal sorting through his fingers.

☆-hearing your moans is his favorite thing ever, he does anything and everything to make you moan louder and higher pitched.

☆-as I mentioned earlier he is a deep and fast kinda guy so you best believe the bedframe is often begging for mercy 😁 (imagine the headboard hitting against the wall all night while the members are just trying to sleep)

☆-whispering dirty words to you <3

☆-he curses a lot during sex, though he kind of feels bad about it. He wants to keep it romantic and passionate but when your walls hug him so tightly and your nails are digging into his back he can't hold back.

☆-"Oh fuck baby," "shit I'm close!" "God damn baby, you suck me so fucking good,"

☆-I can see Jeongin making a mix of noises between grunts, moans, growls, and so on, you get the point. He's very vocal though, loud and passionate, he doesn't hold back a thing.

☆-he isn't too into daddy type tropes but he does love calling you all kinds of things that make you feel small, like babygirl, darling, princess, etc. However he is into calling you mommy 👀 but that's for the next part

☆-basically to sum up this section, sex with Jeongin is loud and he loves embracing that fact.

Look like::

☆-hear me out...sweaty sex. I feel like he'd sweat quite easily when pounding you, sweat building along his hairline and down that sharp ass jawline 😩

☆-Sometimes I feel like people forget how sexy his body is, his thin waist that perfectly tapers to his sturdy hips and thick thighs, like come on.

☆-Most of the time you'll see Jeongin on top of you in the dark. The only light source being the night sky as he looms over you, his broad chest covering your body as his knees trap you between him 🥴

☆-backshots...also cumming onto your tummy as well 🤌 he does really like creampies but he loves messy sex even more. Usually in one session he'll cum outside and inside of you at least once each. A good balance.

☆-he loves loves loves making you squirt. That sexy face you make every time, the way your body moves on its own, the way you moan, it's everything to him and best of all, the mess you make, all for him.

☆-this may sound weird but I can see him smiling a fair bit during sex. After very explosive orgasms or when it just feels so good he has to smile with a little chuckle.

☆-bro would love shower sex, I firmly believe this, so seeing him all wet is a common occurrence during sex. His hair clinging to his face as water drops down his face and chest before pressing you against the wall to fuck you all over again.

Taste like::

☆-this man eats pussy so good, have you seen his tongue work on stage? He knows how to make a woman cum 5 times over in one sitting.

☆-I can see him being really sloppy when he eats you out, his saliva dripping down on his chin and all over your pussy.

☆-oral for him can be whatever really. Sometimes it's slow an sensual or romantic and sometimes it's more...erotic

☆-he loves hearing the sounds of his cock wedging down your throat though 😩 and he likes when you let him cum on your face or make cum bubbles etc, be messy.

☆-eating you out from behind >>> he'd get you to go on all fours and he'd come up behind you to make out with your cunt.

☆-he loves spreading your folds, thighs, or ass when eating you out, he needs to get right up in there.

☆-he's the type of guy to not finger when he eats you out, he doesn't need his fingers to make you cum, only his sweet tongue and lips.

[thirteenheavens]

also... seungcheol make up sex.. because i can really see it he's taking out his frustration at you

You storm into the bedroom, your face flushed with anger. You can't believe the fight you just had with Seungcheol - it had been so stupid and pointless, and now you're both seething with frustration. Seungcheol follows you into the room, his jaw clenched tight with anger. "You can't just walk away like that," he snaps, his eyes blazing.

You spin around to face him, your hands clenched into fists. "And what do you expect me to do, huh? Just stand there and listen to you yell at me?"

Seungcheol takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing. "I expect you to be mature about this and have a conversation like an adult," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

You roll your eyes, feeling your anger flare up again. "Oh, because you're the epitome of maturity right now, aren't you?" you retort sarcastically.

Seungcheol's face twists in anger, and he takes another step closer, invading your personal space. "Don't talk to me like that," he growls, his voice a warning.

You stand your ground, refusing to back down. "Why not? You're treating me like a child," you say, your voice rising.

Seungcheol's eyes flash with irritation, and he reaches out to grab your arm. "You're acting like one," he snaps, his grip tight on your wrist.

Your heart is racing, and you can feel your anger giving way to something else - desire. Despite your anger, you can't deny the effect Seungcheol's dominance is having on you. You try to pull away from Seungcheol's grip, but he holds on tight, his fingers digging into your skin. "Let go of me," you snap, your voice shaking with anger and desire.

Seungcheol ignores you, his eyes raking over your body. "No," he says simply, his gaze lingering on your lips.

You can feel your breath catch in your throat as he steps closer, his body pressed against yours. You're so angry with him, but at the same time, you can't help but be drawn to him.

"You're such a pain in the ass," you mutter, trying to ignore the way your body is responding to his proximity.

Seungcheol smirks, his hand sliding down your arm to grip your waist. "And you love it," he says, his voice low and husky.

You try to protest, but the words die on your lips as Seungcheol pulls you closer, his body flush against yours. You can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady against your chest.

"Admit it," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "You love fighting with me, because it gets you all hot and bothered."

You shiver at his words, your anger slowly giving way to desire. "Shut up," you mutter, but there's no real conviction in your voice.

Seungcheol chuckles, his hands roaming over your body. "You know I'm right," he says, his lips brushing against your neck. "You love the way I take control, even when we're fighting."

You can't take it anymore. The tension between you and Seungcheol is too much, and you need an outlet for it. You surge forward, crushing your lips against his in a bruising kiss. Seungcheol responds immediately, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. He kisses you hungrily, his lips devouring yours as he pushes you back towards the bed. You stumble backwards, your legs hitting the edge of the bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling Seungcheol down with you.

He lands on top of you, his body pinning you down as he deepens the kiss. His hands roam over your body, desperate and possessive. You can feel the anger and desire coursing through your veins as you kiss Seungcheol with a fierce intensity. Your hands fumble with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours.

Seungcheol's hands are just as frantic, his fingers tearing at your clothes as he tries to undress you. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck and chest as he helps you out of your shirt. You arch into his touch, moaning softly as his hands roam over your bare skin. You can feel his erection pressing against you, hard and insistent.

"You drive me crazy," Seungcheol growls, his lips finding your collarbone and biting down gently.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and soft moans as you continue to make out with Seungcheol. The air is thick with tension and desire, and all communication between you is reduced to heated glances and urgent touches.

Seungcheol's hands roam over your body, exploring every inch of you as if he's trying to memorize every curve and contour. He kisses you like he's starving, his lips claiming yours over and over again. You arch against him, your body craving more. You can feel the anger from earlier melting away, replaced by a burning need for him. Seungcheol breaks the kiss again, his lips trailing down your body as he begins to leave a trail of hot kisses down your stomach.

As Seungcheol flips you onto your hands and knees, you can feel your heart racing with anticipation. You're already aching for him, your body trembling with need. He runs his hands over your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "You look so good like this," he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

You can feel his eyes on you, taking in the sight of your body spread out before him. He runs his hands over your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he positions himself behind you. Seungcheol enters you in one swift motion, filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, your fingers digging into the sheets as you try to hold yourself steady. He doesn't give you any time to adjust, his hips snapping against yours as he begins to move. He sets a punishing pace, his thrusts hard and fast as he claims you from behind.

You can feel your body responding to him, every nerve ending on fire as he drives into you relentlessly. The anger and tension from earlier is gone, replaced by a primal need for each other. Seungcheol's grunts and groans mix with your moans, filling the room with the sounds of your passion. His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to slam into you from behind.

"You feel so good," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "So tight and wet for me."

You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling with the intensity of the sensations. You arch your back, pushing back against him as you try to take him deeper.

"More," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need more."

Seungcheol pulls your hair back into a ponytail, gathering it in his fist and using it as leverage to pull your head back. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you can feel your arousal spiking even higher. He uses his grip on your hair to control your movements, pulling you back onto his cock as he thrusts into you from behind.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growls, his voice rough with desire. "You wanted me to take control, to use you however I want?"

"Yes," you manage to gasp out, your voice laced with anger and arousal. "Use me. Take me. Make me yours."

Seungcheol smirks, his grip on your hair tightening as he continues to thrust into you. "You're mine," he growls, his words sending a shiver down your spine. "And I'll do whatever I want with you."

Seungcheol pulls you up, his chest pressed against your back as he wraps an arm around your waist. He holds you close, his hand splayed across your stomach as he continues to thrust into you.

"Say it again," he growls in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you gasp out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm all yours."

Seungcheol's grip on you tightens, his arm holding you flush against him as he thrusts harder and faster. "Damn right you are," he growls, his lips brushing against your ear. "You belong to me. No one else can have you."

Seungcheal pushes you down onto the bed, pinning you beneath him as he continues to thrust into you with a ferocious intensity. His movements are fast and rough, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, your body tensing as you approach your climax. You arch your back, trying to meet his thrusts as you gasp for breath.

"I'm gonna come," you gasp out, your fingers digging into the sheets as you try to hold on. "Please, Seungcheol..."

Seungcheol leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Come for me," he growls, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "Come on my cock, baby."

His words are all it takes to push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, your body shuddering with the force of it as you cry out his name. Seungcheol follows you soon after, his own orgasm tearing through him as he spills himself inside you. He collapses on top of you, his body trembling with the aftershocks of his release. You lie there, panting and trembling as you come down from your high. Seungcheol is still on top of you, his body heavy and warm against yours.

He presses a kiss to the back of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "Damn," he mutters, his voice still a little shaky. "That was...intense."

You nod in agreement, still trying to catch your breath. Your body is still buzzing with pleasure, your mind hazy from the intensity of your orgasm. Seungcheol rolls off of you, pulling you into his arms and holding you close. He kisses your forehead gently, his touch a stark contrast to the rough way he had been handling you earlier.

"I'm sorry for fighting with you," he says softly, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on your skin. "I didn't mean any of the things I said."

You look up at him, your eyes still hazy with pleasure. "I know," you say, your voice soft. "I'm sorry too. I didn't mean what I said either."

Seungcheol pulls you closer, holding you tight against his chest. "We really need to work on our communication," he says, his lips quirking up in a small smile.

[waytootiredstudent]

Why the CDU/CSU can go fuck itself

Time for another one of these. a quick(ish) summary for all the non-german speakers about why we're freaking out and the state of our democracy.

Spoiler. its not...good. Not catastrophic (yet). But the alarm bells are very, very loud.

Tl;dr: The CDU, party currently prognosed to win the election, has basically worked together with the afd to get a migrationbill to pass that is very strict. The afd are the nazi party that is getting backed by Musk. This might forshadow a cooperation between AFD and CDU. That would put the far right in power. The current response from the general public are demonstrations against that. Like. there are a LOT of protests currently.

Alright grab a drink and lets go.

First, groundwork: Who are parties and who is the guy we currently all want to punch in the face?

on top: Careful, risk of confusion. on the left: on the board of a sleazy cooperation. not interested in the enviroment. Real. On the right: on the board of a sleazy cooperation. not interested in the enviroment. comic figure.

This guy here is Friedrich Merz. no, not the guy on the right. the guy on the left. I know. Easy mistake to make.

He's an asshole. He's also the current boss of the CDU and their chancellor candidate. He's very likely to win according to recent polls.

The CDU has a complicated history, but to simplify it: They were in charge for sixteen years before the now broken apart Traffic-light goverment and are responsible for a lot of shit that we're currently dealing with. Like crumbling infrastructure for example. They were more interested, as a party, to preserve the status quo at all costs, than to invest anything. You could argue that a lot of the enviromental issues we are facing and the reason why Germany is currently pretty stagnant, can be traced back to the one and a half decade the CDU was in charge. They are conservative, not a fan of migration and like to throw around 'tradtional values'.

They are, generally speaking, or better were, center right. More on that later.

The other party that is going to be a major pain in the ass to outright fucking dangerous, is the AFD, short for 'Alternative for Germany'.

this is Alice Weidel, she's the current chancellor candidate for the afd. here is her wikipedia article and lets just say her 'controversies' part is longer than her 'political positions' part.

Those are the, to put it bluntly, Nazis. They are dangerous but also a fucking mess. Like, to just list a few of their hits: They've been getting money from dictators (different ones btw, not just one), infigthing is a sport to them, they try to glorify the nazi-regime, the german intelligence agency is watching them because they are officially considered radical right-wing and a threat to democracy, there is a petition to ban the afd and that is a high bar to cross, the demonize immigrants, hate queer people, you know, the usual. Also of course political correctness has gone too far and climate change isn't real and we need to leave the EU. Elon Musk, you know the rich guy who did the Nazi-salute, also has been appearing and is actively supporting them. Just in case we were unclear before on where they all stand.

(btw the whole 'elon is supporting them' thing is pretty scary bc you could argue the reason that the afd is able to win so many votes is bc, frankly, they're good at social media. Do i need to elaborate why that is a dangerous combination.)

to put them into perspective: The afd is too right for the other alt-right parties in the EU parlament. There is a coalition in the EU Parlament for the right, made up of all the right wing parties from other nations and the afd is too right for them. So. yeeeeaaah.

that should do it as background information.

Now. back to current events. where both of these parties are getting more and more support.

For a short history of why we currently have a non-functioning goverment, i made a post about that. Be aware that it was made as a product of its time and doesn't have all the information. For example back then we didn't know that FDP had actively engineered that break up and wanted it to happen for a while. Yes. They wanted to topple the goverment they were in. on purpose. It's been a fun time over here in Germany as well.

anyways, lets get to the meat of things. Since we don't have a functional goverment currently, Merz has introduced a harsh migration bill. This has been in the wake of an attack with two murders, where the current suspect is a migrant. while this is a tragedy, its getting brutally misused by all out rightwing parties to scream about how we need stricter migration laws and that migrants are a danger. Which to be so fucking clear about this, is such bullshit. It's been proven so many times how that is bullshit. I'm gonna be real and not even bother. They're just the newest scapegoats everything can be blamed on.

But because nobody has a majority, all attempts at governing so far have been pretty stalled.

(our goverment currently)

Quick information from the past:

in 2018 the CDU basically stated they wouldn't, in any sort of way, cooperate with the AFD, declaring basically a Brandmauer (fire wall). This basically means that yes, the afd had been given seats in the parlament, but nobody would give them any power whatsoever.

This has been the position of the cdu. It is why people still considered them center-right.

Merz has repeatedly said he didn't care who voted with him. now with a slight majority, 348 to 344, the cdu has won, with the support of the afd. Many see this as the fall of the Brandmauer. It's not good. Merz has more and more talking points that sound exactly like the afd and that is SCARY. There is still a vivid memory alive here about why having a far-right goverment is dangerous. There is a reason why there are currently a lot of massive protests all over the country loudly proclaiming that 'never again is now'.

This also puts for many the cdu from 'center right' to 'right'. There are calls from inside the cdu to 'stop demonizing the afd'. This is scary. This could mean that we get not just a conservative goverment in a few weeks, but a rightwing one. One who is comfortable cooperating with radical right wingers if it suits their needs. To cooperate with a party that even our own intelligence agencies consider a threat to our democrazy.

So. that is why your german mutuals sit there like

Now. To another part. What exactly is that migration bill merz had wanted to pass so desperateldy?

Well first of all it calls for a national emergency, using the beforementioned murder as reasoning, for the danger of immigration. It calls for closing and controls at the borders permanently, not temporary as is curently the case. They want for people without valid ID to be refused entry, even when they are searching safety. People that are already in Germany but need to leave should be thrown in jail until they actually leave.

Which. just to be clear about this. this what the bill they had, that had the support of the afd, says. This is not a wish list. This what they want to be law.

But to be also clear, lots of this is against our current law, against Basic EU law and principle and also a pretty big violation of our constituation.

Which is what makes this situation so fatal. This bill is going to be fought. In court, in politics, with demonstrations on the streets. this bill is controversial. Merz knew that. he knew that a lot of this wouldn't pass. This is a publicly stunt. This is testing the waters. How much will the public allow? how far can he push? Is cooperation with the afd possible for him? How does everyone react?

It was never about immigration or that bill. All the people this is going to impact, all the lives that are going to be lost because of this shit they are pulling - this is to them all just collateral. Its testing how much is possible, tolerated even. The chances of this bill making it law is slim. It needs to pass again in a different body of the goverment with a two thirds majority and that is nowhere in sight.

Also, lets take a look at who voted what:

it was about four votes. So my german friends who also read this - look at this and be aware of who voted what. Who abstained to vote and gave up the four votes it would have taken to stop this. who accepted that to get what they want they would need to get the support of the afd, no matter how much Merz now claims that he still doesn't cooperate with the afd and that there were no talks between them. Look at the numbers. Look how and with who they voted.

To be frank, i am pretty pissed off. I don't think much about wallowing in self-pity and despair. i am pissed off about what is happening. i am pissed off that these people don't have a spine, i am pissed off at the FDP for enabling this in the first place, i am pissed off that we have Nazis in out goverment, i am pissed off that we have people who are willing to cooperate with them. I am pissed off that i need to settle for damage control instead of being able to see something finally move forward.

Now here we come to the less depressing part of this whole thing. And i want you to pay attention to it.

People are protesting. loudly. And in the thousands. There have been ten to a hundred thousands of people all over the country in the last week, protesting against the rise of faschism and the far right. Its all over the country, in different cities. Where the afd appears to talk, so do the protesters. There are 35 afd people to 1300 protesters. People loudly say 'never again is now'. And they show up to back that claim up.

This shit is vile, yes, but it's not going to be unopposed.

I know this all reads as depressing as fuck but do not give into the temptation of falling into despair. This is far from over. Yes those are the alarm bells and they are ringing loudly. But there is still things that can be done. Don't let the afd lure you into thinking this all pointless anyways. It's not. This is all not good, yes, but no reason to fall into blind panic. The bill isn't law yet. Merz is facing massive backlash for his little stunt. This is not a hopeless situation. It's just a shitty one.

[lovelybucky1]

omigosh…frank on call with reader after she sent the pics to him while dad!matt is making her apologize and teasing her 😖😖😖

part two to this post

you're on your back with your knees spread, one hand holding the phone up to your ear and the other twisted in matt's hair. as punishment for sending a nude picture to frank behind matt's back, he's been between your legs for what feels like hours, teasing you. in addition to your physical torture, he's also humiliating you in front of frank.

frank picks up the phone on the second ring and, as always, he's worried something bad happened to you.

"hey, baby, are you okay? something wrong?" he asks.

"i-i'm sorry, frank," you whine into the phone as matt laves his tongue over your already-sensitive clit.

"what're you sorry for, dollface?" the concern evident in his voice.

"for sending you pictures," you explain.

instead of providing comfort, frank laughs into the phone. at that, you can feel matt smirk against your pussy. there's no need to put the phone on speaker; matt is able to hear both sides of the conversation clearly. if anything, that serves to make this situation even more humiliating, knowing that this is entirely between you and frank, with matt just being a spectator.

"ah," he says. "are you in trouble?"

"uhhuh."

"what's he doin' to you, huh? spanking that pretty ass raw?" the image of that alone is enough to make you squirm.

"no, h-he's edging me. with his mouth."

"that's brutal, red," frank says, now talking directly to matt. "all this over a little picture?" matt doesn't respond, but frank can hear a faint possessive growl come through the phone. "you never let her have any fun."

at that, matt sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh and you yelp in pain.

"he bit me," you whine.

"you poor thing," frank coos. "dad's a real asshole, ain't he?"

you know better than to respond. instead, you pull on matt's hair, trying to urge him to give you more, but he won't. matt is far too stubborn for you to be able to convince him out of punishing you. instead, he pulls away just slightly so his breath is fanning over your aching pussy.

"you better keep apologizing, sweetheart," he says.

"'m sorry, daddy," you say into the phone. the look on matt's face tells you he wants more, so you continue. "sorry for... being a slut and sending you pictures."

you're parroting the words matt said to you when he first laid you down on the bed and pushed his hand into your lounge shorts.

"such a slut, sending frank pictures when i already take such good care of you. am i not giving you enough attention, is that it? awh, my little attention whore."

"i wanted the attention," you tell frank.

"you know i'll always give you attention, dollface. all those times red's been workin' late with all that lawyer bullshit, i've always been here for you." a crease forms between matt's eyebrows. "like when he wouldn't let you cum for a week and you had to call me to help you out."

both you and matt freeze. matt didn't know about that and you certainly never intended on telling him, but now the cat's out of the bag.

"frank-"

"your poor little pussy was so neglected I could'a sworn she was never gonna stop gushing," he continues.

matt latches his mouth back on your clit and this time, he sucks even harder than before. it might have felt good if you weren't so sensitive, but it's such a raw pain you can't escape from. you squirm, trying to get away, but he holds onto your hips to keep you still.

"frank, stop," you gasp. "stop, stop."

"what's the matter?" you can't form the words to explain as matt continues his assualt. "you don't wanna hear about how i left red my sloppy seconds while he was out patrolling?" now, franks words have a teasing lilt to them. he knows what he's doing.

"stop," you beg.

with a wet pop, matt releases your clit from his lips. "no, frank," he says, voice gruff from lack of use. "keep going. seems like there's a lot more to punish her for than i thought."

"please don't," you whimper. you're not sure if it's directed at matt, pleading with him to stop torturing you, or to frank, telling him to stop exposing all of your little secrets.

"i told you before, sugar, you get yourself in trouble," frank chuckles. "but i think you better start apologizing to dad, now."

[fagtainsparklez]

Hey I've been observing from afar through your reaction blogging, I haven't been in mcyt as much since the dsmp ended but I still care about a lot of the people in the mcyt circle and I'm interested in what goes on - care to give a rundown of what happened at this twitch rivals thing everyone keeps talking about? (no pressure only if you want to) Aside from the fact I'm sure it was terribly run like most twitch rival events are, but it sounds like there was more to it than that

okay so. i am going to be missing quite a few details because i missed a day myself + my streamer could not care less, so i heavily encourage others to add on stuff i missed

this was a multi-day competition, running for 5 days with prize rewards from 1k to 100k. it started with i think 150 players, with select numbers of people getting eliminated each round. day 1-2 are fairly normal, at least for twitch rivals. of all the games that got played through the whole event, i'd say like 1 was actually good, and maybe 2 were decent, at best. most are bad, poorly-executed, poorly thought out, or just boring in terms of both player enjoy-ability and content creation.

DAY 3 EDIT:

now, sapnap's been sapnap for this entire event already. obnoxious, a bad sport, but most notably, playing DMCA'd songs. the event ran on proximity chat, so while he was unmuted, everyone around him would also be subject to said songs, which could mute vods at worst and terminate accounts at best. most people are fed up with him at this point. while everyone's trying to come up with solutions for the glitch, sapnap spams the discord with useless shit. couriway calls him out in the discord, calling him annoying and obnoxious, then later calling him a cunt in twitch chat. sapnap uses couriway and feinberg's name in his stream title for clickbait and talks shit about them + their friends (hbg/house builder gang). he also makes some weird comment asking if couri is homophobic because sap was talking about having skeppy's dick in his mouth?? or something?? i'm unsure exactly how day 3's issue of the glitch resolved.

day 4 is also your average experience with your usual range of average to horribly painful games. sapnap continues to be a bitch and not take responsibility for his stans attacking anyone in sight, but what else is new

day 5 is. bad. the game set for deciding the final competitors can be cheesed (if you let someone else do all the work, you can punch them in the last second and steal their win) and eliminates like 20 people at once. on top of that, a glitch happens that leaves the server on standby for at least 30 minutes while admins decide what to do. firebreathman sends a picture of a bare naked ass in the discord. someone else sends a photo of their debit card. streamers entertain themselves in various ways, including growing a cactus (fulham), playing osu (purpled), collecting other people's streams for their overlay (fruitberries), playing slime rancher (badboyhalo), and building real-life furniture (couriway). tubbo (who was already eliminated at this point) starts jumping between streams and asking in chat for the tea. the game is eventually replayed, deciding the final 4 players, but it's just as broken and at that point, no one wants to be there anymore. it's revealed through multiple streamers (purpled, i believe also feinberg) that twitch rivals games are not tested before being ran. the only testing done was a stress test to see if the server could handle all original 150-some players. this explains why the games are so bad and poorly organized (some games take over an hour, others barely 30 minutes).

the final four are sapnap, shadoune, sneegsnag, and i think feinberg. it's the most anticlimatic game of connect 4 you can imagine. sneeg eliminates sapnap, and shadoune eliminates fein. notably, fein's game glitches during a throw, which despite being obviously a glitch, the coordinators brush off as being "part of the game". fein and multiple other streamers spend time analyzing every pov frame by frame and all agree that yeah, that was a glitch. shadoune and sneeg are left for the finals. they come to an agreement that this is stupid and a horrible event. tired of this bullshit, they purposefully stall the games and run a podcast for approximately 2 hours, forcing the coordinators to bend to their commands hunger games-style. essentially since the first glitch of the day people were begging twitch to just split the money, something that wouldn't be easy according to tubbo, because everything is pre-signed and delegated before the event. sneeg and shadoune give no fucks, and force the coordinators to split the money anyway, winning the day through the power of friendship. i cannot stress enough how no one wanted to fucking be there by the end of all this.

[blainesebastian]

not my type

word count: 12,775 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: R (for sexual situations and expletives) summary: But maybe you should know better that there’s a fine line between not being able to stand someone and fizzling attraction.(essentially an 'enemies' to lovers fic) notes: really appreciate all the kind comments, likes, reblogs and everything in-between 🥰 glad you all are digging these. notes2: gifs from here, masterlist here

When you first met Nick, it started off on the wrong foot, something that’s never quite been corrected. An uncoordinated dance, an imbalance of snarky commentary and obscene gestures (you love giving him the middle finger with a grin, and he loves being less than a gentleman any chance he can get). Your small friend group keeps you in one another’s orbit, but that doesn’t mean you have to like eachother. He just…he gets under your skin in the worst fucking way. 

But maybe you should know better that there’s a fine line between not being able to stand someone and fizzling attraction. 

Nick may be gorgeous, which he seems to know, but he’s also a giant pain in your ass. And he likes being that just a little too much. 

—

Your first interaction consists of bumping into one another, literally, on the dance floor. You’re carrying drinks back to Jenna and her boyfriend Lion, attempting to settle into your new life after moving from New York to London. It hasn’t been the easiest transition to say the least, but your parents work with Jenna’s, and the moment you met her, you two hit it off. You’re extremely grateful for having someone to talk to, to invite you out, to get along with. 

If only you knew it was going to include this briar patch of a person. 

You’ve heard of Nick Leister, of course, before the unfortunate meet-up—his reputation precedes him. Successful at seventeen, a lot handsome, a little arrogant, and altogether frustrating. He looks down his nose at you when drinks are jostled in your hands, a sharp hiss leaving your lips when some spills onto your red party dress. 

“Should probably come with a turn signal in close quarters like this.” 

You scoff, seriously? “You bumped into me.” 

“Anyone would bump into you with your elbows out like that.” 

Your mouth falls open, pink staining your cheeks and heating the back of your neck, “That’s got to be the worst apology I’ve ever gotten, congratulations.” 

He crinkles his nose—it shouldn’t look so attractive, and you quickly toss that thought away, “I don’t owe you an apology.” 

You’re about to toss one of these well-balanced drinks into his face when Jenna pushes her way through the crowd, “Oh Y/N!” She grins, “I see you’ve met Nick.” 

Nick’s gaze bounces between Jenna and you, a look of annoyance flittering across his features as he realizes that his friend is your friend…and that he won’t be rid of you so easily. For some reason, that awareness fizzles like water dripped onto hot coals in your stomach. But instead of giving him the satisfaction that you’re bothered, you tip your chin and give him your brightest smile, 

“Yep,” You pop your ‘P’, “Utter pleasure.” 

There’s the tight flicker of amusement in the browns of his eyes, gone almost as soon as it appears. The corner of his mouth tilts up, as if pulled by an invisible string, “Pleasure is all mine.” 

—

Your friend group keeps you in similar circles, you spend time hanging out, getting to know one another, but you’re not sure you would call him a friend. The real problem is? When you’re wrapped up in distractions, when you forget the prickling animosity between the two of you…Nick’s someone you don’t mind spending time with. He makes you laugh, you like the passion that kisses his syllables when he talks about something he cares about…and you’re not going to try and deny that you’re attracted to him. At least not to yourself. 

He’s got a boxer’s body, long lines and a sturdy tone, the muscles in his biceps defined, strength behind how he moves. He’s balanced, graceful, a beautifully contained force. You think about his hands far too often, how they form fists, how they might feel on your skin. Nick’s a tactile person, he speaks with his hands, there’s purpose in every touch he makes. A brush of his fingers along your arm, a hand pressed to your lower back when moving through a crowd, squeezing your hand when he helps you down from a high spot. 

It’s frustrating, really, because he gets so easily under your skin. And yet you find yourself drawn to him nonetheless. The strong shape of his jaw, that smirk tugging his full lips, the pleasure and warmth sometimes in those brown eyes. 

Completely unfair. 

You lean back into your poolside chair and sip on your pineapple flavored drink, a small smile on your face as Lion and Nick toss a ball back and forth in the pool. He begins to swim towards the edge when Lion misses a throw, a laugh slipping out of his chest. He pulls himself out, water cascading down his skin and dripping onto the pavement. 

Your eyes flicker over his chest and arms, tracing pretty line tattoos, wondering why he’s gotten each of them, if he wants any others. Chewing on your straw, your gaze lingers over the Roman numerals under his shoulder blade—

“Eyes are up here, sweetheart.” 

