#because i don't even feel like a i have a voice

[ctblanctt]

UNAUTHORIZED DIVORCE.

✷ n. romanoff x fem!ex wife!reader

Warnings: Explicit content, g!p!nat, dom!nat, sub!reader, p in v, creampie, no condoms used, explicit language, dirty talk, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), hair pulling, toxic!nat, nat invades the reader's house, manipulation, Breeding Kink. Men/minors dni.

⌗ Solnyshko ⥱ solnyshko is a diminutive form of "sun", used to convey warmth, light and affection.

The rain was pounding against the windows when you heard the noise.

A soft click of the lock. The sound of boots on the floor.

You sat up in bed, your heart racing, before the lights suddenly came on.

And there she was.

Natasha Romanoff, standing in the middle of your room, drenched from the rain, her tactical uniform clinging to her like a second skin. In her fingers, dangling carelessly, were the divorce papers—torn in half.

"You…" Your voice trailed off. "How did you get in here?"

Natasha smiled, slowly, like a predator before its prey.

"Do you really think a lock would stop me?" She dropped the papers to the floor, stepping on them. "I gave you two years, Solnyshko. Two years for you to realize you were making a mistake."

You stepped back, but she was already too close, the heat of her body burning even through her wet clothes.

"The divorce is final," you insisted, getting up from the bed, trying to sound firm.

Natasha laughed, low and husky, one hand gripping your wrist while the other slid to your waist.

"Oh, really?" She pulled you close, until you felt exactly how happy she was to see you. "Because the civil records say otherwise."

Your stomach lurched. She was lying. She had to be.

Natasha saw the doubt in your eyes and smiled, her lips moving close to your ear.

"Want to see?" She pulled a document from her pocket—a marriage certificate, intact, with both of your names still engraved on it. "It never made it to court. You're still my wife."

The air left your lungs.

Before you could react, Natasha pushed you against the wall, her body pressing against yours, hard and demanding.

"And now," she whispered, her teeth grazing your neck, "you'll remember exactly what this means."

Natasha didn't wait for your answer. Her lips met yours in a kiss that felt more like a fiery declaration of war, possessive and filled with the pent-up rage of two long years. You tried to resist, but your traitorous body responded as it always had, arching against her as if you'd never been apart.

Her hands roamed your body with the familiarity of someone who'd never forgotten a single detail, awakening every inch of your skin with touches that blended pain and pleasure in perfect measure. "You thought you could just erase me?" she growled between bites on your neck, her fingers squeezing your waist hard enough to leave marks. "That I'd let you go?"

Your knees weakened as her fingers found the skin beneath your nightgown, gliding with irritating familiarity over the places only she knew so well.

"You still react the same," Natasha observed, satisfied, as a moan escaped your lips despite yourself. "Two years and your body still remembers who it belongs to."

"I don't belong to you," you breathed, even as your legs involuntarily parted at the feel of her knee pressing between them.

Natasha laughed, low and husky, as her other hand dropped to your hip. "Such a sweet lie. Let's see how long you can keep it up."

In one movement, she threw you onto the bed, covering your body with hers before you could react. The torn divorce papers landed beside the pillow—a silent reminder of the farce she'd engineered.

"Now," Natasha whispered, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other ran down your body like a sentence, "let's settle this little rebellion."

Her fingers traced the contour of your hip before slipping beneath your nightgown, eliciting an involuntary shiver from your skin. "Two years without touching you," she murmured, her lips trailing along your collarbone. "Two years of abstinence. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"

Her hand dropped abruptly, her fingers finding the heat between your legs through the thin silk of your panties. You gasped, trying to close your legs, but Natasha's knee was already firmly positioned between them.

"It seems someone was waiting for me," she observed with a predatory smile, feeling your wetness through the fabric. "Even after all this time. Even pretending to forget me."

Your hips moved against your will, seeking the contact your body still remembered so well. Natasha growled in satisfaction.

"That's right, solnyshko. Don't fight it." Her teeth clamped down on your earlobe. "You were always mine. I was just lending you to the world for a while."

With a sudden movement, she ripped the thin silk barrier, making you shiver at the cool air against your exposed skin. "But the loan is over."

Her fingers found your clit unceremoniously, circling with the precision of someone who had the map of your body committed to memory. "Let's see how many 'no's' you can say when you're screaming my name," she challenged, increasing the pressure exactly at the point that made you see stars.

The orgasm hit you like a speeding train, tearing a muffled scream against Natasha's shoulder as your body writhed beneath her hands. She didn't give you time to catch your breath.

"Only the first," she announced, descending through your body like a storm. "I'll collect every day we spend apart." Her tongue found your center with a sharp thrust, making you writhe again. "With interest."

Outside, the rain continued to pound against the windows, muffling the sounds of your moans and Natasha's husky voice between your legs, murmuring in Russian all the things she would do to you until dawn.

"Now do you understand?" Natasha whispered, her voice rough as she emerged from between your legs, her chin wet and her eyes burning with renewed possessiveness. "No paper, no time, no distance will change what you are."

Her fingers—still damp from you—clasped your chin tightly. "Mine. Forever."

When she rose from the bed, you thought for a moment she was leaving. Until you heard the sound of her belt being unbuckled, wet clothes falling to the floor. Natasha emerged from the darkness like a ghost from all your dreams and nightmares—naked, imposing, and hard as stone.

"Time to remember your place," she growled, flipping you onto your stomach with a force that made the mattress tremble. Your knees dragged against the sheets as she positioned herself behind you, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back.

"Say it. Say it's mine." The tip of her cock pressed against your entrance, making you moan loudly. "Or I'll make you spend the whole night pretending you don't want this."

You tried to swallow your pride, but your body was already betraying you, pushing back against her in a silent plea. Natasha laughed, a dark, victorious laugh.

"I knew you missed this." She slammed into you in one go, tearing a cry from your lips as she filled you completely after so long. "So tight, almost like you've been waiting just for me."

Her hips began to move with a relentless rhythm, each thrust calculated to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. One of her hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises, while the other continued to pull at your hair, keeping your back arched perfectly beneath her.

"You will sign the new papers tomorrow," Natasha ordered between deep thrusts, her voice trembling with the effort of maintaining control. "The correct ones this time. With a marital obedience clause."

When you tried to open your mouth to protest, she chose that moment to deliver a particularly strong one, making you scream and clutch at the sheets.

"Oh no, solnyshko," she growled, leaning over your back, her lips hot against your ear. "You lost the right to speak when you tried to run away from me." Her teeth ground into your shoulder. "Now just listen and accept."

The rain outside increased, matching the frenetic rhythm of your bodies. Natasha was everywhere—in the sound of her heavy breathing, in the smell of her sweat mixed with the rain, in the delicious pain of her relentless possession.

And when the second orgasm hit, stronger than the first, you finally understood—there was no escape. Natasha Romanoff wasn't the kind of woman who took no for an answer. And, God help you, part of you loved it.

The air rushed from your lungs as she pulled you back hard, each thrust now calculated to hit that spot inside you that made your body tremble uncontrollably.

"Two years without filling you like you deserve," she murmured, her lips warm against your spine as one hand moved down to your abdomen, pressing there as if she could feel every inch of her inside you. "Two years without marking you inside, without leaving you dripping wet for days."

Her fingers dug into the sheets as she changed the angle, hitting a spot that made your legs tremble.

"I'll fill you to overflowing," Natasha promised, her voice husky with pent-up pleasure. "Until there's not a single inch of you left that isn't marked as mine."

Her rhythm became erratic, more brutal, and you knew she was close—you could feel it in the way her nails dug into your skin, in her labored breath against your back.

"And when I'm done," she continued, her teeth digging into your shoulder, "I'll start again. Until I'm sure you've got it. Until you forget you ever tried to live without this. Without me."

Your name escaped her lips in a moan as she finally reached her climax, spilling herself inside you with a victorious growl that echoed through the room. Natasha didn't stop immediately—she continued moving slowly, prolonging the pleasure for both of you while whispering words in Russian that you didn't need to understand to feel.

When she finally collapsed onto your back, sweaty and panting, her lips found your ear in an almost tender kiss.

"Tomorrow," Natasha murmured, her fingers tracing possessive circles on your toned hip, "we'll go to the registry office. You'll sign the new papers." Her teeth grazed your ear, "The ones that say 'forever' this time."

You tried to turn to face her, but your body was limp, exhausted, still trembling with the echoes of pleasure. "And if I refuse?"

Natasha laughed, a dark laugh that made your stomach churn with anticipation. "Then I'll take you tied up. And then I'll make you sign on your knees." Her hand slid between your legs, slowly collecting the proof of her possession. "Have you thought about it, solnyshko? Me fucking you while you try to write your name..."

Your body reacted before your mind could process it, a moan escaping against your will. Natasha smiled victoriously.

"You'll never say no to me again," she promised, licking her fingers devotedly. "Nor will you want to."

As she lay down beside you and pulled you against her body, you noticed something cold on your finger—your wedding ring, replaced while you were distracted. Natasha intertwined your fingers with hers, the two rings glinting together.

"Welcome back to the wedding, solnyshko," she whispered, sealing the promise with a kiss.

[thatrandomidiot182]

BODY SNATCHER

K-pop Demon Hunters Female Reader Insert

Warnings. brief mention of alcoholism, reader gets kidnapped, lots of arguing, mild disassociation.

A/N. Reader is referred to by their stage name, Archer, because I tried to avoid using (Y/N) for this fic as I felt like it ruined the immersion, but it is still a reader insert! Nothing else is described or designated.

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Regaining consciousness when you don't even remember losing it in the first place is incredibly disorienting.

The first thing you notice when you come to is the raging migraine that's bouncing around your skull.

The second is the fact that you're uncomfortably strewn out on something cold, hard, and wet.

Lastly, the terrifying realization that you're not alone hits when the unfamiliar voice of a man murmurs, "Why is she still alive?"

The question instantly sends you shooting up in panic, desperately pushing through the rush of vertigo and stumbling to a wobbly stand as you struggle to regain your senses, eyes squinting into the darkness to try and pinpoint the source of the screams that echo around you.

"AAAHHH!!"

"IT'S STANDING UP!"

"DIDN'T WE TAKE THE SOUL!??"

"JINU WHAT THE FU–"

The screams send a wave of pain shooting down your spine and you clutch your head with a groan, inching backward until you meet the rough resistance of what you assume is a wall.

The screaming stops, and after a few painful whimpers, silence fills the night air as you finally stare down the blurry figures standing before you.

"... Is it dying now?"

A quiet 'ow' follows the question as you push further back into the wall, glaring warily at the five men before you.

The five, huge... glowing... purple? Men before you.

"W‐Who are you!? Where am I?" You try your best to sound intimidating but your voice cracks in the middle of your questioning, throat protesting your sudden rise in volume with a painful cough.

"You mean... You don't remember–"

"Shut up, Abby!"

The man in the middle takes a step forward, silencing the rest of the group as he leans further into your vision with a soft smile.

"We found you here– passed out. You must've been pretty tired after that disaster of a concert, huh?" He tilts his head, black bangs falling carefully over his forehead as you furrow your brow in confusion.

"Concert? What–" Suddenly, a flash of pain shoots down your spine, taking root at the base of your skull and causing your head to feel like it's splitting open.

The men make no move to help you as you collapse in on yourself, once again landing on the floor as you begin to seize in pain.

"Woah, is she getting possessed!?"

"C'mon man, you know we don't do possessions–"

"WHAT IF SHE’S A GHOST!?"

"She's not a ghost–"

Just as suddenly as the pain began, it's stops. Leaving your sobbing, heaving figure behind with two lifetimes worth of memories.

Your original memories.... and this body's memories.

Yep.

You've been reincarnated– When you don't even remember dying in the first place!

Not only that, but you've apparently been reincarnated into the last movie you watched on your laptop before falling asleep.

K-Pop Demon Hunters.

Which you only know because you just so happen to have been tossed into the body of Huntrix's non-canon forth member.

Aka a nepo baby with mommy issues and an unhealthy need for praise and attention.

Aka the only human in the group.

Which sucks big time, considering the situation you currently find yourself in.

"That's right... the concert..." You murmur quietly. The concert in celebration of the release of 'Golden.' The concert that Rumi ran out on after realizing her voice was in jeopardy...

The concert that was originally never supposed to happen, because of Rumi's absence... yet, in this world, it did.

After Rumi disappeared, instead of running off after her and canceling the show last minute, Archer, which was apparently this body's stage name, had proposed performing without Rumi.

Bobby had supported the notion, and Zoey and Mira followed suit begrudgingly after being reminded of the thousands of fans waiting just outside the doors.

Thus, the show went on, with the three girls claiming that Rumi was sick and unable to perform, resulting in you and Mira splitting her verses in some of Huntrix's older songs, as none of you felt comfortable singing it for the first time without her.

Once the show was over, Zoey and Mira took off to find Rumi, leaving you behind with Bobby, where you then decided to walk home alone after everything died down...

What the hell was this girl thinking!?

The memory of her reassuring Bobby that she'd be fine sends a rush of anger flooding through your veins.

An idol- a female idol- walking home alone, in the middle of the night, BY HERSELF!!

No wonder you ended up here...

"You're the Saja Boys..." You pale as the realization hits, wide eyes meeting the soulless black gleam of the leaders blank stare as you breathe out a meek, "You're demons..."

A booming, "THERE'S NO WAY SHE FIGURED US OUT–" echoes through the empty alleyway behind Jinu as he smirks down at you, scoffing out a laugh of disbelief as he kneels down to your fallen figure, "You just keep getting more and more interesting, Archer."

Before you could conjure a response, Jinu has you slung over his shoulder and halfway down the street, the others following close behind.

"Wha– What the hell!? Put me down! Where are you taking me!?" You pound your fists on his back to no avail, lifting your head to glare annoyedly at the two trailing directly behind as they laugh at your movement.

"Calm down, we're just going somewhere we can talk."

"Talk!? What is there to talk about!? I swear I won't say anything about- whatever happened in the alley, okay!! We can just pretend this never happened and go our separate ways-" You're frantic now, digging your nails into his broad shoulders in a last ditch attempt to get him to release you.

Jinu doesn't even flinch, "I don't think so, Archer. You're gonna tell us how you knew we were demons, how you still have your soul–"

"–and how you knew we were gonna call ourselves the Saja Boys!" You snap your head up to meet the mischevious teal eyes of Baby as he grins at you ominously.

You swallow nervously at the statement, hesitantly succumbing to Jinu with a stressed sigh, allowing yourself to defeatedly fall limp in his grasp.

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A few minutes and a very confused desk attendant later, you were now sat on a bland black sofa in the middle of an equally bland penthouse with five pairs of beady eyes staring you down.

"Soooooo... Nice place you got here–" You wipe your hands on your legs nervously, desperately avoiding their intese gazes, "Hey, how exactly did you get this place?"

"Ah, ah! We're the ones asking the questions here!" Baby jolts forward, pointing a finger in your face threateningly.

Jinu sighs in annoyance, pushing Baby's arm down as he stalks forward, squatting down to your eye level as you shrink back from his inquisitive glare.

"You don't look like a hunter..." He hums to himself, tilting his head to take in your features scrutinizingly, "And you definitely don't sing like one." You wince at the borderline insult, glaring across at him in offense.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't even smell like one, either..." Jinu ignores your question, leaning into your personal bubble and taking a– very creepy –whiff of your hair before you instinctively shove him away with a disgusted grimace.

"Okay, seriously– even for a demon, you're being super creepy right now, dude." You cross your arms defensively as Jinu's gaze darkens, watching cautiously as he rises to his full height to stare down at you.

"Hmmm. As far as I can tell, she's completely human." His statement causes the rest of the boys to break out into hushed whispers, grouping together and taking quick, cautious glances back at you as they converse.

"You mean, she's not a hunter? Then why is she in the group?" Romance is the one to take the lead next, stepping beside Jinu as he eyes you curiously.

Mystery glides up next to the pink haired man with a frown, "And how did she know we were demons?"

It's quiet for a moment as you nervously wait for Jinu to answer. Flitting your eyes around the room axiously, picking at your nail beds and chewing your lip as you idly trail your eyes over the room before realizing that they were all staring at you expectantly, "Oh! uh... I'm just there to... make them seem like an actual idol group... I guess?" Your voice raises in pitch towards the end, as you still find yourself confused with the concept as well.

Apparently, this body originally belonged to the daughter of the CEO of Huntrix's label, Hwang Eunji. Eunji raised Archer in the industry, training her to be an idol since she could walk, grooming her to be the best...

Unfortunately, no matter how much effort she put in and how much talent she had, the original Archer was severely lacking in social awareness and emotional support. She struggled with her self-esteem and making friends as she always felt like she had to compete with her fellow trainess. She had a nasty attitude and simultaneous inferiority and god complexes, making her insufferable and honestly, kind of a bitch.

Growing up under her mom's ideology of becoming the best Idol, caused her to end up with no friends and horrible conversation skills, resulting in her often keeping to herself and staying quiet. Therefore making everyone think she was a snob, when in reality she just had no idea how to talk to people.

All these issues added up and resulted in her being a girl group reject for years. Her mother considered just debuting her solo before Huntrix was formed, but knew that a girl group would do better publicity-wise, so when Celine came to Eunji while pitching Huntrix, she agreed on the one condition that Archer debut with them.

Celine tried to argue, but Eunji, having been the Sunlight Sisters' manager, knew that Huntrix were demon hunters, and convinced Celine that having a normal human would help them 'blend in more,' whatever that meant...

How Celine ever caved, you don't know, but in the end, you got thrown into the girls group, given the name Archer and told to mind your business when it came to the girls and their random dissapearing acts.

You? Her?

Jinu raises an unamused brow, visibly unconvinced, "Right... and you knew we were demons... how?" You scoff, rolling your eyes in a show of annoyance as you lean back into the sofa as casually as you could, hoping they wouldn't see past the lie. "In the alley, you were purple, with stripes, glowing eyes and fangs. Not to mention, Abby said- and I quote-" You lean forward, hands up to demonstrate air quotations as you mimic his shout, "-Didn't we take her soul?"

You raise a pointed brow at Jinu as he turns to glare at said male before turning back to you frustratedly, "You called us the Saja Boys. How do you explain that one?" You can't help but tense up at the question...

How do you explain that one?

"Uh.... I'm...." You fumble to come up with a believable excuse, shriking under Jinu's unwavering glare, and blurting out the most logical conclusion, "I'm psychic."

It's deathly quiet.

Jinu's eyes look like they're going to pop out of his head with the look he's giving you. Somewhere between, astounded, impressed and pissed off, his exhasperation is palpabale as he continues to stare at you in disbelief of your blatant lie, but before he could say anything, the silence is broken by a quiet whisper of, "I knew it." Curtosey of none other than Baby Saja himself.

His triumphant smirk has Jinu groaning, "What do you mean you knew it!? She's obviously lying! Look at her!" He gestures a hand to draw attention to your clammy figure, sweat dripping down your brow and grin eerily wide as you nod in affirmation of Baby's words.

"Yup! You caught me! I'm psychic! I knew you guys were demons because I could sense your malicious aura." You frantically gesture to the air around the group, opening your mouth to continue bullshitting about negative energy and other spiritual nonesense before Jinu scoffs, "That-That doesn't even make sense-"

"-Yes it does!" You cut him off hastily, narrowing your eyes in a stubborn glare as he scowls.

"No it doesn't!"

"And how would you know!? Are you a psychic?"

"Wh-Th- No! but that doesn't-"

Romance interrupts your arguing with a clap, "Right, well, I think we all know there's only one way to settle this..." He trails off ominously and you feel a sense of dread coming down on you as he stalks closer to your seat on the couch, slowly lowering himself down next to you before opening his mouth, "What song are we singing tomorrow?"

All eyes are once again trained on you as you take a moment to think, closing your eyes and taking a few deep breathes to draw it out longer and make them think you were actually... well, thinking about it.

"Soda Pop."

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Jinu stares at your sleeping figure with a contemplative frown, quietly observing the way your chest rises and falls with every soft breath that leaves your mouth.

The way your nose scrunches when you shift your head, the way your fingers twitch when one of the boys moves around you too loudly, it was all so... human.

You were human. Completely and utterly human.

So why couldn't he take your soul?

"Are you just going to watch her sleep all night or are you going to practice with us? Gwi-ma knows you could use it..." Romance's teasing brings him out of his brooding, and he spares you one last glance before pushing past the shorter man with a grimace.

"I wasn't watching her."

Romance scoffs, muttering a snarky reply that doesnt quite catch his attention as he gets into formation, idly wondering what has him so unnerved when it comes to you.

What are you hiding.... why is his mind so quiet when you're around...and why does your soul sing to him the way it does?

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"Awe look, she's drooling..." The coo of affection for your nasty sleep habit has you jolting awake, frantically wiping the drool from your cheek as you glance around your room in panic.

Wait.

This isn't your room.

"Calm down, you passed out when we went to get food." As if sensing your panic, Abby gestures to the sofa you were sprawled out on, reminding you of the nights events.

"Right... Wait- What time is it!? Oh my god, Bobby's probably freaking out!" You frantically stand from the couch, ignoring your aching joints and rumaging through the cushions for your phone.

"Looking for this?" Jinu's annoyingly smooth voice echoes from behind, causing you to swirl on your heels and find him standing in the entryway to the living room, phone dangling from his hand with an evil smirk on his face.

You heave out a sigh of relief, sprinting to his side to yank the phone out of his grasp, letting out a dry sob when it wouldn't turn on.

"Yeah, I'm not surprised. It was going off all night." Romance laughs, peeking over Jinu's shoulder with a smirk.

You groan in frustration, shoving your phone in your jeans pocket as you shove past the two with a scowl, "Well, this has been fun and all but I should get going before-"

You yelp as an arm shoots out in front of you, blocking your path to the exit and jolting you to a stop. "Not so fast little Archer." A voice purrs, drawing your attention to Abby, who smiles down at you condesendingly, "You didn't think we'd just... let you go, did you?" Your heart drops.

"Yeah, sorry to say, but we can't have you running off and telling the rest of Huntrix about us, so...." He shares a mischevious grin with Baby.

"So?" You squeak, body rigid in fight or flight mode as they turn to stare behind you, right before a hand lands heavily on your shoulder.

You jolt, heistantly turning to meet Jinu's stare as he speaks, "So, you're coming with us today, Archer. We're not letting you out of our sight anytime soon." You gulp, shrinking under their grins with a defeated sigh.

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You now find yourself standing front and center to the Saja Boys' debut, watching with flushed cheeks and sweaty palms as they pointedly hold eye contact the entire performance, ensuring st least one of them had eyes on you at all times.

You had tried to sneak away when they went off to 'set up,' which you're pretty sure was when they bumped into the girls, but unfortunately, Jinu had suspected that and stuck his pets on you. Which wasn't all bad, considering the tiger was as soft as a cloud and loved being coddled.

Unfortunately, being distracted by the big kitty left Romance enough time to get you situated before they began, bringing you a hat and face mask to hide your identity and leaving you standing in the middle of the plaze with a snarky, "Stay." before joining the rest of the boys.

"Hey, hey!"

You cough as you accidently inhale the pink smoke, gagging at the rancid sulfur scent, and waving a hand to fan it out of your face as you meet Jinu's smug gaze.

"Hey!"

You laugh at the outburst of shrieks and screams that ring out once they emerge from the cloud of smoke, huffing as the crowd begins to grow around you.

"Don't want you, need you, yeah, I need you to fill me up!"

Suddenly, a group of old ladies shove past you, sending you stumbling backward and effectively cutting off the boys' view of you. You internally celebrate, quickly taking the opportunity to scan the faces around you in hopes of finding the girls.

If your memory serves you right, they should be somewhere close to the front...

Unfortunately, the crowd only grows more and more antsy as the song continues, and it becomes increasingly harder to make your way through. Eventually, you become trapped in-between a bunch of teenagers who were screaming their lungs out at the sight of a giant can rising from the ground.

The sight has you panicking, scrambling to search the heads around you in a last ditch effort to escape before the song ends.

Just as you think you catch a glimpse of Mira's pink pigtails, the music stops, and Jinu's voice is evident despite the sounds of the crowd around you.

"That's it for now. See you tonight on everyones favorite variety show, where we'll be joined by a special guest host. Saja Boys love you!"

The proclamation has you glancing back at the boys in panic, catching Jinu's gaze just as it locks onto your figure, darkening in a way that has your heart sinking. You watch helplessly as they disappear in a cloud of smoke, frozen in your stance as the crowd steadily dissapates, hopelessly searching every face that passes by to no avail.

Huntrix was nowhere to be seen...

and you had just pissed off a group of over 200 year old demons.

You're pulled out of your anxious spiral by a bruising grip on your bicep, yanking you into a pair of arms that wrap around you with a surprising tenderness as Mystery's voice whispers a soft, "Close your eyes."

You follow his instruction with no argument, squeezing your eyes shut as soon as the pink mist slithers into your vision, stomach lurching at the smell as your body suddenly feels weightless.

There's a split second of pure agony, where your body feels suspended in nothing but fire and flame. Your body burns from the inside out, rendering your limbs useless, your jaw clenched so hard it feels like you cracked a tooth and your breath gone, but only for a second. A second that felt like eternity before your feet landed back on solid ground, Mystery's chest rising and falling against your cheek being the only thing grounding you in the moment.

You don't get much of a chance to wonder about what the hell just happened because as soon as you were stable on your feet, a scoff made its way to your ears.

"What part of 'stay' did you not understand?" Jinu's voice is cold, and you hesitantly look away from Mystery's soft silver hair to watch the leader stalk forward with gritted teeth and clenched fists.

"You... didn't actually think I'd listen to that, did you?" Your disbelief is blatant as you stare at him incredulously, still glued to Mystery's side as your response seems to aggravate the ravenette further.

"Well, I had hoped you weren't stupid enough to try and run off by yourself, but apparently I was wrong." He spits the words out like venom, and you can't help but feel unnerved by his drastic change in personality.

He was nothing like his movie counterpart.

"Right, because it's stupid to try and run away from my kidnappers!" You scoff, thoroughly irritated and completely done with the entire situation, ignoring the violent flinch the word causes Mystery to react with, uncaring of their discomfort after all the shit you've had to deal with in the last couple of hours.

First, you somehow switched bodies or reincarnated or transmigrated OR WHATEVER into this movie world.

Then you get kidnapped and interrigated by these assholes AFTER THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU!

Now you're basically being held hostage, AND THEY'RE MAD THAT YOU TRIED TO ESCAPE?!

Jinu's scowl deepens, and Mystery places an arm over your shoulders to pull you away as he inches closer, "Kidnappers!? We didn't kidnap you! You came with us willingly!" He thrusts a finger in your face accusingly, and if it weren't for Mystery's solid grip on you, you'd have stepped up to slap it away.

"Because you picked me up like a sack of potatoes!! I didn't have much of a choice!"

"You could have ran off– screamed for help or called somebody after you woke up, but you didn't, did you? No, because that's what a normal person would do!" His laugh is humorless, "You decided to stay and talk to us. You are the one who trusted a group of demons not to try and kill you again! All we're doing now, is trying to keep you from running off and ruining our plans because if you do, Gwi-Ma's going to–" He abruptly stops himself, scowl faltering as his eyes soften before he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as he backs away.

Silence falls as the tension in the room reaches its peak. Mystery's grip remains unfaltering despite his silence, and the other boys are scattered around the room with varying degrees of solemnity on their faces.

"There were other demons there, Archer." Romance breaks the tension, standing next to Jinu with crossed arms and stern eyes, "And let's just say, they aren't as nice as we are." He bares his teeth in a mocking grin, "You've caused us quite the headache little Archer." He sighs, and you watch defensively as he glides over to the couch, plopping down nonchalantly as Jinu storms out of the room.

"Not only are you psychic–" He raises a brow, eyes alight with amusement that let's you know he doesn't believe your story, "–but you also have a... unique soul."

"Unique?" You echo the word unconsciously, eyeing the pink haired man curiously as he hums.

"That's one way of putting it... Though, I'd say weird is more accurate..." Abby snorts, hip popped as he leans casually against the wall by the entryway, a silent way of letting you know that you weren't going anywhere without their permission.

"Whatever word you prefer, the fact is that your soul isn't like any that we've seen before..." He huffs, "It even has the demon lord himself unsettled."

That has you perking up warily.

Gwi-ma was unsettled by your soul...

"Why?" The word blurts out of your mouth before you could stop it, sending Baby into a manic fit of laughter once he spots your panicked face.

He tosses his head back with a wide, toothy grin from his place next to Romance, whose own chuckle has your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, "Well, first off, we couldn't take your soul. That's confusing enough as it is, but then there's also the fact that–"

"Romance." Abby cuts the other man off with wide eyes, tone clipped with something that has him hesitating.

