#because it's deliberately going against who it used to be

[bucketsorbueckers]

Trouble - 10

Age gap Paige x Azzi

Warnings: Explicit content. Minors DNI, langauge

WC: 6k

a/n: thank you for your patience (you have none). here's the next chapter. just a little glimpse of what we have coming. enjoy my loves :)

Azzi’s POV

Azzi woke up slow.

The room was dim, the morning light barely threading through the curtains. The sheets were soft—cool against her legs, the fabric expensive. 

She didn’t panic. Didn’t bolt upright or scramble to place herself. She knew exactly where she was. And who she was looking for.

Her hand drifted across the mattress—searching, reaching—only to find nothing. Just cool sheets and empty space.

Her eyes snapped open. The room spun once before it settled, familiar and quiet. Paige’s room. Paige’s bed.

Last night came back in flashes. Her voice trembling. Paige’s hands steady.

 And yet—

The other side of the bed was untouched. Sheets smooth. No crease, no warmth, no proof Paige had ever been there at all. Azzi sat up slowly. Jaw clenched. Chest tight.

Azzi pushed the sheets back, her legs shaky as they hit the floor. She didn’t bother pulling the shirt down. Didn’t bother fixing her hair. Her chest was too full—tight with hope or dread, she couldn’t tell.

The apartment was still. Morning-soft. She padded down the hall, the silence pressing against her skin like static.

And then she saw her.

Paige was at the dining table, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out. A mug balanced in her hand, steam curling toward her cheek. She was staring out the window like it had all the answers. Hair damp. Sleeves pushed up. The kind of beautiful that made Azzi’s throat close.

She didn’t look over. Not yet. But Azzi stopped in the doorway anyway. Watched her. Let herself ache. Because there she was. Like nothing had happened. Like everything had.

“Are you going to speak or just stare?”

Azzi startled. Her cheeks flushed with heat. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” Paige didn’t look up at first. Just took a slow sip of her coffee. “Did you sleep okay?”

Azzi nodded, stepping closer. Barefoot. Bare-legged. The hem of Paige’s shirt brushing her thighs. She caught the way Paige’s gaze flicked up, then down—lingering for a second too long before she turned her eyes back to the window like it hadn’t happened.

“You weren’t there when I woke up.”

Paige didn’t flinch. “Not all of us sleep in until midday.”

Azzi glanced at the clock. It was 7:52.

She bit her tongue.

“Did you even sleep?”

Paige finally looked at her. Really looked. “I slept enough. Now sit.”

And because her body was stupid—or maybe just trained—Azzi did exactly as she was told.

Paige stood. Walked into the kitchen like it was nothing. Like her shirt wasn’t hanging loose on Azzi’s body. Like last night hadn’t just rearranged everything between them.

She came back with a cup of coffee, a plain bagel, and a bottle of Tylenol.

Azzi blinked. “I’m not hungover.”

Paige raised one brow. Set the coffee down with a clink. “You sure?”

Azzi huffed. “Well…not that bad.”

Paige didn’t smile. But her mouth twitched like she wanted to.

“Eat,” she said, already turning away.

Azzi tore a piece of the bagel, more to give her fingers something to do than anything else. She watched Paige move around the kitchen, calm and efficient, like none of it had touched her. Like Azzi hadn’t practically begged for her.

“Are you going to keep your promise?” Azzi finally said. 

“Promise?” she echoed, too casually.

Azzi’s jaw tensed. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table as Paige retook her seat at the table. A fresh cup of coffee in her hands.

Patience had never been Azzi's strong suit. She wasn’t built for waiting, for holding her breath, for sitting quietly in the wake of someone else’s silence. But she had. She’d given Paige space. Time. Control. But Paige had said they would talk and she wasn’t letting her get out of this. 

Azzi stood slowly, deliberately, the hem of Paige’s t-shirt sliding higher with the motion. Her bare legs caught the morning light, and Paige’s eyes flicked down—just for a second—but it was enough. Azzi caught it. The way her gaze lingered on the blue of her underwear. The way her jaw clenched tight before she looked away like it hadn’t happened at all.

“Last night, you told me we’d talk,” Azzi said, voice careful. Too careful.

“And we will,” Paige replied, not looking up as she sipped her coffee. “But right now, I’m trying to enjoy my morning.”

Azzi’s fingers curled tighter against the table. She exhaled through her nose. Because it was always like this—Paige with her walls and her deflection and her calm that cut like a knife.

But Azzi was done playing nice.

Because she remembered—too well—the way Paige looked at her last night. The way her fingers tightened around her jaw. The way her voice broke when she confessed how hard she was fighting it. Fighting her.

So fine. If Paige wanted to pretend none of it happened, Azzi wasn’t going to beg. Not again. She was going to play dirty.

Because Azzi Fudd knew exactly who the fuck she was.

And sure, maybe last night she’d been tipsy, emotional, a little too soft around the edges. But Paige had been the one to thread their fingers together. Had been the one to drag her palm down Azzi’s chest like she couldn’t help herself. Had carried her to bed. 

Fuck this. 

She crossed the space between them. The shirt hanging loose over her thighs, hem brushing barely below her hips. Nothing underneath but a pair of pale, barely-there underwear.

She climbed into Paige's lap before Paige could react. One knee, then the other, sliding up until she was straddling Paige’s thigh. The cotton of the t-shirt rode up with the motion. Paige didn’t stop her. Didn’t breathe.

Azzi tilted her head, wide eyes upturned, bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"Do you regret what you said last night?"

Paige's jaw twitched. She looked away. Azzi leaned closer.

“Fine,” she whispered, her voice a careful mixture of defiance and ache. She leaned in, fingers slipping behind Paige’s neck. “Tell me you don’t want me. Right now. Say it.”

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Azzi’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But if you do want me… just tell me what to do.” Her grip tightened slightly. Her lips parted, waiting. “I’ll listen.”

Paige groaned, low and wrecked, like it hurt to hold the line. “Fudd…”

But she didn’t move. Didn’t push her away.

“We—fuck.” Paige's voice cracked. “There are a dozen reasons why we shouldn’t do this.”

Azzi only blinked up at her, soft and submissive.

“So many reasons,” Paige said again, quieter this time. But her eyes dropped. Her hand lingered, hovering just near Azzi’s thigh, like gravity was starting to win. “I’m no good for you.”

Azzi leaned in, breath brushing Paige’s cheek. “I don’t want good,” she whispered. “I want you.”

