#anyways it’s just like nice or whatever

[okaylikeschaewon]

Unravel

~8.5k words, TPM Book 3, Part 2, smut, Series Masterlist

“A text would have been nice.”

“I said I’m sorry,” you pleaded – a feeble attempt to make her understand. “It was spontaneous, I didn’t plan on staying the night.”

“Oh? You didn’t plan on staying the night?” Sana mocked your voice, crossing her arms tightly. “Great, that makes two of us.”

“Sweetie–”

“Don’t ‘sweetie’ me right now,” Sana snapped, her eyes shooting daggers at you. “I really don’t think I’m asking for too much. You changed your mind and decided you wanted to fuck another member, fine, all I’m asking is for a bit of a heads-up so I don’t spend my whole evening waiting for you. Is that unreasonable? Am I the one being unreasonable right now?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Did you sleep with her?” Sana asked directly, not an ounce of hesitation in her voice.

“Well…”

“It’s a pretty straightforward question,” Sana hissed. “Did you put your dick in her or not?”

“Technically–”

Sana turned around and stomped off before you could explain. “Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath before sitting on the couch and pulling out her phone.

“Sana!” you called out after her, following her into the living room and sitting next to her. “Tzu had some personal stuff happen, I had to be there for her.”

“I’m not upset with Tzu,” Sana replied coldly without looking up from her phone. “She’s not the one who broke a promise.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Well, you did, whether or not you meant to,” she replied, her tone sharp as her fingers aggressively scrolled through nothingness on her phone. “It would have been fine if you just said you weren’t in the mood. You literally could have told me you’d rather fuck one of the others and I wouldn’t have cared.”

“Sana, it’s not that I didn’t want to,” you emphasized again while reaching out to her.

“Don’t touch me, I’m still mad at you,” she slapped your arm away lightly as she sulked. “Or, fuck, you could have just made up something. Anything. It’s not like I don’t know you have to fuck them whenever they ask. But no, you couldn’t even give me a call, or a text, or a fucking pigeon for all I care.”

“A pigeon?”

“It’s not like I just went through a whole fucking emotional roller coaster yesterday. It’s not like I wanted my boyfriend’s comfort.”

“I thought we weren’t using those terms–”

“Fine, fuckbuddy, side-bitch, roommate, whatever you wanna call it, I don’t care!” Sana shouted, tossing her phone aside. “It’s not like you’re acting like a boyfriend right now anyway.”

“You’re right, I’m not worthy,” you dropped down to your knees in front of her and playfully bowed your head in shame. “Forgive me, my queen.”

“Get up, stop being dumb,” Sana rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth betraying her livid demeanor for a brief moment. “This won’t work.”

“Do I need to kiss your precious feet? To show you how sorry I am?”

“Don’t you fucking dare put your mouth on my feet,” Sana replied sternly, pulling away. “Get. Up. Here.”

“Only if you promise to stop being mad at me.”

“Does it even matter if I do? Apparently promises don’t mean anything in your world,” Sana shot back.

“Alright, I deserved that one,” you smiled, standing back up and holding your arms out, waiting for her permission. She really took a moment to contemplate, to make you sweat, before she nodded just slightly, letting you cuddle up next to her. “I understand you’re upset with me, I fucked up, you’re right,” you added gently as you held her. “Yesterday was a tough day, a lot happened with the contract stuff.”

“It was tough for me, too,” Sana responded quietly, dropping her shoulders and staring at you with soft eyes. “I get that you had to deal with Tzu’s thing, but really, I didn’t expect to feel so neglected.”

“No and that’s completely valid, I fucked up. I should have at least called.”

“Maybe I’m being sensitive–”

“You’re not,” you reassured her before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise. Whatever you want, I’m yours.”

“I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary,” Sana gave you a faint smile. Her frustration quickly faded away, her tone softened, and her body language relaxed. “How’s she doing by the way? Did you get her situation sorted out?”

“Not really, I’ll have to stop by the offices,” you answered, your insides burning hot again at the thought of what happened. “That’s my problem to worry about though. Tell me, what do you want to do tonight? I can make a reservation somewhere if you want.”

“There’s actually this place Dahyun and I wanted to try, apparently their naengmyeon is really good,” Sana replied with a hint of excitement in her voice, without any of the anger from earlier.

“Sounds good, send me the name and I’ll make the reso’,” you replied, setting a reminder in your phone. “Hey, so I have like half an hour before I have to go pick up Nayeon…”

Sana waited patiently for you to continue, a frown on her face, daring you to suggest it.

“What do you say? Shall we have some fun and make up for last night?” you asked with a teasing smile.

“You think it’s going to be that easy?” Sana feigned annoyance. “A few words and you get to do whatever you want with me again? Just like that?”

“I mean, I was ready to suck your toes.”

“Stop,” Sana whined with a smile that absolutely melted you. “We both know how much you hate foot stuff.”

“Yeah, but, anything for you,” you replied, leaning closer and slowly snaking your hand around Sana’s body. “What do you say? Quick one?”

“No,” she whispered back quietly. “We’ll see after dinner, and don’t you even dare think about spending tonight with another member.”

—

A few days later

“You sure it’s alright?” Nayeon asked, unable to hide how bad she felt. “I’m really sorry, you know how these things are.”

“Nayeon, I get it, this type of shit happens almost every day,” you gave her an encouraging smile. “Finish up whatever you have left, just text me when you’re done.”

“I’ll make it up to you after, I promise,” she winked.

“It’s fine, and stop feeling bad, seriously,” you chuckled. “Now go, I’m so proud of you.”

She nodded enthusiastically before turning around and running back into the practice room. This past week has been tough for Nayeon, she really got no breaks. On top of all the group activities, she still had to work on her solo projects. Ever since the contract fiasco from a few days ago, Nayeon has been working overtime basically every single day; You couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for her.

That was part of why you decided to volunteer so much when it came to helping her out. Obviously someone else could drop her off, but you knew she was more comfortable with you. And, well, it did come with some benefits that you were particularly fond of; Nayeon had become the type of girl who would manage her stress by getting horny – and you were her solution.

Even now, as you walked the empty hallways of the JYP offices, you couldn’t help but daydream about what you knew Nayeon would ask for the second she finished working. During the days you had Nayeon, and in the evenings you had Sana – the last few days have honestly been pretty great in that regard.

“Oh!” you were knocked out of your daydream as you stumbled into a small figure. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“No, it’s my fault,” the girl quickly bowed respectfully towards you before looking up at you and freezing.

That’s when you recognized her.

“Oh, Yeji, how’s everything?”

She stared at you, almost as if she was trying to remember you, her mind still somewhat out of it. “Are you…” she mumbled softly.

“Am I?” you cocked an eyebrow at her.

“I’m sorry,” she quickly bowed again before shaking out of her little trance. “I just thought I recognized you from somewhere.”

“We’ve met very briefly at a couple of company events, but I don’t think we’ve ever properly spoken,” you explained. It was true, you obviously knew who she was, but you’ve never had the opportunity to really talk to her. Truthfully, she caught your eye the most in her group – the sharp expression she regularly wore and that fit body just always resonated with you. “I’m one of Twice’s managers.”

“Ah, right, you–” she suddenly stopped talking and began shifting around nervously. “Right, anyway, I’m doing alright. What about you? Where are you heading? It’s kinda late, no?”

“Well, I planned to go talk to some people about some manager stuff, but I don’t think anyone’s in the office at this time,” you answered while checking to see if you had any replies on your phone. You had sent a few messages earlier in hopes that you could get this picture thing figured out for Tzuyu, but all you saw was a text from Nayeon saying she’d be another hour. “I guess now I’m just waiting for Nayeon, going to find somewhere to kill an hour. What about you? What are you doing here so late?”

“Oh, nothing in particular, honestly, I kinda just came here to relax for a bit after our schedules. Sometimes it’s a bit more peaceful here than at our dorms.”

“I can imagine,” you smiled comfortingly. “Busy day?”

“Every day’s a busy day,” she smiled back before an odd look flashed across her face. She very clearly had something on her mind and didn’t know how to say it.

“Well–” you began before being interrupted.

“Would you like to grab coffee for a bit?” she blurted out as her cheeks immediately flushed red. “I just mean if you have nothing to do, I could use some company.”

“Uh,” you hesitated, a little confused by the whole interaction. “Yeah sure, why not.”

“Cool,” Yeji replied before awkwardly pausing.

“Shall we?”

“Oh, right, yeah,” she quickly turned around and started walking towards the elevators.

One of the benefits of working in an idol-filled building was the constant opportunity to see stunning women – and Yeji was among the best. Those accentuated curves in the little crop-top jacket she had on, and her perfect legs in those casual, skin-tight jeans, it all looked fucking amazing. Even though you were trying to be courteous and professional, you couldn't help but notice how her ass swayed with every step.

“It’s kinda crazy, isn’t it?” Yeji began, glancing over her shoulder. “We’ve worked at the same company for so long, yet we’ve never properly talked.”

“Hm?” you quickly averted your attention from Yeji’s hips and sped up to walk next to her. “Yeah, it’s a big company though.”

“That’s true, but still.”

“You know that I know about your group, right?” you chuckled as you followed her into the elevator. “It’s not like I don’t know you exist. I still listen to all your music and whatnot.”

“Oh yeah, do you have a favorite member?” she grinned as she leaned against the elevator wall with her arms crossed. “And is it me?”

“Okay, I don’t think you’ll believe me, but it’s actually you.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe you,” she chuckled, stepping out of the elevator in front of you. “But thanks.”

“No, seriously,” you quickly followed behind her. “That River cover? Chef’s kiss. I’ve been a fan since before I joined, actually.”

“Oh?” she turned to you with a curious smile. “Really?”

“Even before I joined the company, I always enjoyed watching fancams,” you continued, “and I’m not ashamed to admit it, I’ve watched a lot of yours.”

“Please, you’re going to make me blush.”

“I’m not kidding. You’re a phenomenal dancer. Also, keep this between us, you have the sexiest eyes I have ever seen.”

“Alright, now I’m actually blushing,” Yeji giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Don’t do that, I love your smile. Don’t hide it.”

“I didn’t realize Twice’s manager was so flirty,” Yeji smiled warmly as she navigated the coffee machine’s menus.

“And I didn’t realize how pretty you were up close,” you smiled back.

“Stop,” Yeji whined, stretching out the word with an unwavering smile on her lips. “Do you treat the Twice members like this, too?”

“No, of course not, I’m strictly professional,” you lied.

“Are you?” Yeji shot you a glance as she picked up her mug.

There was a subtle, but noticeable, tonal shift in the air between the two of you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked as you began making a cup for yourself.

“I don’t know,” Yeji toyed with the handle of her mug. “I’ve just heard things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah, things.”

Did she know? you thought to yourself. “Care to elaborate?” you inquired as you picked up your drink and gestured towards one of the tables.

Yeji nodded, and the two of you sat down together, nothing but the steam from your coffees blocking the firm gaze she had on you. “I’ve heard you and some of the members might have…”

“You can tell me, it’s fine,” you encouraged her to continue.

“Okay there was this one time when I overheard one of the members saying something about you… something that I wasn’t sure if I heard correctly.”

“Is that why you gave me that look earlier?”

“What look?”

“Yeji,” you sighed, smiling down at your cup of coffee. “Alright, I think we can stop beating around the bush. Yes, I’ve slept with some of the members, and you obviously know.”

“As in multiple?” Yeji gasped, her cat-like eyes shooting open.

“Do you wanna get on the intercom?”

“Sorry,” Yeji whispered, leaning in closer to you. “Multiple?”

“Seems like you didn’t know everything. Okay, I’ve slept with all of them,” you answered honestly, “it's part of my job. There, now you know.”

Yeji leaned back in her chair, staring at you as she contemplated your words. Even though there was a long pause, and obvious shock on her face, she didn’t seem to be looking at you negatively. Rather, it seemed to come more from a place of curiosity. She took a moment to properly digest what you had revealed to her before she spoke again.

“Why don’t we get a manager like that?”

“What?” you nearly choked on your sip. That was the last thing you expected her to say. “Is that what you want?” you laughed, putting down your mug again.

“I just mean like, that’s genius,” Yeji continued while casually sipping her drink. “As far as I know, none of the girls have been with a guy, but we’re still… you know,” she flashed a shy smile. “They’re constantly asking me about it.”

“Asking you?”

“Yeah, but I’ve only done it once, and I really can’t tell them much.”

“Oh?”

“What?” Yeji tilted her head slightly as if confused by your reaction. “After what you just told me, I don’t think I need to hide anything from you. It goes without saying, please don’t tell anyone, obviously. I had to be pretty sneaky about it.”

“My lips are sealed as long as yours are,” you replied while pretending to zip them. “Wait, but are you serious about wanting a similar arrangement? I might be able to talk to someone about it, and due to some recent events I ended up moving pretty high in the company.”

“Could you?” her eyes lit up. “I don’t really know how that works though, did all the girls have to approve of you or something first?”

“Uh,” you pondered her question. “Honestly, I never really thought about it, but they probably did?”

“I see,” she cupped her mug with both hands and began thinking. “You know what, maybe hold off on that part. Let me at least talk to the girls about what they want.”

“Fair enough, reach out whenever.”

“Speaking of,” Yeji pulled out her phone, “can I get your number then?”

“Yeah, of course,” you typed it in for her before handing it back. “I can’t say I expected my evening to go like this, but this was nice. Unexpected, but nice.”

“Agreed! I just feel somewhat comfortable around you. I can’t really explain it.”

“Thank you, and I think I get it, because I’m pretty sure I feel the same way about you. I rarely tell anyone about my job – for obvious reasons.”

“Funny how things work sometimes,” Yeji smiled gently. “How many people know?”

“Very few. Plus you now, I guess.”

“Right,” she chuckled. “Well, no one outside of my members knows that I’m not a virgin, so I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Like I said earlier, my lips are sealed.”

Yeji leaned in closer to you, lowering her voice some more. “Mind if I ask you something kinda personal? Since you’re probably a bit experienced and I don’t really have many people I can talk to about this type of thing.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Is it supposed to hurt?”

This was the most concerned she had looked throughout this entire conversation.

“Well, you see,” you leaned in a bit closer, “everyone’s different, but yeah the first time can hurt.”

“I see,” Yeji drummed her fingers against her mug.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I assume your first time wasn’t great?”

“What gave that away?” Yeji smiled with a small shake of her head. “No, it honestly just hurt more than anything. I think it felt good for him?”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I hope you’re not discouraged. It’s not like it’s your fault, most people find the first time kinda sucks.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” you gave her a reassuring smile. “You just have to find the right person, someone who’s compatible with you.”

“I definitely rushed it just for the sake of trying,” Yeji confessed. “Nothing against the guy, but he was also pretty inexperienced.”

“That happens, especially when people get into their first relationship.”

“I wish it was a relationship,” Yeji laughed, leaning back in her chair. “It was a stupid hookup with an old acquaintance. Like I said, I rushed it.”

“Ah, well, don’t feel bad about it. Can’t change the past, and you definitely wouldn’t be the only person who rushed it.”

“You’re right,” Yeji sighed before taking another sip. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer, even if the others aren’t interested.”

“Absolutely, you have my number, text me whenever,” you smiled.

Yeji smiled back – she really did have an adorable one. “Alright, my ride came early and is actually waiting for me, I should probably get going.”

“Alright Yeji,” you stood up and held your hand out. “It has been a pleasure finally getting to meet you properly.”

“Likewise! I’m sure I’ll be in touch soon.”

—

“Ugh. Fuck. I’ve needed this so much,” Nayeon moaned over her shoulder at you.

“You and me both,” you grunted as you slammed your hips into Nayeon’s pussy from behind.

She held onto the headrest for deal life as the sound of you clapping her cheeks echoed throughout the parking garage. Thankfully it was late enough for no one to bother you, but at this point even if someone walked by, you really didn’t give a fuck. This wasn’t the first time in the past week since the contract renewals that you’ve taken Nayeon in the parking garage, and the risk never seemed like enough to deter either of you.

This was Nayeon’s stress relief. Ever since she went full-force into her solo activities, she had become more stressed than ever, so whenever you would pick her up you’d end up with your cock in her. It was a daily activity at this point. Sometimes you’d make it back to the apartment first, usually you wouldn’t – you’ve discovered more secret sex rooms in the office this week than ever before.

“Ah, shit,” Nayeon cried out, tensing the leg she was balancing on as it trembled, nearly falling to the ground.

“Just a bit more,” you moaned back as you grabbed her hips for support, pushing even deeper into her pussy. “Fuck, you’re making such a mess.”

“Sorry,” she gasped before shoving one of her hands between her legs and showing how little she actually cared about the apology. She rubbed her clit as hard as she could, and within seconds she ended up sending streams all over the concrete next to where you were parked. “Oh fuck baby that’s good!”

The slapping was muffled by a wetness that only Nayeon could bring, each thrust of your cock into her pussy earning a fresh wave. You wanted to pull out, just for a second, to see her spray like a hose all over everything – but she felt too fucking good right now. You couldn’t stop, your hips had a mind of their own.

“Nayeon, I’m about to…” you tightened your grip on her hips and pushed forward as hard as you could until you felt the warmth shoot out of your cock, “...cum.”

“I can feel it,” Nayeon moaned, slowly moving her ass back and forward against your cock, squeezing out all of you cum with her pussy.

Once your cock stopped twitching, you slowly eased out of her, admiring the fountain of wetness dripping out of her pussy and straight onto the concrete below. Nayeon quickly turned around and took a seat, trying to keep her pants – which were bunched around one of her ankles – out of the puddle she had left next to your car.

“I love how I don’t even have to tell you anymore,” you smiled as you stepped up right in front of her.

“Not hard to remember when this is a daily activity,” Nayeon smiled, pressing her hand against her pussy again and opening her mouth wide for you.

“Good girl,” you moaned as you placed your cock into her mouth and grabbed the back of her head gently.

Nayeon went to work with her tongue, collecting any and everything she could off your cock, thoroughly cleaning it while fingering herself in the process. She got to do most of the movement herself, assisted only by the occasional thrust of your hips as you twitched your sensitive cock deeper into her mouth, all the way to the base.

“How’d recording go?” you mumbled under your breath while stroking Nayeon’s hair back.

She sat up straight and let your cock slip out of her mouth, and she wrapped her slender fingers around your balls, fondling them slowly. “Not bad, I’ll probably need a couple more days before I switch up and focus on the group concert.”

“If you ever want a break, we can arrange something.”

“This is my break,” she leaned forward and gave your tip a small kiss before letting go and leaning back in her seat.

“Fine with me,” you chuckled, pulling up your pants. You walked around the back of your car and sat down in the driver seat. “I love this new version of you.”

“What new version?” Nayeon grunted as she toyed herself with her pussy pointing out her open door.

“The one that’s always horny,” you leaned over the center and wrapped a hand around Nayeon’s mouth. “You’re going to get us caught if you keep making all that noise.”

She moaned something into your hand, something along the lines of ‘fuck you’, but her frustration didn’t last long as you slipped your other hand down between her legs.

If anyone was to enter the parking garage at this moment they would be greeted by a full view of Nayeon’s pussy, but she didn’t care at all. She screamed out against your hand as you slipped two fingers into her, curling them up and thrusting as fast as you could go for just a few seconds before jerking them out and pressing down on her clit.

She reached her own hand towards her pussy but you swiftly slapped it away. “No touching,” you hissed into her ear, bringing your fingers back to her entrance, leaving her clit and slipping them in.

It was obvious she wasn’t happy about it, but she listened, squirming and writhing at your touch, trying to push you in deeper by using her hips. You played along, giving her what she wanted while still teasing her pussy just enough to drive her insane. There was a beautiful balancing act that you knew would make it so much better in the end, even if Nayeon hated you for it at the moment.

And you knew it was working – her pussy was speaking to you through your fingers. She squeezed and pressed down hard, waves of pleasure aching through her pussy with each little thrust of your hand until it all became too much. You knew this was the end, all that was left was for you to pull your fingers back out and press on her clit.

Nayeon moaned louder than ever – basically screaming – as she began squirting across the parking garage, leaving long streaks of her slick all over the concrete. She lifted herself up with her legs, spreading them farther, shooting her mess as far as possible out your passenger door, painting the ground dark.

Only once her pussy stopped spraying did you stop. It didn’t matter how hard Nayeon would cum, she always had more in her – that was the beauty of it. You plunged two fingers back into her pussy, just for a couple more seconds, before quickly withdrawing and letting her squirt again and again, seemingly forever.

“I swear we’re getting caught one day,” you chuckled as Nayeon collapsed backwards against you, her legs shaking slightly and her breaths heavy.

“I don’t give a fuck,” she panted before straining herself up and closing the door. She didn’t even bother pulling up her pants as she glanced at you, collapsed in her seat and panting deeply, slowly regaining composure. “What about you, what did you end up doing?”

“Oh nothing, just tried again to talk to someone about the Tzuyu situation, but no luck.”

“I’m really sorry,” Nayeon softened her gaze and pulled up her pants. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think so,” you sighed as you turned on the car. “I just don’t understand why the fuck she did it.”

“I don’t know, as far as I know she hasn’t told anyone about it.”

“It just makes no sense.”

“Maybe it was for financial reasons?” Nayeon suggested. “If she was planning on quitting anyway, I could see those pics having a lot of potential.”

“Really? You think she’d do that just for money? That sounds fucking stupid.”

“I agree, but I don’t know why else she would,” Nayeon frowned. “Sorry, it was a stupid idea.

As you stopped at a red light, you looked over at Nayeon and shot her a warm, apologetic gaze. “Don’t be, I wasn’t trying to say you’re stupid, it’s a fair idea I just don’t think it’s why she did it.”

“So why do you think she did it?”

“I have no fucking idea,” you sighed, slamming your hand against the top of the steering wheel.

“Hey,” Nayeon reached across the car and placed her hand on your leg. “Maybe we should stop thinking about it, for now?”

“How can–”

“Please?”

She was looking at you with such precious eyes – full of concern – and a gentle, understanding expression. Her head was tilted just slightly with a small, hopeful smile on her lips.

“Alright,” you sighed, returning her smile.

“I know something that can help get your mind off it,” Nayeon leaned over the central console. “Just don’t crash.”

“Nayeon that’s not necessary–” you began as she unbuckled your pants and began pulling them down.

“Do you have any idea how hard you made me cum earlier?” she whispered before diving her face down between your legs and licking your balls. “This is just payback.”

Before you could respond, you felt her lips on your tip. A rush of excitement shot up your spine as the wetness of Nayeon’s mouth enveloped your cock. It took all your power to focus on driving once Nayeon had started bobbing her head up and down gently.

Luckily, you were already at her apartment, so you quickly pulled over in front of their building. Since it was fairly late there seemed to be no one walking around, so you had some sense of comfort knowing you were unlikely to get caught. Still, you were on a completely open street where anyone could walk by, and it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

It wasn’t guaranteed that no one would walk by, but at this point you were so engrossed in Nayeon’s blowjob that you once again tonight decided you didn’t care anymore. You pulled the latch and laid your seat down all the way. Once fully reclined, you rested a hand on Nayeon’s back and closed your eyes, focusing everything on Nayeon’s mouth. She kept her pace steady, not too fast, and definitely not too slow – at this point it was really just your own stress holding you back from blowing.

So you tried to relax some more – as if laying here with the setting sun’s warmth barely lighting up your car and Nayeon sucking your cock as if she was your girlfriend wasn’t enough. You really tried to let go of everything, no more pictures, no more angry pretend-girlfriend, no more emotional messes, no more work – just Nayeon’s mouth.

Sure enough, it was working. Or, probably, Nayeon had just been sucking you off for long enough for nothing else to matter to your body. You felt it coming, and part of you just wanted to freeze and it let it happen, but the courteous thing to do would be to at least let Nayeon know you were about to fill her mouth. Selfishly, you decided it was Nayeon’s problem, even as she was here doing you the favor. She’d understand – hopefully.

Regardless, it didn’t matter anymore as finally you could fade away into bliss, finally you could let go of the stresses of life, the difficulties of feelings and relationships. All you had to worry about now was the fountain of white you had begun launching into Nayeon’s mouth. She squealed, clearly surprised by the first shot, but Nayeon was far from inexperienced. She didn’t let off – she kept bobbing up and down your cock, albeit slightly slower now and with the occasional whine.

As much as you wanted to see Nayeon’s cute cheeks filling up with your cum, the strength needed to sit yourself up was non-existent. You conceded to the shivers shooting up your spine, the pleasure rushing through your brain, and you lay there with your hand resting on Nayeon’s back, simply taking in the slopping noises Nayeon’s mouth was making against your cock.

Once thoroughly drained, you finally groaned yourself up, bringing your seat upright.

“My–”

“Don’t,” Nayeon held up her hand as she wiped her lips. “I don’t even want to hear it.”

“I really don’t know why I didn’t say anything.”

“It’s whatever, I’ll let it slide this time,” Nayeon shook her head and grabbed the handle to her door. “What’s your plan now? Wanna come up?”

“Still horny?”

“Oh please,” Nayeon scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You’re one to talk. Really, how can you even have that much left in you after everything?”

“Good diet, I supposed,” you grinned at her before sighing again. “I would, but Sana has been a bit sensitive lately, I should probably avoid skipping nights with her for a bit.”

“Ah, right,” Nayeon frowned, letting go of the handle. “You know, you could take a couple days off, I can get a ride with someone else.”

“What? Then who’s going to fuck the shit out of you throughout the day?”

“I’m being serious,” Nayeon burst out laughing. “Really, if you wanna spend some more time with Sana–”

“My job is for all of you, not just Sana,” you stated firmly. “She understands that. I still get to see her at night even on days when she doesn’t come into the office, everything’s good between us.”

“Alright,” Nayeon bit her lip softly.

“You don’t seem convinced.”

“No, I believe you.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t.”

“What?” Nayeon raised an eyebrow. “Did something happen?”

“It’s just that Momo said something kinda similar,” you explained, “something about how I wasn’t taking this relationship thing with Sana seriously enough.”

“Ah,” Nayeon turned towards you some more, opening up her body. “Do you feel that way?”

“I mean, I obviously have a lot of love for Sana, but how seriously can I take this relationship thing we have going on? Like, come on, I’m still fucking her closest friends on a daily basis.”

“No one said it’s a simple situation, you obviously have an unorthodox career thing going on.”

“But?”

Nayeon smiled warmly as you read her mind. “But, that doesn’t mean that the feelings aren’t real. Forget about the physical sex you’re having with the others for just a moment.”

“How can I just ignore that part?”

“Well–”

“Let me ask you this,” you cut her off, “do you really think you’d be cool with it if I was your boyfriend and I was also fucking Momo every day?”

“That’s…” Nayeon sighed. “But then why do you do it? Why are you even pretending to be in a relationship with her?”

“I…”

“You can fuck all nine of us basically whenever you want, so what’s even the point? Why go through the headache?”

“I don’t really know…”

“Do you love her?”

“Nayeon, of course–”

“No, that’s not what I’m asking,” Nayeon stared, unwavering, into your eyes. “I know you love her, but I also know she’s not the only one, and she’s definitely not the only one who loves you.”

The first person that came to your mind was Mina and that confession from the contract renewal day. Then the others, and lastly the girl sitting right in front of you. You felt a slight stab in the chest when you thought about Nayeon, because at this point you basically knew she had feelings for you.

“It’s a bit too late at this point,” Nayeon continued, “the truth is, you’re right. I wouldn’t be okay with it if you were my boyfriend and also fucking the other members.”

“And I’d assume you also don’t think Sana would be okay with it?”

Nayeon gave you a meek smile before continuing. “Do you love her enough to pick her over everyone else? If you had to choose, would she be the one?”

“I guess I have to make that decision, don’t I?”

“That’s the thing, you don’t,” Nayeon replied as she reached for the door handle again. “But maybe you should.”

With that, she left the car, leaving you staring at her as she walked through the doors to her building – a whole new problem stuck in your head.

—

“I’ve missed you so much.”

“You smell like sex,” Sana replied without even sparing a glance away from her phone. She sat on the couch in nothing but a loose shirt and some purple panties, her knees up to her chest. “Nayeon?”

“Yeah, sorry, I’ll go shower real qu–”

“No need,” Sana tossed her phone to the side and reached up for your arms, dragging you onto the couch with her. “You hungry? We have leftovers, I could warm something up for you.”

“I’m alright, not much of an appetite right now,” you murmured as you buried your face into Sana’s neck.

“Is everything alright? You’ve seemed a bit more stressed than usual lately.”

“Yeah, just tired I guess,” you sighed softly.

Sana gently rubbed your back, holding you tight in her embrace. “Can I help?” she asked, her tone caring and full of concern.

“You’re already helping,” you squeezed, “I can’t ask for more.”

“I don’t know if I agree.”

Slowly, you lifted yourself up. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you think I’ve been a bit unfair to you these last couple of days? I’ve snapped at you and been difficult for no reason.”

“Sana, where is this coming from? Are you okay?”

“I just feel bad,” she admitted quietly, “you’re at the office before me, and you come home way later than me. I can see how hard you’ve been working recently and I just don’t feel like I’m doing my part.”

“Doing your part? Sweetheart, how can you think that for even a second? There’s no way you think my life is harder than yours, are you kidding me?”

“I’m not trying to compare, I’m just saying I wish I could do more for you. To help you.”

“You’re helping me more than you know,” you replied, pushing her hair out of her face. “Every day I look forward to coming home and seeing you here, waiting for me. You have no idea how much I love that.”

Sana smiled, a small twinkle in her eyes. “And I love being here when you come home,” she whispered before she leaned up towards you.

Meeting her halfway, you carefully slipped your hands under her body. Your foreheads touched softly, and her breathing slowed down. The eye contact, this close and personal, was unreal; There was this deep connection, silent and aching, that both of you experienced together.

Once you finally pressed your lips to hers – your eyes closing slowly – it felt better than you could have imagined. The kiss was tender and slow, full of anticipation and urgency. It felt both rushed and patient at the same time, your bodies working together and against each other simultaneously.

Her hands began clawing at your back, and your tongue slowly eased into her mouth, intertwining carefully with hers. You eased in a bit closer than you already were, deepening the kiss but keeping it tender, not rushing it at all.

Your hands wrapped around her small frame, holding her, reminding you that she was yours. Her gentle curves, her soft skin, and that tender love you felt – it was all yours.

Eventually you pulled apart, just enough for your lips to separate, and held close. Your deep breaths mixed as your mouths held just a few inches apart.

“I want more,” she whispered quietly.

“Take these off,” you whispered back, tugging at the purple panties she had on.

“Okay,” Sana purred as she pushed you back and turned around, grabbing the back of the couch and bending over at the hips. She pointed her ass towards you before she reached back with both hands and slowly revealed herself. “I’m all yours. You can fuck me, as much as you want. Use me, in any way you want.”

“No,” you whispered in response, crawling forward towards her and wrapping your arms around her, leaning right up against her ear. “Tell me what you want, because that’s what I want.”

She hesitated for a moment, shifting her body to the side.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” you whispered before you stood up from the couch and stripped down.

She bit her lip, staring up at you in deep thought. Even as you leaned forward and pulled her shirt off, leaving her sitting there with nothing on, she waited.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, taking a seat on the couch with your cock in hand. “Anything at all, just tell me.”

Her breaths quickened and she began crawling over closer to you. “I just want to ride you,” Sana whispered as she straddled your lap and cupped your face in her hands. She sat down on your lap – her pussy right on top of your cock – and started kissing you passionately.

Her movements were fast, but calculated. No loud moans, no shrieks – only soft kisses and gentle caresses. She slid her hips forward and back, back and forward, coaxing you to life – as if you could get any harder.

Then she paused, for just a moment, to reach back and take a hold of your shaft. She lined you up, slipping it in as she lowered herself down, a drawn-out breath escaping her lips. Sana shut her eyes tight, relishing in the ecstasy of you filling her up, inhaling and exhaling through parted lips, scrunching up her forehead.

Patiently, you lay there, waiting for her to make the next move. Your hands rested gently against Sana’s thighs, holding her steady. You felt Sana’s hands as she opened her eyes, taking the lead and interlocking fingers with yours. She looked down at you, an emotional smile flashed across her face as she gave your hands a tender squeeze. Then, she lifted her body up, just to bring it slowly back down.

“Oh fuck,” you murmured as Sana rode you. She was slow, making sure you felt every movement, every bit of warmth and pleasure that her pussy could offer.

“You feel amazing,” Sana whispered, speeding up just a touch.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are right now,” you moaned, your features scrunching up as Sana’s pussy began taking over your mind. You became more active, moving your hips in tandem with Sana, but she still did most of the work.

This time felt different. You’ve, frankly put, fucked Sana’s pussy countless times at this point, but there was something special tonight. You didn’t expect to feel so much, Sana’s body, her movements, the grip she had on your hands as if holding on for dear life, it all came together so magically.

She worked your cock expertly, her toned abs staring into you as she moved, her gorgeous tits recoiling with each bounce. Nothing could be more perfect than Sana’s body. The way her face just filled with pleasure and longing, the beautiful curves of her frame, and every single sexy breath that escaped her lips.

“Oh my fucking–” you cried out softly. “You’re so fucking amazing. You’re so fucking perfect.”

Sana replied with a loud moan, picking up her pace some more. She was starting to build up a sweat, putting in as much effort as possible – all to make you feel good. Her warmth engulfed you, her pussy soaked and tender. She would let out a little gasp, a soft squeal, each and every time your cock disappeared inside her body.

Every little movement felt like it was echoing, your senses reverberating harder than ever, an overwhelming sense of pleasure and delight that you still managed to swallow up. Every shiver and pulse, each one felt like an attack on your mind, each one feeling better than the last. Sana’s body, softer than ever, was doing things to you that you’ve never felt before. That mutual connection, quiet yet loud, was driving you insane. You could feel it in every fibre of your body – the end was near.

Then, as feelings hit an all-time high, and pleasure coursed through your body, you let out a sharp gasp before your mind faded to darkness. Everything happened so fast, you couldn’t keep up; Your body froze, laying there like a statue while Sana rode it out. She did it all, moving her hips back and forth as you filled her pussy up, your warm cum spilling out of her and back onto your own body. It felt fucking amazing, better than ever.

“Sana–”

“Just relax,” she whispered, letting go of your hands and lowering herself onto your chest. “I’m here, just breathe.”

Her words brought you comfort, that tone she spoke in – she probably could have said literally anything and it would have worked. Then, she began planting soft kisses against your chest, still moving her hips side to side just enough to keep it going.

Eventually, as your brain was overloaded with stimulation, your body finally began calming down. Now, alongside your heavy breathing, was just the feeling of Sana’s tender kisses.

Your cock slipped out of her warmth, and another fresh wave of cum spilled from her body. As much as you wanted to just lay there with her and enjoy the moment, you knew the mess needed to be addressed.

Carefully and methodically, you turned Sana onto her back and gave her a kiss. She wrapped her legs around your hips, pulling you in closer. You both ended up in a frenzy of passion and love, mouths glued together as neither dared to separate.

She felt so soft against your skin, her warmth radiating through you as your heartbeats combined into one unified rhythm. Her tongue grazed against your teeth, twisting and mixing against your tongue while staying gentle, like a romantic little dance.

As much as you would have loved to kiss her forever, you felt the natural end. You lifted yourself up slowly, pausing just to admire the way Sana’s chest heaved with each deep breath she took, her eyes wide and loving as she stared up at you.

“That was fucking amazing,” you smiled at her as you got off her and began walking towards the bathroom. “Let me grab some wipes, we made a mess.”

“There’s something I wanted to talk to you about first,” Sana spoke softly, sitting up on the couch. “If that’s okay?”

“Sure, everything alright?” you let go of the bathroom door’s handle and turned around.

“Well,” she hesitated, waiting for you to sit down next to her. Only once you took a seat did she continue. “I spoke to Tzuyu today and she told me what she did.”

“She…” your body went warm. “The pictures?”

“Yes.”

It took a moment for you to ask the next question. For some reason, the way Sana was acting – her body language and tone – something about it had you slightly uncomfortable. You were a bit on edge, nervous maybe, and you weren’t entirely sure why but you had a feeling you weren’t going to like what she had to say.

“What did she say?” you asked softly.

“She told me she almost quit,” Sana muttered quietly under her breath.

“Yeah, she told me the same,” you placed your hand on Sana’s thigh trying your best to be encouraging.

“Promise me something,” she looked up into your eyes. “Promise me that no matter what I’m about to tell you, that you won’t tell anyone that I’m telling you.”

“Sana…”

“Promise me.”

Your heartbeat quickened and warmth flushed through your skin. “Alright, I promise,” you finally replied.

“The pictures were her choice–”

“What do you mean, her choice?”

“Let me explain,” Sana continued, her eyes beginning to well up. “She… She felt like it was her way to take back control. She said the way those guys made her feel, how special they made her feel during negotiations, she missed that feeling.”

“But…”

“I’m paraphrasing obviously. She was hurt, she was vulnerable, and she knows she fucked up.”

“I just don’t understand, why?”

“It’s very human to do things you wouldn’t normally do as a way to seek validation or affirmation,” Sana spoke softly, still very clearly fighting back tears. “Especially if she felt unseen or overlooked. She said they were nothing but kind, and that it was all her own decision. That’s also why she felt so bad when you got so upset about it.”