And you feel your face go red as he catches you. Fuck. You huff out a sound, trying not to feed into the fucking satisfaction that’s already written all over his face. 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Would you rather I call you something else?” 

Your thoughts spin in your head like a washing machine stuck on a rinse cycle as he grabs a towel, running it over his hair and down his chest. You’d rather pretend like the last three minutes didn’t happen. 

Straightening your shoulders, you decide to go with denial, “I know this is maybe sore for your ego, but just because you’re here without a shirt on, doesn’t mean someone is checking you out.” You motion to your sunglasses which have, thankfully, shaded your eyes and their traitorous direction from him. 

He’s just guessing. (He’s right, but that’s besides the point). 

Nick smirks, humming a little as he moves to sit down on a lounger next to yours, Jenna getting up from your other side to join Lion in the hottub. “My ego’s just fine, but it’s cute that you’re concerned about it.” 

“I’d be more concerned about your belligerent personality.” You smile sweetly, “Not going to get a date that way.” 

“So you are concerned about who I date?” He asks, raising his eyebrows. He leans forward as if intrigued, his elbows resting on his knees. The dick. 

“No.” 

You must say it far too quickly, because he’s smiling again, something slow and annoyingly handsome. Like a cat that’s caught a canary. “Oh you are,” He hums, “Well, you’ll be happy to know that you aren’t my type.” 

A scoff slips out of your throat and despite heat curling in your veins, you try not to take offense and rise to the commentary leaving his mouth. He wants to bother you, upset you, you’re not about to give him that gratification, “And who’s your type? Blonde, emotionless and rude? Quite the pairing.” 

Nick licks his lips, drawing in a soft breath as he sits with what you’ve said, “Anna and I are just friends.” 

And fuck—you didn’t even mean to describe Anna. Not exactly. You just…sort of flashed upon those personality traits in your mind, came to one conclusion. You’ve only had a few interactions with her but it’s been more than enough. She’s nasty in a way you didn’t realize another girl could be, and you barely know her? You can’t figure out why she’s been so unwelcoming.

“In case you’re concerned about that too.” Nick smiles, eyes roaming over your face, playfully pushing your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose before standing to get himself a drink. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to tell yourself that it doesn’t matter what Nick’s told you about him and Anna. That you could care less about who he’s dating or interested in or…anything like that. Why would that matter to you? 

You pointedly ignore how your lips have twitched into a smile, that tell-tale flush working its way down your chest. 

—

You’ve decided you want to go home. A little drunk and a lot tired, you’ve overstayed your limit at the latest underground car lineup. That’s what you like to call these little get togethers—when everyone shows up in their fanciest car and shows them off, maybe even races. You’re here because of Jenna, to have a good time, to drink a little too much and dance in the coolness of the parking garage, the music vibrating the concrete and reverberating in your chest. Admittedly, you love it a bit more than dancing in a club or someone’s house. 

Jenna playfully tugs you away from someone you’re dancing with, the guy all hands, but handsome, long legs and a grin that gives a dimple. But apparently he was trying to take you back to his place and Jenna’s got her wits about her to not let that happen. 

“Think it’s time for you to head home, sweets.” She laughs as you wrap your arms around her, resting your chin on her shoulder. 

“But I want to dance more.” You pout. 

She cups your cheeks, planting a kiss on your forehead. “And as much as I love seeing you dance, your knees are as wobbly as Bambi right now.” 

You huff, even though in the back of your mind, you know she’s right. You got a ride with her, so at the very least you don’t have to worry about leaving your car here. But you also don’t want to ruin the rest of her night, it’s still early? 

“I can see if Zach—”

“I can take you.” 

You blink, turning to see Nick standing near the trunk of Jenna’s car and…when the hell did he pop up here? Your eyes tick over his form quickly but it’s not missed by him however, because there’s a twinge of a smirk on his lips. He looks good, and that’s annoying within itself. 

“Uh, no thanks.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you going to walk back?” 

Your eyes narrow into a glare. “I don’t need your help.” 

He smiles, far too handsome, Jenna stepping forward to pat your head. “Babe let him take you home, okay?” 

There’s a soft grumble in your chest because the last thing you want is to lean on him for help, to smell the pristine leather of the seats in his car, the rumble of the engine encompassing your body, the sensation of him far too close. You’re not my type vibrates in his timbre against your eardrums, your nose crinkling at that conversation. 

“I’m not exactly thrilled about it either,” Nick says, misreading your expression, “I got a lot of other things I’d rather do.” 

You scoff, as if he didn’t offer in the first place, but disentangle yourself from Jenna, your knees a little unsteady, “Well I’d hate to interrupt your very busy night,” You throw back, voice dripping in sarcasm, “I’ll find my own way home.” 

You turn, far too quickly, and practically tangle up your feet. You don’t faceplant though, as you suspected, and land right against a firm chest. Nick’s arm wraps around your waist, helping you keep your balance, and you wish he didn’t smell like that—expensive cologne, laundry detergent, something purely him. He smells good. 

“Thank you,” He replies and fuck—you did not mean to say that last part outloud. 

“I wasn’t talking to you.” 

Nick smirks, tucking your hair behind your ear and out of your face, “Sure, okay.” 

“Bye babe,” Jenna grins, reaching over to press a kiss to your cheek before disappearing around her car to find Lion.

You pull a little bit away from Nick, insisting on not needing him to walk, and his arm leaves your waist. His hand slips down, squeezing his fingers around your own, letting you lead even though you have zero clue where he parked his car. 

Eventually, through some of the crowd, he begins to tug you in the direction of where you need to go. When you pass the dance floor, one of your favorite songs on, you stop short. Nick jerks to a halt, an accidental yank on your arm as he turns around to look at you. 

“I want to dance to this.” 

His eyebrows draw together, glancing towards where people are moving to the beat of the music. You bounce a little on the balls of your feet in anticipation, “And I want to be unbothered the rest of the night—that’s not going to happen until I get you home.” 

You huff and Nick’s lips twitch, an almost smile he tries to hide, “One dance.” 

He’s immovable. “No, I’ll carry you if I have to.” 

Your mouth falls open, taking a step back even though his fingers have automatically laced with yours. You didn’t even notice until right this very moment. How long have they been like that? “You wouldn’t dare.” 

Nick raises his eyebrows and the glittering in the depths of the brown tells you that he’s accepted that challenge. He purses his lips, looking away for a brief moment before he moves—in one fluid motion, he places his arm along the back of your thighs, hauling you up over his shoulder. 

You choke out a squeal before slapping him on the ass, “Put me down.” 

A laugh empties out of his mouth before he quickly walks in the direction of his car. Fuck, you cannot believe he fucking picked you up like some sort of caveman. You try not to squirm but it feels like he’s barely holding on as it is, jostling you as he weaves through other parked cars, 

“Nick!” You snap out, one of your hands gathering the material of his shirt to ground you. Jesus, being upside down is making you even more dizzy, “I can walk—I swear to God, let me go.” 

He stops suddenly, though you’re not sure if you’re at his car—either way your stomach bottoms out as gravity gives way. Nick does let you go, assisting your tumble to the ground. A squeak leaves your lips and you land right on your ass, an unladylike oof leaving your lips. 

“Are you serious?” 

“Just proving a point,” Nick smiles, something so amused that there’s laughter wrapped around his syllables when he speaks, “I can’t figure you out. You wanted down and now you’re upset you’re on the pavement?” 

You kick your legs a little, boots on your feet echoing the clacking heel noise around you. There’s a pout on your lips as you look up at him, “You dropped me.” 

Nick shakes his head, but he’s still smiling, crouching down so that he’s eye-level with you. He gives you a onceover, making sure you’re okay, “You need help up?” He offers his hand, to which you smack away. He smirks, “Alright then.”

Your mouth, you swear, is completely disconnected from your body. You proved that by telling him that he smells good (he does) —but the longer you stare at him, the more you feel like asking him something that you haven’t been able to get out of your head since he told you. The words spill out of you before you can reign them in—

“I’m not your type?” 

Nick’s eyebrows draw together in soft confusion, like he can’t quite understand how you got from point A to point B. He then sighs out, reaching over to adjust the strap of your dress so it’s back on your shoulder and not halfway down your arm. 

“You’re still thinking about that?” 

You shake your head slowly, “...no.” 

Nick smirks but doesn’t press. You notice he doesn’t respond to your question, either, just reaches both his hands out to you, palms up. “Can I help you up?” 

You look at his hands, the silver rings on some of his fingers, the chain-link bracelet hanging from his wrist. Things that, for some reason, make your chest ache before you nod. He shifts forward to hook his arms underneath yours, hauling you up from the ground. The garage spins a little and you have to grab onto his arm to steady yourself. 

“Okay?” He asks, waiting until you nod. He guides you to his car, opening up the door, “You gonna be sick at all?”

“Just sick of your face.” You mumble, bending to get inside the car. 

Nick laughs, something warm and altogether too bright. “Feeling’s mutual.” 

Yet his actions don’t match his words, even when they’re said in teasing. He buckles your seatbelt for you and brushes his thumb along your collarbone before closing the door. 

—

You hadn’t exactly been going for drunk given the last time you drank because your hangover was fucking awful. Being a bit tipsy feels safer, in which the room spins a bit in a rose-colored glaze. Not too over the top, but still having fun. You’re looking to avoid what happened last time, your cheeks heating with embarrassment when you think about you and Nick eye to eye—

You’re still thinking about that?

Dumb, so dumb. You’re glad that he hasn’t mentioned anything, so you’re allowed to pretend it never happened. You push those thoughts aside, thinking about tonight instead. 

Jenna is one of your favorite people to dance with and Lion has been teaching you how to play pool, and your goal is to spend the rest of the night in the hot tub after drinking some water to balance yourself out. 

Adjusting your swim top, you come out of the bathroom and make a b-line to the kitchen, opening up the fridge to grab a cold bottle of water. You hum softly, resting the cold plastic against your neck, leaning against the counter. 

“Like that swim top.” 

You open your eyes, glancing over at someone you don’t know, a tall guy with auburn hair and freckles on his cheekbones. You give a small smile, curling your hair around your ear, “Thank you.” You unscrew the cap on the bottle, taking a long swig. The guy moves closer to you and your stomach flutters in discomfort, but you don’t move. 

He licks his lips, “Blue’s definitely your color.” 

You draw in a breath, “Thanks, it’s my favorite.” 

And maybe it’d benefit you to start heading out of the kitchen, or put some distance between you and whoever this guy is. You can tell his gaze is slightly glassy, the intentions of what he’s after written all over his face. You nearly know what’s going to come out of his mouth before he says it—

“Wanna grab a drink?” 

You’re not sure if he means right now or later, but either way, “Oh uh,” You shake his head, “No thank you.” 

He takes a step closer, nearly crowding your space and you hate that you’ve practically backed yourself into a corner in the kitchen, nerves beginning to fray as you realize you’ll have to push past him to leave. He’s not that much taller? But he feels like he towers over you. 

“C’mon, just one drink.” 

“She’s not interested.” 

The guy pulls back and when his body disappears from your field of vision, you see Nick leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen. His body is relaxed but it conflicts with the muscle flexing in his jaw, a sharp light in his brown eyes. You let out a soft breath as this guy steps out of your personal space, Nick wandering into the kitchen to grab another drink for himself. 

Tall guy no longer seems interested once Nick is there, and mumbles whatever as he turns to leave. You roll your shoulders back, turning a little to speak to Nick, maybe even thank him for saying something? But what he says next douses a cold bucket of water on you. 

He gives you a onceover, eyes lingering on the cloud-print that’s on your bikini top, before his eyes meet yours. “You’re too nice.” 

You blink—what? That’s the last thing you expect him to say. There’s a prickle of annoyance underneath his tone and your mouth opens a bit in surprise as you realize…it’s not directed at the guy who was practically folding you into the counter when he walked in, but that it’s towards you. He’s frustrated with you. 

What…is that supposed to mean? “That’s coming from you? Someone who thinks glaring and grunting are personality traits?” 

A twitch of a smile, but not quite. He turns towards you and wanders over with his beer, setting it down on the counter. He’s standing close, but not as close as that other guy. Not yet, anyways. You can feel the heat from his skin and smell his expensive cologne—it draws your heartbeat up into your throat. You tip your head back a little to meet his eyes, refusing to back down. 

“See,” He comments softly, motioning to your eyes, “Where was that?” 

Your eyebrows draw together, “What?” 

“Where was that fire in your eyes? That attitude you seem to only have with me.” 

A laugh stutters forward, “You ever seem to wonder why that is?” 

Nick closes the distance between you, creating a cage around your body with his arms as his hands press into the counter. Your stomach flip flops, your eyes boring into his own, and you force yourself not to look at his lips—even when he speaks. 

“You’re too nice,” He repeats, “What would have happened if I hadn’t walked in?” 

You’re not sure why it matters, why it’s any of his business, why he cares. Yeah, that guy was making you uncomfortable, but you would have…he would have gotten the point, right? “I was just about to tell him that he wasn’t my type.” 

Low blow—so much for not thinking about that. 

Nick doesn’t take the bait, however, even though there’s a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. “I don’t believe you.” He says softly.

Heat kisses the back of your neck, goosebumps spreading along your skin when you feel the fabric of Nick’s shirt brush along your arms. 

“You need to stick up for yourself Y/N, put your foot down when you deserve something. Tell someone to fuck off if they’re getting under your skin.” You swallow over a foreign emotion in your throat. The words bubble on your tongue just to prove a point—but he’s not agitating you, not really. He’s right. He’s right and that’s why you’re annoyed. You weren’t going to say anything. 

And even if you had? That guy was never going to listen to you, no matter how many times you told him, nicely, that you weren’t interested. You’re so worried about hurting someone else’s feelings that you never look out for your own. 

“You’re not a doormat,” Nick lifts his hand, playing with a strand of hair near your ear. Your stomach hits your knees when his finger brushes your cheek. “So stop acting like one.” 

It should piss you off, what he’s saying, but you find yourself utterly distracted by the nearness of his body, the way if he leaned in just a little, your lips would brush. 

You tilt your head up and don’t miss the way that Nick goes still, like he didn’t anticipate this, like he wasn’t expecting you to lean into his touch. You’ve caught him by surprise. Your noses bump, and Nick draws his lower lip into his teeth as he looks down at yours. 

Something heated slides down between your legs as his knuckles rests along your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. 

“Nick,” You whisper, hand resting on his chest. 

And just when you think he might lean in and kiss you, you push on his chest, sending him a bit off balance. “Fuck off.” Your voice has bite, fueled by his advice, his proximity, the fact that he sees you without trying. 

You hate that. (Or perhaps it’s because you don’t hate it at all). 

He draws in a breath, letting it out through his nose as you walk past, amusement and something you can’t name dancing on his handsome face. 

How’s that for not being a doormat? 

—

The next time Tall guy comes around at the party, trying to slide up against you while you’re outside the hot tub with Jenna, you turn and give him a firm I’m flattered but stop bothering me. He straightens, huffs out an annoyed sound, but turns and leaves you alone. Period. No room for interpretation. 

When you turn your attention back to your friend, you spot Nick watching nearby, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

—

“What’s going on between you and Nick?” 

You turn a little towards Jenna, your friend’s eyes bright and open as you linger in the kitchen of Nick’s place, intent on going back out to the pool. Just a day to waste time, planning the next trip to Ibiza and the like. You wish it was just the four of you, but somehow Anna got invited, along with her insufferable friends. You’re trying to keep it friendly, but you’re pretty sure your emotions are clear on your face. 

“Not sure what you mean.” 

Jenna gives you this look, like don’t bullshit me and you…suppose you understand what she’s talking about. There’s been this odd heat that seems to fizzle between you and him—like you’re always ten seconds away from catching on fire. Though you’re not sure what that means. It’s hard to tell whether it’s mutual attraction or something worse. 

You might want to kiss him, mostly just to shut him up, but how much trouble would that be really worth? 

“You don’t get what I mean?” She asks, skeptical, “There’s obviously something there, babe, otherwise you wouldn’t look like you’re sucking on a lemon because Anna’s here.” 

For fuck’s sake. “Or it’s because Anna has the personality of a leather couch.” 

Jenna grins, tossing an arm over your shoulder, “Whatever you say.” She sing-songs.

You chew on your lower lip, debating for a moment whether you should voice what you’re about to. But…at this point, it’s sort of become a thing for you. So what does it hurt mentioning it to Jenna? Or at least seeing what she says. 

“He said I’m not his type.” 

Jenna smiles but bites on her lower lip, like she’s trying not to laugh, “And that bothered you, huh?” 

You roll your eyes, groaning as you cover your face with your hands. “He gets under my fucking skin.” 

“You don’t sound broken up about that.” 

“What does that even mean? I’m not his type? Maybe he’s not mine!” 

Jenna smirks, “I’m sure Nick likes to think he’s everyone’s type.” 

You let a slow breath out of your lips. Is his ‘type’ based off looks? Personality? Their taste in music or movies or cars? You hate that you’ve given this so much thought. 

“Maybe he just wants someone as rude and snarky as he is.” You grumble but even as the words leave your mouth, you know they’re not fair. 

A knowing hum leaves your friend’s mouth and she puts an arm over your shoulders again to guide you outside,  “Nick may seem prickly on the outside, he certainly loves a verbal spar as much as tossing his fists. But he’s a good guy.” 

“Deep down?” You mumble, even though there’s no heat to your words. You don’t mean it and you know it’s not. You’ve seen him be someone kind, considerate, thoughtful. Even though that kitchen conversation rubbed you the wrong way, you know the words themselves came from a place in which he cared—otherwise he never would have intervened, never would have said anything. 

She smiles, almost knowing, playfully tugging on a strand of your hair, “Not that deep.” 

There’s a moment in which you really take in what she’s saying and consider giving him that chance. You’ve known Nick long enough to understand that he’s complex and so is your relationship—there are layers that he’s never seen of you, so maybe it’d be fair to say the same about him. 

But as you turn past the corner of hedges, that thought goes right through the sky when you see him pressed against Anna in the pool, whispering something into her ear. Something green and sickly curls in your stomach and you have to pull your gaze away so quickly that you nearly topple right into your friend. 

On second thought? Maybe only knowing one layer of Nick Leister is more than enough for you. 

—

You can’t remember the last time you went to one of these bare-knuckle fights at Lion’s warehouse gym but you’re quickly recalling why the gap in attendance existed in the first place. 

Wincing as Nick takes another hit to the face, you tear your gaze away, a sharp breath gathering in your lungs. You try to convince yourself that it’s the violence itself that bothers you and not the fact that Nick is getting hurt. Granted he’s winning but…that doesn’t make it any easier. 

Rubbing the back of your neck, you glance up at the fight in front of you, the roar of the crowd drowning out the grunts of the fighters. This is the last round, though you’re not even sure why it’s needed. The guy across from Nick is taking wild strokes, obviously tiring out, sometimes landing something, most of the time not. You know Nick’s stance well, at this point, he’s letting him get hits in. 

When time finally ticks down and it’s over, you feel like you can breathe again, smiling just a little (though it feels too tight on your face) when Nick’s win is announced. As the crowd begins to dissipate, you follow Jenna back to the locker room where Lion is discussing payout. You stand nearby, leaning against a set of lockers, arms crossed over your chest. 

Nick is seated on one of the bleachers, listening to Lion, an amused stretch to his mouth as Lion practically beams with pride and being 20k richer. 

“Celebratory drinks at my place,” Lion comments, his hand coming down on Nick’s shoulder, and you don’t miss the soft wince that passes over his features. As he playfully tugs Jenna with him when he leaves, talking about tossing fifties in the air tonight like confetti, you draw in a soft breath and try not to let annoyance seep out of your pores. 

One of the only things you wildly disagree with when it comes to Lion is treating Nick like some sort of prized racehorse. You know that Nick can stand up for himself, can say no if he really wanted to, but that doesn’t mean you have to like the idea of him getting slapped around in the ring. 

Watching him struggle with antiseptic and cotton balls, you step towards the bench. “Here, let me help.” 

You straddle the bleacher, inching closer to where he’s seated sideways. He pauses, glancing up at you as you sit down, handing over the first-aid kit. You put it on the floor, rifling through it for clean cotton balls and more antiseptic wipes. It feels incredibly intimate like this, sitting so close to him, the empty echoes of the locker room, him with his shirt off and a light sheen of sweat on his skin. 

“Nothing’s broken right?” 

Nick shakes his head, watching you fiddle with the antiseptic wipes. You finally manage to tear one open and hold out your hand so you can look at his knuckles. They’re not too bad…you look up at his face, your stomach doing a somersault when your eyes meet his. Suddenly you feel too overwhelmed having him this close, the heat of his body reaching through the layers of your clothes. 

You reach up and gently run your fingers through the front part of his hair, even though you don’t have to, pretending to look at a bruise forming on his one eyebrow. You then give your attention to his cheek, his lip, where there’s cuts. Nothing that needs stitches but definitely need cleaned. 

Your one hand moves to cup his jawline, tilting his head back towards the lights on the ceiling, beginning to swab the jagged line on his cheek. He jerks a bit, letting out a sharp breath. 

You raise your eyebrows, smiling a little, “Don’t be a baby, I’ve barely touched you.” 

You continue cleaning his cheek until you’re satisfied, moving on to his lip. Your thumb brushes his lower one, trying to ignore how soft it feels beneath your touch. 

“Having trouble finding the cut?” He asks, voice a touch low as he definitely notices you getting caught up. 

Heat spreads along the back of your neck and your thumb moves to press along the corner of his mouth where it’s red, just a touch bloody. His reaction is immediate, a hiss between his teeth and the heat that was in his brown eyes suddenly sparks with indignation. 

“Found it.” You smile sweetly. 

“Your bedside manner could use some work.” He grumbles. 

Humming, you run your thumb along his jawline, almost in apology. You then begin to disinfect his lip in soft silence, making sure to get all the dried blood. You chew on the inside of your cheek in concentration before a thought wanders into the forefront of your mind. 

“Why were you letting him get punches in?” 

Nick raises his eyebrows, maybe almost impressed that you could tell he was doing that. He shifts on the bench, “I’m surprised you noticed, any I time I saw you in the crowd, you had your head down.” 

I don’t like seeing you get hurt, is what you want to say, but those words never make it out. “Why?” You ask again. 

He breathes out, shrugging his one shoulder, “He doesn't have the best record, he was going to lose the minute he stepped in the ring.” An eyeroll from you—cocky. “Figured the night shouldn’t be a total waste for him.” 

You shake your head, “No one is going to want to date you if you look like a potato.” 

You’re joking, of course, but Nick’s hand suddenly comes up and wraps around your wrist. You swallow as his thumb drags across your veins, the air seeming to crackle around you as he says, “That’s the second time you’ve been concerned about who I’m dating.” 

“I was…” Words, “I was just pointing out that no one is going to date you with your face all…like that.” 

He smiles, just a little, a twitch of his lips. “My face like what?” He licks his lips, glancing down at yours. “‘No one’?” He tosses your words back at you, “I don’t know about that.” 

A shiver runs down your spine, something Nick can definitely feel based on his proximity. You don’t remember leaning closer to him, but you do, noses bumping, lips brushing—

And then the door to the locker room slams open. “Oi!” Lion calls out, “Can’t celebrate without you! Let’s go!” 

You practically fall off the bench you back up so fast, Nick’s eyes light with mirth and something else. Something you don’t wait around to identify before muttering you have to go, passing Lion on your way out. 

—

Shivering as you cross the street, you tug your phone out of the pocket of the dress you’re wearing to call Jenna to see if she’ll come pick you up from this fucking awful date you were on. This is your own damn fault, you know that, but you’re pissed nonetheless. You have no idea why you talked yourself into this (yes you do) but you decide there and then that you’re not going on any more dates unless you know the person. This is a guy that you interacted with once at a party and that should have told you all you needed to know. 

Jenna doesn’t pick up on the first call and you close your eyes, tipping your head back towards the night sky because this is also a rookie fucking mistake. You let the guy pick you up, drive you to the bar that’s now across the street.

“Idiot,” You mumble to yourself, trying Jenna’s cell again. 

Honestly? This is all Nick’s fault. He’s got you fucking twisted up in a way you cannot explain or sus out your feelings for. Seeing him close with Anna in his pool, patching him up and nearly doing something regrettable like kissing him, listening to his advice about not being a doormat… it just. It all builds up. 

You’re not my type. 

You let out a harsh breath—this is how you’ve ended up out on the sidewalk, trying to call a ride home. 

You told your so-called ‘date’ to stop trying to kiss you, that you weren’t even sure you wanted to finish the night out, let alone kiss him at the end of it. One point for standing up for yourself. Negative one point for your date telling you to fuck off and find your own ride home. 

Charming. 

“Fuck,” You pull your phone away when Jenna doesn’t answer for the third time. 

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you debate ordering a ride but…the last thing you want to do is spend more time with a different strange man tonight. There’s another name that your thumb hovers over and you already hate yourself for wanting to tap on it. 

He probably won’t pick up anyways. 

But, of course, he does. 

Before he can even speak, you try to explain, “I tried calling Jenna three times but she’s not picking up.” 

Nick lets out a breath through his nose, “What’s wrong?” 

You wince, not wanting to tell him. You begin a slow pace, back and forth, across the edge of the sidewalk. “Uhm. I was on a date and…turns out he fucking sucks, so, I need a ride home.” 

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you almost spill into a tangent about how you can order a ride or maybe…call someone else? Try Jenna again. You expect Nick to make a wiseass remark about calling so late, or give a scornful comment on how it sucks that your date was terrible. 

He surprises you by doing neither of those things, “Where are you?” 

You blink, opening and closing your mouth, “I’ll drop a pin.” 

Despite the silence, he stays on the phone with you until he turns onto the street, the familiar sound of the rumbling engine a comfort you can’t explain as he pulls alongside where you’re standing. Tugging the door open, you slip inside, a soft sound leaving your lips at the warmth of the leather seats. 

Nick’s in a pair of sweats, a plain white t-shirt, zip-up hoodie. When he sees you trembling, he turns the heat dial up, his hands resting back on the steering wheel as you put your seatbelt on. You’re not sure if he was at home or…somewhere else, but you’re grateful he showed up. Regardless of the tumultuous relationship the two of you have, he came to get you. That means a lot. 

The bruises and cuts on his face are healing quite nicely from his tussle in the ring. In about a week, it won’t even look like he was fighting at all. 

“Thanks,” You sniffle, rubbing the end of your nose with the back of your wrist. “You know, I really don’t understand guys. I mean—you seem to have a few good conversations with them and then they jump right into being a jackass when you won’t kiss them. I mean, what the fuck?” 

You glance over at him as he pulls out of the parking spot, the muscle in his jaw flexing, knuckles a bit white as he grips the steering wheel. 

“He didn’t even take me to dinner before the bar,” You shake your head. “I’m starving.” Not that you’re expecting to be completely wined-and-dined and everything but…what ever happened to good food, good conversations and a late-night drink? 

A soft huff leaves your lips, leaning back against the seat and wrapping your arms around yourself. 

“He tried to kiss you?” 

You blink, looking back over at Nick as he drives. His eyes are on the road, but the tone of his voice envelopes you like a warm blanket, causing a shiver to course down your spine. You’re almost confused he asks because…you weren’t even on that topic anymore, moreso on your rumbling stomach and wondering what you’re going to make to eat when you get home. 

“Yeah,” You shrug, “Wasn’t happy when I wasn’t into it. Told me to fuck off and find my own way home.” 

Nick lets out a short breath, stalling the car at an intersection even though the light isn’t red. There’s no one behind him but your eyebrows draw together as he seems to debate making an illegal U-turn. 

“It’s not too late—I can turn around, go back, punch his lights out.” 

You find yourself staring at him, at the open display of protectiveness, how pissed he sounds. On your behalf. You almost have no idea what to say for a moment, not expecting this reaction. For him to offer to turn the car around and…

Letting out a slow breath, you reach over and gently touch one of his wrists, smoothing your thumb along the tree of veins there until he visibly relaxes. He presses his foot against the gas, getting the car going. You appreciate the gesture, as fucked up as that might be. But he doesn’t need to hit anyone for you. 

Both of you are quiet as he drives, until a soft giggle climbs up your throat, “You know…punching him might have only done him favors, feel like he wasn’t very handsome to start.” 

Nick rolls his eyes but there’s a gentle tilt to his lips, a smile that wants to happen but doesn’t quite get there. “Would have made me feel better.” 

You hum softly, “Because he ruined your night?” You’re not sure what he was doing before you called, but you’re sure it was probably better than this. 

He licks his lips, putting his turn signal on, “Because he ruined yours.” 

Heat flushes over your cheeks and suddenly, you’re not feeling so cold anymore. Every time you think Nick’s not capable of surprising you, he says something like that. The sentiment dips into your chest and squeezes your ribs, releasing butterflies from their cages and fluttering them all throughout your system. 

It has you thinking about what Jenna said, that Nick’s a good guy. You suppose it’s something you’ve never doubted, just…never got to see much of it angled in your direction. 

When he puts the car into park again, you realize it’s not outside your place, but instead… “A diner?” You raise your eyebrows, turning a little to look at him. 

Nick takes his keys out, pocketing them before glancing at your abdomen. “They can hear your stomach grumbling a city over.” 

You grin, quickly getting out of the car, excitement spurring you forward as Nick follows you inside. The smell of grease and fried food greets you like an old friend and you grab a menu to look at as you wait for the hostess to come back from seating another couple to put you at a table as well. 