Her knees pressed tighter around Paige’s hips as she slid forward, the silk of her underwear dragging across Paige’s thigh—slow, teasing, deliberate. She didn’t break eye contact. She wanted her to feel it.

“Do you want me?” she asked, voice soft, sweet, but laced with challenge.

Paige’s throat bobbed. Her hands hovered at Azzi’s waist, like touching her might unravel the last shred of control she had left.

“That’s not a fair question,” Paige murmured, voice low and strained. “Not when you’re sitting on me like that.”

Azzi smiled, saccharine and smug. “I’m not trying to be fair.”

And she moved again—just the smallest tilt of her hips—but enough to make her breath catch. Enough to make Paige exhale like she’d been holding it in for years. The sound was barely audible. But Azzi heard it. Felt it. And her whole body responded.

Her thighs tightened around Paige’s lap. Her hands found her shoulders, fingers brushing along warm skin, slow and teasing.

Paige exhaled, low and pained. “You’re so young.”

Azzi slid forward just a little. Close enough that her breath hit Paige’s collarbone. “Not too young.”

“You’re still figuring yourself out.”

Azzi’s hands curled at the base of her neck, gentle but insistent. “Maybe. But I know this.”

Paige’s face faltered. Then clenched. Her jaw locked like she was bracing for impact.

“I’m your teammate,” she muttered.

“You’re my captain,” Azzi said, voice velvet-soft. She leaned in until her mouth hovered just beside Paige’s ear. “You should lead, then.”

Paige cursed under her breath. Azzi could feel it—how badly she wanted to shove her off or pull her in. To do something. Anything.

“I’m trying to protect you,” Paige said, quieter now. Barely a breath.

“From what?” Azzi whispered, eyes searching her face.

“From me,” Paige murmured. “I’d ruin you.”

Azzi didn’t mean to do it—not consciously—but her hips rolled again. Slower this time. Deliberate. The softest friction, but enough to drag a low, broken sound from Paige’s throat.

“Fuck,” Paige hissed, her hands snapping to Azzi’s thighs like they had a mind of their own. Her grip was tight. Possessive. Bruising. “You can’t do that.”

Azzi gasped, not from pain but from the way Paige held her, like she belonged to her. Like she always had.

“Then stop me,” she whispered, lips brushing Paige’s. “Push me off.”

But Paige didn’t move. Her fingers only dug deeper. Her chest rose in sharp, uneven pulls.

“I can’t,” Paige said. 

Azzi smiled, slow and wrecked. “Then ruin me.”

Paige’s POV

She wasn’t breathing right. Hadn’t been since Azzi crawled into her lap like that—soft and sure and so fucking close it was cruel.

Her hands were on Azzi’s thighs now. She hadn’t meant for them to land there, but it was instinct. Like her body had decided before her brain could argue. And God, she was trying to argue. Every reason not to do this was still spinning in her head—loud, rational, responsible.

And completely useless.

Azzi moved again, just a little. Just enough. Paige’s grip tightened, her fingers pressing into the soft skin like maybe if she held on tight enough, she could stop this from happening.

She couldn’t.

Ruin me, she had said. Like it was a challenge. Like it was a promise. And Paige—God, Paige had nearly done it. Had nearly picked her up right then, laid her out on the table, and given her everything she didn’t even know she was asking for.

But she didn’t.

Because rules mattered. Because control mattered. Because if she kissed Azzi now—if she gave in to this—there was no taking it back. No pretending she didn’t want her in every possible way. No pretending Azzi was just her teammate, just her friend, just anything but this ache curled up in her lap.

Her jaw clenched. She forced herself to breathe.

“Azzi,” she said, quieter now, like the name itself could ground her. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Azzi’s hands slid up her chest. Her mouth so close Paige could taste the next breath.

“Yes I do,” she whispered. “That’s the point.”

Paige swallowed. Hard. Her thumb dragged slow, rough circles against the inside of Azzi’s thigh, trying to pretend like that gave her control. Like she hadn’t already lost it the second Azzi crawled into her lap and tilted her head like that. The second her voice went soft. Willing. 

The second her fucking underwear dragged along Paige’s leg like it belonged there.

Paige exhaled. Forced it through her nose like she wasn’t about to fall apart.

Her hand came up. Curled around Azzi’s throat. Not gentle. Not careful.  Azzi’s eyes went wide. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned in. Just a fraction. Just enough.

“You don’t run shit here, Fudd,” Paige said, low and sharp, like maybe if she said it with enough bite, she could still make it true.

But even as the words left her mouth, she knew she was lying.  Azzi batted her lashes. Like she knew it, too.

“Then tell me what to do, Paige.”

Fuck.  Paige licked her lips. Her grip tightening around Azzi’s neck just enough to feel the pulse hammering beneath her thumb.

“We’re going to have rules,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

 Azzi’s lips parted. Breath catching. Her eyes big and brown and so eager.

“I’m a good girl,” she whispered. “I’ll follow any rule you set.”

The words hit Paige like a freight train. Like something ancient and dangerous and unforgiving cracked loose inside her.  Because that voice. That face. That body in her lap. And that mouth saying I’m a good girl. 

Yeah. Paige was so, so fucked.

 She tilted her head just slightly, fingers still firm at the base of Azzi’s throat.

 “Do you want me to kiss you?” she asked.

Azzi nodded. Wrong move.

Paige’s hand tightened—not choking, not cruel, but enough. Enough to make Azzi jolt, her hips stuttering in Paige’s lap. Paige grinned. Slow. Dangerous. 

“Use your words.”

Azzi blinked up at her. A flush rising to her cheeks. But she swallowed. Bit her lip. And then—

“Yes,” she breathed. “I want you to kiss me.”

Paige leaned in. Close enough that their noses brushed. That she could taste the breath between them.

 “Say please.”

Azzi whimpered. Actually whimpered. And Paige thought she might lose it right then and there.  But Azzi didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.  She leaned in, that sweet mouth hovering a hair from Paige’s.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please kiss me.”

And Paige realized—really realized—that she would give Azzi anything if she asked like that. Anything at all.  So, she leaned in. Slow. Intentional. Her breath brushing Azzi’s lips. Almost there. Azzi pulled back.

Just an inch. But enough.

Paige froze. Blinked. A small, involuntary noise caught in her throat—half-whine, half-growl.

“What—” she rasped, voice fraying at the edges. “What are you doing?”

