#and he was like OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?????

[cheacegirl]

Posts that make me remember my similar teacher issues and get irrationally upset (and write an entire essay in the tags apparently)

when i was a kid i got a 90% on my kindergarten "what are your favorite things?" test because for the question "what is your favorite animal?" i wrote down "puma" and it got marked wrong because my teacher said a puma isnt even an animal its a kind of shoe

[yaniluvs]

don't leave me , my love

[ 방찬 ] ✷ ‎. . after a series of terrible arguments, you break up with your boyfriend. life slows down. but then . . ?

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑖dol𝑏f!chris ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. heavy angst , lots of tears , misunderstandings , hurt , lovers to exes to ??? , second chance love , skz ensemble . 12OOOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LiBRARY ⟢ cw. language , injuries , car-accident . ┆ ✉️ ⋮ a req. oneshot .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ hihihihihii finally another channie fic !!!!! the loml. seungchan stans rise !! i loved loved loved writing this. my angst comeback guys (flashback to my early tumblr era where all i posted was angst....) eh. i love angst. so much. woohoo okay bye <3 oh and ty for the req. anon !!! comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading, love <3

the room smelled like rain.

not in the fresh, new-beginnings kind of way, but in the way that clung to damp clothes and old wounds.

it seeped through the cracks of the windowpane, curling around the tension like a silent spectator. outside, the city pulsed—headlights cutting through the mist, distant sirens wailing, the soft patter of rain against the glass an unwanted metronome to the argument unfolding within these four walls.

“you don’t fucking get it,” your boyfriend's voice cut sharp through the quiet, raw and exhausted, an edge to it that he never used on you before. not like this.

his fingers gripped the bridge of his nose, his other hand planted on his hip like he was trying to physically hold himself together. “you don’t—god, y/n, you don’t understand what it’s like to carry this.”

you stood by the doorway, arms crossed so tightly against yourself it almost felt like a shield. the air was thick with it—frustration, exhaustion, love buried under layers of hurt.

you felt it like a weight pressing against your ribs.

how it had started.

the room was dark save for the faint glow of his laptop screen. the hum of the air conditioner filled the space, masking the silence that had grown between you two over the last few days.

you had sat across from him, knees pulled to your chest on the worn-out couch in the room. the atmosphere was suffocating—a mix of tension and exhaustion—and you weren’t sure when the comfort of this small, cramped room had turned into a battlefield.

he was hunched over his desk, headphones perched around his neck, fingers frozen above his keyboard. you could see the subtle tremble in his hands, the way his shoulders sagged ever so slightly despite his usual perfect posture.

chris—was tired. that much was clear. but what stung was how he wouldn’t let you in.

“you’ve been sitting there for hours,” you had said softly, your voice hesitant, almost afraid of breaking the fragile calm that hung between you.

“i’m working,” he replied curtly, not bothering to meet your gaze.

it wasn’t the first time you had this conversation, but tonight it felt different. there was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. you could feel the ache in your chest building, a familiar burn of frustration mixed with concern.

“you’ve been working for days,” you shot back, louder this time. “you barely eat, you barely sleep, and—”

“i’m fine,” he interrupted, his tone sharp and clipped, his eyes finally meeting yours. there was something in his gaze—tired, distant, and defensive—that made you hesitate for a moment.

“you’re not fine, chan.”

the words hung in the air like a challenge. he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. his laptop screen dimmed, signaling inactivity, and for a second, you thought he might actually listen. but then he turned his chair to face you, and the frustration etched across his face sent a chill down your spine.

“why do you always do this?” he snapped.

your heart sank. “do what?”

“this!” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “this… nagging. you don’t get it, do you? this is my job. this is my life. i can’t just stop because you think i’m overworking myself.”

you blinked, his words cutting deeper than you expected. “i’m not.. nagging, chan. i’m worried about you. there’s a difference.”

“well, it doesn’t feel that way.”

the bitterness in his voice was like a slap to the face. you stared at him, disbelief and hurt warring within you. “do you even hear yourself right now?”

“yeah, i do!” he shot back, his voice rising. “i hear myself every damn day, y/n. and you know what? i’m sick of it. i’m sick of feeling like i have to explain myself to you all the time.”

your hands balled into fists, nails digging into your palms as you tried to steady your breathing. the room felt smaller, the walls closing in as his words echoed in your mind.

“explain yourself?” you repeated, your voice trembling. “i’m not asking for an explanation, chan. i’m asking for you to let me in. to let me help you.”

“help me with what?” he spoke, standing abruptly. the chair screeched against the floor, and the sudden movement startled you. “you can’t help me, y/n. no one can. this is my responsibility. my burden. not yours! and i don't need you worrying to add on to that weight!”

“don’t do that,” you shot back, voice steadier than you felt.

“don’t act like i don’t understand you, like i haven’t been here every single fucking night waiting for you to come home, waiting for you to remember i exist outside of your damn laptop and deadlines.” your breath hitched, but you swallowed it down, forcing your voice to stay level. “i do understand, chris. but you don’t let me in.”

chris let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he turned away, running a hand through his curls in frustration. his fingers were trembling.

you knew he hadn’t eaten properly today. you knew, the small, white snackbox you had packed his favorite rice in, was left untouched. you knew he hadn’t slept much either. but that didn’t change the fact that he was hurting you.

“you want me to let you in? fine.” he turned back to you, eyes dark with exhaustion, jaw tight.

“i have no time. none. i have a fucking comeback to prepare, songs that aren’t finished, choreography that isn’t final, members who rely on me, a company breathing down my neck—” he took a step closer, and even though he wasn’t yelling, his voice was thunder. “i don’t get to sit around and wait for my life to fall into place, y/n. i have to make it happen.”

his words hit like a gut punch. you flinched before you could stop yourself.

something in his expression shifted for half a second—guilt flashing behind the anger—but he didn’t stop. couldn’t stop.

“and what, huh? you want me to pause? to step away? to just—what? go on dates, lay in bed all day with you, pretend that none of this exists?” his voice cracked, his hands clenching into fists. “i can’t, y/n. i can’t afford to be selfish like that.”

you felt something splinter inside of you.

"wow," you whispered, blinking rapidly as you looked at him. "is that what you think this is? me asking you to be... selfish?" your voice was quiet, but it held the weight of everything you’d been holding back. "i have never asked you to choose me over your career, chan. never. but i wanted—no, i needed you to meet me halfway. to at least fucking try. but you didn’t. you never do.”

chan scoffed, rubbing his temple, pacing like he was barely keeping himself together. "you don’t get it, y/n. you never will."

and that—that—was what broke you.

your hands shook. you swallowed the lump in your throat, but your voice still wavered. "you don’t get it, chan. you don’t fucking get what it’s like to love someone who makes you feel like an afterthought. to go to bed alone every single night and wonder if you even cross their mind.” you exhaled shakily.

“i never asked you to give up your dreams for me. i just wanted to be a part of them. but i guess i was asking for too much.”

he let out another bitter laugh, his face twisting. "i make you feel like an afterthought? that’s rich, coming from someone who doesn’t have to live under this pressure." his voice rose, sharp and unrelenting.

"you don’t know what it’s like to have the weight of an entire fucking group and a partner on your shoulders. to feel like if you fuck up, you’re dragging everyone down with you." he was breathing heavily, shoulders shaking. “you think i don’t want to be with you? you think i choose this over you? i fucking hate this. i hate feeling like this. but i don’t have a choice.”

there it was. the breaking point.

your lip trembled, and you hated yourself for it. "you do have a choice, chan. you always did." you shook your head, voice barely above a whisper. "you just never chose me."

silence.

a ringing, deafening silence that made the rain outside sound like gunfire.

the crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed, but it only fueled your own anger. “oh, and weight? is that what you think i’m trying to do? burden you?”

“that’s not what i meant—”

“then what did you mean?” you interrupted, standing as well. your voice was louder now, shaking but firm. the tension between you crackled like a live wire, and neither of you seemed willing to back down.

“i don’t know!” he shouted, his hands flying to his hair in frustration. “i don’t know, okay? i’m fucking tired, y/n. i’m tired of all of this.”

the silence that followed was deafening. you stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest, his words ringing in your ears. he didn’t mean it, you told yourself. he was just frustrated, just exhausted. but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“all of this?” you repeated quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

he froze, his eyes widening slightly as he realized what he had said. “no, i didn’t mean—”

“save it, chan,” you cut him off, your voice cold and flat. “you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

chan stared at you, eyes widening, as if only now realizing how deep the wound he had inflicted was. his lips parted slightly, and for the first time that night, his anger faltered. his hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, to fix the damage, to take it all back. but he didn’t move.

you exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look away. "i can’t do this anymore," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. your own words tasted like ash.

chan took a step closer, his voice softer now, desperate. “y/n—”

“i think we should take a break.”

the words left your mouth before you could stop them, and once they were out in the open, there was no taking them back.

chan inhaled sharply, like you had just physically struck him. his face crumpled for the briefest moment before he forced it into something unreadable. he nodded once, barely.

“fine,” he said. but it was not fine. none of this was fine.

you walked past him, your shoulder brushing his for the last time in weeks. and maybe, in some cruel way, you were both waiting—waiting for one of you to stop this, to say something, anything that could undo the damage.

but neither of you did.

and that was how it ended.

or, maybe, how it all began.

you turned away, grabbing your jacket from the couch and heading for the door. your vision blurred with unshed tears, but you refused to let them fall. not here. not now.

“thank you,” you stopped in the doorway, your back to him. your voice cracked as you spoke, the weight of the moment threatening to crush you. “really, for everything. i wish you nothing but happiness, christopher.”

the door closed behind you with a soft click, and the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over. the night air was cold against your skin as you stepped outside, but it did little to numb the ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you stood there, staring at the empty street, your mind replaying the argument over and over again. his words, your words, the pain and anger that had filled the room—it was all too much.

and yet, despite everything, you couldn’t stop loving him.

present time : the first snow.

the morning stretched itself thin across the sky, a pale, muted kind of light filtering in through the curtains. it was the kind of cold that bit through the windows, creeping into the cracks of the apartment like it had been waiting for permission to enter. the air felt heavier today, as if winter had fully settled into its place, pressing its weight into the walls, into the silence, into the empty spaces beside you.

you sat by the window, knees drawn up against your chest, your breath fogging up the glass. outside, snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, dancing in the quiet before settling onto the pavement below. the city looked softer like this—less like the endless rush of bodies and neon lights and more like something frozen in time. for a moment, just a moment, it almost felt peaceful.

almost.

but then the memories came creeping in. the way the first snow always meant something to the both of you. how he would drag you outside, laughing, even when you whined about the cold.

"come on, it’s tradition, babe, you can’t just sit inside like an old grandma."

how he’d cup his hands together, carefully forming a snowball, only to grin mischievously before pelting it straight at your shoulder. the way you’d chase after him, slipping and stumbling, both of you breathless from laughter, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

and then—later. after the cold had seeped into your bones, after your fingers were numb from the snow, how you’d both tumble inside, shaking off your coats, limbs tangled together as you curled up by the fireplace.

the heat of the flames casting golden light across his face, the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around you. how he’d press lazy kisses to your temple, whispering in that quiet, tired voice of his,

you’re warm. stay like this forever.

you blinked. the snow outside blurred for a second before settling again into focus.

it had been weeks.

weeks since that night. weeks since you last heard his voice, felt the rough callouses of his fingertips against yours. the apartment had never been this quiet before. not really. not in a way that stretched into your bones like this.

you exhaled sharply, rubbing at your eyes before pushing yourself up from the chair.

no. stop it. get up.

the cold floor met your feet as you padded toward the bathroom. the water ran hot, steam curling against the mirror as you stepped into the shower, letting it scorch against your skin, washing away whatever remnants of sleep and memories still clung to you.

you let yourself stay there longer than usual, hands braced against the tile, watching the water swirl down the drain.

by the time you stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over, your reflection nothing more than a blur.

you ignored it.

instead, you pulled on a sweater—thick, oversized, soft. paired it with jeans, boots, wrapped a scarf around your neck. routine. just keep moving.

the apartment felt emptier than usual as you moved through it, wiping down counters, straightening pillows, clearing dishes that didn’t even need clearing. you weren’t sure why you were cleaning so meticulously. maybe it was just something to do with your hands, something to keep yourself from thinking too much.

but even then, the silence pressed in. the absence of his voice. the way he used to hum under his breath while scrolling through his phone. the way he’d reach for you absentmindedly, fingers finding yours without even thinking.

you swallowed.

the clock on the wall read 10:42 am.

late. you needed to leave soon.

you grabbed your coat, slipping it over your shoulders, fingers fumbling with the buttons. your scarf was next, wrapped snugly around your neck, followed by your gloves. you caught your reflection in the mirror near the door and paused.

the sweater you had chosen—it was his.

you thought you had returned all of his belongings that stayed in your apartment.

his sweaters, hoodies, tees, sweats.

maybe this was the unlucky— or lucky one.

a quiet, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

of course it was.

you debated changing it. maybe you should. but then again… maybe it didn’t matter.

the streets were covered in a thin layer of snow as you stepped outside, the air crisp against your skin. your breath curled in white clouds, disappearing into the winter sky. people moved past you—some alone, some hand in hand, their laughter rising into the air. you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, shoving your hands into your pockets.

the restaurant— your restaurant, the empty place by the busy crossroads you'd bought a few years ago, was a few blocks away. a small, warm place you had always loved—your own little escape from the rest of the world. the bell above the door chimed softly as you stepped inside, warmth wrapping around you instantly.

you forced a small smile at the familiar faces, nodding in greeting.

routine.

just keep moving.

the warm, familiar scent of fresh bread and spices enveloped you as you stepped behind the counter, shrugging off your coat. the restaurant was alive in the way it always was at this time of the day—soft clatters of cutlery against ceramic plates, the low hum of conversation from occupied tables, the occasional burst of laughter from a corner booth.

it smelled like home, like routine, like something steady when everything else felt uncertain.

“morning, boss.”

you glanced up to see mira, one of the servers, leaning against the counter with a knowing smirk. she had been working here almost as long as you could remember, joined a few months after you started the restaurant chain, and she knew you well enough to read your moods before you even said a word.

“you’re late,” she teased, but there was no bite to her words.

“i’m not late,” you said, rolling your eyes as you tied your apron around your waist. “i just… took my time getting here.”

mira gave you a look—one that was far too perceptive for your liking—but didn’t press. instead, she just handed you a notepad. “table five wants a refill on their coffee, and table two asked about the special of the day.”

you took the notepad with a nod. “got it.”

and just like that, the day began.

the hours passed in a blur of movement and familiarity. you lost yourself in the rhythm of it—taking orders, pouring coffee, clearing tables, exchanging pleasantries with customers who had been coming here for years. the work was muscle memory at this point, your hands moving on autopilot while your mind drifted elsewhere.

somewhere in the middle of the lunch rush, as you wiped down the counter, jaehyun—one of the chefs, poked his head out from the back. “hey, y/n, you eating today or just running on caffeine and regrets?”

you snorted, shaking your head. “i’ll eat later.”

“you always say that.”

“i mean it this time.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you said that last time too.”

“i—okay, fine.” you held up your hands in surrender. “i’ll grab something when the rush dies down.”

he grumbled something under his breath before disappearing back into the kitchen, and mira smirked from where she was refilling a salt shaker.

“he’s got a point,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “when’s the last time you actually sat down and ate a meal?”

you waved her off, busying yourself with stacking plates. “i eat. at home.”

“uh-huh. sure.”

you didn’t have an answer to that, so you didn’t bother giving one.

the day continued. the restaurant buzzed with life—friends catching up over coffee, families sharing warm meals, couples leaning into each other, their conversations dipping into soft murmurs.

you liked this. you liked watching people exist in these little moments, as if nothing else outside of these walls mattered.

an older woman at table seven caught your eye as you passed by. she smiled kindly. “it’s nice seeing you again, dear.”

you blinked. “oh—thank you. it’s nice seeing you too.”

“you’ve looked a bit tired lately,” she observed, stirring her tea slowly. “make sure you’re taking care of yourself, alright?”

there was something about the way she said it—something warm, something familiar—that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

you swallowed. “i will.”

you weren’t sure if that was a lie.

the evening arrived before you realized it, the once-busy restaurant now quiet as the last of the customers trickled out into the cold night. the staff began to clock out one by one, exchanging tired goodbyes as they pulled on their coats.

“you sure you don’t need help closing up?” mira asked, pausing at the door.

you shook your head, forcing a small smile. “i got it.”

she studied you for a moment before sighing. “alright. don’t stay too late.”

“i won’t.”

she gave you one last skeptical look before disappearing into the night, leaving you alone with the faint hum of the overhead lights and the distant sound of the wind outside.

you exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

the silence was heavier now.

slowly, methodically, you began the closing routine. you wiped down tables, stacked chairs, swept the floors, turned off the neon ‘open’ sign that flickered against the window. the motions were comforting in a way. predictable.

but when you finally locked the door and turned to face the empty restaurant, something about it felt unbearably lonely.

this place had always been warm, filled with laughter and conversation and life. but right now, standing here alone with nothing but the sound of your own breathing, it felt hollow.

you swallowed, staring at the spot where he used to sit when he came by to wait for you after his own schedule.

the memories came too easily. the way he’d lean back in the chair, arms crossed, a lazy grin on his lips as he watched you work.

you’re cute when you’re focused, he’d say. like, ridiculously cute.

you had always rolled your eyes at that, but—god, what you would give to hear it again.

shaking your head, you grabbed your coat and turned off the last of the lights.

the night was waiting.

and so was the silence.

. . .

the car was absurdly cold when you got in, the leather seats stiff from the winter air. you sighed, rubbing your hands together before gripping the steering wheel, the silence of the empty parking lot pressing against you.

the restaurant behind you was dark now, locked up for the night, its warmth left behind in the echo of distant laughter and clinking glasses.

you stared ahead for a moment, letting the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. the exhaustion clung to you, heavy and unmoving, but there was something else beneath it—something quieter. something you didn’t want to name.

with a slow inhale, you turned the key in the ignition. the engine rumbled to life, the soft hum filling the car as headlights illuminated the frost-kissed windshield. you sat there for a beat longer, watching your breath fog up the glass.

then, finally, you pulled out onto the road.

the city stretched out before you, streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. the roads weren’t as busy at this hour, but there was still movement—taxis weaving through lanes, pedestrians bundled up in coats, the occasional cyclist braving the cold.

the world kept moving, even when you felt stuck.

your fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel as the radio played low through the speakers. some old song, one you barely recognized. the melody was soft, almost lulling, the kind of tune that made your thoughts wander.

and they did.

“you’re always working.”

his voice was still so clear in your mind. that night, the argument—it played back in fragments, like scenes from a movie you couldn’t turn off.

“and what about you, chan? you act like you’re the only one trying here.”

your grip tightened. the memory of his voice, the sharpness of his words, the way frustration had tangled between you like something inevitable.

“maybe we need a break.”

you blinked hard. the traffic light ahead turned red, and you eased the car to a stop, exhaling as you leaned back against the seat.

the world outside the window blurred slightly, the glow of headlights streaking across the wet pavement. snow had started falling again, light and unhurried, swirling beneath the streetlights.

you used to love this time of year—the first snowfall, the way the city seemed to quiet under its weight.

and him.

you remembered the way he used to pull you into the cold, ignoring your protests as he dragged you into the snow-covered streets, laughter spilling from his lips like warmth against the winter air.

“you’re so dramatic,” you had grumbled, shivering in your coat.

“and you’re no fun,” he had teased, tugging you closer. “come on, just one snowball fight.”

“you say that every year.”

“and every year, darling, you lose.”

the memory made something inside you ache. the way he would wrap you in his arms afterward, pressing his cold nose against your cheek just to make you squirm.

the way you’d sit by the fireplace afterward, tangled together under thick blankets, sharing hot cocoa that he always made too sweet.

it had been easy, then.

before the late nights, before the exhaustion, before the words that had chipped away at what you had built together.

before you started feeling like you were losing him.

the light turned green.

you blinked, shaking your head as if to clear it, and pressed your foot against the gas pedal.

and then—

the world tilted.

a sickening crunch of metal. the sharp, jarring impact of force slamming into you. the violent, uncontrollable spinning.

for a split second, all you saw were headlights—blinding, swallowing everything in white—before everything blurred into chaos.

the sound was deafening. screeching tires, the shriek of twisting steel, car horns blaring, the distant shouts of people. the seatbelt dug into your chest, locking you in place as the car was thrown sideways. your vision swam, dizziness clawing at you, and then—

silence.

everything felt… far away.

the ringing in your ears was the only sound you could process, drowning out the panic outside. your vision blurred, the edges of the world darkening, swallowing up the streetlights, the movement, the shapes of people rushing toward you.

your fingers twitched, barely. your head lolled slightly to the side, and through the cracked windshield, you saw red and blue lights flashing in the distance.

voices.

faint. muffled.

“is she breathing?”

“call an ambulance—”

“stay with me, okay?”

you wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

your eyelids felt heavier now. the weight of exhaustion, of impact, of something you didn’t want to name, pressed down on you, pulling you under.

somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

then—

darkness.

. . .

the world around you existed in fragments.

there was no time, no clear beginning or end—just moments bleeding into each other, slipping between consciousness and the heavy pull of unconsciousness. you weren’t awake, but you weren’t entirely gone either. you were somewhere, floating in the space between pain and oblivion.

the first thing you registered was the weightlessness, the peculiar sensation of being lifted, carried. the cold, biting wind was gone, replaced with the sterile scent of something clinical—alcohol, antiseptic, the faint metallic tang of blood.

voices. sharp, rushed. urgent.

"bp’s dropping—move!"

"we need to stabilize—"

"get her on the stretcher—"

there were hands on you, pressing against your limbs, holding you still. you wanted to move, to speak, to tell them that you were here, but your body refused to listen. it felt like trying to swim against a current that only dragged you further down.

the pressure of something tightening around your arm. the firm press of fingers against your wrist—checking, counting, assessing. the beeping of machines, rapid and rhythmic, like an anxious heartbeat.

"possible concussion—mild contusions—check for internal bleeding."

the sounds flickered in and out. you slipped again, deeper into the darkness, but not completely.

then—light.

harsh, fluorescent, searing through closed eyelids.

the movement stopped. the sensation of being lifted again, transferred. the scrape of wheels against tile. doors swinging open. more voices.

"pupils reactive—no immediate signs of severe trauma—"

"get an iv started."

the world tilted. the mattress beneath you was firmer than the seat of your car, colder than the pavement. a hand smoothed over your forehead, pushing back strands of hair matted with sweat. the touch was gentle, grounding.

"you're in the hospital," a voice said, distant but soothing. "we’re going to take care of you. just rest."

rest.

the word settled over you like a command, a lullaby. the beeping of the machines steadied. you let yourself be pulled under again.

when you resurfaced, it was slow.

a dull ache pulsed at the edges of your awareness, the type that came in waves—bearable, but constant. your body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and something else.

the first thing you saw was the ceiling. white. sterile. unmoving.

then, your own hands—resting limply against stiff sheets, an iv taped to your wrist, an oxygen clip attached to your finger.

a hospital room.

the realization settled into your bones before you fully processed it. the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, the faint hum of ventilation, the low murmur of voices outside the door—it was all unfamiliar.

your throat was dry. you swallowed, wincing at the soreness that stretched across your ribs, the dull sting blooming in your arm. not unbearable. but not comfortable either.

there was movement beside you.

a nurse.

she had kind eyes, the kind that made you feel like you weren’t alone in this too-bright, too-quiet place. she glanced at you, a small, reassuring smile appearing as she noticed you were awake.

"welcome back," she said softly, reaching to adjust something on the iv line.

you tried to speak—tried to ask what had happened, how long you had been here—but the moment your lips parted, she shook her head.

"don't strain yourself," she murmured, voice gentle but firm. "the doctor will come by soon, but for now, just rest. talking will only make it worse."

you frowned, but the protest never made it past your lips. even if it had, you doubted it would’ve been much more than a weak rasp.

she adjusted your pillow, moving carefully, as if she knew exactly where you hurt. the iv line shifted slightly, the cool liquid continuing to drip down into your veins, dulling the sharper edges of pain.

"your car got in an accident," the nurse continued, her tone soft, as though the words themselves were delicate. "you’re lucky—it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. some injuries, but nothing that won’t heal."

lucky.

the word felt foreign, distant. you had stopped at the light. you had waited. and yet—

your fingers twitched slightly against the blanket. you tried to piece together what had happened, the moment the world had gone from mundane to chaos, but the memories were scattered. all you could recall were headlights and the sickening weight of impact.

the nurse must have noticed the way your breathing shifted, because she placed a light hand on your arm, grounding.

"you need to rest," she said again, softer this time. "sleep will help."

you wanted to argue. you wanted to ask why this had happened, how long you had been here, if anyone had come to see you. if he—

but your body was already betraying you, exhaustion dragging at your limbs.

the pain wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough. enough to remind you that you weren’t okay. that you wouldn’t be for a while.

so you let your eyes slip shut.

not because you weren’t afraid of the darkness this time.

but because, for the moment, there was nothing else you could do.

the hospital was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

not the usual city stillness—the kind that came late at night when the streets were empty and only the hum of distant cars remained—but a silence laced with something heavier. something sterile. something fragile.

outside, the world moved on. people walked down busy sidewalks, cars skidded through melting patches of snow, neon signs flickered against the early evening dimness. life carried on, indifferent.

but here, in this fluorescent-lit corridor, the world had paused.

the nurse glanced at the clipboard in her hands, the patient’s name standing stark against the white paper. her brow furrowed slightly before she exhaled, reaching for the phone on the counter.

"are you sure this is the right contact?" the doctor beside her asked, checking the same file.

"it’s listed as her emergency number."

the nurse hesitated for only a moment before pressing the call button.

one ring.

two.

a click.

the voice that answered was slightly out of breath, like they had been running.

"hello?"

"hello, is this..."

. . .

silence. the kind that didn’t come from confusion, but realization.

the kind that carried weight.

and then the line went dead.

the waiting room door pushed open half an hour later.

the person entered in a rush, but not carelessly—like he had run, but forced himself to slow down the second he stepped inside. the nurses at the desk barely had a chance to greet him before he was already speaking, voice tight with urgency.

"i’m here for y/n l/n. i got a call."

one of the nurses, the same one who had called, recognized him immediately. she straightened.

"she's stable. sleeping. but—"

"what happened?" he didn’t mean to interrupt, but the words were out before he could stop them.

the doctor nearby spoke this time, his voice calm.

"a car accident. her injuries are moderate—some bruised ribs, minor fractures. a concussion, but nothing too severe. she was lucky. she'll need rest, but she'll recover."

the weight of those words landed squarely on his chest. he exhaled shakily.

"can i see her?"

the doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse before nodding.

"she's still unconscious.. had woken up for a bit, after we had gotten her here, but then she dozed out again. you can sit with her. just keep your voice down."

a nod. then, without another word, he followed them down the hall.

room 801 was dimly lit, the blinds drawn halfway.

the beeping of the heart monitor was steady, a quiet reassurance that life still lingered in this room, soft and persistent.

and there you were.

lying against the pristine white sheets, head turned slightly to the side, expression peaceful in a way that didn’t match the reality of what had happened.

your arm was bandaged, an iv drip feeding slow, steady doses of pain relief into your veins. a bruise, darkening at the edges, sat on your temple. your breathing was even, but too still. too quiet.

he took a step forward. then another.

until he was at your bedside, standing so close he could see the faint rise and fall of your chest, the way your fingers twitched slightly even in sleep.

he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

and then—finally—he let himself feel it.

the panic. the helplessness. the gut-wrenching thought of what if?

what if the call had been worse? what if it hadn’t come at all? what if this had been it?

his fingers curled into a fist, nails pressing into his palm. he inhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep it together.

but his eyes were burning.

and before he could stop himself, he was sinking into the chair beside the bed, his hand hovering near yours but not touching. not yet.

"i’m sorry," he whispered, the words breaking in his throat.

you didn’t hear him.

but he said it anyway.

. . .

the room was quiet—too quiet.

a suffocating kind of stillness. the kind that settled in hospitals, lingering in the air like a held breath. it pressed against the walls, snaked into the cracks of the cold linoleum floor, wrapped itself around the sterile scent of antiseptic and faint traces of metal. even the steady beeping of the monitor felt muted, almost like a whisper in the vast emptiness of it all.

and then there was him.

sitting hunched over in the chair, elbows braced against his knees, fingers threaded into his curls as he stared at the floor like it held all the answers he didn’t have.

his breath came shallow, unsteady. his chest felt tight, too tight, like the air wasn’t reaching his lungs no matter how hard he tried. his heartbeat pounded against his ribs, out of sync with the quiet rhythm of the machines.

the sight of you in that hospital bed was something he could barely process.

your face, pale against the stark white pillow. your arm, wrapped in clean bandages. the soft rise and fall of your chest, far too slow for his liking.

it didn’t feel real.

none of this felt real.

he swallowed thickly, but it did nothing to rid the lump in his throat.

he had been fine—or at least, he had convinced himself he was—right up until he saw you lying there, unmoving, their body smaller beneath the weight of the hospital sheets. that was when the panic finally crashed over him, dragging him under like a tide.

the kind of panic that left him hollow. that twisted something deep inside his chest, wringing him dry until all that was left was guilt and fear and—

he squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to get a grip.

but the harder he tried, the worse it got.

his shoulders trembled. his fingers dug into his hair. his breath came out in a sharp, shaky exhale. and then—before he could stop it—his first sob broke free.

it tore through him, raw and aching, a sound ripped straight from the deepest part of his soul. his whole body caved under the weight of it, his forehead pressing against the heel of his palm as another sob wracked through his chest.

"shit," he choked out, barely above a whisper.

his hand clenched into a fist, nails pressing into his palm.

he wasn’t supposed to be like this.

he was supposed to be the calm one. the strong one. the one who kept things together even when everything else was falling apart.

but right now?

right now, he felt helpless.

his eyes burned as he lifted his head, gaze falling on you again. he wanted to reach out—wanted to take your hand in his, press his forehead against your knuckles, tell you he was here. that he wasn’t going anywhere. that everything was going to be okay.

but he couldn’t. because.. again,

because what if it wasn’t?

what if this was his fault?

the thought hit him again like a punch to the gut.

what if he had done something differently? what if he had been there? what if you hadn’t been alone?

what if—

"i’m so, so sorry, y/n," he whispered, voice breaking.

it wasn’t enough.

it would never be enough.

but it was all he had.

seconds passed. maybe minutes. he wasn’t sure. time had blurred into nothing but the quiet hum of the machines and the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing.

he hadn’t moved from his spot.

couldn’t.

his body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and emotions he wasn’t ready to name. his hands were trembling, his fingers flexing and curling against his knees as if trying to ground himself. but nothing worked.

the guilt still clung to him like a second skin.

and the worst part?

you didn’t even know he was here.

didn’t know that he had dropped everything the second he got the call. that he had nearly broken the speed limit trying to get here. that he had spent the last hour sitting by your side, trying and failing to pull himself together.

didn’t know how much he missed you.

how much he needed you.

he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face.

then, hesitantly—almost as if afraid they would disappear if he touched you—he reached out.

his fingers hovered over yours for a second, hesitant, before finally pressing lightly against the back of your hand.

a warmth that was barely there. a quiet reassurance that you were still here. still breathing.

his throat tightened.