And just when you think Nick’s done surprising you, you feel the warm weight of his zip-up hoodie land over your shoulders as he tells the hostess that there’s two of you. You look up at him but he’s not paying attention to you, smiling at the older woman as she grabs silverware and says that she has the perfect booth for the both of you to sit at. 

Absentminded. Like he does something like this all the time—putting his hoodie around your shoulders and bringing you to a diner after a bad date. You press your arms through the sleeves, the warm fabric that smells like him is almost completely overwhelming. 

Something changes between you two, you can feel it. You’re not sure you can name it or even grasp it between your fingers, but a transformation nonetheless. 

Before you sit down on one side of the booth, you lean over and plant a kiss to Nick’s cheek. It’s quick, almost a distracted movement, but you mean it. He hesitates in sitting down, watching you take a seat. You can feel the warmth of his skin against your lips, and you resist the urge to touch your mouth as you take a look at the menu again as if it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. 

“What was that for?” He asks, finally sitting down across from you. 

“Just because.” You reply and enjoy the feeling of his legs leaning into yours under the table as you decide on what to order. 

—

Something shifts. It’s in small smiles, snarky comments, the brushing and grazing of your hands. It’s in the way you tug on Nick’s curls or the way he squeezes your waist in a spot he knows you're ticklish. It’s when he calls you softie as an insult, but he’s smiling. It’s in how you haven’t given him his hoodie back since the night you were at the diner. It’s wearing it in front of him and he makes no move to take it. 

It doesn’t have a name, just a feeling, an emotion that’s heavy and weightless all at the same time. 

—

You knew today wasn’t going to be the best day when you rolled over and saw that your phone died. On a normal Saturday? That wouldn’t be such a big deal, but of course today you promised to help your mother set up for this charity event she’s been talking about non-stop. Again, usually not a big deal? But this afternoon is also the deadline for a summer art program that you've been wanting to sign up for. You can admit it’s your fault for leaving things to the last minute (your portfolio is done, but the essay portion is not). Also? It’s your fault for being interested in such a pain in the ass prestigious program in the first place but…getting into this program could open doors for you that were never even a possibility before. Doors that you didn’t even know existed. 

You have to get in. 

But your alarm not going off because your phone died because you forgot to plug it in creates a domino effect that successfully throws off your whole fucking day. 

You’re flustered getting ready so you burn your hand by pouring coffee on it. Because you’re late to the venue, there’s no parking, so you have to find a spot even further away. The heel of your shoe snags on an uneven patch in the pavement, and you fall straight down, barely catching yourself in time. Sore and late, your mom wants to hear zero excuses when you finally find her amongst circular tables and place settings. 

She keeps you longer than she promised, punishing you for wasting her time this morning and by the time you make it back home? The deadline for submission has passed. 

You just kind of stare at your laptop in disbelief, a red banner with the words SUBMISSIONS CLOSED staring at you like a slap to the face. You draw in a soft breath, trying to laugh over the comedy of errors you suffered today, because what else can you do? You try to tell yourself that there’s always next summer and other programs and…your art is capable of speaking for itself. You don’t need a fancy program to tell you things you already know or to create networks for you. 

You don’t need it. 

You distract yourself with friends, heading over to Jenna’s place to have a bonfire and maybe go skinny dipping. Something a little wild, distracting, fun. You head back inside to make yourself a coffee because there’s a bit of a chill in the air, trying to ignore the slightly red skin on your hand from the coffee mis-hap earlier in the day and draw in a deep breath to attempt to mellow yourself out. 

You’ll settle back outside with your hands wrapped around warm ceramic, listen to Giles tell another ridiculous story about how when he was younger his parents put him into boarding school, and try not to watch how pretty Nick’s features are with the orange glow of the fire on them. 

Tugging your phone out and ignoring a particularly scathing message from your mother about how you did something wrong with the place-settings for the charity gala, you tap open Instagram. Your parents have never been supportive of your art, so it’s not surprising that your mother doesn’t care that you missed out on this art program. She thinks you’re wasting your time and need to plan for a future that’s more guaranteed, lucrative. You bite down, hard, on the inside of your cheek. 

You mindlessly scroll through posts of Instagram accounts you’re following…but then come across a video about the very same summer art program—all the opportunities you’ll be missing out on. You let out a harsh laugh, the sound sneaking up on you, because of course you’d wander onto this after the day you’ve had. You quickly close the phone, but not before your fingers start shaking, a fragile sort of hurt feeling that’s been building up in your chest since this afternoon finally breaking free. 

Trying to breathe through it, you take in a soft breath in through your nose, letting it out your mouth…but your lips are wobbling. And the next intake of air is sharp and painful and you squeeze your eyes shut against the onslaught of tears. A choked sob leaves your chest and you cover your mouth with your hand, attempting to stop this breakdown before it really gets going. But a part of you knows you just need to cry about this in order to feel how you feel and to move on. 

That’s what you’re about to do, turning to head to the bathroom when you hear voices down the hall. They’re walking too fast for you to make it to your destination and suddenly you just have nowhere to go. You straighten your shoulders, quickly turning away to face the coffee pot as Nick and Giles enter, talking about needing more wood for the bonfire. 

You sniffle, wiping your cheek, keeping your back to them. There’s a sudden silence before, “I’ll meet you back outside.” 

Giles makes a noncommittal noise before the sound of his footsteps disappear. Meanwhile, you feel Nick come closer to you before his hand gently wraps around your elbow. You attempt to hide the tears from him but there’s no use. Wiping a hand over your cheek does little to help. 

“Hey, what happened?” He asks softly, his thumb dipping along your inner elbow. 

That simple question cracks open your chest and your face crumbles, chin dipping as your shoulders hunch. All the day’s wrongs just bubble up and over.  Nick moves quickly, taking a step forward to wrap his arms around you, drawing you to lean against his chest. You press your face into his shoulder, all the frustration and disappointment just pouring out of you. You can feel your tears dampen his sweatshirt, but the entire time, Nick doesn’t seem to mind. 

Instead, he’s more concerned with his hand rubbing up and down your back, his fingers threading through your hair, a soft shh against the shell of your ear until you calm down. Until your breathing isn’t so labored. 

He doesn’t pull away until you’re ready, reaching for a few tissues near the sink to place into your hand. A hiccuped sniffle follows and you feel utterly spent from letting yourself go. Distantly, you know you’re a little better, despite that hollow sensation still sitting heavy in your ribs. Nick moves your hair over your shoulder, his hand resting along your neck, thumb brushing back and forth. 

He’s patient, waits until his gaze catches your own before he repeats himself, “What’s wrong?” 

You shake your head, cheeks splotching a bit in embarrassment at having a small meltdown against his chest. You gently touch the fabric of his sweatshirt, sniffling, “Ruined your hoodie.” 

His eyebrows draw together before he gently waves you off, “I don’t care.” The fingers that are still on your neck dip back, putting pressure along your shoulder blades. 

Nick doesn’t ask again, but you know he’s waiting on an explanation. So you take a moment to draw in another breath, concentrate on your voice not shaking, “Today’s just been a really…shitty day.” 

He hums lightly, doesn’t press, even though it’s obvious that there’s a lot to this bad day. You lean against the counter, playing with the tissues between your fingers, and he moves his hand from the back of your neck to trace his thumb across your cheek. 

“I get it,” He replies, “Sometimes I like to have a good cry in the weight room at my house.” It takes a moment for you to realize he’s joking—teasing you, “Good acoustics in there.” 

You can’t help but smile, a soft laugh leaving your lips and Nick’s thumb dips to your lower lip, the corner of his mouth tugging up too. “There we go.” He whispers, like getting you to laugh was his only intention.

You’re both quiet for a few moments, nothing filling the kitchen except the sound of your shared breathing, the hum of the refrigerator, the gentle hiss of the coffee machine after your coffee is brewed. 

“Why don’t you head outside,” He offers, “I’ll grab that for you.” He motions to the coffee with his chin and you nod, finding yourself too tired to deny him. 

—

That feeling that doesn't have a name? You're starting to be able to describe it in words that make sense. But those words are kept to yourself, silent commentary, afraid that speaking them outloud will shatter their meaning. 

—

Turns out, Nick knows exactly how you take your coffee. You didn’t even realize he paid attention to that sort of thing. He hands you the mug as you sit in the grass on a blanket, wearing his zip up hoodie. You assume he’ll find another seat but he places himself behind you, his hands settling on your shoulders. You expect yourself to tense, to feel uncomfortable…but you don’t. 

Instead you notice you lean back into him, into his hands, especially when they start massaging your shoulders. His thumbs press into the tight muscles of your upper back and your head tips a little as your eyes close. If anyone notices that you and Nick are sharing this blanket in front of the bonfire, no one bats an eyelash. You can feel Jenna’s eyes at you at one point across the flames, but it’s gone as quickly as it appears, a small, knowing smile pulling at her mouth. 

You gravitate towards Nick’s touch until you’re tucked back between his legs, his hands still working the tense muscles of your shoulders. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt so relaxed, at ease, almost falling asleep with this mug of coffee in your hands under his ministrations. Everything seems to fade around you, all the other noise, all the other conversations. 

Your head tips back a little to look at him and his fingers pause, “I can stop.” He offers, because this isn’t…something you normally do with one another. This is part of that something shifting—the fact that Nick has always been a handsy type of person, but now there’s this. Something close and altogether intimate and new. 

You shake your head, appreciate the offer but, “Your touch feels good.” You admit softly, a small smile tugging the corners of Nick’s mouth from your response. 

He nods, continuing to rub your shoulders. That point of connection between your bodies makes your stomach flip and you allow your eyes to close for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of Nick’s body along your back while the heat from the fire kisses your face. 

“You know that summer art program I’ve brought up before?” You mention quietly after a few moments. “I didn’t get my submission in before the deadline closed.” You swallow, running your thumb along the rim of the mug in your hands. 

“It’s my own fault. I procrastinated and then…my whole day was thrown off. Just couldn’t get it done in time.” You chew on your lower lip for a moment. “And I know it’s not like…the be-all, end-all of doing my art but…I was just really excited about it.” 

“You should still apply,” Nick says after a moment, “I’m sure there’s an email or something in which you can send everything in.” 

“Yeah, maybe. But what’s the point? They closed submissions.” 

You can feel more than see Nick shrug his shoulder. “Things change all the time. You never know.” 

Your lips twitch, “That’s very optimistic of you.” You turn just a little to look at him, your breath catching in your chest as it’s confirmed that the orange glow reflecting against Nick’s skin makes him all the more breathtaking. You resist the urge to trace the dark golden rings, almost like honey,  in his curls. 

“Think someone is rubbing off on me.” He mumbles with an eyeroll that is completely for your benefit. 

“Careful,” You smirk, “Wouldn’t want to start calling yourself nice, now would you?” 

Nick purposely bumps your noses together, a laugh sounding through mostly air leaving your nose. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

—

You do what Nick suggests—you create a submission anyways and email it. You’re not expecting anything out of it, no need to get yourself wound up in disappointment all over again. Except, then you get an email a week later—apparently there was an extra spot, a place for you, your submission has been counted. You’re in. You’re in the summer art program. 

You stare at the screen for so long that your eyes water. You then jump out of your chair, rushing towards the door to your bedroom. It takes you fifteen minutes to drive to Nick’s house, oddly the only person you want to see to tell this news. You’ll unpack that feeling later, but when you’re let into his place and take the steps two at a time to his bedroom, knocking—

“Did you run all the way here?” He asks, leaning against the doorframe as he watches you catch your breath. 

“I–got—in.” You lick your lips, a grin spreading across them after the fact. 

He raises his eyebrows but he doesn’t look surprised. “You got in?” 

“Yes,” You’re beaming now, like you’re holding the sun in your mouth. Your one hand reaches out and touches his forearm, “The summer art program,” A giggle slips, “I submitted things like you suggested and I got an email, I got in.” 

“Oh so you’re saying you listened to me?” He asks, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. 

“This is what you’re getting out of that?” 

He shrugs, “Pretty good message—listen to me more often.” 

He’s such a shit but you’re in a really good mood, you don’t even care. You take a step forward and press yourself up on your toes, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He takes a step back, not expecting the momentum, but he squeezes his own along your waist. He then picks you up and does a half spin, another giggle slipping from your throat before he sets you down. 

When your feet hit the carpet, you’re looking up at him, grin wild on your face, chest pressed against his own. He’s smiling too, his hand cupping your cheek, tracing the corner of your mouth with his thumb. Your heart ricochets into your chest at the simple action and you wish you could blame what you do next on your good mood. 

You lean the rest of the way up and kiss him. 

It’s far too quick and far too soft, you wait for that tell-tale moment where Nick pushes you away. But he doesn’t. Instead, he dips his head down, capturing your lips more firmly, arm that’s still around your waist picking you up against his body. 

Your fingers weave into his curls, tugging, keeping him as close as you can. His hand cups your cheek, slipping down to the back of your neck, his tongue teasing the seam of your lips until it’s rolling against your own. 

A soft noise leaves your throat and that’s all the encouragement he needs to back up into his bedroom, closing the door with his foot.

—

You end up on Nick’s bed, laying on your stomach, Nick on his back. You’re shoulder to shoulder, your fingers playing with one of the curls in his hair. Your lips are still tingling from kissing him, a smile you can’t quite get rid of playing with the corners of your mouth. Regardless how often you and Nick seemed to clash, it felt right, your body against his own like that. 

He turns his head a little to look at you and you brush your thumb along his temple. 

“Sorry I just showed up out of the blue, I was just…excited.” And I wanted to tell you. 

Nick shakes his head, “I’m glad you came here.” He turns to lay on his side, his fingers brushing yours. “What are you excited about the most, with the program?” 

You breathe in, thinking about all the things the summer program has to offer. Different art classes, resources, networking opportunities—you’re not sure which one is standing out to you the most. “I think I’m just looking forward to doing my art in a place that feels like…it sees me.” It’s a quiet admittance. You have your friends, of course, who have always been supportive but…your family? It’s never been like that. 

Nick brings his hand up, brushing it through your hair, tucking it around your ear, “I see you.” He says quietly and you tip your head into his touch. The way he says it sounds a lot like I’ve always seen you. 

A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you look at him. “I know.” 

You touch his cheek, playfully pinching his chin between your thumb and pointer finger. He smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to yours. 

___

There’s a set of words, a phrase said in a teasing tone, that lives in the back of your mind, springing forth in the most inopportune times. It conflicts with the fluttering feeling in your chest, clipping wings and sinking to your knees. 

You’re not my type. 

___

When you tell Jenna and Lion, they’re just as excited for you, Jenna rounding the counter in her kitchen to hug you. You squeeze back before pulling away, reaching for the bowl of snacks she has set out to bring outside for the small friend group gathered. Everyone is mostly doing their own thing but the goal is to project a movie outside tonight after the sun goes down. 

“I’m just glad I listened to Nick. Submitted something.” 

Jenna hums warmly. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.” 

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. “I know, don’t mention it to him again. His ego is big enough.” 

She purses her lips, leaning her elbows onto the counter as she pops some almonds into her mouth. “Speaking of, doesn’t Nick’s dad donate a lot of money to that program?” 

You blink, your mouth opening a little but then closing. Wait. “To the summer art program?” 

Jenna tugs her phone out of her back pocket, doing some googling until she comes across the website for the program, nodding. “I recognize that logo,” She sets her phone down. “Mr. Leister funds some of that with charitable donations.” 

What feels like a stone tumbles into your stomach, a sinking sensation. Did Nick…have his dad pull strings for you?  While you want to be…honored and grateful, and yes you are those things, you also wonder if money just bought you a spot. That you earned nothing on merit, late submission or not. 

“You alright?” Jenna asks, “Y/N?” 

You blink, coming back to focus, that sinking feeling swirling into something sick. You feel your heartbeat tick up, nerves biting into you about this whole thing. The excitement and pride you once felt now seems kind of cheap. You just…if Nick spoke to his dad about this, you’re not sure why he wasn’t just honest with you about it.

“Yeah,” You smile a little, lying through your teeth, “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

—

You are not okay.

And it must be something that’s plain on your face because Nick brushes his hand down your arm, gently tugging on your elbow to step to the side of the patio as everyone begins to sit to watch the movie in the yard. 

He gently guides you towards the back door, where it’s more private, and you can hear the beginning of whatever film is put on, the chatter of Lion tossing out snacks. 

You don’t meet his gaze for a moment, even though you can sense Nick dipping his chin as he tries to get your attention. When you don’t, he reaches out and clasps your cheek, tilting your head back with his thumb until you’re looking at him. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You could deny it, but you know he wouldn’t believe you anyways. You draw in a soft breath, carefully removing yourself from his touch, “Did your dad buy my spot into the summer art program?” 

Nick goes still, his hands returning to his sides as he draws in a breath, your name said in a gentle reply. But it tells you everything you need to know. 

“Oh my god,” You scoff out, running a hand over your cheek. “He did.” 

“It’s not like that,” Nick replies quickly, “I came home in a mood because you were so upset, when my dad asked what was wrong—he was just trying to help. He called the program to ask about spots, realized he could pull some strings. It was a favor.” 

“Nick—”

“He did not buy your spot.” 

“It’s the same thing!” Your voice raises, your cheeks flushing as exasperated tears fill your eyes. You draw in a breath, trying to keep your words from shaking. “I didn’t get in on my merit, on my art.” 

“They wouldn’t have even looked at your art if my dad hadn’t called,” He keeps his voice level, smooth, even though frustration is printed on his face. “Sometimes everything boils down to who you know.” 

Something ugly crawls into your chest, pent-up sourness from previous conversations, from being afraid to trust him, from not quite understanding what you are to one another. You’re upset that he didn’t tell you, that it feels dishonest even though you know he was just trying to look out for you, that he cared you were upset. 

“The point is that you didn’t tell me,” Then without any connection whatsoever, that ugliness spits from your mouth like venom, “Oh I see—is your type not someone who values trust?” 

Nick visibly bristles, his jaw working as you seem to hit a nerve. “For someone who keeps bringing it up, you’ve never outright asked me who my type is.” 

“Tell it to someone who cares.” You snap, moving to pull the backdoor open to head in the house, to leave out the front. 

Nick reaches for your elbow, and even though his touch is gentle, you wrench your arm away, “That’s bullshit.” 

“I’m not interested in someone who lies to me.” 

Before he can get another word in, you close the door in his face, moving quickly and with purpose to head to your car to go home. 

—

You take space and Nick gives that to you. He doesn’t try to chase after you or show up at your house to try and talk. He doesn’t call or text or mention anything to Jenna and Lion. Which is…which is fine. You think you need that radio silence to really figure yourself out. 

Because you’re wrong on so many counts. 

You are interested in Nick and maybe in a way, you always have been. That feeling you could only describe with words finally has a name to them—a few, actually. 

Endearment, fond, smitten—

love-struck. 

—

You head to Nick’s place, a cup of his favorite coffee in your hands, and you’re let inside. Apparently he’s on his way back from visiting his sister, but you can wait in his room if you wish. You do so, taking the steps two at a time and winding your way towards the familiar bedroom. You swallow over an emotion stuck in your throat, pushing the door open. His room is pristinely put together, bed made, everything in its place except for a hoodie tossed onto the bed. You catch whiffs of his shampoo and cologne as you sit down on the edge of the mattress and wait for him. 

When you hear the front door open and close downstairs, you’re almost worried he’s going to turn you away—you suppose you wouldn’t blame him if he did, given how the two of you left things. You draw a breath into your lungs and stand as he rounds the corner, pausing as he sees you. 

“I uhm, I should have texted,” You realized, “Or called or something.” 

He stares at you a moment, licking his lips as his gaze falls to the coffee. 

“Brought you your favorite, it…might be cold now.” 

Nick nods softly but doesn’t take it, glancing past you towards where his closet is. He says nothing as he walks towards his intended destination, leaving you alone in the space. You close your eyes a moment before putting the coffee down on his bedside table, turning to follow him. He’s moving around his closet, clearly getting things out to change into, going about his business like you’re not even there. 

You wring your hands together in front of you, gathering all the strength and nerve you can not to back down and leave, “I’m sorry,” You blurt out. 

Nick lets out a slow breath, turning a little to look at you. His face is stoic but…you think there’s something in his eyes. A warmth there, maybe, which encourages you to continue, 

“I know when you talked to your dad about the summer art program that you just wanted to help,” You take a step towards him, “My pride took a bit of a hit but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” You draw in a soft breath, scared that you might have fucked this up. You reach out for his hand, brushing your thumb over a finger that has a silver ring on, “I’m really sorry.” 

“What about the other part?” He asks softly, turning his hand a bit in your grip so that his fingers nearly slot with your own, “That you don’t care who my type is.” 

You huff out an embarrassed laugh, your cheeks feeling hot, “I think we both know what you said is true—utter bullshit.” 

If anything, you think you care a little too much. 

Nick’s quiet for a few moments, his thumb brushing over yours. He doesn’t speak until your eyes find his, “I didn’t think you were my type,” He crinkles his nose, “Any time we watch a movie that has an animal in it, you look up to see if it dies,” Your mouth falls open a little, sort of giving him a slow blink because— “I’m pretty sure you’re at least ten minutes early with anywhere you go—” 

“Uhm, there’s nothing wrong with being early—”

“Even though being on time is perfectly fine. You’re too nice,” He talks over you, squeezing your fingers, “I thought you were going to become best friends with the woman who made your latte the other day.” 

“Carole had a great sense of humor.” 

“She was seventy.” 

You huff, “So?” 

“You’re absolutely wigged out by scary movies, yet you watch them anyways and always want to watch them.” 

“I feel like this is turning into a list of things you don’t like about me.” 

Nick steps closer, crowding your space, so you take a step back until you bump into the storage block that’s in the center of his closet. His hands rest on either side of you, creating a cage with his arms. 

“You’re sweet and passionate and stubborn,” You let out a soft breath, your heart beginning to beat wildly in your chest from what he’s saying and how close he is. “You’re a lot of things that I’m not.” 

“I wouldn’t sell yourself short,” You say softly, your noses bumping, “You’re plenty stubborn.” 

He smiles a little, lifting his hand to cup your cheek, “You took me by surprise—made me want things I didn’t know I could want.” 

Brushing his thumb along your lower lip, your oxygen stutters in your chest, making your body feel warm all over. The press of his own against yours, the heat of his skin, the scent of his cologne mixed with something purely him, the slight height difference he has over you, the way he’s leaning down, the way you feel tucked up against him perfectly. Your gaze zeros in on his mouth—

“You’re my type in every way that matters.” Nick barely finishes that sentence before your lips crash into his. 

A soft groan rumbles in his throat and his restraint crumbles, he pulls at you, picking you up into his arms. He holds you easily, supporting your weight against his chest, carrying you somewhere—

“Where are we going?” You laugh softly against his lips. 

“Where I was headed before you got here,” He nips at your lower lip, “Shower.” 

But he doesn’t take you to the glass shower he has in his bathroom, instead, he gently deposits you right in front of the tub. You raise your eyebrows in soft amusement, running your hand along the edge of the white clawfoot tub. Nick leans over to turn the faucet, feeling the tap and putting the stopper in. 

“What, no bubbles?” You tease, grinning up at him as he shifts over to you. His fingers curl underneath your shirt. 

“Can I take this off?” 

You nod, lifting your arms to help him. The fabric is pulled off in a flourish, tossed to the side before he tugs you closer by curling his fingers into your belt loops. A laugh tumbles out of your chest, your arms loosely wrapping around his waist. 

“What about you?” You ask softly, playing with the fabric of his shirt between your fingers. 

He nods and you work it off his body. A soft sigh leaves your lips, lifting your hand to trace some of the tattoos on his skin, brushing over the silver chain resting on his chest. You lean into him, planting a kiss to the Roman numerals under his collarbone. 

Nick dips his head down, a kiss placed in your hair. 

You stand there together for a few moments, slowly undressing, eventually getting into the tub—and Nick does add bubbles, bright and pink, that smell like roses. An amused smile tugs the corners of your mouth as he sits down first, encouraging you to sink between his legs. A shiver courses down your spine when Nick leans forward, when you can feel the heat of him press into your back, when he plants a kiss on your shoulder. As you lean back against him, you can feel more than hear him sigh, his hand slipping around the front of you, down, down. 

Time spent in that tub is definitely not used for getting clean. 

—

Leaning against the edge of a pool table, you watch as Nick and Lion mix drinks, a small smile tugging the corners of your mouth as you wait with Jenna across the room at another hang-out. Jenna follows your eyesight and playfully nudges you with her elbow. 

“Who knew?” Jenna grins. "Don't get me wrong, I love Nick, but he's different from you in a lot of ways." And sometimes, you know, opposites don’t attract. 

You laugh because she's not wrong. He can be brash, a hothead, a twinge of arrogance wrapped together with pride. But you've also seen him be sweet, gentle, protective and thoughtful. You love the duality, the way he keeps you guessing. 

Nick begins to wander over to you, making his way through the crowd, “He's just my type.” You tell Jenna and kiss him once he's close enough.

[vibelladonna]

✑ 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝑜𝓎𝒻𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝜗𝜚 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

We’re back again with the “type of boyfriend” headcanons—this time for the best baby boy in TKATB. That’s right, it’s finally Hyugo’s turn. People have been asking for him (loudly), and since there’s barely any content on this chaotic rooftop menace, I figured... fine. It’s time.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions. 

Also, I was only gone for like two weeks and suddenly y’all hit me with 1K followers—??? Why?? T-T

I’m not even a consistent writer, I just be vanishing like a ghost with commitment issues. But seriously, thank you. I’ll try to get to your requests after finals, once my brain cells recover from the academic warfare.

Anyway, writing him? Pain. He’s sweet, playful, has beef with the college, possibly a knife in his back pocket 24/7, and still manages to be boyfriend-coded. Balancing all that? Not easy—especially studying for finals kicking me in the face. But even while dying academically, I think I’ve got a solid grasp on him now.

Honestly? I might just become the main Hyugo writer. 

Someone has to. Let’s get into it.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

Let’s be clear—Hyugo was the one catching feelings first.

The boy was already gone for you long before you realized what was happening. In the game, it’s mentioned he has a “certain crush,” and the way he stares a little too long or makes offhand comments about how you “remind him of someone”?

Yeah. That someone is you.

He doesn’t confess right away, though. That’s not his style. Instead, he lingers around you more often, steals your pen to “borrow it” even though he never returns it, pulls you into weird places like the rooftop “just because,” and randomly brings up your name in conversations with Sol—pretending it’s no big deal. (Spoiler: it is.)

✑ Unpredictable Lover (But With Bite)

Hyugo doesn’t ease into love. He trips, stumbles, and full-body slams into it like a cartoon character hitting a wall—and then laughs about it while nursing emotional whiplash. One minute you’re just the guy who shares notes or laughs at his dumb trivia. 

The next? He’s looking at you like you invented gravity.

When the MC reminded him of his old crush? That was it. Game over. His brain short-circuited and fully convinced itself you were his soulmate. Not in a clingy way (okay, maybe a little clingy), but in that wide-eyed, heart-hammering, "Oh, you're real? You're mine?" kind of way.

It’s not even subtle. If Sol’s the type to bottle everything up until it explodes, Hyugo’s just… holding the bottle upside down, watching it pour, and asking if you want a sip. He’ll tell you he likes you in the most offhand, dramatic, heart-melting ways—laughing as if it’s no big deal while simultaneously dying inside.

“I like you too much. It’s annoying.” cue deflection into food talk like he didn’t just ruin your emotional stability for the week

He’s drawn to people who get him—the weird parts, the unpredictable schedule, the random ass facts at 3 a.m., the way he vanishes and reappears with rare cassettes or bags of stolen berries like a chaotic little cryptid boyfriend. People who don’t try to "fix" him, but instead hand him a spoon and ask to share dessert.

He doesn’t do patterns. Doesn’t do expectations. What he does do is follow his gut, sprint into romantic territory like it’s a speedrun, and somehow still make you feel like the center of the universe—his odd little galaxy.

One day he’s got your favorite fruity snack in hand, saying, “Skip class with me. I found a crime documentary we can heckle together.” The next? He’s ghosted for two days. No texts. No calls. Reappears like nothing happened, dumps a bag of cassette tapes in your lap, and mutters, “They sounded like you. Messy but good.”

His version of sweet nothings?

“If I threatened the dean, do you think I’d get expelled or promoted?”

What.

Anyway, Hyugo’s idea of a confession is the kind of thing that makes you pause for a full ten seconds wondering if he just insulted you or proposed.

Like the time he sauntered over to you with a slice of cake in a paper napkin, tossed it on your desk, and casually said:

“I got this cake the other day and it reminded me of you. It was horrible—like, truly disgusting—but really pretty to look at.”

And then he smiled.

Not even sheepishly. Just smug. Like he thought he was being romantic.

And somehow? It kind of was.

Because beneath the trolling and chaotic delivery, there’s a genuine, rare honesty. That cake? It was real. He hated it—but he thought about you. He bought it thinking about you. He shared it, thinking that even if it sucked, he wanted you to be part of the joke, part of the moment. And that’s what Hyugo does. He doesn’t wrap his feelings in a bow—he throws them at you like a dodgeball and laughs when you flinch.

But that’s the thing: Hyugo’s love isn’t elegant. It’s not scheduled. It’s messy, spontaneous, way-too-loud, and utterly sincere. One day he’s skipping class to show you a crime documentary he downloaded illegally off a sketchy website, and the next, he’s vanished for 48 hours without a word. Then he returns like nothing happened, hands you a crumpled bag of sweets and pretty flowers and mutters:

“I don’t know. These felt like you.”