Azzi’s eyes glittered. Her mouth tugged into the faintest, most wicked smile.

“Your turn to ask nicely,” she said. Sweet as sin.

Paige’s hand clamped tighter on her thigh, just enough to make Azzi suck in a breath.

“I don’t ask for anything.”

Azzi’s fingers curled lightly around Paige’s wrist, guiding her own hand higher up her neck. Not pulling it away. Not resisting. Just…coaxing.

Her voice turned syrupy, lips just inches from Paige’s. “Not even for me?” she whispered, wide-eyed now. Fake-innocent. Coy as hell. Her bottom lip pushed out in a pout, deliberate and lethal. 

And Paige saw terrible things flash before her eyes.

Azzi on the table, bare and breathless. Paige’s hand on her throat. Her other between her legs, fingers slick as she worked Azzi over the edge. Whimpers spilling from her mouth, soft and broken. Nails clawing at the wood like she didn’t know whether to hold on or push her away. Thighs trembling from the effort of staying open, from wanting too much.

Paige didn’t imagine herself gentle. She imagined herself obsessed. Unforgiving. Dragging Azzi apart just to see how many times she could put her back together.

Azzi would cry out, hips jerking every time Paige pressed her thumb against her clit. She’d beg—not to stop, but because it was too much, too fast, too fucking good.

Please, Paige, I can’t—

Yes, you can.

She’d keep going. Keep fucking her through it, through the shaking, through the tears, through the way Azzi’s voice cracked when she came again.

And Paige would love it. Not just the power. The surrender.

The way Azzi gave herself over like she didn’t trust anyone else to break her this good.

She blinked hard, dragging herself out of the thought and meeting Azzi’s gaze. 

“I don’t beg, Fudd.”

“For me you might,” Azzi said. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were anything but.

And Paige hated that even then—after everything, with Azzi’s eat-shit grin curled so perfectly across her face—her thighs twitched. The smallest shift. Barely there.

But Azzi felt it.

Her breath caught—just enough to be noticeable—and her cocky expression faltered, eyes going dark, hungry.

She whimpered. The sound was involuntary. Wrecked and ruined and too honest to be anything but real.

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her nails dug into Azzi's skin, her breath sharp through her nose like she could breathe the weakness out.

“Don’t do that,” she hissed.

“Do what?” Azzi whispered, clearly emboldened by the tremor in Paige’s legs. “React?”

Paige swallowed. 

“Do you want to kiss me, Paige?” Azzi said. 

And Paige drummed her fingers against Azzi’s throat. 

“Yes.”

Azzi grinned. 

“Say the words and I’m yours.”

Paige bit down on her cheek until she tasted blood. 

Azzi’s POV

Azzi must’ve lost her goddamn mind.

Because she was sitting in Paige Bueckers’ lap—Paige Bueckers—and Paige had been about to kiss her. Like, actually kiss her. And instead of melting into it like a normal person, Azzi had taunted her.

“Ask nicely,” she’d said, like a brat. Like someone without any emotional stability whatsoever.

Now Paige’s hand was on her thigh, tight. Her other hand still at her throat, warm and possessive. And Azzi’s pulse was racing. She could feel it everywhere—her chest, her cheeks, between her legs.

But then, Paige didn’t pull away.

She didn’t exactly scold her. Didn’t cool off. Didn’t get up and walk out like Azzi half-feared she would. Instead, she looked at her like she was trying to decide whether to kiss her or pin her to the damn wall.

And Azzi saw it—that glint in her eye. That flicker of approval beneath the irritation.

Oh. Oh.

She liked it.

Paige Bueckers liked being tested. Liked the push and pull. Liked her like this. Liked to be challenged.

Azzi’s panic didn’t vanish exactly. It just folded into something else. Something hot and a little reckless.

She leaned in, slow. “Say you want me.”

Paige’s jaw flexed. Her grip on Azzi’s thigh stayed firm. 

“I clearly want you, Fudd.”

Azzi cocked her head, unimpressed. “Gonna need you to work a little harder than that, Bueckers.”

Paige inhaled slow, exhaled through her teeth, jaw tight. Her fingers curled just enough around Azzi’s throat—not choking, not yet. Just owning. She pulled her in until their mouths almost touched, breath mingling. Dangerous. Inevitable.

“I want you,” she growled. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you showed up and fucked up everything. So yeah. I want you, Fudd. What else do you need? You want me on my fucking knees?”

Azzi grinned—slow and lethal.

“Would be a nice view,” she murmured. “But no. Just need you to ask for what you want.” A beat. “Nicely.”

Paige’s eye twitched. Her pride prickled.

“Can I kiss you?”

Azzi clicked her tongue. “Mm, try again.”

A pause. Paige’s voice dropped lower.

“Can I please kiss you, Azzi?”

Azzi’s smile softened but just a little. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Paige didn’t wait for another smartass comment.

She closed the distance in one smooth motion, her mouth crashing into Azzi’s like a match to gasoline. No hesitation. No mercy. Just heat, pressure, teeth.

Azzi made a sound—half surprise, half something wrecked—and Paige swallowed it whole.

Because of course she was good at this.

Of course she kissed like she meant it. Like she’d been thinking about it for weeks and planned to make up for every second lost. Her hand stayed firm at Azzi’s throat, her thumb brushing just beneath her jaw, anchoring her right there.

And Azzi? Miss cocky, smug, eat-shit-grin Fudd?

Completely came undone.

Her body jolted forward, needy and breathless, all that fake composure melting like sugar on Paige’s tongue. Her fingers scrabbled for Paige’s hips, then her shirt, then her hair, like she couldn’t decide where to hold on, only that she had to.

The kiss deepened, rougher now. Paige’s teeth catching on her bottom lip, pulling a whimper from Azzi that made Paige smirk into her mouth.

So much for control.

Azzi pulled back just an inch, panting. Eyes blown wide. Lips kiss-bruised.

“Oh my God,” she breathed.

Paige didn’t say a word. Just smirked. Shifted her thigh—just right—pressing up where Azzi was already throbbing.

Azzi gasped, hips jerking, but Paige stayed maddeningly calm.

“Let’s get you home,” she said, voice low and cruelly even. “It’s rude to leave your friends waiting.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

Paige only shrugged. Then wrapped an arm around Azzi’s waist, and picked her up like she weighed nothing. She placed her firmly back on the floor—gentle, but final. Like setting down a glass she was done drinking from.