"please wake up," he murmured, barely audible.

it wasn’t a demand.

it wasn’t even a request.

it was a plea.

a desperate, aching plea that carried every ounce of guilt and regret and love that he hadn’t been able to say before.

but you didn’t move.

didn’t stir.

didn’t even twitch.

and that—more than anything—was what truly broke him.

the past few weeks : what remains in the silence

the studio lights hummed overhead, casting a dim, sterile glow over the cluttered desk, the scattered sheets of lyrics crumpled in frustration, the empty coffee cups pushed aside and forgotten. the air was thick, weighed down by the scent of exhaustion—of ink and paper, of stale caffeine and sleepless nights.

seated at the console, shoulders hunched, was him, fingers threading through his curls as he stared at the blinking waveform on the screen. the metronome ticked steadily in his ears, a cruel reminder of time passing, of the hours slipping through his fingers like sand.

it was late. too late. but that didn’t matter.

the others had gone home. the studio halls were quiet now, the usual buzz of voices and laughter absent, leaving only the low hum of the equipment and the rhythmic tapping of his pen against the table.

but he couldn’t leave.

not yet.

not when his chest still ached like this.

not when his mind kept playing the same loop of memories, over and over, like a cruel, broken record.

"you don’t get it, do you?"

the words echoed in his head, sharp and raw. your voice—frustrated, hurt—lingered like a ghost, filling every inch of the suffocating silence.

he had said things, too. things he didn’t mean. things he hadn’t even realized were leaving his mouth until it was too late.

and then it had ended.

just like that.

no closure. no finality. just silence.

and god, the silence was worse than anything else.

it was deafening.

it followed him everywhere.

to rehearsals, where his body moved on autopilot, executing every step with precision but feeling none of it. to meetings, where words blurred together and became meaningless noise. to the dorm, where the others cast worried glances his way but didn’t push, because they knew.

they knew he was a storm waiting to happen.

and here, in the studio, where it was just him and the music—his only escape—he found that even that had turned against him.

because every melody he wrote sounded like you.

every lyric that spilled from his pen became a memory. a moment. a fragment of something he had lost.

and he couldn’t do it.

he couldn’t use your voice as his muse.

so he erased them. again and again.

trashed the songs. deleted the files. ripped the pages from his notebook and threw them aside, watching as the words—his words, their words—were reduced to nothing more than discarded, crumpled paper on the floor.

but it didn’t stop.

it didn’t stop the ache.

didn’t stop the way his fingers shook when he reached for another blank sheet, knowing it would end up the same way.

didn’t stop the frustration that built in his chest, hot and suffocating, curling around his ribs like a vice.

"hyung."

the voice was soft, hesitant.

chan barely glanced up, recognizing the figure lingering in the doorway.

minho.

the younger guy leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark with concern.

chan knew that look. knew the way minho studied him, like he was trying to pick apart the pieces of him that had begun to unravel.

"you should go home," minho said after a beat.

chan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. not this again.

"i’m fine."

minho’s eyes narrowed. "no, you’re not."

chan pressed his lips together, turning his gaze back to the screen, hoping minho would take the hint and leave it alone.

but minho never left things alone.

"you look like hell."

"thanks."

"that wasn’t a compliment."

chan sighed, rubbing at his temples. the headache that had been lingering for hours was starting to settle in, a dull, throbbing pulse at the base of his skull.

"i just need to finish this song."

minho’s expression didn’t change. "and then what?"

chan didn’t answer.

because he didn’t know.

didn’t know what came next.

didn’t know how to fix the mess he had made.

didn’t know how to stop feeling like he was drowning in his own emotions.

minho stepped further into the room, his gaze softening. "hyung."

chan swallowed. looked away.

"just let me work." his voice was quieter this time. almost pleading.

minho studied him for a long moment before exhaling through his nose.

"fine. but if you pass out from exhaustion, i’m dragging your ass out of here myself."

with that, minho turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

chan sat there, staring at the empty doorway, his hands clenched into fists.

he should go home.

should rest.

should sleep.

but he wouldn’t.

because the moment he closed his eyes, you would be there.

in his memories. in his mind.

and he didn’t know if he could handle that.

present : five days in winter

the hospital was cold.

not the kind of cold that seeped into bones, but the kind that settled somewhere deeper, heavier. a silence that stretched too long, too empty, filled only with the steady beeping of machines and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall. the scent of antiseptic lingered, clinical and distant, sterilizing not just the air but the very essence of the place.

chan had learned to hate that smell.

it clung to him now, in his black hoodie, in his hair, in the tired lines beneath his eyes.

five days.

it had been five days since he first walked into this room, five days since he first saw you lying there, still and unmoving, lost somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness.

and he hadn’t left.

not really.

sure, he went back to the dorm at night, sometimes. sometimes he sat in the studio, headphones on, staring at unfinished tracks that never seemed to progress beyond the first verse. but his mind was always here. with you.

and when he was here, he stayed for hours.

ignoring texts. ignoring calls. ignoring schedules that piled up like a stack of unopened letters.

he didn’t care.

he couldn’t.

because every time he walked into this room, every time he sat beside the bed and saw your still face, it felt like something inside him cracked just a little bit more.

the doctors had reassured him. told him there was nothing to panic over. that you were breathing fine. that your body was simply taking the rest it needed to heal. that waking up was a matter of time.

but what if time took too long?

chan exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. his fingers threaded through his curls, gripping the strands, frustration curling into his shoulders.

"you’re missing out on so much, you know?" his voice was quiet, barely more than a murmur. "the first real snowfall happened yesterday. the big kind. the kind you like."

he swallowed, glancing at your face. no movement. no response.

"some kids were playing in it. there was this little boy outside the café across the street. his mom was trying to get him to go inside, but he just kept throwing snowballs at his sister. reminded me of you."

a bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"you always loved winter, even though you complained about the cold."

silence.

the only response was the quiet beeping of the monitor.

chan sighed, leaning back against the chair, letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling.

it wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t fair how time kept moving forward like nothing had happened, how the world outside still spun, still breathed, still continued—while in here, in this small, sterile room, everything felt suspended.

stuck.

frozen.

a soft knock came at the door. chan barely reacted as it opened, the familiar figures slipping inside.

hyunjin and felix.

both looked exhausted in their own way. felix had a bag of snacks in his hands, a feeble attempt at normalcy, and hyunjin’s face was tense, like he had spent too much time trying to convince himself he wasn’t worried.

"hyung," felix spoke first, his voice cautious. "you should go home for a bit."

chan barely glanced at him. "i’m fine."

"you always say that." hyunjin crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "and it’s never true."

felix sighed, walking over and placing the snack bag on the table.

"have you eaten?"

chan shrugged. he didn’t remember.

felix gave him a look before sighing again, softer this time. "she’s going to be okay, you know."

chan exhaled sharply.

"you don’t know that."

hyunjin scoffed. "don’t do.. that. don’t start with the worst-case scenarios. the doctors literally said she just needs time."

"yeah, and how long is that gonna take?" chan’s voice wavered, and he hated how it did. hated how the helplessness crept into his tone despite how hard he tried to shove it down.

hyunjin frowned, his expression softening just slightly.

"she’ll wake up," he said, quieter this time. "she’s strong."

chan swallowed hard. he knew that. knew it better than anyone.

but it didn’t make this any easier.

didn’t make the waiting any less agonizing.

felix sat down on the other side of the bed, glancing at your unconscious form. "she looks peaceful."

chan didn’t answer. he didn’t know if he could agree.

because to him, peace and stillness weren’t the same.

and this—this unbearable stillness—felt more like limbo.

like something unfinished.

like something waiting to break.

and god, he didn’t know how much longer he could take it.

the morning air outside the hospital was crisp, the early sun painting soft streaks of gold across the pale blue sky. inside, the hospital remained the same—a quiet combination of beeping monitors, hushed voices, and the sterile scent of disinfectant that had long since embedded itself into chan’s lungs.

he arrived early. earlier than usual.

not that it mattered—his sense of time had warped over the last six days, stretched thin between restless nights and hours spent sitting beside a bed that felt both too still and too fragile.

he pushed the door open slowly, careful not to let the hinges creak too loud, as if any noise might disturb you. but you hadn’t woken up yesterday. or the day before that. or the day before that.

still, chan had hope.

"morning, sleepyhead." his voice was soft, a little hoarse from exhaustion, but there was warmth in it nonetheless.

he shut the door behind him, moving to his usual chair beside the bed. his body moved on autopilot—placing his bag down, pulling out a bottle of water he wouldn’t drink, adjusting the blanket that didn’t need adjusting.

just something to keep his hands busy.

something to stop the weight in his chest from pressing too deep.

"you missed another sunrise," he murmured, fingers ghosting over the back of your hand. "it was a pretty one, too. all pink and orange—one of those skies you’d probably take a million pictures of and never post."

a weak smile tugged at his lips as he exhaled. "i can already hear you scolding me for not taking one for you."

silence.

the beeping of the machines remained steady. the slow, gentle rise and fall of your chest didn’t falter.

chan swallowed.

he shifted, resting his forearms on the edge of the bed. his fingers absentmindedly traced over your knuckles—slow, barely-there movements, as if they might break under the weight of his touch.

"remember that one time we tried making that french hot chocolate you saw a tiktok of, and ended up burning it?" he huffed a soft chuckle. "you were so mad. said i ruined the perfect winter aesthetic. but then you tasted it anyway, and we both agreed it wasn’t that bad. we even made it again, just to prove we could do it properly."

he exhaled through his nose.

"i think about stuff like that a lot."

he swallowed again, throat thick, voice quieter. "i think about you.. a lot."

his fingers curled around yours, gentle, firm. "you’re not allowed to keep me waiting too long, you know. my patience only goes so far."

the day passed like that.

slowly.

like wading through water.

chan sat beside you, talking sometimes, falling into silence at others. occasionally, he’d lean back and let his eyes slip shut, only to jolt them open again minutes later, unwilling to let himself fully drift.

the others didn’t visit today.

he was grateful for that.

he didn’t want to share this space.

not today.

not when he felt so—raw.

evening settled before he realized it. the room darkened except for the faint glow of the bedside lamp. outside, the city continued—cars honking, streetlights flickering on, the world moving forward as if nothing had changed.

chan hadn’t moved much.

still in the same chair.

still holding your hand.

his thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin.

the exhaustion was catching up to him again.

he fought it.

tried to ignore the heaviness in his limbs.

tried to push past the way his blinks grew slower, the way his head tilted slightly forward.

but eventually, he gave in.

just for a second.

just long enough for his body to sag, for his grip on your hand to loosen slightly, for the warmth of your skin against his to lull him into something shallow, something that wasn’t quite sleep but wasn’t entirely wakefulness either.

minutes passed.

then—

a twitch.

a faint pressure.

the smallest tug against his hand.

his eyes snapped open instantly, breath catching in his throat.

he jolted upright, gaze flickering down to your fingers—his heart hammering against his ribs.

had he imagined it?

had his mind finally started playing tricks on him?

no.

because there it was again.

a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of your fingers against his.

his breath shuddered.

"hey—" he whispered, eyes wide, gripping your hand a little tighter. "hey, love, can you—?"

the door creaked open before he could finish.

the nurse stepped inside, clipboard in hand, but the second she saw the look on his face—saw the way his hands trembled slightly as he held yours—her expression shifted.

"what’s wrong?"

chan exhaled, barely able to find the words. "she—she moved."

the nurse’s eyes widened before she swiftly turned back toward the hall.

"doctor!"

chan barely registered the next few moments.

footsteps.

voices.

the doctor entering, the nurse moving to check the monitors, the air shifting into something more urgent—but not panicked. not alarming. just… observant.

"vitals are stable," one of them murmured.

"it’s a good sign," another reassured.

chan sat there, unmoving, barely breathing as he watched them work—checking, adjusting, monitoring.

. . .

darkness.

it is soft, quiet, weightless. a vast ocean with no shore in sight, where time does not exist, where thought drifts like mist, thin and shapeless. you are floating, untethered, caught in the liminal space between nowhere and somewhere. there is no urgency, no need to wake, no pressing demand. just the silence. just the stillness.

then—something shifts.

a sound.

faint. a murmur against the quiet.

it trickles in like light through the cracks of a door, hesitant yet persistent. a voice. low, gentle, carrying the weight of something you cannot yet name.

you want to reach for it.

but your body is heavy, limbs sinking, lungs thick with something dense and unmovable. the darkness doesn’t want to let you go. it tugs at you, pleading, desperate to keep you here, to keep you safe, to keep you—

another voice.

closer this time.

then—a touch.

warm, real.

a thumb brushing over your knuckles, a soft squeeze, something grounding in the haze.

the weight in your chest shifts. not gone, but different. a tether, a pull toward the surface. the nothingness that held you so gently begins to peel away, unraveling thread by thread, revealing something beyond the void.

your fingers twitch.

there is a sharp inhale—someone else’s, not yours.

the silence ripples.

then— light.

blinding, even through the barrier of your closed eyelids. it seeps in like an intrusion, pushing back against the murk of unconsciousness.

your head throbs. your throat is dry. your skin feels strange, as if it doesn’t belong to you.

then, after what feels like forever—

you open your eyes.

at first, there is nothing but a blur. a smear of color, shifting shapes, movement too fast for your sluggish mind to process. you blink, once, twice, and the world slowly begins to sharpen.

white walls. fluorescent lighting. the steady beeping of machines.

a hospital.

the realization comes sluggishly, like trying to recall the details of a dream upon waking. you start to remember how you got here. you remember why.

but then—

"y/n?"

a voice.

your gaze flickers to the source, slow and unsteady, as if your body is learning how to exist all over again.

chan.

he is beside you, close, his body half-perched on the chair, half-leaning toward you like he doesn’t trust the space between. his hands are on yours—solid, warm, trembling.

his eyes, wide with something that looks like relief and devastation twisted into one, are locked onto your face as if looking away might shatter you back into nothingness.

your throat is raw when you try to speak.

nothing comes out.

chan moves instantly, reaching for the cup on the bedside table. you watch, dazed, as he adjusts the straw, his movements quick but careful, and then he’s guiding it to your lips.

"here. just a sip."

you take it.

the water is cool, soothing against your throat, but your body feels unfamiliar, unsteady, as if you are a guest in your own skin. you pull away after only a small sip, and he sets the cup back down.

his hand returns to yours.

like it never left.

there is a moment of silence.

then, softly—

"you scared me."

his voice cracks. just slightly. barely noticeable, but you hear it. feel it.

the weight of it settles in your chest.

you swallow. try again.

"how long?"

the sound of your own voice surprises you. it is hoarse, fragile, barely more than a whisper.

chan exhales, running a hand through his curls. he looks exhausted, like sleep has been a stranger to him for far too long.

"six days."

you blink.

your mind tries to grasp the number, the weight of it, but everything feels slow, like you are running through molasses.

"i was… asleep?"

"more like unconscious," he corrects, his thumb brushing absently against your knuckles. "the doctors said it wasn’t too dangerous, but—"

he stops. shakes his head.

"it felt dangerous to me."

your chest tightens.

his fingers curl around yours, firmer now, as if testing to make sure you are real.

"you wouldn’t wake up," he murmurs, voice quieter now. "no matter how much i talked to you, no matter how much i—" he exhales, shaking his head. "i thought—"

he stops himself.

his jaw clenches.

you squeeze his hand.

his gaze snaps to yours immediately, like the smallest movement from you is something monumental.

you clear your throat, trying to fight past the dryness, past the exhaustion clinging to your bones. "i’m here."

it’s not much.

but it is enough.

chan swallows hard, his lips pressing together, and for the first time, you see it. the glassiness in his eyes, the way his breath shudders, the way relief sits so heavy on his shoulders it almost looks like it might break him.

"yeah," he exhales. "yeah, you are."

the tension in the room softens. the air shifts.

you watch as he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the lightest kiss against the back of it.

his eyes shut for a moment, like he is trying to ground himself in the sensation.

when he opens them again, there is something softer there.

"don’t scare me like that again, yeah?"

his voice is steady, but you can hear the emotion beneath it.

you give the faintest nod, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

"i’ll try."

it’s the best you can offer.

and for now—

it is enough.

the moment chan’s hand was gently pried away from yours, a chill settled over your skin, one that had nothing to do with the temperature of the hospital room. his warmth had been the only thing tethering you to something familiar, something steady. but now—now it was gone.

"mr. bahng, we need you to wait outside while we check on her," one of the nurses had told him. a request, but also not.

you had seen the hesitation in his eyes, the reluctance, the way his fingers had twitched as if they didn't want to let go. but he listened. because it was for you. because it was what was needed.

now, the door clicked shut behind him, and the room felt bigger. louder, with the beeping of the monitors, the shuffle of nurses moving around you, the crinkle of gloves being pulled on.

“alright, sweetheart, we’re just going to do a quick check-up, alright?” the nurse closest to you—an older woman with kind eyes and soft hands—offered you a reassuring smile as she reached for your wrist, checking your pulse. “you’ve been through quite a bit, so let us know if anything feels off.”

you swallowed, throat still dry, but nodded.

the world still felt slow, like you were wading through water. the dull ache in your limbs, the stiffness of your joints—it was a strange thing, waking up in a body that had been still for so long.

someone else adjusted the iv drip beside you, and you felt the cool trickle of medicine entering your veins.

“you were lucky, you know.” the nurse’s voice was light, almost teasing. “your injuries could have been a lot worse.”

your injuries.

the words settled over you like a distant echo. you had almost forgotten.

“what.. what else happened?” your voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of something fragile.

the nurses exchanged a glance. then, the older woman—the one who had spoken first—tilted her head slightly. “do you remember anything?”

your brows furrowed, but you managed a light nod.

the memory was there, hazy and fractured, like a dream slipping through your fingers the harder you tried to hold onto it.

the road.

the red light.

the blur of headlights.

the sound—

your stomach twisted.

“i—” you swallowed hard. “a car accident.”

the nurse nodded. “yes. you were brought in unconscious. you woke up for a few minutes, you remember any of that? some injuries—nothing too major, but enough to keep you out for a few days.”

a few days.

that still didn’t feel real.

you exhaled shakily, trying to absorb the information, but your mind felt slow, reluctant to process everything all at once.

the nurse squeezed your hand gently. “you’re going to be okay, sweetheart. you just need some time to heal.”

there was a soft rustling as another nurse adjusted the pillows behind you, shifting your body slightly so you were more upright. the change in position sent a wave of dizziness through you, but you didn’t protest.

a few more checks—light in your eyes, testing reflexes, changing out bandages. you winced when they cleaned one of the scrapes along your arm, but the nurse was quick to murmur a gentle, “i know, sweetheart, almost done.”

then, just as she was finishing up, her voice took on a different note.

“your boyfriend, by the way,” she said casually, as if the words weren’t about to send your heart into a spiral, “has been coming in every day since we called him.”

you froze.

the nurse didn’t seem to notice. she kept adjusting the blankets around you, her tone light. “your emergency contact, right? he looked ready to drop everything the second we rang him.”

your lips parted, but you didn’t know what to say.

boyfriend?

boyfriend.

your thoughts fumbled over the word.

the nurse chuckled softly. “oh, don’t look so surprised, sweetheart. it was obvious. the way he was hovering over you, holding your hand like he was afraid to let go? if that’s not love, i don’t know what is.”

your heart did something strange in your chest. a slow, twisting motion that left warmth blooming in its wake.

“he’s been here every single day,” she continued. “for hours. sometimes the whole day. we had to practically force him to go home and rest.”

your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

“he talks to you, too,” she added with a small smile. “like you could hear him. maybe you could, who knows?”

you swallowed, trying to ignore the way your throat suddenly felt tight.

“he would just sit here, holding your hand, telling you about his day. about how the weather was. about how your friends were worried about you.”

the warmth in your chest grew.

“he even told you stories,” she said, shaking her head fondly. “little things. things that probably wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but he told you anyway. like you were just asleep and he was waiting for you to wake up and respond.”

something swelled in your throat.

you hadn’t been aware.

you had been floating in that quiet, in that darkness, not knowing that he had been right there.

“i think,” the nurse said after a pause, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips, “he really, really cares about you.”

your breath hitched.

the words settled deep into your bones, warming the spaces you hadn’t realized were cold.

chan had been here. everyday.

talking to you.

waiting for you.

your fingers brushed over the blanket absently, heart thrumming in your chest.

the nurse gave your hand a final squeeze before stepping back, gathering the used bandages and tools into a tray. “alright, sweetheart, we’re done here for now.”

another nurse adjusted your iv, and the beeping of the monitor remained steady, rhythmic, like a quiet reassurance.

“we’ll let your boyfriend back in now,” the older nurse teased lightly. “poor thing’s probably pacing a hole into the floor out there.”

you huffed a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head slightly.

and then, the door opened.

and chan stepped in.

the door clicked shut behind him, but you barely noticed.

he stood just a few steps inside the hospital room, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, eyes searching yours like he needed proof—proof that you were really awake, that you were really, fully, looking at him.

you blinked at him, your throat tight, your fingers curling against the thin hospital blanket.

there was something about him. something different.

the exhaustion was written all over his face—his skin paler than usual, dark shadows pooled beneath his eyes, his shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t belong to him. his curls were disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through them too many times.

but it wasn’t just the fatigue. it was something deeper. a hesitation in the way he stood, a carefulness in his every breath, like he was afraid to move too quickly, afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you.

afraid you’d send him away.

a lump formed in your throat.

“you stayed,” you whispered.

his breath trembled as he exhaled, and then—then he was moving.

not rushing, not lunging, but stepping forward, crossing the space between you with a quiet desperation.

the chair beside your bed scraped slightly against the floor as he sank into it. his hands, shaking just barely, hovered over yours before he swallowed and finally—finally—took your fingers in his.

a choked, breathy laugh left him, something wet and exhausted and disbelieving all at once.

“of course i stayed,” he murmured.

you let out a shaky exhale, glancing down at his hands. he was warm, solid, real.

but then, something flickered over his face. his brows pulled together, his jaw tightening.

“i—” he sucked in a breath, struggling for words, his grip on your fingers tightening just slightly.

you knew that look.

he was overthinking.

regret, guilt, pain—all of it flickered in the depths of his tired brown eyes.

“i—” he tried again, then exhaled sharply. “i’m so, fucking sorry.”

your lips parted.

“for everything,” he continued, voice thick. “for the argument, for—” his voice cracked. “for not talking to you. for letting my frustration—” he broke off again, shaking his head, his fingers tightening around yours. “i should have—should have been better.”

you swallowed.

your vision blurred, the weight of everything pressing into you.

you had both been hurting. both been so lost in your own emotions, in your own pain, that you had pushed each other away.

and now—now he was here. holding your hands like they were something precious, like he had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

tears welled in your eyes, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

“chris,” you whispered, shaking your head, your own fingers tightening around his.

his gaze snapped up to yours, as if the sound of his name was something he had been waiting to hear.

you swallowed, blinking through the blur of your tears.

“i’m sorry, too,” you murmured.

his lips parted, something raw and vulnerable flashing across his face.

“i—” your breath hitched. “i shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have let my frustration get the best of me either.” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “i should have—should have listened more, should have—” your voice cracked. “i missed you.”

a sharp breath left him.

“you don't need to apologise. it's none of your fault, all mine, love. i missed you too,” he whispered.

and then—then he was leaning forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

you closed your eyes, inhaling the familiar scent of him—the faint traces of cologne, the warmth of something undeniably him.

his breath trembled against your skin.

“i thought—” his voice was barely above a whisper. “i thought i lost you.”

your heart clenched.

you shifted slightly, letting go of one of his hands so you could cup his face instead. your thumb brushed over his cheek, over the warmth of his skin.

his breath hitched, and then—then his own hand covered yours, holding it against his face, as if grounding himself in the feeling of you.

you swallowed, blinking rapidly against the tears in your eyes.

“i love you,” you whispered.

his breath stuttered.

then, before you could even fully process it, his arms were wrapping around you, pulling you into him, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

you buried your face into his shoulder, your fingers clinging to the fabric of his hoodie, the warmth of him settling deep into your bones.

neither of you spoke for a moment.

just breathing. just existing.

just feeling the weight of everything that had been broken and the quiet, fragile way it was coming back together.

then—his voice.

soft. shaky.

“thank you for forgiving me.”

you swallowed.

his fingers curled around the back of your hospital gown, his forehead pressing against the side of your head.

“i’ll make up for it every day,” he murmured.

your breath hitched.

you pulled back just slightly, just enough to see his face, and then—then you cupped his cheeks again, tilting his head down slightly as you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead.

he let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut, hands still clutching at you.

your thumb brushed over his cheek again.

“just stay,” you whispered.

his lips parted.

then, slowly, he nodded.

and as he pulled you back into his arms, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand, to the crown of your head—

you knew.

you knew that, no matter how broken things had felt, no matter how lost you had both been—

you had found your way back to each other.

and that—

that was enough.

“i love you so, so, much more, sunshine.”

now playing . . . don't leave me, my love by colde

please don't leave my side, i hate nights without you.your heart cannot be changed. what am I going to do again now?

제발, 내 곁에서 떠나가지 말아요, 그대 없는 밤은 너무 싫어. 돌이킬 수 없는 그대 마음. 이제 와서 다시 어쩌려나?

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan

[kashverse]

HI, HI KASH. I LOVED the Mamaguro and Papaji fic. What about Papaji playfully tackling Mamaguro and little Gumi saving the day?

one thing is to never mess with an assassin.

second thing, never mess with an ex-assassin.

third, never mess with an ex-assassin who is now a mother, with all her momma senses fine-tuned to detect threats, messes, and suspiciously quiet toddlers from miles away.

so when toji, in all his infinite wisdom, decided it would be fun to sneak up on you while you were peacefully watering the plants in your garden like the productive, motherly resource of the house that you were, he really should’ve known better. because the second you sensed movement behind you—before your brain even processed who it was—you reacted.

with terrifying force.

toji didn’t even get the chance to breathe before he was flipped midair, slammed flat on his back with a THUD so loud it made the hydrangeas tremble. just as his soul was leaving his body, megumi came skidding into the backyard, socks half-off, eyes wide with pure horror. “i’ll protect you, mama!!” he screeched.

but then he saw who was actually on the ground. “papa?” megumi blinked. 

then he shrieked. “papa’s DEAD—”

“he’s not dead,” you sighed, stepping over toji’s unconscious form to pat megumi’s head. megumi clutched onto your leg dramatically, still not looking at his father. “oh my god, mama, are you okay? did he try to hurt you?”

toji, still sprawled out on the ground, twitched. “i—”

megumi screamed.

but then he saw your completely calm face and gasped. “oh! you’re okay?” you smiled. “i’m okay.”

megumi immediately beamed, completely forgetting about his father’s suffering. “okay!” he chirped and then ran back inside like nothing happened. toji groaned from the ground. “traitor.”

you leaned down, patting his cheek. “maybe next time, don’t sneak up on me.”

toji exhaled through his nose, looking up at you with a lazy grin. “yeah, but this is why i fell for you, y’know.”

you rolled your eyes, stepping over him to go back to your plants. toji just lay there for a minute, still grinning like a fool. totally worth it.

[moonstruckme]

hi! i just read your drabble with remus fixing the readers attitude and i was wondering if you could do the same with sirius? i really loved your other one and seen you were trying to take requests for sirius.

i hope you have a wonderful day!!

Thanks for requesting, hope you have a lovely day as well <3

cw: d/s dynamics, reader has hair troubles and uses products + tries running fingers through it so it's long enough for that

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 991 words

Sirius can hear you fuming from outside the bathroom. Heavy breaths and drawers being shut too harshly and the occasional, frustrated grunt. If it wouldn’t be such a betrayal of you, he’d take a video so Remus can see what he’s like while he’s transforming during a full moon. 

“What’s going on in there, gorgeous?” he asks from the bed. 

Your reply is nearly a growl. “Nothing.” 

“Mm. Yeah, sounds like nothing.” Sirius gets up, going to the bathroom and nudging the door open. He leans against the doorframe as you scowl at yourself in the mirror, wringing product into your hair like you half hope it just tears off. “What’s got you so wound up?”

“Nothing.”

He tuts. “Not any more convincing the second time. Try again.” 

You’re pointedly not looking at him, but Sirius notices that your scowl intensifies. “My hair is being fucking unbearable.” 

Sirius opens his mouth, but you cut him off. 

“And I don’t want to hear that it always looks good, or that you think I look nice no matter what, or any of that bullshit, okay?” 

“That’s unfortunate. I’m sorry, sweetness, but I’m not going to start lying to you. Your hair is perfect, and you do always look—”

Your eyes bore into your own reflection, sharp and wrathful. “Don’t.” 

Sirius’ eyebrows lift. “I’m sorry, don’t? Don’t compliment my girlfriend, or don’t be honest?” 

“Either. I know you’re full of shit, because it looks insane right now, but even if you have miraculously gone blind since this morning, Lily and Alice will be there, and they know what hair should look like when it’s not being so—so—” 

“Alright.” Sirius is beginning to grow amused with you. You’re so ridiculous when you’re upset, brash and squinty-eyed and cute. “Save yourself the exertion of finishing that sentence gorgeous. Take a breath.” 

“I don’t want to breathe!”

“And yet, we all have to anyway.” 

“God, Sirius, fuck off!” You finally lock eyes with him in the mirror, positively fuming. “I knew you wouldn’t get it. I’m trying to look nice for your friends, and you’re making fun of me! If my hair would just—fucking—” You appear to give up on the product, your attention returning to your hair as you begin dragging your fingers through it mercilessly. “—do what I tell it to, maybe then I’d fucking breathe, but instead it’s basically unsalvageable, and—”

“Oi.” Sirius’ humor at the situation has vanished. By the time you think to look at him he has both your hands in his, restrained from doing further damage to yourself. “No. If you’re going to be like this about going to Frank and Alice’s, we won’t go. So is that it, or can you be good?” 