“When you say unseen or overlooked, you’re talking about me,” you replied quietly.

“Kind of,” she answered quietly, her expression full of pain and sorrow. “But maybe it’s my fault. I’ve definitely played a role, it’s not only your burden to bear.”

“No, Sana,” your vision began blurring. “I’m not going to let you blame yourself. This is on me, my fuck up.”

“Don’t say that,” a tear fell down her cheek. “It’s not your fault. I hurt her, even if she won’t say it, I know I did.”

“Please–”

“I love you, a lot, I promise I mean it,” Sana muttered softly as the tears began spilling freely down her face. “But I can’t, I can’t do this. As much as I love you, I also love my members, and I don’t have it in me to hurt any of them like this.”

“Sana–”

“I can’t do it,” Sana sniffled, “maybe one day this could work, but not right now.”

The heaviest silence you’ve ever experienced engulfed the room, leaving the two of you in a darkness that could be felt through your skin. There wasn’t anything left to be said, minds were made, decisions decided. This was it.

“We can make this work, Sana, I know we can,” you pleaded desperately as tears filled your eyes. “Please.”

“Remember when we started dating?” Sana wiped her nose with the back of her hand, more tears spilling down her face. “I told you there were three conditions, and I didn’t know the third one yet but one day you’d have to accept it?”

“Yeah, and I said that was unfair.”

“I know,” Sana smiled through the tears. “It is unfair–”

“Don’t do this.”

“But here’s my third condition. I need you to let this end. I promise you this isn’t easy for me, but it needs to happen. I wish it didn’t, but it does.”

“Sana–”

She silenced you by pulling you into a hug. There was just as much love and care as ever, but all you could feel was the resounding desolation coursing throughout your body. Even as Sana sobbed against you, there was nothing but a bleak emptiness in your head.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered quietly.

Turns out that Nayeon was wrong about one thing, you didn’t have to make the decision to pick Sana over the others – she made it for you.

---

A/N:

You guys have been so damn amazing and patient, and I know a lot of you have been waiting for this story to come back, so here it is! I promise I'm not rushing the chapters, I just found some more time to write as I've needed a bit of an escape from life. I really hope you guys enjoy!

For those of you who have been following the story for a while, it's finally coming next chapter, the Yeji cameo that I've been teasing for way too long. It won't be exclusively Yeji next chapter, as you might have noticed the chapters are a bit longer now, so expect some steamy scenes from someone else as well.

Let me know what you guys think! We're sort of in the end-game of the story now, a lot of teasers and hints from the past are finally going to get paid off. Stuff I've planned for years, finally turning into words. No promises for when the next chapter comes out, but if people respond well to this I'll try to make it sooner rather than later!

[hrrtshape]

a partial schedule. palace log. 536 bc. my dr experience.

wake up before the sun finishes stretching. the sky's barely light, pinkish and soft, kind of like clay left too long in the river. you hear the servants whispering about fish rot, and temple gossip, and someone's daughter who hasn't bled yet. a priest is already sweeping the steps somewhere with a palm broom.

you lie still, listening, sheets half-kicked off, the stone under you holding last night's heat. your girl, lilu, arrives with water and a strip of date cake. she says it's your favourite. it isn't, it's just whatever was left from yesterday, but you smile anyway. she tucks your hair behind your ear.

she opens the shutters. the sky yawns wider. you sit up slow. someone left lilies in a clay jar by the window, still fragrant, barely wilted. there's a streak of something red on the handle. not blood. probably dye. you don't ask.

you're bathed in the courtyard, sun warming the edge of the pool. rose oil in the water. your skin smells nice. someone hums a song from the lower quarter and it gets stuck in your head.

you don't believe in the gods but you mouth the morning blessing out of habit. just in case. the oil slicks on the surface of the bath akin to a skin. you watch it swirl when they pour a bucket over your shoulders. one of the younger girls hands you a lotus petal. you press it flat and let it drift.

they dress you in linen light enough to float. gold cuffs, obsidian ring, sandals you don't lace yourself. your hair's done in twists that took an hour. you catch your reflection in the water basin and don't hate it. that's rare. that's enough. lilu holds up a polished bronze mirror. you squint. one eyebrow's off. she fixes it without a word.

breakfast is barley bread still warm, a soft white cheese, olives, figs. everything tastes like sun. you eat with your fingers. lilu laughs when you reach for a second fig. someone brings sugared almonds in a tiny bronze bowl. you don't love them but you eat three out of politeness. you send the rest to the kitchen boys.

the temple stairs are warm when you sit. vendors shout over each other, selling beads, fish, dyed cloth, half-truths. one claims his donkey can sense omens. another offers you a bird's heart for protection. someone has little carved lions for sale. you buy two. you wear the blue-glazed beads right away. they click softly when you move.

midmorning is too hot. you slip into the archives, where it's cool and shadowed. you pick up a clay tablet on sea trade and pretend to read it. someone brings honey-water. someone else says there was a fight near the canal. another scribe mutters something about a debt gone wrong and a missing bracelet. it's always something.

you draw nonsense on a wax board until your tutor arrives. he asks if you know the word for fortress in susian. you don't, but you make one up. he smiles as if it's a real answer. you both know it isn't, but no one cares. he reads from a scroll about northern stars and lost cities. although you like the names more than the facts.

lunch is melon, grapes, tiny flat cakes with sesame. they stick to your fingers. you drink something fermented and fizzy. it makes you giddy. your cousin joins. she has opinions about court girls and what they're wearing now. you nod a lot. she likes to hear herself talk. her nails are painted in crushed saffron. she touches your wrist when she laughs.

afternoon's for appearances. you walk the length of the palace gardens, which are actually quite serene today. the palms are trimmed, the flowers are opened wide. you stop to smell one and get yellow pollen on your nose. you leave it there.

children run past chasing a hoop made from willow. one trips. you help him up.

a boy from tyre plays the lyre. badly. you clap anyway. it's not about the sound, more so the gesture. someone gifts you a dyed scarf shaped like river waves. you tie it around your arm. you start to like it. the gardener waves at you from the other side of the courtyard. you wave back.

evening comes with incense smoke and lazy wind. your cousin returns. this time she brings a real rumour. something about a priest, a lockbox, and a missing girl. you say, "oh?" and nothing else. she keeps talking. the sun slides behind the ziggurat and the sky goes purple at the edges.

dinner is roasted lamb, onions, lentils, wine. you eat too much. someone plays the flute and nails it this time. someone tells a joke about the king's advisor and a sacred goose. you don't get it.

when they undress you, you're too full to move. they oil your back with lavender and brush your hair until it shines. you ask for mint leaves under your pillow. they bring them.

you lie in the courtyard under the stars, which are finally visible. one shoots across the sky. you make a wish, like a child. you won't tell anyone. that's how it works. the stone floor is still warm. someone drapes a thin cloth over you. you leave your arm out.

you sleep before the chanting starts. finally. it's not a deep sleep, but it's yours.

repeat tomorrow.

just maybe with different earrings. maybe with more laughing. maybe with pomegranate juice instead of wine.

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Nine

WC: 5.9k

CW: None

Notes: Long time no seeeeee. Send thoughts to my anons plz it’s my fav part of the day… might even motivate me to get ch 10 out sooner

The hum of the plane engine had become background noise an hour ago, steady and hypnotic, like the rhythm of breath. Paige had her legs folded beneath her on the cream leather seat, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a half-empty bottle of water rolling gently near her ankle every time the jet shifted altitude. She didn’t bother to catch it. Just watched it drift like it had somewhere better to be.

The cabin was dim except for the soft blue glow of the windows and the yellow-white reading light Azzi had on across from her, illuminating the pages of whatever novel she was pretending to focus on. Her socked feet were propped up on the seat in front of her, posture lazy in the way only someone completely at home in this kind of space could manage.

Azzi’s jet was nice. Quiet. Private. Which made it all the more jarring when Paige’s phone buzzed in her lap with three back-to-back notifications. First from ESPN. Then The Race. Then a push alert from her own F1 app.

Her stomach dropped a little when she read the headline.

“BREAKING: Red Bull’s Top Driver to Retire at End of Season.”

She blinked, tapped into the article without thinking, skimming the lines about “tenure” and “graceful exit” and “opening the door for a new generation.” The typical send-off language. But that wasn’t what her brain stuck on.

It stuck on the last sentence of the third paragraph.

“…likely to spark immediate interest from top-tier drivers currently in contract negotiations.”

“Azzi,” Paige said, too casually.

Azzi didn’t look up from her book. “Hm?”

“You see the Red Bull thing?”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up now, sharp and curious. “What thing?”

Paige angled her phone screen toward her. “He’s retiring.”

That got Azzi’s attention. She leaned forward, taking the phone from Paige’s hand and squinting down at the headline like maybe she hadn’t read it right the first time. She exhaled low through her nose. “Damn.”

“Right?”

“Didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I.”

Paige took her phone back, but before she could lock it again, a new email appeared — top of the inbox, urgent flag marked red.

Subject: Meeting Inquiry: Red Bull Racing

Her mouth went dry.

She clicked into it.

Hi Paige,

Hope you’re well. We’d like to schedule a brief conversation this week, if possible, no pressure, of course, but we’re evaluating options and would love to hear your thoughts.

Best,

Helmut Marko.

Driver Development, Red Bull Racing

She stared at it a little longer than necessary. Not because she didn’t know what it meant, but because some part of her — the part that had started all of this at nineteen, when she didn’t know better — still couldn’t believe this was her life.

Azzi was watching her now. The quiet kind of watching. The “I know something just changed” kind.

Paige closed her phone slowly and didn’t look up. “I just got an email.”

“From who?”

“…Red Bull.”

Azzi sat still for a beat.

And then: “Do they want a meeting?”

Paige nodded.

There was a silence between them now, not awkward exactly, but heavy. The kind that made your ears ring just a little.

Azzi set her book down on the armrest. “Do you want to go to Red Bull?”

The question was simple. Too simple. It hit Paige harder than she expected.

She looked at her lap, hands twisting the hem of her hoodie, heart knocking a little too fast against her ribs. She wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. She hadn’t even decided anything yet. But some part of her deep down (the unguarded part, the one she only seemed to access around Azzi) wanted to let her in anyway.

“I don’t know,” Paige said.

She meant it.

Azzi waited.

“They’d probably offer more money,” Paige added after a second. “And they’re Red Bull. The car’s always fast. Always evolving. They’re ruthless about it.”

Azzi’s voice was quiet. “But?”

Paige hesitated. “I’m used to the Ferrari car. The handling. The engineers. Luka. You. I know how to win in this car.”

Azzi didn’t smile. She didn’t tease or joke or pretend it wasn’t a big deal. She just nodded once, like she’d already played out this entire conversation in her head and was waiting for Paige to catch up.

Paige exhaled. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m glad you did.”

That surprised her.

Azzi leaned her head back against the seat, gaze shifting to the ceiling like she was talking more to herself now. “I’d rather know than guess.”

Paige didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice enough.

The plane continued east across the Atlantic, clouds scattered below them like pieces of some forgotten quilt. The air up here felt cleaner. Lighter. But no altitude in the world could stop Paige’s stomach from twisting into the shape of a question mark.

She stared out the window for a long time.

She was headed to New York first. Then Minnesota. Then probably Italy again, or Japan, or wherever the hell the next GP was. Her life, as always, was measured in terminals and tire compounds.

But somewhere between the breaking news and the unread email and Azzi’s eyes on her, Paige realized she was standing on the edge of something. Something big. Something she hadn’t planned for.

And maybe the part that scared her most was how badly she wanted to take Azzi with her, wherever she went.

–

The landing was smooth, quieter than Paige expected for a private jet touching down at JFK. She blinked against the sunlight as it streamed through the windows, golden and warm despite the haze of city smog. Azzi was already halfway through her phone the second the wheels hit the runway, thumb scrolling through emails like they’d never left Europe. Her focus, as always, moved faster than the plane.

The car waiting for them outside was black and sleek and forgettable in that New York way that screamed wealth through silence. Paige climbed in after Azzi and let her head fall back against the leather, eyes half-lidded as the skyline began to unfold in front of them. Azzi’s driver knew where to go without being told — straight to the penthouse.

Azzi’s place was exactly what Paige remembered and also somehow not at all. High ceilings. Cold marble. A wall of windows framing the city like a movie still. Everything smelled faintly like vanilla and something expensive Paige couldn’t name.

She dropped her bag by the couch and stretched her arms up toward the ceiling with a groan. “I’m starving.”

Azzi glanced up from where she was unlacing her shoes. “Me too. Let’s go eat.”

Paige blinked at her. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Azzi said. Then she paused, surveyed Paige’s wrinkled hoodie and sweatpants. “But, like, get real clothes on.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “These are real clothes.”

Azzi smirked, already heading for her closet. “Not dinner-in-Manhattan clothes.”

Paige made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh but followed her toward the guest room anyway. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from their rooms. Paige was in dark slacks and a crisp navy button-up. Her hair was tied back in a low bun, collar open just enough to pass as effortless.

Azzi grinned when she saw her. “Wow. You’re actually wearing something real tonight?”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You went full outfit. I’m just balancing it out.”

“Sure you are.”

The restaurant was a few blocks from the penthouse, upscale but quiet, one of those places you only knew if you knew. Inside, the lights were low and warm, the air perfumed citrus something. A waiter led them to a booth in the corner, just private enough to feel separate from the rest of the world.

The menus were handed out and barely touched. Azzi knew what she wanted before she sat down.

As the drinks arrived, sparkling water for Paige and some fruity mocktail for Azzi, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t about racing. Or sponsors. Or media days. It was light and slow, looping through stories they hadn’t had time to tell all season. Paige noticed it in the small things — the way Azzi tilted toward her slightly when she spoke, the way their knees brushed under the table, the way neither of them checked their phones unless they were mid-laugh or reaching for their drinks.

Halfway through the main course, Paige caught a flash of something near the window, the glint of a camera lens in the hands of a man sitting alone at a neighboring table.

She didn’t make a show of it. Just leaned in slightly and murmured, “Don’t look now, but camera guy, two tables down.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just reached for her fork and smiled like Paige had said something funny. “Got it.”

For a few minutes, they talked around it. Then the food arrived: steak for Paige, some complicated pasta dish for Azzi that smelled like heaven.

“This is so good,” Azzi said around a mouthful. “I’m never eating airport food again.”

“Liar,” Paige said.

“Okay, fine. But I’m dreaming of this next time we’re stuck in Belgium.”

They were laughing again by the time the waiter came back. “Any dessert for the table?” he asked, poised with his little notepad.

Azzi lit up instantly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Paige gave her a look. “You’re still hungry?”

“I have a sweet tooth,” Azzi said, unapologetic.

“I’m good,” Paige said to the waiter, who nodded and turned to Azzi expectantly.

Azzi tilted her head, mock-betrayed. “Wow. So you’re calling me fat.”

“What?” Paige blinked. “No—”

“I just said I want dessert and you said I’m good, which is code for I don’t need dessert, which is code for some people do, which is code for—”

“Oh my god, Azzi.” Paige ran a hand down her face, laughing now. “You’re impossible.”

Azzi grinned, victorious. “I’ll have the chocolate thing. And she’ll have one too.”

The waiter nodded, utterly unfazed, and disappeared.

Paige gave her a look. “I said I didn’t want dessert.”

“You said it. But you didn’t mean it.”

Paige shook her head, but when the plate arrived, she picked up her spoon without another word. The chocolate was warm and rich and exactly what she hadn’t realized she wanted.

Azzi leaned her chin on her hand and watched her take the first bite.

“Told you.”

And Paige, in spite of everything, couldn’t stop smiling.

–

Back at Azzi’s apartment, the lights were low, and the sounds of the city were muffled through thick glass. Paige dropped her jacket by the couch again and toed off her shoes with a quiet sigh, already feeling the warm hush of late-night softness settle over the penthouse. Azzi disappeared into the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening and closing with the easy rhythm of someone at home. Paige didn’t follow right away. She just stood there for a second, absorbing it. The quiet. The casualness. The fact that she could walk in like this and not ask permission.

Azzi came back with two waters and handed one over wordlessly. Paige took it with a small smile, brushing her fingers against Azzi’s for a moment longer than necessary.

“Hey,” Azzi said, leaning against the counter. “When’s your flight to Minnesota?”

Paige twisted the cap off the bottle. “Whenever I want.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Right. Millionaire life.”

Paige shrugged, sipping her water. “Perks.”

Azzi held her gaze for a beat. “So… is that you saying you don’t have to leave tonight?”

Paige blinked, then smiled faintly. “Is that you asking me to stay the night?”

“Yes,” Azzi said, without missing a beat.

Paige’s smile curved wider. “Then okay.”

Azzi’s shoulders loosened, just a little. She nodded toward the hallway. “Fair warning though. My parents are coming over tomorrow.”

Paige stilled. Just a second. Barely noticeable. But something tightened behind her ribs.

“Oh. Nice,” she said, setting the bottle down.

Azzi didn’t catch it — or if she did, she let it slide. She was already halfway to the couch, flopping down with a sigh, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. “They want to see me before we head out to Azerbaijan. I figured we’d do brunch or something.”

“Cool,” Paige said, easing down beside her. “Sounds chill.”

It did not sound chill.

Azzi’s parents. Tomorrow morning. Paige let her head tip back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling. She shouldn’t care. They weren’t dating. They hadn’t talked about it like that. There was no label, no pressure, no anything. But still.

She felt it again — that quiet, rising panic in her chest. Not the kind she felt before a race. Not adrenaline. This was different. Deeper. Harder to explain.

The idea of meeting Azzi’s parents didn’t scare her because she thought they’d dislike her.

It scared her because somewhere in the back of her mind, Paige was starting to realize she wanted them to like her.

And that was… not a casual thought.

They’d been orbiting this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else thing for months now. Neither of them naming it. Both of them pretending that the in-between space was enough. And maybe it was — for Azzi. She was so effortlessly open, so fine with just being seen, being known. She didn’t flinch when her friends asked if she and Paige were something. She didn’t hesitate when she put her hand on Paige’s back in public, or wore her hoodie that no one knows is her hoodie because it’s just a Ferrari team sweatshirt.

And Paige wasn’t like that.

Not with anyone but her dad and Drew. They knew. But no one else. Not really. Not the media, not her extended family, not even most of her friends back in Minnesota. She hadn’t meant for it to be a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and then it kept not coming up, and then it got harder to bring up at all.

But now she was here, about to stay the night again, and tomorrow she’d sit across from Azzi’s parents and pretend this was nothing. Or maybe not pretend. Maybe just exist in the weird space between pretending and hoping.

Azzi turned to look at her, her eyes soft in the lamplight.

“You okay?”

Paige nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Azzi leaned her head gently against Paige’s shoulder. Paige didn’t move.

She just sat there, suddenly feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing into her ribs. Wanting to say something, anything, and knowing she wouldn’t. Not tonight.

So instead, she leaned her cheek against Azzi’s hair and closed her eyes.

And let herself stay.

–

Brunch was at a small corner spot that smelled like lavender and espresso and fresh bread. It was the kind of place Azzi didn’t even need to look up directions to, she just knew it by heart, like half of New York. Paige followed her through the glass doors, head slightly ducked, even though it didn’t matter anymore. They’d already been seen. Photographed. Edited into slow-motion montages over TikTok sounds. She could hide her face, but a lot of damage had been done a long time ago.

Inside, the place buzzed with quiet conversation and the sound of cutlery tapping plates. Paige spotted Azzi’s parents right away. Katie and Tim Fudd were at a corner table, both standing halfway as Azzi approached, arms open, smiles already on.

Paige braced herself.

She’d never said it out loud — not to Azzi, not even to her dad who she texted this morning — but some part of her had expected this to go poorly. Not dramatic, just… off. The stiff politeness of people trying not to say what they really thought. The overcorrection of guarded approval. The silent evaluation of her outfit or her championship standings or her carefully ambiguous Instagram captions.

Instead, Tim gave her a warm nod and said, “Nice to see you again, Paige,” like they’d had brunch last week instead of never. And Katie pulled her into a brief, not-overbearing hug before they all sat down.

And then it was just… easy.

Not fake-easy, not tension-smoothed easy. Just real.

They ordered quickly. Pancakes for Azzi, a veggie omelet for Katie, black coffee for Tim, and whatever sounded least like food for Paige, which turned out to be eggs and toast. Then the conversation started, and to Paige’s surprise, it didn’t revolve around racing. Not at first.

Katie asked about Minnesota, about Paige’s dad, about what it was like to grow up with “so much snow and so little coffee.” Tim wanted to know what books she’d been reading lately, and Paige fumbled, caught off-guard, before muttering something about having started some novel and then abandoning it halfway through a flight to Monaco. That got a laugh out of Tim. Not a mocking one, just understanding. Then somehow they were all talking about bad travel reads and books people lied about finishing.

It was bizarre. In a good way.

Then the talk drifted back to F1. Not in the press conference kind of way, but more curious. Tim asked if Ferrari felt different this year. Katie asked Azzi if the pink helmet had been a branding move or just because she liked it. Paige waited for the tension to return, for the questions to circle back to contracts or media coverage or what it was like to be twenty-two and under a microscope.

But it didn’t. They just… talked.

And Paige found herself liking them.

Katie had Azzi’s calm, watchful energy. The kind that made you feel seen even if she hadn’t said a word. And Tim was like a low-stakes ESPN commentator, the kind of person who probably had opinions on your golf swing but would keep them to himself unless you asked. They loved Azzi. That was obvious. But it wasn’t overbearing. It was a quiet kind of pride, the kind that didn’t need to be stated.

And Paige… Paige didn’t feel tested.

She felt included.

At one point, while Azzi was busy explaining tire degradation to a very amused Tim, Katie leaned slightly toward Paige and said, “You’re different in person. More relaxed.”

Paige blinked. “Uh. Good different?”

Katie smiled, sipping her tea. “Very.”

There was no follow-up. No pointed glances or motherly warnings. Just that.

Later, Paige excused herself to the bathroom, more out of needing a breath than anything else. She leaned on the marble sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked tired, maybe. Or just unguarded.

Azzi had made it look easy. Paige wasn’t sure if that was a skill or just who she was. But somehow this had gone… well. Better than well.

When she came back out, Azzi had stolen a bite of everyone’s food and was grinning unapologetically while Katie fake-scolded her. Paige slid back into her seat and caught Azzi’s eye.

And Azzi — completely relaxed, pancake syrup on the side of her mouth — leaned in close enough that only Paige could hear.

“They like you,” she said softly, like it was just a neutral truth.

Paige picked up her toast and replied without thinking, “I think I like them too.”

And when she looked up again, Azzi was already smiling.

–

Paige hadn’t intended to go to Montana.

Not really. Not officially. The flight was booked late at night on a whim, sometime after Azzi had fallen asleep beside her in the apartment and Paige had watched the skyline for hours, wide awake and heavy with something she couldn’t name. The car met her at JFK just before sunrise, no public post, no press to catch it. She arrived under low clouds and quieter thoughts, and she didn’t text her mom until the wheels hit the tarmac.

Paige: u home?

Amy called two minutes later. Paige answered before the first ring ended.

She hadn’t seen her mom since the off-season. Since before testing. Before Ferrari. Before Azzi. Before everything got loud again like last time. Like F3. The driveway looked the same. It was cracked in the same corner it always had been, gravel spitting up under the tires of the rental SUV. The mountains hovered in the distance like they’d been waiting.

Amy opened the front door the moment Paige’s feet hit the porch. And Paige, despite being twenty-two years old and leading the F1 world championship, dropped her bags and just let herself be hugged.

It didn’t fix anything. But it helped.

They made tea and sat at the kitchen island like nothing had changed. Like Paige hadn’t just flown across the country on a Tuesday with nothing but a carry-on and a handful of feelings she didn’t understand.

“So,” Amy said eventually, one eyebrow raised, “you wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

Paige gave her a lopsided smile. “You’d guess right.”

Amy took a sip from her mug. “Try me anyway.”

And Paige did.

It came out slower than she meant, with a lot of pauses and not a lot of eye contact. But Amy didn’t rush her, didn’t fill the silences. Paige talked about Ferrari. About Monza. About what it felt like to lose by less than a second to someone you might actually be in love with and not even know it. She talked about the Red Bull thing—how they wanted a meeting, how her name was suddenly in headlines again like she didn’t still have a season to finish.

And then she talked about Azzi.

Not like gossip. Not even like a crush. Just… truthfully.

“She’s the best driver I’ve ever raced,” Paige said quietly. “And also the best person I’ve ever been around. And that’s… complicated.”

Amy didn’t speak, just pressed her hand lightly against Paige’s back. Paige kept going.

“She’s so comfortable. With herself. With people. She doesn’t even think about it, and I… I’m still hiding everything from half the world. I’m hiding what I have with her, I guess.” A pause. “And that’s not her fault.”

Amy just nodded.

Then Paige mentioned the concussion. The one from July. The one she brushed off because the team cleared her after a week and she didn’t want to miss Silverstone. She told Amy about the headaches that still came sometimes, about the way light sometimes made her flinch in the garage, about how her balance felt slightly off on stairs when she was tired.

Amy’s silence was different then. Sharper.

“Paige Madison.”

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, sheepish.

“That was two months ago.”

“I know.”

“You don’t wait two months to say something like that.”

“I didn’t wait,” Paige argued half-heartedly. “I just… didn’t bring it up.”

Amy gave her a look, one Paige remembered from middle school when she forgot to ice her knees. Then she stood behind her and placed both hands gently on Paige’s neck.

Paige didn’t protest.

Amy’s thumbs worked over the knots at the base of her skull, exactly like she used to when Paige was twelve and spent too long karting after dark. There was something about it. About being home, about being touched with that kind of care that made something in her eyes sting. But she blinked it away.

“I didn’t want to sit alone at my house.” she said softly.

Amy didn’t stop massaging. “I know. That’s why you came here.”

“Yeah.”

“You staying long?”

Paige shrugged. “Just a couple days. Then I’m back to New York. Or Maranello. Or wherever.”

Amy pressed into her shoulder blade, then eased up. “You ever think about slowing down?”

“All the time.”

“And?”

“I don’t know how.”

Amy kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to know. But maybe try.”

Paige let herself close her eyes. Just for a minute.

It didn’t solve anything. Not the Azzi situation. Not the Red Bull meeting. Not the press or the performance pressure or the concussion symptoms she should’ve told her team about weeks ago. But sitting there, with her mother’s hands on her shoulders and the smell of home in her hair, it felt like something was okay. Even if just for now.

–

Baku.

There was something about the city circuit in Azerbaijan that Paige liked more than she meant to. It wasn’t just the long straights or the tricky, blind corners. It was the way the city felt alive around her when she was strapped in. Like she was flying through a place still moving, still breathing, the world flashing by in colored lights and old stone.

The castle walls came up faster than she remembered. That tight left-right-left flick through the medieval section always made her nervous her first year in Formula One. Now, it just made her grin.

“Okay, that’s green in Sector Two,” Luka’s voice crackled in her ear, all calm efficiency. “Car’s responding well.”

“Feels good,” she replied, flicking her wrist lightly on exit. “Bit of understeer if I push into that uphill right, but otherwise nice.”

Another pause on the line. “Copy. Tyre temps?”

“Stable. Tell Fred I’m better at managing now.”

“You say that every weekend,” Luka deadpanned.

Paige smirked. “Yeah, but this time it’s true.”

Luka’s laugh was a little more real this time, brief in her ears. “We’ll see in twenty laps.”

Practice was going smooth. No heavy traffic, no weird bumps, and the Ferrari was humming through the corners like it wanted to run. They’d done a good job on the setup this week, she could tell already. Braking felt crisp. Rear traction was right there. No wobble.

Azzi was already on track ahead of her, a few laps into her first run of the evening. Paige glanced down the straight and caught a flash of her teammate’s car disappearing around the turn. Same red livery as hers, low under the lights, moving like it was skating on rails.

She didn’t mean to say anything. It just kind of came out.

“Where’s Azzi on the delta?”

And it was the way she said it.

The tone. The way her voice dipped around the name , softer, quieter, like she was asking about someone she knew from before all this. Luka didn’t answer right away, and Paige knew she’d just told on herself in the dumbest possible way.

“Oh,” Luka finally said, casual and unbothered in that dangerous way. “Now you care where Azzi’s running?”

Paige huffed, fake annoyed but not exactly denying anything. “I always care.”

“Mmhmm. She’s P4 right now. Two-tenths behind you.”

“Okay.” She clicked a paddle shift with unnecessary force. “Copy.”

“McLaren’s ahead of both of you. Gotta keep it tight.”

“Yeah, I saw. They’re on a tear.”

She adjusted her line on the next corner, just to shave off a tenth, maybe two. It worked. The Ferrari responded like it had something to prove, the kind of balance she hadn’t felt since Monza. Still, the McLarens looked quick — maybe too quick for comfort. Paige didn’t mind, not really. It made things interesting.

And besides, she was leading the world championship.

And Ferrari was running away with the constructors’.

She didn’t need to dominate every weekend. She just needed to finish higher than Azzi.

And that was becoming harder.

“She’s closing in,” Luka said a few laps later, a mild warning in his tone.

Paige didn’t answer. Just opened the throttle on exit and pushed.

–

Dr. Liao’s office was always cold, no matter what country they were racing in. Paige knew better than to complain when the doctor liked it that way. “Keeps the brain alert,” she always said, which didn’t make a ton of sense to Paige, but she wasn’t the one with two medical degrees and a license to ground drivers.

So she just sat still on the edge of the padded exam table, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, waiting for the light to turn green on the retinal scan.

“Still a little photophobic?” Dr. Liao asked gently, tapping something into her tablet without looking up.

“Less than I was,” Paige said. “More when I’m tired. Or if I forget my tinted visor.”

“You haven’t forgotten it, though.”

“No,” Paige smirked. “Scared of you.”

Dr. Liao smiled. “Good. I like that you’re scared of me.”

They moved through the rest of the checkup, reflexes, balance, peripheral tests. It was routine by now. Paige knew the drill and the doctor knew her, enough to know when something small was off. This time, there wasn’t. Paige passed clean.

“You rested well during the break?” Dr. Liao asked, her tone lighter now.

Paige shrugged, stretching her neck as the doctor wrote a final note. “Montana for a bit. With my mom.”

Dr. Liao raised a brow, but not unkindly. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paige said. “Just… wanted to see her.”

“How was it?”

“Nice. Cold. My mom gave me a lecture.”

“As she should,” Dr. Liao replied, smiling. “You’re good to go. Try not to hit anything hard.”

“Only curbs.”

“That’s a lie.”

Paige laughed.

–

The meeting room smelled faintly of engine grease and lemon cleaner. Azzi’s engineer, Mateo, always brought a bottle of something citrus-scented and sprayed the corners like a dad preparing for houseguests. Luka was already seated, coffee in hand, and Azzi had her legs kicked up on the chair next to hers, scrolling through data on her iPad.

Fred was running point on the strategy discussion. Calm, clipped French-English, all business. The McLarens had shown top-line speed in practice — more than expected — but both cars had struggled with degradation. Tire wear was going to matter, and the engineers knew it.

“It’s a long-game race,” Mateo said. “We don’t win this in the first fifteen laps.”

Luka nodded. “We can take them. They’ll push early, try to break you. Let them. Make them overheat.”

Paige watched Azzi glance at her then, just once, like they were both already thinking the same thing. They’d done this dance before. Managed races better than anyone else on the grid. The Ferrari wasn’t just fast now. It was smart. Smooth. Balanced.

Paige felt it in her ribs already. They could win this.

The meeting wrapped and most of the engineers filtered out. Some off to brief the mechanics, others to check real-time sims. Azzi lingered, eyes still scanning her tablet. Paige had her AirPods in, low but clear. A beat-heavy R&B track hummed gently in her ears.

Azzi looked up. “What do you listen to before meetings?”

Paige blinked, pulling out one bud. “Music.”

Azzi deadpanned. “No kidding.”

Paige smirked. “Mostly R&B. Sometimes gospel.”

Azzi gave her a look — a curious one, not mocking. “Gospel?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “When I’m stressed. Or if the flights are bad. Just… helps.”

Azzi nodded slowly, like she was adding it to some invisible file in her head.

“You in the gym a lot?” she asked after a beat.

Paige tilted her head, amused by the sudden pivot. “Between seasons, yeah. Like…five, six days a week. During the season? Less. I try to get a lift in when we’re not traveling but…”

“But you’re always traveling.”

“Exactly.”

Azzi nodded. “You can tell, though.”

Paige blinked. “Tell what?”

“That you lift,” Azzi said plainly. “Your arms.”

Paige looked at her, unsure if that was meant to be neutral or not, and Azzi didn’t elaborate. Just turned her attention back to her screen like she hadn’t just said something that made Paige hyper-aware of how close they were standing.

It hung there a second, unsaid, before Azzi stood and brushed her hoodie sleeves down.

“I’ll see you at briefing.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, still holding the AirPod in her hand. “See you.”

–

This might be the worst (or best) decision of Paige’s life.

It was late, but not late enough for the world to sleep. The streets below were still awake with the hum of Baku’s nightlife, headlights catching on wet cobblestones and music spilling from narrow windows. The hotel hallway was quieter, carpeted and still, muffled enough that Paige could hear the small knock of her own heartbeat in her ears as she lifted her hand and knocked gently on the door.

She didn’t wait long.

The door swung open and there was Azzi, barefoot in black sweatshorts and a threadbare Georgetown hoodie, curls pulled back and eyes soft like she’d been half expecting this.

“Hey, P,” she said, voice low.

Paige stepped inside without a word, just nodded, lips pressed tight together in a way she knew would betray her nerves. Azzi let the door fall shut behind them and leaned her back against it, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The hotel room smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and whatever tea Azzi had brewed earlier. The scent was warm, lived-in, hers.

Paige didn’t sit down. She stood there like she had to say it on her feet.

“I don’t know what we are,” she said finally, quietly. “I think I want to. Know, I mean.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Paige swallowed. “I didn’t come here for anything casual. Not tonight. Not anymore.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched, not into a smile, but something close. “You don’t have to say it P. I know.”

“Well… I did,” Paige said. “Because I’ve been… holding back. From you. And I think you’ve known it. And I think you let me.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I didn’t want you to have to tell anyone anything you weren’t ready to say out loud. Especially not about being gay.”

Paige looked down, thumb brushing the inside of her palm. “I told my mom… About us, I mean.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“She might’ve… nudged me.”

Now Azzi did laugh, soft and warm and familiar. “I figured.”

There was a pause, the kind that only made sense when two people had lived in the same small tension for months. Azzi pushed off the door finally, walked closer — not fast, not slow — and stopped in front of Paige, close enough that Paige could smell her shampoo. Close enough that her fingers itched to touch her.

“You came to me,” Azzi said, searching her face. “I waited for that. I’m proud of you for that..”

“I know.”

“I want to be with you,” Azzi said simply. “Not for anyone else. Not for the media. Just for me and you.”

“I want that too,” Paige said, and her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “Even if I’m still… you know..”

“I know that too.”

They stood there, barely apart, the city still humming outside but far, far away from this room.

“It’s better to be private anyway,” Azzi said. “Cleaner. Easier. And we don’t have to care what anyone else thinks. I just want… you.”

Paige let her breath go — shaky, but full. She took one step forward and Azzi didn’t move, just let her. Their foreheads touched, then Azzi’s hand slid to Paige’s wrist.

Then her gaze dipped.

“Alright,” Azzi said with a little smirk. “Now I wanna see those biceps without the sweatshirt in the way.”

Paige let out a laugh, shaky but real.

“You’ve been thinking about my arms?”

Azzi didn’t blink. “They haunt me.”

Paige grinned, finally, and reached down to peel off the hoodie. Her t-shirt underneath clung to her skin. Warm from nerves and night and maybe from how hard her heart was still pounding.

Azzi’s eyes lingered.

Paige flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m sincere,” Azzi said. “And sincere people deserve front row seats.”

“Is that so?”

Azzi’s fingers curled into the hem of Paige’s shirt. “You’re the one who came over at midnight babe.”

Paige exhaled. “Yeah. I did.”

And she didn’t regret it.

Not even for a second.

[fandomobsessedcharacters]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚𝑩𝒐𝒃 + 𝑩𝒐𝒐𝒌𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝑾𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝑰𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

pairing: bob reynolds x f!reader

a/n: Hi! This is my first Bob headcannon and what he would be like on a book date. I swear he’s giving book boyfriend vibes so I thought I would give it a shot!! If you have any feedback please feel free to voice it! Aghhhhhh! I literally love him so much! Anyways, enjoy! If you'd like to see more let me know!

Being a part of the new avengers meant three things: work, home, repeat. Unfortunately this also meant stressful missions and vicious bruises that needed tending to. All a part of the job, right? Trust me, all that stress gets to you one way or another.

Thankfully, you had an escape—losing yourself in the pages of a good book. Every couple of days you dive into a new story, each page pulling you into whatever adventure awaited. And once you were done devouring said book, you’d go to your favorite bookshop secluded away from the city to find more. You truly enjoyed reading, it was more than just a hobby, it was your peace.

Still, someone else had picked up on the way your eyes lit up.

Bob had always been observant. So when he saw you curled up on the couch in the living room of the new Avengers Tower, your favorite blanket draped over you, a book in your hands, he just watched you for a moment. Not in a weird “Edward Cullen" kind of way, but with quiet admiration, like you were the most peaceful thing he'd seen all day. Not to mention, the guy was absolutely smitten.