Azzi let out a small, indignant gasp. Not just from the sudden loss of contact—but from the way it felt. The obscene slickness between her legs. The wet heat dripping down the inside of her thigh, warm and humiliating.

She hadn’t even realized how hard she’d been grinding against Paige’s leg until now. Until the absence.

Paige glanced down—just once. Eyes catching the shine on her skin, the way Azzi’s thighs pressed together like she could somehow undo it.

“Paige,” Azzi said, and it came out desperate.

Paige’s smirk widened. Lazy. Dangerous.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

Baby. The word landed like a punch. Azzi’s knees nearly gave out.

“I—I thought—” she stammered, eyes blown wide, lip trembling like she hated herself for it.

Paige just shook her head, slow and smug, like Azzi wasn’t even worth the energy of a full answer.

“Behave next time,” she said coolly, turning her back like it didn’t cost her anything. “And we’ll see where it gets you.”

And just like that, Azzi was dismissed—wet, aching, and too far gone to speak.

Paige’s POV

Paige had the willpower of a goddamn steel trap or she hoped to God she did. Because Azzi Fudd had just been in her lap, straddling her in nothing but a t-shirt and trouble, mouthing off and grinding on her fucking thigh—and Paige had let her.

Worse, Paige had liked it. Way too much.

Now Azzi was down the hall, probably still dripping, and Paige was left standing in the middle of her dining room like a lunatic who’d just dry humped a rookie on hardwood floors.

She could still feel it—the sticky warmth smeared on her thigh, the desperate roll of Azzi’s hips, the wrecked sound she made when Paige didn’t give her what she wanted.

Her jaw clenched so tight it ached. This was not sustainable.

They needed rules. Guidelines. Structure. And that was on her. Paige was the vet. The one who should’ve known better. The one who was supposed to set the pace, keep things fair, not let her resolve get steamrolled by a pair of pretty thighs and a mouth that wouldn’t shut up.

She could still taste her. Still feel her heartbeat through the palm of her hand.

And Azzi? Azzi had the audacity to walk away with that little sway in her hips, like she hadn’t just come undone all over Paige’s thigh.

Paige closed her eyes. Counted to five. They needed to talk. Soon. Before she stopped pretending she had any restraint left at all.

Yeah. She had the willpower of a steel trap. Or maybe she was just a fucking idiot.

Azzi stepped back into the room, face flushed. But that wasn’t what made Paige’s pulse stutter.

It was the sweatpants.

Her sweatpants.

Hung low on Azzi’s hips, cinched too tight at the waist, pooling at the ankles like they didn’t quite belong—except they did. Azzi made them look indecent. Soft in all the wrong ways. Like Paige had already claimed her, left the evidence in cotton and low-slung waistbands.

And the shirt? Also Paige’s. Slouchy around the neck. Crooked at the hem. Like Azzi had pulled it on in a rush. Like she belonged in it.

It hit Paige square in the chest. Something dark and possessive coiled low in her stomach.

Azzi blinked at her. “What?” she asked, fidgeting under the weight of Paige’s stare.

Paige tilted her head, tone too casual. “Are those mine?”

Azzi’s cheeks pinked even more. “I—I didn’t want to put the dress back on.”

“Didn’t say I minded.” Paige stood slowly. Let her eyes drag from Azzi’s bare feet all the way back up. “They look good on you.”

Too good. So good Paige wanted to press her up against the nearest wall and make sure Azzi never gave them back.

Instead, she swallowed the urge. Let it simmer.

“You ready?” she asked.

“No,” Azzi muttered, arms crossed. “But it seems like you are.”

That one landed. Paige felt it twist low in her gut—guilt blooming in slow, sharp spirals. She stepped forward, gentler now, and tucked two fingers under Azzi’s chin, lifting until their eyes met.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Paige said softly. “I just…I need to get my head on straight. Handle a few things.”

A pause. Her thumb brushed Azzi’s jaw.

“And then we talk. Actually talk. Without you in my lap. Without you looking at me like that and making me forget my common sense.”

Azzi’s lips parted, her eyes flicking down Paige’s face.

“You sure?” she whispered.

Paige’s hand dropped. “No. But I’m trying to be.”

That made Azzi smile and the knot of tension between Paige’s shoulder undid a little. 

“Now, come on,” Paige said, already heading for the door. “Let me drive you home.”

But she didn’t hear footsteps behind her. She turned and froze.

Azzi was still standing there, watching her. Soft. Tired. Beautiful. And then—slowly, deliberately—she lifted her hand.

“Can I?” she asked. Quiet. Uncertain.

Paige’s heart damn near stopped. Because it wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t seduction. It was so much worse. It was earnest. Trusting. Like Azzi meant it. And Paige folded. Fully. Completely.

She walked back without a word, slipped her fingers into Azzi’s, and squeezed. Once. Firm.

“Of course you can, baby,” she said, her voice just a little rough.

And for the first time that morning, she didn’t try to pull away. Didn’t try to protect herself. She just held on.

Azzi’s POV

Azzi was achy. In every sense of the word. Her thighs, her lips, her heart—everything felt bruised with wanting. It was almost humiliating, how desperate she still felt. How much she needed something she couldn’t quite name.

And then Paige had called her baby.

Told her she looked good in her clothes—her clothes.

And it wasn’t just the words. It was the way she said them. Like Azzi already belonged to her. Like she'd always belonged to her and they were just now realizing it.

Paige had held her hand all the way to the car. Didn’t even hesitate. Just reached out and took it. Like it was normal. Like it was allowed. And then, once they were in the car, she took it again.

Laced their fingers together slow. Careful. And set their joined hands right on the console like it meant nothing. Like it didn’t feel like everything.

Azzi stared down at it. At Paige’s thumb brushing the back of her hand in slow, steady circles. She didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Because if she opened her mouth, she might say too much.

Instead, she focused on how Paige drove. Legs spread wide. Two fingers resting at the bottom of the wheel.

Paige’s hands were so fucking hot. Long, confident, relaxed in that way that came with age and experience. There was nothing tentative about them. Nothing shy. Just capable. Assured. 

Azzi couldn’t stop watching them. The way her knuckles shifted when she turned. The lazy tap of her index finger against the leather. The faint veins under her skin that flexed every time she adjusted her grip.

Those fingers had been on her legs not even an hour ago. Azzi could still feel them. Or maybe she was just aching for them again—so badly her whole body buzzed with it.

She shifted in her seat, thighs pressed tight, breath catching as Paige casually rolled through a turn with one hand and didn’t so much as glance her way.