Sirius uses the sharp tone he knows you’ll respond to, but really he isn’t angry. He only wants to give you pause. And oh, it’s so sweet to watch the brattiness leave your eyes. The terse pucker of your mouth softens to an almost imperceptible pout, your whole demeanor shifting in an instant. 

He takes both your wrists in one hand. With the other, Sirius cups the side of your throat, fingers curled around your nape and thumb rubbing against your erratic pulse. 

“I need an answer,” he says. 

“Yes,” you say, and your voice is soft, like the sharp edge from a minute ago has been bitten off. “I can.” 

“Good.” Sirius allows his tone to gentle some, though he keeps his firm grip on your wrists. “Then you have to relax, baby. Breathe.” 

This time, you do as you’re told. It works as he knew it would, your shoulders drooping after the long exhale like the last of the fight has finally gone out of you.

“Thank you.” He touches his lips briefly to the center of your forehead, pretending not to notice how you sway towards him for more. “Now, do you still want to go to Frank and Alice’s tonight?” 

You open your mouth, but this time it’s Sirius who stops you. 

“Wait. Really think about it. Are you going to enjoy yourself, or are you going to spend the whole time feeling weird about your hair?” 

You hesitate, rubbing your lips together. Sirius strokes his thumb down the line of your throat approvingly. 

“I still think I want to go,” you say after a few moments. 

“Okay.” Sirius nods. “Then you’re going to let me braid your hair for you. You’ll look just as lovely and perfect as you do now, but you won’t be able to mess with it any more. Does that sound alright to you?” 

Your relief is palpable. You let out a breath, eyes growing suspiciously bright. “Yeah. That would be great, thank you.” 

“Okay, come here.” Sirius releases your neck and wrists to wrap his arms around you. He presses his lips to your lovely, perfect hair while you curl your hands in his shirt as if to keep him from slipping away. Like Sirius would ever want to. “Shh. You’re fine, baby. Ease up.” 

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” you mumble against his front. 

“Yeah, I’ll bet. You did it more than once, if I recall.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” He laughs a little, hugging you tighter. “It’s okay. You get a hair insanity pass, just this once. Let’s have a good night, okay?” 

You let out another sigh. Sirius rubs your back reflexively. “Yes, please.” 

“M’kay. Let’s go.” He starts ushering you towards the bed, grabbing a couple of hair ties on his way out of the bathroom. “We’re done with the mirror for today. And no yelling at me while I do your hair, got it?” 

You try on a coy smile; it’s small, but Sirius respects the effort. “I could never yell at you.” 

“Uh huh. I may forgive, but I don’t forget that easily, sweetness. Try it again and we’ll be staying home to deal with that attitude of yours.”

[ariestrxsh]

bsf!chris x bsf!reader

🤍 content warning: smut, fingering, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex, sexualization of religious imagery

🤍 summary: after a date gone bad, your best friend chris is there to make you feel better with his cock

this fic was inspired/requested by this ask that was sent in forever ago (and it was also inspired/requested by someone who asked for a plot where reader goes to chris for comfort after a bad date but I forgot to save their ask </3)

angel like u

꒰ა 𓂋 ໒꒱

You buried your face into Chris' chest, tears staining the front of his shirt, but he didn't mind at all. He didn't mind the tear stains, and he didn't mind that you'd interrupted him playing video games on stream. All that he cared about was that you were okay.

He cradled your head with one hand, and with the other, he tenderly rubbed your back. You hadn't even been able to explain to your best friend why you were so upset yet, and he still held you against his chest, smoothing down your hair.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he said in a comforting voice. You pulled away, sniffled, and looked up at him with your big, misty eyes. "It's embarrassing, really," you started off, wiping away a tear with the sleeve of your sweater.

He listened quietly without judgment as you continued on. "I went on a first date with a guy, and I don't usually do this, but we were getting along really well. So I went back to his place, and things got a little heated," you started to tell him, searching for his reaction and hoping he didn't think differently of you.

"What happened?" Chris sharply asked, clenching his jaw and imagining the worst-case scenario. "It's not that it was bad or anything. It's just that he didn't make me.." you started to say, but you turned away, too flustered to finish your sentence.

"He didn't make you.. cum?" Chris speculated. "Exactly," you said, somewhat relieved that Chris had finished your sentence for you.

"He came, and then it was just over. He didn't even try to get me off after or even cuddle with me. I just put my clothes back on, he told me he didn't feel anything for me, and then he suggested that he take me home," you admitted, your lip quivering and your eyes welling with tears again.

"What an asshole," Chris muttered under his breath, wiping away your mascara-stained tears from your cheek with his thumb.

"I didn't want to cry in front of him, and I didn't want to be alone, so I asked him to take me here since it was only a few minutes away. I hope you don't mind that I just showed up unannounced on your doorstep, sobbing at midnight," you apologetically said.

"Of course I don't mind. You know I'm here for you whenever you need it," Chris comforted you. "Thank you, Chris," you replied, pulling him into another hug, tightly gripping the fabric of his shirt as if he'd float away if you let go.

"Boys like that don't deserve angels like you. How are you feeling right now, pretty girl?" Chris wondered, resting his head against yours.

"I know I agreed to it, but I just feel so used, you know? I feel stupid for giving it up on the first date. And listen, I know this is weird, but I still feel kind of.." your voice trailed off as you cracked an embarrassed smile.

"Turned on?" Chris guessed, finishing your thought again.

"Yeah, I mean, it was good up until he stopped. I was so close," you admitted, almost forgetting you were talking to your male best friend instead of your therapist. "Oh, god. I'm so sorry. You didn't need to know that," you buried your head in your hands after your confession.

Chris let out a small chuckle, caressing your back with his fingertips again. "You don't have to be embarrassed to tell me things like that. I don't want to make you uncomfortable or anything, but I could, you know, finish you off if you'd like," Chris offered, his tongue darting out and wetting his lips as his gaze fell to your mouth.

Your eyebrows flew up. "Y-you'd do that?" You asked, seriously considering his proposal. "Yeah. I hate seeing you cry," Chris whispered, wiping away another tear as it fell. "If I could go back in time and make sure the whole situation didn't happen to begin with, I would. Making you feel good is the least I can do."

He tilted your chin up to look at him, searching your face for permission to kiss you. "What do you say? You want me to make you cum?" He sweetly asked, his gaze lingering on yours. "Yes. Pleeease, Chris," you softly begged, the words surprising you as they tumbled from your mouth in such a desperate manner.

He smirked down at you before his eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned in, his lips gently meeting yours. It started off slow - a few soft pecks here and there and a gentle caress of his fingertips along your jawline, sending goosebumps across your warm skin.

Before you knew it, the two of you had been swept up in the moment. His lips passionately engulfed yours, and his velvet-like tongue gently brushed against yours, filling your mouth with the taste of a blue raspberry-flavored piece of candy he'd eaten shortly before.

You softly moaned into his mouth, the vibration tickling his lips and sending blood rushing below his waist. He reached up your shirt, gently pinching your sensitive nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He pulled your top off over your head and admired the sight of you half-nude on his bed.

His hand wandered to the button of your jeans, and he slipped his long, slender fingers into your waistband. He gasped and pinched his eyebrows together when he felt how wet you were, his face only a few inches from yours as he explored your folds.

You relaxed against his body, a few breathy, textured moans spilling from your lips. "Let's get you out of these," Chris suggested, removing his hand from your waistband and motioning for you to lift your hips, so he could pull your jeans and your panties off of you and have better access to you.

Once you were completely naked, you leaned back on Chris' bed and slowly parted your legs, showing yourself off to him. "Look at that. She's so happy to see me," Chris seductively cooed, sliding his middle finger up and down your slit. You shuddered at the sensation and his words.

Your breath hitched in your throat as your best friend toyed with you, spreading open your labia and admiring how pretty and pink it was. He placed two digits at your entrance and watched them slowly disappear into your drooling hole.

"You weren't kidding. You are turned on," Chris observed, pumping his fingers and slightly curling them. You bit back a moan and grasped at the bedsheets beneath you. "Don't be shy. I wanna hear you," Chris responded with a smile on his face, indicating to you that he didn't care that his brothers were asleep upstairs.

You nodded and released your lower lip from between your teeth. As Chris picked up the pace, another sensual sound tore through you, but you didn't hold back this time. "That's it," Chris purred.

You peered down at the way he pistoned his fingers deep inside of you, your eyes traveling to the silver chain around his wrist and his prominent veins on his arms. With his blue eyes locked on yours, he lowered his head between your thighs and took your clit into his mouth.

You jumped and squealed at the feeling of his soft tongue exploring you, fluttering around on your needy pussy. He closed his lips down around your sensitive bundle of nerves and started gently suckling on it.

"Oh, Chris," his name fell from your lips as your tipped your hand back and started combing through his soft, brown hair with your hand. He worked tirelessly, his mouth and his fingers caressing your sensitive flesh, and he was determined to do so until you were finishing all over his tongue.

"Chris.." you whispered, his name falling from your lips again, but this time in a tone that indicated that you needed something from him. He peered up at you with his perfectly blue eyes and his drunk expression as he drank from your center. "Hmm?" He hummed against your clit, causing you to raise your hips and grind against his face.

"Your tongue feels heavenly, but I need more. Please," you requested. "More?" He asked, pulling away for a moment. You reached down and gently tugged on the collar of his shirt. "I need you to fuck me, Chris," the words tumbled out of you with fervor.

He was towering over you while you laid on your back, staring up at him like he was a god whose cock was going to bring you eternal salvation. He pulled his shirt off over his head, revealing his gorgeous body to you that had become more muscular in these recent months due to how often he'd been working out.

Your eyes danced over his chest, his stomach, and the prominent lines on his lower abdomen that directed your attention to his hard on that was struggling against the grey cotton of his sweatpants.

Before you had time to take in just how flawless he looked shirtless, he was hooking his thumbs in his waistband and tugging down his bottoms. His dick sprung out, and your gaze followed the way it gently bobbed.

"You ready, angel?" Chris asked, positioning himself between your legs. You stared down at his smooth, pink cockhead that was glistening with precum, and you nodded. Your jaw fell slack at the initial stretch as he pushed the tip into your weeping hole. Chris was much thicker than the man you'd been with earlier that night.

"So big.." you whimpered as he pushed it in a little deeper. A smug smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I know, angel," he said in a breathy groan as you fluttered around him. He started to rock his hips back and forth, inserting more of his length with every thrust. You let out a relieved sigh as he found your gspot, and your eyes rolled around in your head.

Chris gazed down at you beneath him, arms outstretched and tightly gripping his soft sheets. You loved the way he looked hovering above you, his flushed cheeks, his desire-filled blue eyes, and his pouty, pink lips parted as the room filled with his moans.

You felt his hand brush against the inside of your thigh as he spread your legs open further. His thumb found your clit, and he started moving it in circles as he drove himself into you over and over again. You let your sounds of pleasure pour from your lips with reckless abandon as Chris skillfully brought you to the edge.

You felt that divine feeling brewing deep within your core as Chris drilled his cock into you at an increasingly harder and faster pace. He could feel you sucking him in, and the way your pussy was throbbing around him. "You wanna cum, don't you, pretty girl?" He purred, looking into your eyes. "Mhmm," you hummed back desperately.

"How many times?" He asked, smiling down at you. His question surprised you. The man you'd gone on the date with couldn't even make you orgasm once, and now Chris was offering multiple? You were nearly too fucked out to answer him, but you regained your composure long enough to tell him, "three."

"Three? Greedy girl," he teased you, still making circles on your clit with his fingers as he rammed his tip into your gspot. "Show me what you've got, angel," Chris whispered, jolting his hips into you in a rhythmic pattern that he loved the way you reacted to.

Before you knew it, he was driving you over the edge, and your muscles tightened around him before you started to shake violently. You practically screamed in pleasure as you came on his cock, clenching around him uncontrollably which made it hard for him to hold on until your second orgasm, never mind your third. You felt the tension leave your body.

You'd been waiting all night for this feeling, and as you were sinking into the pleasure rippling throughout your system, you felt a second wave coming on. The pressure built so quickly this time, but the release was just as incredible as the first, resulting in you curling your toes and tearing at the sheets beneath you.

Chris was holding on for dear life, trying to get you to your third climax before he let himself cum, and with every powerful thrust into your drooling cunt, the harder it became for him to control his orgasm. He was begging to finish inside of you.

However, he maintained his stamina, pistoning into you at the perfect speed and pressure to get you what you asked for without giving in just yet. You trembled as you came onto his length a third time, leaving a thick ring of white at the base of his shaft.

Once you were completely spent, he snapped his hips forward and held them still, a guttural moan passing through his lips while he pumped you full of his heavenly substance. You could feel him release his load into you, his cock pulsating in your hole and leaving you with an incredible post-orgasmic state. He slowly pulled himself out of you, admiring the beautiful mess he'd left behind.

"How was that, angel? How do you feel?" Chris asked, checking in with you and cradling your face in his palm as he ran his thumb across your cheek. You smiled in sheer bliss, your chest still rising and falling as you caught your breath.

"That was divine. Your cock is like heaven," you whispered into his ear. "Well, angels like you are who heaven was made for," he whispered back.

[tangerineastronaut]

bibliophile ⟡ j. yunho

you're stressed...your study buddy has an idea.

Pairing: Yunho x Fem!Student!Reader Genre: Smut - dark twist Requested: Yes/No w.c. 5.8k Warnings: heavy on the smut, semi public sex (ish), mutual pining, food? - THE SUCKER - he does...things with it. Yunho is a FREAK. Reader is desperate for yunho dick (yes YOU, reader) Spoiler warnings are in comments if you need them. A/N: So, this is sort of two requests in one, however I don't want to disappoint anyone so I'll post it solo. I hope it's okay! <3 god deleted my ticket to heaven with this one. Requests: Open (link below)

Requests | WIPs Masterlists: BTS | ATEEZ | GOT7 | Stray Kids

Taglist: @baby-stay92 If you'd like to be added to my taglist, please DM me or click here.

You release a tired sigh and rub your eyes, throwing your pen down. It bounces off of your ridiculously thick textbook and lands on the papers scattered around your study partner. 

“Ah ah. No crashing yet, we’ve got three more chapters,” Yunho says with a laugh, tapping you on the end of the nose with his own pen. You pout, making a face at him before dramatically collapsing on the table. 

“I give up. You can become a lawyer, I’ll go back to making sandwiches,” you groan, muffled against pages of your future. 

“I thought you liked working at the sandwich shop?”

“I did,” you reply, tilting your head to look at him. “But sandwich shops don’t pay me six figures.”

“Then stop whining,” Yunho shrugs. You grumble words unintelligible even to yourself and sit up, fixing your hair. You stretched, yawned, checked your phone for the thousandth time that evening. Finals were next week. Then there was the Bar exam. You were so close to being y/n l/n, attorney at law…but you were beginning to feel nauseous at the mere sight of words on a page. 

“Wanna take a break?” Yunho suggests, leaning back to stretch. You avoid looking at the way his sweater rides up, revealing inches of what appears to be a toned belly. 

“No,” you mumble, forcing yourself to look away. “If I leave this library…I think I may never return.”

Yunho chuckles and nods, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and index fingers. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, enjoying a rare moment of peace. Usually the library is filled with students, exactly like you—stressed, depressed, drowning in student debt and reading assignments. 

“Yunho?” you mumble. He hums a response, looking over at you. You swallow. “If I start to cry, will you judge me?”

“Not at all,” he responds. You nod once, feeling tears burning in your eyes. 

For the next hour or so, you take turns reading passages and summarizing them, going through various laws and statutes that you could barely comprehend. Your brain felt as if it might explode, and you considered calling it a night, but it was only 10 p.m. and you’d be damned if you gave out before midnight. 

“What the hell are these ‘title 16 provisions?’” you scoff, crinkling your nose. “Were these even part of our assignment?”

“Let me see,” Yunho says. He scoots his chair over to your side of the table rather than just moving seats, and you feel your heart leap into your throat. And god, his arm slides over the back of your chair as he leans in to look at the tiny words on your page. 

He smells like coffee and the peanut butter granola bar you shared earlier, and this close you can see that he has very light freckles on his cheeks. You kind of want him to never move. 

“Ah, no this isn’t part of this assignment but we will have to know it for finals,” he says, words going in one of your ears and out the other. He begins talking about these provisions, but you must be numb to all forms of communication other than Jeong Yunho’s body heat. 

“Y/n?”

“Huh?” you mumble, shaking your head. Yunho has a funny look on his face, one brow raised. Oh god. Oh god. He caught you staring like a fucking creep. 

“...You good?” he chuckles. You swallow and quickly nod, brushing your hair back so fast you nearly hit him in the face. 

“Yep, uh huh,” you mumble. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Oh,” he says as though relieved. “Good. Well, if you need to take a break, let me know.”

He begins to move; you panic and grab his wrist. 

“Wait! You didn’t explain this part to me,” you say, pointing at a random section on the page. Yunho sits down again and tilts his head. 

“You need me to explain…marital property to you?” he asks, sounding both amused and disbelieving. 

Well, if you’re gonna be a bad liar, at least you’ll be persistent.

“Yes,” you nod. “Just like a refresher, you know? My brain is cooked.”

Yunho stares at you for a few seconds, and you feel your cheeks heat up. It feels like he knows something you don’t know, and you don’t like that. So you yank him back into his seat and let go of his wrist, pretending to be very interested in one of the most basic aspects of your degree. 

Marital property is boring, even when the hottest guy in your class is explaining it to you. And what’s worse—he knows. You know he knows. He’s explaining basic concepts to you, and then explaining the basics of those basic concepts, all the while keeping a little smirk on his handsome face. You consider caving, thinking of any possible excuse for your behavior. You’re delirious from lack of sleep, that’s actually true. But you were too deep in this to give up now. 

“That’s most of it,” Yunho finally says, long fingers splayed over the textbook. They nearly reach from one end of the open book to the other. You shiver. “I guess we should move into parental rights—”

“Yunho,” you begin with a sigh, ready to admit defeat. He smiles innocently, resting his chin in his hand.

“Yeah?”

“I—”

You freeze, having forgotten how to form sentences. Yunho’s still smiling at you, but his free hand is now resting on your thigh. You thanked the gods you’d decided to wear a skirt today. 

His palm is large, warm, spanning much of the plush skin there. He’s not gripping it, but it’s still very obviously intentional. You feel your cheeks burn hot; you’re determined to remain unaffected.

“Nevermind,” you mumble. He chuckles and turns back to the page, though he doesn’t move his hand. 

You don’t ask him to. 

You go back to your respective chapters, thankfully far beyond the basics, but his hand stays right where it is. He even reaches over his other arm to sip his coffee, refusing to move it. Your skin burns in the shape of his fingers; you almost want to push him away simply because your body is reacting to his touch in a way that’s making you feel crazy. You’re practically feverish, just because he’s near you. Pathetic, honestly. 

When you sigh and rub your eyes, those long fingers twitch, making you jump. You try to play it off, though you know he’s aware of your reaction, because he does it again. When you don’t react as dramatically, he squeezes gently.

Your knee jerks up so fast it hits the table, causing your belongings to rattle, and your heart feels like it’s going to explode. Yunho chuckles, though doesn’t move his hand. You clear your throat as though everything is normal. As though he’s not currently squeezing your upper thigh. 

“Yunho,” you say quietly. 

“Hm?” He doesn't bother looking up from his textbook.

“What are we doing?”

He does look up this time.

“Studying,” he says, giving you a sweet smile. You narrow your eyes. 

If he was going to do this, then so were you. You were sleep deprived, numb to the world, and horny as hell. So you parted your knees. 

Not much, just an inch or so, but very obvious. You didn’t miss the way Yunho’s throat worked as he swallowed, clearly not expecting the reciprocation. You go back to your textbook, but your victory is short lived, however, as his large hand slides further inward.

You’re flustered. But you’re also stubborn. So you drop your pen and look him in the eyes as you open your knees. Yunho’s gaze is steady as he slowly moves his hand, as though expecting you to stop him. You don’t. 

Yunho went back to reading and you did the same, just as his pinky brushed the crease of your inner thigh. You knew you were wet, knew he could probably feel the moist heat radiating from your body behind your pink panties, but you chose to be nonchalant. Until he rubbed the back of his knuckle against your panties, over your clit. 

The soft moan that escapes you is mortifying.

Yunho quickly clamps a hand over your mouth, laughing breathily as your brows pull together and you shudder. He looks as shocked as you are, though now you’re hazy, focused only on how good it felt, and wanting more. 

“Shh,” he chuckles nervously, glancing around despite the fact that you’re the only ones here. “No wonder you act like you’re walking around on thin ice. You’re frustrated as hell, huh?”

“P-Please,” you whimper pitifully against his palm, though it’s muffled. He moves his hand and you grip his wrist, looking up at him. You silently communicate your needs, praying he has mercy and doesn’t force you to say it out loud. Yunho glances around one more time, licking his lips before looking down at you like a fucking steak on a platter. 

“If we’re gonna do this, you gotta be quiet for me,” he murmurs. You nod quickly, gasping when he effortlessly yanks your chair closer to him. He adjusts his glasses before lowering his hand to your thighs, gently stroking them. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly. You open your mouth, but he presses a finger to your lips. “Quietly.”

“Yes, yes,” you whine. “T-Touch me.”

Yunho bites his lower lip, as though imagining doing much, much more than that. When he rubs your thighs again, your knees fall open and you stifle a moan behind your sleeves. Yunho smiles at the sight of you, slipping his hand between your legs again. 

This time, he’s more careful, though it’s much more frustrating for you. You squirm when he strokes either side of your cunt, making a ‘v’ and squeezing your plush pussy lips between them. You moan again, loudly, and Yunho scrambles to cover your mouth. 

“Baby, you’ve gotta be—”

“Quiet, I know,” you pout, gripping his wrist. “C-can’t help it…feels good.”

Yunho swallows, letting his fingers brush against you again. You manage to stay quiet this time, but your mouth opens in a silent scream.

“So fucking sensitive,” he murmurs, drawing his hand back. You nearly protest, but he presses his index finger to your clit like a button and you jolt, covering your mouth just in time. Yunho smirks. 

“H-Haven’t had sex,” you say, fisting the sleeve of his sweater as he pushes again. “In m-months.”

“Why?” he asks, beginning to rub slow circles against your panties. You feel your wetness spreading beneath them, but you don’t care. You grip the edge of the table and swallow. 

“Busy,” you breathe, licking your lips. Yunho’s eyes follow your tongue. You don’t notice. 

“Can I kiss you?”

“Y-yeah, yes,” you nod frantically. 

Yunho uses the hand between your legs to turn your entire body toward him. You want to mention how attractive that is, but he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to yours.

His kiss is nothing like his touch; there’s nothing dirty or hurried about it. His nose brushes the crease of yours as he tilts your heads to the side, his free hand moving up to cup your cheek. It’s a sweet kiss that makes no sense when his fingers are currently resting against your panties beneath your skirt. 

He seems to have forgotten what he was doing amidst your soft kisses, as you break away from his lips to impatiently bounce and whine. Yunho smirks and begins rubbing his middle finger directly over your clit, applying very little pressure. He kisses you again, and you throw your arms around his neck, trying to push your body into his. His knee prevents you from doing so. 

“Nng…what are you doing?” you whine, fisting his sweater. “Wanna…wanna be in your lap.”

Your own admission makes your cheeks flush red, but you don’t care. You’re horny and your crush’s hand is between your thighs. 

“Not yet, baby,” he mumbles, stealing another lazy kiss. “Wanna keep you like this. I like how desperate you are.”

“I…I’m not desperate,” you mumble. Yunho bites his lower lip and applies more pressure to your clit, you buck your hips and grip his sleeve. He’s laughing, but you don’t care, aching for more of him. 

“Desperate,” he hums, pulling you in for another kiss. You don’t understand his obsession with kissing you; wasn’t he as horny as you were? But you kissed him back anyway, because you’ve had a crush on this guy since your freshman year and even the slut hormones clouding your brain couldn’t block that much out. He was a damn good kisser too, taking the lead and hardly giving you time to breathe.

In contrast to his soft mouth, Yunho’s index finger hooks your soaked panties, tugging them to the side. His finger brushes your bare cunt, though he knowingly silences your moans with a kiss. 

“What can I do?” he asks once you finally break apart. You’re unwilling to let him go, however, pulling his lips back to yours.. 

“Don’t care,” you mumble between kisses, body buzzing with need. “Whatever you want.”

“Can I go in here?” 

He prods at the needy hole between your folds and you fucking purr, clutching his sweater and pulling him close with a whine. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs. He waits for you to eagerly nod, then brings his fingers to your mouth and taps your lips. “Open.”

You do as he says and he slips his fingers inside. You nearly moan around them as you instinctively suck and lick his digits; they’re long and thick, two of them practically as big as a few hookups you’ve had in the past. Yunho watches, pupils wide as you act like an obedient doll a little too eager to be fingered in a library at midnight. 

When he pulls his fingers out, they’re slick and shiny with your drool, and you see him suck in air. You blush, a little embarrassed at how thorough of a job you’ve done. You expect Yunho to go beneath your skirt, but he slides his wet fingers in his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. 

It’s the filthiest thing you’ve ever seen, next to the look of pure bliss in his eyes as he sucks your saliva off of his fingers and replaces it with his own. You decide then that you do not want him to finger you. 

“Fuck me,” you blurt out. 

You barely register what you’ve said, but you’re damn near ready to jump his bones. Yunho blinks in surprise, obviously not having expected that. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth.

“Really?” he asks. He sounds surprised for reasons you don’t understand, but you nod. 

“Yeah,” you say, pulling him in for another kiss. “Want you inside me. All of you.”

“Fuck,” Yunho groans. He grabs your face in his hands and kisses you back, harder. Your hands are shaky as they go for his jeans, but then he freezes like you’ve just slapped him. 

“What?” you ask, breaking the kiss. Yunho curses and rubs his face with both hands, tilting back in his chair. “What is it, yu?”

“I don’t…fuck. I don’t have a condom.”

He runs a hand through his hair like this is the biggest mistake of the century. You bite your lower lip—the idea of leaving tonight and not getting fucked by him makes you genuinely want to cry. 

“We could…you know?” you mumble, face hot. “I mean, I-I’m clean. Obviously, haven’t had sex in god knows when—”

“No,” Yunho says, shaking his head. “I don’t trust myself.”

“Don’t trust yourself to what?” you frown. Yunho looks at you, 

“There’s no way I’m gonna be able to make myself pull out once I’m in you,” he murmurs. “We need a condom.”

You swallow. You really shouldn’t push; but you need to hear more. 

“How do you know?” you breathe, licking your lips. 

“C’mere.”

“What?”

Yunho reaches over, grabbing your wrist. He pulls you into his lap and you gasp, able to feel the rigid line of his cock beneath you. But he grabs your face and pulls you in for a kiss again. 

“I’ve been thinking about you for so long,” he hums, and you mewl in response, grinding down against him. He kisses you again to stifle what was no doubt a moan. 

“Y-Yeah?” you manage to squeak out. Yunho nods. 

“Yeah. Not gonna be able to pull out if I’m balls deep in that little cunt with you fucking crying for it like this.”

Fuck. You needed him. To be honest, with or without the condom, but if he felt it was necessary.

“Let’s go get one,” you mumble dizzily. “A c-condom. There’s a convenience store down the street.”

Yunho frowns, looking at the clock on the wall.

“The library will be locked, won’t it? Don’t we have to lock up?”

You lean back in his lap, smiling. 

“Yes. But I’ve got a key,” you chime.

The moment you stepped into the store, you immediately regretted it and felt all the horny escape you. Not really, but it was embarrassing as hell, and painfully obvious as to what you were doing here. Yunho didn’t seem to mind, his hand tightly clasping yours as he guided you toward the back. 

You had a little trouble finding the condoms—it made you inexplicably happy when Yunho suggested asking the clerk as he didn’t know either, even though your answer was a firm NO—but eventually found the rack next to the sex pills and cold sore cream. 

Hot. 

Yunho squints, and you cross your arms impatiently. You grab a box and shake it. 

“It’s not a shoe store, here,” you mumble, pushing the box into his hand. Yunho glances over the label and smirks, tossing it back on the shelf. You want to ask what the hell is so funny when you’re so fucking wet your panties are sticking to your thighs, but then he finally makes a choice and puts the box in your hands. Oh.

Oh. 

XXL. Makes sense.

You make him grab a few more things as though that makes the purchase less shameful. When you go to check out, you look everywhere but at the clerk—until he has the audacity to speak to the man holding your hand, very obviously purchasing condoms so the two of you can go fuck in a library. 

“Finals week?” the guy says. Yunho slides his card across the counter and squeezes your hand.

“Finals week,” he nods.

“I just realized we could’ve gone to my apartment,” you say, unlocking the library door. Yunho leaned against the wall, unwrapping the candy he’d apparently decided on last minute. A red round sucker. “It’s only a few minutes away.”

You’d been given a key to the library your second year here, as you were a trusted student who often pulled all nighters—and you lived in the shitty part of campus where the power often went out. You were aware this was a total abuse of that power, but you figured if you showed Yunho to Ms. Lin, she’d understand. 

“Yeah, well, my fantasies during puberty weren’t at apartments,” Yunho shrugs, holding the door for you. You head inside and find your table, where you drop the bag of your purchased items. Yunho grabs it, immediately fishing out the box. 

“Very boy of you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “Let me guess, the hot librarian offers to help you find your dick? Is that part of the dewey decimal system?”

Yunho smiles. “Can we get back to you whining for me to fuck you? I liked that.”

“I was not—”

Your freakishly tall study partner grabs your wrist, tugging you against him. You swallow and look up, lips parted at the sudden contact. 

“Not what?” he asks. You blink, but something is suddenly pushing at your lips. You open dumbly, feeling too obedient as you take whatever he’s putting in your mouth apparently. The taste of artificial cherry makes you grimace. 

Yunho backs you up to the table, crowding you against it. He cups your face in his hands and kisses your cheek, thumbs brushing below your ears. You realize you’ve been staring at him wordlessly, sucker in your mouth. 

“How’s it taste?” he asks.

“Good,” you mumble. It doesn’t taste good, you hate cherry, but if Jeong Yunho puts something in your mouth, you love it, you decide. Cherry is your new favorite flavor. 

“I doubted if they sold gags, so,” he chuckles. “This’ll do.”

You frown, but he takes the stick of the sucker before you can respond. 

“Open,” he says. You open. 

You see his eyes twinkle, almost like he can’t believe how well you’re listening to him. If only he knew you’d do anything he asked. 

Rather than pull it out, Yunho rubs the sucker around your mouth. He coats your tongue with the sticky flavor, then the inside of your cheek. By the time he pulls it out, you don’t realize you’re drooling, mouth open for him.