The two pink haired males are caught in a heated staring contest that's eventually interrupted by Baby releasing a groan.

"Ugh, who cares! He's gonna be pissed that we didn't kill her anyways! We might as well tell her!" He turns to you with a cheeky grin, ignoring the glare his exclamation garners from Abby.

"The reason you got Gwi-ma so freaked is because when we're around you–" He leans in conspiratorially, "–it's quiet."

You stare back at him confusedly, but he doesn't expand on his response, simply grinning wider and slumping back in his seat with a sigh.

Irritated, you end up turning to tilt your head back at Mystery, who was still glued to your side, in inquiry. The silver haired demon simply nods in affirmation, quelling your confusion when he speaks, "When you're around... We can't hear him. We... can't even hear the screams either." Taking a glance at the other boys' reactions let's you know that their words were serious.

The information has you short-circuting.

"So... What? I'm like a... demon dead zone?"

"Kind of, yeah..." Abby grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck as he sighs, "We... don't really understand it but... Gwi-ma's freaking out because he can't control us when we're around you... he sees you as a threat... which is why Jinu flipped out earlier."

He offers a sympathetic smile, eyes drifting to where Jinu dissapeared as he let's out a soft sigh, "Since we couldn't take your soul, Gwi-ma wants us to kill you the old fashioned way. Some of us didn't agree with that–" He frowns, and Mystery's arm tightens it's defensive hold as Baby pouts out a quiet, "Buzzkill." In the background.

"–and Jinu's annoyed because he thinks this whole situation is distracting us from destroying the Honmoon." You grimace.

You'd almost forgot about that...

"Right. So he's not actually worried about me. Just that me dying might... make you guys, what– fight?" You scoff.

"Something like that, yeah."

Before anything else could be discussed, the slamming of the front door echoing through the room has everyone turning to watch as Jinu strolls back in, face flushed and puffy. Hardly sparing any of you a glance as he tosses a plastic bag onto the coffee table, swatting Baby's feet off the furniture with a scowl as he speaks, "We need to start getting ready, it's almost time for the game show."

Romance wastes no time, immediately jumping up and out of his seat, clapping his hands excitedly as he bounces out of the room, "Right! Right, we gotta get dressed and then find something for Archer to wear– Baby, hurry up, you're first! Abby, you too, you've got the least layers. " Baby groans, trailing behind the other demon reluctantly as Abby herds him into the next room.

"Wait, what do you mean 'find something for me to wear–' Romance!?" Your panicked question goes unanswered as the door closes, leaving you behind with Jinu and Mystery.

The living room becomes engulfed in an awkward, tense silence as the shorter stands rigid at your side, hand squeezing your arm rhythmically as Jinu turns to adress you, "You're coming with us, as we've discussed–" His pointed glare has your argument dying on your tongue.

He looked tired, and as much as he tried to hide it, it was obvious that he was crying before he came back. He honestly looked so pained and upset that you were afraid of saying anything that might make it worse.

"–you're going to guest host Play Games With Us, so you better prepare yourself to play nice." He sighs, moving to grab the bag he placed down earlier and bring it to you.

"Here, I got you something to eat, I figured your Ramen was good enough–" His movements are abruptly halted as a loud growl echoes through the room.

You jump at the sound, whirling around to watch, dumbfounded, as Mystery continues growling at Jinu. Teeth bared defensively, chest vibrating with the gravelly sound leaving his mouth as his skin glows with the telltale purple patterns that define their demon heritage.

Jinu instantly raises his hands, eyes trained on Mystery's grip on your shoulder as he slowly drops the bag on the couch, backing away until the growling finally subsides, ending up on the opposite side of the room.

The two of you share an alarmed glance over Mystery's head as he moves to grab the bag, pulling out the cup of instant Ramen with your face on it and giving it a thorough sniff down.

He takes a moment, nose scrunched and face twisted as he gives Jinu a skeptical glare before gently handing the cup over to you with a resolute nod.

You can't help but find yourself lost in thought as you stand in the middle of a stare off between the two demons. Standing there, staring at a picture of your face plastered on the front of a cup of Ramen, the weight of your new reality comes crashing down on you, and you can't help but think about how the next couple of weeks are going to go.

Ideally, tonight you'd take the opportunity to escape. If everything goes according to the movie, Huntrix will show up to the studio, giving you the perfect chance to escape the demons clutches.

Then, you'd tell the girls their plan, tell Rumi to reveal her patterns, and help them write a song good enough to seal the Honmoon and defeat Gwi-ma... but...

Then what would happen to the boys?

They'd also be trapped down there, vulnerable to whatever punishment the demon lord has in store for their failure.

The thought has your heart squeezing painfully in your chest.

Call it stockholm syndrome, but... you can't stomach the thought of these guys going down with Gwi-ma.

Despite their... rough edges, they've all risked their lives by saving yours. Sure, maybe not all of them were team 'keep Archer alive,' but none of them have actively tried to murder you either. Besides the incident in the alley, but that doesn't count.

By sparing your life, they've directly disobeyed Gwi-ma's orders, and it's only a matter of time before he finds out. When he does... you don't even want to think about what he'll do to them...

Sometime during your internal monologue, Mystery had taken it upon himself to make your Ramen for you. The warm plastic being gently pressed back into your grasp brings you out of your thoughts, blinking down at the steaming soup with soft eyes as Romance's voice echoes from around the corner.

"Jinu, Mystery! Get in here, it's your turn!"

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

When Romance said they had to leave time to find something for you to wear, you had assumed that you'd be making a pit stop at the mall on the way to the studio.

That was not the case.

Now, you stand on stage next to the emcees in a hot pink, sleeveless turtleneck under a white, cropped, off the shoulder sweater, with baby pink jeans and rose colored high tops.

How the hell they magically had clothes that fit both you and their color scheme perfectly, you don't know, but they did, and now you have to suffer through the rumors that it sparked.

The first thing the emcee had pointed out was the matching outfits, a teasing grin on his face as he poked fun, "Oooohhh~ Seems like the Saja Boys already have an honorary member!" Garnering a round of giggles and whispers from the audience as Jinu encouraged them.

"Ah, Archer seonbaenim has been such a welcoming figure during our recent debut. She actually offered to come on this show with us after we told her we were nervous, the matching outfit must be another way of helping us feel more comfortable. We'd be happy to include her as our honorary member– even if she is already part of a group..."

"Awwwweeee!"

His shy smile and honeyed words instantly sent the crowd into an uproar, turning every eye onto you as you struggled to keep your bright smile intact, internally gritting your teeth in anger at the mischievous glint in his black eyes.

Two can play at that game...

"Of course, I'd be happy to be considered an honorary member! I myself know how hard it can be debuting so late in an industry that already has such an established hierarchy." You place a hand over your heart sympathetically, "As some of you may know, I struggled to debut for years. When I finally did it was very sudden and despite all of my training it was incredibly overwhelming–" You blink your eyes, turning your head away from the camera and audience and sniffling before turning back with a soft smile and teary eyes, revealing in Jinus annoyance at the round of sympathetic moans you got from the audience.

"–so I promise to do my best to help my hubae's in their journey." You offer a respectful bow of your head, using the opportunity to hide your satisfied smile as the boys scrambled to follow suit.

The rest of the session went on in a similar fashion, each game a new opportunity opportunity to one up each other in fan service and amount of sympathetic affection earned from the crowd.

Although as the show went on, you couldn't help but eventually let your guard down. Finally relaxing and letting yourself feel at ease for the first time since your arrival, as the excitement of your impending escape was overwhelming. Allowing you to genuinely enjoy your time hosting and interacting with the boys in a more lighthearted scene. Exchanging playful, teasing banter with Baby and Romance and bringing Abby and Jinu's egos down with targeted challenges and games as Mystery stayed in your line of sight with a find smile the entire time.

Eventually, the time for the plot to come back into play came, and after a short commercial break you were stood front and center, watching the boys chug baby bottles full of hot sauce with a wide grin and full hearted laughter.

You'd think for a group of demons, they'd have better spice tolerances, but no.

They dropped like flies, none, save for Baby, lasting longer than half a bottle before tapping out.

Your eyes can't help but drift up the the rafters, watching excitedly as Huntrix slowly crept closer.

"–hard to say goodbye when we're having so much fun!"

You snap back to attention, nodding along with the emcees' as they began to wrap up the show, "Tonight truly was an amazing experience, I had a great time–"

"Then why say goodbye when we have extra special guests coming up?" Jinu frantically lunges forward, ecasing your hand in his own as he pulls your microphone to his mouth with a charming grin, chest brushing against your shoulder as he leans his face down to speak.

"Please welcome–"

"–the rest of my dear members, Huntrix!" You yank the microphone back, pulling Jinus arm along with as as he stares down at you in shock, eyes narrowing at your shit eating grin while the lights and camera focus in on the three girls atop the blank wall behind you.

"W-We just wanted to–"

"I asked my members to join me in making a special appearance tonight as a way to congratulate our hubae's on their debut!" The crowd cheers excitedly as Rumi awkwardly waves, all three girls donning tense, confused smiles as you gesture for them to join you on the ground.

"–and join us for a final game here on–" You jut the mic out to the crowd, encouraging their excited cheers and response of "Play Games With Us!!"

The girls speedily make their appearance, sparking another round of applause as you quietly duck behind set, returning with a wide smile and a pile of folded colored paper you had sneakily asked one of the staff members to prepare beforehand while the boys were busy getting their demon henchmen to paint the ball pit.

"For our final game, we are going to play...." You toss down two squares, one black and one pink, holding up the other two in your hand excitedly, "Ddakji!!"

The crowd cheers, and you happily hum along with them, pointedly ignoring Jinu and Rumi's burning stares.

"Saja Boys are team pink–" You move to gently press the pink square into Romance's hand, leading him forward and to a stop before the black square before moving to Zoeys side, and leading her to the pink square, offering her a reassuring smile as you hand her the black one, "–Huntrix are team black!" You lean to the side, staring down the camera and whispering your the mic conspiratorially, "As you can guess by their outfits tonight, which may or may not be a hint for our next comeback." You wink knowingly, chest puffing pridefully as the crowd once again goes nuts.

"Starting us off! We have Romance versus Rumi!" You gesture for the leader to walk over to the pink haired demon, "and Zoey versus Baby!" You end up having to physically drag the demon to his place.

"We'll be playing simultaneous speed tag team rounds! With the loser immediately swapping out with another member until the timer runs out." You point to the back wall, where a big digital clock emerges, "Whichever team gets the most points after five minutes, wins!" You cheer, "Give us a countdown!"

The crowd enthusiastically complies, counting the timer down with an excited, "Three... Two... One!!"

Once the starting buzzer went off, all hell broke loose.

Romance had effortlessly flipped the black square on his first throw, offering a smug smile as Rumi glared back with an open jaw, absolutely gobsmacked by the accuracy.

Zoey had unfortunately missed her shot, resulting in Baby flipping her square on his turn just as easily as his counterpart.

You and Mira had been hastily ushered in their places by the emcees, who had finally gathered their bearings and seemed just as excited about the sudden crossover as the crowd.

Mira didn't bother hiding her glare as she reached down to pick up her square, staring daggers at Baby's smug smirk as she trembled with rage.

Romance's smile was mocking, eyes meeting yours with a familiar condesendence that had your smile twitching.

"I'm gonna wipe that smug smirk off your face, hubae~" Your confident purr had him shuffling on his feet, face falling into confusion at your lack of nervousness while you steadily line up your throw, garnering a round of screeches from the fans.

"ARCHER YOU'RE SO HOT PLEASE NOTICE MEEEEE!!!"

You grace the crowd with one last cocky grin, revelling in the rise in pitch of their cries before you turn back to the game, absent-mindedly wincing as you hear Mira let out a frustrated groan.

You're sure that Romance and the rest of the boys think that you've managed to sabatoge their plans due to your psychic powers. While they're not completely incorrect, you just wish it were that simple.

In reality, you had to put a lot of effort into getting this plan to work.

You had put it together during the journey to the set, having come to a conclusion after your little crisis at their apartment.

Not only would you help Huntrix seal the Honmoon and defeat Gwi-ma... You'd also save the boys from the demon lord, and allow them to live freely as humans once again.

The first step was ensuring that the fans don't lose their faith and love for Huntix.

So, as soon as you entered the property, you began scheming. While the plan itself wasn't all that elaborate, the timing was crucial. Not only would you have to find someone willing to help you, which had proven to be the most difficult aspect as you had approximately eight minutes to find a staff member and instruct them to ready the ddakji squares before Mystery had retrieved you from you 'bathroom' break.

You'd also have to intervene right before Jinu got the chance to humiliate the girls by making them slide down in their leather outfits. That part had actually gone surprisingly smooth, considering he had superhuman strength and speed.

Now came the easiest part, because despite your original experience or lack of with the game, this body just so happened to belong to a champion drunk ddakji player.

Yeah, turns out Archer had a nasty habit of drowning her sorrows in a bottle of soju and scamming money out of fellow bar flies in a game of ddakji.

Which proved to be unfairly beneficial as you flip Romance's square, first try.

"Archer scores the first point for Team Huntrix!! Saja Boys still hold the lead 2-1, but it looks like this game might end up being more intense than we thought!" The emcees voice echoes in your ears as you revel in Romances shocked stare, offering a cheeky air kiss as he stands aside defeatedly.

You end up solo carrying the game, beating every single one of the boys twice over with the girls cheering you on in the background.

Your skills had worked to fire up the rest of Huntrix, leading to Mira winning once against Abby and Rumi and Jinu going point for point during the last minute.

"Aaaaaand that is time!!" The emcees voice correlates with the buzzer going off, stopping you mid throw, "Now gather around, gather around–" The two usher your groups back together, standing face to face across from each other as the emcees giddily continue "–let's see who the winners are shall we–" Jinu and Rumi are outwardly glaring each other down, Mira and Baby following their leads at their sides as Zoey and Abby pull faces at one another while you and Mystery exchange soft smiles, ignoring Romance's burning stare.

"Huh!?" The sudden outcry has all of you snapping your heads to the emcees, faxes falling as they exclaim, "ITS A TIE!!"

While the information sends the crowd into an uproar, you all release frustrated groans/sighs, where the Saja Boys end up recovering first, taking the opportunity to try and salvage their original plan.

"Oh well. It was still an absolute honor to share the stage with you tonight." Jinu closes his eyes, hand over his heart as he leads the boys into a deep bow.

You pale as you realize what was happening, watching the other girls straighten up defensively, Mira's arm shooting out to drag you into formation as you all bowed back lower.

"Oh no, it was all ours." Rumi responds softly, voice light and airy.

"No, ours"

"No. Ours."

"Ours."

"Ours."

Eventually, right as you forcefully folded yourself in half, the curtains were drawn, and the cameras cut, forcefully ending the competition.

You didn't even have time to properly straighten out before Abby had forcefully slung you over his shoulder, Baby sitting on the other as the group booked it out of the venue.

You can hear the girls gasp in the distance, panicked eyes meeting your wide eyed stare in alarm, "Archer!?"

You begin to genuinely panic.

This was not supposed to happen!

Everything went according to your plan, so why–

You nearly begin to cry as you barely realize the very obvious fact;

Despite being so sure that the game show was your opportunity to escape, you never actually made a plan to escape.

Having been distracted by your plan to save Huntrix's reputation, you had completely forgot to come up with a plan to save yourself.

You're so dumb–

Your self depreciating thoughts are interrupted by Abby abruptly placing you back onto your feet, followed by a hand being slapped over your eyes.

"Ow!? What the–" You move to pry the hand off, only to be met with a sharp 'tsk' of disapproval, "We're in the men's bathhouse, so unless you want to see a bunch of naked, middle aged men–"

"–Okay! Okay, I get it! The hand can stay!" Although your vision was effectively cut off, you could practically feel the amused smirk Baby was giving you.

You can hear shuffling around you, faint splashes and drips as well as you shuffle uncomfortably under Baby's grip, "Listen, guys–" the sound of the door slamming open has you snapping your mouth closed, body tensing in preparation for the upcoming conflict.

"Wow, did you really follow us in here?" Jinu snickers.

"I knew they would, that ones always looking at me." You scoff as Abbys disgusted tone, assumedly drawing attention onto you as the girls cry out, "Let her go!"

"Get your disgusting hands off of her!"

You can hear the sounds of their weapons being drawn, nervously shuffling on your feet as Jinu laughs, "I don't think so... You see, we've taken quite a liking to our little Archer here–" You shiver as his hand ghosts down your spine, "–she's going to be a big help in stealing your fans."

You grit your teeth in annoyance, tugging Baby's hand off of your eyes and spinning around to face the girls, opening your mouth to–

Honestly, you don't really know what you were going to do, but it doesn't really matter considering Jinu had swept you away before you had the chance to even murmer a word. Cradling you close to his chest as he smiled teasingly back at Huntrix, sicking the water demons on them with a childish laugh.

"Jinu, put me down!" You struggle against his hold the entire way down the hallway, squirming and shoving to no avail as he keep his iron tight grip.

You hear the doors burst open, glancing back in alarm as Rumi comes barreling after you, catching up at an alarming speed as you thrash harder, "Jinu, seriously, let me go!!" You plead, panicked eyes meeting Rumi's over his shoulder as she lunges, sword barely missing you leg as Jinu finally drops you, dodging her attacks seamlessly as they dissapear through a wall.

Unfortunately, the relief of being free is short lived, as a hand being placed on your shoulder has you whipping around to find Mystery crouching behind you.

"Mystery, I–" Your breathy whimpers are silenced as the silver haired demon pats your head with a soft smile.

"It's okay, you're safe. I'll get you back to the–"

"No!"

His head tilts confusedly, and you shuffle onto o your knees to reach over and grab his shoulders comfortingly, swallowing nervously before continuing, "I-I can't– I can't go back with you this time."

His bottom lip trembles and you give his shoulders a gentle squeeze as you rush out your words with a breathy grin, eyes wide and dilated as you tremble anxiously, "Look, I have a plan, okay? I can save you– All of you, but I need Huntrix's help to do it."

His mouth falls into a scowl, growl crawling up his throat as he shrugs your hands off of his shoulders, "Of course, that's always how it goes..." He abruptly rises to a stand, and you hastily follow as he takes a few steps back.

"Mystery, I–"

"You want to go running back to those little hunters? Fine. Go ahead! They've never seen you as anything more than a liability, anyway. You're nothing but a burden to them, dead weight they have to csrry around to make themselves look good." He spits, and the venom in his voice has your eyes tearing up.

Out of all of the boys, Mystery had been the kindest to you. The most protective, the clingiest, the quietest... but the kindest.

He had brought you a blanket and pillow when you fell asleep on the couch, let you use his charger when your phone was dead, kept Baby and his homicidal instincts at bay and even defended you from Jinu, his leader.

You had assumed it was all a ploy to gain your affection. A show put on to get you to trust them and let your guard down and use you against the girls... but with the way he was reacting right now, you're not so sure that that's true...

"They don't care about you, Archer! They never have!–" He throws his arm out in agitation, gesturing to the other room where you could hear the clashing of blades and claws.

His statement has you scoffing defensively, arms crossing over your chest as you let out a wet laugh, tears welling in your eyes as you retort, "What, like you do? Mystery you've known me for two days! I've known Huntrix for years! I trust them to help me, to help us!"

Even though you've technically known him longer than the girls, but he doesn't need to know that...

"Whose to say they'll even trust you enough to help you save us, huh?" He scowls, "Why would they even want to save us? I mean, come on! We're demons, they're hunters. They kill us, we kill them, that's how it goes!" He's shouting now, and the patterns on his skin are steadily making their appearance as his agitation rises.

The sight has you swallowing nervously, taking a shaky step closer as you reach out to grasp his hand, "I-I can convince them..." The claim is weak, even to your ears, and it has Mystery releasing another scoff, pulling away and stepping out of your reach as he turns his back to you with a mocking grin.

"Yeah? Well, don't come crying to us when they brush you off, cause I guarantee you, we won't be as stupid as we were this time..." He huffs, dissapearing into a cloud of pink smoke, leaving you alone in the silent hallway with teary eyes and a heavy heart.

"Archer! There you are, are you okay!? Did those disgusting demons do anything to you!?" Zoeys voice echoes faintly in your ears as you keep your gaze trained to the spot where Mystery once stood, tears finally falling just as Rumi takes your cheeks into her palms, worried eyes trailing your face carefully.

"Hey, it's okay now. You're safe, we got you." Her voice is soft, comforting to the point that it has you sobbing, leaning into her embrace as she moves her grip to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you into her her chest as you wail.

Zoey and Mira exchange alarmed glances over your head, thoroughly caught off guard.

It's the first time they've ever seen you cry...

Rumi glares out at the alley she had seen the group run into, vowing that it'd be the last time you ever had to cry because of a demon.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

the dress issue. l Joel Miller

bio : the matter of your colleague's engagement party has created a tense atmosphere in your home.

warnings: smut, pre-outbreak Joel, stable relationship, low self-esteem, complexes, dry humping, nipple play, kissing, tears, sexual context in conversation, fluff

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[Joel Miller masterlist] [my masterlist]

When he got home, he was greeted by silence. Strange. A quick glance at his watch assured Joel that you should be home by now, but the living room was plunged into semi-darkness. He was relieved to see your purse and shoes hastily thrown on the floor – a sign that you were back.

“Honey?” he asked hesitantly into the empty space, but no one answered.

He kicked off his shoes and ran a hand through his hair. Damn, he was longing for a shower after such a long week. And then there was that party you were supposed to go to tomorrow…

One of your coworkers was throwing an engagement party. You weren’t a fan, but everyone was going, so it seemed appropriate for you to show up.

Passing through the house and deciding to go upstairs, Joel recalled the tense atmosphere that had been building as the party approached. You had a tendency to change your mind every few hours. And even though he told you he would do whatever you wanted, nothing made it any easier.

He stopped in front of your half-open bedroom door, noticing the faint glow of a lamp, and a moment later he heard a soft sob. Jesus, his heart skipped a beat. He opened the door a crack, and what he saw both surprised him and made something heavy drop into his stomach.

Dresses were strewn across the floor and bed, in various colors, lengths, and styles. And you sat on the floor, your back to the bed, your legs drawn up to your chest, crying.

"Baby..." Joel whispered, stepping inside, trying not to step on anything. You lifted your puffy eyes. Smudged mascara had turned into black lines on your cheeks, and your lips were still trembling. "What happened? Have you been sitting like this for long?"

When you spoke, your voice was slightly hoarse. "Since I've been here..."

"Jesus..." he groaned, pushing one of the dresses aside with his foot. Only then did he notice you were only wearing underwear and that a plastic bag from some online store was lying next to you. Joel sat down across from you, hearing an unpleasant creak in his knee. "Will you tell me what happened, honey? Did a pack of raccoons get into your closet?"

You must have wanted to smile, because the corners of your mouth twitched. Finally, you relaxed your shoulders and took a few deep breaths.

"I don't think we're going to that party tomorrow," you finally said. You were staring at your hands, so you didn't notice Joel frown.

"Why not?"

"I..." your voice caught in your throat for a moment. Large, warm hands rested on your calves, gently stroking them, comforting you. "It's pathetic, but..."

"Nothing you feel is pathetic, sweetheart. Tell me everything..."

And then the words tumbled out of your mouth. You told him you'd been looking for a dress for the party for a week. That you'd ordered one online, but it was too tight. This only undermined your already damaged self-esteem. So you started trying on everything in your closet, which only deepened your despair. Too short, too long, too tight, too loose, the wrong style, the wrong color, and the last one was chafing at the seams.

"And the one that arrived looks like a tight, slutty dress," you finished. Your voice was getting stronger, and your sadness was starting to turn into anger. "I can't go to a party where all the women look like girls from a Vogue photoshoot, and I..."

"You'll be the most beautiful of them all," Joel finished. You rolled your eyes.

"Please. It won't improve anything. You're not being objective."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Do I have to be?"

"Joel..." you groaned. "Mary's been on a diet for months, she looks great. Karen goes to the gym every day. Jean..."

"Fuck them all!" he exclaimed, his fingers tightening on your thighs. "Do you see what you're doing, woman? You work full time. You take care of the house and an idiot like me. I'd die without you because all I'd eat is frozen pizza and takeout. You're smart, beautiful, funny, and so resourceful. Before you came along, I was a mess..."

You smiled, new tears welling up in your eyes. "It wasn't that bad, Joel... You should have thrown away some of the holey socks and worn-out shirts." You both laughed, but after a moment, your face turned sad again. "Is it so bad that I want to look pretty? I know these sick beauty standards are just shackles that bind women and force them to reach unrealistic standards, but..."

"But you're already beautiful. And when you say things like that, you're even more fucking sexy." You shook your head, but you couldn't hide your smile. "Come here, baby."

Joel grabbed your hips and pulled you so that you were straddling him. His rough jeans brushed against your thighs, and his hands stroked your back soothingly.

"You know what I thought when I first saw you?"

Placing your hands on his shoulders, you shook your head. "Tell me."

"I thought a girl that damn sexy wouldn't look at someone like me."

"Jesus, that's not true!" You groaned, patting his shoulder.

Joel raised his eyebrows. "You think? I was wearing my last clean t-shirt, my jeans had seen better days, and my hands were full of rough spots that shouldn't touch skin as delicate as yours." His sweet brown eyes stared into yours. He wasn't lying, not to you. "Do you think any girl would want to date a constructor?"

"I did."

“And for that, I’ll thank God or anyone else.” Joel smiled. “I was sure you’d run away from me after the first date. And I liked you so much.” He sighed. “And now look—we’re together. I’m a real lucky bastard.”

The hands around his neck pulled him in for a sweet and tender kiss. Your lips were salty from tears, but still soft and warm. He pulled you closer.

You rested your forehead against his and said, “I liked your broad shoulders and arms from the very beginning.”

“Really?” Joel chuckled. “Lucky me.”

“Yeah, and your ass looked really good in those jeans.” Now you both laughed. “You were so sweetly shy when you approached me.”

“I was afraid you’d see a hard-on in my pants.” Your eyes widened in surprise. “What? Did you see yourself? Those… tits?”

Before you could respond, Joel leaned down, brushing his lips against the soft curves of your breasts. His stubble sent shivers down your spine. Arousal began to build in your lower abdomen.

"I love every part of your body," Joel murmured between kisses. His fingers slowly began to slip off the straps of your bra. "Of course, I have my favorites. Like your breasts. So soft, so delicate. They fit perfectly in my hands." He slid your bra off, exposing them to him. "And my mouth."

His hot lips closed over your nipple, and you gasped. He sucked and teased your nipple with his tongue, and his other hand cupped another breast, kneading it. You unconsciously moved your hips. The hard bulge in his jeans quivered.

"Damn!" Joel hissed. "See what you're doing to me, baby? I'm still horny for you."

You took his face in your hands and tilted him towards you. His hungry lips found yours. The kiss was deep, and without warning, his tongue invaded your mouth. A muffled moan escaped your throat. Joel pressed your hips against his, eager for the friction. Your panties were already wet.

"And those thighs," he hissed harshly, clenching his hands. "I love being between them. Kissing them and caressing them. And you know what I love most?" You shook your head. A sly smile played on his lips. "When you squeeze my head with them, baby. Or when you wrap them around my waist. Or when I have your legs on my shoulders and I'm pounding into you hard, and you..."

"Jesus!" you moaned, grinding against him harder and harder. The friction was perfect. You felt your body getting closer to what you needed. "I'm going to... Shit!"

"Take what you need, baby." Joel panted, lightly sucking on the delicate skin of your neck. "Take it like the good girl you are. And then I'll give you more."

Your breathing was ragged. Joel was close too. He began sucking on your breast, and you moaned, feeling your walls tighten around nothing, a pleasant shiver running through your body. A muffled, deep moan escaped Joel's chest as he pressed you even closer to his hard body.

You took a deep breath, letting the feeling fill every cell in your body. It felt good, so good.

"You know..." Joel said, pulling away from you for a moment. "I can't remember the last time I came in my pants."

"I'm sorry," you replied, kissing his temple. "I shouldn't have..."

"Don't apologize, baby. That was fucking hot." You laughed, then kissed him on the lips. "Maybe... Maybe I'll take a shower now, and then we can move our conversation to a more comfortable place, huh? I think you need a little more attention from your boyfriend to get all these bad thoughts out of your head."

"You should eat something. You got home from work and..." His hands tightened on your thighs again. His brown eyes seemed almost black to you.

"There's one meal I really want," he said in a heavy, deep voice. "And you serve it best."