He found himself memorizing the way your eyes moved across the page, how your lips curled up slightly whenever you read something funny. You weren’t doing anything extraordinary, just existing, and yet, to him, it was everything. His crush wasn’t loud or dramatic; it was quiet, steady, and growing stronger with every shared glance and soft laugh you didn’t even know you let out. 

There was a comfort in your friendship, the kind that didn’t need grand gestures or constant conversation. You’d bring him tea without asking how he liked it because you already knew. He’d make sure your favorite mug was always clean. You’d swap stories, share late-night takeout, and sit in silence without it ever feeling awkward. It wasn’t flashy, but it was real. Steady. The kind of friendship that made the world feel a little less heavy.

You also noticed Bob’s eyes on you—quiet, thoughtful, like he was trying to memorize the moment. At first, you brushed it off, thinking maybe you had something on your face or your hair was sticking up. But it kept happening. Not in a way that made you uncomfortable, never that. It was… careful. Like he was seeing something in you that even you didn’t always see in yourself. And maybe, just maybe, you started to look back. Not always, and never too long. But enough. Enough to catch the softness in his gaze, to feel your heartbeat flutter just a little faster when he smiled your way with those doe eyes. You didn’t say anything about it, didn’t want to risk the comfort of what you already had. But in those quiet, lingering glances, there was something unspoken. Something that made you hope he was feeling the same pull you were. 

So one day, you took your chance and invited him on a little outing.

"Hey, Bob. Are you, um… busy right now? I was wondering if, well, if you wanted to come with me to the bookstore. It’s kind of my favorite spot, and I thought… maybe you’d like it too."

Bob blinked, caught off guard. “The bookstore? With you?” He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Uh, yeah, yeah, I’d love to. I mean, if you’re sure. That sounds… nice.” He smiled, a little sheepish but warm, like you’d just made his whole day.

So with a quick change into some shorts and your favorite sweatshirt, you stepped out, only to find Bob waiting in the hallway, also in a sweatshirt, hands stuffed in the pockets of his joggers. He gave a shy little laugh when he saw you. “Guess we’re on the same wavelength,” he said, eyes meeting yours for a moment before darting away again, a little flustered.

The soft chime of the bell above the door greeted you both as you stepped into the shop. The air smelled like old paper and cinnamon from the tiny café in the back. Shelves towered around you like quiet sentinels, each one packed with stories waiting to be found. You take Bob to your favorite bookstore in New York, a cozy hideaway tucked into a quiet corner in the city. 

Bob stood close behind you, his fingers brushing the edge of a display table as he looked around, wide-eyed. “Whoa,” he murmured. “This place is… kind of magic.”

You turned to smile at him. “I knew you’d like it.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, softer now. “I like it even more with you here.”

I feel like Bob is into poetry and mystery novels so that’s interesting!

You wandered through the store together, your fingers gently laced with Bob’s as you led him through the aisles, his eyes wide with quiet wonder. Bob lingered in the poetry section, fingers tracing the spines like they were made of glass. You watched as he pulled out a slim volume of Sylvia Plath and turned the pages slowly, reverently. “Her words feel like someone whispering in the dark,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You tilted your head. “Do you read poetry often?”

He glanced at you, a bit bashful. “Sometimes. When I can’t sleep, mostly. It helps me feel… less alone, I guess.”

You nodded, understanding more than you could say. “That makes sense.”

Later, while you browsed the mystery section, he picked up a battered Agatha Christie and grinned. “I used to read these with my mom. She always figured out the twist before I did.”

“That’s so cute,” you said, laughing softly.

He smiled back, more confident now. “You’re cute.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, like a bookmark slipped between chapters.

You and Bob spent hours tucked between the shelves, flipping through pages of books that caught your eye and sharing quiet laughs over quirky titles. At one point, you grabbed a coffee from the little café tucked in the corner, while Bob opted for tea—he claimed coffee made him too jittery, and you couldn't help but smile at how endearing that was. His tousled brown hair fell effortlessly over his eyes as he read. 

You and Bob left the bookstore, books in hand. You’d both made your usual ritual of recommending a book to each other, but this time, there was something different. You couldn’t resist picking up one of his suggestions, the cover catching your eye as you imagined diving into it. He, too, grabbed a book you’d been raving about for weeks, a shared smile passing between you as you realized just how well your tastes aligned. It wasn’t just about the books—it was about the connection, the quiet understanding between two people who knew how to make each other’s reading lists a little richer.

you guys even do a little book club and so you guys made it a cozy tradition. Every week, you had books in your hands, ready to dive into whatever genre was calling to you. Mystery, thriller, and even the occasional fantasy novel became the backdrop for your endless discussions. You’d both get lost in the twists and turns of a gripping crime novel, eagerly dissecting each clue, while Bob would always try to outguess you on the killer’s identity. When fantasy made its way onto the list, you’d get caught up in world-building debates, arguing over the best magic system or the most compelling hero’s journey.

What started as just sharing recommendations turned into a full-on reading ritual, a shared love of stories that brought you closer each time. And when the conversation would inevitably go off-topic, turning into laughter and playful teasing.

Your little book club nights with Bob had become sacred, equal parts literary critique and cozy hangout. But the moment you started swooning over a brooding assassin from the fantasy novel you were reading, Bob raised an eyebrow and shot you a look over the rim of his mug.

“Oh, he again,” Bob said with exaggerated annoyance. “Yeah, because nothing says dream guy like emotionally unavailable and probably hasn’t showered in three chapters.”

You giggled, unapologetic. “He’s complex, Bob. And tortured.”

“He’s fictional, Y/N. Meanwhile, I’m real, emotionally stable, and smell like cedarwood and good decisions.”

He playfully snatched the book out of your hand and flipped through the pages dramatically. “Let me guess, he saves the kingdom, but can’t save himself?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “You’re just jealous.”

Bob gave you a mock gasp. “Jealous? Of a moody elf-boy with trust issues? Please. I have better hair and a Costco membership.”

Still, later that night, you caught him secretly flipping through the book, mumbling something about “seeing what the hype is about.” You didn’t say a word, just smiled, knowing Bob would always be your favorite chapter.

[xylatox]

One In A Million || csb

The first spin-off of The Slow Surrender is here :’) After I was left literally going through it (I cried so hard and my heart broke multiple times), I am so glad to be back in this universe and even more ecstatic to read Soobin’s romance especially as the brother of the mc from TSS. Excited to see where exactly his story is interlaced with the original story or if it happens after the main events! A special congrats to Raya for reaching 800 followers as I’m reading this, so glad people are recognising and loving your work <3 Anyways, unto my thoughts!!

Before I even begin, I am always a sucker for flowers, their language, practically anything to do with them. The way you’re able to silently convey feelings through something as simple as a flower really just warms my heart.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

Is it too early to say I already love everything about her? Just from the way she thinks to her past, I cherish every bit of her. My heart breaks just seeing everything she’s been through (thankfully my tear reserves are dried up for now [we hope] so no crying today [again only a distant dream knowing myself]). It is heartwarming that despite everything at least she has her grandmother with her, I feel like that’s a relationship like no other.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

Raya, I will always wish to see how you think.To me your mind is literally such a beautiful place, the way you seem to just flawlessly write the words down, its something I admire greatly.

And we find out where their romance begins :( I’m taken back to that moment with the MC from TSS and God, the pain was unimaginable, familiar and heartbreaking.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

Something about this moment just gets to me, maybe its the hidden tension, maybe its something else, whatever it make be, it speaks to me. The way MC (rightfully) assumed it was Soobin’s wife that suffered a loss and then the way he still comes a year later, my god. Man, the moment she asked him out I smiled and giggled like an idiot, shes so cute, they feel like puppies who’re scared of going into the water right now and its so endearing.

I felt so bad when Soobin was late oh my god 😭😭 I had no clue what was going to happen but I’m so glad he eventually came (his reaction to her still being there was also so cute)

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Soobin, god. The way this line alone actually sent me insane. I do love that despite the initial awkwardness/tension from Soobin being late, they have a kind of flirtatious banter going on; they eased into conversation so nicely. I love them :) 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

I feel sick oh my god, oh to be viewed like this.

Man. The vulnerability, The kiss. The kiss. The kiss. (yes 3 times was very necessary). The moment was just so soft?? It took me by surprise.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire.

Raya, youre going to make me pass out.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

The instant reassurance?!?!? Goodbye.

“Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.”

MAN. (I was trying so hard to have my thoughts match the vibe of the fic; very cute, very calm but I fear I’m losing it.) CHOI SOOBIN THE MAN YOU ARE.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

RAYA. I literally went like “Oh, fuck” out loud because I could not handle it, Jesus. On another note though, the sleeping pills have me sad :((( and also slightly anxious. Man, the way mc single-handedly made him not think about it oh my god. Hes so downbad.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

I love this Soobin so bad. He’s literally so in love with her oh my god.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

Did I forget about their mother who I absolutely dislike? Yes. I immediately remembered her from the beginning of TSS, and the distaste I feel is ever present

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

I fear this just made my dislike her so much more, the MC is so sweet please dont speak to her like that, she doesnt deserve it, no one does.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

AND SHES HERE MY BABY :(((( My precious star, I missed her.

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

No. Raya you didn’t

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

I really do love the MC from TSS so bad, shes such a darling. Her and Soobin and such lovely examples of not feeding into the behaviour of the household that raised you (just focussing on the mother). Wait omg ::::::((((((( TSS’s MC is pregnant against oh my god :::((((((

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

I just know he’s worried :(((((((( 

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Oh god. Oh my god. I feel so bad for her what. I feel sick for her/

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

Oh this is a cute line 😭😭I didnt expect such cute words

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

Nooooooooooo. Raya ::::((((( RAYA NOOOOOO YOU MADE HER MOVE TOO ;-;-;-;-;-;-; RAYA.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Oh my god.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

Noooo the dried up tear reserve is filling up :(((

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

My heart clenched oh my god. Oh, To be loved like this.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

I giggled. Its always a Raya fic when the title is referenced in the end. It’s literally such a trademark of yours now and I always get to giddy reading it :). This was a remarkable first spin-off to the TSS series Raya. As always, I truly love your work, there are no amount of words that exist in this world to correctly describe how your works make me feel. Thank you for existing and thank you always for writing.

‎₊ ˚ ⊹ ིྀ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗂 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝗆𝗂𝖽𝖽𝗅𝖾-𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗌 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

He stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. His shaking hands hold your wrists. Droplets slide from his hair, tracing the sharp angles of his face, mixing with the storm clinging to his skin as he stares at your face. You feel it before you hear it. You see it before he speaks. "Marry me." It's his last attempt to keep you from walking away.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: chaebol au, strangers to lovers, angst, family issues, toxic societal norms, yearning, longing.

𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍-𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: MDNI, multiple-smut scene, heavy make-out, body-worship, nipple-play, fingering, oral!fem receiving.

𝗐𝖼: 17.5k — playlist.

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: hi hello!! to clear things up, this is a spin-off of the main story but each txt male lead gets their own reader! (aka you, heh). other female leads might show up for the plot, but they’ll stay nameless.

(definitely read the first part if you haven’t — but you can read this as a standalone!) see the event 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄.

If there is one truth that time cannot taint in your life, it is your love for flowers. They bloom unburdened, much like the love you cradle for things that ask for nothing in return.

Perhaps you were a flower in your previous life — maybe that’s why people have always likened you to one. A flower is something delicate, something beautiful, something that marks in memory with its scent and colour. Yet if you were to tell the real reason why they call you that, it wouldn’t be for any of those things. It wouldn’t be because you were particularly graceful or charming.

It would be because you see the world through the eyes of a dreamer, a romantic, someone who clings to the smallest joys as if they were... lifelines.

You cherish the minuscule things, not out of whimsy but out of habit, because you grew up knowing that gratitude was not just a virtue but a necessity. You learned to say thank you for everything placed into your hands, whether it was something you longed for or simply something to fill the space on your plate. Even at nine years old, a meal was never just a meal... it was a gift.

You don’t blame your parents for leaving. People say you should be grateful — they gave you life, after all. And they did. But not even a year into your existence, they chose their own paths, carving out futures that no longer had room for you. And you never resented them for it, not really.

It doesn’t mean it wasn’t lonely.

No matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, it’s hard so, so hard to grow up in a house that never truly felt like home. Hard to wake up each morning knowing there’s no mother to greet you, no father’s voice to remind you you’re safe. Hard to fall asleep at night, knowing that if a nightmare came, there would be no one there to hold you.

No one at all.

They're happy, somewhere out there. Twin sisters from your father’s side, three brothers from your mother’s. And you were happy for them, truly. They had their lives, their homes, their own worlds to tend to. They checked in when they could — once, maybe twice a month, just enough to remind you they were still out there. Just enough to keep you from forgetting... while you stayed with your grandmother.

And that was enough. Or at least, it had to be.

“Nana,” you sigh, “You just watched that yesterday. Are you sure you want to go again?”

“Yes. Mom.”

You continued to scrub the plate she ate from, forcing a smile. She’s called you Mom again. It happens often now. Some days, you’re her daughter. Other days, her niece, a friend. But most days, you’re her mother.

And that’s fine. It has to be fine. As long as there are still days when she calls you anything at all. Because the worst days, the ones that keep you up at night, are the ones when she just looks at you with empty eyes, searching your face like you’re a stranger.

You swallow hard and turn back to her. “Did you take your meds, Nana?”

"Yes."

You wipe your hands on the kitchen towel, glancing toward the small pillbox on the counter. Walking over, you flip open the lid, scanning the compartments. She took them. A quiet breath of relief escapes you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, closing the box. “After this, we’ll head to bed, okay?”

“Okay.”

You sink onto the couch beside her, adjusting the hem of your floral home dress—the one you tailored yourself, stitching distractions into the fabric on nights when the weight of it all felt unbearable.

Mama Mia plays on the screen, the familiar melodies filling the small space between you. It’s always been her favourite movie. Even after the diagnosis, even as the world around her blurred at the edges, she kept coming back to it.

As if, somehow, it was something she could still hold onto.

You glance at her, watching the way her lips move with the lyrics, her hands tapping against the armrest in time with the music. She remembers this.

“Can I hold your hand while we watch?” you ask softly.

Your grandmother turns to you with a soft smile, her eyes whispering at the corners. She’s seventy-five now, her hair thinner, her hands frail, but to you, she’s still the same. Still beautiful. Still her.

People told you to put her in a nursing home. Said it would be easier, that it was the practical choice. But how could you? How could you leave the one person who never left you? The person who held your hand through every scraped knee, every heartbreak. The only real family you have.

Her frail fingers squeeze yours gently. Then, just as you turn back to the movie, you hear it.

“I love you, Y/N.”

Your breath halts. You tear your gaze from the screen, eyes wide, heart pounding. It’s been months — months of her calling you by the wrong names, or worse, not calling you anything at all. But now, she’s looking right at you, remembering you. A lump sits in your throat as tears sting your eyes. You grip her hand tighter.

“I love you too, Nana,” you whisper, voice shaking.

And you do. More than anything. Even if one day, she forgets. Even if, someday, she doesn’t remember you at all.

You slide the key into the lock, your right shoulder weighed down by the new pots you picked up earlier. As the door swings open, the soft chime of the bell echoes through the quiet shop. Stepping inside, you nudge the door shut behind you and flip the sign to OPEN with a satisfied smile.

It’s 10 a.m., and the morning light spills in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the flowers on display. Running your fingers gently over delicate petals, you inhale their fresh scent, the fragrance mixing with the faint traces of paint lingering on the walls — your own handiwork, soft strokes of color bringing the shop to life.

You set your bag down behind the counter and power on the computer, scrolling through the day’s orders. Five minutes pass in a comfortable rhythm before the familiar chime rings again. The door swings open.

Someone’s here.

"Good morning!" You greet with a warm smile, but your voice falters just slightly as you take him in. He’s not the usual type to wander into a flower shop. Dressed in a sharp, black tailored suit, he carries himself with an air of quiet confidence. The glasses perched on the bridge of his nose add to his composed demeanor, but it’s his presence — towering in the doorway, making the shop feel smaller somehow, catches you off guard.

Still, you keep your smile, smoothing the surprise on your chest. "Are you looking for any particular flowers?"

He glances at you and gives a small nod — a quick acknowledgment that he’s heard you. It’s familiar. You’ve dealt with customers like this before, the ones who prefer to browse in silence before saying what they need.

You nod back slightly, a polite gesture, then shift your gaze back to your computer, trying to shake off the strange unease prickling at you. He hasn’t even spoken yet, and still, something about him makes your pulse tick faster.

Why?

“I'm looking to have a funeral arrangement made.” he says suddenly, making you blink and look up.

His eyes meet yours.

You cleared your throat, "I'm sorry for your loss." You try to follow the routine speech that you have. "Let me get my book and I'll assist you. Please, take a seat."

You point towards the table, a round wooden structure with three matching chairs, a small white vase holding a fresh boquet decorated the center. He quickly followed your instructions, pulling the chair as it scraped on along the wooden floorboards before they sit with a sigh.

You took a quick glance at him again, watching as he fishes out his phone, one of the brands that is you think the latest release, and you see a unique looking rolex in his wrists. You avert your eyes as soon as you did, and your eyes catch the black car parked in front of your store.

Your store.

Your small humble store that is stark comparison compared to everything this man have.

You cleared your thoughts as to why he chose this place to buy flowers. You turned around to gather your book filled with arrangements.

"Do you run this place by yourself?" As you reach for the leather spine of the book, you glance over your shoulder, meeting his eyes already on yours.

He didn’t respond, even as you took a seat across from him. Still, you could feel his gaze following you. You pushed the roses aside, their petals bruised from restless handling, and replaced them with the open book. Its pages, worn thin, exhaled the faint, bitter-sweet scent of aged paper — a comfort you almost resented tonight.

He stayed silent, his arms draped over the table, eyes steady. His presence bled into the air, heavy and warm, as though the room itself bent around him. You swore you could see it — something low and smoldering radiating off of him, a slow burn that clawed past the polished edges he wore so well.

You tore your gaze away before it could swallow you whole.

You tighten your grip on the pen. “May I have the full name of the deceased?” Your hand drifts across the top of the page, hovering over the empty space waiting to be filled, just as you wait for his answer.

When it comes, it lands harder than you expect.

“It… doesn’t have a full name,” he says quietly. Your eyes lift to meet his. “But we call him Moon.”

Your breath catches. There’s only one meaning behind words like that. A child. Your mind pulls back into dim memories; the parents who’d come to your shop before, searching for flowers with little else to offer but love for someone whose life never had the chance to unfold. Your lips part, but no sound comes. You drop your gaze, forcing it back down to the blank page. You’ve done this before — too many times — but it still finds a way to shake you.

Pushing through the heaviness in your chest, you press the pen to paper and write the name.

Moon.

“And what are you looking for in this arrangement?” The words burn as they leave you, bitter and dry, clinging to the back of your throat. You wait, feeling the seconds stretch thin between you.

“What do you think?”

You should know. This is what you do — what you’ve poured years into. Flowers have been your language longer than words ever have. But it’s always this question that unravels you. It pulls at the seams of whatever certainty you pretend to hold. Of course you have ideas. They come in flashes,but what are they worth?

What if it’s wrong? What if it’s not enough?

The thoughts spiral fast, like they always do. Familiar and merciless, burrowing deep where you can’t shake them loose. They weigh heavy in your chest, anchoring themselves into the cracks of a confidence too fragile to stand against them. You sit there, hollowed out and grasping for something to offer this man, something that won’t disappoint him, or worse, dishonor what he’s lost.

A baby. A mother greiving. And now this man, carrying his own mourning, offering no guidance to make the task easier. Your fingers twitch, restless and unsure. You have to give him something. Anything.

“Well, for funerals, people usually gravitate toward chrysanthemums,” you say, lifting your free hand toward the cluster of blooms sitting in their vases to the right. His gaze follows where you gesture. “Lilies are another favorite,” you add, motioning to the soft petals hanging to the left. “And people often ask for—”

“But what do you think?” His voice cuts through yours, making your words falter. Slowly, your eyes meet his, and he holds your gaze across the table. “What do you gravitate toward?”

“White roses,” you murmur, your gaze flicking away from him and toward the blooms resting quietly in the front window of the shop. “They symbolize… eternal love, and remembrance.” Your voice softens. “If it were me… someday… I think it would make me happiest to be remembered that way. To be loved like that, even after.”

When you finish, your eyes drift back to his, uncertain, before you quickly lower them to the blank page in front of you. “Sorry,” you whisper, flinching at your own rambling.

“No.” His voice is firmer this time, “Don’t be sorry. Tell me more.”

You swallow hard. Your heartbeat stirs faster in your chest, a throb blooming from the tender cut on your fingertip. You breathe through it.

“Forget-me-nots,” you say. “I suppose… I’d start with a base of hyacinths, then layer in forget-me-nots and foliage as filler. And maybe top it off with white roses.”

“Think you can have it ready in two days?” he asks, his gaze shifting toward the rosebuds waiting to be trimmed on the table. “That’s when the memorial service will be.”

You nod before the words even catch up to you. “Yes, yes. That’s no problem.” You lower your head and start to write, sketching out the arrangement you’d described, even as your hand strains to keep steady against the shake running deep in your chest.

“Here.” He sets a small black bag on the table. You don’t have to open it to know — from the weight, the way it sits — it’s easily a week’s worth of your shop’s earnings.

“That’s too much. It’ll only be —”

“It’s the least I can do,”His voice is gentle but leaves no room to argue.“I doubt many would have come up with something as thoughtful as yours.”

“Please… I can’t let you overpay.” Your hand rests on the bag, fingers curling around the edge as you begin to slide it back toward him but his hand meets yours, halting you. His fingertips graze against your skin.

His eyes catch yours, and the words die between your parted lips, caught somewhere too deep to reach. Slowly, he stands from his chair, his hand slipping away from the pouch. You watch him smooth out the front of his coat, before stepping toward the center of the table. His fingers reach for the rose in front of you. The stem just one thorn away from being trimmed. The same thorn that had cut you earlier. “I’ll take this too, then,” he says. “Is that alright with you?”

The nervousness clawing at your chest tightens, cinching your breath and locking the words in your throat. It burns — sharp and hot, like a brand searing them shut. You can only nod, managing the smallest smile before your eyes drop, trailing back down to the thorn that had drawn your blood.

You reach for your shears and rise from your chair, stepping toward him.

“I’d just started working on this one when you came in,” you murmur, lifting the sharp edge to the base of the stem. His fingers shift aside, careful and slow, as you steady the blades around the thorn. His eyes stay on you, not on the flower, not on your hands, but on the furrow of your brow as you focus.

You sense the moment he holds his breath.

With one clean motion, you clip the thorn away. “Thank you,” you say, your voice soft and thinner than you meant it to be.

“Thank you,” he echoes. His tone mirrors yours, but heavier somehow. “I look forward to seeing what you create.” He turns toward the door, tall frame gliding in that unhurried way of his, but he doesn’t touch the handle yet. His body shifts just enough to glance back. “By the way… I should get your name.”

“Y/N,” you answer. The name comes easy, but your breath feels uneven behind it. “And yours?”

You’ve never been like this before. Never so openly invested in someone you’d barely exchanged a few scattered words with. Never so quick to give away your curiosity. But here you stand; unmoving, staring, studying him more openly than you’d dare with anyone else.

He smiles. Barely. So faint you might have missed it entirely… if you weren’t so completely, foolishly locked on him. Enough of a curve to tug at the corner of his mouth. And there, a small hollow moves in his cheek. Does it get deeper when he really smiles? Does his smile reach his eyes?

Your throat tightens at the thought, inexplicable.

“Soobin,”

He came back two days later. Right when he said he would. When you handed him the arrangement, his eyes lingered on it longer than you expected. His face didn’t shift much, but you caught it, a flicker of surprise, as though he hadn’t entirely expected it to look the way it did. As though he hadn’t expected you to remember it so well.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low, steady. And before you could step back or fold the moment away, he spoke again. Another request. The same one. For next week.

And that’s how it started.

It became a pattern before you realized you’d memorized it. Every week, almost the same day, he returned. Always asking for the same thing. And it took so little, for you to start waiting for him. You didn’t need to admit you were. It was clear enough in the way your hands moved faster on the mornings you thought he might show up. The way you found yourself glancing at the clock more often. The way your breath shifted, when the bell over the door chimed and you hoped it would be him.

The weeks folded into months before you realized how quickly the time had passed.

“Your wife must be having a hard time,” you say quietly, watching him from behind the counter as his fingers brush along the edges of the newest arrangement vases you’d set out last week. Your voice tries to sound casual, light enough not to pry. “But she’s lucky to have you.”

It’s the only explanation that ever made sense. The one you’d quietly settled on back when he first asked for those mourning flowers. That was how you’d made sense of it. How you’d made peace with why the arrangements always felt so heavy.

He stops. “Wife?” His brow lifts, faint confusion softening the lines around his eyes.

Your throat pulls tight. “Uh… yeah,” you fumble, heat creeping up the back of your neck. “… How is she recovering?”

There’s a pause. His stare doesn’t waver. His jaw sets, just enough that you can tell he’s measuring something inside before letting the words go.

“It’s for my sister.”

Sister. All this time, you thought you understood. The flowers, the endless varieties he carefully chose week after week — they were for his sister. That’s what you told yourself. It made sense. She must be the one who lost a child. A grief so cavernous that even the brightest blooms could barely soften its edges. You could understand it. the tenderness of a brother trying to tether her to something gentle. The quiet, steady ritual of bringing beauty to someone drowning.

But one year have passed. One year, and still, he comes.

You watch Soobin now, and something inside you twists sharp and deep. Your throat pulls tight, a burn clawing up the back of your eyes, your heart thrashing in your chest like it’s frantic to be let loose. His fingers move across the petals with reverence, the kind of touch meant for something breakable, sacred. As though each flower is an apology too heavy to speak aloud. A brother so devoted, so relentless in his quiet offerings — and surely he has a life beyond this. A job. Responsibilities. People waiting for him. And yet here he is. Always here. Always returning, as though caught in some private penance only he can feel, rooted in your little shop like he doesn’t know where else to go. Every week, standing in the hush of your little shop like a man trying to repent for a sin he never committed.

The flowers… you’ve always loved them. They’re stitched with meanings you’ve memorized like scripture; hope, solace, rebirth. They ask for nothing in return, and still, they give so much. The burn behind your eyes sharpens as you watch him, your mind comparing him to one, your chest aching in places you thought you’d long since sealed shut.

You wrap the arrangement slowly, careful with each fold and knot. Your heart thuds against your ribs like it’s trying to outrun the thoughts crowding your chest. The ones you don’t say out loud. The thought unsettles you more than it should. It coils tight in your gut, sharp and sickening. Because part of you already knows — one day, the door won’t open. One day, he won’t come anymore. You hear his footsteps before you see him. He’s seen that you’re nearly done ,the bouquet he asked for, the one you’ve handled like it’s something sacred. You feel his presence before you meet his eyes.

You don’t know why. You can’t name it, not exactly. Maybe it’s the dread that coils in your stomach that there will be a day you wake on a day he’s supposed to come, only to find the hours slipping by, the bell above the door never ringing. And before you can stop yourself, before your good sense can catch up to your mouth, the words tumble out. “Would you want to go out sometime?”

You instantly regret it, the way your voice cracked, the way you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, fumbling. “That was, I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position. If it’s invasive or —”

“Yes.” You blink. His expression is steady, unshaken. “Yes,” he says again, softer this time. “I was going to ask you, too.”

Your breath stumbles in your chest. You nod, unsure of what to say, heart hammering loud enough to drown out everything else, but he goes on, “Next week. Same day, same time. Let’s do that.”

You nod again, this time slower. Something settles in your chest, light but anchoring. “And,” he adds, as he picks up the bouquet, “make another arrangement.” You glance at him, brows lifting in question. “Anything you want,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what it costs. Just… make something for me.”

You swallow the rush in your throat, the spark behind your ribs. You can already feel the stems in your hands, the petals under your fingers. You don’t know what you’ll make yet but you know it will say everything you can’t.

“Okay.”

You stare at the bouquet as it slumps at the edge of the table. The one you arranged so carefully, over and over again for days.

Dawn had already cracked the sky.

Now, the gloss on your lips is gone, long since faded like the sun. The coat you pressed at sunrise feels stiff, resentful, like it's been waiting just as long. Your spine aches from sitting too straight for too many hours, and your breath trembles in your throat, thin and cold.

He said he’d be here before lunch. He said he’d take you out.

He never came.

Maybe he got held up. Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe something urgent came up. You tell yourself these things because it’s easier than the alternative. Still, the silence wraps around you too tightly. It hums in your ears, thick and heavy, until the only thing left is the dull thud of your heartbeat, knocking against your ribs like it’s looking for a way out.

Your eyes sting. Are you even allowed to cry over this?

“Well,” you murmur, voice thinner than you’d like, “let’s get you to a vase.” Carefully, you gather the arrangement, fingertips grazing the petals. You breathe in — soft, floral, faintly sweet — and hold it there.

Your movements felt slow. Deliberate, almost. Strange, when these steps had always come easy to you, and yet, you lingered. As if dragging out every motion might somehow buy him time to show. Your gaze settles on the bouquet now resting in the vase. You exhale, slow and shallow, but no words rise to meet the breath. There’s nothing left to say. Nothing worth breaking the quiet for. Turning to the door, your steps this time are steady, unhesitant. No more stalling. You did what you could. You waited. You hoped.

And now, it’s clear; he’s not coming.

You were just about to lower the blinds when a familiar car slid to a stop out front. Your breath caught, frozen tight in your chest. You didn’t move, didn’t blink, as the driver’s door flung open before the engine had even settled into idle. There he was, the tall figure who’d haunted your thoughts for months, carved into every restless night. Disheveled, frantic, a deep frown cutting across his face.

When his eyes found yours, he ran.

The air slammed back into your lungs so fast it almost hurt. The fog, the static that had smothered you for hours, gone. Blown clean away in one look on his face.

He's here.

“Why did you wait for me?” The words tumbled out the moment he pushed the door open, his gaze locking onto yours. His face, guilt etched into every line. “You waited for me,” he said again, quieter this time. The guilt cracked, crumbled at the edges, and in its place came something softer. His eyes didn’t waver. It was awe, unmistakable and unguarded.

It was as if he couldn’t believe you were real.

The car ride was quiet. His coat rested over your shoulders, warm and grounding, as the streetlights blurred past. Since it was already late, Soobin had offered his place. You didn’t argue.

“We’re here,” he murmured, unbuckling his seatbelt. You’d somehow already undone yours without realizing it, stepping out into the cool air just as he rounded the front of the car to meet you. His hand hovered near the door, but you’d beaten him to it. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you breathed, offering a small smile. Your eyes drifted past him, brows pinching slightly as you took in the skyline ahead —towering buildings stretching into the night. Your confusion flickered across your face before you could hide it. “You said your apartment, right?”

He hummed, his lips twitching into the faintest smile. He nodded toward the buildings ahead. “Come on.”

You walked, still puzzled, trailing a step behind him. Your eyes wandered, curious and cautious, as you neared the towering building. Inside, staff seemed to scatter and straighten the moment they caught sight of Soobin. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. Postures snapped upright. The door swung open before either of you reached it.

“Late evening, Mr. Choi,” the security guard greeted, bowing deeply. The others followed suit, dipping their heads in swift, practiced motions. It felt surreal. Like you’d stumbled into the middle of a K-drama you used to watch. Like you were seeing something you weren’t meant to. Soobin didn’t slow. He didn’t pause at the front desk like everyone else did. He just kept walking, glancing back once to make sure you were still with him. When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button without hesitation. The panel lit up, and you caught the word just above it; Penthouse.

Your breath caught, but you masked it quickly, dropping your gaze. That’s when you noticed his hands, resting at his sides, relaxed. The silence wrapped around you again. You shifted your hand, hesitant, pinky inching toward his. You just wanted to hold it — just once. Who knew if you’d get another chance like this? Maybe tomorrow he’d decide you weren’t someone he wanted to see anymore. Maybe you’d bore him. Maybe he’d drift away like people sometimes do.

So just once. Just to know what it felt like.

Your fingers moved closer, careful, unhurried. Barely an inch away — Ding. The elevator chimed, breaking your focus. Your hand froze mid-reach. Soobin turned, catching you dead-on. His gaze flicked down, just fast enough to see the way you yanked your hand back, swatting it away like you’d touched something too hot. “Uh—” you blurted.

His brows lifted slightly, softening — not in mockery, but in surprise. “Stop acting so cute, will you?” he murmured, and his words only deepened the flush on your cheeks. “You’re making it harder for me.”

Before you could even piece together what he meant, his hand reached out. His fingers found yours, threading between them with an ease that made your breath catch. The touch was warm, grounding, and when he gently tugged, you startled just a little. He didn’t say anything about it. He only pulled you softly toward him and guided you into the elevator. The elevator closes, but everything feels distant.

And all the while, his fingers stay laced with yours, anchoring you gently as the world rose around.

“Do you drink?” he asks, his voice low as he approaches the couch where you sit. The bottle in his hands glints under the warm lights, dark glass wrapped in crinkled gold foil, the wine inside a deep, velvet red that swirls languidly as he moves. One glance, and you already know: it’s expensive.

His penthouse is sprawling, though you suppose all penthouses are. “On special occasions,” you admit, watching as he reaches for two crystal glasses.

“Would you call this a special occasion?” He sinks into the couch beside you, his back meeting the cushions.

“I’d say so.” Your answer draws a small smile from him as he leans closer. Carefully, he cradles a glass in each hand and offers one to you. You accept it, fingertips brushing the cool surface as you balance the bowl of the glass in your palm, the slender stem threading between your knuckles. You lift it gently, only needing the faintest tilt toward your nose to catch the aroma. Your intuition was right, this would be the finest drink you’ve ever touched.

You take a sip. The wine blooms sharp on your tongue, threading warmth down your throat.

“Tell me,” he says, lifting the glass to his lips. His bangs fall loose over his eyes, soft and unbothered, and you fight the quiet urge to reach over and sweep them aside. “How did you start your business?”

“Like most things in this world,” you reply, taking another small sip, the pungent taste stinging your palate. “A bit of luck and a bit of misfortune.”

Soobin shifts, turning more fully toward you. One arm drapes along the back of the couch, as though he’s subconsciously reaching closer. His glass rests loosely against his thigh, “What was your luck?”

“I received money. Enough to build the business.”

“And the misfortune?”

Your throat tightens slightly. You swallow. “It was because my grandmother… wouldn’t be able to take care of it anymore.” Your voice softens. “Or herself anymore.”

The quiet smile at the corner of his lips falters, folding into something more solemn. A flat line. His eyes don’t leave you, they track every flicker of your expression: the slight furrow of your brow, the quick blinks you can’t quite suppress, the faint, compulsive bite to the inside of your cheek. But he doesn’t press.

“Why flowers?”

You know the answer. It unfurls easily in your mind, sprawling and layered. But a flicker of doubt tugs at you. If I ramble, will he grow tired of me?

“I liked their meanings,” you say instead, choosing your words slowly. “How each plant holds its own importance, just by existing. It’s fulfilling. And it’s a beautiful thing… seeing the way even simple arrangements can affect people.” You glance down, your thumb brushing the base of your glass. The words settle in the air between you.

He doesn’t fill the silence or shift in his seat. His eyes stay fixed on you. The glass in his hand remains perfectly still. His gaze lingers like he’s reading something delicate between your lines, like you’re a puzzle he’s in no rush to solve. He watches without pressing, without judgment. You feel the heat creep into your cheeks despite yourself, and you lower your gaze, hoping it hides the way your pulse trips over itself.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a pause, his voice lower, gentler. “I feel like I’m bombarding you with all these questions. Would you like to ask me something instead?”

A dozen questions flicker through your mind, each vying for space. Yet one floats to the surface, steady and clear, eclipsing the rest. “Why did you ask me to make you that bouquet?” The words leave you smoother than you expected.

For a breath longer, he says nothing. And then — a soft, breathy laugh escapes him. His eyes crinkle at the corners, something warm spilling over his features, and you swear you feel your heart tighten in your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him laugh. It’s the first time you’ve seen the hollows of his cheeks deepen, the dimples ghost into view.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat gently, He leans forward slightly, setting his glass on the table with a clink. “I do have an answer. But it’s a long one… if you’ll bear with me.” You nod, something soft and weightless settling in your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice steady, unflinching. “Every time I come to see you… you’re even more beautiful. And you take my breath away.” That ache—the one you’d fought to swallow down minutes ago—surges back with a quiet ferocity. Your bottom lip parts, breath hitching in surprise.

Soobin’s voice dips, even softer now, like he’s confessing something he’s carried for far too long. “I asked you to make me that bouquet because I knew you’d pour yourself into it. You’d try your best to make it perfect for me. And when I saw it… I knew you’d done exactly that.” He pauses, gaze never wavering from you. “I never planned to take it with me. That bouquet—it was always meant for you.”

He shifts closer, just a few inches, slow and unintrusive. You don’t look at him; your eyes drop away, blurred with the tears threatening to spill over. You hold them back with every ounce of restraint, blinking fast against the shimmer at your waterline.