He pops the sucker in his own mouth, just like his fingers, and you shudder. Then he’s slipping his hands beneath your skirt, pushing your panties down your thighs. 

“What are you doing?” you ask softly, more curious than concerned. Yunho takes the sucker out and kisses your cheek, then your lips. You can taste it on his tongue, just like yours. 

Something sticky and wet prods at your clit and you gasp, but Yunho wraps an arm around your waist and keeps you from pulling away. You squeak helplessly in shock, caught between mind numbing bliss and disbelief. He’s rubbing the bulbous head of the sucker against your clit. 

“Shh…figure it’s too risky to eat you out properly,” he hums in your ear, crushing you to his chest. You squirm, though not out of discomfort. 

You have no idea how to react, hands gripping his sweater as he holds you in place. The candy feels warm and sticky, sliding through your cunt juices as he teases you with it. 

“I wasn’t going to,” he says, voice strained as though he’s doing all he can to hold back. “But I saw it and…well fuck, baby, if I’m honest, I just wanted to see if you were desperate enough to try and fuck yourself on a piece of candy.”

You whine and bury your head against his shoulder, because you fucking are. You are desperate enough to try, because he slides the candy between your lips and you jolt when it brushes your hole.

“F-Fuck, Yunho,” you gasp, nails digging into fabric. You hear him laugh, and it sounds so fucking cocky, like he knew you’d end up like this, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you work yourself to ruin on a piece of candy. 

He slides it beneath the hood of your clit, twisting the stick in his fingers. Your knees buckle, but he’s gripping you tight. He works it like a toy, rubbing up and down, focusing on your clit until you’re nearly there before he moves it again. It didn’t feel this big when it was in your mouth, but you’ve never wanted something inside you so bad. 

“Oh my god,” you moan, thighs clamping together. It doesn’t stop his hand, or the candy, the rounded tip pushing against your hole. He starts rolling it again, and you gasp as you feel yourself snapping inside, the hot neediness spilling over the edges. You try to warn him, but only manage to squeak.

“Are you…are you cumming on a fucking lollipop?” Yunho asks, voice filled with awe. You nod. 

Your ears ring, your vision blurs, and you feel something pushing against your mouth. It’s Yunho’s hand you realize, but you can’t stop, can’t stop shaking and screaming and there’s something wet on your cheeks. 

You haven’t had a proper orgasm in months, maybe even a year, and were it not for Yunho holding you up, you’re pretty damn sure you would’ve fainted. 

When you open your eyes, Yunho is laughing quietly and hugging you tight, rubbing your back. 

“Fuck, are you okay?” he asks, sounding concerned and impressed. You sniff and nod, using the back of your hand to wipe your cheeks. Yunho cups your face and uses his thumbs to clean you up. You were crying. 

“I’m sorry, jesus, I didn’t think it was that bad,” he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. You realize then that the damn sucker is in his mouth.

You whine, yanking him forward until you’re kissing him. It’s clumsy, but he takes the sucker out and tosses it on the table behind you. You begin working desperately at his jeans, and hear him release a cherry flavored groan. 

“Still gonna let me fuck you?” he asks, keeping his lips against yours. 

“God yes,” you say in a shaky voice. “P-Please.”

“I can do that,” Yunho breathes. He places a large hand on the softness of your belly, gently pushing you back. 

Yunho towers over you, one hand moving to cup your thigh and open you up so he can stand between them. The other goes to his jeans, and you find yourself biting your lip and digging your nails into your palms. 

XXL?

“Since you look like you’re about to fucking eat me,” Yunho says with a laugh, “why don’t you do it? Hm? When’s the last time you put a condom on?”

You feel yourself blush at having been caught, but sit up to snatch the box near you. 

“Asshole,” you mutter, refusing to give him a proper answer.

Your hands are too shaky to open the box, so you end up ripping it down the side, condoms spilling out. You sigh anyway and grab one, slipping the foil packet between your teeth. You move your hands to his jeans, and realize that for the first time…you’re nervous. 

Until now your brain had been sex focused; it still was, but your post orgasm clarity made you realize how fucking desperate you looked. You roughly popped open the button of his jeans. 

Yunho was so damn tall that his hips were practically level with your face whilst you were on the short table. This meant that, as soon as you’d tugged his boxers down, you suddenly found yourself face to face with the biggest cock you’ve ever seen. 

XXL.

For a moment you were too dumbstruck—why did they bother sculpting the soft dicks when the hard ones could look like…this? All veins and smooth skin and a pink mushroom head that looked perfectly designed for…use. You wanted it in your mouth. But he hadn’t technically put his mouth on you, and you were both in a library, and right now you were starting to get a little shaky at the idea of this thing going anywhere near your neglected pussy, so you swallowed your resolve and took the condom from between your teeth. 

Yunho watched as you struggled to tear open the packet, biting your lower lip in frustration. You finally got it open, sighing as you placed the rubber at the tip. He grabbed your hands then, and you paused. Shit. Were you doing this wrong? 

“We don’t have to do anything,” he mumbles softly, cupping your chin. “You wanna stop right now? We stop. Not trying to ruin the mood, just want you to know it’s okay.”

You shake your head.

“I’m okay, thanks,” you say quietly. “It’s just…fuck, Yunho.”

He laughs, his little ego having returned just a bit, you wanted to roll your eyes and kiss him at the same time. He bites his lower lip and strokes his thumb over yours. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he hums. “You can take it for me.”

Fuck. Yes, you absolutely can. 

Yunho guides you onto your back, though you settle on your elbows, propped up for him. You watch as he squeezes the rest of the lube from the packet onto his cock, giving a few tugs before nodding at you. You weren’t sure if you were excited or scared, but there were two heartbeats and one was between your legs. 

He pushes your legs apart and guides his cock forward. You lick your lips and let your knees fall open, bunching your skirt around your waist, offering yourself to him. Yunho sucks in air through his teeth and curses. 

“So fucking pretty,” he hums, supporting his weight on one palm as he brushes his cock against you. You shiver as the cold lube is smeared around your sensitive cunt. “Knew it from the day I saw you freshman year in a skirt just like this one. Thought I was gonna die when you smiled at me.”

“I didn’t know you remembered,” you mumbled. You were so nervous your first day, which wasn’t helped by the hot guy who approached you and asked if you were lost. Apparently you could stop feeling ashamed for having mind fucked him back then. 

“Of course I do,” Yunho chuckles, teasing the head of his cock up and down your slit. “So cute, how you blushed when I talked to you. You still do that, you know.”

“Shut up,” you mutter. Yunho laughs, then licks his lips. 

“Gonna put it in now. Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. You nod.

The swollen head of his cock catches on your hole, and Yunho uses his weight to lean forward and urge himself inside. It aches a bit, not just from the size but fuck it’s been so long since you’ve had something more than your own fingers in you. Your thoughts go from not so bad to okay damn to holy fuck there’s more? Because he keeps pushing and you keep taking, and you feel every inch of him filling your insides while his body offers more. 

“Fuck, baby. Fuck,” Yunho whines, still gripping the base of his cock as he guides it into you. Your head falls back and you curse at nothing; his cock is somehow too big but perfectly sized at the same time and you’ve never felt so god damn full. “Look at you, that needy little cunt is swallowing me babygirl. Keep fucking taking it.”

His words make you dizzy, and you whine when he’s finally fully seated. You feel heavy, pinned to the table, as though you can’t move. You reach down and feel the rigid sides of his cock, shocked to feel just how much is inside you. 

“How’s that, beautiful?” Yunho asks. He places both palms on the table, either side of your body, and you tense. If he started thrusting, it would fuck you up. 

“Good,” you say, nodding. “Big, but good.”

“Knew you could take it. 'm gonna fuck you now. Stop me if you need to," he murmurs. You can take it.

"I can take it," you nod. He smiles, kissing you once, then twice.

You squeak as Yunho begins fucking you properly, ploughing into you hard and fast, moving with need and instinct rather than reason. 

The table shakes with his heavy thrusts, pistoning into you so hard it makes you dizzy. You’re surprised you can take him like this, able to feel every inch of him when he’s seated inside, pressing deliciously on your walls. 

Yunho ruts into you like an animal, unfortunately one with a very big cock as he struggles to keep every inch buried inside you. He wasn’t lying about not pulling out, as he refused to do so even when thrusting. You had no room to breathe, no chance for air, as he fucked into you repeatedly while trying to go deeper. 

You’re at a loss for words, lips parted, eyes following his expression and movements. He’s desperate in his own way, obviously holding back, though you don’t know from what. You consider encouraging him to let go—until he groans loudly and snaps his hips, stealing the breath from your lungs. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, baby. So fucking…need you to hold still for me and take it,” he breathes. "Hold still. A-Almost done, fuck, keep taking it so good for me."

You do as he asks without question, clinging to his shoulders, nose to nose with Jeong Yunho as he forces his cock as far as it can go in your body and begins to pump a thin condom full of cum that should be you. 

Yunho takes a few moments to breathe, arms shaking where he holds himself up on the table. You run a hand through his damp hair, watching as he moans softly and leans into your touch. 

“You okay?” you giggle. He nods, tilting his head to kiss your palm. 

“Just…You’re so fucking perfect. Want more of you if you’ll let me, wanna make you feel good every day," he says.

You blink at the surprising tenderness of his words, feeling they were more than sex related. You wanted to ask questions, but right now, you were both sticky with sweat and fucked out on a library table that would need to be wiped down with holy water. 

You separated, which left you shuddering from the sudden cold emptiness inside of you. Yunho exhaled sharply, waiting a few moments before removing the condom and tying it off. 

You both cleaned up and fixed your clothes as best you could—though you stuffed your panties in your bag because the sticky wetness was a little much. 

“Do you want to come over?” you ask, making sure your skirt is covering your ass. “You know. To clean up.”

Yunho smiles, which makes you smile, and then you’re blushing and cursing at yourself. He nods and brushes your cheek with his knuckle. 

“Sounds good,” he hums. You beam and gesture for him to follow you. Yunho watches as you collect your things with shaky legs, smiling to himself. 

You were so damn pretty. Intelligent. He’d noticed right away that you were someone he was going to want. 

He grabbed his own bag and walked past the table, pausing as he stepped on something. 

The sucker. 

You crinkle your nose when you notice it, too. 

“Guess we need to throw that away,” you mumble. He nods, bending down and picking it up. He holds it in his hand for a few seconds. 

What a good idea it had been. 

He slips it into his pocket, for the memories. 

Memories like, your name. Your favorite color. That skirt you wore on your first day. Apartment 2B, where you lived. You like the right side of the bed, don’t you? Yunho likes the left side. 

The last man you slept with—11 months, 1 week, and 4 days ago.

Yunho hated that one.

You had waffles for breakfast this morning. You usually have oatmeal. You sleep with a nightlight on.

You’re afraid of the dark.

“You coming?” you ask with a shy smile, pausing at the door. Yunho looks up. You didn’t see him slip the sucker in his pocket. You never notice things like that. 

“Yeah,” he says. He follows you out the door and waits for you to lock up. Then, without thinking too much of it, he takes your hand. You don’t pull away. Your hand is small compared to his, and he squeezes it. You squeeze back. 

You like hot showers.

You sound so pretty when you moan, especially when you think you’re alone. 

Your bathroom window is never locked.

You're never alone.

Yunho has a good memory when it comes to you.

[twisting-echo]

Oh my goodness! They all look so good in each other's outfits! It fits that Ariel would lose the glass slipper because she's still getting used to having human feet for the prince's ball! Cinderella in Tiana's wedding dress is an interesting parallel because I always thought the blue dress Tiana wore at Charlotte's costume party was a nod to Cinderella.

Also, Cinderella dressing Naveen up in Jaq's clothes and Naveen raising his eyebrow at her in confusion—LOVE IT! I ship them now! Tiana baking cakes with Olaf is so darn adorable, not to mention how fiiiine she looks in Elsa's dress! Dare I say something boldly taboo like Tiana wears it better?

And here we go. Everyone who knows me knows that Belle and Snow White are my favorite princesses of all time! She looks amazing in Belle's dress! You guys probably already know I ship Snow White and Beast, so this is just shipping fuel for me, lol. Oooh, that suave and charming candelabra Lumiere can't hide his weaknesses for beautiful women by the way he elegantly takes Snow White's hand and gently kisses it with his brass lips, all while Snow White and Beast exchange perplexed looks at each other. God, I love it!

Okay, I was pleasantly thrown by this one! The first thing I noticed wasn't how good Aurora looks in Jasmine's outfit, no, but the way Aurora and Genie are looking at each other. I mean, I'm not the only one who sees it, right? There are sparks flying between those two!

Pocahontas in Rapunzel's dress! Oh my gosh, yes! Purple is a great color on her! Awwww, Pascal would adore her! Also, how is she going to leave that tower? I know her hair is long, but it's not 70 feet long! Well, I'm sure the wind can help her down.

Awww, Jasmine in Snow White's dress, and she's pulling it off! Also, the little bird resting on her hand is a nice nod to the little bird she cuddled with in her movie when she told her father that she wanted to marry for love. Lastly, the bow! She looks so pretty with that bow. I don't know how much more I can take of this, you guys. I am losing my gosh dang mind right now! We have 6 more princesses to go! 😭

Yeeesss! Merida riding a horse and wielding a sword are her favorite things! Plus, I ship Brave Warrior, so this is just some more shipping fuel for me.

(Gasps) Belle looks stunning in Aurora's periwinkle/blue dress! Oh, I love it! She has to be the beauty somewhere, if she's not with the beast, so falling asleep while reading it is!

Mulan drawing a bow in the moors of Scotland? Again, shipping fuel! Oh, my gosh, I love this! Elsa's fins look like a snowflake, and she's freezing Ursula's tentacles like, "Begone, THOT! You can't have my sister's voice!"

And finally, Rapunzel in Pocahontas' outfit sitting under the willows of Grandmother Willow while Meeko and Flit help braid her hair? Perfection! She'd love running around in the forest and jumping off cliffs! I can literally see her painting the colors of the wind!

Great job, OP!

Here are all 12 pieces from my E! News exclusive illustration series!!!

I’m super happy with how each piece turned out and that each character has managed to stay themselves despite being thrown into new surroundings and costumes. (My inner feminist wouldn’t allow Merida or Mulan to have their weapons taken away lol) Pocahontas still loves animals, Cinderella is still dressing tiny creatures, Tiana is cooking, and Belle fell asleep reading! I hope you enjoy the princesses you know and love, with a twist!

Check out my page for process work and phone backgrounds!

[diamonddaze01]

Fake it Til You Make it

pairing: boo seungkwan x f!reader | wc: 18K genre: coworkers au, fake dating au, fluff, humor, suggestive, angst warnings: language, alcohol consumption, suggestive scenes a/n: for cam&em’s lonely hearts cafe collab (everyone go read every fic or i will Find You) // this is a continuation of morning rush enormous thank you to @ylangelegy and @haologram for beta-ing this <3333

summary: You could honestly throttle Seokmin right now. Of all the half-baked, caffeine-fueled ideas he’s ever had, convincing the entire office that you and Seungkwan—your sworn nemesis and parking spot thief—are madly in love might just take the cake.

Seokmin has a plan. A really, really, really good plan. He’s sure of it.

Mostly.

He leans against the breakroom counter, nursing the world’s saddest cup of instant coffee, and considers the potential fallout. Sure, you and Seungkwan will probably strangle him (or, in your case, make an entire PowerPoint on “Why Lee Seokmin Deserves to Be Laid Off”), but the rewards outweigh the risks. Seokmin glances toward the hallway, where the faint sound of Aera and Ayoung’s laughter echoes, their voices just a pitch too smug. No, this plan is flawless. Foolproof. Nobel Prize-worthy, even.

All he has to do now is sell it to the two people who loathe each other the most in the office.

He hadn’t meant to open his mouth, but God, Aera and Ayoung had to have been demons crafted by the devil himself, the kind that thrived on overpriced lattes and the scent of shattered self-esteem. Seokmin had just been passing through the hallway, minding his own business—okay, eavesdropping a little—when he caught wind of their conversation.

“Honestly, I don’t know why she even bothers coming to these galas,” Aera had said, inspecting her manicure like it held the secrets of the universe. “It’s not like anyone actually notices her. She’s basically furniture.”

“Right? What’s the point if you don’t have someone on your arm?” Ayoung had added, with a theatrical sigh. “But then again, who would even want to go with her? She’s so…. ugh.”

The “ugh” had been the final straw. Seokmin hadn’t thought twice—he’d stormed over, ready to unleash a tirade about how you were the hardest-working person in the office, how you’d single-handedly carried your team through last quarter’s hellish project, and how you absolutely deserved more respect.

Instead, what came out of his mouth was: “Y/N has a date. Obviously.”

The two women blinked at him in unison, their perfectly sculpted eyebrows raising in surprise. “Oh?” Aera recovers quickly, tilting her head. “And who’s the lucky date? You?”

Seokmin laughed, loud and unconvincing. “Me? No, no, I’m going with Soonyoung, like I always do.”

Ayoung narrowed her eyes. “Then who?”

And this is where Seokmin’s brain had short-circuited. He glanced around the room, as if the walls might offer some divine intervention. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the vending machine. His mind raced, searching for a name that would shut them up, and then—

“Seungkwan,” he blurted out.

Both women stared at him, stunned. “Seungkwan?” Aera repeated, incredulous.

“Yep! Seungkwan,” Seokmin had said, doubling down because he knew there was no turning back. “They’ve been together for ages. Super lowkey about it, though. You know how Seungkwan is.”

The silence was deafening.

“Seungkwan,” Ayoung echoed, her expression twisting into disbelief. “Boo Seungkwan. As in, ‘my parking spot is sacred ground’ Seungkwan?”

Seokmin’s grin tightened. “The very same.”

For a moment, the two women exchanged a look, processing this unexpected development. Then, to Seokmin’s immense relief, Aera shrugged. “Huh. I guess that makes sense. They’re both kind of…intense.”

“I mean, they fight like an old married couple,” Ayoung had added, smirking.

“Exactly!” Seokmin said, clinging to the lifeline they’ve unknowingly thrown him. “Soulmates, right?”

The rumor spread faster than an office email about free donuts, and by lunchtime, it seemed like everyone had an opinion about your supposed relationship with Boo Seungkwan. The first domino fell when Mingyu slid into the seat across from Seungkwan in the cafeteria, tray in hand and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. He casually tossed his napkin onto his lap, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Seungkwan pause mid-bite.

“So,” Mingyu began, spearing a piece of chicken with far too much casual flair, “you and Y/N, huh? Cute.”

Seungkwan, who had been halfway through chewing a mouthful of rice, immediately choked so violently he nearly toppled the entire tray. The force of his cough was so dramatic that Joshua, seated a few spots away, paused mid-bite and gave Seungkwan a couple of hard thumps on the back, muttering a half-hearted “Jesus, dude” under his breath. The rest of the table fell silent, watching the spectacle unfold with varying degrees of concern and mild amusement.

“Excuse me?” Seungkwan sputtered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and confusion.

“You know…” Mingyu leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, the way someone would when revealing state secrets. “You. Y/N. The whole undercover thing.” He paused for effect, looking around as if making sure no one else was eavesdropping. “Honestly, I didn’t see it coming, but it makes sense. You two do bicker like an old couple. It’s kinda cute, actually.”

Seungkwan froze mid-chew, his chopsticks hovering in midair, as his brain scrambled to process Mingyu’s words. Undercover thing? Old couple? Y/N?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Seungkwan said flatly, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine confusion, although a tiny bead of sweat had already begun to form at his temple. He glanced around, noticing the way a few of his coworkers at the nearby tables were suddenly pretending to be deeply invested in their food, but the side glances they were stealing were hard to miss.

Mingyu squinted, his expression becoming exaggeratedly serious. “Don’t play dumb, Seungkwan. Aera and Ayoung said you and Y/N have been secretly dating for ages. Ages. Like, seriously. You two are practically the office power couple.”

Seungkwan stared at Mingyu, not entirely sure whether he should laugh or start hyperventilating. His eyes flickered to Joshua, who was now giving him a sympathetic glance, and then back to Mingyu, whose grin had only grown wider with every passing second. The conversation around them had slowly started to fade into the background, leaving only the sound of Seungkwan’s rapidly beating heart in his ears.

For a brief moment, the only sound was the clatter of utensils against trays, and the faint sound of someone sneezing a few tables over, as though the entire room was collectively holding its breath. Then, with the force of a dam breaking, Seungkwan exclaimed, “WHAT?!”

The sound was so loud and high-pitched that the people around them flinched. Mingyu’s smirk only deepened.

“Yeah, you heard me,” he said, as if the news was the most normal thing in the world. “You and Y/N—together. Lowkey, sure, but people are noticing. Honestly, I'm impressed. You've got good chemistry. You bicker, you glare at each other like it's a sport, and boom—no one can resist you two.”

Seungkwan’s eyes widened even further, if that was possible. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out for a solid five seconds. “You... Mingyu, this is—this is insane. We’re not—”

“I mean, you guys do fight like an old married couple,” Mingyu added, completely unbothered. “Classic relationship stuff.”

Seungkwan let out a high-pitched groan, dropping his chopsticks onto his tray as he slumped back in his seat. Joshua patted him on the back with a sympathetic look. “Honestly, man, at this point, I think everyone’s already betting on how long you two last.”

Seungkwan turned a death glare on Mingyu. “Mingyu, I am not dating Y/N, okay? Not. I don’t even—”

“Sure you’re not,” Mingyu said with a wink, leaning back and taking a leisurely sip of his drink. “But hey, if you need help smoothing it over, let me know. I could use a good laugh.”

Meanwhile, you were in the middle of a relatively peaceful afternoon, lost in your work, when Soonyoung burst into your workspace like a caffeinated golden retriever on a sugar rush.

“Congrats!” he announced, voice loud enough to startle the intern two desks down, who nearly spilled her coffee in the process.

You blinked at him, genuinely perplexed. “For what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him, unsure whether this was a prank you weren’t in on yet.

“For the relationship of the century, duh!” Soonyoung said, plopping into the chair next to you like he owned the place. He threw his feet up onto the corner of your desk, barely missing the pile of reports you’d been working on. He propped his chin on his hands, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You and Seungkwan—genius. Absolutely genius. I mean, I was wondering when you two would finally make it official, but keeping it lowkey? Perfect. Who came up with it? Was it you? It had to be you.”

Your face contorted into a mix of confusion and horror, the words barely registering. “What are you talking about? What relationship?”

Soonyoung leaned in closer, like he was about to share some highly classified info, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper. “The PR stunt, obviously! Aera and Ayoung are eating it up. Honestly, you and Seungkwan should start charging them rent for all the space you’re taking up in their heads. They're obsessed. It’s amazing.” He gave a pleased little clap. “Love to see it.”

“PR stunt?” you echoed, voice climbing in pitch. “Seungkwan?”

“Don’t be shy!” Soonyoung winked, his eyes practically glittering with pride. “You’re playing it so cool. I gotta hand it to you, you two are perfect at the whole ‘undercover couple’ thing. No one saw it coming. Now, with all those entertainment rumors about you two, people are talking. It’s the kind of buzz I can only dream of.”

You slammed your laptop shut with a dramatic bang. The sound made Soonyoung jump. "I’m going to kill him."

Soonyoung, unfazed, simply leaned back in his chair with a grin. “You should. But first, enjoy the chaos, because it’s already spreading. I mean, even the office Slack is buzzing about your ‘relationship.’ I think it’s time for you to play the long game.”

Before you could respond, Soonyoung was already pulling out his phone and swiping through a group chat on his screen. You could feel your headache forming as he muttered something about “setting the record straight” and “beating Mingyu’s office poll on couple dynamics."

Seokmin was mid-sip of his third coffee of the day when the breakroom door slammed open with enough force to make him spill.

“What the—” Seokmin started, dabbing at the mess with a crumpled napkin, but he didn’t get to finish because you and Seungkwan stormed in, practically radiating wrath. It was like watching a SWAT team execute a mission—except the target was him and his questionable life choices.

“You!” Your voice cracked through the air like a whip as you jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction.

“YOU!” Seungkwan echoed, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. His finger joined yours in solidarity, a united front of pure fury.

Seokmin froze, cornered between the sink and the vending machine, his coffee mug clutched like a makeshift shield. “Me?” he squeaked, his eyes darting between your expressions, both etched with a mix of betrayal and irritation.

“Yes, you!” Seungkwan snapped, stepping closer with the air of a man who had reached the end of his rope. “Do you want to explain why Mingyu just asked me if me and Y/N are naming our future pets after luxury brands?!”

The words hung in the air for a beat, heavy with absurdity.

“Luxury brands?” you echoed, your tone disbelieving.

“That’s not the point!” Seungkwan said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He rounded back on Seokmin, who looked like a deer caught in a pair of particularly unforgiving headlights. “Explain. Now.”

Seokmin hesitated, his mind spinning like a faulty gear. He could feel a bead of sweat forming at his temple. “Okay,” he began carefully, stalling for time. “First of all, you’re welcome.”

The sheer audacity of the statement hit like a slap.

“You’re welcome?” you and Seungkwan chorused, voices dripping with incredulity.

“Yes!” Seokmin said, puffing up his chest slightly as though he were presenting a brilliant thesis. “You don’t understand how horrible Aera and Ayoung were being. They were saying awful things about you, Y/N! I had to defend your honor.”

“And your solution,” you said, your tone calm but with an edge sharp enough to slice through steel, “was to fake-date me with Seungkwan?”

“Yeah, Seokmin,” Seungkwan added, his hands flailing in emphasis. “I mean, if you wanted to fake-date Y/N, at least pick someone plausible. Like, I don’t know, Mingyu.”

“Hey!” you snapped, your glare whipping to Seungkwan.

“What?” Seungkwan asked, blinking in genuine confusion. “It was just an example.”

“Enough!” Seokmin groaned dramatically, throwing his hands in the air as though burdened by your collective lack of vision. “Look, it worked, didn’t it? Aera and Ayoung bought it! They even said you two bicker like an old married couple!”

“That’s not a compliment!” Seungkwan exclaimed, his voice rising an octave.

“And,” you interjected, stepping forward, your expression unnervingly calm but your tone laced with menace, “now the entire office thinks we’re in a relationship. So, how exactly does this ‘plan’ of yours end?”

Seokmin’s grin faltered slightly, his bravado cracking just enough to reveal a hint of unease. “Uh… with you two faking it for a bit longer? You know, until Aera and Ayoung find someone else to gossip about?”

Seungkwan let out a groan, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re fired from planning anything ever again,” you added, your voice dripping with finality.

Seokmin opened his mouth to respond, his face twisting into a defensive expression, but the door creaked open before he could speak.

All three of you turned to see Soonyoung poking his head inside, his phone clutched in one hand. “Hey, not to interrupt, but I just posted a poll in the office group chat: ‘Who’s the power couple—Seungkwan and Y/N or Soonyoung and his plants?’ You’re winning by 72 percent, by the way.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

“You’re all insane,” Seungkwan muttered at last, snatching his coffee off the counter and storming out in a whirlwind of righteous indignation.

“Seokmin,” you said through gritted teeth, each syllable dripping with warning. “Fix this.”

Seokmin raised his mug in a mock toast, his grin resurfacing. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

“Oh, no,” you groaned, turning on your heel. “We’re doomed.”

Seokmin’s apartment is as much of a disaster as you’d expect for a man who owns a single fork and three mismatched plates. The couch is one ill-timed flop away from breaking, and the "decor" consists of a faded movie poster, a dying plant, and a string of half-working fairy lights. Yet, somehow, it’s become the Friday night spot.

You, Seokmin, and occasionally Soonyoung gather here weekly like clockwork, cobbling together meals from his barren fridge, drinking yourselves silly, and venting about work. It’s an unspoken tradition, one that began with a pity invite after a particularly hellish week and quickly solidified when you discovered that, despite his lack of utensils, Seokmin could cook better than half the office put together.

Tonight, however, you’ve barely cracked open a bottle of soju when Seokmin starts talking about your “relationship” with Seungkwan.

“I’m just saying,” he slurs, stirring a pot of ramen with a spatula (his one and only cooking tool), “if you and Seungkwan fake-dated, Aera and Ayoung would shut up. It’s genius!”

You groan, sprawled on the lumpy couch with a glass in hand. “Seokmin, I’d rather die.”

“Would you, though?” he says, squinting at you like he’s cracked the code to life. “Because imagine showing up to the gala with Seungkwan on your arm. They’d hate it. And you’d look hot.”

You swish the remaining soju in your glass, frowning. “I don’t need Seungkwan to look hot.”

“Exactly! Which makes it better. He’d be like your hot accessory. Like a really angry Gucci bag.”

You snort at the thought of Seungkwan as a designer handbag and open your mouth to argue when Seokmin’s expression turns suspiciously earnest. “Look, I’m your work husband. I’d never steer you wrong. Just trust me.”

Your brain, already fuzzed from alcohol and exhaustion, betrays you. “Fine,” you mutter, waving your hand. “Whatever. I’ll fake-date Seungkwan.”

“REALLY?!” Seokmin drops the spatula with a clatter and claps his hands. “Great! Let me tell Soonyoung it’s safe to come in!”

“What?” you snap, sitting up so fast the room tilts. “What do you mean, safe to come in?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin says casually, wiping his hands on his pants. “He’s been waiting outside with Seungkwan for the 45 minutes it took for me to convince you.”

“LEE SEOKMIN, I WILL FUCKING THROTTLE YOU!”

You launch your slipper at him, but he ducks. The projectile sails past him and hits a new target—a very startled Seungkwan, who has just walked through the door.

The slipper connects with his thigh with a muted thwack.

Shocked silence fills the room.

Seungkwan glares at the three of you like you’ve all personally wronged him. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I’m going home. All of you motherfuckers are insane.”

“Wait!” Soonyoung and Seokmin leap forward, grabbing Seungkwan by the arms and dragging him back inside. He protests the whole way, muttering about how he “knew this was a terrible idea” and “should’ve stayed home.”

Thus begins the chaos.

Seokmin slaps the paper onto the coffee table like he’s presenting a groundbreaking thesis. In messy, barely legible letters, he’s scrawled FAKE DATING CONTRACT across the top.

“We’re doing this right,” he announces, brandishing the sharpie like a microphone. “Discussion topic number one: PDA.”

“None,” you say, raising your soju bottle in a mock toast.

“No PDA?” Soonyoung protests from where he’s sprawled across the armrest of the couch. “How is that going to convince anyone you’re dating? You can’t just stare at each other awkwardly across the room!”

“I don’t stare at people awkwardly,” you snap.

“Yes, you do,” Seungkwan deadpans. “That’s, like, your whole thing.”

“Excuse me?” you shoot back, glaring.