You felt that familiar shiver again. God! You'd loved this guy from day one. The dress issue vanished from your mind, and suddenly you didn't care if you went to that party.

No one had ever made you feel as sexy as Joel. He was the best support you could hope for, and even though you knew it was all inside you and you just had to believe it, he made it easier.

And Joel, true to his word, took care of you a few more times that evening.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[mooningningg]

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (3)

about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.

parts. chapter 02, chapter 04

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.90k (???)

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. i've been missing for two days, I rlly hope you won't be bored with this long ahh. and please try to not skip some parts since its important for you to understand the thoughts behind the actions.

You were supposed to be past this, supposed to be untouchable, unshaken, unbothered. That was your thing—right?

You didn’t cry over boys. You broke them. You didn’t second-guess yourself. You walked out first. You ended things before they could ever reach the part where you might actually get hurt. But now, you were lying in your bed, legs tangled in your sheets, staring at your ceiling like it held answers, and for the first time in a long time, you felt… small.

You hadn’t cried since the fight with Megumi, not really. But now, everything was creeping in. Quietly. Slowly. Like the kind of pain that doesn't hit you all at once—but chips away at you until suddenly, there's nothing left.

It wasn’t supposed to matter, it was just tutoring, just a deal, just a boy with glasses and too many books and a sharp tongue who should’ve meant nothing. But why—why—was it his voice in your head? Not Noritoshi’s, not the boy who said he loved you.

Not the boy you gave everything to for over a year—the one who knew all the worst parts of you, the one who held every dark thing you never dared show anyone else. The boy who kissed you like possession, who yelled in hotel rooms and made you feel insane for asking to be seen, for asking to be loved properly.

The boy who said you were too much. Who slammed doors and then begged at them the next day, who hurt you and then convinced you it was love. Noritoshi had everything—your trust, your secrets, your body, your pride. And he still made you feel like you weren’t enough.

He knew you, but he never saw you, and now here you were, spiraling over someone who did.

Megumi. Fucking Megumi Fushiguro.

The one you swore you’d never even glance at twice. The one you called boring. The one who annoyed you with his quiet judgement and his folded sleeves and his constant reminders that you could be better—if you wanted.

You hated that.

You hated the way he looked at you like he expected more. Like you weren’t just some pretty, mean girl with fake lashes and perfect skirts and an Instagram full of filters. You hated that he listened.

That he remembered how you hated black tea and liked your pen to have a cap instead of a click. You hated how he looked at you during tutoring—like he was trying to understand you, even when you were being difficult. Even when you didn’t want to be understood.

Noritoshi never asked how your day was, but Megumi always noticed if it was bad.

Noritoshi made you feel crazy for crying. Megumi… made you want to cry just because he was kind when you didn’t know what to do with kindness.

Fuck.

You turned over in your bed, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your chest felt tight, like there was something inside it you didn’t want to name. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You didn’t even like Megumi. You couldn’t. That wasn’t the plan. And even if you did, how could you ever trust that feeling again? How could you let yourself get close after what happened with Noritoshi? After all the fights? The screaming? The apologies that meant nothing?

You thought Noritoshi would break you once. But instead, he broke you over and over again, in pieces so small they were impossible to hold. and you were still recovering from that.

So how could you let someone like Megumi in? How could you admit that he made you feel safe when you barely knew what safety looked like? How could you admit that in just a few weeks, he did more than Noritoshi ever did in twelve months?

It terrified you.

So instead, you clenched your jaw. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just a weird reaction. A blip. Temporary insanity. You didn’t like Megumi. You couldn’t. You were just tired. You were just lonely. You were just angry, but none of those excuses explained the ache in your chest or the way your body still remembered the warmth of his hands on your waist.

You turned over again, you weren’t going to cry, you weren’t going to want him, you were going to forget it ever happened. Except you wouldn’t. Not really.

Because this feeling—the one clawing its way up your throat right now—it was something you hadn't felt in a long time. And that scared you more than anything else.

You leaned back in your chair, a groan escaping your lips as you stared at the pages in front of you. The words blurred together, a mess of historical dates and political concepts you could hardly care less about. If you were being honest, the only thing running through your head was the last few weeks. Megumi, and the words thrown at each other.

And now here you were, stuck at Nobara’s place, trying to study with her. She had a way of being productive even when she was too loud, her energy bouncing off the walls as she flipped through her notes with casual ease. You couldn’t even focus on the words in front of you.

"Are you even paying attention?" Nobara asked, voice laced with amusement as she glanced at you, catching you mid-eye roll. "You’ve barely looked at your book since we started, and I’m starting to think you’re just here for the snacks."

You blinked, snapping out of your daze. "I am paying attention, okay? I just... I hate civics."

She snorted, clearly unconvinced. "You say that about every subject, Y/N. But civics? Really? You hate it because it’s boring, or are you just avoiding actually trying?"

You threw her a look, already irritated. “I just don’t see the point. Why do I need to know how the government works? The most important thing in life is looking good and having fun.”

Nobara didn’t flinch. “You’ve got a warped view of life, you know that?”

“Hey, I didn’t get the memo about life being about politics and the will of the people,” you said, leaning back and crossing your arms defiantly. “I’m pretty sure I’ll survive just fine without knowing what a civil servant even does.”

"Well," Nobara began, flicking through her notes, "you might want to get it straight if you want to graduate."

You groaned again, ignoring her, but then she dropped the bombshell.

“So, tell me this, since you're so into skipping the whole responsibility thing," she said with a smirk, leaning in slightly. “Do you know what the kenpo means in relation to our government system?”

You stared at her, blinking. "What? What the hell kind of question is that?”

“Civics,” she replied flatly. "You know, the basics of how the government works. Japan’s constitution and all that.”

For a second, you were thrown. The question felt way too real, way too... serious. But more than that, it made you freeze because—shit—you remembered.

You blinked, trying to clear the fog in your brain. The words Nobara had just said echoed in your head, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. You shifted in your seat, leaning back, but then the memory of Megumi popped up—completely uninvited—and your heart stuttered a bit.

“The kenpo is a significant part of Japan’s post-war constitution,” Megumi said, flipping through his textbook. His voice wasn’t just calm—it was smooth, as though he'd memorized everything the night before.

You blinked. “Kenpo? What the hell is that?”

Megumi didn’t look up from his book. “The Constitution of Japan. Article 9, kenpo, which means the renunciation of war. It’s basically what keeps Japan’s military stance neutral.”

You stared at him for a long moment. “Are you on drugs? How the hell did you pull that out of your ass so easily?” You chuckled under your breath. “Like, are you secretly some government nerd who spends his nights reading about laws and shit?”

He didn’t react. Just flipped the page and kept going like it was no big deal. “No, just... you know, I study. Helps me understand shit.”

Now, back in Nobara’s room, you blinked as you realized the memory had pulled you in unexpectedly. You were so lost in thought that you’d almost missed her question.

“Did you hear me?�� Nobara’s voice snapped you back to reality.

You looked at her. “Yeah, sorry,” you said, trying to shake off the mental images of Megumi casually schooling you in civics like it was nothing. “So… kenpo, huh?” you repeated, the word awkward on your tongue as it suddenly felt like a stupid joke.

“Exactly,” Nobara said, eyes narrowing a little, as if you should've known. “We’re studying this stuff for our shiken.”

You couldn’t help but wince. The term ‘exam’ had never felt so intimidating. “I think I need to study more than just government,” you muttered under your breath. “Maybe you’re right. I should try harder… and stop being an idiot about it.”

But as your thoughts drifted, you couldn’t help but think back to that tutoring session—how easy it seemed for Megumi to rattle off facts, making you feel completely out of your depth.

You suddenly felt the sting of your own inadequacies again, and it pissed you off. But then, you remembered his impassive face when he’d explained it all to you like it was nothing.

“Maybe I do need to try harder...” you said quietly, more to yourself than to Nobara. But of course, Nobara was quick to pick up on your mood.

“Exactly, don’t just sit there and whine about it,” she shot back, “You got this. You’re not dumb, just need a little focus.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

But as you sat back down, your mind couldn’t let go of how much Megumi had impressed you. No one else could’ve made civics feel like it was worth paying attention to, and yet... he did.

The day had barely begun when Gojo dropped his usual “important announcement” on the class.

It was a Tuesday morning, and as usual, you were walking the fine line between paying attention and planning your next social media post when he suddenly cleared his throat, commanding the attention of the entire class with a smirk that hinted at some ridiculous news.

"Alright, alright," Gojo’s voice boomed, loud enough for the entire class to hear. "Listen up. You’ve got an essay due next week."

You sat up straight, automatically feeling that familiar rush of anxiety that only came with the word essay. Everyone groaned in unison, and the collective energy in the room dropped a few degrees.

"Don't even think about it," Gojo continued, barely suppressing his grin. "It’s on a political topic in Japan. Your job is to research it, write your thoughts, and show me you actually give a damn about your grades."

He paused, looking around the room, gauging everyone’s reactions. "So, get ready to do some actual work. For once."

You felt a familiar knot in your stomach—mixed emotions all at once. The topic was nothing new. You’d been through political essays and assignments about Japanese government structures before, but this one felt different.

You had the tools this time. You had the resources. You had the chance.

It wasn’t like the other times where you’d half-assed everything or relied on cheating your way through. This was an opportunity to show that you could actually do something—for yourself. You had Megumi’s tutoring sessions to thank for that. Even if you hadn’t directly paid attention to every word, something had changed inside you. You were no longer the same lazy, apathetic person you used to be. You couldn’t go back to that version of yourself anymore. You refused to.

You glanced around at the other students, most of whom were still caught up in the collective sigh of dread. Some were already pulling out their phones, others frantically taking notes to pretend they were paying attention. But for once, you didn’t feel that sense of dread. You felt... determined.

This was your shot. You weren’t going to let this be another failure. You were done with disappointing yourself.

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts, and you caught the tail end of what he was saying: “...and the topic? Something like the kenpo, the Constitution, or Japan’s stance on foreign relations. You choose, but you better make it count.”

You didn’t even pause. Your hand shot up without thinking.

"Yes, Y/N?" Gojo raised an eyebrow, amused by your sudden enthusiasm.

“I’ll take the Constitution,” you said with surprising confidence, not caring who heard you.

“Ah, the kenpo,” he mused, clearly impressed by your choice. “Alright. I like it. Maybe you’ll finally do something interesting with that brain of yours.”

You didn’t care for his praise, but his approval made something stir inside you. You didn’t need his validation. This was about you. For the first time in ages, you were doing something for yourself, not for attention, not for anyone else’s approval.

The class continued on, but your mind had already shifted. You had a purpose now.

After school, you couldn’t shake the feeling that today was different. That essay, that political topic—it wasn’t just another assignment. It was the first step toward proving to yourself that you weren’t the lazy, self-destructive person you’d been in the past. This was about growth. Real growth.

You walked through the crowded hallway, determined. As you passed by the lockers, you saw the usual faces—people talking, laughing, their lives unfolding without a care. But for once, you didn’t feel like you needed to be part of that world. You were doing something for yourself, and you could feel the difference already.

You were going to finish this essay. You were going to nail it.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d be one step closer to doing something that really mattered for you.

You stood there in the hallway, clutching your books to your chest like they were some kind of shield. The hallway was buzzing with the usual noise—people chatting, lockers slamming, the clatter of footsteps—but it all felt so far away. Like you were standing outside of it, looking in. You should’ve felt free after making the decision to focus on that essay. You should’ve felt confident, like you finally had something to prove.

But instead, all you could hear were the voices in your head.

You’re doing this for yourself. You’re not weak. You’re strong. You don’t need anyone...

But even as you told yourself that, the insecurity gnawed at you. It clawed at your thoughts like a persistent itch you couldn’t scratch.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you turned the corner, but it certainly wasn’t this.

There, across the hall, Megumi was standing, leaning against the lockers. His usual scowl was in place, though something about it seemed softer today, quieter. His gaze wasn’t on his phone or the floor like usual. No, today it was directed at something—or someone.

Miwa.

She was walking past him, laughing at something with her friends, not even noticing that Megumi was watching. You saw the way his eyes followed her, how his gaze softened just slightly as she passed by. It wasn’t a look of deep affection or anything dramatic, but the way he watched her… it made something twist deep inside you.

It shouldn’t hurt. It really shouldn’t. You weren’t even sure why it felt like it did. You barely knew why you were standing there, frozen, as the pieces of your chest started to break apart, slowly.

You’re just being ridiculous, you told yourself.

But your thoughts didn’t stop.

You didn’t want to feel jealous. You didn’t want to care. But there he was, your Megumi—your Megumi, in some twisted sense, right?—just staring at her from across the hall, like she was the only thing that mattered in that moment. And you hated it.

You’re so different from her, the voice in your head whispered. She’s sweet. She’s easy to love. You? You’re just… a mess. You’re tough. You push people away.

The voice hurt, but you couldn’t stop it. You weren’t soft. You weren’t gentle. You didn’t smile like that, not naturally.

And sure, you could walk away, pretend it didn’t bother you, but it did. It really fucking did.

Megumi had always been this person who kept to himself, never revealing much, never opening up to anyone. But when it came to Miwa, when it came to her effortless charm, his guard was nowhere to be seen. He just stood there, eyes locked on her, and something in you broke a little more.

Why does it matter?

But you couldn’t help but wonder:

Why don’t I matter like that?

He wasn’t even talking to her. Hell, she didn’t even know he was watching. But in that moment, you realized something. He wasn’t looking at you. He wasn’t looking at anyone but Miwa, and it hurt in a way you couldn’t explain.

You turned, walking away quickly, your heart pounding in your ears.

It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt. He’s not yours.

But there you were—walking away from it anyway, pretending it didn’t feel like someone had ripped something from your chest. You told yourself you were fine, but deep down, it was all unraveling.

You weren’t supposed to feel vulnerable. You weren’t supposed to let things like this get to you.

But here you were, wondering why you’d never be the one Megumi watched like that.

The clock on your desk read 3:30 AM, but the words on the screen still seemed to blur together. You’d been at this essay for hours—struggling to organize your thoughts, to make sense of it all. Your mind kept drifting back to Megumi. To the way he looked at Miwa. To the disappointment that welled up in your chest every time you thought about how far you’d fallen.

But this? This essay? You had to do it. You had to prove to yourself that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could do something right on your own. Something that mattered.

The tears were just waiting to spill over, but you kept pushing them down. They didn’t fit here. Not with the pressure of your name. Not with the weight of your reputation.

You rubbed your eyes, groaning in frustration when your screen stayed stubbornly blank. Your mind wandered again, this time to your father. He always said the same thing—you have potential. But did you really? Or was it all just a fucking game of appearances?

And then, as if on cue,

your father’s soft knock on your door was the first thing that registered. It took you a moment to process it, and then another to look up from the essay you’d been trying to work on for hours. The blinking cursor on your screen seemed almost mocking in its silence, and you could feel the weight of your thoughts pressing down, suffocating you.

"Daddy?" You didn’t bother trying to hide the crack in your voice, the exhaustion. It wasn’t worth it.

The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the frame with his usual casual smile, his tall frame casting a shadow over you. Even after all these years, he had that aura about him—the kind that made the world feel like it was all just a little bit lighter. But tonight? You couldn’t pretend to be the girl who had it all together. Not anymore.

"Hey, kiddo," he said gently, stepping into your room without hesitation. He always did this, always came to you when he knew something wasn’t right. "I heard the tap-tap of your keyboard from down the hall. What’s going on in here? You didn’t turn into a zombie, did you?"

You managed a small smile, even if it felt like it was painted on, too thin to be real. "Just a stupid essay, nothing major." Your eyes flickered back to the screen, but the words weren’t making sense. Nothing was making sense. "It’s... whatever."

He didn’t buy it for a second. He never did. He moved closer, leaning against the desk, glancing at the papers you hadn’t touched. "You sure? Looks like someone’s been fighting with a word processor."

You chuckled weakly, shrugging. "Yeah. Me versus an essay. Guess who’s losing."

"Ah, classic. Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure essays are just a trap set up by the universe to make us feel like we have to prove we’re smart. Just a conspiracy," he added, trying to lighten the mood, his tone playful. He ruffled your hair a little as if to say it’s okay, even though the unease hung in the air like a storm cloud.

You pulled away from the touch, instinctively, and your stomach churned. The pressure inside you only seemed to build. "I don’t think that’s what it is, Daddy." You could feel the familiar ache in your chest, like everything you had worked so hard to maintain was slipping through your fingers.

He straightened up a little, letting out a small sigh. "Alright, alright, I get it. You’re not in the mood for Dad’s conspiracy theories."

His voice softened, but not with pity—no, he wasn’t the type to give you that. Instead, it was warm, steady, the kind that had always managed to make you feel like things weren’t quite as bad as they seemed. Even now, his presence was a comfort. But it wasn’t enough to silence the growing voices in your head.

"Hey," he said, nudging the chair next to you with his knee, "why don’t we take a break? You’ve been working at this for hours. Your brain’s probably fried by now."

You just stared at the screen. The cursor blinked, waiting for you to move. It wasn’t the essay that was bothering you; it was the constant pressure, the constant need to be more than just what everyone else saw. It was always about appearances. Never letting anyone see the cracks, even though you were the one who had to fill them every single day.

"I don’t know if I can do it," you muttered under your breath, voice small. "I keep fucking up, Daddy. I try, I really try, but it’s never enough."

He didn’t say anything at first, just waited, letting the silence hang in the room. You tried to ignore the tightness in your throat, but it only made it worse. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I thought I had everything figured out. That I could just coast through everything. But now… I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’ve let everyone down, including myself."

His face softened, eyes full of understanding, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped down your cheek. You cursed under your breath, wiping it away quickly, but it didn’t stop the flood that followed.

"Sweetheart," he began, his voice gentle but firm, "you’ve got to stop holding yourself to these impossible standards. You think you need to be perfect all the time, but no one expects that. Not from you, not from anyone."

You shook your head, the tears blurring your vision. "You don’t get it," you said hoarsely. "You don’t know what it’s like. Everyone’s always expecting something from me, and if I don’t deliver—if I fail—they’ll see me for who I really am. Not the ‘perfect daughter’ they want. And I’ll lose everything. My reputation, my place. I’ll be nothing."

He sat down next to you, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with a tenderness that made your chest ache. "You’re more than just your reputation. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No," he interrupted softly, "no buts. Listen to me. I don’t care about what other people think. I don’t care about how you’re seen. What matters is you. You have so much more inside you than this... this pressure you're carrying. And I’ll always be here, no matter what you do or how many times you fall down. You don’t have to do it alone."

You choked on a sob, your body shaking as you leaned into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, holding you as if he could protect you from everything, even yourself. His heartbeat was steady beneath you, a rhythm you clung to as if it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

"I just want to be enough," you whispered against his chest, barely audible. "I want to be... something good. For once."

"You already are," he whispered back, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "You’re my daughter. You’re everything to me. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone."

Your sobs broke loose then, and you let them come. Let yourself fall apart in the safety of your father’s arms, not caring about the essay, not caring about the image you’d been trying to keep up for so long.

You didn’t need to be perfect. Not for him. Not for anyone.

You woke up late, the alarm blaring its usual obnoxious tune, but this time you didn’t hit snooze. You just… didn’t feel like getting up. Still, after the long conversation with your dad, a sense of calm had settled over you that you hadn’t realized you’d needed. It wasn’t the kind of calm that fixed everything, but it was enough to get you out of bed and, against all odds, to school.

You sprinted down the hall, your bag bouncing against your side, heart pounding as you dashed toward Gojo’s office. Missing the first period wasn’t ideal, but you’d already made a decision. You were doing this. Not for anyone but yourself. Not for Megumi—whatever that was. No. This was about you. You had your own shit to prove. You were sick of falling short.

You burst through the door of Gojo’s office without knocking, barely catching your breath, and locked eyes with him. The typical cocky grin was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a soft surprise behind his glasses.

"You’re late," he said casually, but there was no judgment, just curiosity.

"Yeah, I know," you replied, already opening your notebook, the pages freshly filled with the essay you’d been working on all night. "Here. I got it done."

Gojo raised an eyebrow, the sudden seriousness of your tone catching him off guard. He took the paper from you and glanced it over. His eyes scanned the words, his lips moving ever so slightly as he read. He seemed focused—more focused than usual.

"Huh," he said, breaking the silence. "Okay… I’ll check this."

You didn’t wait for him to finish. You just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of you. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, but there was something else now—something that felt like you were finally getting it right. The words on the page felt like you, like they belonged to you. You hadn’t relied on anyone else. You hadn’t slacked off or tried to get by with minimum effort. This was your work. And it felt good.

"Good work, Y/N," Gojo said, surprising you. His voice was softer, more genuine than you were used to hearing. "I’m impressed."

You blinked. Impressed? Was that really the word he just used? You hadn’t been expecting that. You wanted to feel smug, to let that adrenaline fuel a comeback, but… no. You actually felt something else. It was a quiet, simple sense of accomplishment. And it felt better than you expected.

"Thanks," you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. The moment was brief but important, like the first small victory after a long time of feeling like you were just slipping by. But as soon as the pride started to settle, your mind wandered, as it always did, to him.

Megumi.

How would he react to this?

You almost scoffed at yourself for even thinking about it. It didn’t matter what he thought, right? You weren’t doing this for him. You weren’t trying to prove anything to anyone. But your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you, cold and angry—words you’d hurled at him like daggers, only to have them stab you in return. He had no right to make you feel like you weren’t enough.

So why did it matter so much?

Gojo’s voice broke through your thoughts. "You want me to grade it now? Or… are you heading back to class?"

You gave a quick nod, barely aware of your body moving toward the door. "Yeah. Sure."

"Don’t go thinking this means you’re off the hook, though," he added, a bit of that teasing tone returning. "You’ve still got work to do."

You waved him off, not bothering to look back as you left the office. But as you walked out into the hallway, the quiet thrum of your heartbeat was steady. For once, it wasn’t anxiety or fear—it was anticipation. You weren’t sure where this would lead, but for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were in control of your own story.

And maybe, just maybe, Megumi would notice.

You and Nobara were hanging out by the lockers, leaning against the metal doors while the noise of the school buzzed around you. It was one of those rare moments where you didn’t have to be the perfect, untouchable “bad bitch” everyone expected you to be. Instead, you were just… talking. And it felt weirdly nice.

“Well, I’ll be honest, I thought you’d be a little more chill after everything with, you know, Megumi,” Nobara said, popping a piece of gum into her mouth and flicking it with her tongue. Her eyes studied you carefully, like she was trying to read a chapter in a book she couldn’t quite finish.

You scoffed, flipping your hair over your shoulder, giving her a pointed look. “I am chill. I’ve always been chill.”

“Bullshit,” she grinned, “You’ve been a walking hurricane lately. Like, you keep acting all tough, but you’ve been so fucking quiet.”

“Not quiet,” you replied, eyes narrowing in a fake attempt at annoyance. “I’ve just been—occupied.”

“Occupied with what?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “With your grades? Or trying to pretend you don’t have a damn heart?”

You laughed it off, crossing your arms. “No heart. No problems.” You rolled your eyes dramatically. “And don’t go all psychoanalyst on me either. I know what you’re gonna say.”

“Oh really?” she said, the sarcasm dripping from her words. “You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

You scoffed again. “I don’t need to figure you out, Nobara. You’re pretty simple to read.”

“Is that so?” She raised an eyebrow again, her grin widening. “And here I thought you were all mysterious and complicated. Guess not.”

You leaned back, hands on your hips as you gave her an exaggerated look. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like I’m some emotional wreck.” You smirked, acting all nonchalant, but the words stung. “I’m fine, alright? Totally fine.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s why you’ve been disappearing every time someone mentions Megumi. Total ‘I’m fine’ energy there.”

You shifted uncomfortably at the mention of his name, but you quickly masked it with a snarky smile. “You think I care about what he’s doing? Please.”

“Oh really?” she said with a teasing grin. “Because I seem to remember you having a meltdown in the cafeteria like, a week ago. Pretty sure your ‘I don’t care’ act needs some work.”

“Stop acting like you know shit,” you snapped, but it was all a front. You hated that Nobara could always see through you. “I’m done with him, alright? So drop it.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you are,” she said, not buying it for a second. She popped her gum again, a knowing glint in her eyes. “But tell me this—what’s really going on with you?”

“Nothing,” you shot back quickly, “Everything’s fine. I’ve been busy. That’s it. Now, can we stop talking about this?”

Nobara opened her mouth to argue, but then she stopped, glancing down the hall as she caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Oh look,” she said, not missing a beat. “Ten o’clock.”

You rolled your eyes, not understanding why that was significant. “And?”

She grinned devilishly, her gaze flicking to a figure in the distance. “Guess who’s about to show up.”

You blinked. "Who?"

“The one, the only…” she paused dramatically, “Megumi Fushiguro.”

Your heart skipped in your chest, but you refused to show it. You hated how he still had that effect on you. “Oh, great. What do you want me to do, roll out the red carpet?”

“Pfft, I’m just saying, you’re still not done with this whole ‘I’m the bad bitch who doesn’t care’ thing. That shit’s getting old, you know?” she said, the tone of her voice softening for just a moment. “You’re only fooling yourself.”

You straightened up, feeling the familiar defensiveness bubbling inside of you. “I’m not fooling anyone.”

“Sure you’re not,” she said, her eyes narrowing, but she didn't push it further.

You hated that she could read you like a book, but you weren’t ready to admit any of that to her. To anyone.

And then, there he was.

You didn’t even need to look hard; Megumi was walking toward you, his typical hoodie and glasses hiding his expression, but you could feel the weight of his presence as soon as he entered your field of vision. You instinctively tensed.

You stood there for a second, unsure of what to do. There was this insane part of you that wanted to go to him, talk to him, maybe even try to make things less...awkward. But your pride? Your damn pride wouldn’t let you.

“Go on, talk to him,” Nobara said with a grin, nudging you gently.

You ignored her, walking up to Megumi, your heels clicking sharply against the floor as you tried to mask the nerves building up in your stomach. You kept your gaze steady, but when you finally reached him, you faltered slightly. There was something in your chest, like an empty, aching pit.

“Hey,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I handed an essay to Gojo today.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable as always. “Good for you.”

You blinked, the words stinging more than they should have. “Yeah, well... It was a little late, but I tried.”

He nodded once. “Try harder next time.”

And just like that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the hallway, feeling stupid and small.

“Good talk, huh?” Nobara muttered, glancing between you and Megumi as he walked off, his back turned without a second look.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to hold your composure. But it was hard, so damn hard to pretend it didn’t hurt. It hurt more than you wanted to admit, and you hated yourself for letting it sting.

“Yeah,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Great.”

The soft hum of the lamp in your room was the only sound that filled the space as you sat at your desk. You’d somehow managed to grab one of the materials Megumi had made for you, the one with the little notes scribbled in the margins. The ones he’d given you after that one tutoring session that—well, now that you looked back on it—felt like a turning point.

The paper felt heavier than it should have, as if each mark, each word, was weightier now. His handwriting, a scrawling mess in some parts, neat and careful in others. But what hit you wasn’t just the content. No, it was the bits of comments he left here and there, like he was trying to break through his own usual, distant shell.

"Try connecting this with the main idea." "You're overthinking this, just read it carefully." "Good effort. I’m not totally convinced, but it's a start."

It wasn’t like he had to leave these notes. He didn’t need to care. He didn’t owe you anything. But there they were. Tiny pieces of advice, encouragement, frustration. And the one that made you smile for a second: "I know you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for."

For just a moment, your heart ached at the thought.

He didn’t have to say that. Megumi could have dismissed you like everyone else did. He could’ve walked away, let you fail, but instead... instead, he chose to give you a chance. And now? You were sitting here, staring at it all, because you knew deep down you had to prove him right.

But how could you do that now?

Your eyes flickered to the small sticky note stuck on the top corner, where he’d written a single line in the same pen, his handwriting barely legible: "You can do this. Just try."

You exhaled, biting your lip, trying to ignore the lump in your throat.

You remembered that day—his quiet, reserved voice telling you not to give up. It wasn’t a normal pep talk. It was more... personal. Like he was giving you something fragile, trusting you with a little piece of him. And somehow, you'd been too busy pretending to not care, too afraid to admit how much it affected you, that you fucked it up.

You remembered how he’d looked at you that day, his shoulders tense but his eyes softer than usual, like he was on the edge of saying something more, but he kept pulling back. And you? You were too wrapped up in your own self-image, too proud to let yourself show any weakness. So you made a joke, cracked a smile, pushed it away.

But now? Now, you wished you hadn’t. You wished you’d let him in. Wished you hadn’t been so fucking scared to be vulnerable for once.