Azzi stared harder. She wanted those hands everywhere. Around her throat. On her hips. In her mouth. Inside her.

“What are you thinking about?” Paige said finally, her voice low, casual, like she didn’t already know.

Azzi startled, caught. Her gaze flicked to Paige’s profile, then back to their hands still laced on the console.

She worried her lip between her teeth. “Nothing.”

Paige smirked. Didn’t take her eyes off the road.

“Not a very good liar.”

Her thumb dragged slow over Azzi’s knuckles again, and Azzi swore she felt it everywhere. She stiffened—just slightly—and Paige chuckled, low and knowing, like she knew exactly what she was doing. 

The ride felt impossibly short after that.

And when they pulled up to her building, Azzi stared at the entrance. It looked exactly how it always looked. But today, it felt...wrong. Like a closing door she didn’t want to walk through.

She didn’t move at first.

Then, slowly, she turned toward Paige. Tried to play it cool. Failed.

“Well— I guess I’ll see you later,” she said. And immediately wanted to kick herself for how small it sounded. How unsure. Like she was waiting to be stopped. Like she wanted to be.

Paige didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her. That unreadable expression that Azzi still couldn’t decipher.

Then, finally, she smirked—soft, wry.

“We do play for the same team, Fudd,” she said. “You’re not disappearing.”

And somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t don’t go or come back over or I need more time with you.

It was just we exist in the same orbit. And Azzi didn’t know how to want that quietly.

“Text me when you get upstairs, okay? And tell Jana to show you the photo she took of us so you can tell me how good I looked.”

Azzi fought back a smile. “I told you you’d recognize her.”

“Well, of course I would,” Paige said easily. “She’s part of your life.”

Azzi ignored the way her heart stuttered at that. The way Paige said it like it meant something.

“Okay, well,” she said, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Paige nodded, leaning back like it was settled. But just as Azzi opened the door, Paige’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Fudd?”

Azzi turned.

Paige was watching her. Elbows on the console, eyes darker. There was something in the set of her mouth—determination, maybe. 

“You okay if I kiss you?”

That made Azzi grin. Wide. A little breathless.

“I thought Paige Bueckers didn’t ask for anything.”

Paige tilted her head, ran her tongue over her teeth.

“Old dog can learn new tricks or something like that.”

That made Azzi giggle. 

“Well then, yes. You can kiss me.”

And Paige extended over the console to meet her lips.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t greedy. It was devastating in its patience. Like Paige had all the time in the world to kiss her and wasn’t afraid to show it.

Azzi felt it in her chest first. Then her knees. Then everywhere else.

Paige’s hand cupped her cheek like she was something delicate, but her thumb dragged slow across Azzi’s jaw like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew this would ruin her.

Azzi was still thinking about Paige’s fingers—how they curled around the wheel, how they’d brushed her thigh when she shifted into reverse, how they held her now, just barely. Long and steady and capable. She wanted them everywhere.

They pulled away. 

Azzi’s lips parted instinctively. Paige’s breath hitched. And then she leaned in again. Not tentative. Not teasing. Like she’d made a decision.

She kissed Azzi hard this time, full and certain. Her thumb held Azzi’s jaw steady while her other hand slid behind her neck, pulling her closer over the console. Paige kissed like she didn’t care about the gearshift digging into her ribs, like she didn’t care they were still parked on the side of the street. 

And then—God—she slipped her tongue into Azzi’s mouth, slow and deliberate.

Azzi gasped, her knees drawing up, one hand fisting in the front of Paige’s sweatshirt like it might keep her tethered. She tasted like mint and something heady and unmistakably Paige and it shattered whatever composure Azzi had left.

She moaned into her mouth before she could stop herself, needy and breathless, the sound embarrassingly loud in the quiet of the car. Paige groaned in response, low and rough, like Azzi had lit something dangerous in her.

And maybe she had.

Because Paige didn’t stop. She kissed her deeper, tongue curling into Azzi’s mouth like she’d earned it. Like Azzi was hers to take.

Azzi couldn’t think. She couldn’t breathe.

Her whole body was humming. Knees pressed together, fingers curled tight in Paige’s sweatshirt like she was afraid she might disappear.

Paige kissed like she’d been holding back for years. Like now that she’d started, she didn’t know how to stop. Her tongue moved slow and deliberate, like she was memorizing the shape of Azzi’s mouth. Like she had all the time in the world.

Azzi made another noise—soft, involuntary—when Paige’s hand slid from her jaw down to her neck, thumb brushing the spot just below her ear. That was all it took. Her spine arched slightly, and her thighs pressed tighter together like her body was trying to hold in the ache.

It wasn’t working.

Paige pulled back just enough to breathe, her lips a whisper away from Azzi’s. She didn’t lean back. Didn’t retreat. Just stared at her like she could see every wicked thought behind Azzi’s eyes and wasn’t scared of any of them.

Azzi’s chest rose and fell, sharp and uneven. Her lips were parted, slick. Her whole body felt like a live wire.

“Fuck,” Paige muttered, almost to herself. “You’re nothing but trouble.”

She exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening like it physically pained her to show restraint.

“Get out of the car,” she said, low and firm. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. She grinned. “You could.”

Paige looked at her then—really looked. And the smile that tugged at her mouth was dangerous.

“Believe it or not, Fudd,” she said, voice rough with want, “the first time I fuck you, I’d rather it not be in the back seat of my Lexus.”

Azzi’s stomach dropped. Heat curled low in her spine.

And then Paige smirked. “Though you’re making a hell of a case.”

They stared at each other for one second longer—one second too long—and then Paige sighed like she didn’t trust herself to stay put.

Azzi watched her walk around the front of the car, heart pounding, thighs still pressed tight together. Paige pulled open the passenger side and extended a hand like they weren’t both barely holding it together.

Azzi took it, trying not to blush as Paige helped her out.

“Have a good time with your friends, okay?” Paige said, quieter now. Gentle in a way that made Azzi’s chest twist.

Azzi nodded. Swallowed. Her throat was dry.

She stepped back, letting Paige’s hand fall from hers. It felt stupid, how reluctant she was to let go.  But she turned anyway. Made it halfway up the path before she stopped.

Glanced back. Paige was still standing there. One hand braced on the open door watching her go. 