“Alright, alright!” Seokmin waves the sharpie between you like a referee breaking up a fight. “Compromise: hand-holding is allowed.” He starts writing it down, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.

“And cheek kisses,” Soonyoung adds brightly.

“No way!” Seungkwan bursts out, looking betrayed.

“It’s just a cheek!” Soonyoung protests. “You don’t even have to look at her.”

“Wow,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “Thanks for the enthusiasm, darling.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Seungkwan snaps, arms crossing. “Did you want me to lie and say I’m thrilled to be fake-dating the office menace?”

You grab a couch cushion and smack him over the head with it. “I wouldn’t have to be a menace if you weren’t so insufferable!”

“Guys!” Seokmin groans, pointing the sharpie at both of you like it’s a weapon. “Focus. Cheek kisses are in.” He scribbles it down while Seungkwan mutters something about treason.

“And you,” you add, pointing at Seungkwan, “are bringing me coffee every morning for six weeks from that café across town.”

“Like hell I am!” Seungkwan glares. “You know how far that is?”

“Yes, which is why you’re doing it,” you snap. “Call it emotional compensation.”

“You’re not getting coffee and the parking spot!” Seungkwan shouts, sitting up straight.

“The parking spot was mine first!”

“Your car doesn’t even fit in it properly!”

“Then I’ll make it fit!”

Seokmin scribbles something on the paper and holds it up with an exasperated flourish. “Okay, joint custody of the parking spot. You’ll alternate weeks.”

“That’s stupid,” you mutter.

“So are you!” Seungkwan fires back, and you lunge for another cushion.

“Guys!” Soonyoung yells, snatching the cushion out of your hands. “Rule number three: no throwing things at each other while in public.”

“I’m not signing that,” you say immediately.

“Neither am I,” Seungkwan agrees.

“Fine,” Seokmin grumbles, crossing it out. “Next rule: no kissing on the lips.”

“That should’ve been rule number one,” Seungkwan mutters, and you chuck a slipper at him for good measure.

“Rule number five: you have to act nice to each other in front of Aera and Ayoung,” Seokmin adds, barely pausing as Seungkwan yelps.

“Oh, great,” you say sarcastically. “So now I have to fake-date him and fake-like him?”

“Yeah, real tough,” Seungkwan scoffs. “Try fake-liking you for five minutes.”

“Okay, rule six: no insults while in public,” Seokmin says, scribbling furiously.

“Define ‘insult,’” you say.

“You just called me a moron five minutes ago!” Seungkwan protests.

“That’s not an insult,” you argue. “It’s an observation.”

“Oh my God,” Seokmin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’ll both bring snacks to the gala,” Soonyoung interjects, leaning over Seokmin’s shoulder. “That way, when you start arguing in public, at least you can shove food into each other’s mouths.”

“That is not going on the list,” Seungkwan says, shooting him a glare.

“It’s already on there,” Seokmin chirps.

The arguing goes on and on, fueled by soju and petty grievances, until the paper is crammed with hastily written rules, half of which contradict each other. Seokmin holds up the finished product triumphantly.

FAKE DATING CONTRACT(written and notarized by Lee Seokmin, Esq. of Bad Ideas LLC)

No PDA.

Exception: hand-holding is allowed.

Exception to the exception: no clammy hands.

Cheek kisses are mandatory for believability.

Mandatory?! – Seungkwan

Yes. – Soonyoung

No lip kissing, EVER.

We’re not that committed to this.

Joint custody of the parking spot.

Weeks will alternate.

If one party is late to the spot, they forfeit their turn.

Coffee Clause:

Seungkwan will deliver coffee every morning for six weeks.

It must come from the café across town.

Why do I have to do this? – Seungkwan

Because you’re annoying. – Y/N

No throwing objects at each other in public.

Or private! – Seungkwan

Not negotiable. – Y/N

Insult ban in public spaces.

“Moron” is not an insult, it’s an observation.

This feels targeted. – Seungkwan

Be nice to each other in front of Aera and Ayoung.

Smile. A lot. Pretend you’re not arguing.

How am I supposed to do that?! – Y/N

Snacks must be brought to the gala.

If bickering begins, snacks will be used to shut each other up.

This rule is offensive. – Seungkwan

Duration of fake dating: until Aera and Ayoung lose interest or find another victim.

No extensions allowed.

All parties must try to look reasonably attractive during public appearances.

Define ‘reasonably.’– Seungkwan

Just don’t embarrass me. – Y/N

Any disputes regarding this contract will be arbitrated by Soonyoung and Seokmin.

Oh, we’re gonna regret this. 

Practice sessions required before the first public appearance.

“Practice” may include hand-holding, smiling, and general fake-couple behavior.

Can we practice not doing this? – Seungkwan

Signed, Y/N & Boo Seungkwan Witnessed by: Lee Seokmin & Kwon Soonyoung

“Done!” he declares. “Time to sign.”

You glance at the chaotic list and groan. “I hate this.”

“Sign it anyway,” Seokmin says, shoving the sharpie into your hand.

You scrawl your name at the bottom with all the enthusiasm of someone signing away their soul. Seungkwan follows suit, muttering curses under his breath.

“Great!” Seokmin beams, snatching the paper and sharpie. “Now, time to practice!”

“Seokmin, it’s 3 AM!” you whine. “Let me go home!”

“NO!” Soonyoung and Seokmin yell in unison.

Practice begins in earnest with Seokmin standing in front of you and Seungkwan like a drill sergeant, clipboard in hand. Soonyoung is sprawled across the couch with a blanket, looking far too comfortable for someone instigating chaos.

“Alright,” Seokmin says, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “First order of business: compliments.”

“Compliments?” you echo, your tone flat. “We’re fake-dating, not auditioning for a rom-com.”

“Yes, compliments,” Seokmin says, with the exaggerated patience of a kindergarten teacher. “If you can’t fake a little affection, no one’s going to buy this. Start with something small. Seungkwan, you go first.”

“Fine,” Seungkwan sighs, turning to you. “Your… outfit is fine.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Don’t hold back.”

“Fine! You looked pretty that one day you wore a dress to work,” he says, crossing his arms defensively.

Your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you hate that it does. That wasn’t what you’d expected him to say. The memory surfaces unbidden: you, rushing into the office late for a meeting, fumbling with your presentation slides. You barely noticed Seungkwan staring, too preoccupied with apologizing to the executives that were staring at your whirlwind entrance.

Now, you remember the day too well, and you shove the memories down immediately. “That’s it? One day out of, like, a thousand?” you say, masking your unease with a smirk.

“Take it or leave it,” he snaps.

“Your turn,” Seokmin says, gesturing at you.

You glance at Seungkwan, already regretting what you’re about to say. “You… make people laugh.”

“That’s the best you can do?” Seungkwan scoffs, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” you grumble. “You’re good at your job. People like you. You’re… charming, I guess.”

The room goes silent for a beat, and you feel heat creeping up your neck.

“Well,” Seungkwan says after a pause, his voice quieter. “Thanks.”

“Okay, compliments, check,” Seokmin interjects, scribbling something illegible onto the contract for no discernible reason. “Next, hand-holding!”

“Seriously?” you groan.

“Yes!” Soonyoung shouts from his sprawl on the couch. “You’re going to have to do it in public! Get over it!”

Reluctantly, you hold out your hand. Seungkwan looks at it like you’ve just offered him a live grenade.

“Stop stalling,” Seokmin says, smirking.

Seungkwan grabs your hand, and the moment your palms meet, you recoil. “Why is your hand so clammy?” you demand, grimacing.

“Because I’m stressed, you monster!” Seungkwan shoots back. “Stop squeezing so hard!”

“I’m not squeezing—your hand’s just weird!”

“My hand is weird?” Seungkwan huffs. “Yours is dryer than the Sahara!”

“You’re both weird!” Soonyoung yells, throwing a couch pillow at your heads. “Try again, and this time, don’t look like you’re holding hands with a corpse!”

The both of you roll your eyes but try again. This time, it’s… slightly better. Seungkwan’s hand is still clammy, but at least he’s not actively complaining. 

By the time Soonyoung pipes up again, the sun is starting to rise, casting pale light through the blinds.

“Alright, final test,” he says, stifling a yawn. “You’ve gotta kiss her cheek.”

“What?!” you and Seungkwan exclaim in unison.

“You’re going to have to do it in public anyway!” Soonyoung argues, gesturing grandly from the couch. “This is practice!”

“I am not kissing—”

“Just do it,” Seokmin says, cutting Seungkwan off with a weary wave of his hand. “The sooner you do, the sooner we can all sleep.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, Seungkwan leans over. His hand finds your shoulder for balance, and then—soft and fleeting—his lips brush your cheek.

It’s over in a heartbeat, but your stomach flips like you’re falling from the top of a roller coaster. You can still feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the faint pressure of his lips, and it sends a shockwave of emotions crashing through you—confusion, nervousness, and something suspiciously like longing.

Seokmin looks at you knowingly, and your heart stutters in your chest.

“I have to go,” you mutter, grabbing your jacket in a rush. You can’t stay here—not with Seokmin’s knowing smirk, not with Seungkwan’s kiss replaying on a loop in your head. “See you Monday.”

Before anyone can stop you, you’re out the door, the crisp morning air biting at your cheeks as you flee Seokmin’s apartment like it’s on fire.

The parking lot is unusually quiet as you pull in, a sharp contrast to the whirlwind weekend you’re still trying to process. You hadn’t slept much since fleeing Seokmin’s apartment, your thoughts tangled in half-drunken banter, hastily scribbled contracts, and—worst of all—the lingering warmth of Seungkwan’s lips on your cheek.

A glint of sunlight off a familiar car catches your eye, parked a few rows back. Seungkwan’s here early. Of course he is. You can already feel your mood souring, bracing yourself for whatever fresh nonsense he’s decided to stir up this week.

Sliding into The Spot, you glance around, expecting the usual hustle and bustle of the office, but your focus sharpens the moment you spot them—Aera and Ayoung, lingering suspiciously close to your desk. You feel the groan build in your throat. It’s too early for this.

“Look who’s finally here,” Aera says the moment she spots you, her voice carrying easily over the din.

You keep walking, shoulders stiffening as Ayoung chimes in. “Big weekend, huh? Let me guess, late-night dinner dates with you know who?”

“Or maybe a romantic getaway?” Aera adds, giggling. “He seems like the type to splurge, doesn’t he?”

You don’t take the bait, just set your bag down at your desk, pointedly ignoring them.

But they don’t stop. Ayoung leans against the edge of your cubicle, her grin sharp. “Seriously, though. How does it feel? Dating the Boo Seungkwan.”

You glance up at her, exasperation seeping into your voice. “What is your problem?”

“No problem,” she says innocently, her expression anything but. “We’re just... curious. I mean, it’s not every day someone like him ends up with... well, you.”

There it is. The thinly veiled insult. Your fingers tighten around your bag strap, heat rising to your cheeks. Before you can snap back, Aera gasps, her attention snagging on your desk.

“Oh my god. Is that a coffee?” Her tone is mockingly saccharine as she picks up the cup, waving it in front of you. “And a note. ‘As requested - xo Seungkwan.’ How adorable.”

Ayoung practically cackles. “He even knows your order. Wow, this is... honestly shocking.” She isn’t wrong - it’s your exact order, right down to the weirdly specific oat milk ratio you insist on.

“Shocking?” you repeat, glaring.

Aera shrugs, clearly reveling in your discomfort. “I mean, come on. You’re you. He’s... him. It’s a little hard to picture, don’t you think?”

You open your mouth to retort, but a new voice cuts in before you can.

“Do you two ever get tired of this?”

You don’t even need to look to know who it is. You turn just in time to see Seungkwan stride over, exuding confidence like he’s been rehearsing this moment. He doesn’t even look at Aera and Ayoung; his focus is entirely on you as he slides an arm around your waist.

The casual weight of it is jarring, grounding—and completely unnecessary. Your heart stutters in response, though you’d die before admitting it.

“Is there a problem here?” Seungkwan asks, his tone all business, though you catch the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Aera’s confidence wavers for the first time, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. Ayoung, to her credit, looks equally flustered.

“No problem,” Aera says finally, her voice quieter now.

“Good,” Seungkwan replies smoothly. He glances down at you, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Enjoy your coffee, babe.”

With that, the two of them retreat, mumbling half-hearted excuses as they shuffle back to their desks.

As soon as they’re gone, Seungkwan drops his arm like it burned him, and the absence of his touch is... startling. Disorienting. You hate how much you notice it.

“What the hell was that?” you hiss, rounding on him.

He doesn’t even look fazed. If anything, he looks amused. “You’re welcome.”

“Welcome? For what? Making things worse?”

He nods toward your desk. “They’re gone, aren’t they?”

You narrow your eyes at him, your frustration mounting. “Why did you even—what is this?” You gesture vaguely to the coffee, the note, the whole absurd situation.

“A contract is a contract,” he says simply, already turning to walk away.

“Wait.” You grab the coffee, pointing it at him like a weapon. “How did you even know my order?”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder with that infuriating smirk that makes you want to throw the cup at him.

“I have my ways.”

“Seungkwan!” you call after him, but he’s already walking off, the faint echo of his laughter trailing behind him.

You slump into your chair, glaring at the coffee like it’s somehow responsible for all of this. Your phone buzzes, and you pull it out, immediately opening the group chat with Seokmin and Soonyoung.

Y/N: which one of you mfs told seungkwan my coffee order [NOT] tiger: 👀 [NOT] tiger: not it seok: pinky swear not me seok: hm seok: didn’t think he’d actually get you coffee Y/N: how the hell does he know? [NOT] tiger: maybe he just [NOT] tiger: knows[NOT] tiger: soulmate fr Y/N: blocking you. seok: wait seok: did he get it right? Y/N: YES Y/N: that’s the problem!!! seok: hmm [NOT] tiger: HMMMMM

You toss your phone onto your desk, groaning into your hands. Mondays were supposed to be bad, but this? This was a new level of torment. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you can’t stop replaying the warmth of Seungkwan’s hand on your waist—and the way, just for a moment, it didn’t feel so bad.

Tuesday morning. You arrive at your desk to the familiar sight of a coffee waiting for you, the cup steaming invitingly as though it’s supposed to make you feel better about the day ahead. As you drop your bag onto the desk and take in the sight of it, your stomach tightens—because this time, Seungkwan’s waiting for you. Standing there like a kid in a candy store, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth as if he knows exactly how to mess with your head.

But today is not the day.

Not after this morning.

You don’t know if it's the car breaking down in the middle of a torrential downpour, or if it’s the fact that your landlord decided today was the day to demand rent five days early and threaten eviction over the tiniest of issues—either way, you’re running on fumes and patience.

When Seungkwan opens his mouth to speak, you don’t even look up. You take a long, slow breath and mutter, “Not today.”

You don’t hear him move at first, and for a moment, you almost think he’s going to leave it. That maybe, just maybe, he’s finally catching on that not every moment is for him. But then, his voice—sharp, defensive—cuts through the air.

“What’s your problem today? I get it, you’re having a bad morning. But I’m trying to be nice here.”

You can’t help it; the words spill out before you can stop them. “I don’t need your pity coffee, Seungkwan. I don’t need your help.”

His eyes flash, the usual teasing glint replaced with something more serious. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You don’t answer, just fold your arms over your chest, staring hard at the computer screen, trying to block him out. “Just…go away, Seungkwan.”

His eyes widen, and something flickers behind them—hurt, maybe? But before he can say anything else, you hear the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. You look up, realizing you’ve attracted a small crowd.

Aera and Ayoung are standing a few desks away, watching you two with wide, curious eyes. They’ve been lurking long enough to catch the exchange, and you can practically feel their glee radiating off them.

“Everything okay, [Y/N]?” Aera asks, barely hiding her amusement.

Your stomach sinks. You know exactly what they’re thinking: public fight, public gossip. You know you’re not supposed to care, but you do. You absolutely do.

Seungkwan must’ve seen it, too, because in a flash, he’s grabbed your hand—your hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and yanks you toward the breakroom. You stumble slightly in the direction he pulls you, not expecting the sudden contact. Your heart races, and for a split second, you wonder if this was what it felt like before. That warm feeling flooding your chest, the butterflies in your stomach.

But then the door to the breakroom slams shut, cutting off the noise of the office, and Seungkwan lets go of your hand.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the counter, eyes narrowed. “Spill. What’s going on?”

You can’t hold it in anymore. The tension cracks, and before you know it, the tears are spilling out.

“I’m just so tired of everything,” you choke out, the words tangled in the rush of emotions. “My car is broken down, my landlord’s being a total jerk, and everything’s just—ugh. It’s just too much.”

You blink, feeling embarrassed, but Seungkwan doesn’t make fun of you. Instead, his gaze softens for a moment, just enough that you almost don’t believe it. Almost.

“Good,” he says suddenly, and your heart stutters. “You broke the contract.”

You lift your head, confusion wrinkling your brow. “What?”

“The contract.” He says it as though it’s obvious. “You snapped at me in front of Aera and Ayoung. That’s my parking spot for the rest of the week.”

You stare at him, blinking in disbelief. And then, before you can stop it, a laugh escapes from your lips—soft, genuine, and so not what you expected.

“Seriously?” you ask, trying to wipe away the tears that suddenly make you feel so small.

His face softens, just for a moment, before that look fades as quickly as it came. But for a brief second, you could’ve sworn he looked... endearing?

“Don’t laugh,” he mutters, crossing his arms again, leaning back against the counter. “I have principles.”

You can’t help but smile at that, and for the first time today, you feel lighter. You can’t quite place the warm sensation in your chest, but it’s there, flickering like the embers of something you don’t want to acknowledge.

“Hey,” he says with a half-grin, “a contract’s a contract.”

And then, without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving you standing there in the breakroom, a little lighter than before.

When you return to your desk, you’re not sure what you expected. Maybe you thought Aera and Ayoung would leave you alone, but no. Of course not. They’re standing by your cubicle, eyes glued to you, ready to pounce.

“Oh, look who’s back,” Aera says, feigning sweetness. “Everything okay? You two seemed like you were having quite a heated conversation.”

Ayoung raises an eyebrow, almost mockingly. “Yeah, what was that? We didn’t expect Seungkwan to be so... protective.”

You stiffen, but before you can say anything, Seungkwan strolls in casually, all too aware of their prying eyes. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder and leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks in a teasing tone.

“A lover’s spat,” he says smoothly, looking at Aera and Ayoung with a shit-eating grin. “Nothing to see here.”

You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden closeness of his body. You don’t move, don’t push him off, and you hate how right it feels, even if it’s just for show.

They seem to buy it, nodding and turning away, though you know the gossip mill will be churning with this new twist.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, and when the lunch hour arrives, Seungkwan casually approaches your table, offering in his usual nonchalant manner, “I’ll drive you home today.”

The casualness of it almost makes you choke on your lunch. Seokmin, who had just taken a sip of his drink, immediately spits it out in Soonyoung’s face. You can’t help but laugh, but when Seungkwan shoots you a look, you quickly compose yourself.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, voice calm but firm. “Seokmin already agreed to jump my car and drive me home.”

Seungkwan shrugs, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. “Whatever you say, babe.”

Later that evening, as you’re in the car with Seokmin, he turns to you, his gaze intense. “What’s going on with you and Seungkwan?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

You deflect, shrugging it off with a nonchalant tone. “Nothing. We’re just...” You trail off, unsure of how to explain it.

Seokmin doesn’t let up, his gaze never leaving you the entire drive home.

When you get home, you’re still thinking about Seungkwan—about his hand in yours, the warmth that flickered in his eyes when you laughed.

Later that night, you get a text from Seungkwan. You roll your eyes as you unlock your phone.

Later that night, you get a text from Seungkwan. You roll your eyes as you unlock your phone.

Seungkwan (WORK): what color dress are you wearing to the gala?

Y/N: why

Seungkwan (WORK): because it’s in two days idiot Y/N: ok and Seungkwan (WORK): what kind of boyfriend doesn’t match ties to his girlfriend’s dress

You pause for a moment, then text back,

Y/N: midnight blue

There’s a long pause before he replies.

Seungkwan (WORK): we’re gonna aera and ayoung the fuck up Seungkwan (WORK): you’re welcome.

You snort, rolling your eyes, but something in the back of your mind feels a little lighter. You look at the screen again, trying to push away the warmth that’s creeping into your cheeks.

You try to shake off the weird fluttering in your chest, but it’s hard when you can’t stop thinking about the way he smiled at you in the breakroom.

Then, after reading the text one last time, you throw your phone aside and scream into your pillow for a solid 30 seconds.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” The pillow muffles the sounds of your frustration, embarrassment, and maybe something else all rolling together.

It’s Wednesday, and you’re feeling... strange. So, as a silent apology of sorts, you leave Seungkwan's parking spot open for him, not even pretending it’s not a deliberate move. And to make it worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), you stop by his favorite restaurant—thanks to a very begrudging Mingyu who’d been the one to tell you at 6 AM—and leave a packaged meal on his desk with a simple note: "i’m sorry."

By the time Seungkwan walks in, there’s a triumphant grin on his face and a coffee in hand. You don’t even have to look up to know what’s coming—he’s practically floating from the excitement of seeing his spot waiting for him.

As you stand to meet him, your fingers brush ever so gently when he hands you your order. It’s the smallest of touches, but for some reason, your pulse quickens.

"Thank you for the food," he says, his voice sounding strange—almost sincere, which isn’t like him at all. "But how did you know my favorite restaurant?"

You can’t help the smirk that stretches across your face.

"I have my ways," you reply, leaning in just a little, your voice cool and teasing as you echo his words back from Monday. The playfulness between the two of you feels oddly familiar, and for a moment, there’s something in his eyes—just a flicker—that catches you off guard. But you shove it down before it can fully register.

Seungkwan arches an eyebrow, lips curling into that mischievous smile of his, but before he can say anything, you already know what comes next: more teasing, more playful bickering. It’s almost comfortable, like this entire fake-dating charade is starting to blur the line between what’s real and what’s not.

But the strangest thing of all is the way your heart is beating a little faster than it should.

You don’t know why you’re bothered. You can’t even really pinpoint the reason why, but when you walk past Seungkwan’s desk and see him sitting there, earbuds in, his face subtly twitching in response to a few of your colleagues’ whispers, something inside you snaps. It’s not your usual reaction to the gossip at work—it’s the way he seems oblivious to the hurt he's trying to hide, like he’s expecting it. Your mind races as you overhear them, the words sticking to you like bitter honey:

“Seungkwan’s just a joke with the dating thing. You can tell he’s not even on the same level as her,” Kevin’s voice rings out, “I mean, she’s crushing it, and look at him. He’s just... there.”

“He’s lucky she even pays attention to him,” Juyeon adds with a snide laugh.

And that’s when your heart clenches, the sound of their voices mixing with the hurt look in Seungkwan’s eyes as he watches the screen, his posture slumping in a way that you’ve seen too many times to ignore.

You tell yourself you don’t care.

But you do.

And before you can stop yourself, you march toward his desk. Your palms are sweaty, but your resolve is steady, and when you reach his side, you throw your arms around him from behind, your body leaning into his warmth, your chin resting on his shoulder as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re telling yourself it’s all just an act. Just a game. Fake dating, after all, is supposed to be easy.

But the feeling of his body stiffening under your arms, his breath catching, makes your stomach flip in a way you didn’t expect. You force yourself to smile, to say the words like they don’t matter.

"Hey love," you murmur, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek that feels far too real for what it is, "wanna get lunch?"

For a moment, Seungkwan just stares at you, dumbfounded. His eyes search yours as if trying to figure out whether this is part of the act or something more. You don’t give him a chance to answer. Instead, you interlace your fingers with his, pulling him to his feet and out of the seat, dragging him to the cafeteria without another word.

The air between you feels thick, but somehow, it doesn’t matter. You keep your grip on his hand as if it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. When you reach the lunch line, Seungkwan mumbles under his breath, his voice low but filled with something you can’t quite place.

“Thank you,” he says, and the words feel heavy, like they mean something far more profound than you expected.

You glance at him, trying to keep your face neutral. "Why do you put up with all this?" you ask, hoping to keep the conversation casual. But the question feels more vulnerable than you’d like.

He shrugs nonchalantly, though his gaze drops to the ground as he talks. "Come on, I get worse from you. I can handle a little shit talk from people who don’t know what they’re talking about.”

But something in his voice, something sharp and tired, makes your heart sink. The idea that you’ve made him feel like he’s “just there” rattles you. That you’ve unknowingly added to his burdens—because in this moment, it feels like you are the reason he’s doubting himself.

“Seungkwan, I didn’t mean—” you begin, but he cuts you off with a small, almost bitter smile.

"It’s fine," he murmurs, but there’s a flicker of something unsaid in his expression.

The rest of lunch is quieter than usual, and you both keep stealing glances at each other, unsure of what to say or how to fix the awkward tension that now lingers between you. When the two of you return to your desks, you half-expect him to brush it off and act like nothing happened, but instead, Seungkwan shows up at your desk after lunch, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s just here to grab something he left behind. But when he looks at you, his gaze softens.

"I’m sorry,” he says, looking almost... shy? “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about the way I said that. I know you don’t... mean to be like that."

You swallow hard, feeling your heart twist, guilt and frustration building in your chest. “No, I... I shouldn’t have said anything either. I’m sorry, Seungkwan."

His eyes flicker, like he’s trying to read you, but then he cracks a smile. "Maybe we both just suck at this fake-dating thing."

It’s a lame attempt at humor, but it works. The tension lifts slightly, though the understanding between you two is still fragile. You force a chuckle, then give him a genuine, if a little uneasy, smile.

And just like that, the awkwardness starts to dissipate.

For now, anyway.

Thursday starts off strangely, though you try not to dwell on it. When you pull into the parking lot, The Spot is open for the first time in weeks. It takes you a second to process the empty space, the absence of Seungkwan's familiar car parked a few rows back.

The sight feels...off.

Your first thought is that maybe he’s running late, but a quick glance at the clock tells you that’s impossible. Seungkwan is never late. Your second thought—that maybe he’s working from home—is more logical, but it doesn’t explain the odd pang of disappointment settling in your chest.

It’s fine. Better, even. You’re busy enough today that you don’t need to see his smug smile or deal with the inevitable teasing that comes with it. Besides, tonight is the gala. He’ll show up there, looking sharp and polished, and you’ll do what you’ve been doing for weeks: play the part.

So why does the thought of not seeing him today feel heavier than it should?

You brush it off as you head into the building, but the feeling lingers. Your desk is bare when you get there—no coffee, no scrawled Post-it, no familiar, cocky energy waiting for you to roll your eyes at. You should feel relief.

Instead, it throws your whole morning off.

By the time you find yourself in the breakroom around noon, your nerves feel frayed. Deadlines loom over your head, your inbox is exploding, and now Soonyoung and Seokmin are leaning against the counter, watching you like hawks with identical grins.

“Excited for tonight?” Seokmin asks, his voice far too cheerful as he tears into a granola bar.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Soonyoung interrupts before Seokmin can respond, “that you’ve been pretending not to care, but you’re actually super nervous about walking into that gala with Seungkwan.”

“I’m not nervous,” you snap, reaching for the coffee pot.

“Sure,” Seokmin says, his tone dripping with skepticism. “You’re totally calm. That’s why you’ve been fidgeting with your bracelet for the past five minutes.”

Your hand freezes, and you glance down to see your fingers toying absently with the charm on your bracelet. With a muttered curse, you reach for a mug instead, but the damage is already done.

Soonyoung smirks. “Uh-huh. Definitely not nervous.”

“I’m not,” you insist, pouring your coffee with more force than necessary.

“Then what’s with the bracelet?” Seokmin presses, grinning like he knows he’s got you cornered.

You glare at him over your shoulder. “Maybe I just like the bracelet, Seokmin. Ever think of that?”

“Or maybe,” Soonyoung drawls, dragging the words out obnoxiously, “you’re thinking about what it’s gonna be like to walk into that ballroom tonight on Seungkwan’s arm.”

Your hand twitches, spilling coffee onto the counter.

“Oh my god,” you groan, grabbing a napkin and swiping at the mess.

Soonyoung clutches his chest dramatically. “You didn’t deny it.”

“There’s nothing to deny!”

Seokmin snickers. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m ignoring you,” you correct, tossing the soaked napkin into the trash.

“You can’t ignore the truth!” Soonyoung declares, his grin practically splitting his face. “Which is that you’re gonna show up tonight in a dress that perfectly matches Seungkwan’s tie and pretend it’s all part of the act while secretly—”

“Soonyoung,” you interrupt sharply, narrowing your eyes.

“—you’re freaking out inside about how good he’s gonna look and how everyone’s gonna think you’re in love.”

“Why are you like this?” you demand, though the question is more rhetorical than anything.

“Because it’s fun,” Seokmin answers, popping the last bite of his granola bar into his mouth. “And because you’re so easy to tease when it comes to Seungkwan.”

You open your mouth to retort, but the words die on your tongue because the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that they’re not entirely wrong.

There is a part of you that’s been overthinking the gala all morning. Not because you’re nervous about the event itself, but because you’re nervous about him. About standing next to him in front of your colleagues. About the way he might look at you or the way his hand might rest on your back.

And more than that, you’re nervous about the way you’ll feel when it happens.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Seungkwan is your coworker. Your fake boyfriend. This whole thing is a game, a ploy to one-up Aera and Ayoung and win a stupid bet.

So why does the idea of walking into that ballroom with him make your heart race?

Why does it feel like it’s so much more than a game?

The rest of the day drags, your thoughts drifting back to the gala at every lull in the chaos of work. The deadlines on your desk pile higher, emails flood in, and the occasional, overly cheerful colleague stops by to remind you how "exciting" tonight is going to be.

But despite the busy afternoon, a strange mix of nervous energy and anticipation hums beneath it all. It’s not just about the event—the polished speeches, the endless string of handshakes, the clinking of champagne glasses. No, it’s about Seungkwan. About the act you’re supposed to put on together.

The hours pass in a blur of half-checked boxes and unfinished tasks. By the time you leave the office, you’re still not sure if you’ve made peace with the fact that you’re about to spend the evening glued to his side, pretending to be something you’re not.

You have just enough time to run home, change into your dress, and try to will away the nerves that have been simmering since this morning. Standing in front of your mirror, you adjust the midnight-blue fabric, smoothing it over your hips and fiddling with the clasp on your bracelet.

It’s just a gala, you tell yourself, reaching for your earrings. Just a few hours of small talk and pretending. You’ve done harder things.

But even as you head out the door, slipping into the backseat of the rideshare that will take you to the venue, you can’t quite shake the nagging thought in the back of your mind:

What if tonight doesn’t feel like pretending at all?