Because if you’d been honest with yourself, you'd realized—just then—that Megumi had started to become someone you didn’t want to lose. Not just a tutor. Not just a guy you kept pushing away. But someone who saw past all the shit, all the walls you’d built around yourself.

You remembered when he opened up to you, just a bit, about the shit he was dealing with. About how much he hated being treated like he wasn’t enough—like a fucking robot in the eyes of everyone else. How he was constantly forced into situations where he had to be something he wasn’t.

You saw it. You saw that flicker of vulnerability in him that he hardly ever let anyone see. And you? You shut it down. You shut him out.

Your hands gripped the paper a little harder, and you exhaled slowly, frustration building up inside your chest.

"Why the hell did I have to be so goddamn stupid?" you muttered, slamming the paper back onto the desk. You leaned back in your chair, letting your head fall back to stare at the ceiling.

All that shit with Noritoshi. With the way things always went wrong. You’d shut yourself off from everyone, including Megumi, thinking you could handle it alone. And you did handle it... but now, sitting here, you realized how empty that felt. How lonely. How cold.

He thought you could be someone to trust. And what did you do? You let your pride, your stupid fucking pride, tear that down.

The thoughts swirled in your head—self-hatred mixed with the anger you had at yourself. You slammed your hand down on the desk, frustrated with how badly you’d messed up. You could feel the tears starting to burn at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them away.

It wasn't just Megumi you were angry with anymore. It was you. You’d fucked it all up. And now, you had to live with that.

But what hurt the most? What really fucking hurt was knowing he wasn’t going to just come back and fix it. No. You had to fix this. You had to make it right, because if you didn’t, you’d lose whatever fucking chance you had with him.

And somehow, as much as you hated it, you realized that wasn’t a possibility. You didn’t want to lose him.

Maybe it was time you admitted that.

So, with a sigh, you pushed the paper back in front of you, knowing that this was more than just about a grade anymore. This was about proving something to yourself. About showing Megumi that you were worth the trust, worth the time, he’d invested in you.

And for the first time, you didn’t want to fail, not this time.

You stood there, staring at the building in front of you, your fingers clutching the crumpled piece of paper that seemed to have mysteriously found its way into your hands again.

It was Friday, the day Megumi had always made clear he wasn’t free. He’d said it casually enough back then, like it was something so ordinary that there was no reason to question it. “I’m not free on Fridays,” he’d said, voice flat and unaffected. But now? Now, you were standing here, outside what looked like an abandoned gym, the same address scribbled on the paper he’d let slip out of his textbook once.

What the hell is this place?

The paper hadn’t meant much then. It was just an address, a scribble, nothing more. But now, the fact that you were standing outside of it felt like something more—a revelation, maybe? Or just a damn mistake.

Was this where he goes? The thought kept pushing at you, refusing to stay buried. The building in front of you was weathered, the windows cracked, and the doors? Rusted. It didn’t look like a place Megumi would spend his time. Not at all. And yet, here you were.

You could almost hear his voice in your head, telling you he wasn’t free on Fridays, reminding you with that cold tone that he had other things to do. Other things that didn’t involve you.

But then why?

You didn’t know what had made you follow that scrap of paper, but somehow, here you were, your heart hammering a little too loudly, the nerves making your hands shake. You had no idea what you were hoping to find. What were you looking for, exactly? An explanation? A reason?

You inhaled sharply, trying to pull yourself together, pushing back the mix of doubt and curiosity that gnawed at your insides.

It’s none of your business, you told yourself, but the words felt empty. Because it was your business. Megumi was your tutor—your reluctant tutor, but still, he was the one you asked for help. The one you asked to let you in. And now you were standing outside, on the edge of some kind of answer, but you weren’t sure if you actually wanted to know what it was.

Is this really the kind of guy you want to know?

You stepped closer to the door, the sound of your shoes crunching against the gravel beneath you. Hesitation lingered in every movement, but your legs carried you anyway. There was something pulling you forward, an urge to know, to break down whatever wall he’d built between you.

The door creaked open as you reached for the handle, the scent of dust and old leather filling your nose as you stepped inside.

The gym was empty.

The air was heavy with the smell of sweat and old wood. The lights overhead flickered in a slow rhythm, casting uneven shadows across the worn-down equipment. Punching bags hung in the corner, their leather faded and cracked from years of use. Rusted weights lined the walls, a neglected space that felt like no one had cared for it in a long time.

What was Megumi doing here?

You looked around, feeling more and more out of place by the second. This was nothing like the Megumi you thought you knew—the quiet, reserved guy who seemed like he didn’t care about anything. This place was rough, tired, forgotten. So was he.

You didn’t expect to see him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t Megumi.

The man sitting on the bench had a relaxed, confident posture, like someone who belonged in a place like this—worn-out gym flooring, cold lighting, walls sweating the weight of discipline. His eyes flicked up as you stepped in, and when they landed on you—miniskirt, tank top, lip gloss still glossy—it wasn’t judgment you felt.

It was scrutiny.

Like he was sizing you up for something you didn’t know you were auditioning for.

He let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, shit.”

Your brows pulled in. “What?”

He stood slowly, broad frame shifting with ease, cracking his neck before he stepped forward just a bit, boots heavy against the floor. “Didn’t think a girl like you’d actually show up.”

You stepped back, fingers tightening around the crumpled paper in your hand. “Excuse me?”

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite mocking either. “Relax, I’m not gonna bite. You’re the one Megumi’s been tutoring, right?”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t say much. But ‘m not stupid. Kid’s been dragging home worksheets and stress for weeks. Took a guess.”

Your heart stuttered, embarrassment bleeding into caution. “Why would he be here?” you asked sharply, voice a little too defensive. “And who the fuck are you?”

The man gave you a low, amused look, voice loose and grounded. “Friend of his dad,” he said, vague but intentional. “Used to run with the old man. Name’s Yoshinobu.”

He offered no last name, no further details. Just a beat of silence between you before he nodded toward the bench across from the ring.

“You came this far. Might as well sit down.” You didn’t move.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Then he turned back toward the ring, where the lights were dim, but movement flickered behind a mesh curtain. You could hear it faintly—dull sounds of something hitting leather. Gloves. Skin. Breath.

Your fingers twitched around the paper. You glanced at the exit behind you. You could still walk away.

But instead— You sat, "Where's Megumi?"

Renji said nothing more. Just leaned back, ankle over his knee, arms sprawled against the bench like he’d done this a hundred times.

“You'll see,” he muttered eventually, almost too casual.

And so you did, no answers. No explanations.

Just the heavy, humid stillness of a worn-out gym. And the echo of fists hitting something hard in the distance. Over and over and over again.

The sound came before the sight.

The sharp thump of gloves hitting canvas. The squeak of shoes on the floor. And then— Megumi stepped into the ring.

And you—holy shit.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a hoodie, a scowl, more of the same stiff, buttoned-up Megumi Fushiguro who tossed study packets at you like you were a charity case. Not... this.

Not him. Shirtless.

Sweat-slicked skin, broad shoulders flexing as he rolled out his neck. Arms defined. Stomach lean and tight, with the kind of abs you only see in boxing anime or underwear billboards. Veins along his forearms. Knuckles wrapped. A thin scar near his rib you never noticed before.

And his hair—still messy, still unruly, but wet and spiked, falling into his face in that way that made your jaw clench because— What the fuck.

You were drooling. You were actually drooling. And the worst part?

He didn’t even look surprised to be here. He didn’t look embarrassed or shy or like he was hiding. He looked like he belonged in that ring—like it was the one place he let go.

Yoshinobu chuckled next to you, like he caught the twitch in your lip or the way you were suddenly sitting very, very still.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the ring. “Kid’s been doing this for years.”

You tore your eyes away just long enough to hiss, “He’s been hiding that body under those crusty-ass sweatpants?”

Renji smirked. “Not the only thing he’s been hiding, I’d bet.”

You gave him a side-eye.

“Relax, I’m not saying I know your business.” He leaned back. “But I’ve seen a lot of fighters. That kid? He’s sharp. Holds back too much sometimes. Always thinking five steps ahead. Got that from his old man. But when he lets loose?” He shook his head. “It’s brutal.”

Your gaze snapped back to the ring.

Megumi was facing down a taller man across from him—thicker built, more muscle, maybe even more experience. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Megumi didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.

Then the bell rang. And just like that— He moved. Fast. Clean. Deadly.

You could hardly keep up. He dodged the first punch with a low slip, twisted his body, came up with a hook to the ribs so fast it barely made sense. His form was perfect—like he wasn’t even thinking about it, like it lived in his bones.

Another hit. Another pivot. A sweat-slicked arm. You actually let out a noise. A soft one. Embarrassing.

You crossed your legs tighter and leaned back on the bench, trying not to show it, but your face was burning.

Yoshinobu glanced over, clearly amused. “Not what you expected?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the ring. “I’ve seen better.”

You hadn’t. But you’d die before admitting that.

Megumi’s opponent landed a jab. He shook it off like it was nothing and came back swinging—faster, stronger, sharper. His entire body snapped with every motion. Power in every movement. Rage in every breath.

He wasn’t just fighting. He was working through something. And God, it was hot. You hated yourself a little for thinking it.

But you couldn’t look away, even if it burned, even if it hurt.

He was relentless.

The guy he was sparring with was taller, broader, probably stronger by weight class—but Megumi?

He was smarter.

You watched as he moved around the ring like the ground bent to his will—his footwork barely audible, shifting weight like water. He let the other guy swing wild—miss, overextend, pant like a dog—and Megumi waited. Studied. Measured.

Then he snapped.

A lightning-fast left jab cracked against the man’s cheek. The sound echoed across the room. You flinched. But Megumi didn’t.

He followed through without hesitation—hook, uppercut, block—his body twisting and coiling like a loaded spring, punching through the air with enough force to make you wince.

Every time his fist connected, sweat flew off his knuckles like it was vapor. Every time he exhaled, his jaw flexed, sharp under the bruised light. Every time he moved— You swore it did something to your chest.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You just sat there frozen, pulse thudding in your ears, mouth dry, lips slightly parted like an idiot.

Yoshinobu let out a long whistle next to you, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“I don’t know what your deal is with him,” he muttered, tone unreadable. “But don’t hurt him.”

You blinked, dragged out of your haze. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. He was still watching Megumi. “He’s a good kid. Stubborn, quiet. Doesn’t care about much. Not money. Not praise. Not even winning, sometimes.”

You stayed silent.

He continued, voice low, like he was letting you in on something sacred. “So when Toji mentioned he’s tutoring some attractive girl—his words, not mine—so imagine my surprise when he started to ramble about asking me certain things."

You narrowed your eyes. “Okay, and?”

“And then,” Yoshinobu said, barely hiding a smirk now, “he starts taking longer showers in the locker room. Like ten, fifteen extra minutes.”

Your jaw dropped.

“What—?” you blurted. “Are you—? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

He shrugged. “Just saying. Maybe you’re not just his tutor project.”

Your face burned. You whipped your head away, cursing under your breath.

“I’m not—he’s not—” You scowled. “He doesn’t even look at me anymore.”

Yoshinobu tilted his head. “No?”

“No,” you snapped. “He’s probably still mad about the fight. Whatever.”

But your eyes said otherwise.

They dragged back to the ring—because even now, even when your heart was still sore, when everything inside you screamed you should hate him for how he talked to you, yelled at you, shut you down—

He still moved like he was carved from stone and fire. Still burned like something you couldn’t stop watching. Still made your stomach flip when he shifted and the sweat slid down his back, over the cut of his waist.

And he didn’t look at you once. Not even once.

Yoshinobu must’ve sensed the shift in your silence. “He fights like this when something’s in his head.”

You said nothing.

The match kept going. The guy threw another heavy swing, but Megumi ducked, moved so fast you almost missed the counter jab that sent the man stumbling backward. His chest was heaving now, face red, breath ragged.

Megumi didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t say a single word.

He just reset his stance. Chin down. Eyes sharp. Fists up.

Focused. Controlled.

It hit you all at once.

That was the boy who sat beside you with textbooks and red pens. That was the same boy who rolled his eyes at your dramatics and still added notes in the margins. That was the same Megumi Fushiguro who kissed you with inexperience and slow-burning want—and still let you break his heart before he ever admitted it.

You hated this.

You hated the way your chest ached. You hated the way you wanted him to look at you—just once. You hated the way he didn’t. And still, you couldn’t look away.

The fight was over. But the tension still lingered in the air like smoke—thick, clinging, inescapable.

Megumi stepped off the mat, bandages undone, hanging in strips from his wrists like ghosts of the fists he'd just thrown. His chest rose and fell slowly, like he was still coming down from the adrenaline, but even from here, you could tell how calm he looked on the outside. Unbothered. Still. Like none of that meant anything.

You wanted to scream at how easy he made it look.

Yoshinobu watched from beside you, arms folded. “That was clean,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Didn’t even use his full weight.”

You swallowed thickly, unable to tear your eyes away from Megumi. He was wiping his face with the bottom of his shirt now—that shirtless torso lifting, exposing the bruises on his ribs, the scars on his waist.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Yoshinobu’s voice cut through again. “You planning to keep gawking, or are you gonna go talk to him?”

You flinched slightly. “I’m not—”

He gave you a look. The kind that saw through all your usual bullshit, the kind that made your spine straighten.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between you two,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking between you and the boy across the room, “but he’s not gonna make the first move. Not when he’s like this.”

“Like what?”

Yoshinobu shrugged. “Closed off. Pissed. Hurt. Take your pick.” Your throat tightened.

He turned away with a quiet sigh. “Go.”

You watched him kneel by the guy Megumi had just knocked down, murmuring something low, like a check-in, a reassurance. The other boy nodded slowly, rubbing his ribs.

Megumi, meanwhile, started walking to a bench. He still hadn’t seen you.

But you’d already disturbed so much, hadn’t you? You took a breath, and walked.

Every step echoed too loudly in your own ears. The gym felt cavernous now, like it was holding its breath, waiting for this exact collision. Him and you.

You stopped a few feet from him. His head was still tilted back. Eyes still shut. Bandages slack against his thighs. He looked peaceful.

God, you hated him for that.

You weren’t peaceful. You were a hurricane pretending to be a person. You were mascara smudged in the dark, whispers behind lockers, a reputation clinging to your throat like perfume. You weren’t someone who stayed.

But you were here, he didn’t see you at first, or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

His back was to you, chest rising and falling, fists still flexing at his sides. His bandages were half-off, peeling from his knuckles like scorched paper, sweat dripping down the slope of his spine. The gym lights weren’t kind, but on him, they didn’t have to be — they only carved the lean muscle of his back in harder lines.

You stopped short. Because goddamn, he looked— shut up. You shut it down. Now wasn’t the time.

You opened your mouth to speak— He turned around.

Slowly. Deliberately. And the second his eyes landed on you, the air shifted. His voice cut through the air like a blade. “What are you doing here.”

Not a question. A warning.

He was shirtless, breathing hard, chest streaked with sweat and god knows what else. His black shorts hung low on his hips, legs braced wide as he flexed his wrist slowly — as if shaking off the last of the fight. He sat down with a quiet thud, legs spreading carelessly as he leaned forward on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor like you weren’t even worth the effort.

You swallowed.

This was worse than cold. This was indifference, and it felt like hell.

You held up the paper in your hand, voice shaking despite everything in you trying to sound composed. “I found this. Once. It fell out of your notebook when we were—”

“Leave.”

He didn’t even glance at you.

You blinked. “I—I didn’t even know what it was back then, okay? I didn’t know what this place was.”

“I said leave.” His tone dropped. Sharp. Clipped. You flinched. But you didn’t move.

“I remembered what you said,” you rushed, stepping closer. “About not being free on Fridays. I remembered, and I—I was curious. That’s all.”

He stood suddenly, and you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, he was taller like this. Broader. Angrier.

And even now, when he looked like he wanted nothing more than to get away from you, he still looked stupidly good.

His chest heaved once as he scoffed. “You’re unbelievable.”

Then he turned, and walked.

Not toward the ring. Not toward Yoshinobu. Toward the locker room. You panicked. You followed, because you weren’t done. Not this time.

“Wait—wait!” you called, footsteps echoing as you chased after him. “I’m not here to fight, I swear—just listen to me!”

He shoved open the locker room door, and you didn’t even hesitate before slipping in behind him. The slam echoed through the tile like a slap. He didn’t face you. Not at first.

He yanked a towel off the bench, wiped his face, cracked his neck. Like you were just noise behind him.

“Megumi,” you tried again, voice thinner now, fragile around the edges. “Please.”

That made him freeze.

“Please?” he repeated, quietly. He still wasn’t looking at you.

You nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

“And I need you to get the fuck out.”

You stepped forward. “I need you.” Silence. That got him. He turned, finally, eyes sharp and hard and fucking exhausted.

“For what?” he snapped. “To be your emotional punching bag again? I am just a emotionless virgin to you after all."

“No. I'm sorry.” He stared at you like he didn’t believe a word.

“I just—” You exhaled, chest tightening. “I need you to know I’ve been trying.” He said nothing. You pulled your bag around and yanked out a wrinkled paper. “Gojo gave us an essay about constitutional rights. I finished it.” Still nothing. “And today, Nobara asked me a civics question and I—I remembered what you said. About the electoral process. About proportional representation in the Diet. And I said it right, I think. Mostly.” Megumi blinked, jaw twitching.

You pushed on. “And yesterday, I tried answering a question about Newton’s third law. You said, ‘equal and opposite reaction,’ right? I think I got it.” Still, he didn’t speak. He was looking at you now. Really looking.

“And physics? I remember... I remember you said momentum equals mass times velocity, and I tried—” Your voice cracked. “I tried. I’m still trying.”

You laughed a little, bitter. “I don’t even know why I care. Why I wanted to get better. It’s not like anyone expected me to.”

Megumi’s hands were braced against the locker behind him, shoulders still tense, like if he moved, he’d explode.

You lowered your voice. “But I did. I do. Because I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted to show you that I’m not just some spoiled, shallow bitch who uses people.”

Your throat tightened. “And maybe at first, it was just about spite. But it’s not anymore.”

The locker room was too quiet now.

You bit your lip. “You made me feel like I was capable of more. Of being someone better. You were the first person who made me want to stop coasting.” Still, he said nothing.

You swallowed. “I know I said things I can’t take back. I know I hurt you.” Your voice broke again, softer. “But I never stopped thinking about you. Even when I wanted to.” You waited. His face didn’t change. He just… stared. And you didn’t know what that meant yet.

But you’d said it. You’d fucking said it. And now it was up to him.

You didn’t know what else to say.

You’d poured it all out—your voice raw, your throat aching, your pride shattered at his feet. And still, he just stared at you. Silent. Stone.

So you filled the silence the only way you knew how.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you muttered, eyes falling to the floor. “But I need you to tutor me again.”

That caught his attention.

Your breath hitched as you pushed forward—too fast, too vulnerable now to stop yourself. “I meant it. I remember everything you said. All those little examples, your stupid metaphors, even that time you made fun of me for not knowing what a veto was—”

Still nothing. His hands were still braced behind him. Still staring.

“I don’t care if you think I’m a mess,” you whispered. “I just… I just want to be better. And you’re the only one who ever made me believe I could be. I need you to help me get there.”

You looked up finally. “Please.”

Silence.

Then—

He moved.

Fast.

A blur of heat and muscle and fury, Megumi was in front of you before you could even blink, grabbing your face in both hands and crashing his mouth to yours.

You gasped, and that was all the invitation he needed—his tongue slid deep between your lips, hungry, slick, and fucking claiming. There was no hesitation, no sweet slow burn. Just raw, unforgiving heat. Teeth and breath and everything you’d both been swallowing for weeks.

His hands dropped to your waist, yanking you flush against him like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer. You moaned into his mouth, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, tugging hard, and he growled—actually growled—into the kiss.

He kissed like he hated you for making him want this. Like he was punishing you and punishing himself all at once.

His palms slid down to your ass, gripping hard, forcing you closer as he slotted a thigh between yours and shoved you against the nearest locker. The cold metal hit your back, but you barely noticed—your brain was too fogged, lips bruised, hips grinding down instinctively against the heat of his thigh.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your mouth, voice cracked open, wrecked. “Why do you have to do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, breathless, dazed. “I don’t know, but don’t stop.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your waist, dragging over your ribs, up under your shirt, fingertips scorching against bare skin. You could barely breathe, barely think. His mouth found your jaw, your neck, biting hard enough to bruise before sucking the pain away, tongue hot and wet.

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs squeezing tight around his.

“God, you’re such a fucking mess,” he breathed against your skin, voice full of heat and hurt and everything in between. “But I can’t stay away.”

You kissed him again—desperate, wet, open-mouthed—and he groaned deep in his throat, like he was starving for you. His hands cupped your ass again, lifting slightly, grinding you down against his leg so good it made you gasp.

Your hips moved on instinct. The friction was dizzying.

You tangled both hands in his hair now, tugging, pulling him deeper, and he let you—let you own him for a second, just like you always tried to do. But this time, he gave in.

No more rules. No more distance.

Just heat. And tongue. And teeth.

And the crashing, furious kiss of two people who’d tried so fucking hard not to want each other—and failed.

You were still gasping against him when he broke the kiss, chest heaving, lips slick and red from how hard he’d kissed you. His hands gripped your waist like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

Your hand dropped to his shorts.

His breath hitched.

You looked up at him with wide, daring eyes. “Can I?”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything—just stared at you like he couldn’t believe what you were asking. And then he nodded.

Slow. Tight. Jaw clenched.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuck. Yeah.”

You sank to your knees.

He watched the whole thing—eyes dark and blown, hands falling to his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. You tugged his waistband down, and his cock sprang free—and holy fuck—you were right.

So right.

Big. Thick. Heavy. Veined. The flushed tip already slick, like he’d been aching for this longer than he wanted to admit.

You bit your lip, fingers wrapping around the base as your throat tightened with anticipation.

“Fuck me…” he breathed.

You glanced up.

He was staring straight down at you, hair messy, sweat dripping down his chest, jaw flexing like he was trying so hard not to lose it already.

“You look so pretty like that,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “On your knees. Fucking perfect.”

You smiled, wicked. “Gonna let me make you feel good?”

He groaned—half growl, half prayer. “Please.”

You licked a stripe up the underside, slow and deliberate, tongue tracing every ridge and vein. His hips twitched. Your lips wrapped around the tip, suckling lightly as your hand stroked the rest, wrist twisting gently.

“Oh my god,” he hissed. “Your mouth—fuck—”

You took more. Inch by inch, pushing down until your throat clenched around him, spit pooling, mascara probably already smudging. He was so thick your lips were straining around him, jaw aching—and still you kept going.

“Jesus—fuck—just like that,” he gasped. “Shit—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

Your tongue licked under the head as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks, letting him hear how wet and messy it was. Slurping. Gagging a little when he hit the back of your throat—but you didn’t stop.

You moaned around him instead.

His hand shot out, threading into your hair—gripping, tight, controlling.

“Fuck—fuck,” he growled. “You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You blinked up at him, tears starting to prick in your lashes from the stretch.

“You like this?” he bit out. “Like choking on my cock?”

You moaned again, harder this time—vibrating around him.

His hips thrust forward suddenly, and he groaned deep, watching your throat bulge, your jaw stretch wide around him. You gagged a little again—but fuck it, you loved it. The way he cursed. The way his legs trembled.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “All pretty and ruined, just for me.”

You sucked him harder. Faster. Spit dripping from your chin, his cock slick with your saliva, your fist pumping the base while your mouth worked him with obscene, wet sounds.

He was shaking now, barely holding back.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” he warned, voice cracking. “Fucking hell—don’t stop. I’m so close—shit—”

You sucked him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat one more time, and that was it.

“Fuck—fuck!”

He came hard—hot and thick, spilling down your throat in long, shuddering pulses. You swallowed around him, gagging again as he groaned so loud, hand still tangled in your hair as his entire body trembled.

You held him there until he stopped twitching, until he was completely empty—then finally pulled off with a slick pop, licking your lips, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He was still staring down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild and fucked-out.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

You grinned up at him, ruined and satisfied. “That good, huh?”

He just groaned again and tugged you up by your wrist—dragging you into another kiss, filthy and full of spit and tongue and everything you didn’t say.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open.

You barely had time to adjust your shirt when a voice called out—lazy, amused, and way too casual for the situation.

“Yo, Megumi.” Your heads snapped toward the entrance. Yoshinobu stood just outside the locker room, one brow raised, arms crossed, clearly trying not to smirk.

“Toji’s gonna walk in any second,” he added, voice like a warning wrapped in a grin. “If you still want to keep that pretty little lady around for your tutoring sessions, you better hide.”

Megumi groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. You wiped your mouth, slow.

Yoshinobu winked at you. “Hey, no judgment. I’d let her tutor me too.”

Megumi slammed the locker door shut hard enough to echo. “Get the fuck out.”

Yoshinobu just laughed and walked off, muttering, “You’re welcome, Romeo.”

As soon as Yoshinobu disappeared down the hallway, the panic kicked in.

“Shit,” you muttered, already bending to the floor. “Where the fuck—where did half my notes even go?”

Megumi was beside you in seconds, shirtless and flushed, sweat still clinging to his chest as he reached for your crumpled worksheets. His hand was still wrapped in bandages, movements tight and clipped as he grabbed a page and shoved it at you.

“You seriously brought all this to a gym?”

“Don’t start,” you snapped, snatching it from him. “Not when your dick’s the reason I dropped half my life on the floor—”

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, eyes wild. “Do you want him to hear us?” Your mouth shut instantly.

You scrambled to shove the rest of your notes back into your tote bag—history quiz key, Gojo’s half-legible assignment sheet, your favorite black pen.

Megumi cursed under his breath. “Where’s your phone?”

“Under the bench—fuck—” He dropped to his knees, grabbing it just as the locker room door creaked again.

“Megumi?” came the voice. You both froze.

Toji. Your blood went ice cold.

Megumi’s eyes darted to yours, and without a word, he grabbed your wrist, pulled you hard toward the showers, around the tiled wall, and straight into the small, grimy private washroom stall. He shoved the door closed with his hip and snapped the lock shut in one motion.

The second the lock clicked, you were pressed together. Tight space. Too tight. Your back hit the tile. His bare chest brushed yours.

His hand was still wrapped around your waist. Warm. Big. He didn’t let go. You didn’t breathe. Toji’s footsteps echoed into the locker room like gunshots. Closer. Louder.

“Megumi?” he called again, annoyed now. “The hell are you hiding for?”

The stall was dead quiet. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Megumi’s chest rose against yours. He was breathing slow, controlled, but his eyes were locked on yours—burning.

His thumb moved once against your side. You swallowed, lips parted.

Outside, Toji’s boots scuffed the tile. He moved past the benches. You could hear him pause, like he was scanning the room. Listening.

“Thought I heard voices,” he muttered.

The air in the stall was thick. Hot. Oppressive. Your thigh was brushing his. His hand was still at your waist, tighter now, like if he let go, something would snap.

You looked up. He was already looking at you.

And fuck, that look—like he wasn’t just thinking about getting caught. He was thinking about what would happen if he didn’t stop. Right here. Right now.

Toji scoffed outside. “Brat probably bolted. Whatever.”

Footsteps. The creak of the locker room door. Then a slam. Silence.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You waited a few seconds after the door slammed before finally letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Megumi did the same, shoulders sagging just slightly as he backed up half an inch—but his hand stayed on your waist.

You glanced down at it. Then up at him. Then cracked a grin.

“God,” you breathed, still half-giddy, “we really just sucked each other’s souls out and hid in a locker room washroom like porn extras.”

Megumi snorted, wiping a hand down his face. “I knew Yoshinobu was up to something the second he opened his mouth.”

“Uh-huh. And yet you still let me drop to my knees.”

He groaned. “Don’t start—”

“Oh, I’m starting,” you teased, voice syrupy and smug. “You were into it. You were talking, Megumi. Like, actual dirty talk. I almost dropped dead.”

His ears went red instantly. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Oh no, babe,” you said, drawing out the syllables like velvet. “You called me pretty while I was choking on your cock. I’m gonna hold onto that forever.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like kill me.

You laughed. The air lightened, just for a moment. But then Megumi’s face shifted. Softer. Serious.

“I… I meant it,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked away, rubbing at the back of his neck with his bandaged hand. “The pretty part, yeah. But also—” His voice caught for a second. “I’m sorry. For what I said before.”

The words hung between you. Still. Gentle.

Your chest tightened.

He kept going. “I was angry. But not at you. Not really. I was pissed at myself, and I took it out on you. I called you shallow, I said you didn’t try, and that wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve that.”

You stayed quiet.

“And I shouldn’t have…” His eyes flicked to yours again, raw around the edges. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. To you.”

Your breath hitched.

To you.