He doesn’t believe in doing things the “right” way. He believes in feeling. And if being with you makes his heart do that hiccup thing in his chest? He’s going to chase that.

His affection isn’t routine—it’s a riot. He’ll flirt by arguing with you about fictional crimes. He’ll compliment you by comparing you to garbage-eating birds. He’ll confess his feelings mid-snack, while chewing.

“I like you too much, it’s annoying. Can you pass the chips?”

And honestly? It’s kind of perfect.

Because Hyugo doesn’t do romance the normal way—he does it his way. Unhinged. Blunt. Endearing in the most unpredictable fashion.

If you can survive the whiplash of dating someone who gifts you detective movie posters, late-night existential rants, and a stolen plush frog from the student store—He’s already yours.

Sidenote, now thinking about—Let’s just say… if Sol finds out Hyugo has feelings for the MC too?

Sol is the type to internalize every emotion until it calcifies. He doesn’t say he’s upset—he just stiffens around you, goes quiet, disappears from hangouts, and starts writing darker poetry. But make no mistake: he sees everything. And Hyugo? He’s not subtle. Not even a little.

Hyugo would catch on instantly. He’d tease Sol. Not maliciously—more like poking a sleeping wolf with a stick to see if it barks.

“You’re awfully quiet, Sol. Something bothering you?”

leans a little too close to MC

“Or someone?”

And maybe he laughs. Maybe he makes a show of being the light-hearted one. But behind all that noise is a sharp, protective loyalty—Hyugo’s jokes are weapons, and he’ll use them to keep the people he cares about close.

He might pretend to flirt just to mess with Sol.

But when it comes to you? He’s serious. Hyugo doesn’t play around with the things that make his heartbeat go crooked.

If you’re the one who makes him feel free—if you accept all his chaos without trying to change him—he’ll give you everything. The good, the bad, the oddly sweet bird-themed analogies. The ugly truths he doesn’t tell anyone else.

Because once Hyugo falls?

He falls all the way. No brakes. No caution tape. No escape plan.

Just you, and a heart too loud to ignore.

✑ Smart but Soft (and a lil scary)

Hyugo’s the type who confuses people on purpose. He’s top of the class one day, doesn’t show up the next. Cracks the most complicated equation in five minutes, then sticks googly eyes on the school vending machine and blames it on aliens.

Some say he’s a delinquent. Some say he’s a genius. All anyone really knows is that Hyugo always gets things done. He’s reliable.

Strangely so. You call him at 3AM with a crisis? He shows up.

You’re in tears over nothing? He distracts you with candy and half a conspiracy theory. He’s not ashamed of affection either—not even a little. 

Hyugo doesn’t care who’s watching when he grabs your hand in the hallway, when he hugs you from behind, or when he loudly calls you embarrassing pet names in front of Sol, or pretty much anyone.

Yeah. He's that guy.

But there’s something… off about him too.

Not in a bad way. Just—off. Like, he’s always smiling. Always laughing. But sometimes you catch that flicker in his eyes that’s just a bit too sharp. Sometimes his grin feels like it’s hiding something sharp behind it. Something practiced. Like he's worn that mask for years and just got good at making it look natural.

And the truth is? You’ve seen things.

Once, after class, you were heading toward the train station shortcut—an alleyway behind the older school buildings. You didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the voice that echoed off the brick stopped you cold. It was rough. Deep. Too serious. Too cold. Not Hyugo’s voice.

“If I catch you touching her again, I’ll carve out your throat and make you apologize with your last breath. Say ‘thank you’ for the warning.”

And then you saw him.

Hyugo. Your Hyugo.

Back pressed to some guy’s chest, hand gripping his jaw like he’d snap it clean. Not smiling. Not even blinking. Calm in a way that felt unnatural. There was a flick-knife in his hand. The same one he later used to peel an apple while lying on your floor like it never happened.

And what did you do? Nothing. You minded your business.

Like, what were you supposed to say? “Hey, babe, nice threats today! Who was the guy? Should I be worried?” Because how do you ask someone if they’re dangerous when they’re laying in your lap, pressing absentminded kisses to the inside of your wrist? When he’s curled up beside you with all his warmth and nicknames and that childish excitement in his voice whenever he finds a weird bug or sees a raccoon?

How do you bring it up when he's sweet?

When he traces your knuckles with the same fingers that curled around a knife so naturally. When he leans into your neck and mumbles, “You smell like strawberries,” like it’s a confession.

When he tells you, “Don’t ever leave me, okay?” in a tone too soft to be anything but sincere. That duality is what makes Hyugo dangerous. And irresistible.

He’s smart. Very smart. Too smart, maybe.

But beneath that chaotic, happiness-bomb energy, there’s a darkness he doesn't talk about. A history he won’t explain. All you get are glimmers—warnings painted in pretty smiles and sugar-sweet kisses. And maybe he isn’t an assassin. Maybe he just knows how to handle himself. Maybe he is too cute for that sort of thing. ...Right? Or maybe the same hands that cup your cheeks gently could, without hesitation, end someone who hurt you.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s why you feel safest right next to him.

✑ Certified Cling Wrap™

Hyugo’s a walking paradox.

He’s an extrovert, yeah. The guy who can light up a room just by showing up, who always has something weirdly fascinating to say ("Did you know slugs have four noses?"). The type who remembers everyone’s birthday, even if he doesn’t show up to class half the time. He’s fun. Loud. Chaotic.

But when it comes down to it?

There’s nowhere he’d rather be than with you.

He’d trade a party for your couch in a heartbeat. Scratch that—he wouldn’t even consider the party if you were available. You could literally say, “I’m thinking of watching a movie tonight,” and he’d be like:

“Say less. I’m bringing snacks.”

He just wants to exist in your space. Quiet or loud, chaotic or cozy, rainy or sunlit—if you’re in it, that’s where Hyugo wants to be. And when he’s there? Prepare to lose all personal space rights.

Hyugo is Certified Cling Wrap™

Affectionate in the most relentless, devoted way. He’s the kind of guy who:

Will sit on the floor beside you just so he can lean his head against your thigh while you're working.

Wraps his arms around your waist from behind while you’re cooking, swaying with you and humming some dumb made-up song about your hair smelling good.

Steals your hoodies even though he already has a closet full of his own (“Yours smell like comfort and bad decisions.”).

Sleeps like a cat in a sunbeam—curled up on you, gripping your shirt with a soft little snore in your ear.

He doesn’t care if your hair’s a mess, or if you’ve said three words all day. To him, that’s the dream. A quiet afternoon, curled up together under a blanket, him reading some wild conspiracy thread aloud like it’s bedtime poetry, your legs tangled under the coffee table—that’s his definition of paradise.

And it’s not just physical closeness.

It’s emotional, too. Hyugo pays attention.

He notices when your laugh doesn’t sound real. When your “I’m fine” isn’t. When you’re holding back tears or trying to carry more than you should. And in his own strange, lovable way, he makes it better. Sometimes it’s through chaos—dragging you out of bed at 2AM for gas station candy and an illegal rooftop view of the cityline. Maybeee say for a bit to sun rise.

Sometimes it’s through comfort—sneaking in your favorite drink with a dumb note taped to it (“Drink this or perish.”).

And sometimes, it’s just… silence.

Him resting beside you, letting his fingers run lazy circles on your arm while you process whatever’s weighing you down. Not asking for anything. Just being there.

Hyugo’s the guy who’ll whisper “I love you” into your hair when he thinks you’re asleep, just to be safe. Who calls you nicknames like he’s been doing it his whole life—“bug,” “babyface,” “sweet disaster,” depending on the mood.

Who holds your hand like it grounds him.

And maybe he’s a little too clingy. Maybe he gets pouty when you’re not around. Maybe he whines into your voicemail if you ignore his texts for too long (“I’ve withered like an unloved plant. You better come water me or I’m dying dramatically.”).

But that clinginess? It’s love. Undeniable. Raw. Real. Because Hyugo doesn’t just want to be with you. He wants to build with you. A life. A routine. A weird little bubble of shared chaos and safety and inside jokes that no one else understands.

You’re his home. Not the apartment, not the school rooftop, not the alleyways where he sometimes does questionable things.

You.

And he’ll remind you in a hundred little ways, every single day.

✑ The Ass Silly Flirt

Hyugo flirts like it’s a full-time job and he's trying to get promoted.

He’s not smooth about it either—he’s annoying. Like, he’ll text you “thinking of you 😘” and then immediately follow it up with a picture of a traffic cone wearing a wig with the caption: “This u?”

And the worst part? You laugh or offended. Every time.

He texts you non-stop, like you're both in some private group chat that never shuts up. No context. No warning. Just raw, unfiltered Hyugo brain static 24/7:

“Do you think ghosts get boners?”

“Be honest would I survive if I just ate bubblegum and vibes for a week.”

“I saw a pigeon with a limp today and now I’m emotionally compromised.”

Mid-class, 3AM, during a fire drill—he does not care. You’re getting these texts whether you're ready or not.

And the memes? OH, THE MEMES.

Hyugo’s meme game is so strong it’s criminal. He’s got folders. Archives. A whole reaction gif arsenal like he’s been preparing for emotional warfare. He sends one for every situation, no matter how inappropriate.

You text him “I’m sad.”

He sends a gif of SpongeBob playing the world’s smallest violin and follows it up with “come cuddle or perish, dramatic ass.”

It’s his love language.

He doesn’t know how to say “I care about you deeply” like a normal person—he just sends you 38 TikToks in a row and expects you to watch them all immediately and react to each one like you’re being graded.

Now. Let’s talk about The Streak™.

Y’all have had a TikTok streak going for months. At this point, it’s longer than some people’s relationships. It is sacred. And if you break it? Hyugo will take it personally. You think he’s kidding? No. This man will hit you with voice notes that sound like break-up letters. 

“Hey. So. I noticed we haven’t exchanged any TikToks in the last… 14 hours. Are you okay? Are we okay? Just let me know if you hate me now. It’s fine. I’ll just go stare out a rainy window like a Victorian widow.” You better send something—anything—before he starts live-posting his descent into madness.

Speaking of voice notes?

He loves those. You open your phone and there’s just a five-minute recording of him rambling while pacing his room like a raccoon hopped up on sugar.

“Okay so listen—I saw this guy trip on the sidewalk and somehow launch his phone into a trash can, and I SWEAR it was cinematic. Like, Academy Award level physics. Anyway I thought of you. Wanna get dinner?”

Or sometimes it’s just him humming some random song he heard in the background of a YouTube ad and begging:

“Can you find this song? Please. I’m in shambles. I don’t have Shazam and my dignity won’t survive me asking a stranger.” And you do find it. Because you love him. And because you’ve accepted that being in love with Hyugo means acting as his personal Google assistant and meme judge.

Hyugo doesn’t flirt to impress. He flirts to torment. To tease.

To infect your brain like a catchy song and live there rent-free until you’re giggling like an idiot alone in your room just because he sent you a picture of a cat with bad bangs and said, “our child if we never discipline them.”

He’s a menace. A menace with heart eyes and a clingy streak. 

He’s the kind of guy who’d write “I love you” on a bathroom mirror with lip balm and then blame it on ghosts. The type who’d kiss you mid-sentence just to watch you stutter. Who’d steal your charger but bring you snacks to “make up for it” and then never give the charger back.

In short: He’s loud. Annoying. Borderline illegal levels of clingy.

But he’s yours. And that’s kinda the best part.

✑ Tailored to You

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo speaks your praises like he’s reciting scripture from a holy book only he knows how to read. 

It’s constant. Casual. Deadpan-delivered and terrifyingly sincere.

You’ll be mid-rant about your day and he’ll just go:

“You're the smartest person I know, and I hang out with Sol. That man knows Latin and still doesn’t know how to say sorry. Meanwhile, you? You breathe and my brain goes ‘yeah, this is the one.’”

Sometimes he insults you, sure, but in that “I’m obsessed with you but emotionally stunted” way.

“You make me want to be a better man. Unfortunately, I’m lazy and emotionally unhinged, so you’re stuck with this version of me. Congrats.”

And don’t even think about crying in front of him. He’ll switch from “hey sexy” to “you are the most brilliant, beautiful, badass person I’ve ever met” so fast it’ll give you emotional whiplash.

— Acts of Service?

Hyugo would absolutely walk into a war zone with nothing but your to-do list and a Monster energy drink and say, “Don't worry babe, I got it.”

He’ll do your homework shockingly he’s smart asf while you nap, call customer service on your behalf (“Hi yes, my partner’s about to commit murder over a billing error, please help”), and will not let you carry your own bag if he’s around.

Did your phone die? Suddenly, his is at 92% and in your hands.

Craving something? It’s on your bed before you even finish the sentence.

Exhausted? He’s already drawing you a bath and setting a snack tray like he’s your overworked but loyal butler who’s also in love with you.

He doesn’t even act like it’s a big deal. He just shrugs and says:

“If you’re good to me, I gotta be good back. That’s the rule.”

— Receiving Gifts?

He gives gifts like he’s on a scavenger hunt where the prize is your smile. They’re not always expensive—but they are weirdly specific.

A ring from a claw machine he swears “vibes with your aura.”

A charm bracelet/ring/necklace with tiny objects representing inside jokes only the two of you understand.

An old book with your favorite quote already highlighted, because he “happened to see it and thought of you.”

A dumb little vending machine toy he’s convinced is your new emotional support trinket. And the wrapping? Forget it. He’ll give it to you in a paper towel and say,

“Presentation is for cowards. Love is raw and weird. Take it.”

— Quality Time?

This man thrives on being around you.

Not even doing anything, just existing in your orbit. He’ll lay sideways across your bed like a lizard sunbathing while you read. He’ll follow you from room to room like a haunted but affectionate cat. You’re watching a movie? He's not even watching—he’s watching you watch it. “You scrunch your nose when you get invested. It’s cute. I like it. Shut up and let me admire you.”

Wanna nap together? He’s already curled up next to you.

Want to work in silence? He’ll bring snacks and just vibe, occasionally sending you memes while sitting 3 feet away.

Your time? His favorite gift of all time. 

— Physical Touch?

Oh you want space? Too bad, babe.

Hyugo is basically a heated blanket with limbs. 

He’s all over you—shoulder leans, back hugs, thigh squeezes, lap pillows, forehead touches, neck nuzzles. He’s like Velcro with feelings. He has zero shame. “You’re soft and warm and smell like my favorite person, why wouldn’t I be on top of you right now?” And yes, those hands? Again, the same ones that once threatened someone in an alleyway after class?

Those are the ones that cup your face so gently it makes your stomach flip.

That brush your hair behind your ear. That hold your hand even in public, especially in public, with a smug little grin like he’s bragging silently: “Yeah. This is mine.”

In conclusion, Hyugo doesn’t just love you in five languages.

He’s practically multilingual in affection—loud, devoted, and unfiltered. Tailored to you. Perfectly chaotic. Inescapably real.

Want to cry a little about it later? Yeah. Me too.

✑ Tailored to Him

— Words of Affirmation?

Hyugo thrives on your praise like it’s oxygen laced with espresso.

Tell him he’s smart? He’ll preen. Tell him he’s handsome? He’ll smirk and pull you into a kiss so sweet it tastes like a dare. But whisper to him, all soft and serious, “I’m proud of you” or “You make me feel safe” and he short circuits. Full-body blush. Ears red. Eyes everywhere but on you.

He might laugh it off, say something dumb like,

“Babe, stop it, I’ll fall harder and it’s already embarrassing out here…”

But he replays your words over and over in his head. He craves your approval like it’s sacred. He doesn’t want empty compliments—he wants real ones, the ones you mean. The ones that come out when you think he’s not listening, but he always is. He remembers your voice in detail.��

If you say something sweet in the morning, expect him to bring it up casually three days later like it didn’t melt his heart into syrup.

— Physical Touch? 

Let’s not play.

He’s got the soft hands, the smug smirk, the “come here and sit in my lap while I tell you about this video game I saw played last night” voice. But under that cuddly, somewhat short golden retriever exterior is a problem in the best way.

He’ll touch you constantly—absently tugging your fingers, nosing at your neck, kissing your knuckles like some old-timey heartthrob who listens to rap music and fights demons on weekends. Bro what?

But when he wants you? Oh, he wants you.

He leans in close when he talks, voice dropping an octave, and his fingers splay against your hip like he knows what he’s doing. 

When it’s just the two of you, he goes quiet. Focused. His usual chaotic flirty energy simmers down into this heated, steady burn. And God help you if you wear something that shows your skin—because suddenly he’s behind you, dragging his fingertips along your arms, whispering in your ear with that teasing-laced purr like:

“You really gonna look like that around me and act innocent? That’s wild.”

He’s cute. But he’s also lowkey hot in that "I’d ruin you with love and cheek kisses and then also maybe leave scratch marks you didn’t know you liked" kind of way.

— Quality Time?

Hyugo’s a social creature, yeah—but you? You’re home.

He could be surrounded by people, laughing at memes, bouncing from conversation to conversation—but the moment you walk in, he shifts. Eyes locked. Energy redirected. Like you’re his true north in a galaxy of distractions.

He doesn't need an occasion. Doesn’t need a plan.

He’s the kind of guy who shows up at your door with snacks, a blanket, and zero expectations other than being near you.

Spending time with you recharges him. Whether it's lying in bed watching weird documentaries, going on midnight walks, or sitting on rooftops eating vending machine junk food—if it’s with you? 

It’s worth it.

He memorizes your routines, your reactions, your sleepy habits. He makes mental notes like:

“They like their tea a little sweeter at night.”

“They squint when reading—they need a lamp, I’ll buy one.”

“They hum that one song while brushing their teeth—learn that on guitar maybe?”

Time isn’t just time with Hyugo. It’s devotion made casual. It’s “I choose you” in every second. It’s you matter most, no matter what else I could be doing.

So yeah. Hyugo’s a mess. But he’s your mess.

He’s a walking contradiction of softness and chaos, affection and absurdity. He loves in ways that feel like warm thunderstorms—loud, unexpected, but still soothing if you know how to listen. And when he loves you, he tailors it perfectly.

Words that lift you up. Touches that say "stay." Time that says “you’re all I need.”

He’s all in. And he’ll make damn sure you feel it.

✑ Joystick Jerk 

Oh, Hyugo’s a gamer gamer.

Not some flashy streamer, not a try-hard clout chaser—no face cam, no Twitch, no mic unless it’s Discord with you or the inner circle. He doesn’t stream, and when you asked why, he just shrugged and said something cryptic like:

“Gotta keep some parts of me hidden, y’know? Too many eyes makes the game less fun.”

Which like… okay. Cool. Normal people say that.

Totally not suspicious. Definitely not assassin-coded behavior. Definitely didn’t say that while sharpening a pocketknife and humming anime opening themes under his breath.

But listen, the man’s cracked at every game you throw at him. FPS? Headshots for days. Fighting games? You blink, you lose. Racing? Don’t even try it. Even rhythm games? He gets full combos and doesn’t even break a sweat. He’s got the focus of someone who’s either a pro… or someone who’s trained their hand-eye coordination to kill a man in silence.

And worst of all? He always wants to play with you. 

And when I say always, I mean always.

“Babe, let’s do co-op, I’ll carry you.”

“Play a round with me? C’mon, I’ll give you a kiss every time you die.”

“If I win, you have to say I’m hot. If you win… okay that’s never gonna happen, but I’ll still say you’re hot.” It’s cute at first. Until you realize he never loses. Not unless he lets you win.

And yes—you noticed.

He tries to act slick about it. Pretends he “accidentally” missed that final hit or “slipped” during the last lap. But the smug look on his face gives it away every damn time.

You: “You let me win, didn’t you.”

Hyugo, grinning: “What? No way. You’re just getting better. Natural talent. Gamer instincts. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you—”

You: “I’m going to delete your save file.”

Hyugo: “Wait—WAIT I’M SORRY—”

There was a time you swore off gaming with him completely. “Sore loser? Absolutely. Certified D1 crash-out? No shame.” But lately, he’s been playing way too much.

Like… you come over and he barely looks up from his screen. Just tosses a lazy “hey babe” and keeps mashing buttons like his life depends on it. Sometimes he forgets to eat. Sometimes he forgets you’re in the room.

So what do you do? Be normal? Communicate?

Nah. You’re evil.

Beautifully, diabolically evil.

Let’s say one day, Hyugo’s deep into a match. He’s playing some online team shooter with Sol, both of them barking callouts like seasoned war generals. His voice smooth and laser-focused as he barks commands into his mic. The screen flashes with rapid gunfire, his fingers a blur over the keyboard. He’s locked in, absolutely locked in—with that deadly kind of concentration that makes you want to ruin it.

So naturally, you do.

You drop to your knees without a word and slip under his desk, the soft whir of his PC fans the only warning he gets.

At first, he doesn’t notice. At first.

Your fingers trail up his calf, slow and innocent.

Then not so innocent. You press your palms to his thighs, feel the twitch under your hands. And when you start fiddling with the buttons of his pants, he pauses—just for a second.

His voice stutters.

“Y—yeah, flank left—mnn—flank, I meant flank! Just—move, damn it!”

Sol’s voice crackles through the headset, confused: “Yo, you good?”

Hyugo clears his throat with the subtlety of a panicked cat. “Yup. Peachy. Total—nghh—focus.”

You don’t stop. If anything, you get bolder—running your nails along the seam, watching him shift in his seat, those long fingers faltering for just a beat. You don’t even need to look up to know his jaw is clenched, teeth gritted in pure restraint. You can hear it in his breath. Shaky. A little desperate.

Then, finally, a low, bitten-off sound escapes him—a moan. Not loud. But real. Raw. The kind of sound you feel low in your stomach.

“Fuck—” And still? Still he wins the match. Freak of nature. You almost applaud. “GGs, I’m out,” Hyugo mutters into the mic, voice hoarse. “Emergency. Real life critical hit.”

Click. Call ends. Silence.

Before you can even shift, he’s got one arm under your shoulders, dragging you out and straight into his lap. The headset’s tossed somewhere across the desk. The game’s forgotten. All his focus now? On you.

Those baby blue eyes? Sharp. Wicked. Burning.

“You wanna play dirty now?” he breathes, voice low, chest heaving. “You think you can tease me while I play the game with Sol and just walk away?” His hand slides up your thigh, firm and slow.

“Nah, sweetheart. You started this.”

And Hyugo?

Oh, he never leaves a game unfinished.

✑ Sugar, Spice, and Chaos

For someone who lives on the edge of unhinged and adorable, it’s no surprise Hyugo is a menace in the kitchen—but only if it involves sugar. Actual meals? Nah. He either burns them, forgets them on the stove, or looks at savory ingredients like they personally offended him. 

But sweets? Baking? That’s his love language.

He’ll never say it, but there’s something almost calming about it—the measuring, the mixing, the slow transformation of flour and butter into something warm and golden. He’s got a soft spot for berry shortcake, especially ones layered with cream and strawberries. It’s nostalgic, he once said. You don’t press further, but the way he lights up when he tastes it? 

Tells you all you need to know.

So one weekend, he drags you into the kitchen with that signature grin, sleeves rolled up, apron tied (yes, it says “kiss the baker,” yes he wore it on purpose) and says: “Today, we conquer the cake.”

You start with the cake base—he insists on doing the measuring himself, swearing he has “baker’s intuition.” You don’t argue, even when you notice him eyeballing the flour instead of using the cup.

The moment the batter’s mixed, he tastes it with a spoon like it’s a gourmet meal. Then gives you a spoonful too. 

“Here. For quality control.” It’s… actually amazing.

While it bakes, he turns the kitchen into a war zone of whipped cream, sugar, and cut strawberries. He tries to pipe roses onto parchment and ends up with something that looks suspiciously like a slug.

“Abstract art,” he claims. “Put it in a museum.”

You laugh. He grins wider.

Then comes the fun part—assembling. You’re trying to do it neatly, but Hyugo? He starts feeding you strawberries like some dramatic prince and smearing whipped cream on your nose when you’re not looking.

“Look at you,” he smirks, “cuter than the cake.”

You chase him around the kitchen with a spatula in revenge. It ends in a tie. And a kiss. (With a side of whipped cream.)

Finally, the shortcake’s done—messy, chaotic, but somehow still perfect. Just like him.

The kitchen’s a battlefield of bowls, whipped cream smears, and flour footprints. You’re both a little sticky, a little out of breath from laughing too hard, and the oven’s still faintly warm behind you. Hyugo licks a smudge of berry syrup off his thumb with the same lazy grin that always gets him his way.

You’re sitting on the counter, legs swinging, and he’s nestled between them, sharing forkfuls of cake straight from the dish. His eyes flicker up every time you chew, like he’s not watching the dessert but you enjoying it.

He hums low after a bite, leaning against your shoulder. “I’d burn water for dinner, but damn if I won’t make you the best dessert of your life.”

You snort, licking cream from the side of your lip.

“Cocky much?”

“Confident,” he says, swiping a bit of whipped cream with his finger and tapping it onto the tip of your nose. “But also a little hungry still…”

You tilted your head, lost. “For the cake?”

“Sure,” he smirks, “let’s go with that.”

He kisses it off your nose—soft and teasing. Then off your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Each one slower than the last. Until it’s not about the cake anymore.

You reach for the bowl of whipped cream—because why not?—and dip your fingers in it. His eyes track you like prey, curious and wide as you smear a little on the side of your neck. “Oops,” you whisper, “missed a spot.”

Hyugo freezes. Then laughs, soft and dangerous. “Oh, you really wanna start something, huh?”

The next moment is a blur—his hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider around him as he presses closer. His lips find the cream on your neck and he bites—playful at first, then deeper. Your breath catches. That baby blue gaze turns sharp, electric with mischief.

He kisses down your throat, slow and purposeful, tongue chasing the sugar and teeth chasing your pulse. You’re not even sure how the bowl got knocked over, but it doesn’t matter. The spoon clatters to the floor. Your back arches into him.

“Tastes good,” he mutters against your skin, “but you’re sweeter.”

His hands slide up under your shirt, warm and insistent. The cake is long forgotten now, half-eaten and melting beside you. His mouth is busy elsewhere—your collarbone, your shoulder, the curve where your neck meets your jaw. He’s painting you with sugar and heat, and licking every trace away.

You’re not sure who pulls who in first for the kiss, but it’s messy and desperate and just the right amount of wrong. And when he pulls back, panting, pupils blown wide?

“Kitchen’s already trashed,” he grins, voice rough, “might as well finish the job.”

Let’s just say the next round doesn’t involve frosting—but it’s still very much dessert.

✑ Partners in Cosplay (and Crime)

You knew Hyugo liked crime flicks and video games—but this? This was a full-blown obsession.

He’s not just a fan. He’s a geek. Deep in the lore, the trivia, the obscure theories that only like four people on the internet care about—and he’s friends with all four. He’s the kind of guy who can quote entire movie scenes, word for word, with the dramatic voice shifts and everything. One time he paused a shootout scene just to explain the gun model they used and how it’s “totally unrealistic, but looks so fucking cool.” His eyes literally sparkled.

So when convention weekend rolls around? Oh, he’s already packed.

Costume? Secured. Prop weapon? Custom-made.

And when he asks you to go with him? He doesn’t even care who you dress up as—just that you’re there. His partner in crime. Literally.

You pick a character that kinda matches his—maybe one from his favorite show, or the one you think would annoy his the most. Either way, when you step out in your outfit, Hyugo malfunctions. Full on, mouth open, hand to chest, “I think I just fell in love again” levels of dramatic.

You walk the con floor hand-in-hand, him constantly pulling you over to booths like a kid with too much sugar and no parental supervision. 

He buys crime-themed keychains, limited edition figures, posters with ridiculous quotes, and sketches from artist alley like his life depends on it. He compliments cosplayers like a pro—“Damn, that’s clean! Bro, how’d you make the holster?”—and flirts with you every chance he gets. “You look way too good in that outfit. You trying to kill me or get me arrested?”

By the time you get to the hotel, his and yours arms are full of merch bags, his wallet’s empty, and his energy is still sky high.

You barely make it through the door before he’s tossing his stuff onto the couch and pulling you onto the bed with him. 

Still in cosplay, the both of you. 

“Okay but like… what if our characters actually hooked up? For research purposes.”

You raise a brow. “Research?”

He just smirks and leans in closer, fingers already unbuckling whatever fake tactical vest he’s wearing.

“I’m just saying… we could be committing crimes of passion right now. Or passionately committing crimes. Whichever hits harder.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on yours, hands warm and eager as they slide beneath your costume, tugging fabric aside and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He kisses like he’s still acting in character—cocky, sharp, teasing—but with that unmistakable Hyugo sweetness that always slips through.

“I can’t get enough of you,” he whispers between kisses, “real talk.” And when you end up tangled in a mess of half-off cosplay and breathless laughter, his voice is low and rough in your ear:

“Next year? We’re going all out. Couple cosplay. New characters. New roles. New positions—wait, did I say that last one out loud?”

You’re pretty sure he’s still joking… mostly.

✑ He’s Pansexual (lil angst)

Hyugo is pansexual—genuinely and unapologetically so.

He doesn’t care if someone’s masculine, feminine, both, neither, fluid, strange, loud, quiet, or something the world hasn’t learned how to label yet. If he’s drawn to you, it’s because you’re you—your voice, your presence, the way you move through a room, the look in your eyes when you’re focused, angry, glowing, grieving. He falls in love with essence, not gender.