You spot Seungkwan waiting near the entrance to the ballroom, standing under the warm glow of the overhead sconces. He’s turned slightly away, scrolling idly on his phone, but it doesn’t take long for him to notice you. The moment his eyes land on you, they widen, the barest flicker of surprise crossing his face before he schools it into something more composed—almost indifferent.

Despite the tension simmering between you lately, you can’t help but take him in. The tailored fit of his suit accentuates his broad shoulders and sharp lines, and the midnight-blue tie—perfectly matched to your dress. The soft lighting catches on the neatly styled strands of his hair, and there’s a certain glow about him tonight that makes your heart stumble, just a little.

Focus, you scold yourself. It’s just Seungkwan. The guy who stole your parking spot. The guy who bickers with you more often than not. This is just one night, and then it’s over. Your hands smooth over the silk of your dress as you approach, brushing at imaginary lint to keep them from trembling.

Seungkwan, however, makes no attempt to disguise his once-over. His eyes drag down your figure with slow, deliberate appraisal before returning to meet your gaze. The faintest hint of a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, but you notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“What?” you ask, crossing your arms and raising a brow.

“Nothing,” he replies too quickly, glancing away. But his ears are tinged red, and when you prod again, leaning in just slightly to make him squirm, he mutters under his breath, “You clean up nice.”

For a second, you’re too stunned to respond. The casual compliment feels out of character, as if it slipped out before he could stop himself.

“And here I thought you’d be grumpy all night,” you say, masking your unease with an easy tease.

“Don’t get used to it,” he shoots back, though there’s no real bite to his tone. With a quiet sigh, he offers you his arm, holding it out stiffly as though unsure of himself.

Your breath catches for just a moment before you loop your arm through his, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight tremble in your fingers. The fabric of his suit is smooth and cool against your skin, and he adjusts his grip just slightly, settling his hand more securely over yours.

“Let’s get this over with,” you mumble, though you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.

“Right,” he agrees softly, leading you toward the grand doors. The quiet confidence in his step only makes your own nerves worse, and you wonder—just for a fleeting moment—if he feels it too.

The hotel’s ballroom is a picture of opulence, every detail polished to perfection. Warm golden light spills from the glittering chandeliers above, catching on the beveled edges of crystal glasses and the smooth, glossy surface of the checkered marble floor. White-draped tables line the room, adorned with centerpieces of fresh flowers and flickering candles. A string quartet plays softly in the corner, their music weaving through the gentle hum of conversation.

You barely have a chance to take it all in before the heat of Seungkwan’s arm against yours pulls your focus back. He stands tall beside you, his midnight-blue tie gleaming under the lights. You try not to fidget, but every time your gaze flickers to him, the quiet confidence in his expression sets your nerves on edge.

It’s just one night, you remind yourself, willing your feet to move forward. One night, and then it’s over.

The crowd shifts as you both step into the room, and you catch Aera and Ayoung’s gazes almost immediately. They’re standing near the champagne table, flutes in hand, their heads inclined toward each other in hushed conversation. The moment they spot you, their eyes widen, gliding from you to Seungkwan, then back again. Aera’s expression twists into something sharp and incredulous, while Ayoung’s lips curve into a smug smirk.

“Looks like we’re already the talk of the town,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning slightly toward you. His breath brushes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that you chalk up to irritation.

“Good,” you manage to say, lifting your chin. “Let’s give them something to really talk about.”

You’re not sure where the confidence comes from, but it carries you forward, your heels clicking against the marble as you walk with Seungkwan through the crowd. You can feel Aera’s glare burning into your back, but you keep your head high, your grip on Seungkwan’s arm tightening just slightly.

From across the room, you hear it before you see them—peals of laughter that could only belong to Seokmin and Soonyoung. You glance in their direction and find them stationed at one of the tables, grinning like giddy schoolchildren as they nudge each other and whisper conspiratorially. Seokmin pretends to hide his face behind his hand, but his eyes gleam with amusement, while Soonyoung practically bounces in his chair, barely able to contain his excitement.

“Subtle,” you mutter under your breath, though you can’t help the way your lips twitch upward.

Seungkwan notices too, his eyes narrowing slightly. “They’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Can you blame them?” you ask, finally letting a wry smile slip through. “We’re a spectacle.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but when you glance up at him, there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. You quickly look away, pretending to adjust the bracelet on your wrist.

As you move further into the ballroom, you catch snippets of conversations trailing off, eyes lingering just a second too long on you and Seungkwan. The tension in the room feels palpable, but Seungkwan doesn’t falter. He keeps his pace steady, his arm firm and reassuring beneath your touch.

And for a brief moment, as you glide through the glittering sea of people, you almost forget that this is all an act.

The ballroom is a haze of chandeliers, polished floors, and conversations that hum like a soft undercurrent beneath the music. You move through it all hyperaware of Seungkwan at your side, the faintest brush of his presence grounding and unsteadying you all at once.

He’s good at this, you realize. At shaking hands, sharing effortless smiles, and exchanging pleasantries that seem to charm everyone in his orbit. You try to focus on your own small talk, but it’s nearly impossible not to notice the way his hand occasionally drifts to the small of your back, guiding you subtly through the crowd. It’s light—barely there—but every time his palm presses gently against you, warmth blooms, spreading like ripples in a still pond.

You try not to overthink it. It’s probably all for show, you tell yourself. Just part of the act.

Except…why does he keep glancing at you? After every joke he tosses into the conversation, his eyes flit to yours, watching for your reaction. When you laugh, his smile softens, almost imperceptibly, and when you don’t, his brow furrows for the briefest moment before he’s cracking another.

“Can we help you?” you mutter when Seokmin and Soonyoung sidle up to you for the third time that evening, their grins almost too wide.

“Nope,” Soonyoung says, popping the ‘p’ with dramatic flair.

“We’re just here for the show,” Seokmin adds, barely holding back his snicker.

“Go away,” you hiss, stepping closer to Seungkwan as if that will somehow shield you from their relentless teasing.

Instead of leaving, they both wiggle their eyebrows at you, making exaggerated faces every time you shift a little closer to him—whether intentionally or not. At one point, Seokmin mimes taking a picture with his imaginary camera, pretending to swoon like a tabloid photographer.

“Do you need something?” Seungkwan asks dryly, not even sparing them a glance as he sips his champagne.

“Just enjoying the chemistry,” Soonyoung says, grinning.

“I hate both of you,” you say, shoving past them and pulling Seungkwan with you, his laughter trailing behind you as you march toward the buffet table.

As the night wears on, the hyperawareness doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows sharper. You catch yourself leaning into him, just slightly, when he speaks to you. His scent—something warm and clean—lingers in the air, familiar yet distracting. And though you do your best to stay detached, your stomach flips every time he turns to you, his expression softer than you expect.

It’s just one night, you remind yourself. One night, and then it’s over.

But when Seungkwan tilts his head to meet your gaze, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes, you wonder if he feels it too.

The conversation with the vice president of finance hits like a brick wall. You had hoped for the night to pass without any more uncomfortable moments, but here it is. The older man comes over with a knowing grin, his eyes flicking between you and Seungkwan. His voice is smooth, polished—like he’s done this kind of thing a hundred times before. “Wishing you both all the best,” he says with a wink, his smile stretching into something almost too warm.

Then, as if to solidify the moment, he adds, “I found my wife at work too. It’s always the best kind of relationship, don’t you think?”

Before you can even react, Seungkwan steps in, his hand tightening imperceptibly around your waist, his grip firm, possessive. He plays along with ease, a smile tugging at his lips. “We do make a lovely couple,” he says, the words slipping out with the same smooth confidence he uses to charm everyone around him.

And just like that, your knees almost give out. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to cling to any sense of composure, but it’s hard. His voice sounds like it’s meant for someone else. You glance up at him, searching for some sign that he’s only pretending, but his eyes are warm, and it makes your stomach churn. This is too much.

The moment lingers, stretching long and painfully until the vice president finally moves on, leaving you standing there with Seungkwan’s hand still resting on your waist. You feel the heat of his touch, the weight of the promise in his words. And yet, something inside you begins to twist, and you can't quite shake the feeling that this isn’t all a game anymore.

When the quartet begins to play a slow, lilting melody, you feel a wave of dread wash over you. Couples start gravitating toward the dance floor, moving in soft, synchronized sways. You think you’re safe until you notice Soonyoung and Seokmin’s scheming grins out of the corner of your eye.

“Oh, no,” you mutter under your breath, but it’s too late.

“You two,” Soonyoung grins, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Get out there. Show us how it’s done.”

You freeze, the world tilting on its axis for a moment. You don’t want to dance. You don’t know how to dance. And you certainly don’t want to do it with Seungkwan, not like this. But when you glance over at him, you see the faintest edge of a smile on his lips—like he’s enjoying this far too much.

With a few unsubtle nudges and a downright shove from Soonyoung, you find yourself standing under the ballroom lights, facing Seungkwan. He doesn’t even blink, just steps forward and guides your hands to his shoulders as though this is all perfectly normal. His hands settle on your hips, light but steady, and the contact sends a shiver through you.

“You look like you’re going to bolt,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that only you can hear. “Relax. Aera and Ayoung are still watching.”

You force a smile, more for their benefit than his, and try to focus on the music. But it’s no use. Every part of this feels overwhelming—the way his hands feel solid against you, the way he moves with a calm confidence you didn’t know he had, the way his gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up.

The worst part? You’re not sure what’s fake and what isn’t.

You take a shallow breath, your heart racing as the music swells around you, and everything about the night begins to feel too real. Too intense. The way Seungkwan holds you so effortlessly, the way his chest presses against yours, his gaze lingering on you like it means something.

This isn’t just pretend anymore. This isn’t just a game. You feel like you’re drowning in the pretense, in the slow slide of his body against yours, the fake smiles, the promises of weddings that don’t belong to either of you. You don’t know why it feels like this—like a knot is tightening in your chest with every beat of the music, every moment that stretches longer than you can bear.

You can’t breathe.

It’s too much. The weight of it, the weight of him. His hands on your body, on your waist, intertwined with yours. The tension that thrums between you both is too real, and suddenly, you can’t stand it anymore.

You pull back abruptly, the movement so sudden it startles him.

“I need to go,” you blurt, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Without waiting for a response, you pull away from him, feeling his grip loosen as you shove past Seokmin and Soonyoung, who both watch you with surprised eyes. You don’t care. You don’t care that they’re probably confused, or that Seungkwan is still standing there on the dancefloor, looking as though he’s been left behind.

You don’t care about anything but getting away, away from him, away from this night that feels too heavy to carry. You push through the crowd, your pulse thundering in your ears, desperate to escape the world Seungkwan has created tonight—one where every smile feels like a lie, and every touch leaves you questioning everything.

Why did it feel like something more? Why does he feel like something more?

The hallway is cold, and the echoes of the ballroom seem a world away as you stand there, breathing in shallow gasps. You don’t know what you expected when you fled—maybe a bit of space to clear your head, a few moments of peace to sort through the mess in your chest. But then Seungkwan appears, footsteps rapid and sharp against the marble floor, and you brace yourself for whatever this is.

He stops in front of you, his eyes softening, a look of concern on his face. “You broke the contract,” he says, his voice low but playful. “You’re supposed to act like a couple in front of Aera and Ayoung.”

You should’ve expected it. Of course it’s just a game to him. Of course he doesn’t feel anything real. You press your lips together, the taste of bile rising in your throat. The way his words spill out with that same teasing tone, like it’s no big deal—that’s when it really hits you. None of this matters to him.

Your heart tightens, and you open your mouth to say something, anything, but it feels like the words are stuck in your throat, a knot you can’t untie. The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating, until you finally spit out, “Fuck you, Seungkwan.”

His expression falters, eyes flashing with something like hurt or maybe frustration, but it doesn’t matter. You just want him to shut up, to stop saying the things that twist in your chest.

“What the hell?” His voice is sharp, defensive. “What’s your problem now? I’m just trying to make sure you’re not freaking out in front of them!”

“No,” you snap, your words slipping out before you can stop them. “I’m freaking out because you keep acting like it’s nothing—like it’s all just a damn game.” You’re pacing now, turning away from him, too afraid to face him. “And it’s not just a game, Seungkwan. But you don’t care. Of course you don’t care.”

Seungkwan’s voice is louder now, rising to match your anger. “Don’t you dare say that—”

“Why shouldn’t I?” you spit, your frustration spilling over. “You’ve been treating me like this whole thing is some kind of joke. Do you think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel it?”

“You think I’m playing games?!” he practically shouts, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “What do you want me to say, huh? What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know!” The words burst out in a rush, too loud and too raw. “I don’t know what I want! But I sure as hell don’t want this. Don’t want you acting like I’m nothing but some stupid... some stupid game to win! And—”

Your throat tightens. It’s too much. The pain, the frustration, the confusion. The way your heart keeps aching, wanting something that shouldn’t be there. You can’t breathe right, and suddenly, your eyes sting with tears that you didn’t want to shed.

Before you can stop it, you spin to leave, your chest heaving, your hands trembling. You can’t be here anymore. You can’t do this.

But then, just as you take a step, his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly.

“Don’t go,” Seungkwan murmurs, his voice softer now, and it’s the quietness of it that makes everything inside you snap.

In an instant, you turn back toward him, your body moving without thinking, driven by something primal, something that burns too hot to ignore. You don't care anymore, not about the rules or the reasons you were running or how much you've lied to yourself. Your lips crash into his, desperate and hungry, a sudden, violent collision of need and want. It’s rough, urgent, a complete collapse of all the control you’ve tried so desperately to hold onto.

His lips are warm, soft at first, but there’s no hesitation after that. It deepens in an instant, and you can feel him pushing you back, pressing you against the cold, hard wall. His body presses into yours, all sharp lines and heat, every inch of him a reminder that you’ve wanted this more than you’re willing to admit. You clutch his tie, your fingers knotting into the fabric, pulling him closer, deeper, like it’s not enough. His hands slide up the wall, bracing himself above your head, as if he needs that support to hold himself together too. But you’re too tangled in this moment, too consumed by the feel of him, the way his lips move against yours, the way his breath catches with every shift of his mouth.

His hands find their way to your body, his fingers grazing your hips, and you shudder, the friction between you both igniting something wild inside you. You kiss him back fiercely, and it feels like everything in the world has narrowed down to this singular moment. You don’t know if this is real or if it’s just your mind tricking you into believing it’s more than it is. But you feel it—how right it feels to be tangled up with him, how everything else outside of this space fades away.

His body presses harder, his chest against yours, his warmth seeping into you, filling the cracks where your control once was. You’re dizzy with the intensity of it, a rush of emotions crashing through you, and the silence between kisses becomes unbearable. Your breath is ragged, your heart pounding in your chest as if it’s trying to escape, to be closer to him. And every time you feel him pull away, even just a little, you’re pulling him back, chasing that connection that’s too elusive to hold.

It feels like the world is spinning too fast, and you’re holding onto him, to this fleeting moment, hoping that maybe it won’t slip away. But it does—it always does.

You press harder into him, your hands trembling as they slide up his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingers. It’s almost too much, like you’re consuming each other, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

But then the air feels heavier, and the ache in your chest intensifies. This is wrong, it has to be. His mouth against yours, his body holding you so tightly—it’s all too much, and yet you’re still starved for more. You feel like you’re drowning, and yet you don’t know how to pull away, how to breathe again without the taste of him on your lips.

You break the kiss suddenly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling with desperation, as if the only thing you need in that moment is to breathe and be closer to him. But you know better. You remember. You have to remember.

And just like that, the realization comes crashing down, shattering everything inside you. It’s all just a game for him. It always was. You turn away, stumbling back, your body trembling as you try to steady yourself, your hands shaking uncontrollably.

“No.” You gasp, heart hammering painfully in your chest. You can’t stay here. You can’t let him see how much he’s breaking you right now.

Before he can say anything, before he can try to reach for you, you turn on your heel and run. You don’t look back, even when your chest aches and your throat burns, because you know that if you do, you’ll see something you can’t unsee.

And you’re too afraid that the feeling you’ve just experienced—that feeling of being whole, of being wanted—is the very thing that’ll make you lose yourself completely.

That night, as the doorbell rings, you know exactly who it is before you even get up. You don’t even have the strength to ask them to leave—Seokmin and Soonyoung just know. They always do.

Seokmin's already cracking open a pint of Ben & Jerry's before you've even had the chance to process their arrival, his voice light but knowing, as if they’ve been waiting for the moment to show up at your door. And it’s not long before they’re seated on the couch beside you, Soonyoung's knowing look cutting right through you as he silently opens the second pint, passing it to you without a word.

You don’t have the heart to ask about Seungkwan. You’re terrified of hearing it, terrified of what they’ll say. You don’t want to know if he’s going to shrug it off, or worse, if he’s forgotten about you already.

Instead, you spend the next few hours in silence, the three of you settled into the couch, alternating between the steady flow of ice cream and shitty romcoms on TV. The sound of laughter and melodramatic dialogue fills the space, but you barely hear it. Every now and then, a sob shakes through you, and you absently grab Soonyoung’s suit jacket, wiping your face on it like some pathetic kid trying to hide from the world.

It’s not a game anymore, you think. But your mind keeps circling back, again and again, and your heart clenches painfully.

You find yourself sniffling during a commercial break, and before you know it, your voice cracks as you whisper into Seokmin’s shoulder, your words barely audible through the tears. “It’s not a game anymore,” you whimper, your chest tight with emotion, a hollow ache you can't seem to fill. “Not to me.”

Seokmin pats your head gently, his hand warm and comforting on your hair, and you can feel him press his cheek against your head in an unspoken gesture of reassurance. Soonyoung doesn’t say anything but looks at you sadly from his spot on your lap, his eyes soft with understanding, but he knows better than to push.

But then Seokmin speaks, his voice quiet, so gentle you almost miss it. “Was it ever?” he asks, the question hanging in the air, a quiet truth you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You don’t answer. Because you know the answer. You’ve known it all along, even when you were pretending not to. The truth is louder than the silence between the three of you, but you’re not ready to face it.

And so, instead of answering, you bury your face further into Seokmin’s shoulder, fighting the tears that never seem to stop. The answer is clear, but you can’t find the words to say it.

Friday feels like the weight of the week is catching up with you, every inch of your body refusing to move as you sit at your desk, staring blankly at the screen. You’ve worked from home plenty of times before, but today? Today, it feels different. The silence is too loud, too consuming, and you can't escape it, not even in the safety of your own apartment. Your phone buzzes incessantly in the corner of your desk, each ping making your chest tighten just a little more. You know it’s him. Seungkwan. You know because his name flashes on your screen, and every time, you hesitate before swiping it away, like a coward.

You don’t want to hear it, not today. Not when everything feels so broken.

But when the photo comes in—a simple picture of your coffee order, just sitting there on your desk with nothing but a blank post-it note next to it—you can feel the tears already threatening to break free. The coffee’s steaming, just the way you like it, but the note’s blank, empty. There’s nothing there. Just silence.

It’s too much.

You let out a strangled sob, your hand shaking as you clutch your phone. Your throat tightens as you struggle to breathe, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once. You curl up at your desk, tears falling in heavy waves as you finally allow yourself to break. The floodgates that you’ve kept tightly shut the past few days burst wide open, and you can’t stop it. Can’t stop the sobs that wrack through you, shaking you to your core.

You’re not ready to face this. Not ready to admit what’s happening inside of you. You just want it to stop. To go back to before everything got complicated. Before you let yourself feel anything for him.

You don't even bother to wipe your tears away, don’t bother trying to pull yourself together. You don’t even go to Seokmin’s tonight for your weekly ritual. The usual distraction, the routine that’s always been your safe space, feels miles away now.

Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around you, the emptiness of the apartment matching the emptiness you feel inside. You bury yourself in it.

And you let the tears come.

The smell of Seokmin’s cooking wafts into the living room as he sets up the kitchen, making his usual chaotic symphony of clattering pans and sizzling ingredients. He’s persistent, like always, so you know there’s no way you’re getting out of this. He’s here to cook, and more importantly, to drag you back from the spiral you’ve fallen into.

You don’t say anything when he hands you the bowl of food. You just sit down at the kitchen table, quietly shoveling the food into your mouth. It tastes good, as always, but it doesn’t reach you. Not the way it should.

The silence stretches between you two as you chew, the clinking of your utensils the only sound in the room. Seokmin isn’t going to let it slide, though. He’s far too persistent to let you wallow in quiet.

“So,” he starts, his voice quiet but pointed, “what happened?”

You don’t answer immediately, and it’s not because you don’t want to—no, it’s because you’re not sure where to start. Do you tell him the truth? That you let your feelings get tangled up in a game, that Seungkwan tricked you into thinking it meant something more than it was?

But when you look up, you meet Seokmin’s eyes, and for some reason, you just... let it spill.

“I kissed him,” you say, voice small. The words feel like a confession you weren’t ready to make.

Seokmin’s brows furrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. He just asks, “But that’s a good thing, right?”

You snort, bitter and frustrated. “Seokmin, it was all just a game to him.”

The words hang there, sharp in the quiet kitchen air. Seokmin pauses, setting his fork down before speaking again. “Did he tell you that?”

You shake your head. “No, but he doesn’t need to. He kept bringing up the contract.” 

Seokmin’s eyes narrow in frustration, but there’s a softness in them too. “Y/N…”

“Don’t,” you mutter, the emotion welling up again in your chest. “I’m done. I’m tired of this, Seokmin. It was never real for him, and it’s too real for me now. I can’t keep pretending.”

You can’t even look him in the eye now, your gaze turning to the table as your hands clutch the bowl. Seokmin stays quiet, letting you speak, but you can feel the weight of his disappointment. It doesn’t make you feel better, but at least you’re not holding it all in.

“What are you going to do on Monday? You have to present together.” Seokmin says, his voice light but his eyes serious.

The question hits you like a punch to the gut. You’ve been avoiding thinking about that. Of course, Monday will come, and you’ll have to face Seungkwan again.

“I’ll ignore him,” you reply, voice almost robotic.

Seokmin raises an eyebrow. “Let me repeat: you have to PRESENT. TOGETHER.” He emphasizes the word ‘together,’ and you can feel the weight of it pressing down on you. “Emphasis on TOGETHER.”

You just stare at your food, not knowing what to say. Your heart is heavy, your thoughts racing.

“Seokmin, I’m tired of this,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips. “I’m done. Aera and Ayoung can go fuck themselves, but I’m not playing this game anymore.”

Seokmin doesn’t say anything for a while. You hear him sigh, and when you look up, his face is softer. “If you say so.”

You want to argue, to tell him that it’s easier said than done, but instead, you just slump back into your chair, letting the silence fill the space again. He doesn’t push you further, just lets you stew in your emotions, knowing that you’ll need time. You’re not ready to face Monday, not ready to stand side by side with Seungkwan, pretending like none of this ever happened. But there’s no escaping it. And you’ll have to deal with it soon enough.

Monday morning is a punch to the gut.

You arrive at work, feeling the weight of the weekend's fallout heavy in your chest. The first thing you notice when you pull into the parking lot is that there’s no coffee waiting for you on your desk. The usual sign of Seungkwan’s presence, of him thinking of you in the mornings, is missing. It's a stupid thing to feel the absence of, but it cuts deeper than you'd like to admit.

You walk into the office, feeling all the eyes on you. It’s not even 9 AM, and you already know today is going to drag. You get to your desk, and before you can even sit down, Aera and Ayoung are already on you, their faces lit up with exaggerated curiosity.

"Hey, Y/N," Aera says, eyes flicking to the empty space where the coffee should have been. "Where’s your coffee today? You and Seungkwan usually have that whole ‘he brings your coffee’ thing down to a science. What’s up? You two not sharing that routine anymore?"

Ayoung giggles, and you feel the irritation bubbling up before you can stop it. You’ve had enough of this.

You slam your bag down on your desk, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in your voice. "We broke up. Now get out of my face so I can work."

The words hit the air like a slap, and for a moment, the office is completely silent. Aera’s mouth falls open slightly, her eyes wide in surprise, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Ayoung just blinks, taken aback, but she says nothing more, her usual snark suddenly gone.

You don’t give them a chance to respond. You turn away from them, sitting at your desk, hands shaking slightly as you pull up your emails. You can hear their retreating footsteps, but you don’t bother looking up. You don’t care. It’s easier to just ignore them and dive into your work, focusing on the tasks in front of you.

But it doesn’t stop there. As much as you try to bury yourself in your screen, the emptiness of Seungkwan’s absence—his lack of coffee, the parking spot that you still take for granted—gnaws at you. You tell yourself that it’s for the best, that the game is over. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The presentation room feels suffocating.

You stand at the front, flipping through slides, forcing your gaze to stay focused on the KPIs and metrics on the screen. The numbers are safe, the charts impersonal. You can talk about this with your eyes closed, but it feels like everything else in the room is conspiring against you.

Seungkwan, of course, keeps trying to catch your eye. Every time you glance in his direction—brief, fleeting—you see the way his expression tightens, the worry flickering in his eyes. You’re not sure if it's pity or concern, and frankly, you don’t care. You’ve worked hard to bury whatever feelings were there, and you’re not about to let him dig them up in front of a room full of people.

You force yourself to talk about the numbers. KPIs, data points, project metrics. Anything to avoid looking at him. You can feel Soonyoung and Seokmin watching you a little too intently, their eyes sharp with something unspoken. It makes your words stutter, your confidence falter just a little, but you push through, unwilling to show any weakness.

But then an executive asks if you're okay, and the words catch you off guard. You can’t help it—you glance over at Seungkwan. Just for a second. Long enough for him to notice, long enough for him to give you that look. The one you’ve been avoiding.

"I'm fine, thanks," you manage to say, voice steady despite the way your heart is hammering in your chest. You look back at the screen, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze. You try to ignore the weight of his concern, the way it lingers like a weight in the air.

The meeting eventually wraps up, and as everyone files out, Seungkwan steps towards you, his arm reaching out. You feel the familiar tug of his presence, the warmth of his hand inches away from your sleeve.

But you don’t want to feel it. You don’t want to deal with it.

You shrug him off, murmuring something about deadlines and reports that need to be finished. The words come out harsh and clipped, almost too much so, but you don’t care. You can feel the tension hanging between you like a storm cloud, but you don’t want to be near him right now. Not with everything still so raw.

You don’t wait for a response, just turn and walk toward your desk, not daring to look back.

You thought it would be easy to avoid Seungkwan. After all, it's just a matter of keeping your distance, staying busy, and letting the work pile up in a way that leaves no room for him to worm his way back into your head. You’ve been doing it for hours, and so far, it’s working.

Three hours, at least.

Seokmin and Soonyoung have been your perfect distractions, filling your day with so much nonsense that you barely have time to breathe, let alone think about Seungkwan and the mess you’ve somehow ended up in.

It started in the break room, just after the meeting. You’d been trying to sneak in a coffee, hoping it might calm the jittery feeling that’s been buzzing through you since you saw Seungkwan's hand reach for yours. But, of course, Soonyoung and Seokmin cornered you before you could even take a sip.

"Y/N, I need your opinion on something," Soonyoung had started, with that grin of his, the one that always spells trouble.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. "What now?"

Seokmin leaned in like they were about to discuss state secrets, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, "Soonyoung here is convinced he’s a professional ice cream taster. He wants to know if he should add ‘Certified Expert’ to his resume."

You rolled your eyes, but Soonyoung was undeterred, holding up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with a flourish. "Can’t you see the wisdom in my plan? Who wouldn’t hire a man who knows his way around a pint of Cookie Dough?"

You snorted, shaking your head. "You’re ridiculous. But go ahead, waste your time on that. I’m trying to focus."

But no, they weren’t letting you go that easily. Seokmin started cracking jokes, distracting you with all the random things he’d overheard in the office. "Did you know that Ayoung is secretly obsessed with ‘90s boy bands? I walked in on her humming ‘I Want It That Way’ this morning, and I’m still recovering."

And Soonyoung, ever the instigator, added with a wink, "I also caught her in the hallway talking about getting a matching tattoo with Aera. Of a tiny cupcake. What do you think? The whole office would get a kick out of that."

By then, you were laughing despite yourself, pushing down the tight feeling in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to laugh, it was just that... well, everything felt too complicated. Too much.

So, you let them pull you into their nonsense. They carried on for the next hour—Soonyoung performing some ridiculous impression of an old-timey detective, Seokmin explaining his absurd theory that paperclips are an ancient alien technology (you’re still not sure if he was serious)—until you forgot, for just a moment, about everything else. Even Seungkwan.

But of course, they weren’t done. When they saw that momentary crack in your armor, they pounced, practically dragging you into a brainstorming session for next week's office party theme. Soonyoung insisted on a 'Beach Party' theme even though there was no beach within a hundred miles of your office. Seokmin argued for a retro ‘80s prom, and then proceeded to pull out old high school yearbook photos of him in a neon green tuxedo for ‘inspiration.’ You were supposed to be working, but you couldn’t help but laugh at Seokmin trying to explain why the color combo was "unbeatable."

They kept going, laughing, cracking jokes, pulling your attention from the tight knot that had been steadily winding around your chest since you left the meeting. But you knew—knew—this distraction wasn’t going to last forever.

Eventually, reality would catch up, but for now, you let them drag you along with them. The idea of facing Seungkwan, of facing what had happened, felt like too much. So you pushed it down, buried it in the ridiculousness of the day.

For now, you thought, it was working. But you had a feeling the peace wouldn’t last long.

It’s late, and you’re about to congratulate yourself on avoiding Seungkwan for the entire day as you open your car door. But of course, the universe has other plans for you. The sudden slam of the car door makes you jump, your hand still on the handle as you whip around to find Seungkwan standing there, his face set in that tight expression you know too well. The tension between you snaps, palpable in the cool evening air. His voice cuts through the silence, demanding, sharp.

"So this is how it's going to be?" he asks, the words heavy with frustration.

You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You were so sure you had made your escape. You had done everything you could today to keep him out of your head, to avoid this moment. Yet here he is, standing in front of you like an inevitable storm, his presence taking up the entire space between you.

You try to steady yourself, the tightness in your throat making it hard to speak. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you manage, forcing the words out despite how small they sound against the tension hanging between you.

Seungkwan’s eyes narrow as if he’s reading you—really reading you, seeing right through the facade you’ve worked so hard to put on. "Don’t lie to me, Y/N. You’ve been avoiding me all day. It’s not just because of the work, is it? You’ve been avoiding me since... since the gala. Since everything."

You bite your lip, refusing to let the weight of his words sink in, but his voice keeps coming, a steady beat in your chest. “You think I’m just supposed to pretend everything’s fine after what happened?”

The words hit you like a slap, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. You try to ignore the ache that stirs inside you at the mention of what happened—the kiss, the way it felt so real, so right, and yet so wrong. So much of a game. And now he’s standing here, throwing it all in your face.