He said it like it mattered. Like you mattered. Not just because you kissed. Not just because you gave him head in a locker room. But because, somewhere in all of this—he actually gave a shit about you.

You blinked fast.

“Well,” you said softly, trying not to sound as shaky as you felt, “you were kind of right.”

He frowned. “That’s not the point—”

“I know. But it’s true.” You shrugged. “I didn’t try. I was mean. I used people to feel powerful. But… I didn’t want to be that around you.”

Megumi’s mouth parted, like he didn’t know what to say.

So you added, with a wry little smile, “Guess we’re both disasters.”

He gave a breathy laugh. “Speak for yourself.” You rolled your eyes—but the moment lingered.

You didn’t say anything else. But to you echoed in your mind. And you knew, without question, you’d remember it.

You leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the floor. The heat had simmered down. Your pulse was slower now.

But the words were still in your throat.

“…I’m sorry too,” you said quietly.

Megumi looked up.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “For what I said. The virgin comment. That was…” You sighed. “It was mean. And low. I was just mad and stupid and lashing out like I always do.”

He was quiet.

Then, “It’s okay.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I knew it would hurt. That’s why I said it.”

A pause. You looked at him again.

He didn’t look upset. If anything, he looked… calm. Maybe a little sad.

“I get it,” he said softly. “You were angry. I was, too. I didn’t even care what I said until after you left.” He shrugged. “I don’t really care about the virgin thing, to be honest.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“I mean,” he said with a weak laugh, “not anymore.”

That made you smile—just a little.

A warm silence settled. The kind that felt… earned.

Then you cocked your head, eyes drifting down his chest.

“So…” you said slowly, lips curling into a smirk. “Nerd boy’s a boxer? Way to break the stereotype, Gumi.”

Megumi groaned. “Here we go—”

“No, seriously,” you said, pushing off the wall, circling him a little. “All this time I thought you were just some uptight know-it-all with no social life, and now you’ve got this—” You gestured to his body. “—situation going on.”

“Please stop talking,” he muttered.

You ignored him. “If you really wanted to bag Miwa, you should’ve just taken your shirt off in front of her. Instant success.”

He frowned. “I don’t—what?”

You raised a brow. “You’ve got arms, Fushiguro. Do you even know that? Should I start a fan club? The Biceps for the Blue-Haired Girl campaign?”

He rolled his eyes, but you caught the faint pink in his ears.

“I don’t box to impress girls,” he said finally. “It’s not about that.”

You blinked.

He shifted, eyes dropping for a moment before he spoke again. “My dad’s really into it. He used to box when he was younger. I think… I think it’s his way of keeping me grounded. Especially since things have been rough with Tsumiki.”

Your teasing faded.

He continued, voice low. Honest. “It helps. Clears my head. Makes me feel like I’m in control of something. And he knows I’ve been struggling, so he’s trying to… I don’t know. Connect. Without pushing too hard.”

You stared at him, a little stunned. That wasn’t something Megumi usually said. Not something anyone usually said to you.

“…That’s really sweet,” you murmured.

He shrugged, looking away again. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” you said softly.

He glanced back at you, and you held his gaze this time.

There was still a teasing spark behind your eyes, sure—but it was quieter now. Warmer. You saw him. Really saw him, and you liked what you saw.

You leaned your shoulder against the tile again, biting back a smile of your own.

“So…” you said, voice light but curious. “Does this mean the deal’s back on?”

Megumi blinked at you. You raised a brow. “Tutoring. Both kinds.”

He scoffed, looking away like he wasn’t about to smile—but you saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Then curled.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Deal.”

You saw him by the lockers before he saw you—hair a little messier than usual, collar loosened, black glasses perched on his nose like he was born to judge the IQ of everyone passing by.

God, he looked insufferably smart. Pen behind his ear, shirt sleeves rolled neatly past his forearms like he had an oral defense due in five and a girl to make cry right after. No bandages today. No bruises. No gym sweat.

Just Megumi.

Back in his clean-cut, honor roll disguise.

You walked up slow.

Like prey turning into predator.

“So…” you said, voice lazy, teasing. “Your place free later?”

He didn’t even flinch. Just closed his locker like a professor finishing his office hours and looked at you over the rim of his glasses.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

He looked almost amused at your expression, but of course, didn’t smile. That would be too easy.

“My dad’s got people over,” he said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Old friends. Loud. Crude. You wouldn’t like them.”

“Oh,” you said. “And what? You’re worried they’ll scare me?”

Megumi looked you up and down—slow, unimpressed.

“No,” he muttered. “They’ll annoy the hell out of you. And then you’ll start insulting them and I’ll have to explain why my tutor is verbally assaulting grown men.”

You snorted.

“I wouldn’t even raise my voice,” you said sweetly. “I’d just call them broke and unimportant and move on.”

He sighed, looking away like he was trying not to laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence between you crackled. People passed by in little clusters—some staring, some pretending not to—but Megumi didn’t care. He just stood there with his sleeves rolled and his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, like he wasn’t the one ruining your concentration.

You hesitated.

Just a beat.

Then: “My house.”

His head tilted. Just slightly. “What?”

“You heard me.”

Megumi’s gaze lingered, like he was trying to read between the lines.

You lifted your chin. “It’s quiet. It’s clean. My dad’s out. And I’m not about to wait another week because your trashy relatives want to drink beer and yell at the TV.”

There was a long pause, then Megumi nodded once.

“Alright.”

That’s all he said. And then he walked off like he hadn’t just accepted an invitation into your damn world.

You stood there, watching him go, and tried to get your face back to neutral.

It didn’t work. You were smiling. Ear to fucking ear. Like a clown in Prada.

You could already feel the whispers behind your back as people glanced at you from the corner of their eyes, because yeah. Yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro? The nerd in the glasses? Him?

He was tutoring you, and now he was going to your house.

You caught one girl staring too long and raised your brow with a sharp little smile.

“What, bitch?” you snapped. “Yes, it’s Megumi. No, you can’t have him.”

Then you turned on your heel and strutted down the hallway like the queen you were, mentally rearranging your bedroom and maybe—just maybe—deleting the playlist labeled for fucking.

Because if he showed up? You wanted to be ready.

You barely made it ten feet before a voice you didn’t ask for slithered up from behind.

“Well, well,” Aiko purred, her tone all sugar and spite. “The queen bee herself. Slumming it now, huh?”

You turned slowly.

She stood there with her knockoff handbag, fake tan peeling at the collar, and a smirk like she thought she mattered. Her eyes flicked toward your retreating hallway glance—right where Megumi had gone moments ago.

“Him?” she said. “You’re really hanging around him now?”

You didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” Aiko grinned wider. “Tell me this is, like, community service or something. Please say you’re not actually with Fushiguro.”

You blinked at her. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I mean…” She scoffed. “Come on. He’s a loser. Always has been. Total social suicide.”

You just stared.

Aiko kept going, not seeing the cliff she was running toward. “Like yeah, he’s tall and all, but what else? He’s got zero presence, always alone, and he wears glasses, babe. Not even the hot kind. He looks like he’s allergic to sunlight. And you—” she waved a manicured hand toward your outfit, “—you’re you. Everyone watches what you wear, who you’re seen with. And now you’re doing hallway strolls with fucking Fushiguro?”

Silence. Dead, heavy silence.

Then, You took a step forward. “Say that again.”

Aiko’s smile faltered. “Say what?”

“Call him that again.”

Her face twisted with something smug. “What? A loser? I mean, sorry, but he is.”

That was it.

You closed the distance, grabbed a fistful of her hair so fast she gasped—and leaned in close, voice low and sweet like venom in champagne.

“You listen to me, you crusty, clearance-rack bitch. The next time you open your mouth about him like that, I will ruin your life in ways you can’t even spell.” Aiko’s eyes went wide, terrified. She didn’t dare move.

“He’s more of a man than anyone you’ve ever begged to text you back. So watch your fucking mouth. Or I’ll show you what social suicide really looks like.”

Then you let go—slow and deliberate. Her breath hitched. Her lip trembled. You gave her a tight, pitying smile. “Now run along. Before I start listing your body count in front of the juniors.”

She practically bolted.

Nobara wandered up from behind, chewing gum like she’d just witnessed a crime. “Jesus. You need to be arrested for that one.”

“She called him a loser,” you said flatly.

Nobara blinked. “You yanked her hair like she owed you money.”

You shrugged. “I was being nice.”

And as you walked off, flipping your hair and smirking like you didn’t just threaten someone into silence?

You felt proud. Let them all whisper. Because yeah.

Megumi Fushiguro is tutoring you. He’s also making you lose your goddamn mind.

What the fuck about it, bitches?

The car ride over had been quiet.

Not awkward—just charged. You didn’t speak much, and Megumi didn’t ask questions. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his notebook the whole way, like he was trying to remind himself this was still tutoring.

Not… whatever it had started to feel like lately.

When you pulled up to your house—gates sweeping open with the click of a remote—he blinked. Slowly.

“This is where you live?”

“Disappointed?”

He shook his head. “Just… surprised.”

You could see it—how he clocked the driveway lined with luxury cars, the fountain in the center, the perfectly-trimmed hedges that cost more than some people’s rent. You led him up the steps, pulling open the door with a toss of your hair. “Come on.”

The marble floor echoed under your shoes as you stepped inside, Megumi trailing close behind. His eyes flicked to the chandelier, the high ceilings, the art lining the walls.

“You can say it,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “It’s a lot.”

“It’s…” He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

You scoffed. “You don’t have to lie. It’s ridiculous.”

He let out the ghost of a laugh. “Little bit.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Gets lonely sometimes,” you said, quieter.

Megumi looked at you—but before he could say anything, a familiar voice called out from deeper in the house. “Sweetheart? That you?”

Your heart dropped. You turned toward the hall. “Shit.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you called, plastering on a smile as footsteps echoed.

Megumi stiffened beside you, And then your father appeared—tie loosened, whiskey in hand, and a brow raised when he saw your companion.

“Well, well,” he said, amused. “Didn’t realize tutoring came with the full door-to-door package now.”

Megumi immediately straightened. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Your dad eyed him. “Polite. Proper. Is this the boy who’s keeping you from flunking out?”

You groaned. “Daddy, don’t start.”

“What?” he said, smirking. “Can’t I be impressed that he’s not an airheaded jock or one of those weird artsy types who cry during movies?”

“He’s standing right here,” you hissed.

Megumi didn’t say anything, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders.

Your dad just sipped his drink, eyes still on Megumi. “Relax, son. I’m not grilling you. I’m just happy she’s letting someone else use her brain for once.”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, grabbing Megumi’s sleeve. “We’re going upstairs.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” your dad called after you.

“That leaves nothing,” you shot back, dragging Megumi up the grand staircase.

“You wound me, princess!”

“Go work or something!”

You didn’t stop until you were on the second floor, yanking Megumi down the hall toward your bedroom.

He was quiet—still a little stunned, maybe. You didn’t blame him.

“Sorry about him,” you mumbled. “He thinks he’s funny.”

Megumi adjusted his glasses. “He kind of is.”

You shot him a glare.

He shrugged. “In a terrifying way.”

You rolled your eyes and opened your bedroom door. “Come on, nerd boy. Let’s get this tutoring shit over with before he comes back up here and starts quizzing you on wine pairings.”

He walked in after you, looking around your room, quiet again. But there was something different in his silence now.

Not nerves. Not intimidation. Just… awareness. Of where he was. Of you.

Of the way you leaned against the edge of your desk, arms folded, watching him like you weren’t even trying to pretend this was normal.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom, textbook open, notepad ready. You were lying on your stomach across your bed, skirt flipped up just a little too high, feet kicking in the air while you squinted at the words like they personally offended you.

“…So mitochondria is not the nucleus.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “Correct. They’re two different organelles.”

You frowned harder. “Then why the fuck do they both sound important?”

“They are.”

“That’s dumb. Why not just combine them into a super organelle and call it the brain of the cell?”

Megumi blinked, sighed, and scribbled something. “Because that’s not how eukaryotic cells work.”

You groaned into your pillow. “I hate this. Biology can suck my dick.”

“You barely passed chemistry. Don't give bio a reason to hate you too.”

You flipped over onto your back, glaring at the ceiling. “I’m trying, okay? I actually remembered that thing you said about ribosomes last time.”

“Which was?”

You hesitated. “They… do shit.”

He stared.

“…Protein,” you muttered, pouting. “They build protein. Calm down.”

Megumi finally cracked a smile, just a small one. “I’m genuinely shocked.”

“Fuck you.”

“I mean it. That’s the first time you’ve remembered anything correctly without pulling it out of your ass.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “Watch your mouth, nerd boy. I’m fragile.”

“…Okay, um… ribosomes build protein. And lysosomes are… the trash guys? Or whatever.”

You were laying flat on your back now, textbook propped on your stomach, one sock half-off your foot, a pencil in your mouth like a cigarette. You were trying. Sort of. Even mumbling the definitions to yourself like they might actually stick.

Megumi was still sitting on the floor, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Wasn’t even looking at your notes.

Just at you.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too busy frowning at the page like it had insulted you.

“...Endoplasmic reticulum. That’s the… protein highway thing. Right?”

Silence.

“Megumi?” You looked up.

He was staring.

“What?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw shifted like he was chewing on the words.

Then, finally—

“I want to do something to you.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His voice didn’t falter. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, softer now, but still steady. “Right now.”

Your lips parted. “What—like—?”

“I want to go down on you,” he said, low. “I want you to teach me.”

The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. The room felt suddenly warmer. He wasn’t even touching you, and still—your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You… you serious?”

He nodded once. “You said you’d teach me. Right?”

You just hadn’t expected this. “Gumi…”

He exhaled through his nose when you said that. Quiet, but full of tension. “I want to know what you like,” he said. “I want to get good at it.”

You blinked, mouth dry, trying to find your usual smug tone—but it didn’t come. He leaned forward, kneeling beside the bed now, hands flat on the mattress.

“I think about it a lot,” he admitted. “What you taste like. How you'd sound.”

Your breath hitched. Heat rushed between your legs. “Shit…” You bit your lip. “You’re really fucking serious.”

He just looked at you. Still calm. Still intense. And fuck—you were wet already.

You swallowed and smirked, finally finding your voice again. “You want me to walk you through it? Like a lesson plan?” He nodded again, eyes hooded.

You dragged your finger slowly up your thigh. “Then get up here, Gumi.” His fingers curled over the edge of the bed. And he did.

Megumi climbed onto the bed, moving slow, like he didn’t want to startle you—like he was worried you’d change your mind.

You didn’t.

Not when he settled between your legs, arms on either side of you. Not when he looked at you like he’d waited for this—quietly, patiently. Not when he leaned down and kissed you.

God.

You weren’t expecting the kiss.

Not one like that.

It was soft. Intentional. His lips brushed yours once, then again, warmer the second time. He kissed you like it was something he needed to learn too, and he was determined to get it right. No sloppy tongue. No teenage teeth. Just slow, sensual pressure—like he was studying your mouth the way he studied your notes.

You made a soft sound against his lips. One that caught him off guard.

He pulled back. “Okay?”

You swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Just—kiss me again.”

He did.

Deeper this time. His hand came up, fingers brushing your cheek. Then your neck. And then—when he felt you shift under him, breath hitching—he let his hand trail down your chest.

“You’re warm,” he murmured.

You scoffed. “You’re laying on me, Gumi.”

But your voice broke halfway through.

His hand stopped at the hem of your shirt, hovering.

“Can I?”

You lifted your arms without speaking.

He peeled it off slow, letting his eyes take you in. And you didn’t hide. Not this time. Not when he kissed down your chest, not when his hands slid over your waist like he was memorizing every dip and curve.

When he got to your skirt, you reached down—silent—and helped him pull it off.

Your panties stayed on.

He stared at the damp patch darkening the center.

You turned your head away, suddenly flushed. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

Megumi leaned down, lips against the inside of your thigh. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I was.”

You shivered.

His hands slid up your legs, gentle but confident. He moved slow, kissing from one thigh to the other, tongue grazing your skin like he already knew how sensitive you were there. Like he wanted to worship, not just fuck. You’d had boys go down on you before—but it was always a means to an end. Messy, fast, mechanical. You never came. You always faked it.

But this?

This felt different.

“Are you nervous?” you whispered.

He shook his head, pressing a kiss just above the hem of your panties. “No.”

You looked down at him. “You’ve never done this before.”

“I want to get good at it,” he said. “I want to make you come.”

Your throat went dry.

Megumi hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and looked up at you one last time. When you nodded, he pulled them down slow.

He stared.

You wanted to squirm under the weight of it—how intense his gaze was, how quiet he got. He wasn’t gawking. He wasn’t blushing.

He looked hungry.

“…Can you tell me what you like?” he asked, voice low. “What feels good?”

You exhaled shakily. “I don’t know. I don’t—I haven’t really…”

You didn’t finish. But you didn’t have to. Megumi understood.

You felt his breath first. Warm, right where you needed it. Then his lips, brushing so softly over your folds that your hips bucked before you could stop yourself.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just gripped your thighs gently and leaned in.

The first swipe of his tongue was cautious. Testing. He moved slow, tasting you. Then again. Deeper. He moved his tongue in long, languid strokes, growing bolder as you gasped, as your thighs trembled against his shoulders.

“Gumi—” you whimpered. “Fuck—oh my god—”

He hummed, low in his throat, and the vibration made your back arch. It wasn’t perfect—he didn’t know how to flick just right yet, didn’t know your tells—but god, the way he tried. The way he moaned quietly into your pussy like he liked the taste. Like he liked how messy it made you.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently. “Right there—fuck—yes—”

He latched onto your clit with a soft suck, tongue swirling, and your whole body locked up. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to feel that pressure building, hot and dizzy in your belly, like something was going to snap.

You grabbed at the sheets, mouth falling open. “Wait—wait—Gumi—fuck—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. Not once.

His tongue was relentless now, sloppy and eager, spit and slick coating your thighs, chin soaked, hands digging into your hips like he needed to hold you together while you came apart.

And then you did. Hard.

You came with a cry, louder than you meant to, your legs trembling and your chest rising in jagged gasps. It felt real. Raw. Like it had been buried inside you for months, untouched. No fingers. No toys. No faked orgasms in the dark.

Just him. You collapsed back onto the mattress, heart racing, breath shattered.

He stayed between your thighs, kissing them gently, like he wasn’t ready to stop. You looked down at him, dazed. Megumi wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looking up at you like he hadn’t just rocked your whole fucking world.

“…Did I do it right?”

You let out a hoarse, shocked laugh. “What the fuck—”

He blinked. “You came.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Megumi crawled up the bed slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“Teach me more,” he whispered, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Please.”

You dragged him down into a kiss. Tasting yourself on his tongue. And for once in your life—you didn’t feel like the one in control. You didn’t mind.

The old gym echoed with the steady rhythm of fists against canvas.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Megumi didn’t say much when he was focused like this—wrapped hands hitting the punching bag with precise, brutal timing, sweat gathering at his hairline. His school shirt was ditched somewhere on the bench, tie loosened and hanging off one corner of the bag like a casualty of war.

You were parked cross-legged on a mat near the ring, textbook open in your lap, highlighter in hand—but let’s be real. You’d read the same sentence five times now.

“Hey, Gumi,” you called, flipping to the next page like you weren’t totally checking him out. “How do I remember which cranial nerves are motor and which are sensory?”

“Mnemonics,” he said between punches. “Or just don’t fail.”

You threw a marker at him.

He dodged without even looking. “Try ‘Some Say Marry Money But My Brother Says Big Brains Matter More.’ First letter tells you if the nerve is sensory, motor, or both.”

You blinked. “…Wait. That’s actually smart as fuck.”

He smirked, still striking the bag. “Glad you’re finally using that oversized head for something.”

You gasped. “Oh, so you do think I’m smart.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I think you’re loud.”

You grinned. “Loud and sexy. It’s the full package.”

He didn’t reply—just shook his head, a breathy laugh slipping out as he went back to punching.

You closed the textbook with a dramatic sigh. “You know, watching you box is kinda hot.”

He didn’t stop. “You say that about everything.”

“Not true. I didn’t say it about that weird Gojo lecture where he compared thermodynamics to heartbreak.”

“That’s because Gojo’s an idiot.”

You snorted. “Takes one to know one.”

“I think I could take you in a fight.”

Megumi wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand, chest rising slow and steady as he looked over at you. “You getting in or what?” he asked, nodding toward the open ropes.

You raised a brow, still sitting on the edge of the ring mat, textbook half-closed on your lap. “You think I won’t?”

He didn’t even blink. “I think you’ll talk more than you’ll swing.”

You stood up immediately. “Bitch.”

He just stepped back, giving you space. You climbed in, fixing your skirt, cracking your knuckles like you actually knew what the fuck you were doing. Megumi tilted his head. “That serious?”

You flexed both arms in the most unserious way possible. “I think I could take you in a fight.” He stared.

You grinned. “Better watch out, nerd boy.”

He stepped forward, slow, that usual blank expression curling just slightly into something smug.

“Whatever you say, pretty girl.”

You didn’t react. At least not outwardly. Your heart? That shit didn’t know how to act.

You narrowed your eyes, tossing your hair back like it didn’t affect you. “Hope you’re ready to get embarrassed.”

He just smirked. “You first.”

And fuck, you were in trouble. Real trouble.

You raised your fists like you knew what you were doing—which you absolutely did not.

Megumi stared at you, unamused. “That’s not even a stance.”

“Eat shit, Fushiguro.”

He sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, completely relaxed. “Keep your hands up. You’ll get decked first swing.”

You tightened your fists, legs bouncing. “I am up.”

“Barely.”

“Ugh,” you groaned, stepping closer. “You talk like I won’t lay your ass out right now.”

“You’re five-two,” he said flatly.

You lunged anyway, throwing a punch directly at his side. He dodged, clean and fast.

You jabbed again, wild and reckless, and Megumi dodged like he was bored. That just made you madder.

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Dodging! That’s fucking cheating!”

He snorted, stepping just out of range like it was easy. “I’m literally just not letting you hit me.”

You lunged at him, swinging fast—and missed again, nearly tripping when he twisted around you.

And then— smack. His palm landed hard on your ass.

You gasped. “Megumi!”

He blinked, deadpan. “What?”

You turned, jaw dropped. “Did you just spank me?!”

He looked completely unfazed. “It’s a good ass.”

“You absolute slut—” You tried to swing again, but he caught your wrist and spun you with zero effort, stepping behind you and bending a little—

“Don’t you dare—” And then he hoisted you clean off your feet.

“MEGUMI!” Your body flipped over his shoulder, hair falling in your face as he held you with one arm like you weighed nothing.

“You’re insane!” you shouted, punching his back. “Put me down, you fucking bastard!”

“Nope,” he said, too smug for someone carrying a feral gremlin over his shoulder.

“You perverted little freak—!”

He smacked your ass again, harder this time. You shrieked.

“I WILL BITE YOU.”

He laughed. Actually laughed. That warm, deep, rare laugh that you only heard when you caught him off guard.

“Fucking nerd boy with muscles, I swear to god—!”

“I told you I boxed,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world while you kicked your feet like a goddamn cartoon character.

“YOU NEVER SAID YOU’D THROW ME AROUND LIKE A DUMBELLLLLL—”

And then— A voice. Lazy. Loud. Horrified.

“Oh what the fuck—” You froze. Megumi did too.

“Oh my god.”

You twisted—still slung over Megumi’s shoulder like a dramatic, designer handbag—and craned your neck as the voice echoed through the gym’s open doorway.

Yoshinobu stood there, a water bottle in one hand, towel slung around his shoulder, his brows lifted like he just walked in on a goddamn soap opera.

“I’ve seen a lot of sparring in this place,” he said, casual but amused. “But I’ve never seen that boxing move before.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. Just slapped your ass. Hard.

“Fushiguro!” you shrieked, legs kicking. “You absolute bastard!”

He had the gall—the straight-faced, gorgeous nerve—to act like nothing happened. Just hauled you up and dumped you like a sack of attitude flat on your back in the middle of the ring.

“You’re insane!” you coughed, sitting up and shoving your hair out of your face. “Feral! I hope you get athlete’s foot!”

Megumi just wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel like you weren’t actively losing your mind right there.

“Hit the showers, kid,” Yoshinobu called, half-laughing as he crossed his arms.

Megumi flipped him off without looking and strolled off toward the back, slinging the towel over his shoulder, his back flexing with every step.

And then— Silence.

You sat on the mat, breathing hard, heart still thudding, every part of you aware of just how deeply he’d rattled you. Then—

“You gonna tell me what that was?”

You turned your head.

Yoshinobu was leaning against the ropes now, one brow raised, his smile gone.

You rolled your eyes. “It was him being a dick. What else is new?”

But he didn’t move. Didn’t smirk.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit in this gym,” he said slowly, “but that wasn’t just a dumb joke.”

You scoffed, grabbing your water bottle and avoiding his stare. “Don’t start.”

“I saw the way you looked at him,” Yoshinobu said. “And I saw the way he looked at you.”

Your breath hitched. You stood abruptly, brushing invisible dust off your skirt. “He doesn’t look at me like anything. Okay?”

“You like him.”

You scoffed. “He’s just my tutor.”

“Right.” Yoshinobu nodded like he believed you. He didn’t.

“I’m serious,” you bit out, annoyed at how hot your face felt. “He likes—” You stopped. You didn’t even know who he liked. It didn’t matter. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

“I don’t care what’s happening between you two,” Yoshinobu said finally. “That’s none of my business.”

He took a step back from the ropes, grabbing a clean towel from the rack.

“Go easy on him..”

You blinked. “What?”

Yoshinobu turned, half-glancing back at you.

“He doesn’t talk much, y’know?” he said, voice a little quieter. “Doesn’t let people in easy. And when he does—he doesn’t have backup plans.”

You folded your arms, trying to look annoyed. “What makes you think I’d hurt him?”

“Because you’re scared,” he said simply. “And scared people bite.”

Your jaw locked. He gave you a last look—measured, unblinking. “He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.”

Then he walked toward the back, leaving you in the middle of the ring, staring at the mat beneath your feet, heart in your throat.

You didn’t know how long you stood there.

But the echo of his words didn’t leave.

He’s got a soft spot for you. Whether you like it or not.

And maybe that was the worst part. Because somewhere deep in your chest—you already knew.

parts, chapter 04

taglist, @crispycatt @littlevoidfairy @bookfreakk @1-rxse-1 @starzfaerie @zephyairies @moonmaiden1996 @simonexxx1 @pinkmeatball218 @evii1e @xavisbabie @maeviees @justanotherasiangirl @tiasd1ary @shioribuns @allysainz @mwrgwt @cookies-assemble @tiasd1ary @blu3-l0v3r @camy-yh @pinkmeatball218 @chokismom @01elle-sherlock @oidloid @holymolyyikes @haithamsbb @mysteriaqueen @fxngsfxgxrty @meiyinnaise

[nightingale-prompts]

I don't know why people think Danny would disagree with Batman on the no killing rule or why he'd be aligned with Jason on anything. Danny doesn't even believe in killing people who deserve it and even if he did he's a 14 year old boy. He believes in petty revenge of course but that's hardly the same as cutting people's heads off.

I feel like this fandom is more interested in voicing their own personal grievances with Bruce (though many of them don't read the comics) then writing Danny as the character he is. I'm not saying that I don't do that as well.

I just feel like sometimes people are writing Dan and not Danny. Danny at the end of the say is a average teenage boy. He's selfish sometimes but at the end of the day he's a good kid. He's not going to go on a murderous rampage on the Joker even preemptively especially if he has never met the guy before. (You guys know the fics im talking about. It's so common for Danny to see Danny met the Joker and immediately kill him just to gain Jason's attention or something) Danny hates clowns, I get it. But if seeing a clown is enough to make him lose touch with reality that's an awful portrayal of the character.

I don't think it's that big a deal at the end of the day to write fics like that. The problem is when fans start to think that's the default or that it's in Danny's character. At the end of the day I'd never write Danny killing someone. Not even the Joker because that's not his place. It's not his story. I'd never robe that from Jason or Bruce or anyone who has deep connections to that clown. Danny had his enemies and I'd be pissed to high hell if my worst enemy was killed by some guy I had never met. That would the most anticlimactic ending with no real resolution. No facing my demons up close or moral questioning. Boring. That worst part for me. It's boring. I've seen it a thousand times and it still just as boring as the first. It's not cleaver or insitful.

I miss when we talked about the layers of Danny. Now it's either "Danny is just a little gremlin who wants to make trouble." or "Danny is full of trauma and misery and he doesn't trust anybody." Its never "Danny is a complex character who isn't perfect and he can be a petty little shit sometimes. He loves his family and friends and is willing to extend the olive branch to those he sees as needing help even if they have hurt him."