“I could’ve gone to any florist,” he continues, his voice barely above a murmur, “bought flowers and handed them to you. But I didn’t want that. I wanted you to make them… for yourself.”

Your chest pulls tight, your breath shallow and quick.

“I wanted you to create something as beautiful as you are. That’s why I asked for the bouquet.” His words land soft, final. “Because you’re beautiful.”

You try to fight it. Your head lifts slightly, your gaze tipping upward as if looking higher might will the tears back in. But the moment you blink, they slip free, tracing a slow, unbidden path down the curve of your cheek. There’s no hiding it. Not from him. Soobin’s eyes track the tear’s descent, his expression open and unreadable.

“I…” You falter, biting down gently on your tongue as your throat burns, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately, “Tell me.”

Your breath shudders out, thin and shaky. “It’s just… earlier, I thought you wouldn’t come back.” The fracture in your voice is clear, woven into every syllable. Soobin hears it as easily as if you’d shouted it. His focus sharpens, tender and intent, even as another tear slips down your cheek.

Without a word, he lifts his hand. His touch is featherlight, the side of his index finger brushes just beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall farther. The contact startles you; your breath catches, your eyes widening at the gentle weight of his skin on yours. Though he’d caught your tear, his hand lingers on your cheek. His skin is cooler than yours, a contrast that sends a ripple down your spine. Then his finger glides down the curve of your face, tracing a path to your chin. His touch is careful, as if he’s afraid you might shatter under anything less. His fingers cradle your chin gently, coaxing, as he tilts your face toward him. Your breath catches as your gaze is guided back to his.

He’s looking at you.

Your nerves spark like a live wire under your skin, a delicate ache blooming in your chest. You swear you’ll come apart if you move too quickly, if you breathe too hard. Your heartbeat drums mercilessly in your ears loud enough, to fill the silence between you.

He leans closer. Slowly, gingerly, he edges forward like he’s stepping through every invisible barrier you’d built, slipping past every wall you thought you’d carefully kept intact. You watch as his eyes trace the line of your lips. Is he feeling the same tremor, the same breathless ache threatening to consume you whole?

Your eyes mirror his, drifting down until they rest on his lips. You feel his breath first, warm and shallow against your mouth. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipation blooming low in your belly — an ache, a flutter, a trembling promise. The thought alone sends shivers down your spine.

His lips meet yours. It's soft.

You don’t dare move. His fingers remain at your chinr. And for the first time, you let yourself surrender completely, allowing someone else full, irrevocable control. You let him lead. You let yourself fall. Then, subtly, Soobin shifts. His lips part just slightly against yours, enough to press a second kiss, lighter than air, softer than thought. The faintest sound of it rings in your ears, delicate and clear, as if it’s the only sound left in the world. There is no one else. Nothing else. Only you and him.

When he pulls away, it’s slow. He creates space between you, his gaze dropping—gentle, searching. “I apologize,” he says softly, his voice drawing your eyes open again. His pupils are dark, downcast, uncertainty clouding their depths as his fingers slip away from your skin. “If I made you uncomfortable… if I overstepped — I’m sorry.”

Without a word, with your tears now stilled, you reach for him. Your fingers wrap gently around his wrist, the same hand that had so carefully traced your skin. You hold him. With a pull, you guide his hand back to your face. When his fingertips meet your skin again, a wordless relief unfurls in your chest.

He’s watching you. His eyes are locked to yours, dark and unwavering, tracking every small shift in your expression as if deciphering the meaning behind your touch. Your hand stays clasped at his wrist as you draw your lips inward, wetting them with a soft sweep of your tongue, a silent permission offered without a single breath of speech.

You see it instantly, the way his brow knits downward, a soft furrow of longing. His lips part slightly, a breath escaping that he doesn’t bother to rein in. The expression across his face is raw, unguarded, needy in a way that makes your stomach swoop, a sweet ache pulling low in your core. His gaze flickers downward, fixated on the subtle shift of your mouth.

Before you even can take your next breath, his lips are on yours again. His mouth meets yours with more urgency, yet still achingly soft. His free hand ghosts up your jaw, fingers threading into the hinge of your neck, You’re taken aback, quite literally as his mouth parts against yours, deepening the kiss in a way that makes your breath falter. Your head tips backward instinctively, but before you can drift too far, his hand is there to catch. His fingers tangle into the soft strands at the nape of your neck, cradling you.

You clutch tighter to his wrist, as if that alone could tether you. The moment dissolves into something weightless, and the sensation of Soobin’s kiss begins to eclipse everything else — until the world narrows to nothing but his lips, his breath, his touch.

Your lungs tighten. Your head spins just as you feel the graze of his tongue against your lower lip. With a soft gasp, you break away.

Cool air rushes between your lips as you pull back, your breath coming quick and shallow. Your fingers, once gripping tight at his wrist loosen, falling limp against his skin. His hand slides gently from the back of your head, fingertips gliding down the column of your neck before settling against the delicate curve of your throat. His thumb traces there idly, barely a whisper of contact.

His voice, when it comes, is hushed. “Are you alright?”

All your life, you had been pursued. Suitors with bright eyes and polished words circled like moths, eager to capture your hand, to fasten their futures to yours. They came with promises that echoed hollow against your ribs. They smiled too easily, spoke too sweetly and though you tried, how you tried to meet them halfway, something inside you always stayed untouched.

You had forced smiles you didn’t mean. Laughed at jokes that never reached your eyes. You wrapped yourself in false emotions like gossamer, hoping the weight of them would feel like belonging. But after every encounter, you only felt emptier. You never understood why.

Until now.

With Soobin’s kiss still lingering on your lips, with his hand resting against the tender line of your throat as though you were something precious, and easily breakable. The truth settles in you, your heart had never been wandering.

It had been waiting. Waiting for him.

It wasn’t that no one wanted you. It was that your soul had already made its choice long before your body could catch up. And after all the quiet, lonely years of not knowing what you were longing for, he had finally found you.

You are home.

"I…" Your voice is thin, threadbare with wonder. You search for words, but none seem big enough to hold what you’re feeling. "I’ve never… been kissed like that before."

He smile slowly, a laugh tumbles from him and the thumb resting against your neck drifts upward, grazing the curve of your cheek with such careful reverence it makes your breath catch. You don’t have time to react. He leans in before you can even think, brushing a kiss against your lips, so brief it’s almost weightless. Too fleeting, too quick, and when he pulls away, you instinctively lean forward, chasing the fading warmth.

"Is that better?" he murmurs, mischief softening the edges of his gaze.

You swallow thickly, your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his touch. "I didn’t…" Your voice falters, a smile tugging unbidden at the corner of your lips. "…say that I didn’t like it."

It was as if your words had unspooled something inside him, like you'd spoken a secret incantation only he could hear. The moment your words left your lips, he was on you — his mouth capturing yours with a hunger. His hands slid down at your waist, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin as if he needed to feel every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to travel lower, grazing the delicate line of your jaw before finding the curve of your neck. The first brush of his mouth there drew a sound from you, a soft moan. You felt him smile against your skin, a low, pleased hum from his throat as if your every sigh was a gift.

Without thinking, your arms wrapped tighter around him. You shifted, lifting your legs to curl around his waist, pulling him flush against you. The soft, unrestrained groan that escaped him at the motion sent a spark racing straight through you.

You had never felt so wanted as hands slid down, tracing the shape of your thigh before they dipped to the bend of your knee. You had never felt so treasured as he slowly, began to gather the fabric of your skirt, dragging it higher along your leg with unhurried care, revealing skin he touched as though memorizing you with each pass.

"You taste divine," he breathed against your neck, the words threaded with awe and desire. His lips trailed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your throat, grazing you with teeth soft enough to make you shiver, as if he wanted to consume you completely yet worship every part of you. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging gently as you guided him back to your lips. He met you eagerly, melting into the kiss as though he’d waited lifetimes for it.

“If you want me to stop… tell me,” he whispered against your mouth, voice rough and tender all at once.

You nodded unafraid, and in that quiet, unspoken agreement, you watched something flicker in his eyes. As if he was vowing to worship you fully but never without your permission. His hands moved, deft and gentle, helping you ease out of the thin barrier of fabric that separated you, his gaze never leaving yours as if even in this unraveling, your comfort was his compass.

His smile curves against the delicate line of your neck, breath fanning across your skin as his words slip through, velvet-soft and low, “You’re already so wet for me.” His tone is laced with adoration. “I didn’t know you’d be such a good girl for me.”

The world dissolves.

It shrinks and softens until all that’s left is him — Soobin and the press of his body against yours, Soobin and the way his voice drips honey and reverence into your ear, Soobin and the hands that worship every part of you like he’s learning a language spoken only through touch.

Every piece of clothing that falls away is marked by his mouth, kisses dragged slow across your lips, your jaw, the hollow of your throat, the slope of your collarbones. His lips move like he’s tracing constellations on your skin, as though, somehow, you hold the entire night sky within you.

His hands, large and steady, move over you with a duality that makes you ache. Greedy and gentle. Certain but tender. He touches you as though he’s starved for you, but terrified you might slip away if he’s too careless. His fingers map your curves, glide down your sides, ghost along the backs of your thighs, curling possessively.

The room is thick with something heavier than air. It’s breath; yours and his, tangled in rhythm. It’s the soft rustle of fabric sliding over skin, the quiet catch of a moan swallowed between kisses, the faint sighs that spill when his hands find somewhere new to caress. Everything slows because he slows it. He takes his time, like he refuses to let any detail slip by unnoticed.

It doesn’t feel like he’s simply undressing you.

It feels like he’s unveiling something sacred. Like every inch of you laid bare is a gift he’s longed for, and now that he has it, he won’t squander a second. His gaze drinks you in between every kiss, full of a softness that cradles the sharp edge of desire. His pupils blown wide, his lips pink and kiss-bitten, his breath shaky though he tries to steady it.

You’re cherished.

“Soobin,” you gasp, breath hitching as he pulls you effortlessly into his lap. His lips find the swell of your breast, as his hands caress you with tender precision — teasing. The soft drag of his tongue against your nipples pulls a shiver from deep within you.

“I’ll take you to bed, sweetheart,” — “Yes, please,”

His mouth meets yours again, slow and consuming, while his arms curl around you. Without breaking the kiss, he rises, lifting you as though you weigh nothing, as though carrying you is the most natural thing in the world. You don’t open your eyes. You don’t need to. Your hands stay laced behind his neck, your fingers threading through the soft hair at his nape. You surrender wholly, letting yourself be cradled in his care. His footsteps echo and then you feel it, the plush give of the mattress beneath you as he lowers you gently into the center of the bed. The sheets are cool against your back, but his gaze is molten, grounding you in a warmth no fabric could match.

“Soobin…” Your voice trembles, “I haven’t done this before.”

For a moment, his expression stills. Something softens even further in his eyes. His lips tilt into the faintest, sweetest smile before he leans down, planting a slow kiss on your lips.

“I’ll be gentle with you then,” he promises, voice so gentle it nearly breaks you apart. His forehead rests against yours as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his touch light as silk. “You don’t have to fear anything with me. We’ll go slow. You just tell me everything you want… everything you don’t.”

You gave him a smile, you reached up and kissed him. A simple peck. His eyes is open mid-kiss, like he couldn’t bear to miss a second of it. As though the feeling of your lips wasn’t enough, he wanted to see it too. “I trust you,” you whispered against his lips, “I do.”

You had never been blinded because of a smile before.

His lips press against your sternum, inching his way with slow pecks towards the plump skin of your breasts. And the second he finds your nipple, a sharp gasp leaves your throat as you feel his warm tongue caress the sensitive flesh. His hand moves to your navel, his palm lying flush to your abdomen as he holds you down to the mattress; continuing to glide his tongue over you. As Soobin lifts his lips from you momentarily, the chill of his saliva lingers on your breast, makes you softly squirm in his grasp.

He move to the other side of your body, slowly slowly repeating the process as he suckle at your hardened bud ever so gently. But this time, he use his teeth to bite the softest mark onto your nipple; the careful sting pulls your back into an arch. You whimper at the roughness, though it only lasts for a second, and as you process their actions, Soobin begins to trail down from your breasts, moving to the other one. His hands work, reaching down to caress your core which pulse between your thighs.

You try to control yourself as he went lower, to control your body, control the moans begging for release but the moment he place a kiss to your clit, the little control you have begins to slip. He starts gently, a kiss, a soft lick up your entrance, and gets back to give the most careful suckle at your clit. His gentle licks turn into passionate laps as he palce his tongue flat to your clit and allow the pressure of his muscle alone to spark up your spine.

You gasp at the feeling, your hands grip desperately onto the sheets by your sides.

With his hand still placed on your lower belly, Soobin outstretches his fingers towards his mouth latched onto your cunt. His thumb finds its place just above the hood of your clit, as he begin to add to the simulation causing your teeth to sink into your bottom lip. He swirl the wet skin, sucking, intervals of tender kisses in between as he feel you between his lips; as the squelching of his tongue against your soaked entracne takes over the silence of the night.

"You're being such a good girl for me," Soobin kisses the words onto you, "So fucking good." He use his freehand to pull your leg up and over his shoulder, your body willingly at his control. He lift his mouth from you only to place his lips inside of your thight, his fingers still simulating you even with the pause.

You can feel it brewing. The band threathening to snap at any moment. Your pleasure pleading for release as he return to lap at your cunt.

"S-Soobin," you gasp, "Wait, I-" your please turn into tight cries of desperation as they retrieve a smile from Soobin, who listens intently to you moaning his name.

"I know baby," he kisses your clit, his thumb giving you an experimental amount of pressure, "I know baby, you can cum on my tongue. I don't mind."

If it weren't for your orgasm now unleashing inside of you, you possibly would have laughed, but the only thing that comes out of you, among the essence leaking into Soobin's mouth, is the lewd noises breaching the shores of your pleasure. Your hips instinctively push into his mouth as it explodes.

Your legs twitch, faint tremors echoing long after the euphoria crests and slowly ebbs away. Your breath is uneven, your chest rising and falling in shallow pulls as your mind tries to fix itself again. The world feels distant, softened at the edges, but you feel him. You feel Soobin everywhere. You hardly register the trail of his lips scaling their way back up your body, delicate kisses pressed along your stomach, the hollow between your ribs, the curve of your collarbone; until his face hovers just above yours. His breath fans against your lips, warm and even, as though he’s been composed the entire time, despite the flush that paints the high of his cheekbones. And when you meet his eyes —

Adoration. That’s all there is. As though you hung the stars in his sky.

Your fingers, still faintly trembling, reach down to the waistband of his pants, a silent plea building in your chest to return the worship he’s lavished on you. But before you can so much as graze the fabric, his hand wraps gently around your wrist, and moves it away.

“Tonight is about you,” Soobin murmurs, voice low, coaxing you back into ease. A smile, soft and disarming, tugs at the corners of his lips as he dips forward to nuzzle the tip of his nose against yours. “Just think of it as my way to say sorry… for making the prettiest girl wait so long.” His fingers, those long, graceful ones you’ve become so attuned to, sweep gently through your hair, combing it back from your damp forehead as though you were something priceless. His thumb brushes the line of your temple before trailing down the curve of your jaw, feather-light.

You stare back at him, your gaze tender and unwavering, the reflection of your own adoration open across your features. Whatever he sees in your eyes makes something in his expression soften even further.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his voice dropping as he nestles closer to your side. Instinctively, you open your arms for him, and he slides into the space as though it were carved just for him, his head resting gently against your chest.

“Nothing,” you whisper truthfully, your fingers threading into his soft hair as you tilt your head to study him. Wonder flickers within you like the soft flicker of candlelight, igniting gently as you take in the way the dim glow plays in his irises — deep brown kissed with honey, shadows and softness blending as if the universe itself tried to paint the richest portrait inside his gaze. “You’re beautiful,”

The smile that spreads across his face is breathtaking. His lips curve in that boyish, gentle way that squeezes your heart painfully tight, and then he laughs. Your own smile spills out in response, and soon both your laughs mingle, weaving together in the space between you like spun gold, before your lips find each other’s once more.

You woke with the sunlight brushing gently across your skin, the warmth pooling on the sheets.

His breath is steady against the back of your neck, his chest rising and falling. His arm is still draped over your waist, fingers laced together just under your ribs as if even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go. Every time you shift, even slightly, his hold tightens; subconscious, instinctive. As though his body has decided on its own that you belong nowhere but here. You feel the ghost of his lips at the back of your head again, a soft, unthinking kiss pressed into your hair. And then that murmur that drifted from him throughout the night, something wordless and sweet, as though he was dreaming of you and couldn’t help but let it slip into the waking world.

You are exactly where you’re meant to be.

You blink slowly, everything is softened by the white sheets. Warmth surrounds you, not just from the sun filtering through the windows, but from the comforting weight draped over your back. You shift slowly, turning in his embrace until you’re met with the sight that makes your heart swell.

Choi Soobin.

Your fingertips ghost along the curve of his cheek, feather-light, afraid you might wake him if you touched him too boldly. His skin is soft beneath your hand, still asleep. His lashes rest delicately against his cheekbones, his lips parted slightly, breath deep and even.

“Sleepy Soobin,” you whisper, your thumb brushes along the slope of his cheekbone and, instinctively, he leans into your palm, nuzzling against your touch. The simple action sends a tender ache spiraling through your chest. Your mind drifts back, to the way his hands gripped you with both hunger and patience. To the way his lips worshiped every inch of you. To the way he had cradled you afterward, not letting a single shiver escape him unnoticed, whispering soft words against your skin.

Your eyes drink him in, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tousled strands of dark hair falling across his forehead. You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses on the corner of his mouth. You linger there, breathing him in, letting your lips stay against him like a silent thank-you whispered straight from your heart.

“I don’t think,” you murmur softly against his skin, your lips curving in a smile, “I’ve ever been this happy before.” And as if he heard you even in sleep, his arm around your waist tightens, pulling you closer.

Your phone buzzes. You move quickly, fingers curling around the device as you move yourself out of Soobin’s arms. You sit on the edge of the bed, the cool air brushing against your skin. His shirt hangs loosely off your frame, the fabric soft and saturated with the faint scent of him. You tuck a hand into the hem absentmindedly as you answer. “Hello?” Your voice is hushed.

“Oh, hi. I just wanted to check in about your grandmother. She took her meds.” Hana’s voice comes softly from the other end, the caregiver you’d called last minute yesterday when you weren’t sure you’d make it home in time.

Relief unfurls gently in your chest. “Thank you, Hana,” you murmur, a small smile touching your lips. “I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

There’s a few more exchanged words, small reassurances and thank-yous, before you end the call. The screen dims in your hand, but you don’t move just yet. You glance over your shoulder. He hasn’t stirred, not really, but his brows are slightly furrowed now, as if he noticed the loss of you in his sleep. The sheets dip where you’d been moments ago, and one hand rests, palm open, where your body had once been.

A soft smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. You want to crawl back to him already. But you know you can't.

Setting the phone down, your gaze drifted toward the bedside table. You remembered Soobin opening the drawer last night, tucking away both of your things. You needed your ponytail. You pulled the drawer open.

Your fingers falter for the the first thing you see. You hadn’t meant to intrude. Two large bottles, their labels slightly worn, tucked neatly in the corner of the drawer as if he’d kept them close, yet out of sight.

Sleeping pills.

Your lips press into a thin line as thoughts flicker behind your eyes — how gentle he’d been with you, how steady and warm his gaze had felt, how easily sleep had taken him last night in your arms. And yet… these. Did he take them every day? Your hand brushes over the edge, and finally, you spot your ponytail nestled beside his wristwatch.

You swallow gently, pushing the drawer close.

You hummed softly as you slid the fried eggs onto a white plate, the gentle sizzle fading as you set them down. This place is a wide, unfamiliar kitchen, but somehow your hands had found their routine effortlessly. Turning, you arranged the plate beside the crisp bacon and the golden slices of toasted, buttered bread.

Out of the corner of your eye, the bedroom door creaked open. "Good morning," you called, your voice laced with a smile that turned fully when you saw Soobin, no confusion in his sleepy gaze, no hesitation in his steps. He made a beeline straight to you.

Before you could even set down the last plate, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest with a soft exhale of relief. His lips found your hairline in a series of slow, affectionate kisses, "You didn’t have to make breakfast, baby. I could’ve called someone."

"I didn’t mind it," you replied, breathless with laughter as you tried halfheartedly to nudge him away. But he only shook his head, clutching you tighter, "Come on," you coaxed gently, tilting your head to meet his soft gaze. "Let’s eat."

At just those simple words, he loosened his hold, his hand sliding down to lace his fingers with yours.

“What is it?” Soobin asks softly, voice in curiosity as he chews his food. His eyes catching the question behind your gaze. “I did tell you… you can ask me anything, remember?”

You nod, your fork slowly tracing circles on the edge of your plate. “Yes…” You swallow, “I don’t mean to pry, I really don’t. I just… I just wanted to ask if you take those pills every day?”

He nods slowly. “I do,” he admits. “I’ve always had trouble sleeping.” Your lips part to speak, but before you can, he sets his fork down and leans in, elbows resting on the table as his hand slides gently over yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “But last night…” A faint smile curls the corner of his lips,“Last night, I didn’t even think about them. I didn’t need them.” His voice drops, “You were here.”

Sitting at that table, sharing breakfast, you felt like you were learning him in layers, like pages of a book gently unfolding for you. You already had your suspicions the moment you first met Soobin. The cut of his clothes, the sleek car he drove; they all whispered of a life far from ordinary. But hearing it from his lips, hearing him confess that he was set to inherit and run an entire empire, sent a quiet shiver up your spine. A chaebol. How had someone like you managed to cross paths, let alone hearts, with someone like him?

He spoke openly, though gently, about the burden he had carried since he was just a teenager. How sleep had long been a stranger to him. How those pills had been his quiet crutch in the endless swirl of expectations, decisions, and responsibilities that clouded his nights. You tried your best to absorb every word. Soobin told you how he had found you captivating from the very first moment he saw you — how, despite that, he never had the courage to approach you.

“All my life,” he murmured, gaze dropping to the untouched food on his plate, “I watched my sister become trapped in a marriage. Watching her lose herself made me believe I shouldn’t chase anyone… or anything. But then, I saw you.”

It was unclear why he trusted you so deeply, why he felt safe enough to share such memories about his sister’s pain and the misplaced guilt he carried on his shoulders. But he did. He let you in. The shadows in his expression melted the moment you leaned in, your lips pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his and your arms curling gently around him. Maybe that was why. Maybe you were his perfect match. You were the one brave enough to ask him out first; unknowing then, but somehow sensing what held him back.

You learned more little things about him that morning too. How he often misplaced his watch because he’d take it off absentmindedly and forget where he’d set it. How he liked his coffee with an extra spoon of sugar and a generous pour of creamer, because despite everything, Soobin had a sweet tooth.

And somehow, every one of these small pieces only made you fall for him more.

“I can’t wait to get back and see you,” his voice comes gently through the phone, smooth and warm like a whisper against your ear. “Just three more days, and I’ll be back. Okay?”.

“Okay,” you breathe, your voice softer than you intend. “Just make sure you’re eating well, alright?” You swallow gently, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll see you soon.”

His laugh drifts back to you, honey-sweet and effortless. You miss him already. “Okay, baby.”

And just like that, the line clicks silent.

You move quietly around your shop, fingers trailing along the shelves, straightening small displays here and there. You smile to yourself, a small, private thing, as memories of the past few days float to the surface. His touch. His laugh. Everything lately had felt… right. Almost effortlessly so.

The soft chime of the doorbell rings out, pulling you back to the present.

“Welcome,” you call, your gaze lifts and locks instantly with a pair of sharp, assessing eyes. A woman stands there, immaculately dressed, her age maybe in her fifties, though the confidence she wears makes her seem ageless somehow.

Her eyes sweep over you unblinking, as though weighing you against some invisible scale. “Are you the woman seeing my son?” A chill skips down your spine.

“Pack your things up,” she says crisply, her gaze drifting coolly over the small, carefully curated space of your shop. Her lips twitch, close enough to make your stomach twist. “Come have lunch with me.”

You blink, thrown off balance, your heartbeat picking up beneath your ribs. This… wasn’t what you’d expected today. “Uh—yes, ma’am,” you say, trying to gather yourself.

Her head tilts, something sharp glinting behind her expression. “Why did you stutter?” The question is too sharp for someone who doesn't know you. Before you can even try to answer, she lifts her hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “Go on. Change your clothes. Make it fast. I don’t like waiting.”

Your fingers twitch on your lap as you lower your gaze, lashes casting shadows over your cheeks. The seat beneath you feels too plush, too stiff all at once, as if you don’t quite belong in it. You’re somewhere deep inside this towering glass building — a restaurant so vast and pristine it feels like even your breath is too loud for the space. You try to inhale quietly, chest tight, as Soobin’s mother sits across from you, commanding the room with a presence that doesn’t falter.

You watched, silent, as she spoke crisply to the waiter. Her tone left no room for correction, no cracks for uncertainty to slip through. She didn’t ask what you’d like. She didn’t ask if salad was to your taste. She simply ordered it for you without sparing you a glance — as though she already knew what you should eat, or perhaps decided it didn’t matter.

The clink of glassware is sharp, and you jump slightly when she clears her throat. Slowly, reluctantly, you lift your eyes to meet hers. Her gaze is steady, dark and searching, the sort that makes you feel like you’re being turned inside out with just a look.

“What do you want—”

"Mother," a new voice drifts into the space; light, melodic. You turn instinctively, and there she stands: a woman so strikingly beautiful it’s impossible to mistake the relation. The soft curve of her jaw, the familiar gentle slope of her nose, she carries pieces of Soobin effortlessly in her features.

She moves toward the table with a grace that makes the heavy atmosphere ease, as though her very presence carries warmth where there was only frost before. Soobin’s mother’s stern face softens, her posture loosening subtly for the first time since you sat down and it’s clear this new woman holds sway over her in ways no one else has managed thus far.

The young woman settles beside her mother, her gaze drifting to you with a kindness that wraps around you like a soft blanket. No scrutiny, no sharp edges, it's curiosity. “I’m Soobin’s sister,” she says her name gently, her lips pulling into a smile that reaches her eyes. “You look even more beautiful than what he says.”

The sincerity in her voice disarms you. It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for too long, like finding a familiar light in a room full of shadows. Warm. Genuine.

“Th-thank you,” you murmur, voice small as your gaze drops shyly to your lap. The elegance she carries so effortlessly makes you acutely aware of every inch of yourself; of your softness, your simplicity. You steal a glance upward as she turns away, leaning toward her mother, her voice soft and fluid as she starts to recount her day.

Their hair, not a strand out of place, styled with a polish that speaks of salons you’ve never stepped foot in. The fine lines of their blouses, their tailored cuts, fabrics that drape as if stitched to their skin. Even their nails is perfectly shaped, coated in shades that gleam soft and subtle, unchipped. Their handbags resting beside them glint of understated luxury, the kind of leather that never creases, the kind of detail you notice only when you’ve never had it.

Your gaze falls to your skirt — the one you had sewn with patient hands from fabric you bargained for at the market’s edge. You’d chosen the material carefully, pieced it together with love, made it yours. But here… it feels smaller somehow. Less. You smooth your palms over your knees.

How long will you have to sit in moments like this? How long will you have to feel the weight of difference settle like a stone in your chest? The gap between their world and yours feels so wide it burns.

You don’t belong here.

You hadn’t even managed to lift your fork, “How old are you?” Soobin’s mother asked.

“Twenty-three,” you murmured, your tongue thick in your mouth. The number sounded too small as soon as it left you.

Her lips tugged downward. “Five years younger than him. Too young.” A pause, heavy. “Education status? What of your family?”

You swallowed hard. “I’m living with my grandmother.”

Her brow arched, unimpressed. “Since when?” — “Since I was a child.”

The air felt thinner now. You could feel your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, in the trembling tips of your fingers that curled tighter under the table. “Then how would you run a family if you don’t even have one?”

The sting behind your eyes burned fast. You blinked hard, but it did nothing to wash it away. You felt small, smaller than you ever thought you could shrink.

“Mother,” Soobin’s sister snapped, her voice tight with disbelief. You lifted your gaze to her, grateful and ashamed all at once. Her expression was shocked that her mother had gone that far.

But then the next blow landed. “Do you even know there’s a girl who’s supposed to marry him?” Her tone dropped, dripping with disdain as if she wanted to watch you crumble beneath it.

“Mom, stop it. Now.” Soobin’s sister, again. Firmer this time.

Your lips parted to answer — to say something, anything — but all that came out was fragile and thin. “We… we haven’t talked about it.” It was all you could manage. Your voice cracked just enough to make the shame crawl higher up your throat. Your chair scraped against the floor softly as you rose, every inch of your body stiff and burning. You forced a tight smile that felt more like a grimace. “Excuse me… I’ll just take the bathroom.”

Your legs carried you away before the first tear slipped free.

You gripped the sink’s edge so hard your knuckles ached, head bowed as silent sobs racked through your chest. You couldn’t catch your breath. Couldn’t hold it together long enough to even pretend you belonged here. Your reflection in the mirror blurred behind the sheen of tears; eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, lips trembling. Small. Out of place. A girl trying to fit in.

Of course she was right. You’d always known it, hadn’t you? You were someone born from absence. A child left behind by two people who couldn’t even stay for you, much less for each other. You’d spent so long tucking that truth away, convincing yourself. His mother didn’t have to scream to shatter you.

You wiped at your face uselessly, but the tears kept slipping, warm and bitter down your jaw. You didn’t want to ruin what Soobin had left with his mother, thin and cracked as it might be. You’d seen the strain in his eyes before when he spoke of her. You’d heard the weight when he talked about duty, legacy, responsibility; but you wouldn’t be the reason he chose sides. Maybe everything really had just been a dream. And maybe now…maybe it was time to wake up.

The door creaks open, and you flinch too late to hide the tears streaking your cheeks.

Soobin’s sister.

Her expression crumbles the second she sees you. “Oh, honey.” Her voice is soft, almost breaking, and before you can turn away or gather yourself, she’s already crossing the room. You shake your head, a weak protest caught in your throat, but it falls apart the second her arms wrap around you. You don’t mean to collapse, but you do. Your body folds into hers, trembling, your fingers clutching at the fabric of her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes against your temple, her voice rawer now, as if she can feel even a fraction of what’s tearing through you.

Your chest hurts. You can’t speak. You don’t trust your own voice not to shatter the second you try. So you just stand there, breathing uneven, tears soaking the front of her blouse.

“Don’t cry,” she whispers finally, pulling back, her palms warm against your damp cheeks. Her eyes search yours. Slowly, she slides a handkerchief from her pocket and presses it into your hand, her thumb brushing over your knuckles as she lets go. “My mother… she’s always been like this. I won’t tell you not to feel hurt, you should feel hurt. She doesn’t know how to soften her words, even when she should.”

“I came here because I heard she’d come after you the moment Soobin flew out for his trip,” she continues, “And about that woman… or whatever arrangement that was, Soobin never met her. Not even once. That was all our mother’s doing. If you want the truth, it’s best you hear it straight from him, hm?” Your fingers curl tighter around the handkerchief.

“I… I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice frayed at the edges, the apology slipping out even though you aren’t sure what you’re apologizing for— being here, being too small for this world, for falling for someone you were never supposed to have?

“Don’t be,” she says softly, her lips tugging into a smile. "You’ve done nothing wrong."

She reaches to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, “You can go home. I’ll handle her,” she promises. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t come near you again, not until Soobin gets back and sorts all of this out himself.”

Your throat tightens again, “Why?” The word falls out of you in a whisper. “Why are you doing all of this?”

“Soobin deserves to be happy,” she says, there's a glisten in her eyes. “And you… you make him happy.”

You sit still, hands folded tightly in your lap, nails pressing crescents into your skin as the hum of the engine vibrates beneath you. Through the window’s glass, blurred by your uneven breaths, you see them, Soobin’s sister and her husband.

Choi Beomgyu.

Even from here, even without sound, it’s clear. The way his eyes search hers, soft and intent. The way his hand brushes her cheek, tender and unhurried. And then, his palm drifts lower, resting on the curve of her stomach.

Your breath catches, an involuntary gasp escaping from your lips. You hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because you’d been too wrapped in your own thoughts, but there it is now; the small, rounded swell of her belly beneath her dress.

She’s pregnant.

Your eyes dart away. It sinks in heavier than you expect—the contrast of it. The weight of what you felt in that restaurant still gnawing at your ribs. You swallow hard, blinking fast. You shouldn’t be jealous. Not of them, not of their certainty, not of the way they fit together. You curl your fingers tighter.

Beomgyu slides into the driver’s seat, his eyes flicker to you in the rearview mirror, not invasive. “You okay?” His voice is gentle, low.

You swallow past the knot tightening in your throat. “Yes.”

He doesn’t press. He just nods once, slow, and leans back in his seat. His hands rest on the wheel but he doesn’t start the car. Instead, his eyes shift toward the building. You follow his line of sight and see her— his wife, walking toward the entrance.

Beomgyu stays still, waiting. His jaw flexes slightly, not out of impatience, but out of habit, you can tell. He doesn’t move, not until she disappears inside the building safely, not until the glass doors close behind her and she’s no longer in sight.

Only then does he release a small breath and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts.

You've never seen a love so whole.

You’d finally made peace with it all, to speak to Soobin when he returned. His sister’s promise had held true; his mother hadn’t darkened your doorstep again. For once, the silence felt like safety.

Only one more day. Just one, and he’d be back.

The sharp chime of the door snapped through the quiet. You turned instinctively, forcing a smile onto your lips out of habit.

Standing there was a woman. “Good morning,” you greeted softly, stepping behind the counter, trying to keep your hands steady.

“You’re Y/N, right?” Your stomach flipped, hands instantly cold. What is it this time?

“Yes,” you answered carefully, guarded. “How can I help you?”

She took a step closer, “I’m Aera,” she said smoothly, not a trace of hesitation. “Soon to be Soobin’s fiancée.”

Your breath stuttered. The smile fell clean from your lips. “I’m sorry… what—”

“His mother told me about you.” The words barely registered before the woman dropped to her knees in front of you. The motion was so sudden, so desperate, your breath caught in your throat and your eyes went wide.

“Please…” her voice cracked as she folded her hands together, her head bowed low in a way that looked almost unnatural for someone like her; pristine, polished, composed. But here she was. Crumbling. “Please tell him to accept the proposal.”

Your chest constricted painfully. “No, no, stand up, you don’t have to,”

But she shook her head sharply, her shoulders trembling. Tears clung to her lashes, heavy and raw. “I’ll let you have everything you want. You can still be with him .I don’t care. I’ll just marry him in name. I’ll stay in a different room. A different house, even. I won’t touch him. Our family… we need his. Please, I’m begging you.” Her voice broke entirely on that last word.

Even she knew. Even she understood what his mother refused to admit; his heart was already in your hands.

You walk to the building, each step echoing in your chest. The elevator hums softly as you press the button, your reflection in the mirrored doors a stranger to you. When it finally dings open, you step out into the hallway.

Your hand hovers over the doorbell of his home. You take a breath and press the button. And then you wait.

You run over the speeches you carved into your heart all day, I’m sorry, but we need to break up. I’m sorry, I can’t do this anymore. But the moment the door opens, it all disintegrates.

He stands there, and for a split second, it’s as if everything stills. His eyes meet yours, rimmed with exhaustion so deep it settles into the lines of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, sweetheart.” His voice is soft. Almost fragile.

And before you can think, before you can remember the careful goodbye you rehearsed a thousand times, he reaches for you.His fingers curl around your arms, and he pulls you into him. Into the chest that has always felt like home.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Soobin, I—” Your voice barely breaks through the air before it’s swallowed by the heat of him; his lips finding the curve of your neck, hot and hurried, like a man starved. His body crowds yours effortlessly, the breadth of him making you feel small. His hands, large, trembling with restraint digs firmly on your waist.

“I fucking missed your voice,” he breathes against your skin, “I fucking missed you… I couldn’t even sleep.”

Your throat tightens, a lump clawing higher and higher as your heart caves in on itself. Coward. That’s what it feels like. Your heart, shrinking, curling away from what you came here to say. Because how could you speak of endings when he’s here, clinging to you like this? When he holds you like you were his last hope?

“I need you, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers slide to your blouse, undoing the buttons one by one, slower than his breath, slower than the pounding of your pulse against your ribs. His knuckles brush against your skin, “Did you miss me?”

You open your mouth. The truth swells painfully, desperate to tear out. I did. I missed you more than you’ll ever know. But all you manage is a breathless, broken, “I—”

His hot mouth sucks your nipple. “…Yes.”

It’s all a blur — his hands, his mouth, the way he whispered your name. You don’t remember how the clothes came off, how the sheets tangled beneath your bodies. You only remember the weight of him, the heat of his skin, and the soft drag of his lips along your body that made your breath catch.

The sharp stretch, the slow push of him sinking into you. Tears spill before you even realize they’re falling. It isn’t the pain that makes you cry. It’s the ache in your chest, the way your heart splits in two at the sight of him — Soobin, tired and unraveling, still so gentle. You were too scared to say no. Not because you didn’t want him, but because you did. Too much. You craved to erase the exhaustion from his eyes, even if it was only for one night.

Maybe you were fooling yourself into thinking you were giving something to him, when really, you were trying to steal one last piece of him for yourself.