“I don’t give a damn what you are on paper,” he once told you, head resting on your stomach, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. “I like what you are to me. And that? That’s something nobody else gets to have.”

He says it so confidently, like it’s not even up for debate. 

Because it isn’t. But love—real love—terrifies him.

Hyugo plays it cool, because he’s always been good at pretending. But when he lets himself really care for someone? It unlocks this whole hidden, trembling part of him that he usually buries beneath bad jokes and gaming trash talk. That part of him that lies awake sometimes, staring at the ceiling, scared out of his goddamn mind that one day the world might take you away from him.

“I don’t… live a quiet life,” he admitted once, when things between you were still new, still fragile. “I got people who know my name and don’t say it fondly. I got enemies. I got… unfinished things. If I ever pull back, disappear for a while… it’s not ‘cause I’m tired of you. It’s ‘cause I’m trying to protect you.”

You hadn’t said anything right away.

Just looked at him—really looked—while he sat still, shoulders tight, like every second of silence chipped away at his confidence. Like he was bracing himself for you to sigh, to shake your head, to say you didn’t sign up for this.

Like he’d seen it happen before.

Because he had.

People have left Hyugo before. Screaming matches or messy, dramatic exits or Just… quietly. Gradually. Like a candle flickering out in a room he hadn’t realized had gone cold.

Some said he was “too much”—too chaotic, too unreachable, too unpredictable. Others didn’t say anything at all. They just disappeared. Let go without warning. Walked out while he was still holding on.

So when he opened up to you, even a little—when he admitted how messy his life was, how much danger it might bring, how scared he was of dragging someone good into his world—it wasn’t just a warning.

It was a test. And he hated that it had to be.

But you didn’t walk away.

And something in him cracked open for you after that. Slowly, cautiously—but it opened. Still, there are moments… quiet, stupid moments where the fear creeps back in. When someone else’s eyes linger on you a little too long. When your attention slips away for just a beat too long. When you laugh with someone else in a way that used to be his alone.

And then? Hyugo gets quietly possessive.

Not cruel. Not jealous in the way that burns everything down. But in the way that digs in—firm, unyielding, scared in the places he refuses to show.

He’ll pout first, like it’s all fun and games. Arms crossed, an exaggerated sigh, brows cocked high with all the drama of a man auditioning for a bad soap opera.

“You ignoring me now? Damn, babe. Who’s this new cast member and what do they have that I don’t? ‘Cause I will up my stats. I’m not above DLC bribes.”

But if the other person gets too bold?

That’s when the shift comes. Subtle, but sharp.

His fingers slide to your waist, grounding himself in your warmth like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His voice softens, drops an octave—but there’s steel under the silk now. His whole energy changes, like a storm smiling through the sunlight.

“That guy’s not gonna steal you away, right?”

The words brush your skin just before his lips do, heat trailing over your neck, a kiss so casual it feels like a claim.

“I mean… you are mine, yeah?”

It’s not a threat. Not a demand. 

It’s a plea he doesn’t know how to voice.

Because he doesn’t want to trap you—he wants to be chosen. Every day. Every hour. Loudly. With intention. Just like he chooses you.

Even when the world’s unfair. Even when he’s neck-deep in shady jobs, fractured loyalties, or the weight of who he used to be. Even when he’s afraid. He’ll still love you like it’s the only thing keeping him real. Because Hyugo doesn’t care what you are. Only that you’re his. And yeah… sometimes he still wonders if he’s too much to stay with. 

But damn if he won’t spend the rest of his life giving you every reason to stay anyway.

✑ Flaws? Suprisingly there’s only Two…

Again—no one is perfect.

Hyugo’s learned, consciously or not, that being the comic relief, the sunshine, the dependable one earns love and keeps people around. So that’s the role he plays. Laughing through pain. Masking exhaustion with trivia. Brushing off his own needs with a practiced smile.

Which is a classic avoidant coping style, often stemming from early experiences where expressing pain or emotional needs either resulted in abandonment, punishment, or dismissal. He’s not unaware of his hurt—he just doesn’t believe there’s space for it. Or that anyone will stay if they see it. So he internalizes the belief:

“If I keep everyone happy, if I’m useful and entertaining, they won’t leave.” But emotional suppression is a time bomb. Eventually, the mask cracks.

It started small. Missed texts. Delayed replies. A few vague excuses about errands or errands or “sorry, I fell asleep.” But the dark circles under his eyes weren’t from sleep.

And you knew it.

So when you drop by his place unannounced and find him sitting on the edge of his bed, shirt halfway off, eyes glazed over in thought—You don’t say anything. You just step in quietly and sit next to him.

“Didn’t expect you,” he says, voice soft. He smiles—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I look like a mess, huh?”

You don’t reply to the joke. You just ask, “Are you okay?”

That’s when it happens.

A twitch in his jaw. A flicker of discomfort. A sharp inhale. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just thinking. Long week, y’know?” Then a quick subject change: “Hey, did you know in some countries, strawberries used to symbolize perfection? Which is kinda dumb, 'cause they bruise so easily—”

You cut him off gently. “No trivia tonight, Hyugo.”

He goes quiet. The tension in his shoulders rises like a tide. He won’t look at you. Just stares at the floor like it might rescue him from the weight settling in his chest. “I’m good,” he says again. But softer this time. “I have to be. I don’t really get to fall apart. People expect me to… I dunno. Handle things. Be cool. Be funny. Be the guy who keeps the mood light.”

You put your hand on his knee. Anchor him. Pull him back from wherever he’s floating off to. “You’re allowed to fall apart sometimes.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. It cracks midway through. His head drops, and for the first time in a long while—he doesn’t hide the exhaustion. “But if I do… what if you leave too?”

And that’s the real fear. Not pain. Not stress. Abandonment.

You pull him in. Let him lean on you. His arms wind around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip. And for a while, neither of you speak.

Eventually, he murmurs, “You’re the only one I want to be weak with. That’s… scary. More than anything else I’ve done.” And he means it.

He’s not fixed. Not magically “healed.” 

But tonight, he let himself be seen. And that’s the start of something more powerful than any armor he’s ever worn.

Next is that, Hyugo doesn’t just love.

He attaches—deeply, instinctively, and without conditions. The people he chooses are more than friends, more than lovers—they’re extensions of his purpose. And if protecting them means lying, fighting, getting hurt, or burning bridges?

He’ll do it. No regrets. No hesitation.

This stems from survivor’s guilt and a deep-rooted sense of self-worth that’s tied to usefulness. In his head, if he isn’t saving someone, then what is he even for? There’s a quiet belief that he’s more tool than treasure—someone meant to hold the line so others don’t have to.

But in doing so, he forgets:

You love him for who he is. Not what he can suffer through for you.

You’d told him not to come. 

You made it clear: “I’ll handle this. Don’t get involved.”

But that was like telling a storm not to rain. The moment he caught wind of someone cornering you—someone threatening, someone bigger—Hyugo was already halfway to the alley behind the gym building, jaw tight, mind made up.

By the time you arrived, breath ragged and furious, the guy was on the ground. Groaning. Bloody lip. Hyugo stood over him, fists clenched and knuckles torn open.

He didn’t even look at you at first. He just said,

“Don’t worry. I handled it. He won’t bother you again.”

But you didn’t feel safe. You felt sick.

Not because he lost control—but because this wasn’t his burden to bear, and he didn’t even stop to think about the cost. “Hyugo,” you said, your voice shaking, “what if he presses charges? What if someone saw?”

He finally looked at you. Eyes wild. Heart still in war mode. But his expression softened when he saw the pain in your face—not from fear of him. From fear for him. “I didn’t care,” he said honestly. “I still don’t. No one’s hurting you. Not while I’m breathing.”

That should’ve made you feel safe.

But instead, it made your chest ache.

You stepped closer, grabbing his bloodied hands. They trembled slightly against yours. “You don’t get to set yourself on fire every time someone throws a spark near me.”

He blinked. Confused. Quiet. And that silence? That was the part that stung most—Because it told you he genuinely didn’t see the problem.

You reached up, cupping his face. “You think I want to watch you destroy yourself in my name? You think that’s love?”

His throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing guilt. But he didn’t pull away.

You added, softer: “You’re not a weapon. You’re my heart. And I want all of it. Whole. Safe. With me.” That was the moment he broke—just a little.

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours. “...I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just… I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

You held him tighter. “By letting me protect you, too.”

This flaw will never fully go away. It’s wired into how he loves. But now? He’s learning there’s strength in restraint. That protecting someone doesn’t always mean throwing himself into every fire. Sometimes, it means staying close.

And staying whole—so he can keep loving you tomorrow, too.

✑ Thoughts + Ranting

Okay. So I said Hyugo only had two major flaws.

...I lied. It’s three. Sue me.

There’s one I didn’t name before. One that’s not easy to admit, even if it’s written all over him like an unspoken scar. Here it is: Hyugo is a perfect example of someone who’s been sexualized—and who learned to play into it, because it was the only way he ever felt seen.

But let’s set the record straight, because the internet loves to twist things: I’m not saying he’s a pervert. Absolutely not. Don’t even try it. This isn’t a man hiding in your closet or panting in your bushes. He’s not creeping in the dark. (Save that energy for Sol and his dramatic, stalker-coded tendencies—respectfully.) 

Hyugo isn’t that type of man.

What he is, is someone who developed hypersexual behavior—something that’s often misunderstood. Hypersexuality isn’t about being horny all the time for fun. It’s an intense, sometimes compulsive fixation on sex or sexual behavior, often as a way to cope. It’s not inherently predatory, and it’s not inherently wrong. But it is a reaction. 

A symptom. And in Hyugo’s case, it’s a wound.

See, I was sitting in class when the thought hit me like a truck: What if people really do treat Hyugo like a walking fantasy? A quick fix? A body to burn through and discard before sunrise? What if that’s how he’s always been viewed—never as a person, just a fleeting high, a secret, a sin?

Because that kind of dehumanization sticks. 

It doesn’t fade. It etches itself into the softest parts of you until you believe it too. And maybe, just maybe, Hyugo learned somewhere along the line that his worth lies in how easily he can be desired—not in who he is, but what he can do for others. What he can give.

He doesn’t feel loved. He feels used. And to protect himself, he leans into it. Becomes somewhat flirt, the temptation, the chaotic late-night call you regret in the morning. Not because it’s what he wants—but because at least this way, he’s not being rejected. He’s being chosen, even if it’s for all the wrong reasons.

And that’s why he can’t let you go.

Because you didn’t treat him like a performance. 

You didn’t treat him like a transaction. You saw through the chaos and the charm and found the person. The equal. The soul. The boy who still believes in love, even if he’s too scared to admit it out loud.

You made him feel real.

Sidenote—completely unrelated to everything I just said—but I can’t stop thinking about the fact that Hyugo lost his virginity to a man.

Fantasia said it. I’m not taking it back. It wasn’t for shock value. It’s canon. It means something. It says something about him—and the more I sit with it, the more it adds layers to his character that I can’t ignore.

First of all, it confirms what we already sensed: Hyugo’s pansexual. He doesn’t box his heart or desires into categories. He loves people, not parts. He's comfortable in his skin, open with his identity, and doesn’t shrink himself to make others comfortable. He owns who he is with that same bold, cheeky confidence he brings to everything else. And that kind of honesty? It’s rare. He doesn’t make a show of it. He just is. Unapologetically.

But here’s where it gets tangled in my head—I keep wondering about the context.

Was it a casual hookup? Something spontaneous, wild, and curious, sparked by the need to feel alive or wanted in a moment of vulnerability? Or was it more than that? Did he love this person? Did they matter to him in a way that left a mark? Could this have been the crush he mentioned once, the one he speaks about with that strange softness, like he’s remembering something half-sweet, half-sore?

Did it end suddenly? Did it end at all?

There’s something quietly haunting about the idea that Hyugo’s first time wasn’t just a physical milestone, but an emotional one too. Maybe it was one of the only times he gave himself to someone not as a game, not as a performance—but as a person. Whole. Nervous. Real.

And maybe it didn’t last. Maybe it broke him a little. Maybe that’s where the cracks started—where he learned that intimacy and pain can exist in the same breath. That being vulnerable doesn’t always lead to safety. That being wanted doesn’t always mean being kept.

That’s why it sticks with me. Not because it’s scandalous.

But because it’s human.

And in Hyugo’s story, humanity is the one thing he keeps offering—despite how often the world tries to strip it from him.

Let’s take it deeper—Hyugo and… Geo.

I know I never shut up about Geo (he’s my husband, deal with it), but this isn't just about gushing over him. There’s something worth unraveling here. Something that speaks to how trauma doesn’t create a blueprint—it creates a battlefield. Two people can grow up in the same wreckage, and walk away with completely different scars.

See, Hyugo and Geo? They’re two halves of a shared history. 

Geo likes to say they’re stepbrothers—like that somehow distances them, makes the connection less binding. But let’s be honest: blood means nothing when you’ve been raised under the same roof, weathered the same storms, and built your sense of self from the same broken foundation.

That’s your brother.

That’s family. Whether you want to admit it or not.

And that’s the thing with Geo—he doesn’t want to admit it. Cold, closed-off, “don’t touch me unless it’s about business” 

Geo would rather die than openly acknowledge Hyugo as his older brother. But that truth lives in his bones. It’s there in the way he bristles when Hyugo’s hurt, in the way he silently watches over him from across a room, like a knight who doesn’t want to be caught caring. And Hyugo? He knows. He never says it outright, never demands affection or acknowledgment. But he knows. Geo is his little brother. End of story.

What’s fascinating—and heartbreaking—is how differently they responded to the same trauma.

Geo shut down. Became all logic and sharp edges. He put walls up so high no one could climb over, and he keeps his emotions buried so deep even he forgets where he left them. He’s aromantic/asexual, what if he’s emotionally scarred to the point of numbness, one thing’s certain: Geo is the embodiment of survival through detachment. He chose silence over softness. 

Distance over danger.

Meanwhile, Hyugo? Did the opposite. If Geo’s pain froze him solid, Hyugo’s set him on fire. He threw glitter over his wounds. Covered the screaming with laughter, with noise, with affection that sometimes feels like too much—until you realize it’s the only way he knows how to ask, “Will you stay? Will you care?”

That’s why people call him two-faced. 

Why they mistake his flirtation for manipulation, his touch for control. But it’s not conquest. It’s not about power. It’s about connection. About feeling real in a world that kept trying to erase him. Hyugo wants to be loved, and not just in passing. He wants to be seen—fully, achingly, intimately.

So yeah. In my eyes, Hyugo’s hypersexual.

But not in the shallow, performative way people think. It’s not about predation. It’s not about conquest or control. It’s about feeling. About proving to himself that he’s real, that he matters, that someone sees him and still stays.

Every touch is deliberate.

Every kiss is a question: Do I still exist to you?

When Hyugo reaches for someone, it’s like he’s trying to anchor himself to this world before it slips away again. 

Because to him? Intimacy is safety. Desire is reassurance.

And love—true love—is survival.

When he touches you, he’s not just touching skin—he’s tracing the shape of a future where he doesn’t have to be afraid. When he looks at you, it’s not lust—it’s hunger for warmth, for stability, for someone who doesn’t leave.

You don’t become his partner. You become his reason. His rescue.

And once you have Hyugo’s heart?

There’s no in-between. No lukewarm affection. He’s all in. No backup plan. No armor. Just him—raw and real and terrified that you’ll disappear too. Loving Hyugo means being chosen. Means being seen in a way that strips you down to the bone, and yet somehow, makes you feel more whole than ever before.

It’s intense. It’s overwhelming. But it’s never fake.

Now pair that with his two-faced nature—the side of him people whisper about. The switch that flips from sunshine to shadow in a blink. Because yeah, Hyugo can be the kindest soul you’ve ever met.  Soft, attentive, radiant. But cross a line? Or worse—betray him?

He’ll smile while slicing you in half with words sharp enough to scar your soul. That duality isn’t an act. It’s survival.

One face to charm the world. The other to protect what little of himself he hasn’t already given away. 

And the reason that duality even exists? Because Hyugo grew up in the same haunted house as Geo. Same broken floorboards. Same locked doors. Same silence. But while Geo turned cold, Hyugo became heat.

One froze to survive. The other burned.

And they’re still bleeding from it. Two brothers.

Two different coping mechanisms. Same pain—processed on opposite ends of the spectrum. So call Hyugo hypersexual. Call him two-faced. But don’t you dare call him fake. He’s just trying to feel something real. And in this world? 

That makes him one of the bravest souls I’ve ever known.

[cup1drul3z]

★ — Keep Me Close

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ : ᴍᴏɴᴅᴀʏ

ᴘᴏᴘꜱᴛᴀʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʙᴏᴅʏɢᴜᴀʀᴅ!ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | 8ᴋ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ

TAGS : Age gap, Angst, Masturbation, Car crash mentioned, Drinking, drugs, mental health problems, depression, suicide mentioned

A/N : THE DRUG MENTIONED IS FICTIONAL

SUMMARY : Your longtime bodyguard says goodbye, and in his place comes Sevika—silent, intense, and nothing like what you're used to. The day spins by in a blur of rehearsal chaos, tight schedules, forced smiles, and pain you pretend isn’t there. You power through it all with glitter, charm, and the help of pills no one knows about. Sevika doesn’t say much, but you can feel her eyes on you—watching, noticing, understanding. By the time the lights fade and the heels come off, something between you has already shifted. She may be here to protect you, but it’s starting to feel a little more complicated than that.

Sunday evening

The city lights flickered past the tinted windows in streaks of gold and crimson, a blur of nightlife and camera flashes. The soft hum of the limo engine was the only sound between you and the man seated across from you, his hands folded neatly over his lap, tuxedo jacket draped over his arm instead of worn.

“Hard to believe this is the last night,” you said softly, swirling the untouched champagne in your glass. You glanced up at him—Marcus, the only bodyguard you’d ever had. Gruff, dependable, practically family at this point.

He smiled, deep lines forming at the corners of his eyes. “You say that like I’m dying.”

You laughed, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’re just… the only one who ever got it. You let me sneak out of rehearsals when I needed air, remember?”

“I also dragged your ass back before anyone noticed.” He shifted slightly, wincing a bit at his knee—bad from an old injury. “I’m not twenty-five anymore, kiddo. I’ve got a wife who’s been waiting for me to stop chasing headlines and come home for dinner. Real dinner. Not cold catering backstage at an award show.”

You nodded slowly, trying not to let the disappointment show. You were happy for him. Really. But the thought of someone else watching your back, some stranger who didn’t know your routines or when your anxiety kicked in before a big show—it made your stomach twist.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you said, voice low, sincere.

He gave a short laugh, reaching over to ruffle your hair like he always did when you were younger. “You’ll be fine. They already found someone. She starts tomorrow.”

“She?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. She. Bit of a change of pace, but I’ve seen her file. Military background. Keeps to herself. Looks like she could snap a man in half without smudging her eyeliner.”

That got a smirk out of you. “Sounds terrifying.”

“She’ll keep you alive. That’s the job.” He leaned back again, exhaling like he was letting the last ten years go with the breath. “Just… don’t give her too much hell, alright?”

You tilted your head against the leather seat, looking out at the flashing lights again. “No promises.”

Monday Morning 

Your alarm screamed to life at 8:47 AM.

You jolted upright, tangled in silk sheets and sleep paralysis panic, blinking against the sunlight that was already flooding your bedroom through half-open curtains.

Three knocks tapped against your door a second later—precisely timed, too proper to be anyone but Geoffrey.

“Miss Y/N,” came the clipped British accent. “You’re currently—how do I put this politely—late as hell.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the mattress dramatically before shouting, “I’m up, I’m up, I swear!”

The sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway as you launched yourself out of bed, hair a mess, eyeliner smudged from last night because you definitely hadn’t taken it off before passing out. The floor was cold against your bare feet as you darted across the room, dodging your neon pink yoga mat and tripping over a pile of half-unpacked shopping bags.

Your massive walk-in closet loomed like a luxury war zone—sequined stage outfits hanging like glittery ghosts, shelves of shoes taunting you with their pristine organization. You grabbed your phone off the vanity, eyes widening at the text from your choreographer.

“If you’re not here in 15 minutes I’m choreographing the bridge solo around a plastic folding chair and calling it avant-garde.”

You whimpered.

“Okay, okay, leggings—black bootcut—where are they—why do I have six identical pairs of leopard print shorts but no normal pants?!”

You yanked a hanger from the bottom row and pulled the leggings off, trying to shimmy them on mid-hop. One leg went in. Then the other got halfway before the fabric caught on your heel and refused to go further.

You cursed under your breath, wobbling across the carpet like a flamingo in crisis, leg halfway in, trying not to fall as you shoved the waistband up with pure desperation.

Outside, your phone pinged again. You ignored it. You had bigger problems. Like getting your damn pants on.

Downstairs, the marble foyer gleamed like it had been waxed that morning—and probably had. Sevika stood near the grand staircase, arms crossed over her chest, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a look on her face that said she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

She shifted slightly, glancing around at the mansion’s high ceilings, ornate crown molding, and an offensively large crystal chandelier. This wasn’t her scene. Her combat boots looked wrong against the tile. Her leather jacket squeaked when she moved. She hated that.

Across from her, your manager tried to fill the silence, smoothing down his already perfectly crisp blazer.

“She’s, uh… not usually this unorganized,” he offered, voice tense, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as thud-thud-thud echoed down—sounded like someone wrestling a wild animal up there. Or possibly a drawer full of bronzer.

Sevika lifted a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh.”

He cleared his throat. “She’s just been swamped. Album rehearsals. PR gigs. Emotional support animal drama, don’t ask. She’s really very professional, I swear—”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“What? Oh, no, I’d really prefer if—”

But she was already pulling the cigarette out from behind her ear, lighting it with a practiced flick, and letting the first inhale fog up the air between them. She didn’t say anything else. Just leaned back against the bannister like this was all the same to her. Popstar princesses. Mansions. Lipstick-stained chaos. Nothing new.

And then—like a hurricane made of Sephora and regret—you came barreling down the stairs.

Bootcut leggings, a cropped white tank top that definitely wasn’t meant to ride up when you raised your arms (but absolutely did), and a wrinkled cotton jacket hanging off one shoulder like an afterthought. You looked like a sleep-deprived soccer mom who’d just dropped her kid off at practice and remembered she had a concert in fifteen minutes.

Sevika blinked.

This was her?

She coughed once, startled by her own inhale of smoke, then casually flicked the cigarette down and crushed it under her boot. No expression. No reaction.

You bounded up, breathless but smiling, hand outstretched like this was a networking brunch.

“Hi! You must be the new bodyguard—Sevika, right? I’m Y/N.”

Sevika stared at your hand. Didn’t take it.

Instead, she nodded once. “Yeah.”

Your manager ran a hand down his face. “Y/N. One hundred people. Lighting, sound, dancers, band—waiting for you.”

You turned to him with that same sweet smile, as if that was somehow going to stop him from having a heart attack. “I know. I’m ready. See?” You gestured to your outfit.

Sevika huffed a short laugh through her nose, barely audible, already following behind as you made for the door. Soccer mom or not—this was going to be interesting.

The luxury sedan purred to life as the doors shut with a soft click, sealing you inside with thick leather seats and the awkward tension of three people who had nothing in common.

You were squished in the middle seat—middle seat—like some kind of peasant in your own damn ride, shoulder-to-shoulder with your manager on one side and Sevika on the other. Except Sevika had her legs spread wide like this was her car and she paid the insurance. You kept adjusting, trying not to elbow her, but she wasn’t budging. Not even a little.

Your thigh was pressed against hers. Her jeans were rough. Her presence was… loud, even in silence.

You shifted again, subtly trying to reclaim an inch of cushion. Nothing. Not a single concession from her side. She kept staring out the window like you didn’t exist.

Beside you, your manager was already going off, voice rising with each bullet point from his phone.

“Okay, we’re starting at the staduim—soundcheck’s already half set up, then we have the PR shoot at two, then you’re supposed to do that podcast taping and then the red carpet teaser You can’t reschedule the shoot again, Y/N, they flew in the photographer from Milan.”

“Mmhm,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on your phone screen. Instagram. Your last post was still getting comments. Mostly about your hair. Some creepy ones, as usual. You liked a few replies, just to look engaged.

Sevika hadn’t said a word. Just sat there like a wall—muscle, leather, and cigarette smoke residue. Her fingers drummed once against her thigh. Then stopped.

Your knee was still touching hers.

You didn’t move. Neither did she.

The sedan pulled up to the studio’s private entrance, and before you could even grab your bag, the door swung open. A production assistant practically yanked it off the hinges.

You stepped out into a swarm of barely-contained chaos.

Crew members paced with clipboards, headsets buzzed with overlapping chatter, and someone was already muttering “She’s finally here” under their breath like it was the day’s worst news. The energy was palpable—irritated, twitchy, caffeine-fueled.

You smoothed your jacket, stepped into the chaos with practiced ease, and flashed that smile. Soft. Sweet. Just shy of apologetic. The one that said: I know I’m late, but aren’t I cute enough to get away with it?

It worked like a spell.

A few sighs. A few glares that softened immediately. Someone chuckled. You heard, “Okay, we’re back on track,” as if you hadn’t just derailed the entire schedule.

You started down the wide hallway, the soles of your boots clicking faintly over the polished floor. The place was huge—glass walls, minimalist white decor, framed platinum records from other artists lining the walls. A place that was meant to look expensive and feel exhausting.

One assistant jogged up beside you, holding out a cup without breaking stride. “Almond milk, extra ice, two pumps vanilla, half a shot of espresso.”

You took it with a grin, lifting it like a toast. “Lifesaver.”

On your other side, a woman with a sleek ponytail and a laminated ALL ACCESS lanyard speed-walked beside you, flipping through her iPad.

“Okay, we’re running behind,” she said in a sharp tone that meant business. “We’ve moved your rehearsal to Studio B and your glam team is waiting in green room two. If you could not sneak off mid-lipstick like last time, that’d be great.”

Behind you, Sevika followed like a shadow, hands in her pockets, eyes scanning every hallway corner, exit sign, and passing crew member with practiced boredom. She was quiet, but you could feel her—solid, imposing, unbothered. She didn’t match the scene at all.

Which, you had to admit, made her kind of hard to ignore.

You pushed open the dressing room door and stepped inside, greeted by the familiar rush of perfume, fresh flowers someone had arranged hours ago, and the faint hum of the building’s sound system leaking through the walls.

“Alright,” the woman with the lanyard said, pausing in the doorway. “You’ve got an hour to do your warm-ups before rehearsal. Studio B at noon sharp. Don’t make me come find you.”

You gave her a little salute with your coffee cup. “Yes, ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes and disappeared down the hallway, already talking into her headset again.

You didn’t look back as Sevika followed you in.

The room was massive. More of a mini apartment than a dressing room, really—white shag rugs, full-length mirrors lined with lights, racks of performance outfits, a velvet chaise in the corner. You slipped off your jacket and tossed it lazily onto a nearby chair, revealing your white tank top underneath—thin, a little sheer, and definitely not built for modesty.

Sevika closed the door behind her with a soft click, but didn’t move from her spot. She stood by the wall like a sentinel, arms crossed, watching everything and nothing.

You didn’t notice the way her jaw clenched. Or how her gaze lingered a second too long before flicking toward the ceiling.

You grabbed your water bottle, took a sip, and began pacing the room as you hummed scales under your breath. Then came the lip trills, the tongue exercises, the silly siren sounds your vocal coach swore by.

And, multitasker that you were, you dropped down into a deep side lunge mid-vocal run, stretching your legs as you sang out a clean soprano arpeggio.

Sevika shifted slightly.

You switched sides, arms overhead as you bent into a wide stretch, breath steady and controlled as you started the next exercise.

Her eyes flicked back. Then away. Then back again.

You had no idea. Or maybe you did. Either way, it wasn’t helping that the room was cold, and your tank top left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Nipples peaked through soft cotton with every inhale.

Sevika adjusted her stance, exhaling through her nose like she could physically push the thought out of her head.

She was here to work. That was all.

You reached for your toes, perfectly flexible, still vocalizing.

Sevika stared at the ceiling like it was telling her the meaning of life.

A sharp knock tapped at the door, snapping Sevika out of her internal crisis.

She cleared her throat, voice low and gruff. “Yeah?”

“It’s glam,” someone chirped from the other side.

Sevika opened the door and immediately regretted it.

Three stylists breezed in like a gust of perfume and hairspray—bags clinking, palettes open, curling wands already heating up. They barely glanced at her, too focused on you, who were now perched cross-legged on your spinny chair like a little gremlin queen, sipping iced coffee and scrolling through your messages.

Sevika stepped aside, pressing her back to the wall like she needed to cool off—which was ironic, considering she was sweating. Literally sweating. In a room that felt like a walk-in freezer.

Her jacket was too hot. Her neck felt flushed. And her face? Yeah, it was red. Tomato red. Great.

You swiveled lazily as one of the makeup artists dabbed primer onto your cheekbones, your eyes meeting Sevika’s in the mirror.

“You okay over there?” you asked sweetly, a little smirk playing on your lips.

She blinked. “Fine.”

The stylist tilted your chin. “Try not to move, love.”

You giggled and winked at Sevika before facing forward again, humming quietly as brushes swept across your skin, your tank top still clinging to your curves like it was part of the show.

Sevika shifted her stance again, jaw tight, eyes glued to the farthest corner of the room like she was monitoring for snipers and not trying to suppress a full-body reaction to you being ten feet away in that top.