The show was all about Danny growing into his hero role and helping others. He isn't a calluse vengeful monster. He can forgive. He can control himself. He is just a kid! He isn't VLAD! He isn't DAN!

[hanniescookie]

💄gorgeous - yjh

—⁠☆ you're not used to how gorgeous your boyfriend is without any makeup.

pairing - jeonghan x f!reader

genre/warnings - idol au, fluff, romance, kissing, skinship, use of petnames, lipstick marks, mildly suggestive, cursing, reader's height and weight are subtly mentioned, bare faced beautiful jeonghan from hxw concert

wc - 876

A/N - my husband came home today once again, looking all beautiful and i haven't been able to stop thinking about how beautiful he is bare-faced. so yeah, happy reading 🤍 also @seokminfilm ily, here's finally my jeonghan drabble!!

On a daily basis, Jeonghan is gorgeous.

You've known that ever since you first laid eyes on him years ago, and you've noticed it in all the times you've seen him perform on stage—face dolled up and hair neatly styled.

You're used to it. What you can't get used to ever since he has enlisted is his bare face.

It's not like you've never seen him like that either. With how busy Jeonghan always was in his idol life, the only times you ever saw him bare faced was before he went to sleep and right after he woke up next to you.

But now something feels different.

He goes out with no makeup on, he comes home the same way. You see him bare faced all the time, and you can't really remember the last time you saw even a swish of lipgloss on him.

That's what you can't get used to.

It drives you remotely insane that he still manages to look prettier than most human beings.

You try to look away from your screen, but the more pictures you see of him from the concert, the more you're convinced that you indeed stopped a war in your past life because there was no way you managed to land such an angel.

You don't even notice the sound of the door being shut and footsteps marching towards your bedroom—you’re lost.

“Why are you still all dressed up? I thought you'd have been snoring by now,” you hear his voice before you see him standing in front of the night stand, unhooking his watch.

There he is in all his glory, looking exactly like he does on your screen—except real and more beautiful. You don't even get the time to answer him when he's bending forward, peeking in your phone and chuckling in disbelief. “You're really watching me like a fan? I came home to you, baby. Come, kiss me instead.”

Although you feel flustered, you take his hand and pull him to sit beside you. Jeonghan sure is a man—weighs twelve kilograms more than you and is at least six inches taller—but he's as malleable as jelly so you don't really struggle.

“Woah,” he plops down beside you, looking up with the world's mirth in his eyes. “You really wanna kiss me that bad?”

You shut him up with a firm press of your lips to his, pulling his cap off in the process. His hair has grown now, enough for your knuckles to disappear in the black locks.

To his disappointment, you pull away sooner than he wanted you to, and stare at the stain your lipstick has left on his lips. Suddenly, you want to see more of it on his bare, beautiful skin.

“Hannie,” you whisper, watching him look up in your dazed eyes questioningly. You smile, your red lipstick slightly smudged but still very intact. “You're becoming too beautiful for my heart.”

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you on top of him. “What do you mean becoming? Have I always not been beautiful?”

You roll your eyes at his self centered speech, your thumb softly caressing his bottom lip right where your lipstick has stained. Slowly, you lean down to place a longer kiss on his chin, testing to see if your lipstick is still capable of leaving a mark.

He only tilts his head to give you more access, his eyes blinking slowly in a daze. You don't even have time to be proud of having that effect on him, because the mark that glitters on his chin makes you want to devour him.

You smile, and attack him with kisses that leave marks of your lipstick all around his face and neck. He giggles throughout, and the sound becomes the sole reason why you don't plan to stop at all.

Once you're both breathless, you stop, letting your face fall in his chest. He breathes in sync with you, his giggles slowly dispersing and rotting your mood. You want to kiss him again just to hear his laughter again.

“Are you slightly possessed today? What did they feed you at work?” He asks, absentmindedly running his fingers in your hair. You sigh, lifting your head up to look at the masterpiece you've created.

Jeonghan looks perfect, bathed in your kisses that are dark on his face but progressively become lighter towards his chest. You know your lipstick is probably all smudged around your mouth, but you don't give a flying fuck about that.

Right now, the sight makes you want to ruin him. You nod, looking in his amused eyes. “Yes I think I'm possessed.”

He laughs, shaking his head and pulling yours closer to him, joining your foreheads together. “Nope. I just think you're in love with me.”

You melt into him, pressing a kiss on his soft nose. “That’s right but just so you know, I would've marked you up even if I wasn't in love with you. You're just that gorgeous.”

Jeonghan flips you over, smirking as his lips ghost over your mouth. “Now let me show you how gorgeous you are.”

You think he's definitely more gorgeous than you are, but you don't stop him from showing you anyway.

[girlywhooooops]

Haunted.

After weeks of cold showers and pent up frustration, Med-Intern!Suguru finally gives into his desire— except his Ghost!Roommate isn't going to let him have the moment alone. cw: mdni 🔞, masturbation, edging, praise kink, slight sub!suguru, ghost kink (?)

The apartment was silent when he walked in. Shoulders slumped and jaw tight, he braced himself for something to happen.

Maybe a broken vase or the fridge magnets rearranging themselves into a pentagram. The usual.

But... nothing.

No flickering lights. No static hum in the walls. The chalkboard he'd hung next to the fridge to communicate with his ghostly roommate sat empty. Even the faint scent of lavender that has been haunting his senses like a phantom since he moved into this damned apartment was gone.

Just silence.

Suguru lets out a sigh, long and ragged. He throws his bag and stethoscope somewhere on the couch and drags his feet towards his bedroom.

Clinic duty was hell. Patients spraying their inhalers like perfume, supervisor yelling at him for the third time this week, and long, never-ending shifts. But most of all— he's pent up. Frustrated. Strung so tightly, he feels like he might snap.

His keys, scrubs and whatever dignity he had left drop somewhere between his couch and the bed. He tugs his boxers with the kind of urgency that makes his cock slap against his stomach— angry red and achingly hard after months of cold showers and ignoring your wolf-whistles from the bathroom mirror.

But tonight— tonight, you’re gone.

At least, he thinks you are.

His breath shudders as his thumb brushes the tip, smearing the pre-cum across his sensitive slit. His head falls back with a sigh of relief, hips stuttering up into his palm.

He tries. He really tries. 90s porn magazines that Satoru keeps hidden under his bed. Fleeting exes. Someone— anyone else.

But his cruel brain drags him back to you.

Your voice.

That one time you whispered his name, soft and syrupy when he hadn't slept in two days.

"Suguru."

Fuck.

His hand tightens as his hips jerk up into his palm with urgency.

He doesn't know your name. Doesn't know your face. Heck he doesn't even know whether you are actually a ghost or if you're a hallucination caused by sleep depravation.

But he remembers the coffee filter going missing and your feathery soft voice as you scolded him,

"At this rate, you'll die before me."

He remembers the chill down his spine and the sent of lavender curling around his throat like a damn leash every time he showers.

The feeling of being watched.

Always. Intimately. Unapologetically.

And your voice— soft, amused like you already knew how badly he wanted it. Taunting him.

How pathetic he was for wanting it from you.

"F-Fuck, you'd love this. Wouldn't you?" he pants, knuckles white as his fist pumps harder. Desperate. Chasing the ghost of your voice like it might grant him salvation. "You'd laugh— probably haunt me forever,"

"Aww you started without me?"

The chill hits his spine like a curse as it snaps straight. The moan dies in his throat. His mind, the sane part, screams at him to cover up. Have some shame. But his cock hardens as if commanded.

Suguru jerks, eyes flying open as the temperature in the room dips several degrees. A breath of cold brushes against his damp hairline, and from somewhere near the dresser, he swears he hears the faintest giggle.

"Fuck you." he snarls, cheeks flushed and hips still rutting into his hand because his self-control died somewhere between hour-thirty and three skipped meals.

"You're so cute when you're needy, Sugu."

Your voice is right by his ear now. Gentle and warm despite the nickname causing goosebumps to crawl all over his skin.

"You're gonna float around and mock me, or actually do something for once?" He growls, raw and ragged. "I swear to god—"

"Poor thing. You're really worked up, huh?"

He shudders when your phantom fingers trail down his abdomen. Barely-there touches that don't quite exist but his cock doesn't care as it twitches in his hand. Eager and aching.

He chokes out a curse.

"Keep it up. I wanna see what your face looks like when you fall apart."

"F-Fuck. Shit. Shit—" His strokes are erratic now, desperate. As he gets close, he feels it: the ghost of your touch, the breath on his neck, your voice curling around his ear like silk dipped in arsenic.

"Not yet."

His entire body jerks to a halt.

"Be good."

He whines— actually whines. A broken sound ripped out from his throat as his cock pulses angrily in his grip.

His legs tremble. His back arches. He’s so close, dizzy with the need to come, and you—your voice—keeps dragging him back with nothing but a command.

"Wait for me."

He nearly sobs.

The pressure in his gut is unbearable. His spine is tingling. His balls are tight, aching. His cock twitches violently in his hand, begging for release.

"Please," He rasps, voice hoarse. "Please. I need— Fuck. I need it."

"Look at you,"

You coo, syrupy sweet voice laced with mock sympathy.

"So messy.. so eager."

Featherlight fingers skim his inner thigh, just enough to make him gasp.

Another hand— colder than his own settles over his. Guiding his strokes. Slow. Teasing. Too slow. His hips jerk upwards into his hand in desperate need of friction. More heat. More you.

"Be good."

You whisper in his ear, voice is sharp.

He bites down on his lip, hard, as he tries to obey. Eyes squeezed shut, sweat dripping down his temple, and mind fracturing under the weight of it all.

He doesn't know what's worse— the fact that his body listens to your voice or the fact that he wants to. He wants to please a ghost. A whisper. A static touch that sends a jolt down his spine.

He wants to be good. Wants to earn it.

"You've been so patient, haven't you? Just a little longer."

His hips stutter, throat catching on a moan so loud it borders on a sob. He’s falling apart, ruined by a ghost.

Then—

"That's it. Now."

And when he finally breaks, hips jerking up into his own hand, ropes of cum splashing over his stomach and chest, and his entire body seizing from the force of it. His mouth hangs open in a silent gasp and the sound of your voice that guides him back to sanity.

The air hums— warm and electric as he catches his breath and something featherlight brushes against his temple. Not quite physical, but very real.

"Good boy."

Suguru exhales, boneless and trembling, heart racing like he just ran a code blue.

His hand lifts instinctively, reaching toward where your voice just was—but there’s nothing. No warmth. No breath. Just the buzz of the fridge and the sweat dripping down his chest.

And somewhere near the kitchen, the magnets rearrange themselves once more.

H-A-U-N-T-E-D.

He lets out a soft, breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his flushed face. “No shit.”

an: this is my first time attempting smut :] this is sort of like a sneak-peek preview thing for this series I’m working on. let me know how you like it <3

Dividers: @cafekitsune

[firelilyfox]

falling for you was the easy part

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: Bucky has to watch you get tortured. He blames himself for the pain you’ve been through, but you won’t let him punish himself for it.

Wordcount: 1.5k

Warnings: big time angst. anxiety. torture. being whipped. hurt/comfort. dating Bucky. established relationship. sadistic actions (NOT Bucky or reader). mentions of injuries.

___________________________

When you opened your eyes, you found yourself kneeling on the cold stone floor, your wrists tied together, and attached to a kind of metal ring that protruded from the ground.

You wanted to call for help, but your lips were split by a dusty piece of fabric, which made it impossible for you to form words.

Your eyes raced through the small room, searching for answers to this grotesque situation. Fear tightened your throat when you could see an unknown figure in the dim light.

The person stepped closer. "Ah the princess woke up as I can see."

The man was tall and thin. The cone of light above him put his sunken face in deep shadows, which made it look like a bare skull.

You desperately pull on your shackles, but they didn't loosen a bit.

The man grinned ghostly. "That's pointless. And quite unnecessary.” He gave a sign to the shadows and you saw there were more people lurkeying there. Soldiers in full combat gear.

“You're only here as a means to an end. All you have to do is look good while I'm doing my job.”

Panic spread in you. What did he mean by that? Where the hell are we here?

And where is ...

The soldiers draged an unconscious body into the small room. Your ranging thoughts suddenly came to an abrupt stop.

Bucky. 

Your choked cries for him sounded like the calls of a wild animal. Tears blurred your vision. The rope around your joints cut deeper into your skin with each pull.

"Don't worry. He is alive. For now. The Winter Soldier has one last task to fulfil before I can finally dismiss him from service.” The man's vicious grin grew into a grimace full of perverse anticipation.

He signalled again and then positioned himself behind you. The soldiers chased a syringe into Bucky's neck, after which he suddenly regained consciousness.

Bucky jumped up and swung his fists, caught two of them and broke various bones. However, the others intervened quickly and managed to fix him.

He fought back like a wild animal. Until his gaze met yours. Bucky paused. Fear lay in his eyes and you could imagine what he saw.

The dried blood on your face. The gag in your mouth and the shackles around your wrists. And when a soft click sounded ... the gun pointed at the back of your head.

„Now“, the man barks. „Behave. Or watch me punish her for your misbehaviour.”

“Everything will be alright, doll. I promise.”

A soft whimper sounded from your throat.

"Oh, you should only make promises that you can keep." The man's voice was cold as ice and at the same time amused.

Suddenly you feel his hands on your back and the blade of a knife that slit your combat suit lengthwise. Goosebumps settled over your now bare back and made you shudder.

“I'm a fan of old fashioned style. You too, soldier?”

Deadly hatred was reflected in Bucky's eyes, and every single muscle in his body was tense. You could see that he was ready to turn the insides of the man outwards.

Then he said something in Russian that you couldn't understand.

Bucky replied in Russian, his voice threateningly deep.

The man didn't like the answer.

A burning pain exploded on your back and made you scream. The man had hit you. With something that felt very much like a fucking whip.

„No! You bloody bastard!“Bucky roared.

Another blow. Your cry echoed back from the walls, like a cruel song of pain.

„Behave. Or watch her suffer because of you, Soldier.“ 

Bucky roared something in Russian. Another blow.

You start to tremble all over your body.

Words in a foreign language were exchanged. Angry and full of hate. Even if you could understand them, it would be pointless. Your nervous system ringed in alarm, made your ears rustled, your eyes blur and your mouth taste blood.

Just when you thought the questioning came to an end and would thus also free you from the torture by whipping, the man laughed contentedly.

“Thank you, Soldier. You were very helpful. It's just a shame that you buckled so quickly and handled the information so recklessly.” His hand grabbed you by the hair and pulled your head back with a jerk so that you had to look Bucky straight in the eyes.

You could almost feel the pain in them physically. The normally so gentle blue, had frozen to ice. The small laugh lines around his lips and eyes were exchanged for a deep frown.

Your pain-fogged brain tried convulsively to keep consciousness and clung to the memory of his smile.

"As punishment for your weakness," the man chuckled madly to himself. "It will cost her a lot of blood."

He struck.

Again and again.

Bucky roared. Tore himself away from the soldiers and stormed towards the man. Before he could draw his gun again, Bucky was already next to him and broke his neck with a practiced move.

You could still see how the remaining soldiers were attacked by someone else before you lose consciousness.

"I got you, love. It's over.”

Bucky has never been so scared in his entire life.

When he saw you kneeling there, tied up and bleeding. Every single fibre in his body had failed him at this sight. The helplessness he had felt there would haunt him until the end of his days.

"You should have this looked at by someone," Steve stepped beside him and pointed to the ugly cut on his face.

Bucky didn't move a muscle. "I'm fine."

"I know. But it doesn't help her either if you're standing around and staring at the door. The nurses have already complained.”

They had temporarily thrown Bucky out of your hospital room because he almost made every person who entered cry with his pure presence.

All night he had been watching next to your bed and holding your hand. He listened to the smooth beeping of the monitors, which assured him that your heart was still beating.

"She's no longer in danger, Buck. She only sleeps because of the morphine. She will be back.”

“That's my fault. He tortured her. Because of me. Just to see me suffer, Steve. He didn't need any information, because he already knew everything. He only did it to satisfy his perverse obsession with the Winter Soldier project.” The words felt like acid on his tongue and Bucky felt his chest contract painfully.

"Buck, it's not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it's this bastard!” Steve frowned. “No one could have foreseen that. This sick asshole set a trap for us.”

Bucky looked at Steve. “Watch your language. You have an reputation to lose.”

"That's what I get out of hanging out with you, old friend." Steve patted Bucky on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “At least go wash the blood off your face. When she wakes up, she shouldn't be scared to death.”

When Bucky returned to your room a few minutes later, his face was cleared of blood and he had taken off the messed up combat jacket.

The door was just opened by a medical assistant who opened his eyes anxiously when he saw Bucky stepping around the corner. "S-She's awake and asked for you, Sir. Uh, Sergeant."

"Go." The assistant nodded quickly and disappeared visibly relieved.

Bucky cautiously entered your room and mentally prepared himself for the sight of you. His heart cramped when he saw you sitting on the edge of the bed, slightly bent over to protect the freshly bandaged wounds on your back.

You look up at him and try to smile. It was a little more shaky than you had planned. "Hey."

Bucky was with you with two long steps and sank down to one knee in front of your bed to make it easier for you to look at him without lifting his head. “God, love. I'm so sorry.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes and his hands gently touch your thighs, going up and down as if to prove to himself that you are here with him.

“I should have prevented that.”

You silence him by run your hands through his hair. You gently stroke the dark strand from his forehead and put your palms around his cheeks.

“I know you're smarter than that, Bucky. You should know that none of this is really your fault.”

Bucky kissed your palm. "If I hadn't been, if you and I weren't together, he would never have tortured you."

„Bucky, stop.“

He overheard you. “I should never have taken you in there. Even now after I left the Winter Soldier behind, he's still chasing me. It was reckless to believe that it would be different. I shouldn't have allowed myself to fall in love with you in the first place and put you in danger...”

"For God's sake, Bucky! Shut up," you sigh and put your thumb on his lips. “This is really the dumbest thing that ever came out of your pretty mouth. Don't forget that I knew what I was getting into. Don't forget that i was the one who started this. I fell for you first.“ 

Bucky breathed, kissed the tip of your thumb, and gently stroked your cheek.„I fell for you way before that. I just didn't want to admit it to myself.”

You're giggling. "This is not a competition, idiot."

For a fraction of a second, a slight smile appeared on his lips, then his expression became serious again. “I'm so terribly sorry, doll. I will do everything so that you never have to feel such pain again.”

"I know." You reach for a small, wired button to your right. "Press it and you can fulfill your promise here and now."

Confused, Bucky looked at the button and understood. Painkillers. He pressed the little life savior without hesitation and your muscles relaxed instantly.

“I love you, Bucky. No matter what.”

"Are those the drugs that speak for you?" he joked.

"Careful. If you don't kiss me in the next five seconds, then you'll need something much stronger than painkillers," you warn with a smile.

Bucky smiled for the first time since you left for the mission yesterday. "Yes ma'am."

He placed his lips gently on yours, gently touching your hips, careful not to exert too much pressure. All he wanted was to hold you tight, make sure you're here with him and safe. But that had to wait until your wounds were healed.

For here and now, Bucky had his hands to cup your face, feel your lips on his and hear your soft sigh as he deepened the kiss.

From today on, he would move mountains to keep you safe.

_____________________

Thank you so much for reading! 💙 All interactions are highly appreciated (but please don't copy my work)

BUCKY BARNES MASTERLIST

[angst-fairy]

Everyone has needs, some more than others sure, but isn't that what the cause is about?? Making sure everyone is provided for? Loving everyone and treating them well?

Ones with extreme disabilities are the most qualified to be part of this cause. Even ones who can't speak has a voice, they have ideas that need to hear, wants to be heard. Why do they need anymore than that to participate?

I understand how awful it is to be in pain, to be disabled, but not look or be treated like it. You feel like you've fought so hard for so long, endured all this pain but by the end no one cares, no one even notices and they treat you like you didn't just fight for your life. You feel like you achieved something but they refuse to give you your prize or admit that you did anything at all. But the fact is we are discriminated against less because of this. You can disagree, you can ignore it, but that changes nothing. This is a fact, you want to change it go do something, but you can't just disagree. Another fact is that it doesn't make me less worthy to be in the disabled community or fight to be treated better. I'm more physically capable than some, that is all. I need a little less help, that is all. There is no "we're more important, we're more justified or we're more disabled." Disability isn't even one single scale. People with different disabilities are affected in different ways, you can't always compare them, especially not if your trying to figure out which one is "worse" than the other.

I got made fun of and accused of faking my seizures for attention in a discord I had just joined. There were 6 girls all attacking me. One of which claimed to have seizures as well. I thought I found friend to relate to, but she refused to believe me because I didn't have a diagnosis yet and said that because she was never medically gaslit, my doctors couldn't have done that to me. I suffered 4 years of being told all my symptoms were just anxiety, a nurse did 3 sternum rubs on me, forced me out of a seizure so I couldn't speak and was very confused and yelled at me because I wasn't corporating, I got thrown out of school, I lost many friends, I left doctor appointments crying and wanting to kill myself, I don't trust any new friends I make online because I'm worried they'll turn on me too. If you are in the disabled community and think your weeding out all the less disabled fakers, then you need to get your head checked. And if you went through similar things I did, but are reacting by not supporting more physically visible disabled people, then you are on the wrong side. Both need to remember what this community is meant to be about, and that is supporting everyone.

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: tara feels like she knows you - your charm, busted ankle, and the desire to be the best. but, after attending mindy’s long-awaited student film festival, she realizes she barely knows what’s underneath the obsessed artist you are.

warnings: mature language, torn acl (rip)

word count: 6.1k

author’s note: not so sure about this chapter but here it is!

previous part | next chapter

——————

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, a collective exhale leaves your group like you've just disarmed a bomb. You all freeze for a second, waiting for some noise from inside — a thud, a groggy Sam scream, the unmistakable sound of Tara trying to use the blender at one in the morning.

Nothing.

Mindy silently throws her head back, arms raised to the sky like she's seen God. "Holy shit. I didn't think we were gonna make it."

"She kept saying her key was in her boot," Chad adds, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. "She wasn't wearing boots."

"I'm still emotionally recovering from when she tried to kiss the doorknob goodnight," Anika says, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter around her shoulders as you all start heading back toward campus. The pavement is wet with leftover rain, glistening in the streetlights. The air smells like hot dog water, weed, and victory.

"She thought the doorknob was a person," Mindy corrects. "She said, and I quote: 'You've always seen me for who I really am.'"

You laugh — harder than you mean to — and your breath clouds up in the air in front of you. Everything feels a little surreal. Your ankle still aches from the game, your voice is half-gone from yelling, and there's a dried smear of Gatorade on your sweatshirt, but none of it matters.

Because you won. And Tara was there. Watching. She showed up to the party, drunk off her ass from frat-party vodka and looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

"Okay, but," Chad says, suddenly grinning. "She was kinda obsessed with you tonight."

You glance at him, playing dumb. "What?"

"Oh, don't 'what' me." He bumps your shoulder. "Every time you touched the ball, she gasped like she was watching a murder documentary. And when you hit that floater in OT? I swear to God, she grabbed my arm and whispered, 'That's my favorite play.'"

"She doesn't even know what a floater is," Mindy mutters.

"She knows now," Chad says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because her hot jock crush did it."

"I don't have a—" you start, but Anika cuts you off, spinning around to walk backward in front of you.

"Oh please. She was basically wrapped around your shoulder the whole walk home. If she had been even one tequila shot more coherent, she would've proposed."

You shove your hands in your pockets and look down at the sidewalk, trying to hide the way your face is heating up. "She was drunk."

"Drunk minds, sober hearts," Mindy intones like it's gospel.

You roll your eyes, but it's no use. They've got you cornered, and they know it.

And maybe it's not just teasing. Maybe there's truth under it — in the way Tara had leaned against you like you were gravity, or how she'd looked at you with those sleepy brown eyes and whispered, "You smell like orange Gatorade. I think I love you." You'd laughed at the time, brushed it off like a joke.

But now? Now you're not so sure.

Your friends keep talking — Chad's going on about post-game waffles, Mindy and Anika are arguing over the ethics of shipping real people — but your mind stays back at that house, with that girl.

The night's cold, but you're buzzing.

And you're not sure if it's the win, or if it's her.

Your dorm is quiet. Everyone else is probably passed out — teammates drunk off cheap beer, fans still posting shaky game clips to Instagram. Your ankle's elevated, still sore from overtime. You've showered, iced, changed, but your brain hasn't shut off. Not with the win. Not with her. Not with the amount of alcohol you should've never touched an hour ago.

But you were used to this - your brain never quite shutting up. Celebratory parties had been a normal occurrence for the basketball team this past year with your sudden burst of talent. But nonetheless, it still hit you like a truck.

You're lying on your bed, one arm behind your head, scrolling through your camera roll — not looking for anything in particular, just avoiding sleep. You stop when you get to a photo someone AirDropped after the game. A blurry shot of you mid-jump shot.

And in the background — Tara. Sitting just a little too close to the court. Hands cupped around her mouth, eyes locked on you.

Your phone buzzes.

Tara Carpenter [2:11 AM]

question

if i showed up at your door right now

would you make me food

or would you kiss me

just wondering

Tara Carpenter [2:13 AM]

ignore that

tequila and shame

i'm gonna disappear now

You [2:14 AM]

depends

what kind of food

what kind of kiss

Tara Carpenter [2:15 AM]

food: grilled cheese

kiss: the kind that makes people sit down after

You [2:15 AM]

damn

you're aiming high for 2am and no warning

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

you played good tnn

i'm vulnerable

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

and you won the game

and looked stupuudly hot doing it

so maybe this is your fault actually

You don't respond right away. You're reading every word like it's written in code, like she's going to take it back the second you answer wrong.

Then:

You [2:19 AM]

i'd let you in

grilled cheese first

kiss second

then you can pretend it never happened in the morning if that makes it easier

There's a pause. You stare at the message. Your heart is a little louder now.

Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:22 AM]

i wouldn't want to forget

just wouldn't know what to do after

That one stays on your screen for a long time.

You don't move.

You reread it five times.

Then you type:

You [2:25 AM]

maybe don't think about the after yet

just think about the now

and the fact that i want you here

Typing... Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:26 AM]

that makes two of us

fuck

goodnight

And that's it.

No emoji. No follow-up. No jokes to soften the edge.

Just honesty. Brief and blazing.

And now you're just lying there, heart pounding, wide awake at 2:30 AM — smiling like a fucking idiot.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is ninety percent sure she died last night and this is purgatory.

She's seated on the lowest step of the auditorium stage, hunched forward in a hoodie she stole from Mindy three months ago and never gave back. Her hair is pulled into the kind of messy claw clip arrangement that says I've given up, and her sunglasses are oversized, crooked, and doing a barely adequate job shielding her from the blazing overhead lights Mindy insisted on turning to "full stadium brightness."

The room is a disaster: folding chairs half-unstacked, extension cords snaking across the floor like live wires, glitter already stuck to Tara's socks. There's a faint buzzing from the AV booth that's threatening to break her last functioning brain cell in half. And through all of it, Mindy is marching around the room like a caffeinated auteur on the verge of a nervous breakthrough.

"Can someone explain to me why the projector screen is hung at a 73-degree angle?" Mindy calls, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like she's directing Inception. "I said cinematic, not asymmetrical trauma!"

"Those are the same thing," Tara mutters from her corner.

"I heard that!"

Tara slumps further into herself and presses her forehead to her knees. She is not built for this. She is built for drinking four and a half tequila shots, dancing to Rihanna, sending risky texts at 2 a.m., and then disappearing for a full 24 hours. Not public service. Not ladders and paper lanterns and Mindy yelling things like "non-linear aesthetics."

"You good down there, T?" Chad asks from a few feet away, where he's unraveling yet another string of tangled fairy lights with all the enthusiasm of a man serving time.

"I'm thriving," she mumbles, deadpan.

"I think I saw your soul leave your body ten minutes ago," Anika adds, stepping over an extension cord with a roll of black gaffer tape in one hand and an iced chai in the other.

Tara lifts one middle finger, then rests her head back on her knees.

And then—

The doors open.

They creak a little too loudly, and Tara winces like a vampire mid-sunrise. But when she lifts her head and looks toward the light, the glare fades — and there you are.

Hoodie on. Sweatpants. That familiar confident walk that says you definitely slept in. And in your hand: a brown paper bag, slightly grease-stained, clutched like a talisman. You scan the chaos, zero in on her like a heat-seeking missile, and start walking.

Tara's stomach flips.

It's you. With food. And a smile she absolutely does not trust.