His brow furrows as he stills inside you, the concern written all over his face. His thumbs swipe at your damp cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin in soft, frantic kisses. “Did that hurt? What’s wrong?”

You force a breath through the tightness in your throat, eyes locking on his, “No,” you manage to choke out, your voice cracking. Your hand comes up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the soft curve of his under-eye, tracing the shadows you wish you could take away. You swallow the sob clawing at your chest, and say it. You have to say it. Even if it’s the last time.

“I— I just love you.” His lips part slightly at your confession. His breath stutters, and something raw flickers behind his gaze; wonder, disbelief. His whole body goes still as if those words rooted him to the earth. “I love you, Soobin.”

"I love you. I fucking love you."

Warm hands find your waist, circling you with a gentle pull, long fingers tracing slow, reverent patterns across your bare skin. A soft squeeze follows, then warm, featherlight kisses trail from your neck to your ear, each one taking time to settle on your skin. Your name slips from his lips, barely more than a breath, before he tucks himself closer, body melting into yours.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, “You’ve been asleep so long, I’m starting to miss you.”

You exhale a soft huff, but there’s no real protest in it. Just the lazy stretch of your arm as you roll toward him, pressing your face into the curve of his neck where he smells like him. Your voice comes out muffled. “Let’s stay like this for five more minutes.”

A smile ghosts against your temple. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Okay,”

You finally peeled yourself from the bed, soft sheets still warm with sleep and the weight of him. He trailed after you, tall and shadowing your every move around the kitchen as the morning light spilled in. You couldn’t help it, your fingers found his constantly. On his wrist as he buttered toast, laced with his as you poured coffee, curled around his as you sat across from him at the table. And for the first time, you saw it clearly: the way Soobin’s cheeks flushed pink under the weight of your affection, his gaze flickering down, shy and boyish, every time you touched him like you couldn’t stop.

Now, he stands by the mirror, freshly showered, crisp shirt hugging broad shoulders, hair damp and curling just a little at the edges. You’re sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him. He wanted you to stay here, in his penthouse. Wanted you here waiting when he came home.

You rise when you see him fumble with his tie, long fingers struggling with the knot. “Let me,” you say softly. Your fingertips brush against his as you take over, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his skin. He watches you, head tilted down, eyes steady and soft, drinking in every precise movement as you fold and tug the silk into place.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, “Thank you, baby,” he murmurs. He leans in, scattering kisses across your face — your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your lips — each one light and full of that unshakable, boyish smile of his.

You walk him to the elevator, bare feet padding softly on the cool floor. He steps inside, glances back at you, and lifts his hand in a wave; a grin stretching wide, something childlike and unguarded lighting up his whole face.

All while everything was breaking your heart.

You moved quietly through his home. The morning hush wrapped around you like something delicate and suffocating all at once. You folded his clothes with shaking hands, smoothing out every crease, tucking each piece into its rightful place as if order could somehow soften what you were about to break.

His watch. You found it lying carelessly on the counter where he always forgot it. You fixed it gently onto the shelf beside his cufflinks and rings, aligning everything just so, because you knew he liked it neat, even if he never said it out loud. It was small, but you wanted to leave it perfect for him.

The kitchen was next. Your movements felt numb now, mechanical. You prepared everything the way he loved it: coffee beans ground just right, the sugar jar filled, the creamer where it belonged. You wrote it all down on a small scrap of paper; the exact way you made it for him, step by step and pressed the note beside the kettle. Your handwriting blurred through your tears, but you forced yourself to keep writing.

By the time you found a clean sheet of paper and sat at the dining table, your whole body trembled with the weight of it. The pen felt too heavy in your hand. Your tears hit the page before your words did.

You slowly, wrote your goodbye.

"Nana, this is your new room, okay?" Your voice is soft, careful not to crack as you push the door open, guiding her slowly inside. "It’s a little different, but we’ll figure it out. I’ll make sure we’re alright."

You smile, or something close to it, when she nods faintly, her eyes drifting over the unfamiliar space. The pale walls, the narrow window, the worn bed frame. None of it felt like home yet, but it had to be. You’d make it be.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the dresser as she turned to you. "Why did we move so suddenly?"

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. "Oh," you answered lightly, "because we had to."

Your chest tightened when her gaze lingered on you a beat longer, as if peeling back layers you didn’t want exposed. And then, almost absently, she asked, "How about your man?"

You froze. The air seemed thinner, sharper. You weren’t even sure she remembered him clearly — just a distant echo of the day Soobin had shown up with that gentle smile, introducing himself with careful politeness.

"I… I broke up with him," you whispered. She didn’t react at first. Just nodded quietly, turning to sit on the edge of her bed. Her small frame curved gently as she smoothed the blanket beneath her hands, her movements slow and methodical.

You took a step back toward the doorway, trying to breathe steady. Trying not to crumble in front of her. But then, just as she rose again to cross the room, her voice drifted back to you. "Love will not fail," she murmured. "If it fails… it’s not love."

It was as if you’d just torn your own heart out with your bare hands.

Love will not fail. If it fails, it’s not love.

It had been days since you moved.

And still, no matter how many boxes you unpacked, no matter how carefully you folded your grandmother’s cardigans into drawers or wiped down every surface, this place didn’t breathe like the home you left behind.

The sky hadn't lightened once since you arrived. It hung heavy and bruised from dawn to dusk, a slate-colored weight pressing down on everything. You couldn’t remember the last time you saw sunlight crack through.

And then, the rain came.

You noticed it first in the shift of the wind. A few drops scattered across the concrete, and then it broke open all at once. Panic seized you as your mind jumped to the laundry. The sheets you’d washed them early this morning and hung them in the front of your lawn, hoping they'd dry before nightfall.

You bolted outside, breath shallow, feet slipping slightly against the wet pavement. Cold droplets clung to your hair, running down the line of your neck, soaking through your shoulders. Your fingers fumbled over the clothesline as you yanked the white sheets down frantically, heart racing as you tried to save what little you had.

And then — Your body stilled. Your hands slackened on the fabric as your gaze caught on a figure standing just past the fence.

For a moment, the rain softened around you, every sound falling away except the ragged beat of your own heart breaking all over again.

Choi Soobin’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the dim wash of the dashboard lights. His eyes flicked from one worn street sign to the next, cataloguing every turn, every corner, like a man tracing the edges of an old wound. Every so often, he let the car slow to a crawl. Stared a little too long at places that meant nothing to him, but might have meant everything to you.

It’s the town, the one his investigator pointed him to. The small, quiet town where the woman who tore through his world had disappeared into without a trace but with every piece of him still in her hands.

He’d already gone over everything twice. No. Three times. He couldn’t remember anymore. His chest felt tight, like something was sitting on it and daring him to breathe around the weight. He wondered if he should start all over tomorrow. Sweep the streets again. Retrace the steps he didn’t even know you'd taken.

Without meaning to, Soobin’s hands turned the wheel, guiding him down a road he’d circled too many times to count. Muscle memory, maybe. He didn’t know why he kept coming back.

The first drops of rain tapped against the windshield, soft and uncertain, like the sky hadn’t made up its mind yet. He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face. He glanced right, thinking to turn back, to call it for the night. But then he saw it.

A figure cutting through the field, darting between rows of white laundry sheets billowing in the wind like ghosts.

He didn’t think. His door was open before he could catch the impulse, the car engine still on behind him as he bolted forward. He didn’t even shut the door. His feet hit the wet grass hard, slipping a little, but he kept running. Fast. Desperate. Like if he blinked, even for a heartbeat, you might vanish.

The way you vanished from his life when he turned his back.

If he’d stayed that day. If he’d ignored the meeting, called in sick, shut the world out, would you still be here now?

He saw you stumble back. Your shoulders tensed, then you turned to escape. And just like that, the breath punched out of his lungs. His heart cracked against his ribs, like thunder rolling too close to the ground. Panic clawed at his throat. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. So he did the only thing left.

He called your name. Louder than he meant to. He shouted it. Frantic. You didn’t move at first. Just stared at him across the field, rain threading through your hair, clinging to your skin. When you spoke, your voice was sharp.

“Why are you here?” You asked, each word flung like stones across the space between you. Your jaw clenched. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t want you anymore?”

Your voice cut clean but your hands betrayed you. They shook at your sides, fingers twitching like they weren’t sure whether to reach for him or push him away. The ache in your throat frayed the edge of every word. And Soobin saw it. He saw all of it.

Choi Soobin stares at you, the glisten in his eyes that you've come to know whispers his truth. He's now infront of you, eyes sweeping your face.

The storm isn’t just around him; it’s inside him, bleeding into the tremble of his hands as he reach and clutch your wrists, desperate. Rain seeps through his clothes, slides down his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you.

Because you're the only thing keeping him standing.

"Marry me." It’s his last attempt to keep you from walking away. “Marry me, and I’ll do anything you want. Anything. Just don’t—” His throat closed up, and for a second, it sounded like he forgot how to breathe. “Don’t walk away again.”

“I said—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The words snapped harder than he wanted, frustration cracking wide open in his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, not in anger but in helplessness. “Don’t make me feel crazy. Don’t make me feel stupid. My sister told me everything, Y/N. I know. I know everything.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Your shoulders caved, the last of your defenses buckling under the weight of it all.

“I’m not fit for your world,” you choked, voice splintering as tears blurred your vision. Your hands fell limp at your sides, fingers tangled in the thin fabric of the laundry you’d long forgotten.

“I don’t have anything. I hardly even have myself,” you whispered, your face crumpling like it hurt to say the truth out loud. “And you — you deserve the world. You deserve more than someone who can’t even keep her life straight.”

Soobin’s chest hollowed at the sight of you crumbling in front of him. He didn’t care about the rain, or the mud soaking through his shoes, or the ache in his lungs. There was only one thing left he wanted to do. Fall to his knees if he had to. Beg, if that’s what it took. Beg for you. Beg for everything.

“I don’t want the world.” His eyes locked on yours, fierce and aching. “I never wanted any of that. Not once. I just… I just want you.”

His breath shuddered out, shaky, as if saying it hurt and healed him all at once. “I want to live with you. To grow old with you. To have your children. To wake up next to you for the rest of my life.” His words stumbled, his throat thick with the burn of unshed tears, but he didn’t stop.

Before you could slip farther away, Soobin reached for you, his arms wrapped tight around you, pulling you into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading into your damp hair with a gentleness that almost broke you on the spot. His heartbeat thundered against your cheek.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered, voice cracking on the plea. “Please, baby. Not when I finally found you. Not when all I want… is to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He felt you shift in his hold, felt your hands press against his chest like you were about to push him away. His stomach dropped but he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.

“I love you.” The words came out hoarse, frayed at the edges. Honest in a way that stripped him bare. He felt you still. The tension in your shoulders faltered. Slowly, slowly, you softened against him, all the walls you’d been gripping so tightly started to crumble in his arms.

You stopped pulling away this time.

“I love you,” he breathed again. His lips brushed against your temple, “I’ll fix everything for us. I swear it. You just have to trust me, baby. Please. Just trust me.”

He felt your arms loosen, the fight in them dissolving. Softening, giving your surrender — just as the rain itself began to ease, falling gentler, as though the sky had finally tired too. A breath punched out of his chest, relief so fierce it almost dropped him to his knees. His arms closed tighter around you, cradling you against him like he could tuck you safely inside his ribs, where nothing could ever reach you again.

When would he ever get a moment like this again?

A chance like this? To meet his soulmate. To meet the one person who could read the shadows behind his smile before he even noticed they were there. Who knew him better than he had ever dared to know himself.

What were the odds? If he hadn’t driven down that street that day. If he hadn’t wandered into your little flower shop with its peeling paint and sunlight pooling across wooden counters. If he hadn’t looked up and seen you and not known, right then, that he’d nearly lived his life without finding his missing half. And what were the chances you would’ve seen him?

He shuddered, blinking hard against the burn behind his eyes. His throat tightened as he breathed you in, the faint trace of wildflowers still clinging to your skin like memory. His heart clenched.

The odds of this… of you… out of all the people, all the cities, all the winding chances and missed timings, was one in a million.

taglist: ily @heesmiles , @lovingbeomgyudayone , @virtaideen , @hyukascampfire , @fancypeacepersona , @bamgeutori , @lilbrorufr , @beomieeeeeeeeeeees , @xylatox , @yunverie , @imlonelydontsendhelp , @moagyuu , @immelissaaa , @readinmidnight , @pagelets , @wonderstrucktae , @boba-beom , @seodami , @izzyy-stuff , @gyudollies , @i-am-not-dal , @page-isa , @tyunarisu , @s0urcherry , @prettypeachprincesz @zaynspidey @sxmmerberries @immelissaaa @definitelynotherr @fics-lovebot @missychief1404 @irishspringing @lovesickchoi @beomgyusluver @sumzysworld @usuallyunlikelyfox @soo-blue @younbeanz @storminacloud @bamgeutori @soobinieswife @prized-jules @soobmeongie @lostgirlysstuff @hoseocakes @fancypeacepersona @ke4s @lvlyhiyyih @aerangi @suneonu @ryuhannaworld @soheeunderthesun @luvleyylina @georgeweasleys-gf @marissariveraaaa

[omniscient3teabag]

NEED there to be like, a party or something after an alien invasion and like someone brought alcohol to the watchtower and like usually captain marvel doesn't drink because ??? billy's like 10 alcohol tastes like absolute chicken butt to him but Zeus is like " drink drink drink " and the other gods(minus Solomon,, someone has to be the rational one there) join in and go " DRINK DRINK DRINK !!! " like they cheering for the Olympus world cup

and captain is like " eh ok sure " and decides to see how much alcohol he could drink in the span of 2 minutes or less. and so that spirals into almost every member of the Justice League witnessing THE Boy Scout™️—that no one has EVER saw drink a drop of wine—chugging down each glass like it's no tomorrow,,, and it's kinda impressive..

of course. captain stops (only because he didn't want to finish it all,,, plus the alcohol he just drank doesn't even taste like the rum from the 1950s,, so, even if it doesn't taste like chicken butt it still doesn't taste great either) but like hey at least the gods were having a blast!!! (they were a bit bummed captain had to stop though) (solomon felt like he could actually breath again after that)

and the jl??? respect the ever living shit out of him because god fucking damn captain marvel just walked off and continued whatever he was doing afterwards like he didn't just chug down fifty glasses of booze,, (he just doesn't have a liver or kidney to damage nor mind to get drunk off LMAOO)

and then they were like . huh. How much liquor can cap hold??? so they all get a bit curious .. and try to see how many more shots could he take ,,, and then it somehow just spirals into a long, nasty competition, one person just straight up bringing a barrel of rum for captain to try

and marvel?? he finds it kinda funny. the alcohol doesn't really affect him anyways and if he just turns off his taste buds he can pretend it's water most of the time. plus a good past time if there's nothing to do. but he does like giving out his thanks and reviews on the taste of it most times

,, and maybe the utmost eagerness that shows in Captain Marvel's face whenever a member wants him to try a very VERY strong concoction full of alcohol that'd probably kill a horse if a sip was taken by a normal civilian and how sincere he is on the way he pats their heads and gives out actual advice on how to improve it (thank you Solomon) was KINDA nice. just a tad bit nice.

oh who's pretending at this point, the competition at the end of the day just waters down into how many drinks??gifts??? the line blurs to a certain point ,, they could give to marvel and to see how many compliments they could get from marvel. they all know at this point that the drinks can't really affect him anyways. plus plus!!! captain would give the extra rum leftover into a tiny-ish water bottle made of magic and brings it with him everywhere, strapped to his waist like fanny pack. no one questions this. we love you capdad

(most of the gods living rent free in cm's head fucking cheer when one day billy gets gifted booze that could affect the gods)

[quandaledlnglepink]

hi hi! I really really REALLY love your fics smm, esp the Kaiser ones oh lord they are absolutely amazing😍😍

Can I request more Kaiser fics where the reader is shy and way too nice, it can be any plot I really don't mind anything!!

(also can the fics have smut..🙏)

𝜗𝜚 hi hi!!! thank you sm for loving my fics aaaa i tried to incorperate reader being nice but i think i went a little overboard with her shyness lol

⸻ ミヒャエル・カイザ MICHEAL KAISER.

𝜗𝜚 ̟˖ ࣪  synopsis; reader goes to a party and ditched by her friends and kaiser approaches her. heavy making out, oral sex (fem receiving), reader is fem, kaiser smokes, reader is a bit tipsy, mention of drinking and alcohol. w.c; 1.5k.

you don't like parties.

you don't enjoy the flips your stomach does on the journey there, or the smell of sweat and alcohol wafting through the air, or the weird guys who side step you with their hands on your hips instead of just politely asking you to move.

your friends had parted their separate ways, finding their own spaces to mingle with.

except...you hadn't found that space yet.

and you were way too nice to tell them not to leave you like a stumbling fawn, alone and out of place in some random house party where you didn’t know anyone. 

you stood stiffly tucked away in the corner of the room, sporting a red solo cup and zoning out on the bundle of people dancing to the music. you exhaled thoughtfully through your nose, eyes flickering down to the liquid drug in your cup, swirling it around as you pondered whether or not to just call an uber home.

you smelled him before you saw him. an intertwined mix of sandalwood and lemon that make your head lift, only to be met with a handsome stranger.

he was drop-dead gorgeous in a pretty, boyish player way–a man that would have girls idolatrously fawning. His choppy blonde hair and dipped blue ends was a hairstyle you think only he could pull off, almost like a male peacock. his cobalt eyes sharp, softened by his light lashes and boldened by his red eyeliner.

he looked familiar, but you don't linger on it.

your eyes are then attracted by his full tattoo sleeve, and his lips curve in what you take as amusement.

"you like it, hübsches mädchen?" he spoke over the music, his tone was cocky, as if he knew what you were thinking. your stomach fluttered hearing the slight accent and the switch in language, coming to the conclusion he was german.

"oh–yeah, i think it looks cool, looks like it hurt like a bitch though." you managed to say without stuttering, saying whatever came to mind then your usual 'think before you say' method. clearly you didn't make a fool of yourself though, because he laughs, and you soak it in like a sponge.

"only a little." he teases as his eyes observe your long sleeved mini dress and nervously pretty face. "anyway, why are you alone? did you come all by yourself?"

it was at this point the music had gotten louder and the crowd rowdier. "i came here with–"

you cut yourself off as he gestures with two fingers to come closer, his body leaning so close you could feel his body heat. your lips almost ghost his ear with how close he had purposely gotten. you felt heat pool in your lower belly, but you purposely push it away as your voice raises a little louder. "i–i came here with friends, but they've just gone off to do their own thing."

he silently studied the surrounding area as he listened to your words before nodding, pulling back every so slightly. "i see, let's go somewhere quieter, hm?"

he doesn't give you a second to respond before he gently incases your wrist, pulling you away and past bodies, into a seemingly empty corridor, the once loud music and chatter muffled by the layers of walls.

"who are you with?" you asked, trying to keep the conversation going as you both settle on opposite ends of the wall.

"my teammates," he mused, crossing his arms, "they wanted to celebrate our match victory."

"ah," you nodded, eyes wandering to the open door that led to the backyard. "so you play–"

"–soccer."

“–right. soccer."

your lips twitch a little, as if they wanted to smile. you sigh slowly, still staring out back, feeling a bit overheated from the atmosphere inside.

he leaned off the wall, presumably picking up the memo, before you began to walk, hearing his footsteps close behind. you find an empty couch, small enough to fit two people. and before you knew it, he sat right beside you, his thigh smushing against yours. his legs wide open as he laid back comfortably, an air of intimidating confidence radiating off him. For a split second, your attention is drawn to the two people play fighting in front of you before both falling into the pool, loud splashing and 'ooo's' filling the air.

there's a 'flick' sound next to you, and your ears perk up.

you've never seen someone look so angelic smoking what your mom used to call a, 'cancer stick'. his features painted a hue of soft orange light, the smell of tobacco hitting your senses.

he holds out a cigarette box in your direction, but you shake your head, mumbling about how you don't smoke.

"good," he utters, clearly pleased by your response. "don't start either, wouldn't want a pretty girl like you damaging her lungs."

your eyes go wide like saucers, your chest tightening like at his blunt flirting . "you think i'm pretty?"

you zero in on his luscious lips as they blow out some smoke, before his head tilts towards you, his lashes lowered, his sensual stare making your heart race.

"i'm not a liar, hübsch."

"yeah..." you say, your voice coming out more breathy than intended. you assume it's because of the heavy drink you had unknowingly finished a few minutes ago that had made you bold enough to say, "do you kiss pretty girls too?" 

"mhm."

you bite your glossy lip at his casual response, trying to keep a cheesy smile at bay.

"want me to show you?" he suddenly says, his eyes dropping to your lips and back up to meet your’s, and it's like your world had tilted upside down. your heart was beating so hard at this point you were sure it was trying to claw its way out of your chest. your clammy hands gripped the end of your dress tightly.

you nodded.

his lips then crashed onto yours, making you gasp as your teeth almost knocked together. his free hand cupping the space between your head and neck, deepening the kiss. it was slow yet ravaging, as if he was attempting to claim your mouth and everything inside it. he tasted like alcohol, mint, tobacco and sin. you let his eager tongue part your lips, a loud moan drawing from them as you felt something cold on your tongue.

the hot bastard had a tongue piercing. you could hardly believe this attractive stranger was making out with you and you didn't even know his name yet.

"name," you rasped breathlessly when you both finally parted an inch, a shared saliva string between you. 'what's your name?"

"michael," he smirks against your lips. "michael kaiser." he murmurs before his lips collide with yours again, his rough fingers grasping the nape of your neck.

  ݁    ౨ৎ  ݁  

your friend's vision of you being the 'innocent friend' would crumble if they saw your position right now.

you're glad you now know having someone's mouth on your cunt could be this euphoric, otherwise you would have put off having a guy go down on you. this overwhelming sensation directed sharply on your clit had electric heat humming in your core. your manicured nails slicking his stray hairs back as they hid his dilated pupils, scratching his scalp just enough to start stinging.

you were laying on a bed in some random guest room upstairs, way too tipsy to bother muffling any needy sounds.

another obscene sound of him sucking your clit had you whimpering his name, in response, his blunt nails only pressing harder into your trembling thighs. the two thick digits pumping inside you deliberately curling, hitting that sweet gummy spot inside you that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, your kitten heels digging harshly into his back.

your walls clench around his fingers as you feel your climax building, your eyes fluttering closed, your eyebrows scrunched in concentration.

"hnghh i'm gonna f–fucking hah, i'm gonna fucking cum–" you whined pathetically, your thighs almost squeezing his head to suffocation. shockwaves of heat rippled up your spine as his tongue licked a fat stripe up your cunt, and you didn't hear him growling at you to cum before your body was already falling over the edge. your ears ring as your legs twitch and convulse terribly, feeling more wet than ever.

the sheets underneath you and the bottom half of his face is soaked in your slick, and you would've been embarrassed if your mind wasn't so fucked out.

you melt into the bed almost immediately, your chest heaving from exhaustion. your head is still swimming, too lost in your own glowing aftermath to feel the bed dip under his weight as he climbs on top of you. he doesn't wait a second before leaning down and pressing his lips to yours, his hand cupping your cheek, forcing you to taste yourself on his swollen lips.

with the way he's hungrily looking at you, you're sure it's not over.

yet your body shivers in excitement. 

Maybe you don’t hate parties.

Quandaledlnglepink © 2025

[marauroon]

hiii i saw that u were asking for reqs and i loved reading ur best frenemies fic with remus, i was wondering if you would be open to writing about that dynamic more. like maybe they're in the same friend group so they're in close proximity but they can't stand one each other and maybe the reader got stood up or something and remus is there or really whatever you want. Anyways thank you for your work, i really enjoy it

── .⏾ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲. (𝐫.𝐥𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐧)

you didn’t even really invite him, but the fact he didn’t show up still put a damper on your mood. remus thinks it’s killing the whole room’s vibe.

remus lupin x frenemy!reader | 1.2k | h/c? | masterlist.

a/n | went back to the og og ship for this one, shout out to blackinnon

There’s something aggravating about someone who’s simultaneously the smartest in the room and also the most infuriating. Sure, maybe he’s handsome in a very I-read-sad-poetry-by-lantern-light way, but that only really makes it worse.

And, unfortunately, thanks to Marlene’s thing with Sirius (on again, off again, like the world’s most emotionally exhausting lumos charm), you are now in proximity to said infuriating boy far more often than you’d like to be.

It’s become a balancing act, really—sitting at the Three Broomsticks with your best friends on one side and the Marauders on the other, trying not to glare directly at Remus every time he says something clever. You think you’ve managed rather well. Mostly. Until now.

Because today, of all days, your maybe-date didn’t show.

You’re not even sure you’d call it a date. You’ve been talking with Michael Rossiter in Herbology for a couple of weeks, mostly about plants but sometimes—when he was feeling cheeky—about music or Quidditch or the way you looked when you were annoyed with your mandrake.

He wasn’t brilliant, but he had nice eyes and a decent laugh and said, when you told him you were going to Hogsmeade with your friends, “Maybe I’ll see you there then.”

You'd smiled. Told yourself not to get too giddy. And yet, here you are. Giddy, then deflated.

The booth you’re all crammed into is loud—Marlene is practically on Sirius’s lap, Mary and Dorcas are exchanging knowing looks, and James is loudly arguing with Peter over the latest Wimbourne Wasps game. And Remus—Remus is directly opposite you, because of course he is, because of course Sirius just had to say, “Oi, Moony, let the ladies have the bench side, be a gentleman,” and Remus just smirked and obliged, sliding in across you like he belonged there.

You’ve been waiting. Watching the door. Laughing too loudly at Mary’s jokes. Pretending to sip butterbeer just to keep your hands busy. And when Michael doesn’t show—when it becomes obvious he’s not going to—you shrink a bit. Quiet. Withdrawn.

And Remus notices.

Of course he does.

"You know, for someone who supposedly convinced a boy to change his Hogsmeade plans just for her,” he drawls, not even looking up from his drink, “you’re doing a marvellous impression of someone who’s just been stood up.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even look at him. You just keep your eyes fixed on the window, watching the steam fog up the panes.

Remus pauses.

Usually, this is the part where you snap something back—about his sad little jumpers or the way he chews the ends of quills like a stressed-out academic or how he’s basically a walking dissertation on how not to relax. But you don’t. You sit still, hands clenched in your lap.

The silence between you grows taut.

Remus frowns. He nudges you with his foot under the table—annoying. Like a brother, if your brother was your intellectual rival and also kind of handsome in a way you wish you didn’t notice.

“Oi,” he says, quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, still not looking at him. “You wouldn’t get it. And I don’t want you to.”

That gives him pause. He turns toward you fully now, leaning on one elbow. “Alright, that’s a bit harsh.”

You shrug.

Then he sighs, long-suffering and dramatic. “Who was it? The boy. No, don’t tell me— Rossiter?”

You glance at him, surprised. “How did you—?”

“Everyone saw you flirting over flobberworms in class last week,” he says, deadpan. “He told Sirius he was thinking about asking you out. Got all red-faced about it, too. It was tragic.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Merlin.”

“He’s a right sod, you know.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “That your professional opinion?”

Remus shrugs, grinning slightly. “My personal one. But it’s backed by a great deal of observational research.”

You huff. “You don’t even know him.”

“I know him better than you do,” Remus says, slumping back into the booth. “Do you know his mum still buys his underwear?”

You blink.

“I’m serious. Thomas the Tank Engine ones. We saw them last year when someone hit him with a jelly-legs jinx and his trousers fell down on the Quidditch pitch. Looked ridiculous.”

You can’t help it—you snort. It’s brief, but it’s real.

Remus perks up like a cat that’s just caught movement under a curtain. “And I once caught him picking his nose.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re making this up.”

“I wish,” he says, grimacing. “We were in the library and he was just mining. Like he thought no one could see him. It was vile.”

You giggle. You actually giggle.

Remus looks triumphant. “And they say I’m the wild animal.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re awful.”

“Only to those who deserve it.” He pauses, then adds, more gently, “You really thought he was coming?”

You nod, shoulders drooping. “I mean… he said maybe. He was sort of flirty about it. I thought—” You cut yourself off. “Doesn’t matter.”

Remus doesn’t say anything at first. He leans his head back against the booth, watching you. “I hate that you’re sad,” he says eventually. “You’re annoying when you’re sad. It’s harder to make fun of you.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile’s still there. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know.” He nudges your arm again. “Still sucks, though.”

The warmth in your chest surprises you. You look at him again, properly this time, and there’s a softness in his eyes that doesn’t match the usual sardonic glint.

It’s disarming.

You blink, glance away. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grins. “Don’t get all emotional on me. I might have to start being nice to you regularly and that’s not good for my image.”

“Oh, the tragedy,” you say dryly.

“Unimaginable.”

Sirius leans over suddenly, draping an arm across Remus’s shoulders and nearly spilling his drink. “Oi, Moony, you pulling or pining?”

Remus doesn’t even flinch. “Trying to comfort someone after being disappointed by the tragic shallowness of her romantic prospects, actually. Something you’d know nothing about.”

Sirius pouts. “Rude.”

Marlene snorts. “Let her be. She got stood up, she’s rightfully upset,”

Sirius frowns. “Who stands you up?”

You wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

But Remus answers anyway. “Michael Rossiter.”

Sirius sits back like he’s been slapped. “Rossiter? No. That absolute knob?”

“You see?” Remus says, gesturing. “It’s not just me.”

“Bloody hell,” Sirius mutters. “Should’ve hexed him when I had the chance.”

“You did hex him,” Remus points out.

“Not enough, apparently.”

[sourbites]

I saw you write for dc comics! Can I get a Jason Todd smut! Like they are enemies and Jason has caught her

Pairing: Jason Todd (The Red Hood) / Female Reader Word count: 6,758 Contents: violence, threats, sarcasm, smut, shitty pacing im sorry, messy not-even breakup, oral sex/cunnilingus, penetrative sex Summary: He works for himself. You're in cahoots with Black Mask. He's not your boss exactly, but you're close enough that Jason comes back to you for your in-the-know experience with a particular deal. Notes: You have no idea how excited I was for this, I'm sorry it took so long — hopefully it's worth the wait! I omitted the "caught her" part of the request, because it was tripping me up, I hope that's okay. Anyway, to preface: Jason does not follow recent canon comics. (Batman 159 Hush 2 ver of Jason... what are we doing?)

Pulling Teeth

Your gait is slanted. Not even the wall can hold up the weeks of bone-heavy exhaustion. Fuck, you want out. Now more than ever. The cool concrete of a random parking lot pillar pushes against your spine, unyielding. Sucking in a breath from your clenched teeth, you set your tired glare on the misleadingly small shadow a good few yards away.

"Why did you wait until tonight to make yourself known? Getting shy?" You watch with amusement as his vague figure shoots up to that normal, behemoth size.

You hadn't expected him to come crawling back this quick. Not for weeks, actually. Of course, news travels impossibly fast in Gotham, so you'd anticipated a visit from the Red Hood himself. But you imagined he'd hold off crawling back to you just a little longer. He's prideful like that. Smug, reckless, stupid...

"Only so we can have longer moments like this together." Jason lazily pads out of the shadows. Though he's still armoured with some fuzzier shadows— the parking lot isn't very well-illuminated, like most places in Gotham. One big, prime area for muggings. Either way, you're not impressed with that red helmet and too-big leather jacket. You cross your arms, standing upright against the pillar. In a perfect world, you'd be halfway home already. Fucking Jason and his timing. You're half-sure he's doing it on purpose: picking the busiest, most draining day to become a bother.

You scoff, his trademark sarcasm not producing the desired reaction. "Get on with it, or I'm getting in my car and running you over on my way out."

He straightens himself up, mirroring you. Did he double in size with his shoulders back? Jerk.

"Need help on a case," His tone is unsettlingly serious, even if it's a little artificial with his voice modulator. You wonder if that's his paranoia to install a fucking voice modulator, or Bruce's rubbed off on him more than he'd like to admit. "You know I wouldn't come t' you if it wasn't important."

There it is. If your phone wasn't on three percent, you'd whip it out and make him say it again after you hit record. But you'll settle for the next best thing. You gesture to one of your ears with a finger, "What was that?'

"Seriously?" He tilts his head. You don't waver— and neither does that infuriating grin that he wants you to lose, like, yesterday. Jason lets out a long-winded sigh, ever the dramatic.

"_____, I am here, bothering you with my vile presence, to humbly ask f' your help on a case." He's at a loss for what else he could possibly say. Should he have prepared an elaborate apology basket, too? You haven't seriously swung for Black Mask's cause, have you?

You nod, unbearably smug. The corner of your mouth lifted, as well as your spirits. Wow, does Jason's grovelling - sarcastic as it may be - cheer you up. "Thought so."

⸻

You tried your hardest to be at least civil with him. Maybe after all the time apart, you'd reinvented your memories to make him meaner. Or he's just too nice now. Whatever the truth may be, your truth is that you don't despise working with him— a fact you wouldn't even acknowledge in your diary. You were both bitter over how everything ended - well, it wasn't much of an ending, just screaming at each other and your hairdryer getting flung across the room - but maybe this is what you both needed. One last job - one last good memory - so you can get the closure you know you've been aching for.

The first step of the plan split into a second, a fourth, and a sixth— until there were too many loose ends and too many outstanding blank spots. Time and time again, you'd tell Jason that you're probably not the best person for the job. (As much as you want to knock Sionis down a few pegs.)

Tonight, the taste of another cup of coffee will make you throw up on the spot. So, you and Jason - an unmasked Jason - are curled around tall milkshake glasses. Sucking the cream-thick mixture through the straw proves to be a Sisyphean task, so they're not touched too often. The stolen paperwork and grainy, printed photos are too headache-inducing to invest in at such a late hour. The seedy diner is nearly empty. The faded, once candy-red booths are worryingly sticky (you're not sure they've ever been washed in the thirty-ish years they've been in use), but the radio over the dingy speakers is playing good music, so there's that.

It’s surprising, how quickly conversation can flow from the Gotham dock shipments to normal-person talk. Jason and you are doing anything but work. If you hear the word ‘smuggling’ again tonight, you’d be morally obligated to roll your eyes into oblivion.

“Y'know— I had a busted lip f' weeks after that hairdryer.” Jason’s the one to address it: the elephant in the room. You and he have done remarkable so far, skirting around the incident talk. The first feeling that peeks out from within you is pride. Then guilt - double the guilt, actually: one for hurting him, and one for briefly being proud of that - bites down, hard, at your conscience.

One of your fingertips absentmindedly presses against the cold glass, wetting your skin with condensation. It pools around on the table in a ring. “I suppose I should apologise for that. I was upset, but I shouldn’t have hurt you. Sorry.”

Like blood in the water, he senses a taste of guilt in your mumbling tone. “It even hurt t' smile, yanno that?”

Your gaze flicks up from the puddle on the laminate table to him. He’s smirking; the corners of his pink lips are upturned, cheeks dimpled. At least he’s not pissed at you. “Alright, you’re laying it on a bit thick.” Your tone is ruthlessly flat, but it certainly makes you look like a hypocrite, considering you’re mirroring his smile.

You'd only just realised that Jason was thinking about it, too. It's probably time to bury the hatchet if you and he are working together to steal half of Sionis' incoming weaponry. The way your smile recedes tells Jason it's time. You've both been running from it - until it finds you on mildly sunny days - the kind that ties strings around ribcages and follows you for when you need a bit of sun. The kind of memory that you've turned to pulp, tumbled into mush in your washing-machine mind.

"Look, ____, the way things—" Your knee juts out to bump into Jason's leg. It doesn't take much movement, considering you're both crammed in a Barbie-Dreamhouse-sized booth. He pauses - just like you intended - and scowls at you. You might be willing to bury the hatchet, but you're not up for dissecting it like a frog.

"Let's just... move on. We can be civil about stuff, can't we?" You squint at him. It's not a question; Jason knows you well enough to tell. As much as you'd despise to admit it, he can read you without trying. It's something innate in him, the same way birds read skies and bears read food-rumoured river currents.

A ripple of discomfort rolls around Jason's expression, but it's gone as soon as it appears. If you were brave and steel-hearted enough, you'd regress and whisper against his forehead that he doesn't have to box it away. He can undress in front of you, strip his mind bare and you'd trace his thoughts that beg to manifest. But it's not summertime any more, and it feels like a thousand wretched suns have spoiled, rotten between then and now.

⸻

Just because he's died once, he thinks he's immortal. As much as you want to gloat: 'told you so', you don't want to be down a partner-in-organised-crime. You narrow your eyes at Jason as you watch him laze his way to your meeting spot. You cross your arms, brows furrowed together. You're shivering, cold Gotham air wracking through you; scratching at your bones. Your hair wisps around, lashing at your stiff cheeks.

"You took too long. You might not have any self-preservation left, but I do— fuck, you could've gotten us both killed." You can't resist lecturing him— just a pinch.

He wordlessly reaches behind him and whips out a flimsy, plastic blue folder. The pages within whip around from the wind. "I got it, didn't I?"

The smugness is oozing from his voice. You don't need to see his face to tell he's proud, holding onto the folder like it's a trophy. You wilt against the side of the car, running on empty. It was probably a fucking trauma response to forget how reckless he is. That, or he has some Scarecrow-level forgetting serum he's slipped into one of your drinks when you weren't looking.