This was going to be a long damn day.

The room cleared out after glam wrapped, leaving a haze of setting spray and glitter in the air. You stood up from the chair, makeup flawless—winged liner sharp, rhinestones twinkling at your temples, lips glossy and sweet like strawberry syrup. Your hair was pinned up in big bouncy curlers, held together with an army of pink clips and butterfly pins.

You turned toward the garment rack where your dress for the rehearsal hung like a disco ball had died and been reincarnated into couture. Sparkly. Pink. Dramatic.

As you unzipped the bag, Sevika shifted by the door.

“You want me to step out?” she asked, eyes flicking toward you for just a second.

You waved a hand. “You don’t have to. We’ve got the same parts, right?” you teased, grinning over your shoulder.

Sevika huffed a single dry breath of amusement, but still stepped out. “Yell if someone tries to assassinate you.”

You rolled your eyes as the door clicked shut behind her. The dress wasn’t exactly easy to get into. Glittery corset, off-shoulder straps, zipper that ran up the back and refused to cooperate. You twisted and fumbled and cursed under your breath.

After a full minute of struggling, you groaned.

“Sevika!” you called. “Can I borrow your scary fingers real quick?!”

The door opened.

She stepped back in—and froze.

You were standing in front of the mirror, trying to reach the zipper with one hand, the other braced on the vanity. The corset was already squeezing your waist in that perfect hourglass, glitter sparkling with every tiny breath. The skirt hugged your hips like it was holding on for dear life, and it had definitely ridden up higher in the back—dangerously high.

Sevika’s eyes locked for a fraction of a second too long before she forced them up. Her jaw flexed.

“You stuck?” she asked, monotone, already walking toward you.

“Mmhmm. I got everything but the last three inches.”

She stepped behind you, fingers brushing the exposed skin of your back as she grabbed the zipper. Her hands were cool. Yours definitely weren’t.

“I could’ve just worn sweats,” you joked, breath catching as her knuckles grazed your spine. “You know, if anyone here respected my vision.”

Sevika said nothing. Just pulled the zipper up in one clean motion. You were fully zipped—and she stepped away like you were a bomb that might go off if she got too close.

You turned to her, hands on your hips. “You’re really hard to fluster, huh?”

“Not my job to be flustered.”

“Oh?” you raised a brow. “So what is your job?”

Sevika didn’t blink. “Keep you alive. Keep you out of trouble.”

You took a slow, deliberate step closer, voice dropping just slightly. “What if I am trouble?”

She looked at you. Really looked. Eyes dragging from the rhinestones at your temple down to the glitter clinging to your collarbone. Her expression didn’t change—but there was a flicker behind her eyes. Something dark. Wanting.

Then it was gone.

She turned toward the door. “You’ve got five minutes.”

And just like that, the warmth was gone, replaced by cold steel and a slammed-shut wall.

But you could still feel where her fingers had touched you. And something told you she could, too.

The lights dimmed and the bass kicked in—BOOM-BOOM-CLAP—as your prerecorded track echoed through the rehearsal space.

���Alright, backup plan A, let’s do this,” you whispered to yourself, sliding the mic prop into your palm just as the beat dropped and the spotlight hit you dead center.

The first verse hit with a wink and a snap of your hips, glitter catching in the overheads as you strutted downstage with your dancers flanking you like a little glittering army.

“You keep me on ice just in case she says no…” You dragged the line out like it was a punchline, twisting your hips with a smirk that landed somewhere between sultry and I know exactly what I’m doing.

The whole routine was flirty, high-energy—kicks, turns, struts. Your dancers moved in perfect sync, arms framing your body as you danced like the stage owed you rent. The track pulsed with synthy attitude, and the chorus exploded into a kaleidoscope of neon light and heat.

But just as you hit your mark for the bridge, spinning out into a smooth cross-step with a hair flip— your heel snagged.

Your balance lurched forward, and the floor hit your knee hard, pain spiking up your leg.

Gasps rippled through the room, the music still blaring as your dancers froze for just a beat too long. You blinked up from the floor, heart pounding, mascara fluttering as your gaze snapped to the girl behind you—Renee—whose expression was all wide eyes and innocent surprise.

But you felt it. That was no accident.

You pushed yourself up, furious. “Did you just trip me?”

Renee put her hands up like she was the victim. “What?! No—I didn’t even touch—”

“Bullshit!” you snapped. “I felt your leg hook mine, don’t play dumb with me.”

“Okay, everyone take a breath,” the choreographer said quickly, stepping between you both. “It didn’t look intentional from where I was standing. Could’ve just been bad spacing—”

“I saw it,” Sevika’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

Everyone turned.

She was standing near the back wall, arms crossed, face unreadable—but her eyes? Cold. Sharp. Certain.

The room fell silent.

“I saw her foot sweep out. It wasn’t spacing.”

Renee opened her mouth—then closed it.

No one argued. Not the choreographer. Not the assistant. Not even Renee, who suddenly looked like she might melt into the floor.

Sevika’s gaze stayed on the girl a moment longer, just long enough to make her shift uncomfortably before Sevika looked away like she was done with the whole thing.

Like she could snap someone’s neck if it came to that—and honestly? No one doubted it.

Your manager appeared beside you almost instantly, his perfectly styled hair slightly askew for once, eyes flicking from your face to your ankle.

“Y/N. Are you okay?” he asked, voice a little too calm to be genuine.

You nodded quickly, brushing some glittery hair from your face. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just a slip.”

“Are you sure?” he pressed, stepping in closer. “We can reschedule rehearsal, get someone to look at—”

“I said I’m fine.” You forced a bright smile, teeth tight. “Let’s just run it again. I’ve got it.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything.”

As he stepped away, you took a careful breath and shifted your weight to your foot.

A white-hot shock of pain shot up your leg—so sharp and sudden it made your vision blur for a second. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink. You just smiled like a liar and gave the cue to start the track again.

The music blasted. You launched into the choreography again, biting your cheek so hard it might bleed. Every twist, every kick felt like walking on knives. But you moved through it with your head held high and your smile never faltering.

From her post near the back, Sevika’s eyes narrowed.

She saw the tiny hitch in your step. The way you didn’t put your full weight on your right foot. The slight tremble in your thigh when you landed the next spin. You were good—really good—but she was trained to notice weakness. Pain. Tension.

She said nothing.

Just watched you power through it like the stage was a battlefield and you weren’t planning on losing today.

But behind that calm exterior, Sevika’s jaw clenched.

She’d seen people push past pain before. It never ended well.

The dressing room was quiet now—too quiet.

You’d swapped the sparkle for sweatpants, tugged your cotton jacket back on, and were curled up on the futon with one leg tucked under you, the other stretched out in front. Your ankle was bruised and swollen, the purple blooming just above the bone like a warning sign you didn’t want to read.

You sighed, brushing your fingers over it gently, flinching at the contact.

“Cool,” you muttered to yourself. “Real cute.”

You sat there for a moment longer, letting the silence wrap around you like a weighted blanket—too heavy, too familiar.

Then you stood, biting back a wince as your foot touched the floor. You hobbled over to the mirror, bracing your hands on the edge of the vanity. The lights ringed around the mirror cast your reflection in soft gold, too kind for the way your eyes scanned yourself.

Waist. Arms. Stomach.

Your gaze drifted across the curve of your hips, the faint mark of your waistband pressed into your skin, the tiny blemishes under your chin you swore weren’t there yesterday. You sucked in your stomach, tilted your face, pursed your lips like you were posing for a photo no one was taking.

Too puffy here. Too soft there. Not enough here.

You blinked and turned toward your bag, rooting through it until your hand closed around the small white pill bottle tucked inside the zippered pocket.

Hydraxin.

No label, not that you needed one. You knew the shape of the pills by heart.

Your fingers twisted the cap without hesitation.

You shook two into your palm, dry-swallowed them with a sip from your water bottle, and closed your eyes. The cool rush was subtle at first, like the volume on reality turning down just a little. The ache in your ankle fuzzed at the edges. Your breathing slowed.

Just enough to get through the rest of the day. Maybe even smile while doing it.

You set the bottle back in your bag, zipped it closed, and looked at your reflection again. The lights were still too soft, but for a second, you almost liked what you saw.

A knock came at the door—three quick taps, impatient but polite.

You didn’t flinch. The Hydraxin was already working its way through your bloodstream like a warm, sugary fog. The ache in your ankle was still there, dulled now, distant. Manageable. Your heart beat a little faster, but you liked it that way—like your body was catching up to your schedule, not dragging behind it.

“Y/N?” your manager called through the door. “We’ve got to leave now if you want to make the shoot on time. Thirty minutes, tops.”

You straightened up from the vanity, blinking away the haze, and took a second to adjust the zipper on your jacket. Then you tilted your chin up and gave your reflection a practiced, dazzling smile.

Sweet. Controlled. Public-ready.

You opened the door with a light flick of your wrist, bright eyes and white teeth greeting him like nothing was wrong at all.

“Sorry,” you said breezily, stepping into the hallway. “Didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

Your manager gave you a once-over, eyes scanning for anything out of place. If he noticed the faint flush to your cheeks or the too-dilated sparkle in your pupils, he didn’t mention it.

“You good?” he asked, glancing down at your feet.

“Perfect,” you chirped, already walking ahead. “Let’s go make me look expensive.”

Behind you, Sevika fell into step silently, her eyes trailing you with that same unreadable expression—but her gaze lingered just a moment longer on the slight favoring of your left leg.

She didn’t say a word.

The luxury sedan hummed beneath you as it slid back onto the road, city lights beginning to flicker awake outside the tinted windows.

Your manager had claimed the front passenger seat this time, already barking orders into his phone about lighting setups and which of your PR-approved angles were best for the backdrop. You tuned him out, focusing on the screen of your phone instead, flipping it to selfie mode.

The camera caught your reflection—glowy, a little too flushed, pupils still dancing a bit too wide, but your lips looked dry. You popped the cap off your tinted chapstick and ran it across your bottom lip slowly, then smudged the excess with your ring finger. You pressed your lips together, analyzing the shape, then did a little pout just to see how it would photograph.

Next to you, Sevika hadn’t moved.

Still sitting like a boulder with legs, her thighs spread, one arm resting lazily on the center console while the other stayed draped across her knee. She hadn’t said a word since getting in the car, but her eyes were constantly shifting—watching the mirrors, the side streets, the alleyways they passed. Her posture screamed ready, like she expected someone to crash through the window at any second.

You peeked at her through the edge of your screen, catching how her jaw clenched slightly as the car turned a sharp corner. She looked like she didn’t trust the driver. Or maybe she just didn’t trust anyone.

“Do you always sit like someone’s gonna assassinate me?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

She didn’t look at you.

“I’ve seen weirder shit happen in quieter cities,” she muttered.

You leaned back against the seat with a little hum, dragging your finger across your phone screen to adjust the filter. “Well, if they are gonna assassinate me, I hope they wait until after I get a good photo in this outfit.”

She finally glanced at you, one brow twitching just slightly.

“Priorities,” she muttered.

You grinned. “Exactly.”

She looked away again. But you didn’t miss the flicker of amusement in her eyes as she scanned the street.

Monday Afternoon

The rooftop was bathed in late-afternoon glow, the sky casting golden hour warmth over the shoot setup. A faux cityscape backdrop stood behind you, sleek and modern, while a glowing acrylic pedestal held the star of the show: a rose gold box of foundation with your name stamped across it in cursive font.

You were draped across a velvet chaise in heels far too tall, the pink corset dress from rehearsal swapped out for a more editorial version—tighter, shinier, lower cut. The makeup team had gone all in: glitter along your collarbones, highlighter on your cheekbones that caught the sun just right, and lashes so long they cast shadows when you blinked.

You shifted into another pose—one leg curled under you, hand resting flirtatiously beside the foundation box, lips parted just slightly like you were in the middle of whispering something scandalous. The photographer yelled encouragement from behind the lens.

“Yes! Right there—hold that! Give me pouty, give me playful, yes, that’s money!”

Sevika stood near the far edge of the rooftop, arms crossed, sunglasses low on her nose. She was trying—really trying—to be professional.

But she was staring.

And not just in a scanning-the-environment kind of way. No. She was watching you pose, watching the way your body arched just right under the light, how your mouth curved around every sultry smirk like you were sending the look straight to her. Your lips were glossy again. Your dress had ridden up just enough to break a few broadcast standards.

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Someone behind her fanned themselves dramatically. “God, she’s so hot it’s offensive.”

“Tell me about it,” another crew member muttered. “She’s gonna sell a million units off that look alone.”

Sevika didn’t even register the comments. She was caught up, pulled into the moment despite herself. Just a few seconds too long.

Then your gaze flicked up and locked with hers.

You didn’t break pose. But the smile that followed? It wasn’t for the camera.

She looked away, jaw tight, sunglasses pushed higher on her nose like a shield.

But her ears were red. Just a little.

The flashbulbs faded one by one as the photographer called, “That’s a wrap for this look!”

Applause and scattered praise rippled through the rooftop crew, but you barely registered it. You stood slowly from the chaise, balancing yourself on the balls of your feet, your smile stiffening as that pleasant Hydraxin haze began to slip—like glitter washing off in the rain.

Your ankle throbbed, sharp now, pulsing under the skin where the bruise had darkened. You took a cautious step—

Wrong one.

A spike of pain shot up your leg like a live wire, and you yelped before you could stop it, hand flying to the backdrop wall for balance. A few heads turned.

Your manager was immediately at your side, tablet in one hand, iced coffee in the other. “You alright? You’re good, yeah? Because we’ve got the podcast taping in two hours, then the red carpet teaser—oh, and they still want you to approve the final edits for that beachwear promo—”

You plastered on a smile, teeth clenched tight. “Yeah, no, totally. I just need to… fix my hair. It got frizzy.”

He blinked. “It looks perfect—”

“I’ll be right back.” You were already hobbling off before he could argue.

You disappeared down the hallway that led back to your temporary dressing room. Your vision felt too bright, your skin a little clammy. The weight of your lashes was starting to sting, your heartbeat speeding up in that uneven, post-Hydraxin crash way.

Sevika moved from her corner silently, already starting to follow behind.

But you turned at the dressing room door, one hand gripping the handle, the other holding yourself steady against the wall.

“Hey,” you said softly, not looking directly at her. “Can I… just be alone for a second?”

She hesitated.

You didn’t say it rudely. You didn’t have to. She could hear it in your voice—the crack around the edge, the exhaustion beneath the glitter.

After a pause, Sevika gave a short nod. “I’ll be outside.”

You slipped into the room and closed the door behind you, the latch sounding impossibly loud in the quiet. The space was dimmer than before, your reflection in the mirror already a little smeared around the edges. You leaned against the vanity and finally let your body sag.

Alone. At last.

The room was quiet again—too quiet for the mess happening inside your chest.

You reached for your bag with shaky fingers, pulling it open like a secret you weren’t supposed to tell. The bottle was already in your hand before you had a chance to second guess it. Hydraxin. Just two more. You popped them past your lips and chased them with a lukewarm swig of water from your bottle, the kind that had been sitting out too long and tasted faintly of lemon and backwash.

You peeled yourself out of the corset dress and slipped into your “normal” clothes—those soft bootcut leggings again, the cotton jacket, a fresh tank top. A version of you that felt quieter, simpler, easier to carry.

But your ankle was screaming now.

You sat down at the vanity and lifted your leg into your lap, inspecting the swollen mess. It looked worse. More purple, more angry. Just the pressure from your leggings made you want to scream.

You stared at your reflection for a long time.

The makeup was still perfect. Hair still curled. But your eyes were glassy, red at the corners. Your lips were starting to tremble, gloss clinging to the skin like glue.

You touched your cheek. Then your hip. Your stomach. Your throat.

Not skinny enough. Not smooth enough. Not good enough.

And then—

The sob hit your chest like a punch. Soft, at first. Like a hiccup caught behind your tongue. You tried to breathe through it, pressing your hands to your face like that might hold it all in.

But it cracked. Just a little.

Then another sob. This one sharper. It broke through your clenched teeth as you doubled over slightly, elbows on the vanity, trying so, so hard not to be loud.

Outside the door, Sevika stood with her back against the wall, arms crossed like always.

She heard it. She’d heard a lot of things in her life—screaming, begging, even silence where there should’ve been sound. But this?

This was different.

Your sobs were muffled, soft, like you were still performing even in your own breakdown. It wasn’t the kind of crying that demanded attention. It was the kind that happened when someone had no one to perform for anymore.

And despite every instinct she had to stay neutral, Sevika found herself listening. Carefully. Closely.

And goddamn it, there was something so pretty about the way you cried.

Not because she enjoyed it. Not like that. It just… did something to her. The rawness of it. The way your voice cracked at the end. The fact that you were alone in that room and still trying to sound small.

She ran a hand down her face, exhaled through her nose, and stared at the door like it was testing her.

And maybe it was.

Monday Evening 

The rest of the day blurred like a highlight reel played too fast and too bright.

Car rides. People. Lights. More car rides. More people. More lights.

You smiled when you were supposed to. Laughed on cue. Kissed cheeks, posed next to strangers, waved at fans behind barricades as flash after flash blinded you into something smooth and hollow. Your ankle throbbed through every step. The pills worked, until they didn’t. Then you took more.

You lost count of how many times someone asked if you were “so excited” for what was next. You nodded every time.

By the time you got back to the mansion, it was well past midnight. The staff greeted you at the door—two security guards, a sleepy-eyed maid, and Geoffrey with a glass of lemon water and a warm towel, like you were a prize racehorse coming in from the storm.

You thanked them softly, stepping out of your heels like they were shackles, and disappeared up the grand staircase without a word.

Behind you, Sevika lingered in the foyer, watching as the guards reset the perimeter and the gates slid shut.

Her shift ended there.

No overnight detail. No cameras in your room. You were locked up tighter than most vaults, and Sevika knew the kind of men patrolling your property—men who’d shoot before asking questions. You didn’t need her at night.

So she turned on her heel, heading out through the side entrance, leather jacket slung back over her shoulder, helmet in hand.

She took her bike across the city, winding through neon signs and pothole-riddled streets, where the air smelled like burnt oil and fried food. By the time she pulled up to her building, her buzz was gone. Reality had returned.

Her apartment was small. Cracked tiles in the bathroom. A fridge that hummed too loud. One flickering overhead light in the kitchen and a couch that sagged in the middle. The window didn’t shut right. She shoved it closed anyway.

Sevika dropped her keys on the counter, kicked off her boots, and sat down heavily on the edge of her bed.

Silence.

She rubbed her face with both hands, then lit a cigarette with a tired flick of her lighter.

She could still hear the sound of you crying behind that dressing room door.

Still see the way you smiled after.

She exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, muttering to herself:

“Rich girl’s gonna wreck me.”

The movie played on her busted little TV—some old action flick with bad audio and worse pacing—but Sevika wasn’t watching it.

She sat slouched on her worn-out couch, cigarette burning low between two fingers, eyes locked on the grimy window that looked out over the street below. Neon signs blinked and flickered against the cracked glass, throwing color over the peeling paint of her living room walls. Down on the sidewalk, someone was being mugged behind a corner store.

No one helped.

She didn’t either.

She just watched, blank-faced, the glow of the screen lighting her cheek while gunshots and explosions from the movie echoed behind her like they belonged to someone else’s life.

But her mind wasn’t here—not in her apartment, not in this part of the city. It was there. With you.

That glittery dress. That glossy smile. That yelp when you stepped wrong. That sound—soft and broken—when you cried behind the door and asked to be alone.

She tried to shake it off. She was good at shaking things off. But this?

You were stuck behind her eyes like something lodged in a wound.

Sevika stood up with a grunt and wandered over to her desk. It was cluttered—half-burnt candles, spare parts, a small tin ashtray. The busted laptop sat closed beneath a faded stack of mail. She swept it clean with one arm and flipped the laptop open, the screen flickering to life with a faint whine.

She waited, drumming her fingers against the table while it groaned its way awake. The internet was shit. Everything took longer than it should. But she didn’t care.

She opened the browser. Typed your name.

And there you were.

A dozen search results. Articles. Headlines. Fan forums. Paparazzi shots. Studio interviews. Instagram reposts. Close-ups of your face, smiling with fake lashes and dimples. Red carpet gowns and morning coffee runs. Performance clips. Magazine covers. Grainy phone videos of you blowing kisses to screaming fans.

But none of them looked like you.

Not really.

Not like when you were sitting on that futon in your cotton jacket, staring at your ankle like it might swallow you whole.

Not like when you were crying so quietly it made her chest ache.

She lit another cigarette and leaned closer to the screen, eyes scanning every photo, every word, every digital version of you that didn’t quite match the real thing.

And she whispered under her breath, almost like a warning to herself:

“Shit. This is bad.”

The video buffered for a moment before settling into low-res clarity—an old Tonight Show interview with your name in all caps beneath the frame.

Sevika leaned in.

You were sitting across from Jimmy Fallon, legs crossed in a cherry-red mini dress that hugged your curves like it had been made for you. Your hair was fuller, curls wild and bouncy, and your cheeks were rounder, flushed with that effortless kind of joy most people had to fake for the cameras.

Fallon was laughing—too loud, too staged. “So tell me, Y/N… is it true you once tried to sneak a puppy into a private jet inside your handbag?”

You lit up, laughing hard, full-bodied. “Okay, in my defense, he was tiny and emotionally supportive.”

Sevika blinked at the screen, lips parted just slightly. You looked… different. Not just physically. There was a looseness in your body, a light in your eyes that she hadn’t seen—not in rehearsals, not even in passing.

Same smile. But somehow not the same girl.

She let the video play a few seconds longer before clicking out of it, the sound of your laugh lingering as she scrolled down the search results.

That’s when she saw it. Bold, sharp headline. Tucked halfway down the page.

“Pop’s Rising Star Crashes Hard: Y/N L/N in Tragic Collision—2 Dead, 2 Critical”

She clicked it.

The article was stark. Brutal. The kind of journalistic tone that tried to sound respectful but leaned on devastation for clicks.

“Y/N L/N, the 21-year-old pop powerhouse known for her chart-topping hit ‘Lipgloss Lies’, was involved in a fatal car accident late Thursday night following a sold-out show in Los Angeles. Sources confirm the singer’s SUV was struck at an intersection by an oncoming truck, resulting in the deaths of the vehicle’s driver and another passenger. L/N and one additional crew member were critically injured but survived.

The incident has raised questions about the singer’s relentless schedule and post-tour exhaustion. A representative has declined to comment on the star’s current condition, though fans have flooded social media with well-wishes under the hashtag #StayStrongYNL.”

Sevika leaned back slowly, cigarette forgotten between her fingers, ash curling down toward her boot.

You’d almost died. Two people had.

And you were still dancing. Still singing. Still smiling on cue.

But that sparkle in your eyes? It made sense now.

She exhaled once, smoke leaking out in a slow drag, eyes drifting back to the search bar.

You didn’t need a bodyguard.

You needed a break.

Or someone to see you.

Sevika hesitated before clicking the next link, her fingers hovering over the trackpad like they were second-guessing her choices—like she already knew this was crossing a line she couldn’t uncross.

But she clicked anyway.

The thumbnail showed you curled in white sheets, back arched, soft lighting casting a golden halo across your skin. The title was simple, lowercase and moody:

“just like heaven – official music video.”

She clicked.

The screen faded in slowly—ambient synths humming beneath a heartbeat-thrum of drums. You appeared in flashes: bare shoulders, the slope of your back, your fingers trailing down a silky curtain as you turned to face the camera. You wore nothing but sheer fabric and high-cut underwear, the kind of shot that looked soft and sensual on the surface but had tension stitched into every frame.

Your voice came in low, breathy, aching:

“Touch me like you mean it, Like I’m not a replacement.”

The video shifted—slow pans of your body silhouetted in warm light, long, sensual takes of you pressed against glass, water droplets sliding down your skin like tears. It wasn’t just sexy. It was sad. Intimate in a way that made Sevika feel like she wasn’t supposed to be watching.

She swallowed hard.

Your body was on full display, but there was no hunger in your expression. Just longing. Vulnerability. That same ache she’d heard behind the dressing room door. Except here, it was framed with choreography and camera angles, cut into something palatable for mass consumption.

Fan service. Wrapped in art direction and low lighting.

Her jaw tightened as the video played on—hands grazing your thighs, your lips parting on a sigh, the kind of moan that was meant to be heard, remembered, replayed.

She sat there for the entire thing.

Watched it all. Every note. Every frame.

And when it finally faded to black, Sevika didn’t move for a long time.

Then she closed the laptop slowly, her reflection flickering in the black screen.

Her voice came out low. Croaky. Like gravel.

“…Fucking hell.”

The room was dead quiet now, except for the faint buzz of her fridge and the soft clink of her lighter as she flipped it open and closed, over and over, just for something to do.

The laptop screen had gone black. But the images—you—still flickered behind her eyes. That soft, aching voice. The stretch of your body in golden light. The way your thighs shifted under the sheets, that breathless look on your face that was meant for the camera but felt like it was meant for someone.

Sevika dragged her hand down her face.

She shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

You were her job. Her responsibility.

But responsibility didn’t explain the way her chest tightened when you smiled. It didn’t excuse the heat that crept under her skin when she heard you cry, soft and private, like a secret only she got to keep. And it definitely didn’t make sense, the way her fingers tingled now—restless, twitching—like they needed to do something about this.

She leaned back on the couch, legs spread lazily, fingers grazing the waistband of her sweats. The cigarette still burned between her lips, its cherry glowing like a slow confession. Her other hand hovered over her thigh, motionless.

She let her head fall back, eyes closed.

Thought of you in that video.

Thought of how you looked that morning in your bootcut leggings and that little white tank, hair messy, eyes half-lidded.

Thought of how you’d smiled at her—sweet, like honey on the tongue—right before turning around and limping away like nothing hurt.

Her fingers twitched again.

This time, she didn’t stop herself.

Her hand slipped lower, slow at first. Testing the heat that had built up between her thighs like it wasn’t already coiled there—tight and pulsing. She let out a quiet breath, something caught between a sigh and a growl, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth as she shifted on the couch.

The city lights bled through the cracked blinds, painting her in neon reds and sickly yellows, but all she saw was you.

That version of you.

The one in glitter, dancing. The one in sweats, limping. The one on camera, writhing under the weight of your own loneliness, your voice pleading like it wanted someone—anyone—to touch you like they actually meant it.

Sevika groaned under her breath, dragging her hand down the front of her sweatpants, the friction just enough to make her hips twitch.

She didn’t say your name. She never would.

But you were there in her head—sweet and cruel and untouchable. And in this moment, you weren’t her client. You weren’t some popstar wrapped in gloss and rhinestones.

You were just a girl.

Vulnerable. Needy. Real.

Her breathing grew heavier as her fingers moved faster, teeth clenching around the filter of her cigarette, ash spilling down her chest. She barely noticed. Didn’t care. Her jaw slackened slightly as she tilted her head back, chasing that pull in her belly, the one that was all you, all memory, all forbidden craving coiled around her like a vice.

And when it finally came—sharp and fast and low in her gut—she let out a soft, guttural sound, biting down on the filter to muffle it.

For a long time, she just lay there.

One hand slack between her legs. The other covering her eyes.

The glow of the laptop was gone, but her guilt? That stayed. Warm and bitter.

She wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Not about you.

But she did.

And something in her gut told her that was just the beginning.

A/N : woohoo new layout

comment to be added to the taglist!

NOTE : If you or someone you know is struggling with things like mental health, you are not alone.

American Foundation For Suicide Prevention

[emptywwwriting]

Brat

Paring: Joel Miller x reader

Summary: After you make a stupid call and get you and Joel into a bad situation he teaches you a lesson

or

Joel fucks some sense into you over a table.

Warnings: Smut, rough sex, Joel is mean, Joel calls you names, reader is high on pain pills lowkey but everything is consented to, it makes sense I promise just read, Joel pushes you around, age gap

WC: 2.5k

A03: Brat

Notes: This is nasty asf im so sorry, feel free to leave feed back. also send asks if u have ideas for future fics. Anyways I have had this written but unpolished for a while, and im lowkey unmotivated with my age gap Jackson fic rn so I wanted to give y'all something until then

Edit: I finally edited it! i hope it sounds a little better, and tysm for notes :)))

“What the fuck is your problem?” Joel yells slamming the door harshly behind him.

“My problem? What the fuck?” You throw your bag down in defeat. 

“We could have brought back all that fucking supplies and you just blew it all up.” You’re yelling at him now.

“Yeah,” He huffs. “real good it would have done us dead!” He's taking steps towards you.

Your throat tightens.

“That loss was on fucking you. We could have just slid by and not started nothin’, now we're down on supplies even more and you have a fuckin hole in your side.” He’s seething and growing closer.

“Yeah, I would've had a real good fix if you had listened to me!” You're shaking, and taking steps towards him, finger in his face.

It's a screaming match, but you're losing steam, the wound on your side is manageable but painful, the stitches pull at your skin and you're still a little dizzy from the blood loss, but the pain pills Joel had shoved in your mouth should kick in any moment.

You and Joel had just stumbled into the middle of a hunter's base while traveling. It was filled with supplies like ammo, guns, and food. The two of you disagreed on whether to get the supplies or not, Joel thought it was too risky but you disagreed. Your stubbornness led to a massive shootout, and shortly after the first shot was fired, the two of you were cornered. Joel had to throw a pipe bomb, which inevitably killed the hunters and blew the supplies to pieces. You barely escaped the fight after a bullet grazed your side. Now you were left with no ammo or supplies, and a pissed-off Joel.