She immediately looks away. Bites the inside of her cheek. Tries very hard to pretend she didn't send a string of late-night texts about kissing you and sandwiches — in that order — and then double texted. It's fine. You probably didn't read them. You probably forgot.

But then you're right in front of her.

"Morning, Princess of Darkness."

She peers up at you over the rim of her sunglasses. "Are you here to help or just to mock me?"

"I brought you breakfast." You shake the paper bag like it's a peace treaty. "Which technically makes me a hero."

She stares at it, suspicious. "What is it?"

"Grilled cheese. Fresh off the griddle. Or, like... fresh-ish. I stole it from a freshman who looked like he might cry if I made eye contact."

She sighs. "You are so full of shit."

"And cheddar," you say, winking. "Come on. I figured you were still deciding between kissing me or eating, and I didn't want to make you choose on an empty stomach."

Tara turns fully toward you, pulling her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose like a judgmental librarian.

"So you read the texts."

You grin. "Printed them out. Had them laminated. Gonna hand them out at the next team dinner."

She narrows her eyes. "I hate you."

"But," you say, crouching beside her and placing the bag in her lap, "you're also currently accepting my grilled cheese."

She opens the bag with caution, like it might bite her. The sandwich is slightly flattened, a little too crispy on one side, but it smells amazing. She takes a bite before she can stop herself and immediately closes her eyes.

You watch her chew with a smirk.

"See? Better than your drunk imagination."

"I was imagining more cheese," she says flatly. "But this is... acceptable."

You fall back onto the floor beside her with a satisfied sigh, arms behind your head. "I bring you comfort food and witty banter and you still insult me. Incredible."

Tara glances sideways at you. Her voice softens just a touch. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," you say, looking up at the ceiling. "But I wanted to."

There's a beat. Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.

Across the room, Mindy is shrieking about someone using duct tape on the "vintage projection screen," and Chad is pretending to care. But here, in this little corner of the chaos, it's just you and Tara — her hoodie sleeves too long, your shoulder brushing hers, the ghost of last night's texts still hanging between you.

She nudges your arm with her elbow. "If I was drunk when I said I wanted to kiss you, does that mean you're gonna hold it against me forever?"

You glance at her. "Nope."

"Really?"

You smile.

"I'm gonna hold it against you now. You know. Just in case you want to say it again — sober."

She stares at you. Eyes sharp. Mouth twitching.

Then she takes another bite.

"Shut up and eat your own grilled cheese," she mutters.

"You didn't bring me one."

She leans back against the stage with a sigh and tosses you a crust. "Sucks to suck."

An hour later, lights are strung, the banner's (slightly crooked) but finally up. Chad's been gone for at least forty minutes, Mindy's yelling about lens ratios from behind a stack of folding chairs, and Tara — uh, well — Tara is sitting at the edge of the stage again, legs dangling, your half-eaten grilled cheese in one hand, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses are finally off. Her eyes are tired but clear now — and every time they glance at you, it's like the rest of the room fades.

You're standing just a few feet from her, tangled lights still wrapped loosely around your arm, pretending not to notice how she's watching you. Like you didn't spend the night texting each other things that neither of you have acknowledged since.

She licks a bit of melted cheese off her thumb and mumbles, "This is terrible, by the way.

You smirk. "And yet you're still eating it."

"I'm fragile and easily manipulated by carbs."

You walk over, gently toss the rest of the tangled lights onto a plastic chair, and say, "I'll keep that in mind next time I bribe you."

She hums. "Next time? Oh, you wanna hang out with me more, Varsity?"

You freeze for a second. You weren't expecting that, you never do whenever she calls you a stupid nickname. But then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.

You feel the shift before you even check the time.

It's subtle — a change in the way your heartbeat settles, the way the lights on stage suddenly feel too bright, the way your chest starts to tighten like something's wrong.

1:06 PM.

Shit.

The press junket started at 1.

You were supposed to be there fifteen minutes early. Hair neat. Posture perfect. Answers locked and loaded — the same way you've been doing since you were fifteen, since the day they threw you in front of a local news camera after your first 30-point game and said, "Smile like that again, kid, and you'll get a full ride."

You've been smiling ever since.

You were the one who never broke routine. The one who never flinched. Early to every team meeting. First out on the court. Face of the program. Captain. Role model. The "serious one." You didn't have time to mess around. Didn't give anyone room to doubt you — not your coaches, not your family, not the girl who said once, "You never shut off, do you?"

But now?

You're in a dim auditorium filled with tangled fairy lights, folding chairs, and a last minute Postmates half-eaten grilled cheese cooling in a paper bag next to Tara Carpenter.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, hair up in a loose clip, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. There's a streak of red marker on her wrist from the banner she was working on earlier, and she's squinting up at the projector screen like she actually cares if it's perfectly centered.

You were supposed to stop by. Just for a second. Mindy asked for help. You said sure.

But really — it wasn't about the projector. It was never about the projector.

You wanted to see her.

Tara, who hasn't brought up your late-night texts.

Tara, who took the grilled cheese without flinching.

Tara, who hasn't stopped looking at you like she knows you're off your game, but hasn't said a word.

You tear your eyes away from her, throat dry.

"I have to go," you say, already backing up. Your voice comes out tight. "I'm—I'm so late."

Tara looks up, blinking like she just realized you were still here. "What?"

"Press. I was supposed to be at media by 11:40."

Her brows raise. "You're over an hour late?"

You grab your bag. "I lost track."

"Since when do you lose track?"

The words sting more than they should. You offer a tight smile. "Guess I'm slipping."

She watches you. Doesn't say anything. Just picks at the corner of the sandwich bag.

"I'll see you later?" you ask.

She shrugs. "You know where to find me."

That one hits low.

You don't say anything else. You turn, push the auditorium door open, and walk out into the light. Your heart's in your throat. Your legs feel heavier with every step.

For the first time in months, you feel like you're walking into something unprepared.

⸻

You don't see her at first.

You're running — not sprinting anymore, but that focused, panicked jog that says you know you're already late. Your legs ache. Sweat's pooling between your shoulder blades. Your chest is tight, but not from exertion. It's the shame. The spiral.

You shouldn't have stayed at the auditorium that long.

You shouldn't have forgotten what time it was.

You shouldn't have let her get to you like that.

And then you round the corner — cut behind the old campus bookstore — and she's there. Like a trap you didn't see until it was too late.

Leaning against the back of the brick wall like she's exactly where she was always meant to be. Hoodie unzipped. Leg up on the wall. A crutch tucked under her arm. Messy curls. Faded knee brace visible just under the hem of her biker shorts. And eyes locked on you before you can even process what's happening.

Riley.

You stop short.

Your breath catches. Your heart — already sprinting — stumbles in your chest.

She hasn't changed.

Still has that smirk that dares you to do something reckless. Still wearing her hoodie like armor, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Still chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk.

"You're late," she says, voice cool and unbothered.

You blink. "Riley."

"I heard you dropped forty last night," she adds, straightening slightly. "Big win. Real press-junket shit."

"I have to be there now," you say, already trying to step past her. "I can't—"

She moves just a little. Not blocking your path. But not exactly making it easy, either. "I'm not gonna keep you," she says. "Just thought it was funny. Watching you run like that."

You don't answer.

She cocks her head. "You always used to walk. Strutted like you didn't owe anyone anything."

"That was a long time ago."

"One year," she says. "Not that long."

You glance at your watch. Time slipping like sand.

"I can't do this," you mutter.

Riley exhales a laugh — sharp and low. "Why? 'Cause it's not part of your little routine? Wake up. Stretch. Get coached. Smile for the cameras. Pretend the game still matters."

Your jaw tightens. "It does matter."

"To who?" She steps in, voice low now, less mocking — more real. "You used to play with teeth. You remember that? You'd claw for the ball like it owed you rent. Elbows out. Head down. Angry. Mean. Beautiful."

You look away.

"I remember," she says. "You were fire back then. You played like the world hurt you and you were gonna hurt it back."

"I had to."

"No, you wanted to. That's what made you better than everyone else."

She's closer now. You can smell her — vanilla and sweat and old gym floors. You remember late nights in the rec center, the sound of rubber on concrete, her laugh echoing off empty bleachers. You remember splitting a pack of Sour Straws and a warm water bottle between you and calling it dinner. She was your best friend - your role model in the sport of basketball, but since her injury the two of you had never been the same.

You took her spot as the best player on the court and she hated you for it.

"You've gone soft," she says.

You flinch.

She nods toward your chest. "Press junkets. Gatorade deals. You used to burn. Now you just, kind of… float."

"I've changed."

"Yeah. You have." She says it like a compliment. But it feels like an insult.

Your voice is small when you say, "That's a good thing."

Riley looks at you — really looks at you — and for a second, there's no smile.

Just honesty.

"You don't even look like you believe that."

You inhale sharply. Stare past her. Focus on the double doors to the athletic center. Focus on anything but the guilt blooming behind your ribs.

"I have to go," you say.

She steps back, slow, letting you pass.

"You always do."

You're already walking away when she calls out behind you. "Hey. You were more dangerous when you were angry. Now? You're just trying to be liked. Hope that works out for you."

You keep moving. You don't look back.

But something in you flickers.

Something old.

Something red and hot and loud.

You tell yourself you're better now.

You tell yourself she's wrong.

But God, it would feel good to play like that again.

You shove the door open to the athletic wing and instantly feel it — the shift in temperature, the sterile fluorescent light, the silence that isn't really silent.

The press room is just down the hall, past the trophy case and the wall of grainy team photos. You can hear muffled voices inside, the tap of a mic being adjusted, someone clearing their throat. And standing just outside the door, back to you, arms crossed so tight his biceps strain against his quarter-zip?

Coach Ryan.

He turns before you can even open your mouth. "You wanna explain to me what the hell this is?"

You freeze.

He walks toward you in three long strides, and suddenly he's too close — the way he gets when he's really mad. That sharp cologne. The clipboard clutched in his hand like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing something.

"I gave you one job. One. Show up. Look sharp. Represent this team."

"Coach, I—"

"You're over an hour late," he snaps. "An hour. Do you know how bad that looks?"

"I was—"

"Don't say film club," he growls. "Don't give me that bullshit again."

You clamp your mouth shut.

"You think you're untouchable because you dropped forty last night? You think that means you get to roll in here whenever you want, looking like you just crawled out of bed?"

Your jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."

He jabs a finger at your chest. "Then tell me what it was like."

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You can't say Riley's name. You won't say Mindy’s.

So you lie. "It was tutoring."

Coach stares at you.

His voice goes quiet — which is worse. So much worse. "Don't test me."

You look away.

"I stuck my neck out for you," he says, still low. "Told them you were the future of this program. Told them you were a leader. You're lucky your teammate's been covering your ass in there. You're lucky the press is obsessed with you right now. But that shine fades fast, kid."

Silence.

Then: "You think you're focused, but I see it. You're slipping. Just enough. Just enough for someone to start wondering if you're worth betting on."

That one lands. You feel it deep. In your chest. In your stomach. In your legs.

You finally meet his eyes. "I'm still locked in."

Coach steps closer.

"Then prove it. Get in there. Own the room. And stop letting whatever—whoever—is pulling your focus drag you off the court."

You nod, stiff. "Yes, sir."

He doesn't step aside. Not yet.

"You screw this up again?" he says, voice deadly quiet. "You're not starting next week. I don't care how many points you drop. I need consistency. Not drama."

You swallow hard. "I understand."

Finally, he moves.

You walk past him toward the press room, trying not to feel how heavy your feet are. You swipe your hoodie sleeve across your forehead. You adjust your posture. You smooth out your face.

By the time you open that door, you're someone else. Smile tight. Shoulders straight. Answers ready.

But in the back of your mind, Riley's still there.

And Coach's words echo louder than the flash of any camera.

"You're slipping."

⸻

The lighting is low and warm, the air smelling like popcorn, eucalyptus body spray, and a flicker of something sweet from the nearby snack table — maybe pink lemonade punch or store-brand cupcakes with too much frosting. Fairy lights zigzag across the ceiling, flickering slightly, and someone's pressed a red filter over the projector so the entire room glows faintly like an afterparty no one invited you to — but everyone showed up for anyway.

And then there's you.

Not overdressed. Not showy. But the kind of unintentionally perfect that turns heads anyway. You're wearing a soft white tank-top over your favorite push-up bra — too much, in your mind, actually — right above your loose jeans. Your jacket is cropped, dark green, slightly faded at the collar, the kind you've worn to death and still get complimented on. Hair half-up with a claw clip, a few strands falling in that soft, face-framing way. Lip balm. Gold necklace layered with a team pendant. Nails painted — chipped, but still pretty.

You enter with your team behind you — your teammates trailing like a tide. All chaos and all clearly dragged here against their will.

Zoey, in bike shorts and a "Property of Women's Basketball" hoodie, is yawning dramatically while balancing a snack plate in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. Tasha, always dramatic, has a silk headscarf and a matching mini-purse slung over her shoulder, even though she's wearing sweats. Naomi, queen of judgment, is already critiquing the zine like it's a Yelp review. "Why are there six films about grief and none about revenge? Film kids are so unserious."

You settle into the back row with them, dropping into the middle seat like a queen returning to her court. You tug your jacket sleeves over your hands and glance forward —

— and you finally see her for the first time since the morning.

Fourth row. Burgundy dress with a slouchy knit cardigan thrown over it now, sleeves pushed up. She looks the opposite of death - a contrast of how exhausted she looked that morning. Her boots are laced all the way, but one sock is slightly rolled. Her hair's up, her gloss is fresh, and she's surrounded: Mindy, pacing like a tiny director; Anika, lounging with a lollipop in her mouth. They look like a perfectly styled trio of indie film festival royalty.

Tara hasn't looked back.

But her shoulders tense when you laugh.

And when your teammates loudly drop into their seats behind her row, exchanging gum and talking way too loudly about how "the girl in that poster kinda looks like you," she adjusts her cardigan like she's trying to focus. Like something is under her skin.

You lean toward Zoey and take a sip of her drink without asking. "You think anyone here knows what a pick and roll is?" you whisper.

Zoey scoffs. "No. But they definitely know what sexual repression looks like. And I think you're the cause."

You huff out a laugh — but your eyes flick back toward Tara.

She still hasn't turned around.

But she knows.

You're here. You're watching.

And she's wearing that dress like it's armor now.

Mindy taps the mic at the front, the room buzzing low with whispers and last-minute texts. "Welcome to REEL LOVE, a night of short films, long feelings, and no budget," Mindy deadpans. "Please don't leave during the one that's silent and sad. It's about grief, and also bees.”

Laughter rolls through the room. You smile without meaning to.

The lights dim. The screen flickers. A lo-fi opening title card appears. And as you shift in your seat, tugging your jacket a little tighter, you swear Tara glances over her shoulder.

Just once.

Long enough to see you.

Long enough to know she's not winning tonight.

Not when you look like that.

Not when you don't care if she looks or not.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is not the type to overdress.

But the maroon dress isn't overdressed — it's calculated. Soft velvet, subtle square neckline, sleeves that hug her wrists. Her hair's up, gold clip catching under the theater lights every time she leans in to whisper something to Anika. The kind of outfit that says: I came to support my friends. I came to look hot doing it.

And maybe — maybe — she came to see if you'd say something.

You're two rows back, stretched out with your teammates like you own the row. Laughing too loud. Throwing popcorn at each other. Every time the light from the screen flickers just right, she swears you're looking at her.

The festival's going well. Mindy's lineup is tight. The shorts are weird, sharp, short enough to keep the crowd from shifting in their seats. Everyone's relaxed. Comfortable. Tara even laughs once — really laughs — when a claymation character swan-dives into a bowl of tomato soup.

She leans in toward Anika, "I need to pee. Save my seat."

Anika nods without looking.

Tara stands, smooths her skirt, and slips into the glowing aisle light.

The hallway outside is jarringly bright. Stark white. Cold tile floors. The overhead lights buzz faintly — the kind of artificial hum that makes you feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong.

Tara rolls her shoulders back, stretching out the tension from sitting. She glances toward the restroom, already halfway there, when she hears them.

Two girls.

Standing by the water fountain, dressed in layered thrift-store cardigans and vintage skirts that scream effortless film major. One of them is fiddling with a camcorder keychain. The other's reapplying clear gloss, talking with the ease of someone who always assumes she's being listened to.

"I saw Riley last night at the club off Main Street and now I see Y/N tonight? Such a small world, to be honest. But, I still can't believe Y/N just walks around like nothing happened."

"Right? Like, full smile, no guilt, just... laughing with her little team."

"It's so insane. Everyone knows she's the reason Riley doesn't even go here anymore."

Tara slows mid-step.

Her brow furrows.

“She didn't break her knee, obviously, but she made sure that spot stayed closed, you know? Riley tried to come back."

"Yeah, and Coach just 'couldn't make room' Please."

"Exactly. And now she's all over Mindy and Tara like she's some reformed jock lesbian with a Letterboxd account."

“She’s totally trying to date Tara.” The girl with the lipgloss snickers, “I heard she asked Carpenter to tutor her.. classic athlete stereotype.”

Laughter.

The mean kind. Shiny and sharp and fast.

"Honestly, I give her a month. Tops. She'll ghost both of them, she’ll stop acting dumb in school and date a junior in a varsity jacket who thinks Carol is a foreign film."

"Tara's so smart. Like, how does she even fall for that?"

"Because she thinks she's different around her. They always think that."

Tara goes still. Fully still.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Just — hit.

Like someone tossed cold water at her chest, and now she's trying not to react. The voices around the corner don't lower. They're not trying to be quiet. They're trying to be right.

She stares ahead at the wall, blank. Posters curl at the edges. Someone's missing cat flyer flutters in the AC vent breeze and for the first time tonight — maybe the first time since you showed up in her world with that lopsided smile and quiet confidence — Tara thinks:

Who are you? Like… actually?

Because yeah, you bring her grilled cheese when she's too hungover to move. You show up to study sessions half-asleep but still remember the exact timestamp of the scene she couldn't stop analyzing. You lean into her space like it belongs to you, throw her looks across the quad that make her forget how to breathe. You flirt like it's your first language, but every now and then — every rare now and then — it softens into something that feels like maybe you mean it.

And maybe she started to believe it.

But you also have this whole other version of yourself tucked away like it doesn't exist — a version she's only just starting to glimpse through whispers and side-eyes and conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. A version that makes her realize how much you've chosen to keep from her.

Not lies.

Just... silence.

That's almost worse.

Because now she's re-running everything. The study sessions. The walks home. The near-moments that could've been something more if either of you were better at being honest.

And she realizes:

She doesn't really know you.

She knows about you. The things you let people see, the cool detachment. The jokes that always come before sincerity, the way you brush off compliments like they're nothing but flinch when someone says your name with real weight. She knows you're good at math, that your coach rides you harder than anyone else on the team, that your teammates trust you but don't really get you.

She knows your dad's a sore spot. She knows there's something buried there — something bitter and sharp — but you've never said a word. She's guessed at it, sure. She's pieced things together from the way your face hardens when family gets mentioned, from the times you go quiet after a win, like celebration doesn't feel safe.

She knows. But not because you told her.

Because she watched.

Because she paid attention.

Because she wanted to understand you without you ever asking her to.

And maybe... maybe that was the problem.

Because Tara does the same thing.

She hides behind precision. Behind snark and sarcasm and perfect eyeliner. She controls her space — her image — like it's armor. And the worst part? She thought maybe you understood that. She thought maybe that's why this thing between you felt different. That you saw each other's closed doors and knocked gently instead of barging through.

But tonight — hearing people talk about you like they know you — Tara realizes something gutting: She doesn't know if you'd ever open the door at all.

And it's not that she thinks you're cruel. Or calculated. Or cold.

It's that maybe you're just like her.

Too used to surviving to let anyone all the way in.

And that terrifies her. Because if she was letting herself hope — if she thought this meant something — then what does that say about her, falling for someone who never promised anything real?

She thought the flirting had weight. She thought the silence between jokes mattered.

She thought maybe you were waiting, like she was.

But maybe you were just good at pretending.

And she was just easy to believe it.

She walks back into the auditorium quietly. Shoulders straight. Dress clinging just enough to feel present.

She takes her seat next to Anika.

Doesn't look back.

Doesn't lean sideways.

Doesn't laugh when your teammates burst out giggling during the next short's credits.

She crosses her arms. Picks at her thumbnail. Tries to focus on the screen.

But your laugh carries.

And suddenly, it sounds a little different.

————

second author’s note: this was written at 4am no proofread so bare w me

[heesmiles]

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,�� not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[uhuhmaries]

Congressman Barnes | B.B.

NSFW VERY NOT SAFE AARGHHHHHHHH

⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —⋆˙⟡ —

You only went to that bar because your roommate convinced you to.

Said you needed a “celebration fuck” before your big girl job started tomorrow. Said the whole “capable working woman” thing really gets guys going. You thought she was full of shit, but you humored her.

And apparently, she was right. Because not even two martinis in, you saw him.

Dark suit, sleeves rolled up, forearms a story of veins and tension. Thick thighs spread confidently at the stool. A few silver streaks in his hair. Gloved hand cradling a tumbler of whiskey. Eyes like winter pressed into steel.

And when his gaze met yours, the rest of the room melted.

You don’t remember exactly who made the first move. But you remember what he said.

“You look like trouble. I'm James.”

“You look like you can handle it. You don't need to know my name.”

That grin—wolfish and worn, like he’d been around long enough to know exactly how this would end. And still, you went with him. Into the backseat of a car he didn’t have to drive. Into an apartment too clean for how messy the night became.

“Can I take this off?” He asked, voice low and rough, fingers curling under your top.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can do anything.”

Clothes scattered. Hands greedy. Mouths reckless.

But you jolted a little when you felt the cold metal against your thigh. You hadn’t noticed before.

His vibranium arm. He stilled immediately. “You okay?”

You looked up, chest rising fast, heart racing harder. And nodded.

“It’s... kinda hot.”

That got a chuckle out of him. One that turned into a groan as you dragged his hand lower.

That arm pinned both your wrists above your head as he fucked you slow, hips grinding deep, letting you feel every inch of him like he wanted to brand you from the inside.

“Sweet thing like you shouldn’t be walkin’ into bars alone,” he murmured as you came undone. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

“Already did.”

You left without saying anything while he's in the bathroom. No number. No name. Just a sore body and a throbbing memory.

“Good,” you told yourself. “Clean break. One and done.”

Until the next morning.

Your name gets called in a room that smells like mahogany and politics. You're in your new pencil skirt, your hair twisted all professional, a planner clutched to your chest.

You glance up. And the world stops again.

There he is. James. In a fitted suit and flag pin. Standing tall and composed, face unreadable, eyes sharp as hell.

“Congressman Barnes,” your new boss says brightly, shaking his hand. “This is our new executive assistant. Just started this morning.”

Congressman Barnes. He was just James to you last night. James Barnes? It didn’t even sound real then—like a fake name someone gives when they don’t want to be found.

But now? Now it is real. And so is the weight of the moment.

James looks at you. You look at him.

And the fact that he doesn’t so much as flinch?

Almost worse than if he had.

“Just... Bucky,” he says smoothly, lips twitching with a secret. “Nice to meet you.”

Your throat goes dry. Bucky? As in the Bucky?

You’ve heard things—rumors, history, whispers about vibranium and war—but you were never into that world. Never the type to care about super-soldiers or whatever kind of myth they made him into.

But now it all clicks. The arm. You’d known there was something different about it—but vibranium?

Jesus Christ.

Still, you clear your throat and manage a smile.

“Likewise.”

You avoid him the rest of the week. You try. But you feel his eyes on you in every hallway.

Every time you bend over a file drawer. Every time you pass papers across the table.

He barely says anything. But when he does?

“Missed a button, sweetheart.” “You always this eager in the mornings?” “You still sore, or do I need to remind you how to behave?”

And the worst part? You want him to. You ache for him to.

It finally snaps a week later.

You’re gathering folders from the empty conference room late afternoon when the door clicks shut behind you.

You whip around—and he's there.

Loose tie, rolled sleeves, hair a little messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

“Congressman—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“Why’d you leave?”

You blink.

“That night.” He steps closer. “You ran off like it meant nothing.”

“I thought—” Your throat tightens. “I thought it was just a one-time thing.”

His gaze hardens, jaw ticking. “So you were raised without manners, then?”

Your stomach flips. Heat pulses low in your belly.

“Was I supposed to leave my number on your nightstand?” You ask quietly, pulse quick. “Would you have even used it?”

That grin again—slow, dangerous, amused.

“I would've appreciated a goodnight and a proper goodbye,” he says, voice like velvet and gravel. “Didn’t realize the modern world made it standard to fuck and vanish.”

And then he’s on you.

He crowds you against the table, hand on your neck, thumb brushing your jaw. His metal fingers glide down your spine, teasing the zipper of your skirt.

“Still wet for me?” He murmurs into your throat. “All week you’ve been walking around like a fuckin’ temptation. Acting like you don’t know how good this cock made you feel.”

You whimper. “I remember.”

“Bet you do.”

The hand on your waist tightens. He flips your skirt up. No warning.

No panties. You've been expecting, indeed.

“Christ,” he groans. “Knew you were a fuckin’ tease.”

His flesh fingers dip between your legs. Find you slick. Pulsing.

You gasp, gripping the table as he sinks two fingers into you.

“Look at that,” he mutters. “Still so tight.”

He fucks you open on his hand, curling just right, until your knees buckle.

Then he pulls away.

You whine, turning your head, lips parted in protest—but he’s already undoing his belt.

“Gonna give you what you’ve been begging for every time you walk by my office,” he says, voice gone to gravel. “Gonna fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in. Let you remember who you belong to now.”

He bends you over the conference table. Drives into you in one long, deep stroke.

You cry out, clutching the wood. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you adjust. Because you don’t want to. You want him to take.

“Doesn’t really qualify as a one-night stand anymore, does it?” He growls in your ear, hips pounding into you, the cool pressure of his arm gripping your waist.

You shake your head, tears prickling.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, sir.”

He groans. “Fuckin’ love the way you say that.”

His cock hits every perfect spot, thick and hot and demanding. His hand slides under your blouse, yanking your bra down, teasing a nipple until you sob.

“Just know.... that I don’t share,” he growls. “Not with anyone. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasp. “Yours.”

He fucks into you harder, rougher.

“You come when I say.”

You nod, breath ragged. “Yes, sir—please—”

And when he finally says the word, you break apart around him—tight and shaking. He follows with a low, guttural sound, hips stuttering, cock buried deep as he spills inside you like it’s a claim.

Not a release. A mark.

You're both a mess. Breathing hard. Clothes wrinkled. Skin flushed. Sweat slick between your thighs.

He tugs your head back by your jaw, eyes locked on yours—like he’s daring you to run again.

“That what you’ve been aching for all week?” He growls, his body still pressed tight against yours. “Saw me once and couldn’t stop thinking about getting fucked like this?”

Your voice is hoarse when you answer, trying to steady yourself. “I work here now. I was just trying to do my job.”

It’s a weak lie and you both know it.

He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Sure.”

He zips up without breaking eye contact.

Straightens your skirt with rough, deliberate hands. Like dressing a doll he owns.

Then he presses a hard kiss to your cheek—not tender. Not sweet. Just final.

“Lunch tomorrow. Be ready.”

You blink. “You don’t even have my—”

He’s already pulled your phone from your bag. Fingers flying over the screen.

“Congressmen get access to a lot of things, sweetheart.”

You stare, stunned, breath still catching.

He pockets your phone. Brushes your neck with his thumb like he’s checking the pulse he just wrecked.

Then leans in, voice low and certain against your skin.

“And you?” “You get used to this.”

[hoonstrology]

i saw you were looking for asks!! how would error 404 sunghoon react to sleeping with reader for the first time? i don't mean sleeping as in sex but like he's over at her place or vice versa and they sleep in the same bed. or what if one of them struggles to sleep and is constantly moving too in the bed lol

＃ surprise sleepover .ᐟ

   ⤷  ꒰ an e404-boyfriend!sunghoon drabble. ꒱

⤷  can be read as a stand-alone. ┆ for context, read e404 here! ⤷  contains — 1.4k words. suggestive content. (mdni.) est. relationship. loser bf!sunghoon. (we cheered!) kind-of-perv!hoon comeback. fluff. not proofread. ⤷ main masterlist.  ┆ series masterlist.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ reblogs and replies are highly appreciated! 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯

the most you two have done was kiss.

sure, sunghoon's hands wandered to the curve of your ass or to your inner thigh during especially steamy make-out sessions, but you've never actually done the deed. 

not yet, at least.

so when you told him to stay over for the night for the first time ever, he froze in the middle of packing his bag.

eyes wide, half bent down, hand clutching on a book to ground himself.

he'd like to think that he's been a respectful boyfriend. though your friendship has lasted for more than a year, your relationship was still fragile. young. barely 3 months old. 

you've never asked for anything more than a kiss, and he never crossed that line despite dreaming of what it would be like on the other side. 

maybe tonight would change that.