"I don’t know what you expect from me, Seungkwan," you snap, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "But it’s over. I told you—I’m done."

Seungkwan’s jaw tightens, and he steps closer, his proximity making you instinctively want to step back. But you don’t. You won’t.

"Done?" he repeats, voice laced with disbelief. "Just like that? You think you can just walk away? You’re really going to pretend this—whatever this is—didn’t mean anything?"

You open your mouth to argue, but no words come out. It’s as if your body’s betraying you, locking you in this moment where nothing makes sense, where the anger you thought would fuel you evaporates the moment Seungkwan looks at you with that frustrated, helpless look in his eyes.

You hate that you care. You hate that, even now, a part of you wants to reach out and undo everything. To erase the distance, the silence, the walls you’ve built between the two of you. But you can’t.

“You always thought of it as a game, Seungkwan,” you snap, your voice a little too sharp for comfort, but it’s all you have to hold onto. The argument. The distance. The lie you’ve been clinging to.

He’s shaking his head before you even finish the sentence, a rawness in his expression you’ve never seen before. “It was never a game for me!” His words crash through the silence, leaving an echo that hangs in the air. It’s too much. Too loud.

And then, just like that, you’re back in that hallway, your heart pounding. The night air feels suffocating, and there’s a closeness between you two that should feel wrong, but it doesn’t. It feels right in the way his chest is rising and falling too quickly, in the way you can barely breathe without him being this close. Your breaths are shaky, uncertain.

“What was it then?” Your voice cracks as you ask, small and vulnerable, that gnawing fear in your chest almost swallowing you whole. You don’t want to know the answer, but you know you need to hear it.

His gaze drops, his voice softens, and it’s enough to make your stomach turn with something too familiar. “What do you think?” he whispers, just above a breath, his words more like a confession than a question.

The truth is right there, suspended between you two, but it feels like a lie at the same time. You try to push it down, try to control it, but the knot in your throat grows tighter. You’re not sure what’s worse—the silence, or the fact that you’re on the verge of hoping for something you shouldn’t.

His hand moves to your face, brushing your cheek, and you can feel the heat of his touch seeping into your skin like a live wire. “I kept the parking spot argument going because I knew it was the only excuse I had to talk to you,” he continues, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “You’re so smart. So beautiful. I knew you would never give me the time of day unless I made you.”

It hits you in waves, like the ground beneath you is shifting. You open your mouth to respond, to tell him that this is too much, too late, that he can’t just explain this all away—but he cuts you off, the urgency in his voice making you freeze.

“No, please. Let me finish.”

You swallow hard, the words stuck in your throat, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue.

He steps closer, the air between you two crackling with every movement. His eyes are dark, intense, and you’re not sure if it’s fear or something else flickering behind them. “I couldn’t just let you go. I couldn’t. So I did what I had to do. I kept pushing you, testing you, because I couldn’t let you slip away.”

The honesty in his voice is like a punch to the gut. Every word seems to break down everything you thought you knew about this whole thing. You can’t speak. You’re drowning in it, caught between the words and the way he’s looking at you.

You want to run. You should run. But instead, you stay there, with his hands on you, his breath too close to yours, and the silence that threatens to drown you both.

The question slips out before you can stop it, your voice small and fragile in the heavy silence that’s settled between you two. It feels like everything is crashing down, the weight of it all pressing against your chest, but the curiosity burns through. You need to know.

"Why did you say yes? To the contract?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper, and you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat, that desperate need to understand.

Seungkwan freezes, his hand still hovering just inches from your face, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. It’s like you’ve asked the question that’s been hanging in the air, unspoken, for far too long. And for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath, waiting for him to answer.

He looks away, his eyes darting to the ground as if the answer isn’t something he can say out loud. His lips part, but no words come out. He takes a breath, almost like he’s bracing himself for what he’s about to admit. And then, slowly, the words slip out, ragged and raw.

“Because I didn’t know how else to get close to you.” His voice trembles slightly, but the honesty in it cuts through you, sharp and real. “I didn’t know how else to make you notice me.”

He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “I was tired of standing in the background, watching you with everyone else, wanting to be more than just... the guy who argues with you about parking spots or steals your coffee.”

There’s a bitter chuckle, half empty, half ashamed, and it almost breaks you. He doesn’t look at you now, but his words hang in the air between you like a weight that neither of you can lift.

“I thought if I had a reason, an excuse, maybe... maybe I could make you see me. See us." He finally glances back up, his gaze soft, too soft for the harshness of his confession. “And I was wrong, okay? I was wrong to use you like that.”

The silence after his words is deafening. Every piece of you wants to scream, to shout at him for what he’s done, for the way he played with your heart like it was a game. But you can’t. Not with the raw vulnerability in his eyes, the way he stands there, exposed and unsure.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice cracks, and it’s all you can manage.

His chest rises and falls with a deep, shaky breath. “Because I didn’t think you’d ever want to hear it.”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, a breathless, almost irritated whisper. "You're an idiot." But it's not frustration you feel anymore, it’s something deeper, something that’s been simmering just beneath the surface for far too long.

And then you can’t help it. The space between you closes, and before you even realize what you're doing, your hands are on him, pulling his face down to yours. The kiss is fierce and unrestrained, lips crashing together with a hunger that feels almost desperate, like you’ve been starved for this moment, for him, for everything that’s been left unsaid.

Seungkwan’s hands find their way to your waist, tugging you closer, his body solid and warm against yours. He responds without hesitation, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that matches your own, a mix of frustration and need, and something else—something raw and real.

The world outside of this moment disappears, the streetlights and cars, the sounds of the city—it all fades away, leaving just the two of you, caught in the storm of it all. It feels right, in a way that makes your chest tighten, in a way that makes everything else feel insignificant. The kiss deepens, and for a moment, everything that’s been left unspoken between you two finally starts to come to the surface.

When you finally pull away, breathless and dazed, his forehead rests against yours, your heart pounding in the space between you. It feels like the whole world has just shifted, everything falling into place in a way that makes sense, finally.

"How did you know my coffee order?" You ask, voice still shaky from the kiss, but your curiosity getting the better of you. You're still trying to wrap your head around all of it.

Seungkwan pauses for a moment, then a sheepish smile tugs at his lips. "I watched you," he admits quietly, his eyes softening. "I memorized little things about you, filed them away. Thought maybe one day I could use them... if I ever got the chance."

You can't help the small giggle that escapes you at his confession, the weight of it all sinking in. It's the sweetest thing you've ever heard. Before you can stop yourself, you're pulling him back into a kiss, hands sliding up to cup his face, as if this moment could last forever.

When you pull away again, your lips still tingling from his touch, you look up at him with a playful grin.

"So what do you say, fake-girlfriend?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. "Wanna be my real girlfriend?"

You laugh, the sound light and carefree, pressing your head against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels right. You breathe him in, the warmth of his embrace anchoring you.

"Only if you still bring me coffee," you murmur, grinning into his shirt.

"Done," he whispers, pressing his lips to yours again, and this time it feels like a promise—one you both intend to keep.

EPILOGUE

Seungkwan’s car is parked downstairs, and your phone buzzes incessantly as you can practically hear his impatience through the screen. You’re running late, of course, but when you finally slip into the passenger seat, he’s grumbling, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. The moment you slide in, though, his tone softens, and he’s already handing you a cup of coffee—the perfect temperature, the way you like it, the warm press of his lips against your cheek.

"You’re lucky I didn’t leave without you," he mutters, but there’s no real anger in his voice. You smile as you take a sip. This coffee isn’t from the shop across town anymore. No, Seungkwan bought an espresso machine, much to your surprise, and he’s been making them himself. "What kind of boyfriend doesn’t make coffee for his girlfriend?" he had argued one night as you laid in his lap, and you had to admit, it was an endearing (and slightly ridiculous) argument. Still, this coffee tastes better than anything you could buy, and maybe you’re biased, but you think it might actually be true.

He pulls into The Spot with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s so much nicer not having to argue with you every day for the spot,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

You roll your eyes and slam the car door shut with a dramatic flair. “I can pick fights about other things,” you shoot back unhelpfully, crossing your arms. “For example, your tie is hideous.”

Seungkwan gasps in mock outrage, his hand flying to his chest like he’s been personally attacked. "You did not just say that!" he yells, and then he's chasing you through the parking garage, the sound of his footsteps getting closer. You let out a shriek as you try to run in heels, but it’s no use—he catches up to you easily, hands dancing across your waist as you beg for mercy.

"Take it back!" he demands, voice filled with mock seriousness.

"No!" You laugh, still struggling against his hold, though it's a losing battle.

"Then no coffee for a week," he warns, his tone playful but authoritative.

"Boo Seungkwan!" you protest, but his grin only widens as he pulls you into the elevator, trapping you between his chest and the wall.

The elevator door dings open, and just as you step out, he pulls you back toward him, placing a kiss on your lips—slow and warm, lingering like he’s in no rush to let you go.

"Have a good day," he murmurs, his lips brushing your cheek.

"EW!" Seokmin’s voice shouts from behind you, and you can’t help but laugh at the sound of him. Seungkwan flips him off without missing a beat, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. "This whole thing is your fault," he calls out to Seokmin’s retreating figure, who’s already halfway down the hall, grinning ear to ear.

"I know!" Seokmin yells back gleefully, his voice carrying through the hallway. "I had a really really good plan!"

tagging: @ottersmind @blvenote @kyeomsworld @cookiearmy @armycarat2612 @rjea @xylatox @flwrshwa

@christinewithluv @headlockimnida @letwiiparkjay @cherr-y-eji @codeinbelle @baguette-atiny @whoa-jo @noiceoofed

[neferaskingdom]

Not So Bad After All | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Valentine’s Day sucks, the bathroom line is too long, and Charles just wants to go home. Until a ridiculous scheme, a fake proposal, and the best tiramisu of his life change everything.

Previous | Series Masterlist | Next

Charles Leclerc did not want to be here.

Valentine’s Day was already insufferable, but being dragged to a bar by his well-meaning (and currently very drunk) friends was making it so much worse. His brothers were off on their respective romantic dates, and instead of sulking in peace at home, he was here—stuck in a crowded bar, dodging heart-shaped balloons and being subjected to overly loud love songs blaring from the speakers.

And now, to top it all off, he was standing in an absurdly long line for the bathroom.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the line refused to move.

“Tell me about it,” a voice said beside him.

Charles turned his head to find a woman standing next to him, arms crossed, scowling at the line ahead. She looked equally unimpressed with the night’s events.

He raised an eyebrow. “Bad night?”

She huffed, tilting her head towards the couple making out aggressively in the corner. “I’ve seen horror movies less disturbing than that.”

Charles snorted, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Agreed.”

They lapsed into silence, both staring ahead at the unmoving line. A few seconds passed before she spoke again. “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

He exhaled, rubbing his face. “That’s because I’m not.”

She smirked. “Then why are you here?”

Charles sighed, hands in his pockets. “My friends thought I needed ‘cheering up’ because my brothers are both in relationships, and I am not.”

She nodded sympathetically. “Same. Except my best friend didn’t even try to lie about it. She just said, ‘You’re too single, and it’s embarrassing.’” She gestured toward the girl still making out in the corner. “That would be her.”

Charles winced. “Brutal.”

“Right? I told her I’d rather stay home and watch a move or something.”

Charles let out a laugh, genuinely amused. “I think I’d prefer that too.”

As the line inched forward at a snail’s pace, their conversation flowed effortlessly.

"Okay, explain this to me," she said, turning to face him fully. "Why do people think giving someone overpriced flowers that will die in three days is romantic?"

Charles chuckled. "Right? And the price! it's like they double it just because it’s February 14th."

She scoffed. "Exactly! And don't even get me started on the chocolates. You know they just put the same candy in a heart-shaped box and charge extra."

"The worst part is the expectation," Charles added, shaking his head. "Like, if you don’t do something extravagant, suddenly you don’t love your partner enough?"

She snapped her fingers. "Yes! If you need a specific day to prove your love, maybe your relationship isn’t as strong as you think."

Charles smirked. "So, not a fan of grand gestures, then?"

"Oh, I love grand gestures," she admitted, tilting her head. "Just not ones dictated by capitalism."

“So let me get this straight,” she said after a particularly heated rant about heart-shaped balloons. “You got dragged here against your will, your friends abandoned you, and now you’re standing in line for the bathroom ranting at a stranger?”

Charles groaned. “I am beginning to think I have been tricked.”

She shook her head in mock pity. “Tragic.”

He opened his mouth to respond when, to his horror, his stomach let out a loud growl.

She turned to him, grinning. “Oh my god.”

“…I’m hungry,” he admitted, rubbing his neck sheepishly.

She laughed. “You know what? Let’s get out of here. I know a place.”

The place she led him to was a semi-formal restaurant with dim lighting, cozy booths, and the most incredible menu Charles had ever seen. By the time their food arrived, they were already deep into conversation, swapping stories about their worst dates, cringiest romantic gestures, and Valentine’s Day traumas.

Charles took a bite of the cheesecake and immediately let out a sound that could only be described as obscene. “Mon dieu. This is the best thing I have ever eaten.”

His companion grinned. “Oh, you think that’s good? There’s something even better.”

He looked up, intrigued. “Impossible.”

She leaned forward conspiratorially. “They used to sell the most heavenly tiramisu. It was legendary. But they discontinued it.”

Charles frowned. “Then how do you know it’s better?”

She smirked. "Because I’ve had it before and fun fact it’s on the secret menu now. But it’s a whole ordeal." She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice like she was letting him in on a great secret. "The thing is, their tiramisu is legendary—like, hours of prep, delicate layers, the kind of dessert that requires actual effort. It got discontinued because the chef didn’t want to deal with the hassle anymore. But, through my very reliable sources—" she wiggled her eyebrows "—I found out they still serve it. But… only for very, very special occasions."

He raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

She pulled a simple ring off her finger and slid it across the table. "They only serve it on very special occasions Charles. The chef is a real romantic."

Charles stared at her, unblinking. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head, trying to look serious despite the mischief in her eyes. “Not at all. I’ve tried everything to get a taste again, but my friends refuse to participate in my schemes.”

Charles hesitated, glancing between her and the ring. “You’re telling me I have to propose to you… for tiramisu?”

She nodded solemnly. “For the greatest tiramisu known to man.”

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. “I cannot believe I am considering this.”

She gasped. “Charles. Think of the dessert.”

He groaned dramatically before picking up the ring. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Before she could react, he got down on one knee.

The restaurant quieted.

Charles took her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he looked up at her with nothing but warmth in his eyes. "Mon amour," he murmured, voice steady, heartfelt. "We've known each other since we were kids. You were always there—my partner in crime, my best friend. I can't imagine my life without you."

A few people around them sighed dreamily.

She felt a laugh bubble up, but Charles was fully committed, his gaze unwavering. "We've had our ups and downs, but through it all, it's always been you. And it always will be." He lifted the ring, giving her a small, knowing smile. "So what do you say, mon coeur? Marry me, and let’s spend the rest of our lives together."

The restaurant erupted in applause as she let out a shaky laugh, nodding. "Yes," she breathed, eyes locked onto his. "Yes, Charles, of course."

His grin was immediate, radiant, as he slipped the ring onto her finger. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You know... I think I always knew it was you. Ever since the day you carried me home after I sprained my ankle as a kid."

Charles chuckled, squeezing her hand. "You remember that?"

"Always," she said, voice warm. "And now, I guess I get to spend forever remembering this too."

The applause grew louder, a few cheers echoing through the restaurant as the chef himself emerged, grinning from ear to ear, ready to present them with their well-earned tiramisu.

As soon as they sat back down, she burst into laughter. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

He smirked. “Well, I had to commit.”

The tiramisu arrived, and the moment Charles took his first bite, he slumped back in his seat. “Merde.”

She watched, delighted. “I told you.”

Charles stretched his arms above his head as they stepped out into the cool night air, letting out a dramatic sigh. "I hate you."

She snorted, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. "Wow. Romance is alive and thriving, I see."

"No, seriously," Charles continued, shaking his head. "That tiramisu was too good. Now every other tiramisu I eat will be a disappointment. You’ve ruined me."

She smirked. "That’s the price you pay."

Charles groaned. "I despise you."

She hummed, clearly enjoying his suffering. "Well, if it helps, they have different staff on Mondays."

He glanced at her. "And?"

She grinned. "So, if you want another piece, we could just… go again."

Charles narrowed his eyes. "How do you even know this?"

She took a deep breath, like she was trying very hard to act normal before saying something completely unhinged. "Because I have tried everything to get that tiramisu again. I have studied their staff schedules, noted which days the chef isn’t working, and even considered staging a fake engagement like 15 times, but my friends—" she threw her hands up in frustration "—are all cowards who refuse to propose to me for the sake of dessert."

Charles was already laughing before she even finished. "I cannot believe you have gone to these lengths for tiramisu."

"It’s not just tiramisu, Charles. It’s a masterpiece. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. A divine creation that mere mortals like us barely deserve. And yet, my so-called friends refuse to put their morals aside for the cause." She sighed. "Until tonight. You, sir, are a true ally."

He smirked. "Clearly. And what do allies get?"

She shrugged. "Eternal gratitude? The satisfaction of knowing you’ve done something noble?"

Charles held out his phone. "Your number."

She blinked. "What?"

He wiggled the phone slightly. "So we can go on Monday, obviously."

Her lips parted, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to find the joke. "You actually want to go again?"

Charles shrugged. "I mean… yeah. That tiramisu was worth it. And, you know… you’re fun."

She studied him for a second before snorting. "Unbelievable."

"Believe it, mon amour." He winked.

Still smiling, she took his phone and added her number before handing it back. "Fine. Monday it is."

Charles grinned. "Perfect."

As they walked side by side, their conversation spiraled into absurdity.

"Okay," she said, "how many ways do you think we could disguise ourselves to get another piece?"

"Fake mustaches?" Charles suggested. "Though that might be too suspicious."

"Agreed. What about wigs? I could totally pull off blonde."

"Mmm… questionable. We’d need a full transformation."

She snapped her fingers. "Fake accents! If we pretend to be tourists, they might not recognize us."

Charles gasped. "Genius. We’ll go in, act completely clueless—where should we be from?"

"Not Australia. You could never pull off an Aussie accent."

"Fine. Italian tourists. Very authentic."

She laughed. "You realize this is insane, right?"

Charles smirked, nudging her playfully. "And yet, you’re still planning it with me."

She groaned. "I hate that you have a point."

As their ridiculous tiramisu heist plans continued, Charles found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—Valentine’s Day wasn’t so bad after all.

[neeeooon]

I'm popping in with my first request.

May I request: the Blue Lock men's reactions when you find their first grey hair.

Especially Chigiri, because I just know this dude will have a total meltdown.

LMAOO YES 🫶 thank you sm for the request!

when they find a grey hair ;

blue lock x gn!reader

chigiri hyoma

-> “and then i was all like—ow! did you just pull my hair?” “just a grey one!” you explain as you rub the spot where you pulled the hair out

-> but chigiri is not done with this conversation. “a what?” “a grey hair! you’ve had one before, right?” “a grey.. hair..” “… hyoma?”

-> he is on his feet, forehead nearly touching the mirror as he runs rampant fingers through his hair. “i’m.. a grey… i might pass out, y/n.” “please don’t pass out, hyoma.”

aryu jyubei

-> you’d be peacefully playing with aryu’s long hair when you notice something, causing your hand to pause. “don’t freak out.”

-> he freaks out. “WHAT?! IS IT DANDRUFF?? BALDING?? oh god, please don’t say lice—“ “NO, no lice. just a little grey hair.”

-> he cries

barou shouei

-> you’re happily helping him re-dye his red streaks when you find a couple grey hairs

-> “hm, that’s weird…” “what?” “oh, nothing. just a few grey hairs here—“ “a few WHAT?!”

-> once you calmly explain to him that it’s normal for some guys to grey early, he calms down a bit. “we can dye those red, too. at least you’re not balding!”

mikage reo

-> “i’m gonna throw up.” “you’re not going to throw up.” “ohhhh god, i’m gonna throw UP.”

-> you smack the back of his head. “you dye your hair anyway! you’ll live!” “… oh right :)”

bachira meguru

-> blinks at you. “a what?” “a grey hair. don’t worry, i can pluck it for you.”

-> does a slow turn between you and his reflection in your mirror. “but i’m too young to be old :)”

-> “you’re not old, hun, it’s just a grey—“ “can you help me open a retirement account, y/n?” “brother What.”

itoshi rin

-> “i found a grey hair.”

-> he just sighs, unfazed. “of course you did. the stress of carrying this entire team—“ “okay,” “—is causing me to go grey.” “yeah, yeah. let’s get you to bed, old man.”

[beatlblog]

i hope john bullied him (via @themagicalmysticalboy)

“Oi Paulie... wha’s on yer fookin face then?”#I hope John made fun of him#god#wtf (via @starseeker95)

#HELP#paul god what was that phase (via @mrlennonmccartney)

#if john still wanted him while paul looked like that it was true love#john's taste was so varied and dubious that i don't put it past him at all#but what a downgrade bc john looked great (via @stewy)

#hot take: this is the reason john decided not to work with paul after all#'if your music sounds anything like how your mustache looks i want no part of it' (via @paulnnccartney)

Knowing john he was like never mind my love you look so cute😍🙈😂 (via @mclennongirl15)

#i cannot imagine what was going through johns head when he saw him looking like that (via @harrisonism)

#imagine this outfit being the reason the beatles never got back together#john was like i'm gonna need about 6 years to forgive you for this 😂 (via @whoscruffylooking)

It’s okay because that look is 💯 on my wife.#I love that horrible facial hair#that first time drag king look (via @winston-legthigh)

#I feel like this is how John expected fashion disaster Paul to shown up#imagine just looking hot and hanging out by a pool#that’s them! (via @asphalt-cocktail)

#I respect it tho (via @lennons)

#john was just like ‘finally the inverse of all those years where I was pining and you looked amazing’#it’s just such a bad look#what WAS he thinking#definitely not what he needed to be which was ‘I look a complete twat’ (via @drivenalphabitchpaulmccartney)

2022

#the cunt paul is serving is like#fancy health food store cunt#but it's been expired for 3 years#it smells like fridge and patchouli and b vitamins and weed#john however is immaculate#god literally invented high waisted flares just for him#john and paul#my boygirlfriend john lennon#i would literally commit atrocities to know what john thought of how he looked here (via @wereonourwayhome)

#this actually changes everything i thought i understood about the 70s J&P vibe#also new questions arise about Paul's chest hair and the lack of it prior#only the important things#new podcast episodes#Paul's worst look and chest grooming#paul mccartney#john and paul#OH NEW HOT TAKE#this was 100% done intentionally to make sure they didn't bang#it was such a danger Paul took one for the team#and by took onei mean he prevented any taking from being done#dammit I'll probably write that fic#5 times John and Paul didn't bang (via @mydaroga)

#this is why he didn’t go to new orleans#:/ (via @goldslick)

SAD!

John Lennon, upon seeing Paul again in 1974 looking like that:

#john lennon#the beatles#shitposts#im sorry I thought of it then had to get it out (via @queerlennon)

#absolutely cursed#paul ruined his chances by choosing this moment to try a new form or drag that did NOT work for him (via @ahumoroussuggestion)

#absolutely dying#literally too much#the ultimate moment of seeing an ex who broke your heart after a few years and being like……oh#THAT’S who all the fuss was about???#(except from May’s account of that time it seems like the chemistry was still popping off somehow???)#which like talk about true love#being able to get past THAT#I kind of think that Paul was finding it fun to make himself look as gross as possible#relishing in it#after so many years of his looks being held up and scrutinized#to just be like oh yeah? watch this#kind of typical paulish rebellion (via @hands-across-the-skysky)

#divorce babe (via @pennielane)

#watching this post go through its villain arc has been such an experience great work guys#and by great work i mean im deleting tumblr (via @mystical-one)

He really has some balls, turning up like that.#mullet moustache and horrible thing on his chin#his fashion sense seemed to leave at the same time as Jane did#was he her Ken doll (via @beatlepaul4ever)

#honestly he still looks kinda hot#that wouldnt cure me (via @zutalorsihavemissedone)

Actually, it could maybe have been worse - he could have turned up with this look.

I can’t decide if it’s a real moustache or that horse face planted him in some muck. (via @beatlepaul4ever)

Why does he look like Paul Prenter? (via @bewareofdarkness)

#HBFJRBFHIRBFEKLFR#i think i would have just left#maybe that's why john thought he needed to be taken down a peg#'all you do is write love songs' like it was gonna hurt him#make him rethink his look#last time john hurt paul -- the man grew a beard (via @writertyper)

People ask why he didn’t go to San Francisco with him and the answer is this (via @yellowroombarine)

#this will forever make me mad at him#like this was the last photo documentation of them together#and that’s what he looked like#why (via bridgeoverstrawberryfields)

#REAL#FELT#some tiger king bullshit💀#I’m kinda with it tho💀💀 (via @iamsigningmylifeaway)

2024

#fr WHO lied to paul and told him this is a good idea (via @comradeharrison)

#as someone who thinks that 70s paul is the most ethereal indescribably beautiful person in the world#he looked soooo like shit during their reunion im ctfu#the dash of beard. horrifying (via @bugpoasting)

#if you genuinely think that John wasn’t absolutely attracted to Paul’s hillbilly porn star look than idk what we’re doing here#that sun tan and rat stache 100% did it for him (via @lennonsfag)

#I understand where everyone’s coming from but you’re LYING to yourself if you think John wouldn’t be into that#It’s Paul fucking McCartney he could show up bald with a beard down to his shoulders and John would get all hot and bothered over it#Paul has nothing to worry abt so why not pull up to the function looking like a porn star with the white Karen capri pants and all (via @iwannabeyourman)

#I’m sorry but he literally looks insane#mostly thag hair sticking straight up (via @sleeper9)

#I still think that's such a power move on Paul's part to be honest#Is he sliding his index finger into the fold his wraparound vest there?#“I know you want me. Even like this”#Paul's arm hair#Paul's...chest hair?#paul mccartney#Meanwhile John's showing off his hips bulge & thighs in May's jeans#they deserved each other (via @crepesuzette2023)

#i imagine he immediately got cured of homosexuality#if not... john please. put your glasses on (via @estrangedfiances)

#nooo he was so into it#his prissy princess suddenly looks like he’s into complete filth#john’s wildest fantasies suddenly seem possible (via @goldslick)

#and john was cured of his life long crush as soon as he opened the door#i actually hate that the bottom one is the last known picture of them together (via @the-electric-monk)

#ok i think this moon is hot i’m SORRY#like he looks so slutty he knew exsctly what he was doing#open shirt? gay little mustache? shoulder length shag?#the chest hair?????#paul was trying to ensnare him fr (via @gayyytripper)

#scream#once again mccartney was ahead of his time (via @oldmanpusspuss)

#when your ex shows up looking like a cartoon evil man (via @bambi-kinos)

#this is Kurtis Conner lmaooo goodbye (via @maelwife)

#I mean you know… I’ve grown partial to his pornstache and yes even the mullet#so idk probably I would still dig it (via @tenitchyfingers)

#tbh it’s not a bad look but it’s ugly when he does it (via @strangebrew)

only accurate take

#normally i run screaming seeing 70s paul#but this look?#*chefs kiss#what a power move (via @consulting--defective)

#john y paul#jp en los 70s#pues si (via @akamy08wt)

#did he dress like that on purpose with the goal of attracting or scaring him? we will never know#im soft for paul 70s mullet not so much for the moustche (on any period) but the clothess#mclennon#you cant have 67 without 74 last meeting (via @alienoriana)

#I've always kinda liked the mullet (yes yes something's wrong with me)#but I just can't get behind the mustache on him. I'm sorry#I kinda unironically want that shirt too#at least it has colour unlike most of the stuff people try selling you these days (via @chut-je-dors)

#i can tell u now i am infact a bisexual who is infact attracted to this look#hes committed to the bit (via @mcstarr)

#I don’t think I can get over that little bit on the chin#and the mustache too but yeah that’s where I just I don’t think I can but… put me and him in the same room and I might feel differently#cause of his energy#his physical presence (via @johnisonlysleeping)

#predicted bisexual twink fashion (via @therealestwizard)

#I think the Only downfall is the Kind of mullet here that type of mullet is out#it has to be just a little shaggier#but otherwise yeah this is just some dude at a club now (via @menlove)

#KURTIS LMAAOO#its actually kind of horrendous but i couldnt do any better (via @xtreme-cringe)

#and anyway we all know john would be totally into it dont kid yourselves (via @oldmanpusspuss)

#I could never transition because this is what I would slowly animorph into (via @asurrogateblog)

#it is still not a look and ladies pls know i will never eve date a man with this moustache and that shirt#but op. you aint wrong (via @phonybeatlemania)

#it’s called ✨️fashion✨️#what was 70s fashion even#“fashion” according to mccartney (via @lilywolfgray)

Can you imagine being John Lennon in 1974, and you’re about to see your ex-best friend/pseudo husband/songwriting partner for the first time in years, plus its a really big moment cause you’re tentatively thinking about working with him again, then the motherfucker shows up looking like this unironically:

[themultifanshipper]

Filming an ad for Hilton with Lando wasn't really on your bucket list, to be honest. 

Warnings: smut, voyeurism, filming (yeah you know where this is going), oral, blowjobs (mxm), based on that 12 minute video of Nortrell flirting, reader is a Quadrant employee

Requested by 🎲 anon ;)

He was your situationship friend, not a commercial partner.  

And neither were Hilton quite frankly, but what the hell. You knew Lando would share the money with you, he wasn't a total ass. 

You were part of the Quadrant production team, and you owed Lando this favour. 

So there you were, being shuffled around with Max and Lando around the fancy hotel, eating food and watching Lando do his photoshoots. 

You ended up in one of the rooms where Lando was supposed to be posing in a bathtub. 

You decided to skip this particular part and stood next to Max while he filmed with the camcorder. 

“I'm videoing you in a bathtub. Never thought this would happen.” Max deadpanned, making you and Lando burst out laughing. 

“Yeah right. As if you've never seen your boyfriend naked.” You teased. 

He huffed and looked at you mischievously. 

He waited until everyone else was packed up and out of the room to snap back. 

“Well actually there isn't anyone in this room I haven't seen naked, so…” 

Your jaw dropped, hopefully that little nugget wouldn't make it into the ad.  

You could blackmail Max into deleting it before sending the footage to the Hilton comms department. 

Lando scoffed and crawled out of the tub. He took off his robe and folded it, putting it back on the bed where he'd found it. 

“You're never gonna let us forget that are you? It's not our fault you don't know how to knock!” 

Max guffawed at the accusation. 

“You were in my living room, why would I need to knock?!” 