You inspect him, bottom to top. He's resting more weight on his right leg. You decide not to pursue it further when you're out in the open like this. The water spray kicks up against the concrete flooring.

"Let's just get out of here." You're pushing off the car, pulling it open with your momentum.

Jason's safehouse is exactly how you remember it. Tiny kitchen, entirely hardwood floors. His back is still rigid with adrenaline, elbows resting on his knees. A gloved finger stabs at the printed paper, facing you. "Who's that? My informants mention that name."

You lean over to read the paper. Scheduled shifts for a driver of some hijacked cargo ship. Fucking grown men with aliases like Blackbeard. You lean back in the wooden chair, racking your brain to piece together any memory of a Blackbeard. Jason paws at his helmet until it's off.

"All I know is that he's related to Sionis. Sorry it's not much help." You press your lips together, sympathetic. Jason did risk a lot going in there— even if you didn't tell him to. It gets too much sometimes, looking over your shoulder. Home never feels safe enough. You want to be done with it. You don't want to end up the victim of some drive-by. But the more you dig into this, the more you feel like you're digging your grave. And for what, because Jason asked you to?

He laughs - quiet little huffs - smirking with bright-white teeth, shaking his head. "Y' have no idea how much that helps."

Oookay. A little cryptic, but reassuring. Your brows raise, with a dull pulse of warmth flaring within your chest. "I'm just happy you didn't get killed back there."

"I'm jus' happy we're not fighting." He replies, watching you with winter-blue eyes, twinkling like dreams on the edge of consciousness. He's said that - or something similar - before to you.

Back when you were a criminal chauffeur for hire. You didn't want to drive Jason anywhere. He smelled of chaos: gunsmoke and gasoline, leather. Too loud, too attention-grabbing in a red helmet. In his usual Jason fashion - as you'd come to recognise it - he twisted your arm with an offer of enough money for you to end your night early. You could still feel it: that restrained wonder at the first time you saw him in person. Your gaze was split between him and the neon-sign-illuminated roads. It was back when everything was exciting. You'd told him back then, You haven't paid me, when he climbed out of the car, still facing you. It was like you were magnets— faces pulling together, poles always oddly close. Haven't I? He held up your wallet between two gloved fingers, tossing it through your rolled-down window. It was a manual car, some shitty '98 Ford Escort. You'd set aside the impressed thought, replacing it with a scowl you sent his way. You remember glaring at him, uttering something about privacy, even though Jason merely shrugged. But we're not fighting, are we? I'd bet it has something t' do with that gift in your wallet. You replayed every second of that interaction, swearing you'd never drive him again. You'd say that to yourself every time you picked him up.

You feel like you've just come out of a coma. Mileage, gasoline, the speedometer arrow; it all feels like cotton in your throat. Those days are long, long gone— but you can recall them in such vivid technicolour. Your eyes glance over Jason's shoulder, to the microwave that still has its plastic wrapping.

"Well, we're not really the fighting type." You hear your own voice chiming in, the cadence unlike you. Sombre. Your mouth has moved on its own accord.

You watch Jason's head bob as he nods, pushing the papers up the table, away from him. "No," He agrees, his tone a near-clone of yours. Absent of all the passion that colours his voice— even if it's rage or cockiness. "Nah, was just th' one time..."

Your head shakes, eyes on his. Pinning his train of thought, you dismantled the tracks it was running on. Deep down, you knew he wouldn't surrender from this conversation permanently. Months and months of memories that he's aching to address press from within your skull. It disturbs the ear-ringing, murderous silence of the kitchen. Even the mismatched clock on the wall has stopped ticking, hands held in limbo, hanging in suspense.

Undeterred, Jason holds up a hand. "Let me finish." He's firm with you. A lick of anger reveals itself within you. There's so much you don't want to say, and yet so much you do. Your shoulders square, bracing yourself.

"I don't like how things ended, _____. I wasn't fair to you; I knew that back then, too, but I was stupid. I knew you felt somethin' more— it was a dick move, reacting the way I did. I just... I wanted you mad, I wanted to push you away. I'm sorry for treating you like crap." Jason says. His voice reaches you— and there's no escape. And far, far too sincerely for his or your liking, he whispers, "I'm sorry f' everything."

"Is this some sort of step in your program?" Your brows furrow. Then, softer, you add, "We agreed no feelings, I should've expected it."

You'll probably never get the taste of him out of your mouth— the grime and the softness that lingers beneath, like drying blood that gets tacky, sticking on everything that's touched. You're tired - bone-heavy and weary - of climbing into your usual, lonely bed. Jason gave with no seeming end. Warmth, safety, laughter, and it's all over. Nothing real between you even really began, and yet you cling to those memories each night you're on your own. You'd savoured each memory where your nails raked against the grain of the baby hairs at the nape of Jason's neck. You'd both pass out, curled nose-to-nose, and he'd lay sloppy and wet kisses on your skin. It was so easy to believe it meant something. Pathetic as it may be, your avoidance of talking about how it all fell apart before it could be built is your way of preserving the innocence— the tenderness and the potential it held. But now, when you try to find solace in the usual jewellery box of memories, the only thing you can see in the usual vivid, picturesque display is the repeated: over, over, over, over.

Jason flinched. Somewhere on the other side of this wide fever dream of months, you know you would've read his thoughts without needing to detangle them. But here and now, sitting at the table in the tucked-away kitchen, you and Jason watch each other like you're strangers. Like you're both starved animals, wearily stone-faced, waiting for the other to pounce. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip before he scrapes up the courage and the right words to engage in your response, "I'm apologising f'... everything. Everything. I'm sorry I was a hypocrite, and I was too— too fuckin' scared and pathetic to level with you back then."

You feel like your entrails have been scattered along the Gotham highways, abandoned to rot with any good feelings Jason had ever left you with. You want to collapse in on yourself and sob— find some Etsy witch to curse his bloodline for generations to come. "You felt the same, didn't you?"

You scoff, scowling, and without waiting for whatever ridiculous response he can come up with, you continue. "You threw everything away because you couldn't stand that we could've had something good. And the worst part is— even if you were too scared to have something real, you still strung me along, and I was a fucking idiot to let you."

Jason sputtered on his answer, all his rehearsed replies feeling like a ball of yarn bunched up in his throat. Of course, he's sat there, pulling at the dregs of his thoughts to come up with some worthwhile reply, because of course he can't keep his head straight when it comes to you. That's the whole problem.

He squirms in his seat. "I know what I did— Believe me, I know I deserve shit f' it. I just missed you, okay? I don't get why I can't spend time with my friend." You know he wants to get up and walk around, ramble with animated gestures. Your heart feels like it weighs a thousand tonnes. Anger has already covered half your reason, luring you to just scream and beat at his chest with your fists.

Stiff and rigid with anger, you press your spine into the hardwood chair. "We've kissed - done more than that, actually - you've been there for me when no one else has. I've fucking washed you when you couldn't even raise your arms. Am I seriously just your friend? Is that all I am to you, Jason?"

Your throat feels sore with unshed tears— acid climbing up your throat. Emotionally strained, you want to beat Jason to it, blasting out of your seat with your palms flat on the table.

Jason stares up the barrel of your furious gaze. In a rush he says, "Of course you're fuckin' not! That's why I'm here, pretending I need help stealing from Sionis. Fuck, ______, can't you see how much I care about you? That's the whole reason we fell out in the first place— the second I let you into this - into my world - you'll have a target on your back f' the rest of your life!"

Your mind shifts and turns and blurs. It's always something with this guy. Both you and Jason are standing up, gazes locked on the other. At any second, a tumbleweed could just roll past you in the distance like in those corny westerns. You'd whip out your gun and then what? You couldn't bring yourself to shoot him - even if you want to, sometimes.

"I'm already in your world, Jason. I'm already in enough danger to make me look behind my shoulder every day. We're both living on borrowed time!" You wrench yourself away from the table, hands braced at the kitchen counter at your sides. You need to cool down by the window before you burst a blood vessel. Gulping down a shaky breath, you add, "Life is so short. Why are we wasting it playing these games? Wouldn't you rather we spend the precious time we have actually building something together?"

You literally don't have the emotional capacity to acknowledge the fact that Jason basically invented a case just to get you to spend time with him. It's equal parts romantic and weird. The perfect Jason fashion, you suppose. It's taking every iota of control you have not to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into that thick skull of his. You're sick of having this fight, you're sick of living in this open-air 'what are we?', like you're in some TV show.

He can't help but be pulled toward you. No matter how hard he fights it, or tells himself it's not happening, you have a rope around his neck like he's fucking leashed— he's always coming back to you.

At first, you feel the warmth that comes with him. Then comes the sensation of his hands on you; just cupping your arms. There's no point in roaring or screaming at you. Jason rasps, "I don't ever want you thinking - even for a second - that I don't want you. That I don't love you."

You feel like you're choking. Your eyes squeeze shut; tears already skulking down your cheeks. Starving, you lean in and manage to bump your forehead against his. Jason's leaning down a whole lot so you can reach. "I want this. I'm all in— but you've gotta get over this fear."

Truth is, there's not a thing Jason wouldn't do if it meant keeping you happy and safe. He's reached his limit worrying about what will happen to you if things are official— if they're real. It's a shot in the dark, being an item. A darkness that he's afraid of losing you to - but a shot he's willing to take. Maybe the less ambiguity and distance between the two of you, the better. That means he can keep a real eye on you. So would Bruce, and Dick on occasion. It might not be so terrifying to let you in.

"I know, sweetheart," Jason utters against your temple, whispering so molasses-sweetly that it feels like silky ribbons across your skin. The pull to hold you grows too great to even think about resisting, and Jason is helpless to it as he cradles the back of your head. "I want this, too. I'd do anything— everything f' you. You've gotta know that, alright?"

You huff out a laugh, cheeks wet. "You're so..." The words die on your tongue, as your palms scrape up his arms. You had forgotten how delicious his arms were. It puts a bittersweet smile on your face. He's back, letting your hands explore him again, but there was a gap wedged between the two of you. A hurt like that isn't soothed the instant you two make up.

Jason's breath is hot as he soaks up the scent of your hair. His thumb strokes the side of your neck in languid swipes. He's silent for a moment - telling himself over and over that this is real - before he asks, "So what?"

"Smug. Pompous..." You pause, gingerly squeezing his well-muscled shoulders. You can't resist the magnetic pull of him. You suck in a breath, before adding, "Bratty."

Jason chuckles. He's missed this banter that the two of you have. He's not even offended— how could he be? If anything, you insulting him just makes him more attracted to you. His warm palms scoop your cheeks, feeling the damp skin from your tears. Jason's parted lips sweep across yours, his hair brushing against your forehead. You feel your body going slack— the crushing pressure on your heart immediately banished. This is all you've wanted: to be kissed stupid like he'd done to you many, many moons ago. It's amazing how you and he can physically just pick up from where you've left off. Even his breath is hot and sexy, exhaling against your mouth, the far-away taste of cigarette smoke smouldering into your tongue. Your eyes just... flutter... closed, like you're relishing in every millisecond. This is how it's supposed to be. Even the once-awkward, tiny kitchenette feels right now. It's a space with established intimacy— you touch, with your hands, what he will put in his mouth to eat.

He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, tugging lightly and rolling the flesh between his incisors. He releases your mouth to speak, "What's next on your list?"

You've got that brightness to your eyes that he loves. "Condescending," You whisper smugly against his mouth.

Jason leans forward, boxing you in with his hulking frame. Chuckling into your lips, he nips at your jawbone. His half-lidded eyes roam over you, watching you as if he's witnessing something he's been praying for. Your every atom lures him in, like a siren to a sailor. He'd happily be your victim. He'd throw himself into murderous waters, offer his neck for you to eat and succumb to the inky waves with a smile on his face. "Any other words of praise? Or would you like t' be able t' walk tomorrow?" He murmurs - already hard - already half-blind with lust. You make him so hard so easily.

Your eyes are like saucers - beaming despite the very real threat. How dirty. A willing participant in your demise, you put on your most seductive face and purr into his neck, "So arrogant, you know that?"

His fingers bite into your hips before he hauls you on top of the table. You slide up against the surface, while he guides your legs apart to fit himself between them. Your stomach flips, your body immediately on that knife's edge like it always is when he's in close proximity to you. Jason lays kiss after kiss onto your mouth: nipping and sucking and too much of those hungering teeth. "Me, arrogant? Never."

Desire is a cup - a foreign object - lodged deep within your body, and it's overflowing; pouring into your flesh. Jason's hands are snaking beneath your shirt now, his skin warming yours. One hand wanders up to your bra clasp, and the other cups your sides - your ribs - gingerly brushing his fingers over your skin, tracing bones and veins and everything you're made of. He digs his rock-hard bulge into your belly, bucking in response to the breathy moan that flutters out from your mouth.

You're not really Jason's girlfriend, and he's not your boyfriend— but Jason makes you an item - makes you his - with how he handles you. He jams his hips into yours, biting back an evil little grin as the rough denim of his jeans scrape across your abdomen. Taking two greedy handfuls of your shirt, he lifts it up and off of you, groaning at the picture of you.

His nose mashes into your neck, a low hum rumbling from him. "What d'you want, baby?" His voice muffles into the hollow of your trembling throat. Those delicious hands of his cup both your thighs, grabbing at you with such an insistence that it makes you dizzy. Your body recognises this routine. Even subconsciously, you know what comes next, because you know him. You're instantly shifting your hips, panties wet.

Sucking in a breath, you scramble to answer him, "Just want you. Jus' you, Jason." You've already chugged his love potion. Thinking is impossible, especially when Jason's so warm and touchy. After his soul-stealing kiss and panty-dropping show, you've gone to putty on the tabletop. The air burns - and you fight with it - as your world shrinks away until there's a spotlight on him.

He's shrugging your jeans down. They hit the floor with a heavy whuff. His hands are already creeping up your legs, appreciative, angling your knees over his shoulders and tugging you towards him. He's hungry tonight, shoving his face between your legs like you're an antidote to the poison he's gulped down. Oxygen melts, and you're quick to follow. Jason smushes his face into your sopping panties and groans - deep and bassy from his throat - a low, "Beautiful."

With the pad of his thumb, he grinds into your clit, burning the fabric of your underwear into your brimming-with-nerves flesh. He's not stopping there. He kisses his way down your stomach; open-mouthed and starving. Both arms curl under and then over your splayed open thighs, pawing at your panties and tugging, fingers hooked, until he rips— them open—!

"Fuck!" You're immediately reacting, squeaking. Holy fuck, your hands brace themselves on the convex edges of the table. "Jason, you can't just...!" You can't even finish your sentence, brain flickering in and out. In the middle of all your surprised and half-baked protests, Jason is chuckling something rich and low from within his chest.

"No?" Jason wets his fingers - slightly - while using his thumbs to spread your pussy open. He leaves a big, wet kiss on your clit. "Can't I?" He grins, watching you from beneath his eyelashes— so thick and dark, you've always been jealous of them. He suctions his mouth around your sex. All that smug energy bursts back into the room like lightning pounding the earth. You hate it. (You love it.)

The room ached with sex, and he's all over you. Your heels scramble up and down the broad plane of Jason's back. His body is fever-hot. His tongue flattens, laving up the valley of your cunt in one long, drooling swipe. You're obscenely wet — even more so now his spit is mingling with slick, stringy arousal. You scrub a hand over your face, trying to swallow the high, shrill noise that rests in your throat. It lacks the usual restraint Jason used to reserve for fear of falling too hard for you. No, now he's shameless (and it shows), and starved for the taste of your pussy that never fails to get him hard.

His nose grinds into your mound - snuffling against your sweat-tacky skin - and his stubbled face strokes your sensitive skin. It rubs your inner thighs, your clenching-around-air cunt, forcing tingles and shudders into your skin. Fuck. Fuck, you missed this so much. He sucks a fold into his mouth, all tender with pursed lips. You feel like you've fused to the tabletop. Jason stares up at you like you're a four-course meal; his eyes hungry and dark. Just deep blue and dolly-thick eyelashes.

Every wave of your moans, each savouring lap of his tongue has Jason fisting his too-tight, suffocating bulge. He's groaning into your glossy cunt, one-handedly working at his belt, the stiff button on his jeans. Trying to give as well as you get, your hand snakes down to palm his erection. The sound he lets out into your pussy could bring you to your knees. He comes off of you with a pornographically wet pop, his face falling against the surface of your honey-soft thigh.

"Take it out." Jason grins, nodding towards you. Your heart stops. You push down the drool in your mouth with a swallow. Hesitantly, your fingers curl around his waistband and guide it down Jason's waist.

You joke, "Are you always this lazy?" In an attempt to distract yourself from the very real, very visceral heat simmering in your entire body. It's not a regular, 'get the ice cream out', heat, but a rapturous: 'holy hell. Holy fucking God,' kind of heat.

Jason chuckles, just as his cock springs free and his head bumps against his abdomen. Great, he's still fucking huge. "Jus' with you, sweets. I know how independent you like t' be."

Without a moment's notice, he's leaning forward, slicking his cockhead through your sex, catching his tip on the notch of your perky clit. You squeal, jerking a leg up that he guides around his hip. His hand appreciates your ass, yanking you down until you're hanging over the table. Two thick fingers pulse deep in your pussy; which blooms around the base of his heavy, bruised knuckles. Each pump of his fingers elicits crude, squelching sounds from you. Cheeks burning red, you watch with obvious interest, lips parted. Even you are scandalised by him.

You're only strong enough to pull your gaze from his hand to his face for a brief moment to ask, "D'you ever shut up?"

At your remark, he twists his fingers, thumbing at your clit again. "You know the answer to that." He simpers sarcastically, his brows caught in a furrow as he watches your gorgeous sex flutter around his fingers. He wants to get his cock in there - in you - but this pocket of intermittent, sweet slowness is a good change of pace for now.

Jason sinks forward, palm flat as he braces some of his weight onto the table beside your body. His warmth rolls around against you. Dazed, your hands reach up to take his shirt off. You almost sigh like some wistful schoolgirl once you see him shirtless. Your head tips up so you can press your face into his neck. It's gorgeous— all those gentle dips, his bobbing Adam's apple, the delicate span of his collarbones. You whisper into his boiling hot skin, voice coloured with intimacy, "Jason?"

His breath heaves, a patchy blush climbing up his chest and neck; even the tips of his ears. The sizzling heat of his huge palm scoops up your hip, gingerly squeezing it in his hand. He tucks your earlobe between his teeth. You swallow a moan. As composedly as he can muster, he answers you with a cool, "Whassup, baby?"

"Can't wait any longer," You murmur, a little coyly. You've never once wanted him this terribly before. You want the tender intimacy to soothe you. Jason sucks in a rattling breath. Romantic. It's so, fucking, romantic. On fucking fire, Jason sinks his mouth onto yours - deepening the kiss until it hurt - teeth clashing and lips feeling liver-bruised and hot to the touch. His hand sweeps to the base of your skull, holding you there like it kept him tethered to this world.

His mouth only rips off of yours to savour the taste of you on his fingers, licking them clean with suggestive swipes of his tongue. Evil little fucker. He holds your gaze as he does so, brows raising boyishly. Then, he's laying a kiss on your clammy forehead - wisps of hair stuck to your skin - and he whispers, "Then don't."

You're split in two with one lazy, indulgent pump of his hips. His cock is nestled deep within you - you almost feel it against your lungs when you breathe. Jason grins as he watches you writhe, bucking your hips up like you're about to be slaughtered. It feels that way, with how you're impaled on his dick. If this were any other time, Jason would just go wild. You know he would; your face down and ass up as you're drilled into nothingness. But this is his chance to prove he well and truly wants you.

Your greedy hand dips down, feeling the velvet of your sexes, tracing where he's got your cunt pulled open. You could plot the way the light bends on the curves of his abs well enough to paint, you could taste the earthy-saltiness of his skin on your tongue. All you know is Jason, Jason, Jason.

He takes your hand, thumb playing over your knuckles reverently, and guides it to thread with his inky black hair. The startlingly white streak is mussed, hair all over the place from your exploratory fingers. He hums, tipping his head back just enough to display his throat, like he's waiting for you to model some marble from the dips between tight tendons; from his fluttering pulse.

A wild, wanton part of you wonders why you ever stopped this— why you ever gave him up. He's too good, too precious. You don't care that people look at him and see wolf teeth and gunmetal. There are stars in his eyes, and they are lit because you are the someone that needs them, to look up into the skies of his eyes and navigate around the world. Inside your pussy, he's making room for himself, stroking the length of your thigh each time you squeeze him, tight as a fist with your chest heaving. It's like he gets bigger each time you have him.

Your other hand splays over his taut pelvis - skin against his happy trail - bracing yourself. Your eyes roll back, mewling lewdly once Jason eases himself back, tip still inside, and wholly rolls his hips until his cock fills the channel of your slick sex. Your nails bite into his skull, tufts of hair poking from between your clenched fingers. Jason groans, filling you with that perfect outlaw cock.

"Oh my God," You nearly cry, eyelids heavy. Heat creeps up your neck. Your leg joints lock into place, hiked up Jason's swinging hips. His heart gives a pathetic flutter as he cups your head and shoves his face into your neck. It's wonderful how things have managed to fall into place— but you suppose Jason did invent an elaborate heist with your kind-of-boss as the victim just to get you talking to him again, so how much of this was left up to fate?

"I know, baby." His voice oozes something sounding fond, releasing butterflies in your too-warm belly. Sticky heat rushes between your legs. Just all wet from him - from his fingers and tongue and cock— God you can't breathe! Jason drives into you with a mean force, punching air from your lungs in fast, hard, eager snaps of his hips against yours. Something is definitely going to bruise.

"Juiciest - fucking - pussy." Jason swoons, each word suspiciously timed with each kiss of his aching cockhead to your softened cervix. His hand - the one on your hip - lifts your leg up until it's canted across his shoulder. The back of your knee fits perfectly against the scalding muscle of his broad shoulder. Tears collect around your waterline, wetting the base of your eyelashes once you squeeze your eyes closed. Your hand climbs, nails digging into the delicious muscle of his taut bicep, the other fisting at his hair.

The whole world hums with cosmic, dizzying harmony that you only manage to hear when you're like this: fucked stupid on Jason's gloriously hot dick. You can't hear your own moans through your heart beating in your head like you've got an ear pressed to a heavy metal drum, cymbals crashing and all. Your back arches, feeling yourself sway limply with each jarring plunge of his filling cock stuffing you full and then some.

He's leveraging his weight on the table - it skids up the tile floor with a squeak that almost makes you cringe - his cock dumbing you into a state of loved-up bliss. Every drag of his cock forces your overwhelmed pussy to pulse around him. The harsh, prickly sounds of slapping explode across the four wallpapered walls of the compressed kitchen. With every nasty curl to his hips, you taste the same violence of a whack he'd bestow upon some guy. All while Jason's tilted forward, just trying to engulf you, consume you and love you. God, he loves you.

Bursts of shock and absolute awe shoot down your spine. Your heart is aching within your chest. Jason feels it too, considering his fingers dig into your hip while his other hand bites so rigidly into the table's edge that you hear a worrying crack of wood. Your whole body is sent into shudders - going tighter and tighter around him - until he's half-sure you've cut off his blood flow. His eyes gleam with pure, carnal delight. He hisses out a well-intentioned, "Oh, baby," as his cock spits thick rivulets of steaming cum into your pliant sex.

You feel like you're choking around nothing - maybe just your hitched breath. Your head is on fire, and the skin going down your back feels like it's melted to the wood of the table. Your thighs hang open and Jason watches, slack-jawed and gawking, as your stuffed-too-full cunt drips with pearlescent cum. With a shaking hand, you smoothe the base of your palm down his shoulder. There are nasty-looking marks in maraschino-red where your fingernails were hooked into his skin.

Satisfied and truly exhausted, Jason sweeps his mouth across yours for one of the most fairytale-esque, sweetest kisses in recorded history. His breath ghosts across your burning face, cooling your skin a little, as he brushes the welded-on baby hairs out from your face. His pink, bite-plumped lips split into a lopsided grin, and you just know he's got some cheesy quip coming.

Right on schedule, he hums out a teasing, "Are you done being mad at me now?"

Your stupid smile mirrors his. You quip back: "You'll have to make it up to me again."

[alexispunkkk]

faded scent

♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰ ♰

god only knows — chapter 7

read the series!

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- warnings: kissing, so much yearning what the hell, loss of innocence, mentions of masturbation, religious trauma + guilt obvi, joel's perspective, age gap durr yall know the drill, light sexual thoughts, joel is down so bad, cuddling, they're both kinda depressed and crazy this chapter who's shocked

- summary: heading back to college with only joel's flannel to keep you sane leaves both of you more tortured and desperate than ever

- word count: 5.1k

on ao3

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Joel inevitably climbed into the bed sometime around four in the morning. You didn’t hear him, but your body seemed to know.

He was having trouble sleeping in the chair anyway, with you looking so spent and fragile in his large bed. There was nothing more that he wanted than to protect you and wrap you up in his arms, keep you safe from whatever was haunting you tonight.

Luckily for him, slumber has also been troublesome for you ever since you’d returned home. Each night in your childhood bed, with that damn cross hung above you, it felt like a spirit rather than a saint. God wasn’t there anymore, and the remnants of Him in that cross have been plaguing your sleeping body.

You didn’t wake up once throughout the night, actually got some decent sleep in a bed other than your own. But your body stirred, and that was enough for Joel to give in and come scoop you up. He took the single quiet whine and little tousle of the sheets as discomfort, using it as an excuse to join you–a more guilt-free reason than the one that originally resonated with him. 

He’s warm behind you: one arm slung around your waist, fingers curled loosely into the t-shirt he’d generously given you before you fell asleep. The tips grazed your stomach, holding you like something more sacred than he’s ever known. 

And you wake up like that–held so delicately against his warm, large body that it makes your chest ache. Your breath catches when you realize how he’s pressed against you, right against your back with the fabric of his flannel soft on the back of your bare thighs.

His forehead is resting–just barely–on your shoulder, breath grazing your skin. It was probably what kept your body sleeping so soundly all night.

It’s quiet in the morning. Sun slipping through his thin curtains in long streaks, painting the room with a morning glow. The birds outside are louder than anything going on in the house, urging you awake slowly.

You shift, just a little, and Joel hums softly. He hasn't woken up yet. The man sleeps like a bear. Rightfully so, at least. He’s heavy and warm and always so tired and overworked. Comforting.

But eventually, his arm around you tightens for just a second as a reflex, pulling you nice and close before loosening up again. Not quite awake yet, but definitely not fully asleep. Awake enough to register the pretty thing sleeping in his bed with him–a spot that’s been deserted for a few years now, left only to be occupied by his discarded clothes at night or the occasional half-drunk beer bottle. 

“Mornin,’” he murmurs, voice cracking with sleep. He sounds even better this early and vulnerable, all husky and nasally as his vocal cords rehydrate. 

“Hey,” you whisper back, unsure of how much exactly to say. You’ve never woken up with a boy before, let alone a man this many years your senior. 

But it feels good. It’s overwhelmingly gentle and calm to wake up in Joel’s arms, so different from the usual feeling of waking up in either your college dorm or your father’s house. Your dorm is always loud, given the thinness of the building’s walls, and your home just seems scary to you when it’s painted by the blinding morning light. 

It’s more peaceful in his bedroom than it was last night: a battlefield of emotions where you’d pushed yourself onto Joel, leading to him trying to sleep all stiff-backed in his armchair and you too scared to let yourself be perceived in full. 

Now, he’s all soft breath and warmth. No more discomfort and confusion, just relaxation as you both let go of what’s been gripping you so hauntingly. 

“Slept okay?” He asks, letting his lips graze your shoulder. Just a bit, to test the waters and see if you’re okay with the touch this early in the morning.

You seem fine with it. Just fine. You nod against the pillow, staring straight ahead at his wall and blinking sleepily. His hand is so warm on your stomach, legs tangled up in yours in the sweetest mess of limbs. You don’t want to ruin that, but you have to at some point. 

It’s quiet for a bit after that. Joel takes the silence as comfort. You take it as tension.

His fingers stroke your forearm up and down, feeling the little raise of hairs when the air conditioning comes on stronger. They explore your skin as if truly getting to know you now, because he feels like this sad little excuse of a ‘sleepover’ is a step forward for you two.

“I’m—” you begin, then swallow, cutting off his thoughts about the development between one another. You feel his body still slightly, the stroking on your arm halting to a stop and his breath just hardly changing patterns. “I’m going back tomorrow. To school.”

Fuck. He’d totally forgotten about that. You’ve only been home for a week and he’s been so consumed with the mere thought of you that he’s forgotten about the whole reason you’re even here–your uncle's death. His selfish self hasn’t even mentioned your uncle since the day of your return. The day of his funeral. 

You’re a college student, presumably stressed over the whirlpool of exams and whatever else you’re dealing with. And he’s probably making it worse with the way he’s been confusing you about religion and sexuality. He feels awful. 

There’s a pause. Not long, but enough for the silence to say everything he needs to say.

Joel sighs through his nose, gently, nodding just once. You feel it when his chin brushes the top of your shoulder, his nose drifting subtly to your head to catch a bit of the seraphic scent of your hair upon just waking up. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Figured.” 

His voice is calm, hiding the disappointment. Joel being Joel–strong and quiet. Always hiding something. Something in the way his arm slowly drops from your waist brings a hollow feeling to your chest, like he’s not there any longer. 

You flip and turn to face him, blinking when more light from the window hits you. He’s already watching you, his face unreadable. But his eyes are soft and sad–that once recognizable darker shade of chocolate melting into a milkier one, one that resembles something of a puppy. 

You’ve never seen Joel Miller sad before. Joel Miller doesn’t get sad. Not to put it into toxic terms, but he’s the most masculine walking thing you’ve ever seen, not one who’d melt at the sound of you leaving. He’s always been so hardened, never daring to show an expression other than utter stoicism–maybe a small, tight-lipped smile–but never sad. You must really be fucking him up.

His hand comes off your waist entirely now that you’ve turned, moving up to tuck a small, messy strand of hair behind your ear. 

“Gotta do what you gotta do, baby.” 

His words are gentle, trying their hardest not to cause any further harm, but your throat is tightening. You nod. He pulls back a bit.

Your eyes follow Joel when he sits up, leaning his large frame back and propping it up with one hand. His shirt somehow got unbuttoned last night, leaving him in the softest looking undone flannel, hanging off his shoulders and exposing his belly. He runs a hand through his own hair, looking down at you like you’ll give him something to hold onto here. Anything. 

Following his actions, you sit up as well, the sheets falling off your shoulders. When he sees that you’re still wearing the old t-shirt he’d slipped on you last night, it makes him pause. Something new flickers in those brown eyes, but he swallows it down like always.

“Joel.” 

You plead quietly, and he doesn’t say anything. He told you to go and do what you need to, but you obviously don’t want to, and he doesn’t want you to either. 

Standing but stopping at the doorway, Joel picks up another flannel by his dresser. The brown one. He wore it just yesterday, which meant it’ll smell the most like him. He hopes.

“I want that shirt back,” he starts, pointing at the t-shirt as he turns back to the bed and walks over. The mattress dips where his knee sinks in as he climbs onto it gently, sighing heavily with the action. 

That makes your heart hurt. You want to keep it, keep a little bit of him with you for the next few months. As if reading your mind, he places the brown fabric next to your hand on the sheets.

“Take this one instead. Smells more like me. ‘N you can actually wear it. Thought you’d like it more.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed and blinking just a little too fast.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, kid. Somethin’ for when you get cold out there. In New York, or wherever you’re headed back to. Forgot. I think it’s cold there, though.”

That elicits a small, stupid chuckle from you. Kind of hopeless, if you think about it, but it’s lighter in the moment. 

“So close. Connecticut.” You smile, picking the flannel up, shamelessly balling it up and bringing it to your nose to consume that perfect scent of Joel. “Thanks, though.”

He stops to lean closer, to get down near you again. His hands plant on either side of the pillows under your head, pushing you to lay down again. 

A soft pair of lips presses to your forehead, the same way they did a million times last night when he was trying to get you to calm down. But this time, the kiss really sunk into your skin and stayed there. Warm and slow, just like Joel is. 

Then he pulls away, eyes flicking to yours a final time before diverting his attention to the buttons of his flannel that he needs to redo. Probably shouldn’t have his stomach hanging out like this–he’s been a little heavy on the beers recently–and it’s showing. 

“No problem,” he starts, climbing off the bed with a soft groan. “I’ll make coffee. You take your time.” 

His knee cracks with the movement and he stumbles for half a second before grounding himself and starting off to the kitchen, abandoning you in his bedroom. 

The door clicks shut, and suddenly, the walls feel too tall. You’re overwhelmed with the feeling of having to leave, just after you managed to land a spot next to him in his bed. Horrible timing. Now, it’s gonna be another three months before you can come back here and have another good night of sleep for once.

The rest of the morning with Joel was cut short at the sound of your father calling you, obviously nagging you about being out for the night without telling him. It’s justifiable, but not what you want to hear right now.

You make up a bullshit excuse about seeing a family member, and to your luck, he believed you. Now, your worries are more about college.

The return to school didn’t feel the same.

The fluorescent lights of your dorm building are too harsh–you’re craving the soft morning glow of Joel’s bedroom instead. Everything is too loud. The dining hall food is somehow worse than it once was, the classrooms buzz uncomfortably with the cramming for exams. It used to not bother you, faded into the background, but somehow now it heightens every migraine. 

You’re even more stressed. Everything is functioning too quickly on campus and nothing seems familiar anymore.

Joel ruined you for it. Or maybe he made you aware of the hollowness that was always there deep down, worsening it. 

Back for another three months, finishing the semester before summer, he took over your mind. You can’t focus on exams. Forget about your work at this point, it’s a lost cause. You didn’t even bring your Bible, either. Too much weight to carry. 

Three months in a too-small dorm bed when all you want is Joel’s sheets. Joel’s touch. Joel’s breath. His strong hands on your cheeks and lips on your forehead. Three months of too-fast conversations when all you want is his gentle, grounding words that reassure you you’re not a disgrace to your father’s name. 

You and your roommate have faded over the past few weeks because of her new boyfriend and your personal struggles, and your suitemate leaves her makeup everywhere. The guy across the hall plays the same fucking playlist every time he showers and you’re sick of hearing it.

For the first time ever, you want to go back home. The first two years of college you went somewhere else, stayed with friends for summer break. Out of fear of returning to your old town, facing your father, facing the church. But now, with Joel–the only thing keeping you motivated through the last three months–you can’t wait to return. And that’s saying a lot for a girl who doesn’t even believe anymore and will be forced into church services every sunday.

You fold Joel’s flannel the same way every morning: tuck it under your pillow like some relic. It’s gotten bad. You take it everywhere with you in your backpack–your friends ask. They think it’s maybe a little bit weird. 

But to you, it’s just Joel. His memory, the weight of him, and the faded smell. It keeps you going, and that’s enough.

It might be gross, but you haven’t washed it, either. His scent is gone but some part of you still believes it’s there, and you can’t bring yourself to throw it in with the rest of your laundry. Like it’ll disintegrate and take him with it. 

The only prayer you say before bed anymore is the strong inhalation of his brown flannel before tucking it under your head and dozing off. Every night. You can’t sleep without it. 

Classes are harder this time around when you’re not focused, too. Your professors keep circling your essays and emailing you about slipping grades. You feel like your mind is stretched so taut, pulled between classes and readings and formulas and Joel. Joel, Joel, Joel.

Your brain can’t hold anything. It’s stuck in Texas, dying to go back. You can’t function without feeling his breath on your forehead and the familiar ache between your thighs when you remember how he kissed you.

You try to be normal–even going far enough to attend a party. 

It’s the first warm(ish) weekend in April, and your roommate is forcing you out for once so you stop moping around with Joel’s stupid flannel in your palm. The air smells like cheap tequila and blood orange white claw surgues: a new favorite of yours. Drinking has also become a common occurrence. Your dad would be terribly disappointed. 

You wear something tight. An outfit you couldn’t wear back in Texas—more disappointment points. But you slap on the same lipstick and thong you happened to wear that night at Joel’s house. 

That wasn’t a mistake. But you make another.

His name is Drew. A junior. Poli-sci major. Pretty eyes and freckles. Funny. Tells you that you’re interesting and talks about economic policy. You let him kiss you. 

The kiss is good, actually. Great. Not as high as Joel’s in your mind, but he’s obviously on another level. You consider Joel Miller your religion, for God’s sake, no boy could beat that stake. It’s pretty impressive on that scale, though. 

It’s the kind of kiss that most girls would think is incredible, that the older you would think is otherworldly, actually. But that’s from before you knew what it felt like to genuinely crave someone. Crave someone so bad that you could physically sink your teeth into him if he let you.

Drew’s hands are respectful, his voice is kind, and his manners are kinder. A lot nicer than Joel, in a sense. Still below him, though. 

When his hand moves down after a good makeout, reaching for the waistband of your skirt, your whole body stiffens. He notices, he pauses.

You just shake your head, barely, leaning it back and shutting your eyes.

“No?” he asks.

“No.” You confirm quietly, shaking it again. Firm.

He’s not angry at all, which should’ve been a sign that he’s a good guy. He’s your age, he’s nice, he’s handsome. You should be going for a sweet, educated college boy. But no. He’s not who you want. He’s not who you practically pray to.