“Listen to you?” He retorts, shocked. “You nearly got us killed!” He's gaining on you, backing you into the wall.

“I was thinking ahead! If you would have just followed me and not made a fuss, we would have been fine!” Your voice starts to falter as his tall frame devours you.

“Thinking ahead my ass, you were only thinkin’ bout yourself!” He furiously spat. 

You back up slowly, as he continues to yell. You can't think of anything else to say, and your throat feels raw. His eyes are filled with rage, brows pinched together tightly. His hand lands on your shoulder, and with a firm shove, your back instantly hits the wall. Before you can process what happened, his hand flies up, grasping your jaw harshly and pulling your head to look up at him.

“If you’re gonna act like a fuckin’ idiot again, don't drag me down with you.” He says carefully. 

His chest is rising and falling quickly fighting aginst the constaints of his flannel The breath has been ripped from your lungs as you stare up at him anticipaitingly. You can't break eye contact, and silence is starting to take over, only both of your heavy breathing fills the air. His eyes are black, staring so deep into your own you feel like you can't hide anything. His grip on your jaw loosens, only for a moment before you are yanked towards him. His lips crash into yours messily, capturing you in a violent kiss. His body is pushed into yours, knee slotting in between your legs, pressing you even further back into the wall. You feel his teeth graze your lips, biting and nipping at anything he can. You try to keep up with the frantic kiss, but can't. His hands move from your jaw to your neck, to your shoulder and back, like he doesn't know where to go. Your own are frozen at your side, balled into fists. The fast pace is bruising and your jaw begins to ache from his force. 

His lips leave yours, as he brings your head up further craning it. Just as you are finally able to take a breath, he reconnects to your neck. Sucking on every inch of skin he can, it's fast and almost narotic, anamiliostic even, but it doesn't stop you from trying to squeeze your legs together. His bites become more harsh and you can't help but let out weak groans. He pushes his knee up into you more and your legs go numb. Your mouth is wide open, eyes screwed shut.

Joel is littering kisses and merciless bites down the column of your neck, hands feeling feverishly up and down your sides.

He trails to your collarbone, biting it gently then making his way back up. He kisses his way to your jaw and over to your ear before standing up completely. His leg disappears from under you and you have to catch yourself from falling.

Looking down at you, his eyes are still dark.

“Go stand in front of the table.” His voice sounds scratchy and out of breath. 

You stare at him blinking dumbly trying to make sense of everything that just happened. Your mouth opens to say something, but the thought is lost as soon as it had come to you. His hair is disheveled, sleeves are rolled up exposing his aged yet muscular forearms. He is so tall and so brooding, it's so terrifyingly attractive. Something about his rage is just turning you on more and you know its wrong but it feels so good.

“You stupid or sumthin’?” He sounds mean, so condescending, and normally his talking down on you enrages you, but right now, everything in your head wants more of him. His kisses, his smell, the way his knee felt pushing up against your most sensitive part, you feel high.

He tilts his head at you warningly, and you slowly push yourself off the wall and walk shakily over to the table in the middle of the dusty room. You place your hands on the edge of the table standing up straight and facing away from Joel. It's quiet for a minute before you hear the thudding of his boots growing closer to you. They stop just behind you and you're shoved over the table by a rough hand. You whine at this quietly, hands braced against the surface. Once again he makes contact with your back, pushing you slowly yet firmly into the piece of furniture, forcing your arms out to the side of you.

“You’re a fuckin’ brat.” His hands trail their way to your hips squeezing long and hard, pulling them against his own. He's kneading the flesh, you feel his eyes burning holes into you.

“Just a stupid kid, thinkin’ you always know what's best.” He trails off and starts pulling your jeans down and over your ass slowly. The cold air of the room gives you chills and you attempt to push your legs together.

You turn your head to the side.

“N-not a kid.” You are barely able to get out, your lungs still feel empty.

His hand makes contact with your now bare ass. Not hard, but enough to make you close your mouth.

“Shut it.” He's serious.

He sighs and continues.

“You're cocky, and young...” He pauses for a moment, maybe second guessing himself about to fuck a twenty year old girl, the same thought crosses your mind but neither of you really care at this point.

Your head is spinning out of control, a slight nausous feelings seeps into your gut when you suddenly recall the three multi-colored pills Joel had given you earlier. Your stomach drops for only a moment before you recognize the euphoria flooding your brain. 

You barely notice the sound of Joel’s belt buckle coming undone.

“Should have listened to me ya know,” He says, grabbing your ass firmly and pulling it away from the table, and snapping you out of your thoughts. 

“I've kept you safe for how many months now?” He grunts, prodding your entrance.

You gasp.

He leans to the side and makes eye contact with you.

“Listen to me next time and maybe you won't have a fuckin’ hole in your stomach again.” He stands back up straight again.

“Mhm sorry-” Your apology is empty, you feel like you're melting into the table, and all you can think about is the feeling of his dick at your hole. You're not really sorry, your just sorry hes not already in you.

You know this, and he knows this.

“Yeah, sorry don't cut it no more. Think you can look all pretty at me and I'll forgive you? I'm done with that shit.” He thrusts into you so suddenly you yell, or at least you think you do, but you're too dizzy and the feeling of his cock deep inside is all you can feel. He's saying something but you can't hear anymore, your eyes are shut and all you know is the weight of him inside you. His touch is like a mantra in your head.

Joel Joel Joel Joel

He pulls back quickly, then slowly sinks into you again. You're moaning over each inch, unable to do anything but take it. He pushes your ass apart, and pulls out slightly, sinking back in once more. He repeats this slowly a few more times, mesmerized by the sight of you sucking him in. Your moans come out strangled, and you stumble over incoherent words.

“I always take care of you right?” His voice is low. His hands go to your hips again and continue at a slow pace. The wet sound is so disgustingly loud, that it makes you cringe, but just as with every other thought, it is quickly blurred. Your brain is foggy with lust, and probably the painkillers, but that doesn't matter right now, nothing but this amazing feeling inside of you matters.

You moan in response. He huffs out a laugh.

“You're never this compliant, this what I have t’do to make you listen?” His hands squeeze you harder.

You hum so brokenly in response he almost feels bad, but the way you're gripping around him lulls him in further, there's no going back now.

“Gon' be real good for me?” His southern drawl drips off of every word he says. 

“Let me take care of you like I always do. You be a good girl and keep layin’ here.” You go to speak but your words die in your throat when he slams into you again. 

His pace quickens so fast you can't move anymore. Your eyes are now wide open staring across the empty room, mouth open moaning non stop. He is hitting something so devastating inside of you that your knees go weak and hang loosely over the table. He's grunting, with each thrust, lost in the way you feel.

“Fuck, so good. Feels so good.” He's breathless, holding onto your bruised hips for dear life.

“Shoulda' done this months ago.” He slurs.

The thought of Joel fucking you, in the truck, in the woods, in dilapidated houses, really anywhere, is making the blood rush to your head. Your neglected clit is throbbing needily, and your stomach is beginning to tighten.

Your walls squeeze around him and his pace falters for a moment as he lets out a strangled moan, he sounds like he's in pain. You on the other hand are just yelling at this point, weak moans lace everything that comes out of your mouth. Your arms are gripping the flat surface as much as possible, bracing yourself against his violent movements. The coil tightens and you feel your orgasm approaching.

An “Oh god” leaves your mouth but it's so slurred and desperate it doesn't feel real.

“Come on baby girl.” He angles his hips down and you're blinded by the feeling. 

“Fuckin’, god... Brat. Come all over me.” He sounds breathless, yet still furious. 

You're so high on his everything, that the words only push you further and further over the cliff, and suddenly your whole body tenses so unbelievably tight you can't move. Your hips stutter back against Joel, locking him inside of you. He's sputtering your name, mixed with Fuck’s and You feel so good’s.

Your insides clamp down on him and he stops moving completely, now just grinding his hips into yours weakly. Each wave tightens your body even more than the last, it goes on for what feels like forever. Eventually, the final surge passes and you melt into the table, completely limp. Your senses are numb, and all you can feel is Joel's dick jerking in you rhythmically.

He must have come but you were so overwhelmed by your own orgasm you didn't even notice. He's breathing hard above you, your body is coated in sweat, soaking through your shirt. Slowly your feelings come back. Joel finally releases your hips and pulls out of you gradually. The feeling is deflating, and you feel even smaller than before. Your hole flutters around nothing, but you can't move off the table still. You feel Joel staring at you, and then you feel it start to trickle out of you, shame floods your mind and your face goes red. You feel him bend down to grab the jeans that were still hanging off your ankles, pulling them up and over your ass again. The dampness of his cum makes you shift slightly, and you try to push yourself up off the table. When you do your vision goes black, and you hesitate not wanting to pass out on him right after he fucked you.

Slowly now you stand, legs trembling under your weight. The euphoria of the painkillers is coursing through your body so intensely, that you had forgotten about the wound. Reaching down to feel it, it was dry still not bleeding. 

That's surprising.

You turn to see Joel gathering his things from around the room, and throwing his backpack over his shoulder. He's running his hands nervously through his hair.

How does he look so composed?

Your hair is tangled and messy, dried tears crust your face, and your jeans are still not buttoned and unzipped.

“Get your stuff.” He says quietly, timidly, and not making eye contact.

He wants to leave now?

“We’re not-, I can't even-” You stutter, shocked at how he expects you to be able to walk back to the truck in this state.

“Get  your   stuff.” He says again, giving you a warning glance. 

You blink at him, you're dizzy and weak, everything is sore in the best way possible but you genuinely don't feel like you can walk. You struggle over to your backpack and scoop it off the floor, putting it on. When you look up Joel has already opened the door and is scouting the area, making sure no one is in sight. Once clear he steps out, holding the door for you. You walk slowly, limping over to him not looking him in the eye, you're too embarrassed to. When you step outside he closes the door and begins walking in the direction of the truck. You feel frail and the idea of the half-mile walk back makes you feel even more fatigued. He seems weirdly unbothered by everything that just happened, while you on the other hand are a wreck. 

The whole way back, you stumble after Joel, underwear uncomfortably wet. 

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.4 (Lewisia) a3d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 10,680

Notes: Holy shit, it's been like 3 months?????? In my defense, holidays are awful, and this is a fuckin' beast of a chapter. Binnie would NAWT shut up T^T She almost matches the word count for the entire fic so far TT^TT Plus 10 images of texting. Y am i like this??? Huge shout outs to my lovely, patient, amazing betas who made this chapter at ALL possible, @lazyfacecowboy and @brbwritingfanfic. Seriously, this would not have been written without y'all, everyone say thank you! Also special mention for @chancloud8 for negotiating me through the last bit of the chapter LMAO. She kept feeding me fics, they were my reward for doing the writing UvU

Hope y'all enjoy! And I hope it was worth the wait <3

(p.s my ass did NOT do a real final readthrough. If the formatting is weird pls forgive me, I'm sick of looking @ her T^T)

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: Allusions to past domestic violence, flashback of verbal abuse (very vague, but still there), panic attack, she/her reader

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Prev Part | Next Part (Coming Soon <3)

The next morning marks a return to routine.

You roll out of bed half awake, sleep-mused and ready for murder. Your mood isn’t improved by the way you’d gone to bed - still in your work clothes with day-after mascara gluing your eyelids together.

A quick stop by the restroom to strip and scrub your face is a necessity, otherwise you’re liable to just crawl back into bed and rot there. You honestly wish you could. Just rot away and let all this soulmate business pass you by as you slowly return to the earth.

Alas, capitalism waits for no man.

You examine your reflection when you’ve finished, doing your best to ignore the remaining traces of grey streaks down your cheeks where your eyeliner hadn’t been as waterproof as advertised.

You try to hold onto the flash of irritation the sight brings you, to cling to the normalcy of being irritated that your makeup is waterproof enough to be a pain to remove, but not to stay through your tears. Then you remember what you’d been crying over and the pit of fear and shame that’s been your companion the last few days comes rolling back.

You don’t even know why you’d cried. Don’t feel like you deserved to cry. After all, it’s not like you were the one rejected by your soulmate for no reason.

You do your best to shake off the incoming spiral, ambling your way into the kitchen. You just need to fall back on your routines and feel normal for a bit. You’re not entirely convinced that ignoring your problems won’t make them go away, despite the dark feelings trembling in your chest.

You press your lips together to stop the bottom one from trembling and open the fridge. There’s a plate of eggs, fruit, and toast inside.

Taylor, freak of nature that he is, has been up for hours already, you know. He’d probably been up and out the door before the sun had even thought about rising. Weirdo.

Your roommate is well aware of how non-functional you can be in the morning, so it’s not unusual of him to leave you leftovers when he makes breakfast. Especially when he knows you’re not feeling your best. The little note on top isn’t new either: usually a reminder, grocery list, or a little encouragement for your day. The whole thing makes you smile, usually, and you’re always touched by his consideration.

Today that little note makes your eyes prick with a new wave of tears.

‘Give yourself a chance. Bet’s still on <3’

The $20 you’d slapped onto the counter last night is taped to the back. It feels a bit like a stone hand is crushing your heart under the weight of something unknowable and precious when you carefully tuck both the money and the note into your wallet.

You very deliberately do NOT cry, though it’s a near thing. You’d done enough crying last night. But if you sniffle a bit into cold eggs, well...

That’s for you to know, isn’t it?

It’s a Tuesday, so after breakfast you drag yourself back to your room to throw on your largest, rattiest, t-shirt and a pair of leggings to head to the gym. You’ll drag yourself through your routine with leaded limbs if you have to, you’re going to have the most regular day you can manage and everything will be fine. It has to be.

You can’t help it when eyes catch on the newly-bloomed marks on your skin as you strip away your sleepwear. The sight makes you uneasy, almost uncomfortable. It takes you a moment to realize why looking at your mark, a daily ritual you’ve kept for years, feels so foreign to you today.

It’s almost alarming to acknowledge that you haven’t actually looked at your mark since you’d met your first soulmate. The concert feels like a lifetime ago, now, despite having been barely two days ago. You’re a bit ashamed to admit that you’d been avoiding looking at it since you’d felt the first flowers bloom.

It’s no wonder looking at it feels weird, you muse as you study it now. It might as well be a whole new mark, for all the changes that have happened since you last saw it.

You decide, in the name of returning to your routine for good, that you can’t skip even this tiny part of your daily rituals.

You shuffle over to your closet, swinging open the door to reveal the full-length mirror hanging on the other side. You don’t bother with your usual rounds of self-depreciation or daily affirmations. Instead, you find your eyes glued to droopy purple petals and blankets of white stars across your abdomen.

Something wilted and small within you mourns the loss of the buds that had brought you so much comfort since they’d appeared. The new blooms are beautiful, of course, vibrant and radiant and full of so much meaning. Still, the change wounds you.

Only time will tell if it’s the healing sort of hurt.

You find your eyes glued to the fresh flowers. Their names come to mind with ease as you trace gentle fingers over echoes of delicate petals. ‘Bellflowers’ You recite to yourself, drawing your finger up thin stalks and back down dipped heads, ‘for gratitude, affection, and endurance’. Your fingers dance a bit lower. ‘Edelweiss’ you muse, lightly tapping each fuzzy white star, ‘for devotion, nobility, and courage’.

The knowledge comes easily to you, not from any cosmic force, but because of course it does. Your sister hadn’t been wrong when she’d said that asking a person’s favorite flower had been basically an obsession of yours.

The habit had started well before you’d gotten your mark. Before you’d even properly known what soulmates were, really.

It started with lazy summer days you’d been almost too young to remember. A slim hand engulfing your tiny wrist, being made to sit next to your mother while she did something in the dirt, her shadow your only shelter from the blistering sun.

Gardening with your mother had started as a way for her to drag you out of the house to get some sun while keeping an easy eye on you. Before your sister was born you’d spent many hazy afternoons learning to work the soil beside your mother.

After the advent of your favorite gremlin, you’d spent those afternoons tending to the family garden alone.

You remember being grateful to the newborn back then. Those solitary afternoons were some of the most peaceful in your memory.

At some point the ‘family garden’ had become more ‘your garden’. Your mother wouldn’t even bother to plan it out with you by the time your sister had reached her toddler years. She’d drive you to the store, hand you a bit of cash, and leave it all in your tiny capable hands.

You’d spent hours researching the best ways to nurture your plants.

What flowers liked being planted together, which ones should be separated. You learned about soil types and the nutrients found in them. You learned about ph values, how to measure them, and why they mattered. Anything to have your garden thriving more brightly, more beautifully, for longer.

If you weren’t in the garden, you were in the library by your house, nose buried in a gardening book.

You vividly remember the day it all went wrong.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic, as you recall. At least, not in terms of your parent’s usual fights. It was heartbreak—despair— that had marked the day, instead of fear.

You’d been digging up weeds, clawing up deep roots with your gloved hands and a trowel, when your father had come storming outside.

You don’t remember what he’d said. It’d been nonsense, just vitriol for vitriols' sake. Something about you always taking your mother’s side because of your shared hobby, you think.

Never mind that the woman hadn’t put so much as a toenail to the dirt since your sister had been born.

He hadn’t let up for quite a while, if memory serves. Stood there yelling at you in your safe space for close to an hour. Maybe two, but your child-brain couldn’t be trusted with the time.

It may have just been minutes, now that you think about it.

Nonetheless, he’d yelled, and yelled, and yelled. He hadn’t trampled on or broken anything. He hadn’t even made sense.

And yet, when he’d finally left, everything was different.

The blooms you’d worked so hard to nurture were no longer beautiful, the soil you’d once called home no longer safe.

You hadn’t tended another garden after that season. You’d seen your plants to winter, and you’d let go. You’d turned away from the sun and soil and leaned into your books and silly questions to fill the hole left behind.

You’re sure you’d left claw marks in the dirt.

Something like a gentle humming emanates from your soulmark, and its warmth draws you back to the present. You look down at it, noticing how tightly you're clutching at the garden around your waist, your arms wrapped around you in a weak semblance of a hug. Each of your fingers had managed to directly touch a flower.

The awkward sprawl of your fingers feels natural, as if you’d never sought to comfort yourself any other way. As if seeking out your bond, your link to total strangers, for comfort was all you’d ever done.

It was natural, you muse. It was human nature to seek resonance in their bonded. It was the universe’s way of assuring you that you’re loved. Your soulmate’s way of assuring you that they’re still there.

You gingerly pry your hands away and blankly study the crescent moons you’ve left behind, soft skin indented where petals should have ripped.

You wonder if you’ll leave claw marks in this garden too. If they’ll leave claw marks in you.

You tear your eyes away from the mirror, ignoring the warm, gentle tingling up your side where your fingers had dug in. You know it means the people on the other end are pressing against their own marks. You know it shows their care, how that gentle sensation masks the stinging ache your fingers should have left behind.

For some reason, you miss the pain.

You quickly toss on a camisole, forgoing your usual privacy wraps, and your t-shirt over that.

There was nothing for emptying your mind quite like running yourself into the ground at the gym. With full awareness that you’re going to regret your gym session later, you flee your apartment, your mind pleading normal, normal, normal.

Maybe jogging all the way to the gym wasn’t such a great idea. It’d sounded fantastic at the time, a head start on your cardio and a way to remove yourself from your negative headspace before you tried to toss around weights you barely knew how to use.

It had sort of worked, but now you hadn’t even entered the building and you were already a sweaty, panting, mess.

You enter the building after guzzling down half of your water bottle, resignation in your heart. Cardio wasn’t even your focus today.

The automatic doors slide open with their usual swish and you’re greeted by the familiar stale smell all gyms seem to share, no matter how clean. It’s comforting, even if you do kind of wanna go home already.

There’s someone already at the receptionist’s desk when you approach, talking in slow and measured English. You try not to be annoyed with the tiny delay, but while you’d successfully outrun your demons (for now), your bad mood had stuck around.

Alas, you’ve ventured into the public and found the public there. A travesty. Knowing that you just have to deal with it, you cross your arms and bite back the irritation this complete stranger hadn’t done anything to earn.

Luckily enough, the low and measured cadence of the stranger’s voice is soothing enough to zone out to. Unfortunately, he’s also the only thing around to rest your eyes on, so you find yourself studying his form.

His back is broad and built, huge biceps on display in a tight fitting black t-shirt. You kinda wanna squish them. A vivid tattoo sleeve runs all the way down to his wrist, and you find your stare glued to it.

Large, boldly colored flowers take up the majority of the space, vague outlines of crashing waves and rolling mists filling in the rest with a luxurious combination of oriental art styles.

Beautiful as it is, you can’t help but think it doesn’t look finished.

Dragging your eyes away from such gorgeous ink is quite the task, but you don’t want your admiration to be mistaken for judgement. It gets easier when you start to notice just how fine the man himself is.

You really can’t help the way your eyes trace up and down his body, now that you’re no longer anchored to his tattoo. It should be impossible, you think, to somehow bulk up in only the right places, but by Jove this man has done it. You’re jealous, honestly.

Your eyes come to a rest on the stranger’s backside. Quite jealous, indeed.

You try to shake yourself from your admiration, reminding yourself that there were very many well-muscled men in this place and that you’d always endeavored to keep a polite line-of-sight, even when they didn't. It hadn’t even been a hard ask, until now.

You drag your gaze back up to the back of his head.

You’d be polite if it killed you. Even if neither the stranger or the scrawny receptionist had noticed your wandering gaze. Especially then.

While you were.... distracted... the man’s conversation with the receptionist seemed to have gone a whole lot of nowhere. From what you can gather, he’s looking for a short-term membership, and the receptionist is trying to tell him they don’t do that.

You know that’s true, the receptionist isn’t trying to scam the guy. Even the trial period for this place was an entire month. You’d specifically chosen this gym for that reason. If you hadn’t been able to stick it out for a month, you know you’d have never used the place enough to justify a membership.

You send your sympathies to this stranger, it seems he really just needs a little less than a week. You know there are some no-commitment type places not too far though, so you wonder why he’s stuck on this place.

Their back and forth goes a while longer, but it’s evident that the beautifully-built stranger can’t really argue his case properly. Whether because of the obvious language barrier he’s working with, or because he’s run out of arguments, you can’t be sure.

Eventually he steps to the side to make a call, and you’re able to approach the counter.

The receptionist (His name is Jake, you remind yourself by reading his name-tag. The owner’s nephew, if you recall) looks relieved to see you after whatever hassling the stranger had given him.

He lazily waves the clipboard and its sign-in sheet at you in greeting. You take the clipboard, trading him your membership card and driver’s license for it, and turn to prop your knee up on the counter to balance it while you write.

Incidentally, your choice of position keeps the stranger in your line of sight.

It also happens to give Jake a view of his own, but you magnanimously ignore his gaze wandering to your chest. If only because you’re still looking not-so-respectfully at the tattooed stranger a few feet away.

You weren’t close to the receptionist by any means, but Jake is easy to chat to, when you take the extra minute to do so. The type of acquaintance you’d never remember the name of if it weren’t pinned to his lapel, but you've seen pictures of every dog he’s ever had.

It makes it easy to pry him for gossip.

“So what was that all about?” You query as you hand back the clipboard. He shrugs at you, typing a second longer.

“Some big-shot who needs a security detail,” He answers, unimpressed, “Says this is the only gym in, like, five miles of his hotel that he doesn’t need an entourage to go to.”

You hum your understanding, now trying to place if the handsome stranger was someone you knew of.

Situations like that weren’t uncommon for this gym. Celebrities that actually lived in LA weren’t spotted here very often but, since it was settled very close to quite a few high-security luxury hotels, the building saw its fair share of famous faces.

Due to its occasionally high-profile clientele, security was kept quite tightly, and a certain code of conduct was expected amongst the gym’s members. It was another justification for the long trial period, wherein one could only access the front room with the basic weights and machines. All the fancy stuff (including a pool, rock wall, dance studio, and all sorts) was in the back.

Non-members weren’t allowed past reception at all.

It was also another reason you yourself were a patron here. The high security and strict standards made for a quiet and comfortable atmosphere.

At least, as long as you ignored the judgmental looks. Most people who utilized this space were much more fit and put together than you. You tried not to let it bother you.

“What’s the issue, then?” You question Jake, “Doesn’t the owner make exceptions for celebrities?” You phrase it as a question, but you know he does. The unfamiliar faces that pop up for a few days every now and then wouldn’t show up otherwise.

Jake just sighs like he’s had this conversation a thousand times. Considering the celebrity(?) waving his hands around as he spoke rapidly into his phone not far away, maybe he had.

“He does, but he’s out of town and no one else can adjust the contracts.” He eventually explains. He finally hands you your stuff back, and you hum consideringly as you put the cards back in your wallet.

Another glance at the furrowed brows on the stranger’s masked face has pity welling up your throat.

You turn your gaze to focus on Jake.

“Do I still have that visitor pass?” You ask him, knowing that he still has your details up. Jake glances at you with a raised eyebrow, but obligingly checks the computer.

“Yup,” He confirms, “You’ve been paying for it since you dragged your poor roommate in here that one time. Why?”

“Can he use it?” you nod your head to the frustrated stranger. From where you’re sat, still perched on the edge of the desk, it looks oddly like he’s begging whoever’s on the other line.

Your visitor pass wasn’t all-access, of course. It’d just get the poor guy into the main front room plus the locker rooms and showers, but you figured it’d be better than nothing. It wasn’t like Taylor would step foot in here after you’d run him ragged last time, not even for the moral support.

Jake levels you with his most deadpan stare. It’s quite a good one, completely unimpressed. You think it must be something about customer service that allows him to make that face. Or maybe it’s just you.

“You realize that your visitor pass is you vouching for your visitor’s character, right?” He reminds you, “If he does anything, breaks anything, pisses off the wrong lifeguard- it’ll be on your head.”

You just shrug. It’s not like you couldn’t find a new gym if you had to. You’d miss this one, with its quiet atmosphere and abundant amenities, but you didn’t require its security and discretion like some of the other members did.

“I’ve got a good feeling about it.” Is all you tell Jake. It’s not even a lie.

The poor boy just rolls his eyes at you. He still turns to rifle through the desk for the right form for you to fill out though, so you’ll take it.

“You a fan of his or something?” Jake asks, handing you a different clipboard. “There are easier ways to bag a celebrity.”

“Nope!” You answer cheerfully, fully ignoring the suggestion of your motives as you start to fill out the form, “No idea who he is.”

Jakes huffs an incredulous laugh, and turns a considering gaze on your new friend. And the stranger does have to be a friend now, because ‘some guy’ is not an option on your paperwork.

“I bet he’s a wrestler,” he finally says after a long moment, “Or a sportswear model.”

You gently bop him on the head with your clipboard, “I refuse to participate in your speculation.” You admonish, ignoring his whining.

“I’ll show you his picture when you leave,” He smirks back, “and whatever google says about him.” He shrugs when you send him a cutting glare, “What? It’s public information.”

“Respect your customer’s privacy, you weirdo.” You scold. He just laughs as you hand him the form, all filled out and just waiting for the stranger’s signature. You know full well that Jake will go through with his research, regardless of what you say, so you give up easily.

It’s not like he’ll be fired for doing it, as long as you don’t go blabbing about the poor celebrity outside of the gym. Privileges of nepotism.

You exchange farewells as you hop off the counter, and he begins to wave over Mr. Celebrity. You meet the eyes of your on-paper friend and offer him a quick nod before you scuttle off deeper into the building.

Hopefully he’d be too grateful for your offer to find you terribly strange.

You manage to make it all the way through your warm-ups before your good deed gets punished. You suppose you’ll be grateful to the universe for letting you find your zen on your yoga mat before it dropped the other shoe.

You notice the legs in the mirror before you realize someone is trying to speak to you. You accidentally ignore the newcomer for several long moments, assuming they were approaching to use a different part of the mirror. When you finally realize they’re waiting for you to acknowledge them, it’s been just shy of too long.

You ease out of your last stretch and stand up, automatically taking an earbud out as you turn to face them.

“Sorry, did you need me to move?” You question as you finally look up. You‘d had your most emo playlist blasting in your ears during your warm up, an attempt to process your feelings through movement or whatever that one instructor from forever ago had tried to teach you.

So of course it’s with perfect clarity that A. Jay Popoff sings “I am my own worst enemy” into the empty space between you and Seo motherfuckin’ Changbin.

Your mental plea for a normal, routine sort of day dies a horrible death when you make eye contact with the pop-star.

And you realize you really must be your worst enemy as you do, because you easily recognize the outfit he’s wearing and the vivid tattoos on his arm.

Of course your good deed for the day led you to one of your soulmates. Of. Fucking. Course.

You’re not sure what you’d done to Karma recently for her to be throwing all of this shit at you right now, but you’d appreciate it if she’d just let you apologize instead of whatever cruel punishment this is.

Changbin must realize you recognize him, because he shyly raises a hand to fiddle with his earrings as he replies.

“Ah, no, I uh...” The hand slides to the back of his neck and he clears his throat uncomfortably. You quickly school your expression back into a semblance of normality when he glances away. You feel like you might still be a bit wild around the eyes, though.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” He concludes. He looks like he wants to say more, but you figure he might not have the English words to do so easily. It’s okay, you don’t really have the Korean to describe how you’re feeling right now either.

Your first instinct is to offer to speak Korean for him, but the air between the two of you is already wildly uncomfortable. Vastly different causes for both of you, you’re sure, but it’s enough to make you second guess your every move.

“Oh, uh, no problem.” You assure.