"so is that a yes?" you half-shout from your bedroom, footsteps pattering on the wooden floor and your bare face peeking out from behind the door frame.

"huh?" 

"i said you should just stay over tonight." you spoke like it was just a casual offer. like it wasn't making sunghoon's heart rattle inside his ribs. 

because at the end of the day, he's just a man. one full of hormones— of need. 

"w-why?" his voice came out like that of a kid who doesn't know whether he's getting rewarded or punished. and that's pretty much how it is right now. 

"are you crazy? i'm not going to make you drive through the storm. auntie would kill me." you laughed, sauntering over to gently lay a stack of clothes on the coffee table.

oh. 

oh, okay. 

you didn't want sex, you were just making sure your boyfriend stayed safe. 

right. 

"my brother left some of his clothes here. i'm pretty sure he wouldn't mind if you borrowed it for a night." 

you stepped out of your bathroom door in an adorable pajama set to see sunghoon running his fingers through his freshly dried hair. you didn't even notice he was wearing jeonghan's clothes because they look so different on him. 

the gray wife-beater was a tighter fit, making his muscular arms look even bigger than how they feel whenever you held them. and the gray sweatpants were hung low on his hips, showing you just a sliver of his smooth and fair skin.

good lord did he look like sin personified.

if only he didn't look so goofy with his back practically pressed against the wall.

"what are you doing?" you asked.

"i... uh— i was waiting.. i was— w-where's the spare blanket?" he stammered, and you raised an eyebrow in confusion. 

"what for?" 

"for the couch?" 

"why would you put a blanket on a couch?" 

“angel, it’s for me.”

"i thought it was for the couch?” 

"no, i mean— i’m gonna use it when i sleep there."

no one spoke while you two exchanged befuddled looks. 

"you have to be insane." you finally scoffed, pulling him towards your bed and grunting out his name when you felt him resisting. eventually, you managed to push him to lie down on your bed, throwing the duvet over his body and pointing a finger.

"you'll sleep here. with me. understood?"

he meekly nodded, flashing you those damn puppy eyes that you know could guarantee him a way out of any crime— and you almost gave in. but you turned around to dry your hair, replacing the silence with the loud wheeze of your blower. 

he's been in your bedroom. he ate chinese takeouts with you on the floor, has sat on this same vanity seat, and napped on the same damn bed stomach down on multiple occasions. 

for him to even imply that you'll let him sleep on your cheap couch was a blow to your sunghoon-loving ego. 

the linen-colored walls turned a shade warmer from the soft glow of your lamp after you turned off the big lights. you head to bed and closed your eyes, letting the song of rain and rumbling thunder lull you to sleep. 

but you're only afforded a few minutes of true rest when you feel your body dip from your boyfriend shifting. 

a few more minutes and then another one. 

again.

you heard another squeak and you’ve had enough.

you sat up and sighed, arms crossed over your chest. "have you never slept over a girl's house before?" 

"what? of course i have!" he's laid on your sheets, blanket covering his lower half, brows furrowing at your words like you've accused him of murder. “i don’t mean to brag but i’ve slept in a lot of girl’s houses.”

you snort. "okay, mister popular. why are you so antsy then?" 

"'m not." 

"sunghoon." you flashed him a look and he sighs, pulling the blanket up higher to cover half his face, grumbling. "i don't know. it's my first time sharing a bed with you... it feels weird. in a good way. but also in a weird way." 

how your boyfriend can switch from looking like an irritated sex god to an absolute cute fluff ball within a second is beyond you.

you wanted to snap back but he’s always been a very sentimental person, always caring for the firsts he shared with you, always cooing when you let him in on new information about yourself. 

it does nothing but make your voice soften.

"baby, it's fine. you don’t have to be nervous. it's not like we're gonna fuck."

he’s quiet but you felt the bed dip when he squirmed, and suddenly, it all made sense. 

"oh my god. you thought we were going to fuck when i asked you to sleep over, didn't you?" you say with a wicked smirk tugging on a corner of your lips. 

"n-no!" 

"you totally did!" 

he narrowed his eyes at you and clicked his tongue, his body bouncing a little as he turns around to face the wall with a huff. you can’t help but chuckle at his childishness. you laid down again, wrapping your arms around him from behind, chin hooked on his shoulder before pressing a kiss on the soft skin of his neck.

“you've been thinking about that all night, huh?”

"angel, ask any man my age what 'stay over for the night' means and they'll all say the same shit i would." he sighed. 

you let out a loud laugh, your hand resting over his abdomen to give it a pat. "i'm sorry if i gave you that impression, my love." you muttered, tracing shapes on the thinly clothed skin before hugging him tighter.

he relished the feeling of being the little spoon— a first, among the many firsts you’ve taken from him. the warm lamps you had adorning your room was no match for the naturality of the one he gets from your touch. but your apology made the loving hold you had on him feel a little too suffocating. 

sunghoon turned around to look at you with an expression you’ve grown familiar with: guilt. 

he wrapped you around his arms, bringing your head to his chest so he could press a kiss on your hair. “don’t be sorry, angel. i should be the one apologizing. you don’t owe me anything, mm? if you want to take your time before wanting to do… it with me,—” he clears his throat. “then i’ll be fine waiting.”

you leaned back and stretched just enough for you to place a peck on the corner of his lips. “i’m not opposed to doing it right now," you mock. "but it’s so cozy and warm like this. i like being held by you. makes me feel fuzzy.” 

you giggled and did a little restrained dance in his hold. you let your head rest on his bicep, letting out a soft sigh as you snuggled against him further, tangling your legs with his and whispered a soft ‘i love you’ before closing your eyes.

the words, no matter how much time has passed or how much they’ve been repeated, still made his cheeks warm.

sunghoon softened, squeezing you in his hold and returned the same words to you, sealing it with a kiss on your forehead.

"good night, pengoo."

"good night, my angel."

he decided, at this very moment, that no amount of mind-blowing sex, no amount of intimacy, could make him feel as fulfilled as he does being the one to hold you and keep you safe as you drifted to sleep.

꒰ from ! 🐰 yan ꒱⠀⠀ eep !!! still very new to writing so i'm sorry if this isn't as good. i also dunno if this is what anon meant, but i hope it's good enough. sigh. as much as i love perv!hoon, my heart just beats a little stronger for wholesome loser bf!hoon. (ᵕ—ᴗ—) send your drabble requests in my ask! i'm accepting e404!hoon ideas or just general ideas for any enha members. ♡

⌗ taglist (open) — @zerocoded

© hoonstrology 2025. please don't translate, plagiarize, steal, or repost any of my works.

[theobservatory]

｡⁠☆Brain Fog｡⁠.ﾟ⁠+⁠ 

☆Clark x reader

☆Cw: no pronouns, no use of y/n, memory issues, dissociation(?), complete self projection from the author

Dating Clark is the easiest thing you have ever done. He's doting, attentive, kind, and gorgeous. For the first time in your life it seems you've landed a 10/10. Sure, we all have our flaws, but Clarks seem almost miniscule compared to people you've dated in the past. It feels good, maybe a little embarrassing, to be known and cared for like he does for you.

You try your best to return the favor whenever you can. That's the only hard part about your relationship. You don't think Clark's caught on, not that you're hiding your less than efficient brain from him, but you'd also rather not point it out.

Currently Clark is standing beside your desk. He's leaned against the wall in your home office/guest bedroom, chatting and watching you work. He knows you're only half paying attention, just wanting to be in your presence in whatever way possible at the moment.

You're not sure when you completely stopped hearing what he said. When his soft voice turned into muddled droning that you can't quite parse out. It must've been the same time your brain started feeling like lead, when the paper you've been typing started to become gibberish.

Clark notices the moment you stop typing. He's smiling at first, ready to steal your attention for the rest of the day, until he sees your face. His smile pulls into concern.

"You okay?"

"Yeah- sorry, I'm alright. Creative juices just stopped flowing I guess."

More like it was washed away in a river. Every time you try to read the words your brain becomes static, and anything you try to type falls through your fingers before it can reach the page. You glare at your computer screen.

"I need a break." You sigh.

"Good. It was getting lonely talking to myself over here."

You snort. "Shut up Clark."

You probably should've sat down and explained your memory problems to Clark in this moment, he gave you the perfect opening to do it. But no, you brushed it off like you always do, because it didn't seem like that big of a deal. A little brain fog is normal when you work a high stress job like you do.

Still, this didn't become apparent to you until around a week later, when Clark had stayed over.

It's not strange for you to wake up and not know where you are, even when you wake up in your own bedroom. You're so used to it you don't even bat an eye when you sit up dazed and confused. Clark, ever the attentive lover, does though. He notices immediately that something is off.

"Darlin'?"

You look at him cluelessly. You have no clue where you are, and you don't know who this man is. He seems awfully familiar with you, he is sleeping in bed with you, and he doesn't seem nefarious. You're sure you'd know if he was, even though in this moment you don't know anything.

"I don't know where I am." You say flatly.

You don't ask for help, because you don't need it. Nothing is familiar to you, but you feel like you know it anyway. Even Clark's large hand on your forehead only feels like a distant piece of a memory, even though he's right here.

"You feeling okay?"

You shrug, and slide out of bed. Clark follows on your heels like a herding dog.

It's not until you step out of your bedroom and into the rest of your apartment that everything rushes back. It's like a bulb in your brain ticks on, shedding light on all your memories. You also haven't forgotten that a very concerned Clark is hovering over your back as you stand in the middle of your living room.

"Darlin'?" He asks again.

"I'm okay." You groan, embarrassed. "Sorry that was a whole- thing. I don't know. Sorry for worrying you."

"Thing?"

So you start to talk. You explain how you lapse in memory pretty frequently. You explain how he saw it for the first time in your office last week. You explain how it seemed to pop up out of nowhere one day, and you've been dealing with it long enough that it doesn't stress you out anymore. It's just a part of your life now.

Clark is clearly not satisfied by your explanation.

"So you've never gone to the doctor for it, even once?"

"No. I don't know how to explain what I feel. It's not like it happens outside my own house very often, so I figured it's fine."

You don't mention the multiple times you've completely forgotten where your house is, as well as your address, and had to ask a friend for help. Bringing it up wouldn't be very indicative of your point.

Clark's jaw drops. "You don't even want to find out what's wrong?"

"It's not a big deal."

"N-Not a big deal? 'Not a big deal' she says."

"It really isn't. I'm managing it, just leave it alone, okay?"

He doesn't bring it up again, but his eyes trail you until he goes home. They're big and blue and sad. It makes you feel a little guilty, almost guilty enough to let him stay another night, but you feel like you've been scrutinized enough for a few days.

After this he somehow becomes even more aware of you. He seems to always notice when the fog slips in, even before you do. He treats you like normal, and explains things if you ask questions. It's nice. You even prefer this new arrangement over him ignoring it entirely.

One day, when he was back over at your apartment, really only staying for dinner, but half the time when he says that he ends up spending the night. You felt the fog come over your mind, sluggish and blurry. You were in the middle of cooking, which you should know, the stove is on, there's a pan in your hand, you can smell the food cooking, but you can't seem to figure out what you're doing.

Clark, as of sensing something wrong, is behind you in a second. His arms wrap around you from behind, and he rests his chin on your head. You can feel low vibrations of his chest as he talks.

"You doing okay?"

"I can't remember what I'm doing."

You know it's obvious. You know you should be able to connect the dots, but you're lost. It's like you can't even begin to figure out what you're looking at, despite standing in your own kitchen.

"That's okay." He kisses your cheek, and lifts you onto the counter. "I'll take it from here."

The pan is removed from your hands and you're content to watch your boyfriend shuffle around your kitchen. The longer you sit there, the more that comes back to you, but you're still content to just watch. Clark's doing a good job, he looks in his element, domestic. It's good. You feel good.

Normally after a lapse like that you'd be scrambling to salvage your burned pans, or trying to force your brain back on track. Now though, you feel safe enough to take it slow, to let yourself come back on your own. That's something you've never had before.

For a moment, you're stuck staring at your boyfriend. Your vision shortens to only focus on him. The way his back muscles move, his slightly wavy hair, his fingers gripping your pan. You feel so overtaken with adoration that it suffocates you.

"Clark?" You call.

"Mhm?"

"I love you."

His eyes flick away from the stove to focus on you. His pupils seem to swell, much larger and faster than any humans would- like a cat's eye. His whole face softens and his shoulders go slack with it, like the weight of the world has dropped off them.

"I love you too." He plants a kiss on your forehead, and turns back to the food, slightly more relaxed than before.

Hey guys, does anyone know what the fuck is wrong with me /hj. But like dead ass. One time I completely forgot where I was in my bathroom while I was washing my hands and for the life of me couldn't figure out why TF the sink water was running, despite my hands being covered in soap.

I have a burn on my arm from grabbing a pizza pan with oven mitts on, but mid action forgot how to hold the pan and just fucking held it and let it burn me and I couldn't figure out why my arm hurt.

Don't get me started with how hard writing can be for me. Dear. God. This is complete self projection, I need this man NOW.

｡⁠☆Requests Open

[urfavnewgirl]

BLÜDHAVEN. EIGHT PM.

“I am going to murder him. Stick one of his own arrows up his ass so he gets a taste of what betrayal truly feels like.”

“Your vulgarity is off the charts today, sweetheart.” You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, neatly places it on top of the singular bed in your shared hotel room.

You were meant to finish this job with Roy. After all, the two of you had started working on it together months ago, and everything had led up to this very moment in time. The next two days or so were meant to be simple, really: find the precise location of the drug lord you had been tracking and were finally able to identify, get familiar with his habits, and strike.

Except, never the reliable one, your red-haired friend had a “thing to deal with”, one that was supposedly “much more urgent” and thus, forced you to play through the perfectly planned grand finale with Jason fucking Todd, of all people.

Admittedly, you always worked well together, even when he was purely the Red Hood to you, a man clad in maroon and several layers of deflection. And yes, maybe your dislike for him has dwindled into a rather small flame compared to the bonfire it was at the beginning. Maybe he was sweet sometimes, even. But that didn't mean you were comfortable with your current predicament.

“You're taking the couch.”

He scoffs, eyes widening in disbelief. “And what makes you think I'm gonna agree to that?”

Wordlessly, you meet his gaze, then plop down on the bed, nuzzling into the covers. You know it's unfair of you. Jason is big. Ridiculously so. And the couch is tiny. He'd have to curl up into a ball to even fit on it, and you bite back a grin at the mental image. Let him suffer a little. You don't want to give in to a man this easily.

He squints at you, shakes his head. Similarly to you, he lets the moment pass by in silence. His stare alone is enough for you to pull the comforters completely over your head, and because he doesn't retort, you allow yourself to relax in the safety of your hiding place, your body limp.

That's when you feel it. One hand, large and calloused, slides under your knees, the other finds your upper back. He had touched you before, of course. It came with the job. You knew he ran warm. Except, right now, it was not the vigilante pulling you into an alley, hiding away from bad guys - it's Jason's gloveless skin on yours, and he's a damn furnace. He pulls you out from under the covers in a torturously slow, careful motion, mumbles “you leave me no choice”, and places you atop the dull-looking two-seater.

You wait for the goosebumps to disappear, for your vocal chords to realign themselves before you reply. And even then, it's a weak sound, half the air in your lungs absent, stolen by him. “...Asshole.”

He grins down at you, walks over to mimic your previous position on the bed. “At least I'm a comfortable asshole.”

You know he's right, and you know you can't do anything about it, not when your fatigued state robs you of your usual strength. So you merely shoot him the finger, turn the nightlamp on, and face the backrest of your less than lovely frame of cushions.

TEN PM.

“So, what are you reading, anyways?”

“Not talking to you right now.”

“And here I thought our relationship was getting better.”

“Fuck you, Todd.”

He laughs at that. His voice is deep, gravelly. It's a harsh sound that slices through the air, and you frown at the way it makes you feel. 

You turn the page, purposefully dragging the movement into an unnecessary length before shooting him the briefest of looks, your tone seeped in annoyance. “The Haunting of Hill House.”

There's a scoff of disbelief as you hear him shift on the bed, a pair of eyes digging into your back. “You brought a horror novel to a creepy motel?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“Do you ever read any other genre?”

Placing your book on the nightstand, you turn around to face him, the street lamps allowing in just enough light for you to make out the contours of his face. With his eyebrows set into a frown, glossy, wide eyes and the rest of his body hidden under pink covers, he almost looks cute. Almost.

“I do. Do you ever read anything other than Austen?”

“I do.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like Frankenstein. Dracula, too.”

“But those are-”

His eyebrows raise, “Your favorites, yeah.”

“...sap.”

You turn around to hide your blush. So he had taken your recommendations, at the end of the day. There's something fuzzy blossoming right where your heart is at the realization. You wait for it to somewhat sizzle out, and then, quietly, speak.

“I read Emma, too. And Pride and Prejudice.”

Jason Todd catches himself smiling at your words, and he's glad you can't see his face.

ONE AM.

No rest for the wicked, and for those forced to lay on rock-hard couches in inexplicably cold motel rooms.

You've spent the last few hours in a statuesque state, unmoving, because you don't want to wake him, desperately trying to get your body to give in and fall asleep. One look at the time, however, is enough for you to finally take action.

With a frustrated sigh, you stumble into a somewhat upright position, nearly crawling over to the radiator. Your fingers find the knob, and when you realize it's rusted right into a non-functional mess, you have the urge to cry out loud, head in your hands, but he breaks the silence before you do.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You nearly tear your hair out at the question. “What does it look like I'm doing, Red? This room is worse than Antarctica.”

“'s not that bad.” 

“Yeah, because your body temperature runs way above average. Plus, your ass is on the bed. I'm pretty sure that sofa was made of actual ice.”

He sighs. Speaks, quietly. “So get in.”

You turn towards him fully, head tilted in confusion. “What?”

“The bed.”

“But–”

“Get. in. the. damn. bed.”

Not wanting to risk a repeat of his earlier actions (his big, strong arms, hauling you up, leaving you a blushing mess), you comply, hesitantly get into the bed. You make sure to leave enough space between you, your bodies separated by at least a foot. Even at a distance, you feel his warmth, but it is not enough to eradicate your shivering completely. 

It's only around two minutes later when you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pull you into the safety of his own form, and your chattering teeth finally come to a rest. His nose meets your neck, nuzzles into your shoulder, your hands run across his. This is the most physical contact you've ever had with him, and yet, it's not awkward - it feels almost as natural as breathing. You relax into it. So does he.

“Too stubborn for your own good.” He says, and you drift off to sleep with a grin plastered to your face.

EIGHT AM.

Your eyes flutter open, adjust to the light, yet when you try to move, you're pulled right back.

Seven hours have passed, and you don't know if it is due to the early morning sleepiness still lingering in the air, or for reasons you don't let your mind wonder about, but he refuses to let you go.

He shifts slightly, forehead against you, a groggy mumble hitting your skin. “Missions at nine. We've time.”

So you let him hold you for a little while longer, leave your actually awake self to deal with the consequences of your actions some other time.

-

can be read as pt. two to this

[specialgradefckr]

Not In Your Wildest Dreams

concept: satoru and suguru as incubii. and you, the shy, awkward thing at the club? you're the latest item on their menu.

tw: explicit content. dubcon (?), somno/dream stuff. satoru and suguru are literal demons, they kill people, they do bad things.

you see them in the club often enough. they're not always together but they share a strange, magnetic appeal that has your heart skipping a beat at the sight.

satoru is gorgeous. otherworldly, almost, with his snowy hair, eyes so blue they almost glow, a smooth jawline framing his undeniably attractive face.

he weaves in between the crowds without a care in the world, striding towards whatever takes his fancy. there's something graceful in how he moves; utterly confident, unbothered, and yet somehow there's a deeper, erotic appeal.

maybe it's just his outfits - his shirts are often more fashion than fabric, leaving his toned top half on display. it's like he's showing off; baring all his pale and perfect skin as an appetizer.

lurid eyes piercing through you with a glance, with a tiny, secret smile on those lovely pink lips; want a taste? of course you do.

pure arrogance. and it's so, so hot... but he's the type of guy who'd never go for a girl like you.

you're shy. a wallflower, even. he's a star, shining bright, pulling everyone into orbit. you're content to be a lesser moon, feeling the tug on your blood as he nears, looking away when you can no longer stand his light.

and somehow, you keep coming back anyways.

"this seat taken?"

he sounds as lovely as he looks. your heart can't take this. divert, defend!

"by my boyfriend," you mutter out a lie, looking away. face hot.

satoru laughs, and it turns out he doesn't need his beauty to make your heart skip a beat. just the sound of it; high and boyish and unrelenting charm.

maybe you're crazy, but you swear you can feel the body heat of him sliding in next to you.

"i'm right here~" sing-song, so charming, but teasing - god, he's such a tease, "c'mon, gimme a kiss~"

"my boyfriend wouldn't like that." might as well go all the way with your made-up nonsense.

"i'll beat him up. take his girl. just point him out to me, baby," you can definitely feel the heat of him, as he leans in closer, "i'm stronger than i look, you know. don't worry, i won't kill him~"

it's not like satoru looks weak. he's got muscles, lean, but defined, and just thinking of them again unsettles you.

you pull away, heart racing face burning, "i'm more worried you'll fuck him."

he laughs again. but this is loud, hearty; from the chest, you think. it makes your chest hurt.

you think you feel a hand on your shoulder before you slip off your seat, and into the crowd.

probably just your imagination, though.

suguru is more... obtainable, you think? not that you imagine you'd have a chance with either of them.

they're both so pretty they feel like they're from another world - like models off a billboard, so effortlessly airbrushed and flawless from every angle.

but suguru's got less flash about it. he's more subtle, more unassuming. approachable, almost.

not that you approach him. it's more that you run into him - drink in hand, on the way to the bathroom.

it spills all over him, over a clean but stylish top that must be designer something, an assortment of long chains around his neck clinking and wet.

"oh my god, i'm so sorry," the fluster overwhelms you as you meet his eyes. dark, violet. suddenly you feel unfathomably small, like a tiny fish in the face of a massive great white, out in open ocean.

"it's all right." his voice is velvet-smooth, nothing like satoru's. he smiles, and it's an easy, comforting thing -

but there's something about him that just isn't quite right.

it's hard to think about, because suguru's arms reach down, and you watch him pull his shirt right up over his head, chest stretching, muscles flexing broadly as he takes a deep breath, and drapes the half-soaked shirt over a forearm.

god. oh, god. his chest is so broad, so well-muscled, dusky nipples dark and perked up against his plush pecs.

you think you're going to pass out.

"no harm done," honey-sweet, the words drip out, "as long as i can get your number."

his voice is warm, melodic, and he looks at you with a gentle warmth -

but you can't help but feel like the girl who gets asked out as a joke.

with a tight smile, you type your number into his phone, handing it to him very quickly as you dart into the bathroom, throwing the cup away, only to head straight for the exit afterwards.

you don't dare look back.

and maybe it's a good thing you don't. you don't see suguru, number dialed, staring at the phone ringing in his hands.

you don't see his eyes on you as you leave. how you don't react at all, not even the way you would to a vibration.

you don't see his text, either, or voice message - because you hadn't given him your number.

but suguru knows. he always knows.

they're demons, after all. they have their ways of knowing. desire, attention, lust. they're natural whores. sex isn't exactly casual to them - it's a way of life.

satoru feeds off yearning, longing. he relishes breaking sweet, chaste mortal hearts, bewitching them with the most beautiful face they've ever seen, with quick glances and bashful smiles.

part of it is vanity. he is one of hell's prettiest, after all.

he loves making them want him. crave him. break themselves apart, betray their lovers, their values, their better interests just for a taste - a taste he rarely gives them.

only a chosen few get to touch him. and everyone who does get the honor is drained of their life essence and tossed away like the ugly, emptied out vessel they are.

suguru is more selective. he doesn't get anything out of leading people on. and he's not a gentle creature like satoru, who likes to make his prey come to him.

he's a hunter to the core. of course, he finds people who desire him - introverts, soft, shy souls who aren't likely to act on their longing.

delectable. ripe fruit hanging low on the branch. he hunts them down, presses them with soft smiles, gentle touches. cornering them so tenderly they think the nervousness is their own fault.

virgins are the best. he pushes it further and further, takes and takes and takes from soft, sweet things too caught up in the newness of their own desire and situation to hear the alarms blaring in their empty little heads.

and because he eats less often than satoru, he makes sure to savor each and every one, down to the very last drop.

he's a monster. through and through. at least he can admit it; he doesn't know how most of the mortals who serve him sleep at night.

neither of them feel guilt - what a useless emotion that would be for a demon.

but they do both feel desire.

this, though... this is the first time they've ever felt desire for the same person.

you don't sleep well that night.

it's been a bit of a pattern, lately. you're an insomniac in the best of times, but now it's bad, even when you fall asleep.

now, you've been having dreams.

it's not even subtle what it is. how it starts.

you know immediately that you're not alone. there's a warmth beside you, the press of bare skin against your own.

you think it should feel strange - being touched like this, having hands roaming over you. they're bigger, but not rougher. gentle as they cup your curves, slide along the expanse of your torso, your breasts, your shoulders.

it should feel invasive. it should feel like a violation, being touched like this. no one has ever seen you like this before.

instead, between your legs, a slow and steady ache grows.

it's hard to think when it happens. not quite lucid dreaming. like you're an actor in the play, floating through the roles, the lines, just soaking in the sensations.

hands on your hips. soft lips that tickle your neck, trailing up. tracing skin that prickles and shivers at the touch.

and then you see him - satoru.

unmistakable. striking white and blue that sends a bolt through you - throbbing. hot. hungry.

lower down. hardness against you. a grind, delicious, slow, the friction against your panties nearly making you keen and stretch into it.

you're not even looking at his face, but somewhere in this dream image in your mind, you see his smile.

"so cute... why'd you run off on me, huh?" you hear it, like it's whispered in your ear, but you feel him sucking a mark into your neck, "i don't bite... much."

it's both shameful and erotic, how you feel yourself clench at the sound of his voice.

you open your mouth, or you think you do. maybe you were going to say something. maybe you do, and you don't hear it. maybe it's just part of the dream.

either way, his laughter fills your ears. and it makes your chest ache. it's such a pretty sound.

"don't be scared. i like you, you know that?"

bright white hair flits into your vision. it smells sweet, electric; there's a sour taste lingering on your tongue that makes your mouth water.

makes you grind up into him. legs twine with yours, pinning you down, letting you feel him press and press that length of hardness right into your crotch.

it's - it's dirty. messy. embarrassing, to be like this.

and it feels so, so good.

the hair - soft, feathery - slipping through your fingertips but suddenly it's still there, it's silky, and smooth, and dark, and -

"naughty thing. you really hurt my feelings with that fake number, you know?"

the words should terrify you. they should be frightening even in a dream, you know that.

but looking up into those violet eyes and that catlike smile, all you feel is heat.

pure, pounding out of your chest like your galloping heart. you swallow your spit, or you think you do, the drool pooling in your mouth.

this time, when your mouth opens, you see suguru's face. hovering over yours. his own lips parted, wet, dripping saliva.

a strand, syrup-sweet, that lazily pools down from his mouth into yours.

it tastes as honeyed as his words are. makes your head feel dizzy.

not dizzy enough to forget the pulse of arousal that pounds, heavier and heavier.

you don't know if it's fear or desire that makes it surge as suguru smiles down at you. you don't know if it's fingers, or something longer, thicker, hotter, nudging at your folds, burning -

you never know what's happening in those dreams. it all gets hazy from there.

it dissolves in a mess of heat and sensation. a hot mouth, wide hands, pretty eyes and colors - so many that you can't tell them apart.

maybe it's that in your own mind, you can't decide which one you want. maybe it's because both of them feel like a lie you can't bring yourself to believe.

you don't know. you don't even want to, really. you run away, even in your dreams, hiding from the sensation, the obvious conclusion, the budding arousal and eroticism that must be your own subconscious begging you to get laid.

god. you really need to get a grip.

they're the kinds of dreams you remember, when you wake up. the type you try to pretend you haven't had.

someone like that would never be interested in you anyways... but it's nice to have them in your dreams.

you can't even look at yourself in the mirror most mornings. you don't want to see the face your dream men must have been looking at. you're not some beautiful creature like all of them, gorgeous at every angle, with any expression.

maybe it's lucky. or maybe not.

if you did check, you'd have noticed the hickeys on your neck.