He just says “okay,” backing away and giving you a soft, dopey smile. You thank him. You don’t really know why, but it comes out.

You leave early from the party and walk home alone, just a little bit tipsy. He, of course, insisted on walking you, but you denied. You get to your dorm, almost cry, and sit on the floor with your back to the door for a while. 

Joel’s flannel is on your bed for the first half as you try to convince yourself to go for the age appropriate and mentally stable boy–but you grab the flannel. Like it might give you a little something to hold onto. You sleep in it that night. And the next night. And the next.

Finals week arrives, and the damage of not showing up to classes is done. The flannel is next to you in bed while you scroll through the results–concerningly low compared to last year’s. 

And for someone who normally is obsessed with a perfect GPA, you don’t even care. Just wanna go home to Texas and forget about everything. You want to refresh the scent of Joel on his fabric that you’ve been sleeping with, wearing, touching yourself to, and worshipping.

You want to know if he feels the same way. If he dreams about you, if his hand drifts down to his thick cock when he thinks about that Sunday night in his bedroom, if he smells your vanilla perfume deep in the fabric of his own couch and bed and clothes. 

Little do you know, the leave has him even worse.

He always seems so put together–quiet, keeps to himself, fixes everything and has such a pragmatic way about him. But he’s really been filling the time with hammers and sawdust and whatever takes his mind away from the thought of you. 

By mid-march, he’s in a craze. Repainted the railings of his porch, replaced a tiny tile in the kitchen that didn’t even need it, power-washed every bit of the exterior of his property as if washing away you. The ghost of your body in his bed.

There’s nothing left to fix or clean, but he continues scanning the perimeter of his house every evening for something to occupy himself with. Something that doesn’t involve the church, preferably, something to keep him rooted at home. Leaving the house, especially on Sunday’s, means seeing your father and Bibles and everything he’s trying to avoid. Not a good move. 

The silence sits on his shoulders the same way sweat does from the Texan humidity. It’s heavy and relentless.

He’s never not thinking about you; the same way you’re obsessed with him. No, he has no article of clothing of yours like you have with his flannel, but he tries his best with other things to jog the memory when he needs it.

The girl in his bed. The preacher’s daughter. In his t-shirt, curled up and small and whispering that she needs him.

Whispering his name like a fucking plea, like it means something holy. Like name from the Bible. He can’t get the sound of your pretty voice from his ears, can’t forget the sight of you sleeping next to him. Lip catching between your teeth when your mouth isn’t parted, fist curled up and tugging at his sheets.

You’re holding onto him, even in his dreams.

Joel can’t not think of you. Especially your mouth, your little body…

He caught a few glances while you were sleeping. Your hardened nipples through his white t-shirt, the bottom of your asscheeks coming out of those tiny shorts. He’s trying the hardest to not think about your mouth. His body betrays him. 

He’s jerked off nearly every night since you left. Like a teenager.

It’s shameful, but at some point he stops pretending he can successfully pray it away. You’re there to stay, imprinted in his brain like sharpie print, so his Bible stays shut in his nightstand. A folded relic that failed to offer him comfort over the course of three months. 

Instead of praying it out, he remembers. Embraces. Your lips kissed raw that one night. His thumbs against your temple and cheeks every chance he got. Breath against breath, the look of you just existing in his house–on his couch, porch, and bed. Fuck. When he got you coffee that morning and you sat in his kitchen in those tiny shorts, looking like some perfect angel. 

It wasn’t just wanting to keep you safe. It’s not just comfort, not anymore. He wants you. Badly. Understands what you were feeling the night you basically attacked him out of utter desperation for something.

Joel lies awake and thinks of how your pretty pink lips would feel on his neck, what it’d feel like to be able to finish inside you instead of his stupid hand every night. Some night, he wakes up drenched in sweat, your name lost in his mouth and sheets tangled into a mess. 

Other nights, the house is too quiet. He can’t call you. Can’t see you. The walls groan around him and he craves to hear footsteps down the hallway for once, to feel a physical body next to him in bed.

It’s the middle of May when his breaking point is reached. 

He managed to find the smallest crack on a back step, it didn’t even need patching. Most people would never have seen it. But he takes any chance he can get.

His hands are covered in dust when he returns to the front of his house, headed to the garage to return the trowel and tools. And then he sees it.

There’s a figure on his porch swing that he knows all too well. The same way of sitting when he got home from church one night to find you sitting with your heel pressed between your legs. Brown boots. His fucking flannel that matches them perfectly. Painted lips. 

It takes him a moment to register the sight, freezing in place across the yard. Maybe it’s too dark, he’s seeing things?

But no. You’re real. You’re there, all for him. And the two of you have gone through the exact same things the past three months. You’re both so disgustingly obsessed that it’s consuming your lives–ruining them, actually. Neither of you can sleep without touching yourselves to the thought of one another, and God is a lost cause at this point. It’s over.

Joel’s heart stutters so hard that he grips the railing when he approaches. It actually stutters. He feels like more of a teenager than he did the past three months when stroking himself to the imagined scent of you. 

You look up when you hear him round the corner, and you don’t smile. It’s not much, you don’t say anything.

But to Joel–oh, God. Your eyes. They say everything–worn down and tired but shining brighter than ever at the sight of him. Full of a heavy ache that he shares with you, that’s been weighing both of you down in concerningly similar ways for months now. Since the day you went back to school.

You don’t look like a preacher’s daughter anymore. Physically, you hadn’t changed. It was only three months.

But the feeling of you is more like a storm he’s been waiting to come, that is ready to sweep him away. He hopes it’s a tornado that fucking swallows him whole.

Joel drops the trowel and little tub of concrete filler without a sound, walking up the steps as fast as he possibly could. For the first time in months, he breathes. Really breathes–breathes you in, captures the heavenly  scent of your vanilla perfume he’s been trying to recreate in his head each time his hand travels south to his cock. 

And it’s just like his brain has remastered. 

You don’t say anything when he steps onto the porch. Don’t move, you just stare.

The cicadas are already out for the upcoming summer, shrieking and disturbing the air, unraveling everything further. The sun is long gone behind the line of trees, and it’s all too warm. The kind of night in the South that feels so thick and suspended that it overwhelms you. 

The flannel you’re wearing–Joel’s–feels too big and warm now. Or maybe it’s the way you’re curled into it, wrapped up as if bracing yourself for him.

Joel’s heart hasn’t slowed since the moment he saw your silhouette on the porch. If anything, it’s racing more. You look different. Opened. Like the girl who he saw literally falling apart months ago in church is long gone and what’s left behind of her is more dangerous. More wanting, just like he is.

You don’t know what you expect when he comes up on the porch, and he doesn’t really know what he’s doing either. But the second he closes the space between the two of you, hardly even three steps, his hands come to cup your face like he did that one week three months ago. 

His big, rough hands. How you’ve missed them. They’re the only thing you can ever think about.

The sound that you make at the soft contact isn’t even human. It’s deeper, like you’ve been holding in that breath since January.

You barely have time for another breath before he kisses you. Hard.

There’s no hesitation in it, no breathless pausing, just pure contact. Raw, intimate. Immediate. Your mouths collide, coming together like magnets, a mix of starvation and desperation taking over, like you’ve finally chosen to feed your scourged stomachs and fix that horrible starvation.

Joel’s hands are trembling as he anchors your face between them, and you can feel it when his thumbs move down to your jaw. He presses too hard at first but eases up, afraid to bruise you, and also afraid you could disappear again.

God, you kiss him back with equal fervor. This time it isn’t you forcing yourself onto him out of a weird religious psychotic episode where the only thing you could possibly think about is sex. This time, you’ve had three months to think–to finally discover things about sexuality you never knew before. Now that you’ve let yourself go from religion, you’re more understanding about it. You know what things are, how things work. Know how to kiss. Even know how to say no, if needed. 

Thank you, Drew. 

You kiss him like you’ve wanted it your whole life, like it’s the only thing keeping you alive and in one piece. 

His fingers curl into your hair at the nape of your neck, twirling with the little baby strands while your mouth parts against his. He slips his tongue in, with practiced technique, but also with weight. With need, and with pressure. 

His mind is static, and so is yours. Synced up with utmost want. You’re useless. Everything Joel swore he’d try and protect you from is right here–in the way his hips rut forward, the way his tongue is sucking on yours like a madman, the way you let out sweet little muffled sounds when his hands travel down to your hips and pull you against him.

He’s not afraid to let you have him this time, and you’re not afraid of letting a man touch you. No, not when the man is Joel Miller.

“Finally.”

You gasp and break the kiss, but he pulls you right back in. He’s obsessed and so, so starved that he can’t handle your mouth being away from him for another minute. He’s kissing you like you’re not just a girl anymore, but someone who left and came back new, like he doesn’t care who your father is or which pew you normally sit in. Kissing you like you’ve genuinely been haunting him. 

Joel’s breath stutters when your hands slide up to his chest, over his shirt, bunching up the fabric as if wanting to rip it open and climb inside there with him. He swears quietly into your mouth, dragging his lips to your jaw and the edge of your collarbone.

Neither of you say anything, but it tells each other everything. You went through the same thing. A never ending cycle of obsession, masturbation, and yearning for the three months apart. 

He missed you. He needs you, couldn’t stop thinking about you like this. Like you’re his.

He pulls back for a real breath this time, just one. His eyes flick over your face as if really making sure it’s you there with him. Really alive and really the girl he’s been dreaming of. 

And he kisses you harder again. So much harder. After letting it compute in his brain that you’re here and he can do what he wants with you, he can’t not grab you and destroy your mouth. No porch light, no audience, just you two in the dark of Texas, pressed so closely together that it hurts.

“Inside, baby. Now.” He huffs into your mouth, grabbing at the brown flannel that your body is swimming in and dragging you to the door. 

“Please.” 

Joel isn’t protecting you from your own sexuality this time. He’s embracing it alongside you, giving in after the last tortuous months. He can’t handle being away from you for another fleeting moment and not having his way with you.

@joeldarling @melmel-fandom @ssssc0m @rafeovermorals @lilac-boo @funkifiedzee @mermaidbarlvr @seenthroughmia @umadirectioner @deardev0teddelicate @dingusandbats @lobotomyprincessdollangel444 @spreadlove-always

[bulgik]

🫧 Manon Bannerman 𓄹⠀𓈒 ㅤׄ fri(end)s

𓈒 ゛⠀⎯⎯⠀Now i’m overpretending, so let’s put the end in friends.

Yn put the ‘end’ to their friendship, and Manon never understood why. That is, until tonight at the party, when they find themselves trapped in a bathroom together and have no choice but to lay bare the reasons behind their fallout.

Or: five times Yn gave Manon a reason to walk away, and one time she stayed anyway.

�𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𓈒𓈒𓈒 Manon Bannerman ⋆ 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ・ 𝑤𝑐. 5.k ・ 𝑔. fluff. hurt/comfort —Friends to Enemies to lovers.

“Stop staring at me like that, your eyeballs are about to pop out.”

Manon snarled at the words.

“This is all your fault.” Her eyes bore into the girl sitting across from her, unfazed, as if she couldn’t care less about being trapped here.

Yn. The school’s volleyball team’s ace. School’s favorite girl. Manon’s least.

You might ask why, and Manon already had a list of five very solid reasons that had been burned into her mind over the years.

It started when they were younger, when they were friends. Yes, they were friends, as much as Manon hated to admit. Yn wasn’t always the asshole she was now.

“You have holes in your cheeks.”

Those were the first ever words Manon had said to Yn. The little girl puzzledly stared at her, looking half-scared, like Manon was some candy thief.

“Sorry?”

“When you smile.”

“Oh…” The ‘cheek holes’ resurfaced. “They’re called dimples. And they’re not holes…”

“Whatever. My mom told me I should ask you to play.”

“Okay…”

“What’s your name?”

“Yn.”

“Manon Bannerman.” She gestured at herself. “How old are you?”

“Five.”

“Nice, I won. I’m six. Now you call me Manz.”

They were next-door neighbors, and Manon was Yn’s first ever friend, since she was a newcomer at the time. Manon would describe young Yn as a snotty, chubby, yet adorable kid (she was lucky for having those dimples). Looking back, Yn should be grateful—Manon had helped her shape her social skills, dragging her around the neighborhood and introducing her to other kids.

Manon was the only one she had. Every day, they’d go to school together and walk home side by side. Yn refused to be separated from her even for Tuesday afternoons during her dance class.

“Manz, can I come to the studio with you?” Yn had asked her one time, eyes glistening with tears, just a snot away from crying.

Manon sighed. “No, you can’t.”

“But, why…?”

“Because you can’t dance too when I already do,” Manon huffed. “We can’t keep matching all the time. You’re gonna make their teasing worse.”

Their parents and friends would occasionally tease them as if they were items that came in pairs. A couple. It made Manon uncomfortable—or at least she was worried Yn was feeling uncomfortable. Yn was just her friend. People shouldn’t twist it into something else.

Yn pouted, adorably, almost like a puppy. “Then what do I do?”

“I don’t know… but stop whining like a baby.”

Simply put, they used to be inseparable.

Until one afternoon, when Manon came home from her dance lesson, hoping to find Yn waiting to play.

Only to see her playing volleyball—maybe the first time she ever played that sport—with the older girls in their neighborhood.

Yn, of all people, should’ve known that Manon hated to be left out. Sure, she could’ve joined in and played that stupid ball. Manon saw Haikyu!! once—she knew a bit about volleyball, like decoys, Hinata, and that being tall didn’t necessarily give an advantage in this sport.

She really knew nothing about it at all.

She had no option but to stare cluelessly as Yn played with the others. It wasn’t that she was bored. But when Yn was immersed in an activity, she wouldn’t notice anything else around her. And by anything, she meant Manon, herself.

At least Yn looked like she was having fun. But Manon couldn’t ignore the building anxiety gnawing in her gut at the sight—like she’d been replaced.

First reason Yn had ignored Manon all afternoon, replacing her with a group of Haikyu-wannabe girls.

“But, Manz, you said it yourself—I can’t join your dance class,” Yn explained as they walked to class the next day. “And those girls were so nice… They even taught me how to play.”

“I don’t care, Yn, you still ditched me,” Manon scowled.

The other girl grimaced. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Manz. It was just really fun. I can’t stop. You should join us next time.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather—”

Her words trailed off as her eyes caught on someone waiting outside their classroom. A man, young-looking, dressed in a long black sweater that made him look almost ethereal.

“Who’s that?” she asked, half-wowed.

Later, they found out he was Mr. Cho—their temporary art teacher. And possibly, Manon’s first ever crush.

Mr. Cho was warm and full of life. He always threw jokes that made every lesson feel alive, and to top it off, he was a dancer—just like Manon. With his long, silky hair and gentle demeanor, he looked like a prince straight out of the storybooks she used to read.

Naturally, Manon confided in Yn about her silly crush, making her sit through endless rambling about what went down with Mr. Cho each day.

“…and then he showed me his dance. It looked so pretty, Yn. He looked so pretty.”

Yn, barely glancing away from the volleyball match playing on the TV, huffed. “I’m still prettier than him.”

Manon sighed. “You’re a girl, Yn. You can’t be prettier.”

There was silence after that. She figured Yn was done entertaining her jabs. But then, she heard a quiet mumble—barely audible.

“You are.”

Manon froze. Unsure what to say—or whether she should say anything at all.

So she just brushed it off.

She never gave too much thought to the moment and eventually let it slip from her mind. But as time went on, she began to notice something strange. Every time she brought up Mr. Cho, Yn acted… off. Uninterested. Irritated, even.

It left Manon wondering—was Yn also crushing on Mr. Cho?

The suspicion only grew stronger when Mr. Cho asked her to perform a routine with him. She’d been thrilled—it would be her first time performing publicly, and she wanted everyone to see.

Yn was, of course, invited automatically.

“You have to come,” Manon had told her. “I won’t forgive you if you miss it.”

Yn promised she would.

But when the night came, she never showed up.

Second reason Yn, Manon’s best friend at the time, broke her promise and missed one of the most important nights of her life.

Yn had apologized, of course. And Manon eventually relented and forgave her after finding out she had a volleyball team trial that same evening. But Yn never really clarified whether she forgot to tell Manon about it—or chose not to mention it at all.

And judging by the way she’d been acting strange lately, it felt more like it had been on purpose.

“Do you think it’s weird when a girl kisses another girl?” Yn had asked one day.

Manon didn’t answer immediately, caught off guard by how sudden the question was. What a weird thing to bring up.

“Why do you ask?”

Her friend reacted like she’d been caught doing something illegal. “Uh… I don’t know—I just overheard some girls talking about it.”

Truthfully, Manon never really thought about it. For starters, she’d never seen one. She’d only ever seen her parents kiss. Or the people on TV. So she settled on the closest comparison her brain could come up with.

“Imagine us kissing, Yn. Would it be weird to you?”

Manon hadn’t meant anything serious by the question. She wasn’t even sure of her own opinion.

There was silence. Like Yn was really thinking about it. It got suspicious, and Manon turned her head just in time to catch her expression before she quickly responded.

“Yeah… yeah I guess it’d be weird.”

They never talked about it again. The young and shortsighted Manon—who easily forgot strange little things—never questioned how odd the conversation had actually been.

That is, until the accident happened.

They were in Manon’s bedroom, hanging out like usual.

“You won’t believe what happened today, Yn.” Manon flopped down onto her bed next to her, a huge grin on her face. “Mr. Cho kissed my head after I fell down the stairs and hit it.” She pointed to the crown of her head. “Right here!”

“It’s not that special, Manz.” Yn gave her usual flat response. Unimpressed. “I could do better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Manon rolled to her side, facing her. “You think you can do better? What, like kiss me on the lips?”

Yn instantly sat up, ears turning red. “That’s not what I—”

“What’s stopping you then, huh? Do it. Kiss me on the lips.”

“Manz, stop it!” Yn shook Manon’s shoulder relentlessly.

But Manon only laughed and quickly looped her arms around Yn’s neck, locking her close. Their faces now barely an inch apart.

“Are you gonna kiss me now?” Manon teased. “What’s wrong? Afraid? Come on, Ynie. You said you could do better. Prove it—”

And before Manon could finish, Yn leaned in and kissed her.

She froze, stayed still. Yn’s lips were soft and fleeting. By the time Manon could process what had happened, Yn had already pulled back, face pale and horrified.

“Oh my god, Manz, I’m so sorry, Manz. I didn’t mean to—I just—”

Manon blinked at her, mind spinning and heart pounding. What just happened?

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she finally said, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

It was as if her mind or maybe her heart was deciding whether they liked it or not.

“it’s not okay! I wasn’t thinking—I don’t know what I did—”

“It’s fine, Ynie, I—”

“It was a mistake!” Yn cut her off. “I’m sorry, Manon. It was an accident.”

That word—mistake—tugged at something inside of her. A tiny little pull in her chest. But she ignored it, assuming it was just some glitch in her heart.

“Okay.” Manon whispered, brain numb. “Let’s just not talk about this ever again then.”

Yn had agreed.

But nothing was ever the same after that.

Third reason. Yn stole her first kiss and said it was a mistake.

Time passed by and now they were in high school. Yn had grown fond of the sport, she joined the school’s volleyball team. “Volleyball gives me the distraction that I need, Manz.” Yn had said to Manon, though she never knew—or asked what distraction. She just knew Yn was living her best life.

Unfortunately for Manon, it was the opposite. She spent less and less time with the younger.

Yn’s little hobby sacrificed their little routines. Going home from school together was no longer an option since volleyball practice took over Yn’s afternoon. And then, when she was home, Manon waited on her home, the younger said she was too tired to play or even just for a little chat.

Manon could only say a pathetic, “I see… rest well then, Ynie.”

Only Mr. Choi noticed how she’d to hold back her tears that night.

Manon missed her best friend.

They barely even greet each other in the hallway anymore. Let alone, lunch. Yn would spend it with her teammates and new friends Manon didn’t even know about. Manon couldn’t help but feel Yn slowly pulling away from her.

Were they even still friends?

But thankfully, summer break came and Manon hoped it would make up for the time they missed. She'd been looking forward to their annual sleepover marathon. Maybe, Yn would tell her recent volleyball progress for Manon to catch up.

But then Yn dropped the bomb.

“I have a volleyball camp out of town, manz,” she had said, voice tinged with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Manon had tried to play it cool. “Oh. When are you leaving?”

“…Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?!”

“I thought I mentioned it before…”

“You didn’t!” Manon wanted to be mad, but she settled for an eye roll instead. “Fine. But you better text me. And call. No excuses.”

Yn gave her dimpled smile. “Of course, I will.”

And for the first two days, she did. Yn texted about how intimidating other kids’ skills were, how strict the coach was, they even had a late-night call once.

On the third day, Yn replied later than usual. And it gradually happened until she stopped replying to Manon’s text, let alone calling.

She told herself that Yn was just busy. Training must be tough. Maybe she was too tired to text. Maybe her phone died. Maybe—

But then Yn posted on her social media.

It contradicted all of her speculations about what might have happened. That was the moment when Manon realized.

Yn wasn’t busy. She'd simply ignored her.

Ghosted her.

And that was the fourth reason.

If Manon wasn’t an overthinker, she could just comment or DM Yn, like "hey, are you mad at me? do you purposely ignore my texts?"

But the more she mulled it over, she didn’t want to look pathetic, it was starting to feel one sided—like she was desperately trying to reach Yn. Manon just wanted to stop… reaching, and see if Yn would come back on her own.

A day before school started, Manon noticed Yn’s room glowing with vibrant lights from her window.

Weird. She didn’t even know Yn was back from camp.

Wasting no time, she went straight to the next door, knocking on the door out of habit.

Mrs. Laforteza’s face appeared from behind. “Ah, Manon, to what do I owe the pleasure today?”

“Hi, Mrs. Laforteza. Is Yn home yet?”

“Yes, since yesterday, sweetie. Didn’t she tell you?”

Manon weakly shook her head. A dull ache settled in her chest—disappointment, maybe. Or something else. A strange, creeping anxiety at the distance Yn had put between them.

“Oh… she must have just forgotten or was too tired,” Mrs. Laforteza tried to reassure. “Go on up, you know the way.”

An uneasy feeling settled in Manon’s stomach as she climbed the familiar stairs, making her anxious.

Then, just as she reached Yn’s door, she heard it—laughter. Not just Yn’s. There was someone else.

She swung the door open.

Yn was with another girl, not older than them. The vibrant lights turned out to be the TV glow. They were watching a volleyball match together.

“Manz!” Yn greeted, she couldn’t even mask her surprise on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know you got back yesterday, Yn.” Manon didn’t bother to subtle her irritation.

“Yeah… forgot to tell you.” Yn rubbed the back of her neck before motioning to the new girl . “Anyway, meet Megan. We were at camp together, and guess what? Turns out she lives just a few blocks away!”

Yn’s gaze flickered to Megan, who gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Megan.” her voice was flat, distant. Then, turning to Yn. “Can I talk to you? Outside.”

Yn hesitated for a split second before excusing herself and following her out into the hallway.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she frowned, “Why are you acting weird, manz? You were kinda rude with Megan.”

The words went straight to her head. Did I really act weird?

Manon tried to reflect on why she was feeling this way. So annoyed. So betrayed.

Was I being rude to Yn’s friend because of it?

But the longer ahe thought, the clues were all pointed at Yn. She wouldn’t act like this if Yn didn’t make her guess why she’d been avoiding Manon but not other people. She wouldn’t act like this if Yn just… talked to her about what was going on with them.

“No!” she snapped, frustrated. “You’re the one who’s being weird! Why did you stop texting me during your camp?”

Yn blinked, clearly taken aback. “I mean… It was just for two weeks,” She brushed it off without showing any sign of regret. “Why are you being so clingy, manz?”

Manon felt something inside her crack.

“Clingy?” She scoffed, a mix of amused and disbelief. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Yn. You’re the one who ditched me out of nowhere.”

“What are you talking about?” Yn asked, her tone as sharp as the crease forming between her eyebrows.

“Ever since you've been focusing on volleyball, you’ve completely ignored me!” Dejection flitted in Manon’s voice, she whispered as she continued, “it feels like you're avoiding me.”

“I didn’t ignore you!” Manon flinched at Yn’s sudden high pitch, and she looked just as startled. “I just need space…”

“Right,” Manon ’s eyes were blank as she stared at the girl in front of her—the girl she used to be so close to. “The thing you gave to your Megan inside.”

Yn didn’t respond immediately, as if she knew she was caught with her own excuse. Her voice was softer when she spoke again, “Maybe I needed space from you, Manon.”

No Manz. Just Manon. Yn didn’t even shout, but her words shattered a part of her heart. What did I even do to Yn? The question floated in her head out of her anger and sadness.

Her body moved before she could think, stepping back as she felt the tears threatening to drop just a second away. Yn couldn’t see her crying like this.

“You know what, don't ever talk to me again.” Her voice was cold as ice. “Have fun with your new friend.”

Yn didn’t say a word.

Manon didn’t wait for her to. She turned and walked away.

It became the fifth reason. Yn just let Manon walk away from their friendship, no effort to make her stay.

And so it goes. The days when Manon was close to Yn felt like a lifetime ago.

After their friendship fell apart, Yn didn’t even seem to notice Manon’s absence. Too busy with her new friends—and her one and only volleyball. It was as if their friendship had never existed in the first place.

Manon could only be thankful that their parents never questioned the sudden distance between them.

That was fine. Manon had other things to focus on now.

Dance.

It consumed most of her time, filling the gaps Yn had left behind. She joined the school’s extracurricular club, trained hard, and for once, everything went well for her.

Until Megan showed up.

“Aren’t you Yn’s friend?”

“No.”

Megan tilted her head. “Pretty sure you are. You went to her house that day, right? Wait—Manon, isn’t it?”

Did I tell her my name that day?

“…Yeah.”

“Knew it.” Megan smiled excitedly. “You remember me? Megan.”

Of course I remember my replacement.

“Right.” Manon’s tone was flat, contrasting the latter’s. “Didn’t know you danced too.”

“I do a lot of stuff. Dancing, Singing, volleyball.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

Megan laughed smugly, couldn’t seem to sense Manon’s disinterest. “Anyway. I’m glad we paired up for the duet.”

Can’t say the same.

And just like that, Manon (begrudgingly) found herself acquainted with Megan.

To her reluctant surprise, the more time she spent with Megan, the more Manon realized she wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. At the very least, Megan made her grateful for their partnership—especially after seeing how some of her classmates struggled with their duet partners. Megan was incredibly talented at dancing.

But she was also ridiculously careless.

“Megan, here.” Manon handed her a flash drive containing their final dance choreo. “Our recording. Give it to Mr.Avanzini tomorrow morning.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m not coming to school tomorrow. I told you this.”

“Right. Dentist appointment.” After a while Megan groaned.

“What now?”

“I have a party tonight.”

“So?”

“I can’t promise that I won’t get wasted and miss school tomorrow…?”

Manon exhaled sharply. “Megan, I swear to God, I will drag you out of that party myself.”

“Please do.”

Manon rolled her eyes at the older’s lack of accountability. “Where is this party anyway?”

“Lara’s? I thought you knew… We celebrate Yn’s achievemet. She made it to the national youth team.”

The news sank in, making a strange hollowness in her chest.

So, I guess we’re already on that stage now. The stage where I hear about her life from other people.

“I told you—we’re not friends anymore,” Manon muttered, her voice quieter this time.

Megan shrugged. “Yeah? Doesn’t look like it.”

“Whatever. Let’s just start practice.”

They ran through the practice. Manon struggled to focus, she couldn’t stop thinking about the new information about Yn.

She was happy for her. But it felt sad Manon couldn’t tell it directly.

Though, in reality, she’d probably slap Yn first before Manon could congratulate her.

The moment they wrapped up, Megan quickly grabbed her phone, checking for the time. “Shit. I’m gonna be late.” She hastily stuffed up Her bags before standing up to leave. “Gotta go now, Manon. See you tomorrow!”

“Wait—the flash drive!”

But Megan had already closed the door.

Manon groaned, running a hand down her face. The deadline was first thing in the morning, and Megan was the only one who could submit it.

She had no choice.

She was going to that party.

Lara’s house was packed with drunk high schoolers from nearly every grade.

Which was no surprise. As the captain of the volleyball team—their school’s most popular sport—Lara often hosted parties, and students were always eager to join.

But it seemed like Yn had expanded her social circle too.

A massive banner hung across the living room.

‘Congratulations, Yn Laforteza! Our newest national player!’

Manon stared at it, the same strange, uneasy feeling settling in her chest.

The name—the person—once so familiar, now felt like nothing more than a stranger.

Shaking it off, she refocused on her mission.

Manon asked nearly a dozen people for Megan’s whereabouts before finally getting a lead.

“Upstairs bathroom,” a boy said.

So, she went.

Upstairs hallway was dim and the music faded in the background. The bathroom was weirdly unoccupied for a packed party like this.

But Manon, having zero sense of self-preservation, stepped inside anyway.

A second later, she realized why the bathroom had been empty.

It was a trap. A prank. And the victim stepped right after her…

Was Yn.

The bathroom’s door closed with a bang. She heard laughter outside

And that was how Manon ended up here.

Locked in Lara’s bathroom.

With her ex-best friend.

The person on top of Manon’s hate list.

“This is all your fault.”

“How the hell is this my fault, Manon?”

“If your friends weren’t completely idiots, they’d be more careful with their pranks—like, I don’t know, not locking random people inside.”

Bitterness lodged in Manon’s throat, it had been a while since she talked with Yn. She had mixed feelings. Built-up irritations and something like… longing.

“Oh, so now you blame my friends?” Yn scoffed, shaking her head. “This was supposed to be my trap.” She leaned closer like she was inspecting Manon. “This is on you. Why did you come to this bathroom? Matter of fact, what are you even doing here? At my party.”

Manon’s jaw tightened. She hated how Yn said it. My party. Like it was some exclusive thing Manon had no business being at.

“I came here to give this to Megan.” She lifted the flash drive between her fingers.

“Oh?” Yn said half-amused, half-bitter. “So you guys are friends now, huh?”

Manon narrowed her eyes, annoyed. “We’re dance partners. So what?”

“Funny,” Yn muttered. “You were being dramatic when I started hanging out with her.”

Manon exhaled. She needed to stay calm. “It’s different.”

Yn let out a humorless laugh. “Different how?”

Manon could answer, oh, because you were in position of ignoring me at that time, said you need some space but surprise, Megan was there. Manon could say, because you were acting like a jerk.

But she chose to reply, “Just… the situation. You wouldn’t get it.”

“You’re so complicated, Manon,” Yn whispered, as if she was disappointed. “I can never understand you.”

“You’re one to talk. Remember when we’re still friends, Ynie?”

Yn visibly gulped as she braced for Manon to continue.

“Should’ve stopped being friends when you ditched me for your stupid volleyball.”

“It was a long time ago, Manon! And I did that because you wouldn’t let me join your dance lesson!”

“Oh, that was just the beginning,” Manon spat, filled with hurt more than anger now. “Then you missed my first-ever public dance performance because of that stupid volleyball trial you didn’t even bother telling me after it was over!”

Yn’s mouth parted slightly, caught off guard. “I didn’t know it was important to you—”

“It was! You were my best friend, Yn!” Manon’s voice cracked, the words tasted sour on her tongue. “But you let me walk away from our friendship… You didn’t even try to make me stay. Why?”

A heavy silence filled the space between them, years of suppressed confusion and anger finally out. For the first time since the argument started, Yn didn’t try to shoot back another defensive remark. She just sat there, Her gaze blank as she stared at the floor, as if she was reliving in Manon’s pain, or maybe in her own.

“I…” Yn finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought it was for the best for us…”

Manon let out a bitter laugh, but it came out choked. “Fuck you!” her tears were falling now. “You don’t get to decide that! You even ghosted me weeks before it all fell apart!”

Yn’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—regret, maybe. “I didn’t ghost you, Manon.” her voice wavered, hesitant. “I was… I was trying to figure out my feelings.”

Manon froze. “What?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “What… what do you mean, Soobin?”

Tears now glistened Yn’s eyes. “I like you, Manon.”

Manon blinked. The words barely registered. “Wait—” her heart pounded, confusion clouding his thoughts. “What did you just say?”

“I like you,” Yn repeated, steady this time

Manon’s breath hitched. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. her mind spiraled, searching for cracks in Yn’s words, for proof that this wasn’t real. Flashback flooded in—every time Yn pushed her away, every moment she chose something, someone, else over her.

“No.” Manon shook her head. “No, you don’t.” her voice trembled, not with anger or pain, but with fear. “You pushed me away. You left me. You don’t like me.”

Yn slowly moved closer to reach for Manon, but she pulled away.

“Manon, I did it because I didn’t know what to do with my feelings.” She took a shaky breath, now sitting cluelessly right before she could reach Manon. “Every time I tried to accept it, you’d say or do something that—That scared me.”

Manon’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t know what was worse—the years of hurt resurfacing, or the new discovery behind it, might have been nothing like she thought.

“Like what?” Manon asked.

“I… I always thought you didn’t like it when people ship us together. You always acted uncomfortable and it hurted.”

“What?” Manon’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, no, that’s not what happened… I thought you were the one who uncomfortable—”

“And the kiss.”

“What kiss—” Manon’s eyes widened in realization. My first kiss. “You’re the one who said it was a mistake!”

“It was never a mistake!” Yn stuttered. “I—I was waiting for your reaction but… but then I suddenly remembered the time when I asked you about two girls kissing and you said it’s weird—”

Manon felt like a constant wave of realization hit her mercilessly.

“But I had already done it. I kissed you. And I freaked out—”

“Yn.” Manon moved closer, closing the gap between them. “Hey, look at me.” She gently grasped Yn’s face, forcing her to focus.

Yn’s frantic eyes finally meet hers.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt like that.” Manon’s voice was soft, hoping to calm Yn down. “It was my first kiss, Yn. I was just as shocked as you are.”

Yn’s breathing evened out as her panic faded. Manon couldn’t help but flash a fond smile. All these years and it was just a series of miscommunication.

“So, your kiss wasn’t a mistake?” Manon asked again, just to make sure.

Yn shook her head. “No… never.”

“I’m sorry…” Yn whispered. “For everything. For pushing you away. For ended things and didn’t stop you. I ruined our friendship because of my feelings. I’m selfish—”

“Hey. Stop.” Manon went for a hug, her voice was calm as she spoke softly in Yn’s ear. “It’s not just you, okay? I should’ve asked before it was too late. We should’ve talked instead of assuming things.”

Manon exhaled, her mind reeling from everything they had just admitted. She finally realized that the pain of Yn leaving wasn’t just about betrayal—it was about fear. Fear of losing her.

“It’s too late isn’t it?” yn asked, making manon let go of her embrace and stare at Yn confusedly. “Our friendship… it ended.”

Manon let out a small chuckle. “We can start over.” her heart pounded as she looked into Yn’s eyes. “Or, we can turn it into something new.”

“Something new?”

Without wasting more time, Manon leaned in, her lips brushing against Yn’s. It was hesitant at first, almost as if asking for permission, but when Yn didn’t pull away, the kiss deepened. It was soft, full of everything they built up over the years—apologies, confessions, and yearnings all at once.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling, lips tingling. A small smile played on Manon’s lips, mirrored by Yn’s.

“I missed your cheeks holes,” Manon murmured, poking in Yn’s dimple.

Yn laughed wholeheartedly, as if she just had her best moment of the day. “I miss you too, Manz.”

“So, you’re back to calling me Manz again, huh?” Manon teased, too happy to not to. Yn laughed harder.

And then as if on cue, the door cracked open. A familiar face popped behind the door.

“mei…”

The girl stared at them knowingly, amused. Manon was suddenly aware of the position they were in. “I knew it.”

They hurriedly scrambled to get up.

“Is Yn still your friend now, Manon?”

“Shut up Megan.”

[burningcheese-merchant]

There. Vent post is gone. Got someone else screeching at me (real mature, by the way. Sending your little buddy to come harass me in your place. Both of you, grow up and grow a spine. Get thicker skin. Learn to stand on your own two feet and own your own shit without crying and cowering behind your lackeys. You're going to have a really hard time in the real world if you don't. Take that advice before it's too late) and I don't feel like responding to any more drama. Post is gone, people are blocked, that's that. No more talk of this.

I'm just some asshole on Tumblr. All I ever asked was to be left alone. I don't go out of my way to harass random people for the crime of shipping something I don't. And it would be nice if people extended that courtesy to me, regardless of what they think of my ships. I am not interested in having a conversation with someone who will speak to and treat me like I'm an agent of the Devil for shipping something. I do not care how old you are, that is not how you talk to someone. My parents would've beaten me if they found out I spoke to someone like that, regardless of why I did. I am more than happy to engage with people in a polite and civil manner if they do the same for me. If they will not do that for me then I will not do that for them. Perhaps that is not the right thing to do, but whatever. I don't care anymore. I reserve the right to be upset when someone treats me terribly for no actual reason. And I really do not care what your age is. You do not interact with people like that. If you do, then you don't get to cry and act like you've done nothing wrong when the people you treat terribly respond in kind. Talk shit, get hit. That's how the world works.