You stare resolutely at his nose when you speak. If you look into his eyes again you’re sure you’ll spill your entire life story. And if not that extreme, you’ll at least spill the whole soulmate thing. Something about being directly confronted with your problems makes you chatty.

But also if you look away from his face, knowing that body is supposed to be compatible with yours... It leads to some very impolite thoughts. Cute as it is, his nose is the safest thing for you to look at right now.

You offer the idol a thin-lipped smile when you realize the interaction hasn’t ended. Dear god, why has it not ended?

“Anything else I can do for ya?” you offer, inwardly cursing your manners. You’ve lived here long enough that you know people outside your tiny country-side town take that as an invitation instead of a dismissal.

Sure enough, Changbin starts to speak again, his words slow and careful. You watch him wipe his palms on his shorts, idly wondering if he’s shitting himself internally as much as you are right now. And what he’s freaking out about if he is.

“You... Recognize me? Are you STAY?” He gestures a bit while he talks, like he’s trying to cast a spell on you to understand what he’s trying to say. You think it might work, because your mouth is running off without you before you quite process the words.

“Ahh.. hah, uh,” You chuckle awkwardly, your fingers rising to pinch your lips nervously, “My roommate is. We were at your concert the other day, actually,” And even as you say the words your eyes flick down to his arm. You refocus, hopefully before he could notice the quick glance, but you can’t stop your thoughts from spiraling.

After all, he didn’t have that kind of ink at the concert. You and Taylor were front row, right up on the barricade, you’d seen all eight Stray Kids up close and personal. You’d have remembered such a vivid tattoo. And there were only so many reasons to cover a sleeve like that so completely.

Something complicated settles in your stomach as you realize that Changbin is probably a ‘loud and proud’ kind of soulmate, if he’s showing off his mark like this outside of his work. Work you know prevents him from showing off his mark.

Your mouth keeps running without you while you have your little crisis.

“I didn’t recognize you at reception, I woulda had you sign something for him.” You can’t help the rush of embarrassment that sweeps through you, even as you laugh uncomfortably at your own joke.

Why on earth would you say something like that? This situation is already uncomfortable enough! On so many levels!

Somehow, this seems to have been the right thing to say, though, as Changbin’s eyes light up at your joke, the tension easing a bit.

“I can sign,” He suggests, “It would make me feel...” He starts gesturing again, looking for the word he wants, “Less bad?” He finishes like a question.

And suddenly you understand his awkwardness a lot better. It always sucks to feel indebted to someone.

You laugh a little more freely with your new understanding, “Oh, you really don’t have to,” You assure, “I was just joking.”

He shakes his head, “Think of it as.. trade.” He nods, satisfied with himself.

You bob your head to the side, pressing your lips together with a tiny, frustrated, whine, “I really didn’t want anything from you,” you insist, “I hold onto that pass for my roommate, but he never comes with me anyways. You’re doing me a favor using it, seriously.”

You try to speak slowly and clearly, taking a page from Changbin’s book and letting your hands roam while you speak. You hope your spell of understanding works as well as his did.

He takes a moment to respond, mouthing along to some of your words. It’s kind of fascinating to watch someone translate in real time, especially when the process is written all over their face. It’s a little surreal to be on the other side of it.

Eventually his face clears, and he makes a little ‘ah!’ noise that you really shouldn’t find as endearing as you do. You’re in the middle of rejecting your soulmates, you should not be finding one of them cute right now.

“If it is roommate’s pass, more reason to sign, yes?” He reasons, looking proud of his logic. You huff a tiny laugh at him, absolutely charmed.

“Sure, big guy,” You sigh with defeat, though you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face, “Sounds like a fair trade. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”

The two of you stall for a moment, the atmosphere leagues lighter than before.

When the moment seems over, you make a show of looking down at your pocket-less outfit, and then at the ground around you.

“I don’t have a pen on me,” you trail off meaningfully. He looks surprised for a second, like the possibility had never occurred to him.

“Oh,” He looks around as well, lost for a moment, “I can see if front desk has one?” he asks, like he’s looking for instruction. Another thought seems to occur to him then.

“Do you have...” He starts to gesture again, but you cut him off with a nod, fairly certain you’re sure what he’s trying to ask.

“Yeah, I’m sure I can find something for you to sign,” You point in the direction of the locker room, “I’ll probably have to look in my bag though.” You glance between him, the door to the locker room, and the door that leads out to reception.

“Meet back here in 5?” you propose. He seems content with this plan and nods in agreement. “Oh!” You stop him before he can fully turn around.

“Ask for a sharpie,” you instruct, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to find regular paper.” In fact, you’re pretty sure you’ll be sacrificing the spare ball cap you keep in your bag for this. You hope Taylor likes tie-dye.

With that, the two of you go your separate ways. It takes you no time at all to locate the bright monstrosity of a hat, a souvenir you abhorred from one of your father’s many ‘business’ trips. It would be no loss to you, but you take time to see if you have any actual paper around. You need the processing time.

Stars above, what were you thinking? There was no way you were getting out of this without another soulmate bond, but here you were, casually chatting with the guy instead of getting the fuck out of dodge!

You really couldn’t help it though.

Even when he’d been no more than a stranger to you, you hadn’t been able to help the way you gravitated toward Changbin. Now that you knew he was your soulmate, your actions made a lot more sense to you.

You’d always been on the people pleasing side of helpful, but vouching for a complete stranger was new for you. Even now, you were obediently grabbing an item for him to deface with a signature you don’t even want (no matter how thoroughly Taylor would murder you if you’d passed it up) just because you could tell how uneasy Changbin was with just accepting the visitor pass.

It didn’t help that the man was endearing as hell. Every little thing he did seemed cute to you, and you’d barely known him for ten minutes!

You felt like this was a new low for you. Doing things you didn’t really want to, for a man. Taylor would be so disappointed in you.

Having stalled for maybe far too long, you settle on sacrificing the atrocious hat to Changbin’s pen and put your stuff away. Something heavy and squirmy settles in your chest as you make your way back out to retrieve your prize from the man of the hour.

Surprisingly, there’s no accidental meeting of hands when Changbin autographs your hat. He did give you a bit of a bemused look for the choice of item, but you’d just shrugged at him. It was all you were willing to sacrifice, and Taylor should be grateful for even this much, in your opinion.

Unsurprisingly, the lack of first contact does not ease your mind at all. In fact, it rockets up your anxiety another thousand notches. You can’t help checking over your shoulder at every opportunity, despite the fact that Changbin hadn’t left the weights area since he’d settled there and couldn't follow you through the door to the rest of the facility regardless.

Look, you know how the whole first contact thing worked, okay? Fate would put two soulmates in the same place for whatever stupid reason, and find an even stupider reason for them to make skin-to-skin contact. You’d experienced it twice now, and you couldn’t help but think going out of your way to avoid everything Changbin was wouldn’t help you very much.

Even still, you can’t stay paranoid and vigilant forever. When nothing happens while you finish your cardio, or when you work your way through both the pool and the sauna, you admittedly let down your guard a bit.

Maybe that’s why, after you’ve made your way back to the front room to try and finish your workout, when you’re mid-stretch and staring daggers at a weight machine you’re sure you’ll figure out how to use if you glare long enough, you jump about five miles out of your skin when you hear Changbin’s voice behind you.

Jumping from such a precarious position is never a good idea, and your sudden movement has set your head on a one-way collision course with the gym’s hardwood floors about it.

Hands fly around your middle, catching you awkwardly around your ribs. Unfortunately, all this noble attempt to catch you does is slow your descent, giving you just enough time to flinch violently enough to bring your arms up and prevent your head from meeting the ground and brace for impact.

The rest of you still hits the ground pretty hard, and Changbin’s knees and elbows meet a similar fate, his own head saved by headbutting your stomach, knocking the air out of you even harder than it already had been.

The two of you sit there a moment, groaning with the pain of your fall. At least you don’t have a concussion. You’ll take every small mercy with the way the universe has treated you lately.

Some part of you is cognizant enough to give the heavens a heartfelt thank you when you notice that none of your aches and pains are from your soulbond activating. Somehow, through that entire debacle, and even considering the amount of exposed skin between your t-shirt and his, you hadn’t managed to touch. You’re still safe.

As the shock starts to wear off, you start to become aware of the warmth of large hands still resting heavily against your sides, both soothing and wildly distracting. It’s like every fiber of your being is focused on where he’s touching you, warm and weighty. Changbin’s head still buried in your abdomen doesn’t help with the building fluster taking over your brain.

You swear one of his thumbs has landed squarely on one of the flower buds directly opposite Lee Know’s Bellflowers, and the tingly feeling of the bond weakly trying and failing to establish through the thin barrier of your shirt is not helping your mushy brain at all.

You tip your head back to stare at the ceiling, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth to prevent yourself from doing something stupid, like confessing all of your sins to Changbin right then and there.

Maybe you did have a concussion after all.

It’s probably been less than a minute since the two of you hit the floor, but it feels like ten hours have passed when Changbin finally lifts his head, wide eyes finding yours frantically.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” He asks, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, are you okay?” He uses his hold on you to gently lift you to a seated position, removing them in favor of hovering politely as he fusses. You don’t think he’s realized he’s reverted to his native Korean in his panic.

“I’m alright, I’m okay,” you assure him in the same language, “Just bruised a bit, I’m fine.”

He continues to fuss a bit more, running you through a quick series of concussion tests even after you tell him that you hadn’t hit your head at all. It’s only after he’s helping you to your feet, respectfully allowing you to use a clothed part of his arm to help yourself up, that he clocks the language the both of you are using.

“Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?” He teases, “You speak Korean all of the sudden.”

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you, nor can you help how his smug little smile makes your heart flutter. “I’ve spoken Korean the whole time.” You inform him.

“And you didn’t tell me? You just let me struggle?” The fondness in his smile assures you that he’s just joking, so you respond in kind.

“You were just trying so hard...” You shrug sheepishly and delight in the full body laugh that tears out of him. You wait for him to calm before you ask, “What did you need, by the way? I didn’t catch what you said before, well..” You gesture helplessly at the floor.

It’s his turn to look sheepish now, shoulders hiking up and a nervous hand making its way to his neck, “Ah, that.” he shrugs, “I was just saying that you had a pretty soulmark.”

The sudden compliment catches you off guard, and you suddenly become aware that your camisole has come loose from where it had been tucked into your sweats. Your hand flies up to cover the now-covered skin of your stomach, feeling sick.

You can’t remember when it happened, and the thought of however many strangers seeing your soulmark, no matter how little of it, sends a sharp note of dread through your body. You suddenly feel eyes digging into your skin, despite being covered again as soon as you’d stood up. You feel a bit sick, your skin crawling with discomfort.

You’re aware that your camisole would have ridden up to your lower back, at most, but there’s no telling how much of your mark anyone might have seen. What Changbin might have seen, what he may have noticed.

Changbin must notice your sudden pallid complexion, and continues on, trying to reassure you, probably. You barely hear him over the heartbeat in your ears, your trembling hands trying to discreetly tuck the undershirt back in while he speaks.

“I just meant that it’s very colorful and vibrant,” He explains, smile fading from his face as concern starts to cloud it at your reaction, “Whoever your soulmate is, they’re very lucky.”

“Ah, I don’t know them yet,” You counter. It’s even the truth. You hadn’t spoken much to any of your soulmates so far. Well, until now, you guess.

“Oh, well, I stand by what I said.” He asserts, his easy grin betrayed by the pinch between his brows, “Whoever your soulmate is will be very lucky to have you.”

“I don’t know about all that,” You tilt your head with self-deprecating consideration.

Maybe it’s a lingering guilt for how you’ve been handling your soulmates so far that makes you continue the thought, instead of laughing it off like the joke it should be. Maybe you just want him- want them- to know why you’ve been acting this way, “I don’t even know if I want to meet them, so I’m not sure how lucky they could be to have me as a soulmate.”

Changbin levels you with an absolutely baffled look, as if you’ve just challenged the very foundation of his worldview.

“Why not?” He asks, “Doesn’t everyone want to meet their soulmate?”

You wrap yourself in a loose hug, one hand rubbing soothingly at your elbow, and shrug, “I just... I haven’t had great experiences with soulmates, is all.” You can’t keep your eyes from straying to his soulmark, vibrant and full.

It’s an image that would be hard to elbow your way into, and you can’t imagine a way that the addition of you could possibly enhance it. It still feels unfinished to you, but it doesn’t look that way. You feel both better and worse about yourself, knowing that they didn’t need you.

A glance at Changbin’s utterly lost face has you opening your mouth before you can think about it, shoulders beginning to climb up to your ears.

“Not all soulmates get along, you know?” You mutter sullenly, almost to yourself.

Changbin seems to consider this for a moment, head tilting cutely to the side as he takes in your claim.

“I mean, sure.” He draws his words out slowly, carefully, with a little furrow between his brows. “Everyone fights sometimes, but you get through it together, right? That’s what makes you soulmates. Choosing to stick together.”

You couldn’t hold in the scoff and eye-roll combo that rips out of you if you’d tried. “Yeah, maybe.”

You’d feel bad about the venom in your voice, or the way it causes Changbin to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at the moment. Something sick and dark twists around your stomach, and the battle to keep a deep scowl from your face is the only one you’re willing to fight right now.

“I have a feeling that was the wrong thing to say,” Changbin smiles wanly at you, and you meet his eyes for barely a second before you find yourself melting beneath his earnest gaze. The thorns around your heart ease just enough to bleed, and you shrug at him again.

“When people stay together just because they’re soulmates it only makes things worse.” you tell him, “Nothing gets magically fixed just because you’re soulmates.”

Surprisingly, Changbin agrees easily, “Well, yeah, that’s not the kind of sticking together I’m talking about,” He explains, “I meant more, like,” He gestures as he tries to find his words, and your heart positively aches as you realize the habit transcends languages.

You find yourself softening more and relaxing out of your defensive curl out of sheer endearment. You’re sure you’d be making absolute heart-eyes at Changbin right now if the topic at hand wasn’t so deeply uncomfortable for you.

“Ok, let me try an example,” He eventually decides, his eyes following your gaze where it had once again returned to his soulmark without your permission. He flexes a bit, making the flowers on his skin bounce and dance with a small, fond, smile. “I’m soulmates with the other members, right?”

He says it easily, casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You almost nod along, before you remember that the world at large definitely does not have that information, even if you do, and you meet his smug little smirk with wide-eyed shock.

You can’t help but gape at him for the casual confession, glancing around the empty gym like someone else might’ve heard Changbin’s brazen confession. He’s already waving you off before you can sputter out the questions stuck in your throat.

“It’s not a big deal, don’t worry about it. It’s not like we try very hard to hide it.” He does a weird little half-nod-half-shrug motion at his soulmark, “But yeah, we’re all soulmates, and we all pretty much knew before debut, even though Innie’s mark hadn’t shown up yet.”

You do nod this time. Slowly, though, as you try to figure out where he’s going with this. Changbin takes it as permission to continue, and so he does.

“Well, Jeongin’s our baby, and even though marks show up at 18, you’re not an adult in Korea until 19, so there’s a lot we had to leave him out on.” He grimaces a little, “Being an Idol is stressful as it is, throwing a new soul bond and puberty and all that on top wasn’t very helpful. We were all volatile and fragile. But Innie definitely took it the worst. He felt left behind and unfair and angry with it all.”

He chuckles and gives a little shrug, “We had our share of knock-down, drag-outs.” He admits sheepishly, “It wasn’t an easy time for us.” He rolls his head toward the ceiling and, despite Changbin’s efforts, you can easily spot the smitten look on his face along with his cherry-red ears.

“But we made it through,” He says softly, “We took the time to dig into all of his insecurities and find what we could do to help him. He made the choice to be vulnerable and honest with us. It took time to get here, but we made it through.”

Changbin meets your eyes again, “That’s what I mean when I say soulmates are about choosing to stick together. You work through the hard times and disagreements together, work toward something better. Soulmates are destiny, but love is choice.”

You let his words rattle around your brain as you get lost in his earnest gaze. Let the idea settle into you like something entirely new, like it wasn’t your understanding of healthy relationships beforehand. Of course that’s the ideal, you know that. No one is perfect and all that, everyone disagrees sometimes. It’s discussing it and finding solutions together that makes a partnership work long-term. You know that.

For the first time, you wonder if you’d just always considered soulmates an exception to the rule.

You’d automatically assigned soulmates as a concept a failing grade at working their problems through. Your parents certainly never worked out their issues, and every soulmate you’d ever seen in the media was an automatic happy-ending. As soon as that bond snaps into place, the story’s over. Happily ever after.

You’d always thought ‘ever after’ must be an awful short time.

‘Love is choice’ echoes through you like something divine.

You break Changbin’s gaze and offer him a half-hearted shrug. “I guess.” you concede, “My soulmates probably have a lot of work cut out for them with me, though. So I still don’t know if they’d want me.”

“I think it’d be worth the work,” Changbin smiles gently at you, “To be your soulmate, I mean.”

You feel heat rush up your neck and bless your genetics for keeping it from showing on your cheeks. You disguise your bashfulness by lightly slapping Changbin’s shoulder (and woah is he solid under your hand when you do) and loudly complain about him being a flirt.

He responds by doing his best to fluster you, clearly enjoying putting those fanservice skills to use. You complain with every flex and smoulder, especially when he starts unleashing the aegyo, and the two of you let the banter and laughter chase away the somber mood.

Eventually you settle, and Changbin nods at the very intimidating machine you’d been staring at what felt like a lifetime ago now.

“Did you need a spotter?” He offers. You hem and haw for a moment, before sheepishly admitting that you need a teacher more than a spotter. When he lights up and offers to be that, too, you can’t help the way your eyes travel up and down his body with open admiration.

He certainly looks plenty qualified, and really, you’re only a girl. If your once-over leaves him with red ears and a smug grin, well. You’ll consider it your revenge for now.

You very quickly realize your mistake in letting him coach you.

Changbin tours you quickly around various machines, explaining their functions and the proper ways to use them to avoid injury. All well and good, and you ask permission to record short videos of him doing so in case you find yourself forgetting his advice, which he graciously allows on the condition you don’t share them anywhere.

You agree after negotiating for viewing rights for Taylor, with the reasoning that the lure of the videos might actually get your roommate back into the gym with you. It makes Changbin laugh enough to indulge you.

And then he actually starts you on a machine, after getting a rundown on what you’d already done today, and you experience hell on earth.

The thing is, he’s unfairly good at coaching you through it. He keeps up a steady stream of warm encouragement and light jokes even as you curse him out for steadily increasing the weights on each machine you work through. He’s right there to help you through the sets the moment you start to get too tired and is almost preternaturally good at pushing you to only just above your limits.

And his hands are always right there. He’s almost always touching you somehow, throughout the whole thing. His touch is light, coaching and clinical, and unfailingly polite. Still, the warmth of his skin through your flimsy gym-wear feels heavy. Nearly threatening. Distracting, at the very least.

You’ll definitely need those videos later.

It’s a relief when it’s over. You’re sore and sweaty and you have to go sit at a desk for six or more hours when you leave, which you’re very much not looking forward to.

Changbin splits with you to hit the showers, but somehow you still come together again before you pass reception.

“Thanks for today,” you say as the two of you stall your goodbyes, “I had a lot of fun. You’ve more than earned that guest pass.” you tease, smile wide and mischievous.

He’s smiling too, even as he shoves your shoulder and complains about you extorting him.

When you run out of things to say, you shuffle lightly in place. It’s not like you expect him to give you his number, he is an Idol after all, but still you can’t quite make yourself leave. You find yourself casting around for something, anything, to say to make the moment last. To stay in his presence just a second longer.

You shake yourself out of it once you notice. You might not be running from them anymore, but you certainly weren’t trying to make friends with your soulmates. The longer you stayed in his presence, the more likely it was that you’d end up with another first contact.

At last, after a far-too-long moment of silence, you hold out your hand and offer a flat, closed-lip smile.

“It was really nice to meet you, Changbin.” You tell him sincerely, eyes locked on his. You swear looking your soulmates in the eye is some kind of hypnosis, the way you always get lost in them when you do. Something about it just makes you feel a tiny bit dumb, like your brain gets switched off.

“You too, y/n.” He agrees, reaching for your offered hand. You only realize what you’ve just done as your name leaves his lips, your eyes widening as they dart down to his hand and yours, but it’s far too late.

Your breath hitches a moment before his skin makes contact with yours, and you watch it happen in slow motion. He grasps your hand and pulls you in instead of settling for the more distant and formal farewell. All too quickly you’re settled into his grasp, completely enveloped in him and dizzy with more than just his warmth as soft prickles dance up your side.

You feel more than you hear him gasp, his hold on you so complete. Your head ends up on his shoulder as you stumble into him from his pull, and you get a front row seat to the top of his shoulder filling in with outlines and shadows from your place tucked against his neck, dull colors adding a definition to the images in his soulmark and settling like they’d always been there.

Distantly, you feel chest tighten with completion, with satisfaction and something smug and proud at the sight, even as your mind starts screaming.

Changbin is solid against you, comforting and almost stiflingly warm from both his workout and shower. You catch a whiff of his soap, the scent muting the alarm bells blaring in your brain even as you lay limp against him with the shock.

And then his hold on you tightens just a bit, only for a moment, but it’s all that it takes for you to break.

Your breath begins to hitch, visions of sweet touches turning sour and threatening violence causing you to flinch violently in Changbin’s comforting embrace. You feel your eyes begin to wet as you start to struggle, needing out, out, out.

It must have been less than a second, but Changbin pulls back, still holding you by your shoulders like he doesn’t know how to let go.

“Y/n?” He asks, voice small. You can only shake your head, breaths coming out in harsh gasps, limbs trembling violently. Changbin hurriedly lowers the two of you to the floor, much more prepared than you are for your limbs to give out halfway down.

He finally releases you as you settle and you curl tightly into yourself. The places where he’d held you feel frozen now, the cold viciously settling into your bones, even as Changbin does his best to get your attention and guide you through a breathing exercise.

You can’t focus on him though, the sensation of flowers blooming on your skin overwhelming, the memory of his touch both welcome and suffocating.

“S- ‘orry, I’m-” You hiccup, “I’m so- so s’rry-” If Changbin is at all put off by your sudden breakdown, he doesn’t show it. He just tilts his head and offers you hushed words of assurance.

“Nothing to be sorry for, y/n,” he assures, “It’s alright, just breathe, ok?”

He offers you a hand and you can’t help but take it, the warmth startling a breath into you that you hadn’t been aware you needed. Changbin guides your hand to his chest, instructing you to breathe with him, and you automatically focus on the heavy thump of his heartbeat under your palm.

He keeps talking to you, trying to keep your attention, but your mind spins wildly away from you even as you finally manage a deep inhale under Changbin’s attention.

You need to tell him that you’d known since he’d first spoken to you who he was. Who he was to you, even, but you can’t open your mouth to do more than gasp another apology. You’re sure he’ll hate you, leave you there on the floor of the gym to die like you deserve, especially after all you’d told him about how you feel about soulmates.

He’ll hate you for putting his soulmates through rejection, for refusing to speak to them or even look them in the eye. He’ll leave you here, humiliated on the gym’s floor, and you’ll deserve it because you’re a horrible person who wouldn’t even give them a breadth of a chance because you were too damn scared-

A hand grasps your spare one, the one not touching him, not keeping you just barely above the waves of hyperventilating, and you hadn’t even noticed it scrabbling at the stretched out neckline of your t-shirt until it’s gently pried away and guided to a wall of firm muscle.

Your fingers instinctively grasp what’s suddenly underneath them, and your vision stutters back in as a soft tingling rockets its way up your arm.

You distantly acknowledge that it was probably a bad thing that your vision had faded off with your eyes stuck wide open, staring blankly at legs you couldn’t feel. Right now, however, all you can experience is Changbin. His mark under your fingers, grip clawing and desperate. His heartbeat under your palm, faster than it should be, but steady and loud and feeling like it’s part of your own body.

Like he knows he has your attention again, Changbin ducks down to catch your eyes. You find nothing in them but concern and a soft emotion you couldn’t hope to pinpoint.

“Y/n,” He calls softly, “Y/n, do you mind if I touch you?” The gentleness he speaks to you with is devastating, like he’s trying to place your panicked mind on a cloud of care. You want so desperately to accept that care from him.

You nod, small jerky movements to indicate your agreement even as gasping sobs still stutter in your chest.

Changbin immediately moves, shuffling closer to you on his knees and releasing the wrist of your hand, the one still grasping at his mark like it’d disappear if you relaxed so much as a millimeter. He uncrosses his arms from the awkward reach he’d had to use to maneuver your hands where he wanted them, and reaches his now free hand to rest gently but firmly on your waist, right over his place within your own mark.

The resonance from his touch is weaker, the material of your shirt in his way, but with both sides active the feeling floods you in a way you could never describe.

You know, in the back of your mind, that you’ve read about resonance before. That you know all about the flood of endorphins and other feel-good hormones that it causes, that you’ve read first hand accounts from all sorts of people swearing up and down it feels better than any orgasm ever could. In the moment though, you feel like your brain has been reset completely. Back to factory settings, entirely blank.

You come back to yourself in slow blinks, resonance still echoing brightly between you and Changbin. Your one hand is still tightly clasped to his chest, and you’re sure you’re only breathing right now due to the steady rise and fall of Changbin’s chest. The two of you are still gripping each other’s marks.

You feel unsettled as awareness returns to your body. You feel floaty and not all there, even as you calm enough to feel the numbness of your legs and the pain in your knees from hitting the floor. An increasingly familiar tingling feeling is emanating from each of your active soulmarks, despite the fact that you know the other two should have no idea how you’re feeling right now.

Your bond wasn’t strong enough for that. You hadn’t given it the chance to be.

The thought that they might just be thinking of you gives you a soft and fluttery sort of feeling.

Finally, Changbin pulls back, removing his hand from your mark and sliding up your arm to gently pry yours from his bicep. You’d wince at the marks your nails had left on his skin if you didn’t still feel like your bones were vibrating on the astral plane from the intensity of a reciprocal resonance.

He gently holds both of your hands in his and settles them between you, catching your eye again.

“You back with me, bubs?” He asks, smile light and tone even. You’d think him unaffected if not for the redness of his ears and the slight haze in his eyes.

Right. Eight soulmates. He’s probably used to it.

He’s also trying to get you down from a panic attack, you remember as your hands begin to faintly tremble in his grip. You nod slightly at his question, apologizing again.

“Hey, no.” Changbin scolds softly, eyes locked on yours, “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, it’s okay. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

You shake your head in refusal of both ideas, opening your mouth once, twice, three times, before huffing irritatedly at the lack of words falling from your lips. Changbin squeezes your hands to keep your attention on him, expression open and accepting. His silence allows yours to end.

“I just- It’s just that I-” You breathe harshly through your nose, squeezing his hands back to ground yourself, “I knew from when I realized who you were that you were my soulmate.” you grind out in halting words, the trembling spreading from your hands up to your chest. You take in a shuddering breath, “That’s why I was apologizing. Because I knew and I still said those things to you.”

You can tell your confession takes Changbin off guard. The man blinks rapidly as he takes in the new information, slotting your earlier behavior against your reaction just now and having trouble connecting them.

“Soulmates terrify me,” you confess quietly, before he can ask, “You’re so nice, but you’re so fucking scary to me, I’m sorry.”

With that, you remove your hands from his, and Changbin just sort of helplessly lets you go, a lost expression taking over his face. You try to stumble to your feet, and he scrambles up to help you, caring even through his confusion.

You can feel the trembling travel to your legs, and you’re glad for his steady hold despite yourself. You feel like a stiff breeze might knock you over.

“I need- I- I’ve gotta- argh!” You clench your teeth with frustration, taking a deep, bracing, breath, before trying again. “I need to go home.” You’d like to say it came out strong and self-assured, but the words leave you in a breathless whimper that makes you feel small and pathetic.

Everything about this makes you feel small and pathetic.

Changbin catches your eyes again, brows creased in concern.

Except for him.

“Of course, whatever you need,” He assures, “Can I call a car for you? A friend? Your roommate?”

You shake your head, hopelessly endeared by his need to help you. You feel guilty for refusing him when he’d just pivoted from the bombshell you’d dropped on him to focus on your care but you- you needed to go home. You needed to leave, and it was taking every ounce of effort you could spare to keep from bolting.

“No, I can- I’ve got- I want- shit.” The curse spills from you unbidden, frustration with the vestiges of your panic refusing to leave you building sharply. If anything, Changbin’s concern only grows deeper as you struggle to express yourself.

“I need to move, I’ll walk.” Your mouth finally allows you to spit out, almost aggressively. Changbin almost seems to despair at your declaration.

Looking at your own condition, you can’t blame him. Trembling like a leaf and barely able to speak, you’d never let yourself leave if you’d been in his place. You can’t spare the energy to explain that if anyone tried anything at you in this condition you’d probably try to kill them first and ask questions later.

You don’t handle stress well.

Still, despite his obvious reluctance, Changbin lets you leave his embrace.

You’re more stable on your feet now, and a deep breath fills you with a facade of confidence that will see you home. Changbin’s hands still hover around you, as if waiting for you to shatter apart again.

“If you need anything, please call me, okay? Anything at all, please call me.” He pleads with you. You only manage to give him another tiny nod before you dip into a full bow and turn to flee.

Changbin watches you go with a face full of concern and confusion.

‘I think it’d be worth the work, to be your soulmate’ he’d said. You can’t help but wonder, as the gym disappears behind you, if he still thinks that.

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