[bemusedlybespectacled]

actual funniest thing that could happen (legally) right now: Trump suing Elon for defamation.

like, okay, Elon just accused Trump of being in the Epstein files and that that’s the reason why they haven't been released to the public. accusing someone of a serious crime is defamation per se, meaning Trump would not need to prove any actual damages to win. and Trump loves filing defamation lawsuits, even in situations where his own conduct made him look bad, but to be fair to him, I think most people would be upset if they were accused of pedophilia, not just people with skin made out of wet Kleenex.

now, normally, it’s difficult to prove defamation against a public figure. New York Times v. Sullivan requires that someone who makes false statements against a public figure needs to have had “actual malice” (either the speaker knew the statement was false or didn’t care if the statement was true or not) for it to be defamation. Trump hates New York Times v. Sullivan because it makes it harder for him to sue people for defamation, and he's argued it should be overturned before.

but here, he wouldn’t even need to argue that it should be overturned! Elon is clearly making those statements with "actual malice" - he's clearly just saying this shit because he's upset at being booted from the White House, not because he actually has any knowledge of what's in the Epstein files!

UNLESS

UNLESS

Elon is in fact telling the truth, because truth is an absolute defense to defamation.

so say Trump sues Elon. now Elon has to pour some of his personal resources into paying lawyers. we've seen that Trump has attacked law firms for representing people he doesn't like (including issuing blatantly illegal executive orders targeting them and only lifting them if they "donate" pro bono work to the government), so Elon might need to spend more than he normally would to keep his lawyers happy and still willing to work for him. so it would take a lot of effort and a lot of money at a time when all of his companies are tanking.

and that's assuming Trump doesn't also cancel Musk's government contracts, which would hurt his income stream directly (much less money coming in to Tesla and Starlink and SpaceX) and indirectly (if people think his companies are bad investments, that doesn't just affect the price of his stock, but also his net worth).

but on Trump's side, he's going to have to prove that the accusations aren't true (the burden of proof is on the plaintiff in the US), and if he refuses to release the Epstein files to support his case, that's going to add fuel to the fire (both in actual court and the court of public opinion) because one of Elon's accusations is that Trump is deliberately hiding the Epstein files because he's in them.

additionally, even if Trump commandeered federal funds to pay for his legal team (which he totally would, and would make it possibly the only time Elon has been the less wealthy party in a case), Trump also doesn't, like, pay anyone who works for him. and just fired a bunch of DoJ lawyers in addition to everyone else in the government. and hired a bunch of total incompetents to run things. and if any of the law firms he's targeted with his executive orders have represented both him and Elon, they won't be able to legally represent Trump against Elon. so he's not exactly going to have the pick of the litter if he needs someone to personally represent him.

seriously I would kill to be able to watch these particular legal fireworks, it would be SO fucking funny, I am speaking this into the universe and asking for it to be manifested

[guliexe]

—ON THE LOW 18+

Dealer!Nicholas/Wang Yixiang x Female!Reader

warnings/tags: slow burn, dealer/stoner!nicho, i call him weno in this, soft dom!nicho, shy!reader, loverboy!nicho, drug use, shotgunning, romantic, making out, dry humping, praising, fingering, oral (f. receiving), p in v, mating press, crying, unprotected sex, confessing, aftercare

♡ you started buying weed for your friends and ended up falling for the dealer—turns out, he fell even harder.

w/c: 9.7k (no proofread)

You’d seen him around long before you ever spoke to him. He wasn’t the kind of guy you could ignore. Not because he was loud, Weno was anything but loud, but because he had this presence. Calm, quiet, and detached, like nothing ever really touched him. He was always there but just out of reach. The kind of person who didn’t care if people were watching, but somehow still ended up being the one everyone looked at. You had a couple classes near the same buildings. He always showed up late, always dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed—big hoodie, baggy jeans, backpack hanging off one shoulder. Never rushed. Never looked stressed. Just there. He’d walk past where you and your friends were sitting on the grass and barely glance your way. But even that one second felt heavier than it should. You didn’t know much about him, but you noticed him. You always had. Weno wasn’t exactly a mystery, everyone on campus knew what he did, they just didn’t talk about it. Not out loud, anyway. The stories passed around in whispers. That he sells, and it’s good shit too. That he never chased customers, people came to him. That if he liked you, he might give you more than you paid for. That if he really liked you, you’d know.

You didn’t know if any of that was true. But what you did know was that your friends wanted weed and were too scared to go get it themselves. So they asked you. Apparently, being the quiet one made you the designated “safe” option. It wasn’t like you and Weno were strangers, anyway. You’d talked a few times now. Nothing long, quick chats during pickups, the occasional hi at a party when you passed by each other. He’d never made you feel weird or unsafe. Just… flustered. A little warm in the chest, a little unsure what to say next. He had a way of watching you that felt deliberate, even when he said nothing at all. Your friend had shoved some cash into your hand at the last minute, babbling about how “he’s chill, he’s not scary, just please go for me, I can’t” — and you’d sighed, texting him before you could overthink it. He told you to meet him behind the dorms. 6:30. You almost didn’t go. You weren’t sure why he made you nervous, he hadn’t done anything to deserve that label. But something about him felt sharp beneath all the calm. Like he could see through you if he wanted to. When you rounded the corner that evening, he was already leaning against the side of his car, phone in hand, headphones around his neck. The sun was low, painting the edges of his face gold. You caught yourself staring before you could stop. He looked up as you approached. “Didn’t expect you,” he said, not moving. You blinked, “Why?” He shrugged, “Thought one of your loud friends would be the one to show. You’re not really the type to do this.” It wasn’t teasing exactly, but the way he said it made your face warm. You cleared your throat. “They made me come.” “Mm,” he hummed. “Figured.”