I made a singular vent post where I did not name anyone and explicitly asked people to please leave that person alone if they somehow found them anyway. I was never looking for drama in the first place. I made one post where I allowed myself to express anger and that was it. I'm only human. I resent being attacked for something so ridiculously small and petty. I am allowed to say something when someone is so harsh and rude to me. And I honestly maintain that staying here and making one vent post instead of engaging any further with this person was the better choice. 1) I am not interested in talking to children anyway. I specifically asked minors to stay away from my blog entirely. I am an adult. Leave me alone. 2) I don't believe that someone who seems to think I'll bring about the downfall of society by shipping a hero and a villain together deserves engagement. I've had conversations with people who disagree with shipping Beast x Ancient and we both came out of them just fine, because we both spoke to each other calmly. This person was never interested in having a conversation with me, they came at me like a rabid dog hunting for scraps. They didn't want to talk, they wanted to yell and accuse. And if that's how it's going to be then you're not worthy of engagement anyway.

Whatever. I'm sorry you all had to see that. Let's all do ourselves a favor and leave it behind now

Edit to add one more thing. Even if I did talk to this kid any more than I did. It would've just turned into "omg why are you yelling at a minor??? Why are you arguing with a minor??? That's so pathetic what's wrong with you???" No win conditions lol. No matter which door I opened, I would've opened it to an angry mob. Only thing I should've done was block them on sight immediately with zero commentary, which I now regret not doing from jump and intend to do with any other people like that from now on with zero tolerance. This is a video game about talking cookies. It's all so tiresome

[kitthepurplepotato]

Chapter 8: What do you mean I’m basically married?!

Summary: Eijirou slowly but surely puts one and one together. Mostly slowly. But it’s getting there.

Also, Y/N gets an agency tour.

Warnings: Swear words, “some” sexual tension here and there, but that’s it!

First Chapter Master List Potato support

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Good morning, puppy dog.” An angel talks to him right after he opens his eyes, so obviously, Kirishima must have died in his sleep and this is Heaven.

When Kirishima thought about Heaven, he thought about something innocent, like your childhood puppy running towards you, your mom or your favorite grandma; well, to be fair, most of Eijioru’s family is still alive so that wouldn’t make sense but… he thought about something sweet. Something cute. Not this lewd scene in front of him.

Don’t get him wrong, he’s more than happy to live in this dream forever; he’d like to keep staring at Y/N’s little pajama camisoles, one strap slowly falling off her shoulders, showing a bit too much of her beautiful boobs for it to be appropriate. He could stare at those bouncy things for eternity.

“Hey, my eyes are up here.” Y/N giggles with that sweet voice and Kirishima looks up, probably blushing like a teenage boy seeing boobies for the first time, eyes sparkling with interest.

“Did you die too?” Kirishima asks as he slowly puts the fallen strap back to its place, his fingers lingering around her beautiful shoulders a bit too long, but it doesn’t really matter; he’s dead anyway. He can do whatever he wants, right?

Okay, he would never do such a thing. Dead or alive, consent is really important.

“What are you talking about? You are alive. Do you not remember yesterday?”

Oh. Yesterday… uhm…

“It’s a bit blurry.” Kirishima admits. “I was sleep-deprived and… not in a good mood. Then I went to see you. Then…” Kirishima jumps away like Y/N is an open flame and he’s about to burn to crisp. “I’m so sorry. I… I thought this is a dream? Sorry for touching you!”

Kirishima really wants the ground to open under him .

~•🪨•~

“You only touched my shoulders, Ei. What the heck are you so stressed about?” You giggle to yourself, putting your head back on the pillow and Ei does the same. You cheekily move closer until your noses brush; Eijirou sighs contentedly, his fingers playing with your hair, lost in his own little world.

“Why are you so nice to me?” He mutters and you can’t help laugh.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Because I’m your hubby?” Eijirou comes to the conclusion and technically, he is… right? You nod. “What if I want to be more than a hubby?” You scrunch your face in confusion. What does he mean by that?

“I don’t think you can be more than a hubby. Hubby is the… highest rank?” You say with utter confusion. “I think you need to eat, puppy. I’ll make you a nice breakfast and a little bento for work, okay? I can also make you a caramel macchiato. I might have stolen one of the machines and told Uncle he just forgot to order it…”

Finally, Kirishima laughs, his sweet giggling melting your heart.

“You did not!”

“Oh yeah, I did! And you know what the funny thing is?” You mumble, barely able to hold your laugh. “He fucking knows. He uses it every time he comes over. Sometimes he even makes a joke about it.”

“He must really love you. I mean, I’m not surprised.” Ei giggles and you can’t help but blush at that.

“I mean… I’m not that great.”

“Oh, you are.”

“Shut up or I’ll kiss you on the mouth.” You yell, completely flustered.

“Come on then.” Eijirou smirks and it sounds like a challenge so needless to say you leave a disgustingly wet kiss on his mouth, out of spite then jump out of the bed, taking the comforter with you. “What was that… hey, I’m cold!” Eijirou’s face switches between being flustered and being extremely offended and it’s the funniest thing ever.

“Sucks to be you, Ei baby!” You leave to start on breakfast, still giggling by the time you arrive to the kitchen. Your face is as red as a ripe tomato; oh my goodness, you actually kissed him!

Hell, you could get used to this.

~•🪨•~

After breakfast you both make your way to your coffee shop. Eijirou looks like he’s having the time of his life; he’s skipping next to you like a child, his fingers entwined with yours like yesterday didn’t even happen.

“You know, I never eat before work. I just can’t be bothered. But I swear the sky looks brighter with a full belly.” He mutters to himself with a massive smile on his face. “Or maybe it’s just the fact that you are with me.” Your heart has a hard time to comprehend all of the praise. You squeeze Eijirou’s hand. “What?” He looks back up at you, still pulling you forward but walking backwards like an idiot.

“You could have anyone in the whole wide world, Eijirou.” You admit. “You are sweet and gentle and so much fun. Handsome, perfect. You could date any model, actress or even a fellow hero, people who are on the same level as you. Yet here you are, hand in hand with a low-life barista who’s too fucking selfish to be a hero, even though she has a license.”

“That’s not really the reason why you’re not… a hero.” Eijirou says like he already knows you like he knows the back of his hands. “You grew up with a hero, saw the red flags and you decided that this life is not for you. I haven’t seen those red flags, you know. Not until I was in way too deep to give up. I won the biggest fight in the history when I was in my first year of high school. I got the fame, I got so many opportunities I didn’t even know which one to take.” Eijirou finally stops and pulls you towards him. “I felt so cool, so fortunate, and to be honest, I would still choose this path but mostly because of the promise I made to myself when I was young.”

“So you don’t think I’m selfish?” You look into his eyes, trying your best to find a lie, but there is nothing but pure adoration there, as always.

“Y/N, your pure existence is like an energy drink to me. Every time I fall on the floor you take my hand and pull me up. Every time you smile I feel like that young kid again, full of desire to save, to be something more than a mere human being. Your kisses are like fuel to the fire, it keeps me going every time… I don’t remember the last time I was so excited to go to work.” He smiles. You are half second away from crying. “You don’t need to fight baddies with your life on the line to be a hero. You don’t need to be on the battlefield to save people. One smile, one kind retort is enough sometimes. That’s all it takes to change someone’s mind about… things. Bad things. Y/N, you saved me from myself many times in the last few weeks. You are my hero.”

You can’t keep the tears rolling down your cheeks. You can’t stop yourself from leaving a tiny kiss on Eijirou’s lips right in front of your coffee shop, probably giving the hero agency’s CCTV team the time of their lives by letting them see this in full HD.

“I can’t wait to marry you.” You mutter without thinking.

“Hey, I haven’t even said the cool line I came up with in my head!” Eijirou retorts with a slight blush. “It was something like… I don’t care about anyone else but you… ahh it sounded so much better in my head. I should have said it with a husky deep voice or something…”

“Oh my god, just shut up, you himbo.” You giggle, snuggling into his chest happily. “Fuck, I don’t want to go to work.”

Suddenly, the coffee shop door opens and your boss comes out with a flustered look on her face.

“I don’t care, you are already five minutes late! Chop-chop!”

“Fucking cockblock.” You mutter into Eijirou’s shirt and he giggles so sweetly you almost melt into him.

“If you are free tomorrow, do want to come over to my agency? Deku said he’ll take over for the next few days and I’ll only need to boss the team around… we could hang out the whole day.” Eijirou squishes you so hard you can barely breathe and it says so much you don’t even need to ask if he’s sure about this.

“Only if you tell everyone I’m your fiancé, what about that?”

“They won’t believe me anyway, but okay.”

Damn, you thought he’s going to be more flustered! What the fuck! Oh well, you’ll need to think about other ways to fluster him now, he’s clearly immune to the wifey jokes.

“See you tomorrow, then. Same time?”

“Same time.”

~•🪨•~

“So she kissed you several times on the mouth and you slept in the same bed. And you are telling me she’s not your girlfriend.” Katsuki mutters with a passive-aggressive tone; Kirishima decided to give him a video call after he got into his office, completely freaked out over this new situation. When did this happen?! When did they become… something?! He swears he was only a boy with an unrequited crush yesterday. Then today he’s… he’s in fucking love. So in love he would marry Y/N on the spot without a second thought.

“Don’t forget that they shared a bath.” Katsuki’s fiancé adds, giggling.

Kirishima only sighs. No one understands him. No one.

“Okay, maybe, there is something. We definitely went past the friend zone yesterday. And today. But it was probably just out of pity, like I don’t mean to talk down on myself, but I did look miserable.” Kirishima explains but he only gets and exasperated sigh as a response.

“Kirishima shitty hair Eijirou… why is it so fucking hard for you to understand that the girl you are in love with fucking loves you back?” Katsuki groans. “You are a hot as fuck hero, kind to a fucking fault, honestly, you are the fucking jackpot when it comes to a partner.”

“True.” Katsuki’s fiancé adds. She gets elbowed in the boobs. Gently.

“I don’t know, man. It’s…” Eijirou sighs. “I’m terrified. I promised to learn to love myself before I do anything. But I’m not there yet.”

“If I remember it right, she said she’ll MARRY YOU once you learn to love yourself or some cheesy shit like that. Technically, dating her is okay. Makes sense as well. You don’t just wanna marry her out of the blue.”

“Oh, I do.” Eijirou admits. “But I get what you mean. Should I… ask her out, then?”

Katsuki’s groan is so loud he needs to adjust the volume on his phone before he gets deafened by his own best friend.

“Don’t you fucking dare, you idiot!”

Now he’s really confused.

“What? I’m getting mixed signals here?!”

“YOU ARE ALREADY DATING!” They both yell at the same time.

“Since when?!”

“Since your first date, probably even before, you fucking idiot! You literally proposed to her, do you remember? She’s your fucking fiancé?!”

“WHAT THE FUCK, DID I?!”

“Oh my god.” Katsuki is five seconds from exploding. “Okay. Eijirou. Forget what I just said. Just go with the flow. Let her decide what she wants to do. Even your stupid muscle brain will eventually realize what’s going on once it… uhm… escalates.” Katsuki gives him a shit eating grin. “In case it does and you can’t wait to get home, you have a key to my apartment. Just change the sheets after. Condoms are in the drawer next to the bed. And under my pillow.” The call ends and Kirishima can’t help but yell into the empty space.

“WHAT THE FUCK, KATSUKI?!”

~•🪨•~

You barely slept tonight yet you are still so full of energy you are about to start jumping on buildings instead of using the pavement like a normal person.

Today, you are finally able to visit Ei’s agency; thanks to some villains acting up in the area, Ei had to constantly cancel your agency tour. It had been a week and you’ve only seen him for a few minutes in the mornings; there were days when he managed to stay for a little longer, at least for long enough to have a proper conversation and a few short cuddles and while it makes you sad that you can’t have him for a full day, you really appreciate him trying to give you attention even when his life is hectic. Honestly, he’s such a green flag of a guy.

You can already see him waiting for you by the coffee shop, drumming with his feet excitedly with a box of fancy chocolate and two coffees in his hands.

He clearly tried his best to look put together this morning; he’s wearing a dark red t-shirt, black joggers and fancy, branded sport shoes to finish the look; and if that’s not enough for you to have a heart attack… his hair is in a fucking ponytail. And it suits him so well it should be illegal.

“Well, good morning.” You stare at this beautiful man, your eyes raking through every detail, from his toes to the top of his head. Eijirou looks at the floor with a slight blush on his face.

“Is it too much?” He mutters under his nose, eyes staring at a random tree nearby. Nuh-uh. You are not having it.

“Kirishima Eijirou, look at me.” The redhead follows the order like a good boy. The moment your eyes meet, your whole face blushes. “Fuck, you are handsome. Like, how dare you be this handsome? You should wear your hair like this more often. Actually, scratch that. Don’t wear your hair like this, I don’t need hundreds of women in your toes begging for a piece of you all the fucking time. I can get jealous easily. You don’t want to see me jealous.”

The tension between you two is unbearable at this point, you swear you can see it with your own eyes; tiny sparks of red jumping back and forth between your eyes as Eijirou looses himself in the moment and stares at your lips for several seconds before he catches himself and takes half a step back to take a deep breath.

“I’m an extremely loyal person. I can’t see… anyone… but you… we should… go in. Uhm.” He pushes the chocolate into your hands a bit too aggressively but seeing how flustered he is, you don’t comment on it, and to be absolutely honest you are also kinda rendered speechless by his words.

You two make your way inside the massive building, Eijirou’s hand swaying back and forth right next to yours and you have to physically restrain yourself from lacing your fingers together.

You get a few weird looks by the entrance but Eijirou heads straight up towards the stairs with you, up three flights then he turns left into a massive hall where several sidekicks are enjoying their morning coffees. One of them, a young guy with gorgeous black hair and tattoos looks at you two questioningly first, but then his eyes focus on you and… well… this is not your first rodeo with men and you know that look.

“Wow, Kirishima-san, do you mind introducing me to this beautiful lady?”

You sign exasperatedly.

“She’s with me.”

Wow. If looks could kill this guy would be a meat pâté. And that rough, deep voice? Oh, hell damn. Now all the Daddy Riot jokes make sense.

… that was disgusting, Y/N. Behave yourself.

“Yeah, I can see that.” The guy looks so confused by Eijirou’s sudden change of tone but by the look of it, this was all the meanness Eijirou had in him because he becomes a stuttering mess the next moment.

“I mean… she’s here with me, she’s… uhm… fuck… her name is…”

He’s such a himbo.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, I’m Eijirou’s.” You wink at the young guy while you show the ring on your finger. “Do I need to spell it out or are you a clever boy who’s capable to put one and one together?”

“Hah, good joke. Is it April’s fools or something? Is this a prank?” The guy laughs and oh how much you want to smack him in the face. The whole room is staring you now and by the look of it, most people are indeed surprised by this revelation but most of them definitely believe you. It’s a good start.

“Would you like me to make out with him in the middle of his workplace to prove it, or are we all adults here and we can all move on from this? Also, why are you so surprised by this?”

The guy grins like he knows something. You hate his face. Literally hate it.

“Well, last week he was lovelorn over the barista next door not liking him back, sorry if seeing he has a fiancé kinda makes me question what’s happening here.”

“Dude.” You roll your eyes. “I’m the barista.” You laugh wholeheartedly. “Aww, you talked about me? That’s so sweet!”

“This is so embarrassing!” Eijirou facepalms himself.

“Sorry to interrupt but I’m still confused by the ring part of the story?” The guy looks at you two like you both grew two heads.

“Oh that? Yeah, well… none of your fucking business.” You give the guy another wink and cuddle into your hubby’s side.

“Just what my lady said.” Somehow, Eijirou looks much more confident about the situation now and it does something to your heart, if you are being honest. “Wanna see Dynamight’s office?”

“Hell yeah.” You two make your way towards the end of the hallway that opens from the right side. You don’t miss all the fond gazes coming from the other sidekicks; clearly, Eijirou is really loved by his team. Well, except by that fuckhead but once Katsuki is back you’ll make sure he gets a lovely notice in the next few days… yes, you are petty like that.

“That was… embarrassing. But fun. I’m glad you are here.” Eijirou squeezes your hand that somehow ended up in his. Something is different in the way he acts around you; he looks less lost, less embarrassed and while you don’t really understand what changed in the last few hours, you are glad it finally feels like you two are together.

“Ei… I’m really glad I’m here too.” You smile at him as he opens the door to Dynamight’s office, which is also the Menace’s office, or at least you think so as one half of the room is… well… girlier than the other.

“This is the biggest office in the building.” Eijirou grins proudly. “And that…” he points at the window in the middle. “… is the window I was thrown out of.”

“Wow, what a fun fact!” You giggle as you snuggle into his side. “Any more fun facts?”

“Hmm…” Eijirou contemplates for a while. “Well… uhm… there was one day when I barged in as I always do and I’ve seen Katsuki and his fiancé… heavily making out on that desk.” Eijirou points at Katsuki’s massive office table with a blush on his face.

Oh damn. It’s time for some teasing!

“Oh yeah? What were they doing exactly?”

“Uhm… I just… told you? They were making out?” Eijirou answers, utterly flustered.

“Was she sitting on the top of it?” You ask as you make your way towards the star of the day; the cheeky desk. With one swift move you sit up on the tall desk with your legs dangling from the edge. Eijirou gulps loudly. “Like this?”

“You are teasing me again.”

“I’m not.” You barely let him finish his own sentence, a little bit offended. “I wanted to but now I just… want you to show me where Katsuki was.”

You can see the moment when he realizes your intentions. You can see the moment his whole posture freezes as he stares at the empty space between your legs. He gulps once more and comes closer; you forget to breathe as he closes the distance and puts his two hands on the hardwood by your two sides.

“He was like this. And she was…” suddenly, he touches your thighs and snakes your legs around his middle. Your whole body shivers and you can’t help but make a little whine, mostly, from the surprise. “Like this.”

Something changes between you once again. The room is charged with so much heat you swear the walls are melting from it. Eijirou’s gaze if full of hunger but also full of restraint; he’s clearly fighting with himself to not take this further, which in some way, is understandable as having your proper first kiss on Eijirou’s best friend’s stupidly massive desk while acting up a scene is not the most romantic thing in the whole world, but you are way too pent up from all this tension, you are way too much in love with the man in front of you to care about silly details like that, you are out of patience, you are out of common sense and maybe deep inside you are just way too self conscious about your perfect boyfriend and you need some kind of affirmation that yes, you are needed, yes, you are enough, maybe his coldness when it comes to physicality put a lot of pressure on you and you started to doubt yourself…

Eijirou has no idea about all the bad stuff going on in your head yet somehow, he soothes your troubled soul with nothing but his gaze; his eyes rake over your lips, your chin, your chest, then he stops and stares at the connection of your hips and his own; his eyes darken into the color a ripe cherry and the world shifts again, the world melts, Eijirou’s fingers clench your thighs, it hurts, but it’s also… extremely stimulating.

He’s so close, fuck, you can feel his ragged breath on your lips, it’s so warm and smells like coffee and chocolate and it really shouldn’t be sexy, but for you, it is the hottest thing in the whole wide world…

“Ei…” you mumble into the almost non-existent space in between you two and Eijirou’s breath hitches….

Then the MOTHERFUCKING DOOR OPENS.

“YEEP!!” The number one motherfucking hero Deku jumps so high he bumps his head into the ceiling.

You got cockblocked by the number one hero of Japan. You’ll put that on your CV.

“Uhm…” Kirishima plops you down on the table like you are nothing but a sack of potatoes. You can’t really be mad it him for it; this situation is quite embarrassing. “I apologize…”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” Number two hero Shouto emerges from nowhere. “While I understand the common etiquette and that fooling around during your work hours is disrespectful but we tend to do the same quite often.” Shouto states with a straight face. “Also, when in the office, we are getting payed by ourselves, hence you are not being disrespectful towards anyone but you. If you feel like it’s worth staying an hour longer to finish your paperwork, that’s absolutely fine. I think about it as a self-allocated break.”

“Shouto… it’s not the right time…” Deku mutters, but you jump into his words.

“I think standing in awkward silence is much more inappropriate than addressing the elephant in the room, Deku-san.” You state as you smile up at the tall, half and half hero. “I appreciate your effort. Thank you for being understanding. My name is Y/N and I am Eijirou’s fiancé. Or girlfriend. Or something. It’s a bit complicated to be honest.”

“I’m her Hubby.” Kirishima states and you can’t help but smile at him with fondness.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. I like the color coordination between you two. It’s really nice to look at. My name is Shouto. But in this office I’m mostly called the half and half bastard or Candy Cane or Gay Lord.” Shouto states once again with a straight face. You like this man.

“No one calls you Gaylord.” Deku giggles to himself.

“Katsuki does when you are not around. Apparently I was promoted from gay disaster to Gaylord so I guess that’s a compliment?”

“Sounds like a compliment to me.” You add with a smile on your face. Deku sighs.

“With that said, we just wanted to check in on you, because of what happened the last time I didn’t…”

“She knows, you can speak honestly.” Eijirou adds quickly because the green haired hero looks a little bit uncomfortable as he speaks right now, probably not sure what can he say and what can he not.

“Ahh, great!” Deku sighs. “I’m happy you listened to us and you are taking it easy when you can. I apologize you couldn’t take a proper day off thanks to all the villains roaming around. I was really worried it will be too much for you, you know. I hate seeing my friends distressed. I want everyone to be happy.” Deku sniffles and Shouto gives him a comforting side hug.

“Eijirou is in good hands.” He smiles at his hero partner.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I’m a little bit sad you didn’t tell us you have a girlfriend but life has been hectic and we haven’t been able to meet up during our off days so I guess it makes sense.”

“It happened quite quickly. I’m still getting my head around it.” Eijirou answers honestly.

You talk a little bit more afterwards, then you two move to Eijirou’s office which is full of Crimson Riot memorabilia. Eijirou excuses himself for a toilet break after a quick tour; His exit is quite rushed which makes you wonder if he has any kind of… well… tummy issues but you decide not to comment on it. You plop down in the comfy sofa by the side of the office and try to wrap your head around everything; Eijirou was right about things happening a bit too quickly.

Oh well, it’s gonna be fine. You have a lifetime to get used to all the new things.

~•🪨•~

“Eijirou, for the love of god, why are you calling me from the toilet?!” Katsuki yells into the lonesome cubicle.

“You were right.” Eijirou mutters. “And we almost… kissed. Katsuki, I was five seconds away from…”

“Do not fucking finish that sentence, gross.” Katsuki grumbles. “How many times do we need to tell you that you are in a committed relationship before you realize you are basically married?!”

“But it makes no sense, Kats!!” Eijirou yells, frustrated.

“You’ve been on a date. Several dates if we count your morning shenanigans.” Katsuki sighs. “You’ve been romantically embraced by her several times, you’ve had a bath together and you’ve kissed on the mouth. You’ve slept in the same bed. She was with you when you had the biggest meltdown of your life and she’s still fucking there after. Now let’s add the fact that you two almost fucked in the office. How many hints does your French fry brain need to realize you are not single anymore?”

“But she’s too good for me!” Eijirou moans. “She’s beautiful and sweet, she’s everything I always wanted and she’s Crimson Riot’s niece! Also, she calls me her homosexual buddy!” Eijirou adds proudly, because this one for sure will prove his point!

“Excuse me?”

“You heard it right. He calls me a Hubby. So im sorry if I don’t believe this angel is interested in me that way.”

“You are an absolute idiot, Hair for Brains.” Katsuki yells into the phone. Eijirou needs to move the device from his ears to avoid hearing damage. “Have you googled what hubby means?”

“Wh… why would I? It’s obvious!”

“Kirishima Eijirou.”

Eijirou pouts. Then googles hubby.

Definitions of hubby. noun. a married man; a woman's partner in marriage. synonyms: husband, married man.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“Great chat. Bye.” Katsuki disconnects the call with a sigh; Eijirou can hear his fiancé giggling in the background.

He takes a deep breath and gets out of his hiding place…. So now what?

… To be continued!

(I swear you won’t need to wait for another 1 year and 1 month for the next chapter lol)

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

TL: @porusuniverse @sixxze @unofficialmuilover @cheesenmax @readingfan @sammmm29 @pwinglez1 @happydragonfrog @magicalhandsherringclam @lovingnightharmony @theequeenofcurses @kirishima-eijirock @nerinefy @selfindulgenthoe @fierysplash213 @woofwoofwolf @touyasprettydoll @confused-smol-fan @themultifandomgirl @dark-witch-bitch @lotusstarr

[tryingahandinholdingapen]

I keep forgetting to type this up so this may not be as well written as I'd like but I feel like I gotta get it down before I forget about it

anyway

TCF AU in which the Henituse are in fact just as mad about inheritance as most other nobles, they just happen to approach it completely differently and therefore nobody (...outside of Henituse of territory) is aware of this

Side effects of this include the Henituse family generally getting along better + being tighter knit than in canon, and KRS!Cale not having to worry as much about doing anything out of character for og!Cale because others can make the actions fit <-sorry this doesn't really make sense before I've explained the rest of the AU I may be doing this out of order

UH okay so

I'm using the Stans and the Crossmans as my reference for what other nobles may be like in regards to inheritance btw, since I don't recall much information about how any others in the Roan Kingdom deal with it (yes I know the Crossmans are royalty not mere nobility, I'm doing the best I can with the info I got)

Anyway. My point is that most nobles in Roan might view inheritance something along the lines of

- There is one (1) position that matters and that is Leader Of The Territory, whether that be duke/count/king/whatever, that's the one position that matters

- Every potential heir is gunning for this one position, and generally (may be exceptions in some households or in extenuating circumstances) does not support each other at all. Every man for himself

- Whoever currently holds that Leader position probably doesn't care too much about what their potential heirs do to try and secure that position for their own future..

- ...which means that sabotage, violence, messing with each others' alliances or reputations as well as forming their own, and using even less scrupulous means (cough assassins cough) to try and secure their own position or fuck each other over are ALL very much on the table (your milage may vary depending on how nice your particular family is)

- Outsiders are more or less aware of the ongoing fight for whatever position, as well as how it's going for each party, and can+will take sides themselves in supporting a potential heir, dependent on how important the family is

- If you are a potential heir and you do not end up getting that One Position then depending on how nice your particular family is you'll end up somewhere between "brutally murdered" (...Stans I'm looking at you), "have to get a job + support yourself, with varying extents of help from whoever leads the territory", "okay cool no responsibilities but still some inherited wealth you get to do Fuckall Forever"

This post is getting way too long so I'm putting a read more before I put the Henituse rules and then I'll reblog this post to write about how I think this could affect the canon Henituse (Deruth as well as both his late wife and current wife, OG!Cale, KRS!Cale, Basen, Lily)

And then there's the Henituse who...don't follow any of those rules about inheritance. They have their own, entirely separate rules, for all this. Everyone else assumes they don't have any inheritance bullshit going on - and to be fair, in some generations, they don't! In some generations, it's all resolved very quickly and neatly and it's no big deal. Other times it's a massive mess or takes absolute eons to sort out but it's an INTERNAL AFFAIR that others don't hear of and also they're not anywhere near as hostile to each other so like...nobody knows this. This is how the Henituse have been running affairs for basically forever and it works very well so they've kind of just kept doing it

Um. Here's some rules for how inheritance works for the Henituse

1) The biggest difference to note is that the Henituse do not only have one position (Count, at the beginning of TCF, I guess that switches to Duke when they become a duchy though). Instead they have broken up every possible role into about as smaller pieces as they can, and made each of those a separate position, so that there's like...more than twenty

Some examples of these positions/roles/jobs:

- Count/Duke, obviously

- Knight/in charge of all knights

- Guard/in charge of all guards

- Information gathering (may or may not be separated into "civilian friendly", "welcome to the underworld" and "okay now you're getting involved in things outside of the Henituse territory (military, marrying out into other households, etc) and reporting back" versions)

- Information control (instead of gathering information they're controlling what information others get e.g. starting or spreading rumours, planting evidence, etc.) This one may or may not be further separated into like "this is legal and there will be no/minor problems if you get caught" and a "okay good luck dealing with the underworld" versions of the role

- Free good stuff for the territory/kingdom e.g. anything involved with charity or things that benefit the public at the expense of the Henituse. This probably includes anything to do with orphanages and some things to do with taxes maybe

- Ambiguous role thats in direct opposition to any crime/underworld in their territory

- Effective second in command to above role

- And an admin type role for the two aforementioned, if necessary

- Ambiguous role that minimises harm to their civilians by PERSONALLY running+controlling crime/underworld in their territory

- Effective second in command for above role

- and admin for the aforementioned two, if necessary

- Admin role to assist Count/Duke

- let's have our own personal mage

- let's have our own personal researcher for [insert topic that directly benefits territory here]

- consort/wife/husband type role to whoever is the current Count/Duke. In charge of hosting parties/events and networking with others in the equivalent role

You get the gist there's a lot of potential roles. It's impossible for them all to be filled by direct family members of the Henituse at any given time, which is the POINT. Ideally they want each potential heir to occupy a separate role from each other, and for each to choose something that they personally are interested in + would excel at. The remaining roles that aren't fulfilled by them are either left unfulfilled, if deemed unnecessary or if they don't have the people to fill 'em, or they're rolled together with other role(s) and one person then takes on the combined position of those, or they're given to trusted members of extended family and/or trusted subordinates. But like the point is that everyone gets a defined role and hopefully everyone gets a defined role that they specifically chose that suits them

You could also choose to marry/get adopted out of the Henituse and say "actually, I am prioritising my new family and will therefore not be working as much/at all for the Henituse anymore". In which case you're still expected to be working towards the betterment of the Roan Kingdom

Or you could get disowned. That works too

2) Directly related to there being so many roles...terms and conditions apply (there's age cutoffs and exceptions in case of illness or disability) but for the most part? If you're a Henituse you have to be working for the betterment of the Henituse territory and/or the Roan Kingdom, or if you're too young for that yet, you have to be actively working towards that goal. There is no option to slack off or coast off inherited wealth. Reports are required, either from you or about you from those around you, at least three times a year, with either "here's what I'm/they're doing" or "here's why I'm/they're not doing anything <- this is for illness, disability, or extenuating circumstances"

(I'm so sorry KRS!Cale. No slackers' life for you)

There's fairly strict rules about this. If you miss a report (there's a fairly long time you can submit them in! like at least 2-4 months. just get them to whoever currently runs the territory) then you get a limited time extension. If you miss that then you're suspended/put on default duty (more on what that is in a minute). If you miss a second report in a row (not counting the extension on the first report) then you risk getting disinherited. If you do fuckall for over a year without a single word about why (in other words if you miss 3 reports in a row AND there's no word from anybody else on what you're doing in that time frame that would excuse you) then fuck you you're getting disowned

(Again I am so sorry KRS!Cale)

3) Because there are multiple people and multiple roles in play, things can potentially get a whole lot more complicated than "I want to be Count and I want everyone else to NOT be the Count". Because theoretically every single person involved may have

- opinions on what role(s) they want for themself

- opinions on what role(s) they DO NOT want for themself

- opinions on what role(s) they want [insert another person] to have

- opinions on what role(s) they DO NOT want [insert another person] to have <- this may be because they think the other person isn't suited for it or because they personally want that role and therefore they don't want anyone else getting it because of the preference for everyone to get a separate role to each other

And then multiply that by approximately a thousand for the like 20+ roles there probably are, and then make it several times more complicated for every additional potential heir that is involved because that drastically increases the potential different combinations

It's a lot!!!

Anyway that means that in any generations that do have disagreements about inheritance things get SO fucking messy words cannot describe,,,I'm laughing just thinking about it oh my god

4) Therefore, as equal parts "necessary damage control" and "the Henituse are genuinely a lot nicer about inheritance + each other than most noble families" there are...rules. About the infighting. Jfbsjfbjdnf

Okay rule number one on that front is that you must not harm or cause genuine distress to any other family member or potential heir (no fucking assassins in this household thank you very much). Rule number two is that, ideally we want a family that loves and respects each other, but bare minimum you must look out for each other and have SOME small element of trust+mutual respect there. Rule number three is no involving outsiders. This is an internal matter about inheritance it's not a fucking civil war in the making (....I will forever be mildly puzzled about the whole,,,different factions supporting different princes thing. that seems like it had potential to escalate so badly if, yk, they didn't have much bigger problems cropping up) and therefore you WILL NOT have outsiders sabotage other heirs' chances at any given position, and any allies of yours should either be your ally or the Henituse's ally but NOT EVER an enemy of the Henituse as the whole or of the other potential heirs'. Rule number four is that no matter what else you do you MUST NOT disadvantage the Henituse as a whole nor the Roan Kingdom as a whole, under any circumstances

The fact that they can't harm each other or each others' chances for a position means that their options are to just work really hard to prove that THEY personally are a better fit for it, try to go convince the other themself that [blank] would be a better idea, or resort to psychological warfare (without tripping over the line of "harm or genuine distress"), or start doing elaborate social engineering + crafting their own and each others' reputation. No physical harm here only (limited) psychological/emotional/social harm <3

But again like there are limits to that. Not too much harm. If you're not still 100% happy thinking of the others as your family (even if only distant family) who you'd be glad + not too uncomfortable to eat a meal with, you fucked up. If you ever make a family member feel unsafe around you you definitely fucked up

[rekino2114]

A/n:this is incredibly self indulgent but I don't care I had a bad day and my teacher sucks so this is my way to rant and get my revenge (and also I'm just really enjoying writing for the horsemen girls so there's that too)

I was just thinking that 3 of the 4 horsemen of apocalypse, the strongest devils in existence who could destroy and murder basically everything and everyone like it's nothing.........are just normal students. Especially after they met you and abandoned whatever plans they had in mind to stay with you, they just go to class, study and do normal student stuff

So imagine you jokingly saying that you wish your teacher would die and your devil girlfriend taking that 100% seriously

Yoru would definitely be the most excited about it, she's actually been waiting for you to ask her to kill someone for a long time..... murder is kind of her love language.

"Sometimes I just wish my teacher would just drop dead in the middle of class y'know? She's so angry all the time for no reason"

"Which way?"

"Hm?"

"Which way do you wish she would die?"

"I dunno, i wasn't serious anyway"

"Damn you're really making it hard for the hypothetical murderer"

"........I know saying that is definitely not going to change your mind but....can you please not kill her?"

"Why did you assume I was going to?"

"Cause you asked me which way I would like to see her die.......and also I know you"

"It was just a hypothetical"

"Whatever"

The next day your teacher is mysteriously missing and yoru just casually happens to have a new weapon that she shows off to you while smiling

Fami would be confused at first, after all you were the one who showed her how great life was and how valuable human lives were, but she didn't argue at all since well....you were the one to say it

Fami's moral compass is basically "Whatever y/n says is right" you are like the one person (except her sisters......most of the time) that treats her with love and basic respect so she would literally do anything you ask her to do just so you don't leave her (like you'd ever do that) including killing people.....it's not like she wasn't planning mass genocide before she met you anyway

"H-huh r-really?"

"Hehe, that would be nice wouldn't it?"

"....o-ok, I g-guess I c-could try"

"...what?"

"B-but then i-i'll be late for our date tonight, c-can you wait o-one more day please"

"......wait for what?"

".....for her......s-salvation"

"...........were you thinking of killing our teacher?"

".........i-is that not what you wanted?"

"No, it was just a joke"

".....oh........t-then no, i-i would have never t-thought about that......hehe.......eh"

"..................."

"W-wahhhhhhhh!!!! I-i *sniffles* I'm so sorry y/n......p-please don't break up with m-me!"

"I-it's fine fami"

Death will just nod and look at you like you asked her to take out the trash or something

To be honest she already thought about killing her the moment she saw the teacher was being too mean and harsh to you (and because she told her she couldn't eat in class) but never went through with it cause she thought you'd be angry with her if she did that

But now you actively said that you wished she'd die so there's nothing stopping her. She casually continues your conversation while sending falling devil to take care of the teacher

"Maybe we'd even get some days off from that, I doubt that's just magically gonna happen though"

"...................."

"....death, why are you looking at me like that?"

"...did you...not just say you wanted her to die?"

"Well yeah but it was just a joke"

"....................."

".....death what did you do?"

"Sorry, it seems I still don't fully understand human humor"

".....oh my God did you actually just kill her?"

"I could go and see what parts of her remain......I did ask falling to be brutal because she insulted you thought....so it's probably not much"

"...........*sighs* it's.....it's alright, she was awful anyway"

[nerves-nebula]

Stranded on the highway. so anyway my current ideal sexual and romantic fantasy has just looped back around to being what it was when I was like 11 it goes like this

Person horrifically mistreats you or violates you in a way where you cannot escape them

Apologizes in a genuine but unhinged and desperate way while still mistreating you but like. While being nice and gentle about it.

Basically says you got off on the wrong foot but you’re stuck with each other now so you might as well learn to like it

Dating and sex and intimacy ensues while the two of you act more or less like things are fine and whatever happened isn’t a big deal and or isn’t still happening

What the fuckkkk I think that’s a fucking bat screaming above the highway??????? That is the most vocal bat I’ve ever heard goddamn

Anyway cannot stress enough that trying to pretend things are ok and ignoring/obfuscating the pain and abuse that is textually happening is CRUCIAL to this fantasy

Bonus points if the painful shit is linked to pleasure or forced pleasure

this situation continues on providing infinite scenarios for my perusal of intimacy and trust and torture and abuse

If I get bored or come to a definite end, then I close the book on that series of events and switch to another one entirely