“Because we were naked!”  

“Oh my god!”  

You remembered that night. You and Lando hadn't seen each other in a while and Max was out so you had a little fun.  

You facepalmed while the two bickered back and forth. 

Long story short you got carried away and lost track of time. It could happen to anyone! 

Max came home, opened the door and saw the two of you going at it like animals. 

But what he neglects to mention every time he brings it up, is that he rather enjoyed the experience.  

Because you and Lando invited him to stay and watch.  

And watch he did… 

“I don’t remember you complaining while you were having a wank over it”  

“You said I could stay!” 

“Yeah, out of the goodness of my heart, and yet you still give us shit for it!” 

You'd had enough. 

“Oi! Shut the fuck up, both of you!” You shouted from where you were sprawled over the bed. 

Lando's gaze snapped to you. 

“You're not gonna weigh in here?” he asked you. 

“No, Max is right, it was his apartment, and you invited him to watch” 

“Oh I invited him, did I?” he stalked over to you, planting his hands on your thighs as he leaned over you. “Because I seem to remember you being rather excited at the idea of being watched.” 

You sat up, your face ending up inches from his as you stared at each other defiantly. 

“Yeah, I did enjoy it, so what?” 

“So” he chuckled “You're just as guilty as me... and I don't think you would be opposed to me inviting him more often” 

Your eyebrows shot up and you leaned in closer. 

“You tell me, he's your boyfriend” you murmured teasingly. 

He hummed and closed the distance, brushing his lips against yours. 

“You’re such a brat” he whispered.

“You love it, though” you smiled into the kiss, nibbling on his lower lip in the way you knew drove him absolutely crazy. 

Max couldn't quite believe what was happening right in front of him. 

He had the camera still pointed at the two of you, and watched as Lando climbed onto your lap, straddling your thighs as he deepened the kiss. 

One of you hands went to hold his lower back while the other curled into the hair at the back of his head to pull at it. 

Lando moaned into the kiss and Max felt his pants tighten. 

“Yeah” you rasped “Yeah, okay” 

“Fuck- let me… let me fuck you. Please” Lando panted, unbuttoning your shirt to palm at your tits. 

Lord, he was quite desperate today... it must have been the presence of the camera that made him want to jump your bones this badly.

You shuffled around, shedding clothes until you were both left in your underwear. 

Lando kneeled at the edge of the bed and peeled your panties off slowly, reveling in the way you shivered under his intense gaze. 

He licked his lips hungrily before diving in between your thighs. 

His deep groans served only to drive you mad with need as the vibration stimulated you further, and he slid a couple of his slender fingers into you. 

The way he knew your body like no one else could gave him the advantage of knowing the quickest way to make you come. 

Your loud moans echoed in the room and Max didn't know what to do with himself. 

His knees were seconds away from buckling, and he was transfixed by the way Lando's eyes were closed as he hummed at the taste of your release on his tongue. 

Then Lando sat back on his haunches and turned around, wet face gleaming obscenely in the light while he grinned at Max. 

“Sit down, camera boy. The cuck chair is right there” he pointed towards the leather armchair that was on the side of the bed, facing it, as if that was it's purpose. 

He did so, sitting in the chair and shuffling it closer to the bed to get a better angle. 

Lando crawled over your body and gave you a lingering kiss before hooking one of your legs over his shoulder. 

“Gonna take all of me baby?” he mumbled, lining himself up and pushing just the tip in. “Gonna be good for the camera and show them how well you take my cock?” 

You nodded, clinging to him desperately as he softly kissed the inside of your knee that was on his shoulder. 

He glanced at Max, who’s mouth was open, and pants well tented. 

He sent him a sly wink and Max had to slap a hand over his mouth to stop himself from cursing as Lando thrust his whole cock into you in one go. 

He wasn't huge in length, thank god, but his girth was impressive and the sight of it splitting you open was almost too much for Max to handle. 

He rubbed himself over his pants, trying to get a semblance of relief while he watched his best friend pound into your sweet cunt over and over, making the bed rock with the power of his thrusts. 

“Lando!” you cried, you were having trouble getting air into your lungs with the way he was slamming into you. 

“Fuck-“ Lando groaned, he was transfixed by the way his cock was coated in your juices every time it slid out of you.  

You were on cloud nine, the way Lando’s cock was stretching you out and hitting all the right spots was making you go limp, and Lando was able to lean over you to make you bend any way he wanted. 

“I can feel you tightening around me” he chuckled, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Are you getting close, sweetheart?”  

Max's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't deny that Lando's condescending tone was doing funny things to his brain. 

He watched you acquiesce and writhe in ecstasy when Lando thumbed at your clit while rolling his hips up into you just the way he knew made you feral. 

Max almost came at the sight, the two sweaty bodies rutting against each other desperately, and the sweet moans coming from you and Lando were making him ache. 

Then all movement stopped, Lando's forehead was pressed against yours as you breathed each other in and panted into the stale air. 

Then something shifted. 

Max felt the energy change when you whispered something unintelligible to Lando. 

The latter turned his head to look at Max, slight smirk creeping at the edge of his lips. 

“Want me to suck you off, camera boy?” he said. 

Max almost dropped the camera in shock at the question. 

That was new. In their many years of knowing each other they'd dabbled in voyeurism, even getting off to each other on the phone once. They had been particularly desperate that time. 

But never had they actually touched each other like that. 

“Go on then” he attempted to sound nonchalant, but there was a definite tremble in his voice. 

Lando grinned and made his way over, kneeling at Max's feet while his hands slid up Max's legs enticingly. 

“Do you uhm…” Max motioned at the camera that was still in his hand “what do want me to do with…” 

“Film me” Lando purred, one of his hands going to unbuckled Max's belt. “Keep the footage if you want” 

Max groaned at the thought of having such a video on his computer to use whenever he needed to unwind. 

“Okay” he breathed, just as Lando pulled his aching cock  out and gave it a teasing lick. 

Lando was making quite the show of it, looking straight into the camera while licking Max from base to tip.  

When he finally wrapped his lips around it, about halfway down and sucked, Max couldn't help the involuntary thrust of his hips. 

Lando didn't choke though, he just held Max's hips down and took him even further, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. 

Max had no idea Lando liked sucking cock this much. 

The hand not holding the camera went to tangle in Lando's curls, and only when his lips reached the base did he choke slightly. 

Max pulled him off for a quick breather and stood up, forcing Lando's head backwards to look at him properly. 

Deshevelled didn't even begin to cover it. 

Lando's cheeks were red and tears clung to his lashes. Not to mention the drool dripping down his chin. 

His eyes were lidded and slightly unfocused as he gazed up at Max with his tongue almost hanging out. 

“Fucking hell, man. I had no idea you were such a whore for cock”  

Lando whined pathetically and Max looked at you, where you were perched on the edge of the bed. 

“Did you know?” he asked breathlessly. 

You nodded with a smirk “Why do you think I ordered the strap-on?” 

Ah yes, Max thought. That little incident. 

Max had been staying over at Lando's for a few nights and a mysterious parcel had been delivered. 

You had shown up for some reason (Max didn't yet know about you and Lando) and taken it with you. 

Max and Lando had opened it beforehand though, so he knew the contents. 

Lando claimed he sometimes received packages for you because of some administrative problems with the postal service, or some other bullshit Lando managed to cook up. 

Max had then assumed you were a lesbian. Until he walked in on you fucking in his apartment that time. 

After that he assumed you were bisexual. He never suspected that it was in fact Lando on the receiving end of the strap. 

And he now knew Lando liked receiving it at both ends… 

Well that certainly was a vivid image, but not quite as vivid as the one currently burning into Max's retinas. The one of Lando on his knees while Max fucked his eager mouth. 

“So you like being fucked, huh?” He mumbled. “You like being used? Is that it? You such a slut that you'll let us do whatever we want with you?” 

Lando whined around his cock, and it didn't take long before Max was shooting ropes of cum into Lando's open mouth. 

He'd been quite riled up after all, and this was new and exciting territory, and Lando's mouth felt like fucking heaven. 

And the absolute whore swallowed every last drop of it, opening his mouth and showing him the proof. 

“Good boy” you and Max both said at the same time, and you glanced at each other with a smirk. This wasn’t the last time Max was going to join you, that's for sure. 

Later, back in the car that was taking you to your evening obligations. Lando let out an unexpected giggle. 

You and Max looked at him questionningly. 

“How much do you think Hilton would pay us for that footage?” 

“Lando!” 

[capquinn]

quinn would be soo caring and patient during your pregnancy like never getting upset when mood swings occur because he knows how much of an experience pregnancy can be

i fear i'm genuinely in love with my quinn, guys. like it’s bad 😭😭 no man is ever gonna compare to this

You feel it bubbling up before it even happens — the frustration, the inexplicable annoyance, the sudden, irrational urge to cry for absolutely no reason at all. You can’t even pinpoint what’s set you off.

Maybe it’s the sound of the spoon clinking against the bowl as Quinn rinses it in the sink. Maybe it’s the way he’s standing there, completely unbothered while you’re simmering, his broad back turned as he hums under his breath, so at ease when you feel anything but. Maybe it’s just him, existing, breathing, not reading your mind.

And when he glances over, all soft eyes and casual concern, and asks, “you okay, sweetheart?” — you snap.

"Do I look okay?” you bite, crossing your arms, tension coiled tight in your shoulders.

Quinn blinks. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t huff or roll his eyes, just pauses — tea towel in hand, brow furrowing like he’s flipping through a mental checklist of things he might’ve done wrong. He’s scanning your face, looking for an answer, and it makes you even more annoyed because there is none.

You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

“I don’t know why I said that,” you mumble, already feeling the heat crawl up your throat. “I just —”

The frustration builds, your breath catching, and Quinn is already moving.

"Hey," he murmurs, closing the space between you, voice gentle but steady. He doesn’t touch you yet, just keeps his voice low and sure, like he’s smoothing over the edges. "What’s going on?"

You shake your head, throat tight. “I don’t know.”

And that should be frustrating, should be confusing, but Quinn just nods.

"Alright," he says simply. "You want to sit down? Maybe drink some water?"

You glare at him. “I don’t need water, Quinn.”

“Okay,” he agrees easily, tipping his head, completely unfazed. “You want me to sit with you? Rub your feet?”

You let out a watery laugh, because of course that’s his response. Not irritated, not defensive — just quiet patience, just Quinn. He’s so steady, so calm, and it makes the knot in your chest snap. Your eyes burn, and before you can stop yourself, a tear betrays you, slipping down your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” Quinn murmurs, warm and soft, already cupping your jaw, swiping his thumb across your cheek. “Talk to me.”

You sniff, gripping the front of his hoodie. “I was mean to you just now.”

His lips twitch like he wants to laugh but knows better. “No, you weren’t.”

You were, but okay.

You let out a long sigh, pressing your forehead against his chest. “I just feel off. And I don’t know why. And it’s so stupid.”

Quinn exhales against your hair, his hands smoothing slow circles across your back.

“It’s not stupid,” he says, voice firm, certain. “You’re growing a whole human. Our human. You get to feel however you need to feel.”

And God, that just makes you cry harder. A fresh wave hits before you can even try to stop it, a tiny, broken noise slipping out as your shoulders shake. It’s ridiculous, you know it is, but the way he says it — "our human" — it’s too much. Too soft, too full of love, too Quinn.

He chuckles softly, not unkind, just fond, tipping your chin up so he can brush his sleeve across your damp cheeks. His thumb lingers, smoothing over your skin, and he smiles, dimples and all, like he’s got all the time in the world for this, for you.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, letting it linger, smiling against your skin. “Saw that coming.”

“You’re laughing at me,” you grumble, lips wobbly.

“I’m not,” he says, even as his smile grows. “I just —” He shakes his head, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I just love you, that’s all.”

You sigh again, letting yourself sink into him, pressing your face into his chest. “Even when I’m mean to you?”

His arms tighten, hands spreading wide against your back.

“Even then.” A pause. “…But you’re never mean to me.”

You lift your head, narrowing your eyes.

“Quinn.”

His mouth twitches. “What?”

“You liar.”

His grin grows, shameless and affectionate, and he steals another kiss against your temple before murmuring, “c’mon, baby, let's sit down. Let me take care of you.”

[the-silver-peahen-residence]

Megumi sighed shaking his head at this, even if he didn't want anything happening to him. Or worse; if she finds out. Though, it seems he said his answer.

"Um....well...Todo-san." Kisho goes to give him a nervous smile, "The type of woman I want to go for...is um." God..why does he feel that he is going to get beat up?

Fuck. He is going to crack.

"Someone that I truly cherish from the top and bottom of my heart. Because..." He shuts his eyes tightly. "I want someone who is kind, brave even if they aren't brave but pushes through, someone is strong but is okay with me protecting her, and um....someone I want to go on adventures with. So yeah...that's my type."

He said it.

Now it's up to Todo. He thinks of his answer yet he was thinking of the other one from before. How his arms remain crossed that he was thinking towards it.

What was his answer to this one?

"That......was...." that's when he grabs Kisho and started shaking him.

"A NORMAL ANSWER!? I THOUGHT THIS GIRL YOU WANTED WAS YOUR TRUE QUEEN OR PRINCESS!? WHAT SORT OF ANSWER IS THAT!?" He said now shaking him.

"TODO, NO!!" Megumi said trying to stop him while Hana sweatdrops.

"A WOMAN OF YOUR LOVE SHOULD BE ALWAYS FIRST! YOUR QUEEN! YOUR GODDESS! DO YOU EVEN LIKE THIS GIRL!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!? DX" he shouted.

~~AT the girls dorm building~~

The girls from the dorms heard.

"What was that?" Nobara asked seeing Miwa and Yuria sweatdrops. However, Miwa knew. "oh no...seems like Todo was asking that question again and didn't like the answer.." she said shaking her head.

"Hey Yuria? Wasn't Miko out shopping today to get some snacks for everyone?" Nobara was sweatdropping but Yuria blinks only for her to widen her eyes.

"Uh oh..."

Megumi gives a 'Yes he's serious just go with it' look hoping that Todo don't do anything because of the badger finds out, she would lose it herself. He didn't need another added to that list. It's bad enough Kinie and Sukuna lose it!

Todo waited for his answer with arms crossed.

"Well…I like black…raven-head, beautiful smile, fair skin, and uh? Amazing eyes that I want to look at for a long time! Skin that is vibrant that I can't look away." He begins. "Soft, warm, and uh…" He gulps a little as Eito is now perching on the railing.

"Hmmmmmm..." He was listening to this but keeps his eyes focused on Kisho. "Yes? Anything else?" Todo said.

"And uh…."

"Come on friend. You must have something else to add to this. You have to finish your answer!" Todo said.

"Is this really needed Todo-"

"YES! THE LAST ANSWER WAS SOMETHING I DIDN'T LIKE SO HIS OTHER ANSWER SHOULD BE GOOD!!"

[ebodebo]

meet ugly with simon!

You’re late.

Like really, really late.

You were supposed to be heading into your lecture right about now, but instead, you're dashing to your car, struggling to balance the heap of items in your arms.

The lady in front of you at the grocery store insisted on having all her items perfectly bagged, and now you're running late.

Go figure.

You hurriedly toss your groceries into the passenger seat, forgetting all about connecting your Bluetooth.

With a swift motion, you buckle your seatbelt and shift into gear, only to roll backward instead of moving forward.

A yelp escapes you as you feel the sharp impact of colliding with a parked truck behind you.

"Shit!" You curse, slamming the gear into park before struggling to open your door, muttering another string of expletives as your seatbelt nearly chokes you.

As you step out, you're met by the sight of a man emerging from the truck you just bumped into.

He stands tall and imposing, a mask covering half his face, making it difficult to gauge his emotions.

His bright blue eyes are striking yet carry an unsettling darkness that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

“Oh my God!” You exclaim in a fluster, rushing to inspect the damage on his car. You run your fingers through your hair anxiously, trying to regain some composure.

“I’m so fucking sorry! I—I was in such a rush,” you blurt out. “The woman at the grocery store took forever; it’s ridiculous! Who needs groceries bagged just right? And my clothes, ugh! I forgot to start the dryer, so they’re still sopping wet! Just my fucking luck!” You throw your hands up in a mix of frustration and false enthusiasm, your words tumbling out in a frenzied stream.

“I’m definitely going to miss my lecture because of this, and my professor is already on my case, so this is just the cherry on fucking top of my terrible day. And—” You suddenly stop, realizing that you’re venting to a stranger whose truck you’ve just hit.

"Sorry," you say quietly. "I'm just having a really shitty day, full of shittiness."

"Shittiness?" He replies, a hint of humor creeping into his raspy English voice, catching you off guard since he had been silent until now.

You glance up at him, your lip twitching slightly.

"Yeah," you respond softly.

He pauses for a moment, taking in your sheepish demeanor.

"You hungry?" He asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

You raise an eyebrow, caught off guard by the question. "Hungry?"

He nods.

"Well—I mean…" you trail off, noting the damage before looking back up at him.

His expression is serious.

He’s serious.

Is he actually asking you out after you just fucked up his car?

"Are you serious?" You ask, hesitation clear in your voice.

"Do I look like the type to joke?" He replies, his tone dry.

A smile breaks across your face.

"No. Not really," you admit, feeling a mix of embarrassment and amusement.

You take a moment to soak him in.

He’s pretty…attractive now that you’re really looking.

Quite built and definitely older than you.

You wonder what he does for a living.

Or if he lives around here.

"Diner's right across the street," he says, nodding toward the quaint little eatery nearby.

It’s clear he’s trying to ease your worries.

You don’t have to get into his car with him; you could just walk over where there are onlookers.

Fuck it.

You’re already late for your lecture.

Might as well make it worthwhile.

"Okay," you say, your enthusiasm a bit more pronounced than you intended.

Your cheeks warm, but he remains silent, though you catch the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

"Let me grab my wallet," you say, reaching for your door handle, but he gently places a hand on it to stop you.

"Don't need it," he dismisses.

Your lips pucker in confusion. "But, I—"

"Come on," he replies, tilting his head towards the diner.

"Alright..." you say, slowly realizing you don’t even know his name.

"Simon," he provides.

You smile.

"Cute name," you compliment as you turn on your heels to head towards the diner.

Oh, now he's definitely smiling under that mask.

He takes you to the cozy diner and covers the cost of your meal, much to your dismay because, 'I really should be paying; I messed up your car.'

He brushes aside your attempts to pay him back, insisting that you should never front the bill.

"If you ever want to talk about your shitty day, just give me a call. Yeah?" He says, scribbling his number on a napkin from the diner.

"Yeah, I will," you promise as you reach for the napkin.

After your meal, Simon walks you back to your car, even opening the door for you as you part ways with a quiet 'goodbye.'

"See you later, Simon. I’ll text you later!" You exclaim, beaming with excitement. "I’ll send my insurance info tonight," you add.

He simply nods, fully aware he’ll delete that message later because he couldn’t care less about his car.

He’ll pay to fix it, along with your car.

Even if you fight him on it, he'll still do it.

He’s just so thrilled that a pretty girl like you fell into the palm of his hand

What a lucky bastard.

a/n: bring back meet uglies!

divider by @saradika-graphics

[wqnwoos]

⇢ pairing. chwe vernon x reader ⇢ summary. vernon loves music, and you love vernon. ⇢ genre. fluff, bffs2lovers, college!au ⇢ word count. approx. 2k ⇢ author’s note! happy (early) valentine’s day! i unfortunately wrote this last week which means it came so close to deletion at least 10 times, and so im posting it now to prevent that. thank you to alta @haologram for helping me brainstorm the playlist, i truly believe u are a gift to this world.

playlist. love language, kehlani / jasmine, dpr live / want u around, omar apollo & ruel / like i want you, giveon / thinkin bout you, frank ocean / best part, daniel caesar & h.e.r.

It’s closing in on two in the morning when you finally leave the library. Your phone’s been on do not disturb since you got there at seven, which feels like forever ago — as you exit, casting a sympathetic glance at the remaining two students still glued to their textbooks, you scroll quickly through your notifications. Two emails, a follow request, and a passive-aggressive threat from Duolingo.

You pull your coat tighter around you as you finally emerge through the last set of double doors — it’s freezing, and you’re just about to stow your hands deep into your pockets when your phone buzzes.

[2:03am] vernon 👽🖤 yo [2:03am] vernon 👽🖤 ur prob asleep but i made u smth [2:04am] vernon 👽🖤 https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4grGIbqG5VSvNpDLuwdG7X

Instinctively, you smile. You and Vernon have a bunch of playlists. A collaborative one, for when you’re together, driving or hanging out or whatever. Then he has one for you with all the songs he thinks you’ll like, and then you have one for him for the same reason. 

[2:05am] you another one?  [2:06am] vernon 👽🖤  yooo why are u still up dude [2:06am] you hypocrite 🫵 [2:06am] you but i’m walking home from the library rn

vernon 👽🖤  is calling . . .

“Dude,” he says, by way of greeting, and he doesn’t sound impressed.

“Dude,” you mimic exactly, biting back a smile at the sound of his voice.

“It’s two in the morning,” he sighs, and you can hear sheets rustling in the background. “Why are you walking home alone?”

“It’s not far, Vernon.” 

“It’s dark and it’s been snowing. You should have called me,” he reprimands without any heat. “I would’ve picked you up.”

“Well, it is two in the morning.” You cross the road, stepping over a patch of snow. “I assumed you’d be asleep, not curating another playlist.”

“Oh. Yeah, that — that was — have you opened it?” Vernon’s words trip over each other, and your lips turn up ever so slightly. God, he’s so sweet.

“What, are you nervous?” you tease, unable to resist. “I have, like, fifteen of your playlists saved already.”

“You haven’t opened it,” he infers, and exhales a little. “Okay, um, maybe you should… wait. Until the morning or something.”

“Yeah, right,” you snort. “I’m listening to it now! It’s going to keep me company on my way home. Talk to you later!”

And you hang up before he can protest, already scrolling to find the link he sent you.

The first thing you notice is the name — Love Language. Which makes your heart twist a little, until you realise it’s the name of the first song, and anyway, you and Vernon have made this joke a hundred times. His love language is making playlists, he does it for his friends all the time. You included — you especially. Like the time he’d eaten the last slice of a cake you’d bought, apparently because he thought it was free-for-all. You’d given him the silent treatment for a day and a half before he’d texted you a playlist link: 

I AM (IVE)

really (mimi bay)

Sorry (Justin Bieber)

About (SoKuen)

EATING (Sukihana)

The Cake (John Powell)

I Will (Remastered 2009) (The Beatles)

Buy (Cousines like Shit)

You (Basil Valdez)

MORE (j-hope)

Please Please Please (Sabrina Carpenter)

Forgive Me (Chloe x Halle)

It made you laugh, because Vernon always makes you laugh. A few months and a few playlists later, you were harbouring the biggest crush known to mankind.

That was three years ago. You and Vernon are seniors now, set to graduate next summer, and what was meant to be a harmless crush on a friend has turned into being completely, totally in love with your best friend. It wasn’t that serious until it suddenly was. It was butterflies in your stomach when you saw him, at first. Now it’s like a sigh of relief. It's more coming home. Which is a lot more dangerous, and a lot more painful.

You handle it, most days, but sometimes he’ll do something or say something that completely throws your perfectly regulated emotions into overdrive. He’ll laugh at a stupid joke you make, or he’ll grab your hand to make a point or he’ll tell you that you’re pretty, and your heart swells until it presses painfully against your ribs, hot and slippery and aching. Those days, you mostly go home just to lie on the floor, listen to the only playlist of yours that Vernon hasn’t seen.

The second thing you notice about the playlist Vernon made you is the cover. It’s you, you know it immediately, and you know exactly which day it was taken. You just didn’t know it was taken. But your best friend must’ve snapped a photo when you weren’t looking, because the cover is you, looking up at the cherry blossom tree that the two of you stumbled on during a late-night walk. It was maybe a little under a year ago, it was the night you realised you loved him, and it was the night you almost kissed.

You don’t know if he remembers it the same way you do. To you, that’s your biggest what if? moment. To him, it’s probably just another fun memory with his friend. His best friend, if you’re lucky.

It takes you a second, but you finally click play on the playlist — but the picture stares back at you, practically taunting you with the memory.

The two of you had been walking for twenty minutes, sharing airpods, until you’d seen the tree and gathered a pile of pink petals to dump over Vernon’s head; he’d realised what you were doing just a moment too late. Asshole, he’d said smilingly, brushing the petals off with two hands. Everything that happened next was cliché. He’d missed a spot, one pale petal still clinging to his hair; you reached your hand up to get it, and lingered a little too long, a little too close. You don’t think you’ve ever held eye contact for so long — it felt like forever and then some.

Until his eyes flicked downward. Only for a split second: if you’d blinked, you would’ve missed it, but you saw it, and it was enough to have you taking a step back. Not like this, you’d thought to yourself. You wouldn’t do anything like that. You wouldn’t throw years of friendship and an extended period of pining away so easily — you wouldn’t risk it over an impulse that Vernon was experiencing. If you couldn’t have all of him, you refused to even take one night. You’d rather not know than live with the memory.

You’re halfway through the second song when you finally snap out of the memory, and you can actually take a moment to glance at the rest of the playlist. To your surprise, it’s short — it’s only six songs — and more interestingly, you know all these songs. And Vernon knows you know them; some of them you recommended to him, some of them he’s sent to you already, and you’re still wondering what he’s thinking as the third song ends. 

Despite you claiming to be his best friend, you don’t always understand Vernon. Sometimes it’s little things, like how he fist bumps the cat on the street corner of his apartment. Sometimes it’s bigger, like the girl he dated last year. You didn’t understand that — or maybe you didn’t want to, because yes, you were well on your way to being in love with him, but he also didn’t tell you. You found out from Seungkwan (who was kind of triumphant about it, because he was always vying for the position of Vernon’s best friend, and he finally knew something you didn’t).

Mina was lovely. As if Vernon would date someone not lovely — he brought her to movie night after a month or so of them seeing each other, and she met your group of friends, and everyone loved her. Even you. And honestly, after excusing yourself to the bathroom to blink away your watery eyes, you convinced yourself that it was for the better: that this would be how you officially got over your best friend. So when Soonyoung asked you to go on a blind date with one of his friends the next week, you said yes. You and Wonwoo saw each other for about a month before you broke it off, and about a month after that, Vernon showed up at movie night without his girlfriend, and casually mentioned that they’d broken up.

Even the news of that didn’t do much to soothe you, because you’d quickly come to a conclusion while dating Wonwoo: that it would not be easy to get over your best friend. You knew you loved him now. You’d come to that realisation under the cherry blossom tree, a few months after both of your breakups, a year after you realised that you liked him like that in the first place. It’s been well over two years since you first fell for him, and you’ve been stuck there ever since — falling deeper and deeper because you refuse to pull yourself out.

Sometimes, on your most hopeful nights, you think that maybe Vernon could feel something too. Some nights he looks at you with a certain shine in his eyes, or when he hugs you he makes it last a little longer than usual. Some nights he opens his mouth to say something and the words get stuck in his throat, and he waves it off like nothing happened. Symptoms that are all too familiar.

Those nights are even worse, the ones where you go home and read too much into his every move, try in vain to stifle the hope that insists on clawing its way to your chest. Those nights are getting more and more frequent, and you don’t know how much longer you can handle it. Those nights, something in you is convinced he feels something, that maybe he could like you — on the very worst, you think he might even love you. But by the next morning, you’re dead certain that all you’ll ever be is a friend to him.

But now — today — you’re eight minutes away from home and nearly five songs in when it starts snowing, and at the same time, the cogs in your mind slowly start turning. You love these songs, Vernon knows you love these songs. You’re pretty sure they’re some of his favourites too; he’s always listening to them. And you’re so preoccupied with the realisation that’s sinking in, that same traitorous hope you’ve always shoved down stirring again in your chest, you barely even notice the snowflakes settling around you.

Because maybe you don’t always understand Vernon, but most of the time you do, even if it takes a little while — even if he has to spell things out for you, like his stupid cake playlist. Because that’s what he’s doing, you realise with a sudden jolt, looking at your favourite songs. Your favourite love songs. He’s spelling it out for you. That this is his love language; that he wants you; that he thinks about you; and as the last song finishes, just as you turn onto your street — if you love me, won’t you say something?

When you finally look up, you think you’re hallucinating. Because Vernon’s standing in front of your apartment building, holding an umbrella, and it startles you so much you actually stop in your tracks a few metres from him, blinking idiotically.

Vernon gives you a shy smile, charming and awkward. Your heart does the thing it always does when he looks at you like that; stutters, skips a beat, clenches tightly.

“You stopped replying to my texts,” he says, and the street’s empty enough that you can hear him, even from where you’re standing. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You don’t say anything because what can you even say? Where do you even start? You don’t have words — but you tap quickly at your phone with a sudden idea, and you hear the ping of Vernon’s phone from where you’re standing. You move closer anyway, smiling at the familiar furrow of his brow as he glances between you and the phone he digs out of his pocket. And you see the exact moment he registers what you’ve sent him, the smile that spreads across his face.

[2:39am] you https://open.spotify.com/track/5oO3drDxtziYU2H1X23ZIp [love on the brain - rihanna]

You and Vernon first met at a party. Seungkwan had promised both of you, separately, that it wasn’t a party, more of a small gathering between his friends, but of course, Seungkwan’s definition of small doesn’t match yours. And so you were kind of hiding in a corner, nodding your head and mouthing subconsciously to Rihanna’s Love on the Brain; you’d turned your head a few inches, and Chwe Vernon was standing a few metres away, doing the exact same thing. You guys had accidentally made eye contact and split into matching embarrassed smiles, until he’d sat next to you. He’d offered you possibly the most awkward fist bump ever, pairing it with an even more awkward, “So, uh, got love on the brain?” You’d laughed, and that was it — the beginning of you and Vernon.

Now, he pockets his phone again, but holds the umbrella out over both of your heads, which only makes you giggle. “You brought an umbrella?”

“It’s snowing,” he shrugs, but his smile is wide, “It’s just like… colder rain.” 

“Stupid.” What’s more stupid is the smile you can’t peel off your face. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” he counters, and you tilt your head with a sheepish smile. So many reasons, but one look at him and you forget them all.

“So,” he murmurs, slipping his free hand around your waist, “got love on the brain, hm?”

“Something like that,” you agree, and after three years of wanting and waiting, you finally kiss him.

a/n i linked the playlist vernon made at the top (yes i dug up one of my very old spotify accounts to do this). i have very mixed feelings about this one. it's kind of cheesy but so is most of my work, and anyway it's valentine's day!! so who cares!!! also once again this got a banner bc once again this picture inspired the whole thing. also wtf is up with tumblr ruining image quality!!!

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