He pushed off the car, pulling a ziplock from his hoodie pocket. You reached for it automatically, but he didn’t hand it over right away. “You ever tried it?” You shook your head. “No. It’s not really… my thing.” He tilted his head slightly. Not judging, just observing. “Didn’t think it was.” he chuckled softly, then he handed it to you, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. You looked down at your hand, not at the bag, but at where your skin still tingled. “You’re good,” he said quietly, “Let me know next time.” You nodded, muttered a soft thanks, already starting to turn away, but then he said your name. You froze and glanced back. He was still standing by his car, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily spinning his keys around his finger. The way he looked at you made your stomach flip, like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you. “You always do stuff for your friends?” His tone was casual, but the question caught you off guard. “What do you mean?” He shrugged a little. “They want something, and you’re the one who shows up.” A pause. “That happen a lot?”You weren’t sure how to answer. It did happen a lot. They asked, you went. Not because you wanted to, but because it felt easier than saying no. You glanced down at the ziplock in your hand. “I guess,” you mumbled. “I don’t know.” He hummed low, like that told him everything he needed to know. You looked back up, ready to say something else—anything, maybe even defend yourself, but he beat you to it. “You’re a good girl.” The words were soft and genuine, but they landed heavy. Your breath caught. His gaze didn’t waver—steady, calm, like he hadn’t just said something that made your skin go warm all over. You didn’t know what to do with that. You didn’t even know what it meant coming from him. You just knew it made something flutter in your stomach. “Thanks,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You turned and walked off a little too quickly, heart pounding, ears hot, his voice still echoing behind your ribs. You’re a good girl. You didn’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. It wasn’t long before your friends asked again. Same excuse, same tone, a whiny “please, he already knows you” and cash pushed into your hand like you owed them something. You hesitated more this time. Not because of them, but because of him. You hadn’t stopped thinking about last time. It replayed in your head again and again. You stared at his contact in your phone for some minutes before typing out the message.

You

hey my friends wanna grab again

He replied two minutes later.

Weno

same place 7:30

When you showed up this time, he was inside his car, driver’s door open, music playing low through the speakers. He looked up as you approached and smiled, lazy and half-lidded. “Hey,” he said, voice low. “Hey.”You tried not to sound nervous. You weren’t even sure why you were nervous. This wasn’t new. You’d done this before. But this time, it felt different. You felt different. He stepped out, shutting the car door behind him as he pulled the same ziplock from the pocket of his jeans. You took it wordlessly, but his fingers brushed yours again, on purpose this time. You could feel it in the way he didn’t rush, didn’t pull away immediately. “Still not trying it?” he asked, tilting his head. You shook your head. “Not yet.” He raised a brow. “Why not?” “I just… haven’t.” You tucked the bag quickly into your jacket pocket like it might deflect the attention. “You scared?” The way he asked it wasn’t mocking, just curious, like he wanted to understand you, not challenge you. You hesitated. “No,” you said finally. “Just don’t wanna.” He nodded slowly, watching you again with that unreadable expression. “Still doing things for your friends, though.” You pressed your lips together. “I guess.” “They ever do stuff for you?” You blinked. “What?” He shrugged. “Just wondering.” You didn’t answer. Mostly because you didn’t have one. He could probably tell, because he didn’t push. He just looked at you for a long second, eyes dropping to your mouth before flicking back up to meet your gaze as he rolled a blunt for him. “You should stop letting people use you.” The bluntness of it caught you off guard. You shifted on your feet, unsure whether to say thank you or tell him it wasn’t like that, even though maybe it was. “You don’t even like them that much, do you?” Your breath hitched. “They’re my friends.” “Mm,” he hummed. “If you say so.”

After that, it happened a few more times. The same routine: a text, a time, a quiet walk behind the dorms where he’d be waiting. Sometimes he was standing. Sometimes in the driver’s seat with the door open. Sometimes already smoking, low music humming from the speakers. And each time, it got a little easier to look him in the eye. But also harder not to look too long. Weno never talked much. He didn’t fill silence just to hear himself speak. He asked things, small things, personal in ways that didn’t feel invasive, just seen. He was trying to piece you together quietly, without making a show of it. You’d come with your friends’ money in your pocket and leave with more than you paid for. Not every time, but enough that you noticed. When you offered to give him more, he just shook his head, said “You’re good,” and he meant it, it wasn’t just about the cash anymore. You didn’t tell your friends about how often you started going. Sometimes it wasn’t even about picking up anymore. You’d hand over the cash, but he’d wave it off. “Not this time.” You started to wonder if he even gave you real amounts. If this was still a deal or just an excuse. What you did know was that somewhere along the way, something started to shift.

It was in the way your pulse picked up when his name lit up your screen. In how you started getting ready earlier than you needed to. In how you made sure your outfit and make up was cute before leaving, like that would help keep your face from giving you away when he looked at you like he always did. It was on the low. No one really knew how often you were seeing him now—certainly not your friends. To them, it was still just you doing the awkward task they were too scared for. They didn’t know that half the time you went to Weno now, it wasn’t even because of them. Sometimes they didn’t ask at all—you just found yourself texting him anyway. And he always said yes. You weren’t sure when it stopped being about weed. You weren’t sure it ever really was. Sometimes you’d sit with him for a while. In the passenger seat of his car, parked in the same quiet lot behind the dorms. He’d roll one and lean back with the window cracked, slow smoke curling out into the night while music filled the silence. He never pushed anything on you. Never asked why you stayed. But you stayed. You weren’t good at talking about yourself, and he didn’t make you. He just gave you space to exist, and maybe that was what started doing it. Maybe that’s why you kept feeling warmer every time you saw him. More sure that he saw you. And you started to open up to him. You two would hang out and talk about anything and anyone very frequently.

You were curled up in the passenger seat, legs tucked under you, jacket zipped halfway. The night was cool, and the air smelled like weed and cologne, smoke curling from the blunt between his fingers. His playlist low in the background that made it feel like time moved slower in his car. You hadn’t said much in the last ten minutes. Just sat there, letting the silence hang. But it wasn’t awkward. Weno never made things awkward. You gave him a small smile, eyes drifting out the window. The streetlights cast a warm glow across the dashboard. He tapped the ash into the tray and leaned back, one arm stretched across the back of your seat like he didn’t even think about it. “I don’t get it,” you said quietly after a moment. “You do this with all your clients?” “Do what?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly, playful but unreadable. “This.” You motioned vaguely between you. “Sit in the car, talk like this, not charge them.” He chuckled once, deep and soft in his chest. “No.” You blinked. “No?” He turned his head, looked right at you, and shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “They’re not you.” Your stomach fluttered. You tried to play it off, but your smile gave you away. He tilted his head slightly, watching you through the soft haze in the car. “You know you’re my favorite, right?” Your head snapped toward him. “What?” He smirked, exhaled a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours. “Client,” he added after a beat, but the pause was on purpose. His smirk deepened like he knew what he was doing to you. Your face went warm immediately. “Shut up,” you muttered, covering your smile with your hand. “I’m serious.” His tone was calm. “You don’t talk much, you don’t ask dumb questions, you never waste my time.” “Oh,” you said quietly. But your smile stayed. “So I’m convenient.” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping low. “Nah. You’re cute.” Your heart jumped. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to say. So you laughed—awkward and soft, trying to bury your face in your hands like that might cool your cheeks. You left a little later than usual that night.

Three days later, when your screen lit up with a text from him, you answered in less than a minute.

Weno

u free tonight?

wanna chill for a bit?

♡

You

yeah :)

same spot?

♡

Weno

pull up at 10

no rush

You tried not to read into it too much. But you still picked out a different hoodie this time, your favorite one, did a little extra on your make up, styled your hair in way you knew framed your face best. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything. But your hands still felt warm as you walked out to meet him. His car was already there when you arrived. You climbed into the passenger seat, familiar now with the way the door stuck a little when you pulled it. Same playlist was on, and the heat was turned up just enough to make the inside feel cozy. He glanced over as you settled in, eyes flicking down to your mouth before meeting your gaze again. “Hey,” he said, voice smooth, quiet. “Hey,” you murmured back, smiling a little.

The next hour passed easily, like it always did when you were with him. You talked about nothing and everything, classes, music, random campus drama you weren’t even involved in, movies you both halfway remembered, the last weird dream you had. He laughed more than usual tonight, low and slow, eyes squinting a little when something you said caught him off guard. His hand rested on the steering wheel as he listened, thumb tapping the leather in a lazy rhythm. He made you feel comfortable, like whatever you had to say mattered even if it didn’t. Like he was listening just because it was you talking. At some point, he lit up. You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward to spark the lighter, the soft flick of it barely cutting into the music. He offered it to you once out of habit, holding the blunt out between two fingers, and this time you didn’t shake your head immediately. You hesitated. Then, before you could overthink it, you took it. Your fingers brushed his. His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze lingered longer than before. “You sure?” he asked, voice soft, a little more serious now. You slowly nodded. “Yeah. Just—don’t laugh at me if I cough.” He smiled, “I won’t.” He leaned back into his seat. “Promise.” You inhaled, a small hit, like you’d seen him do a hundred times now. It burned, made your throat tickle, your eyes water just a little, but you didn’t cough. He watched carefully, still smiling. “Good girl,” he murmured.

Your chest tightened at the words, heat blooming under your skin before you could stop it. You handed it back to him quickly, trying to focus on the burn in your lungs, the soft thrum of bass in the background, anything except how warm you suddenly felt. Time got slower after that. An hour passed in a haze, soft laughter, lazy conversation, both of you sinking deeper into your seats, the windows fogging slightly. He smoked again, and passed it back and forth to you. Your body felt lighter. Music melted into the background, his voice a little rough now. You both stared out at the empty parking lot for a while, just existing. It was quiet in the way that felt close, not awkward. Every time your knee brushed his, he didn’t move. Every time you shifted, his eyes flicked toward your mouth, then back to the road like he didn’t want to get caught looking. And maybe it was the high, or the way the space between you had been shrinking since the start, but something changed. You turned to say something and caught him already looking at you, staring. His arm was still draped behind your seat, but now his fingers were brushing your shoulder, light and casual. You blinked at him. “What?” you whispered, voice lower than before. He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, eyes warm, thoughtful. “C’mere.” You didn’t even think. You just leaned forward, heart thudding quietly behind your ribs as his hand slid slowly to the back of your neck. He tilted his head slightly. His lips brushed yours soft at first, testing. Then again, firmer. You leaned into it. Your heart stuttered, hands unsure of where to go. One found the edge of his hoodie. The other pressed lightly to his chest. His mouth moved against yours like he’d been thinking about this for a while. He wasn’t in any rush now that it was finally happening. You kissed him back slow, high and a little breathless, your skin buzzing all over. He pulled back eventually, just enough to look at you, eyes dark and steady.

“You’re high,” he said, almost teasing. “So are you,” you whispered. He smiled, gaze dropping to your lips again. “Yeah. But I still meant it.” You smiled, small and dazed, and tucked your legs under you again, curling back into your seat. The car was quiet for a few more minutes. Nothing changed. But everything had. And when you finally said you should go, he didn’t stop you. Just nodded, reached over, and opened the door for you like he always did. Before you stepped out, he caught your wrist gently. You turned back. His eyes searched yours for a moment. “Text me when you get in.” You nodded, “Okay.”

You

made it home :)

♡

Weno

good

was starting to think u got lost

♡

You

nope

just still thinking

♡

Weno

about?

♡

You

you

♡

Weno

yeah?

what part

♡

You

the obvious part

♡

Weno

mm

i liked that part too

didn’t rlly want u to go

♡

You

u didn’t?

♡

Weno

nah

wanted to kiss u again

♡

You

i wanted to too

but i got nervous :(

♡

Weno

it’s ok bby

will i see u again soon?

♡

You

yeah

if u want to

♡

Weno

i do

♡

You

can’t wait

goodnight weno :)

♡

Weno

me neither

gn <3

You didn’t stop thinking about that night. Or his texts. Or when he said he wanted to kiss you again. The way your heart stuttered when he called you bby like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was already normal between you. It wasn’t, not really. But it was starting to be. You’d kept texting after that. Not every second of the day, but enough. Little check-ins, good mornings, music recs, late night questions that felt heavier than they sounded. He was never overly forward, not the type to blow up your phone or say things just to get a reaction, but everything he did say stuck with you. You were head over heels. Smiling at your phone and then burying your face in your pillow like an idiot every time. So when one of your friends mentioned the party coming up—some frat guy’s birthday, everyone was going, “you have to come, it’s gonna be huge”—you didn’t think much of it at first. Until she added, casually, “Pretty sure Weno’s gonna be there too, so you can’t get us some stuff as well?” That made your heart skip. You played it off, said “yeah, cool” and shrugged, but your brain had already started spiraling. What if you saw him? What if you didn’t? What if he ignored you in front of everyone? What if he didn’t? You told yourself you weren’t going for him. But you still stood in front of your closet longer than usual. You picked a dress—short, tight, something you hadn’t worn before. Simple, but it hugged you in all the right places. You did your makeup with more care than usual, spritzed perfume on your neck, your wrists, let your hair fall soft and full around your shoulders. You didn’t tell anyone why you looked a little extra tonight. But you kind of hoped he’d be there. And you really hoped he’d notice.

The house was already packed by the time you got there—music thumping through the walls, bodies crammed together in every corner, red cups in almost every hand. Lights low, flashing sometimes, music echoing through a speaker in the living room. It smelled like sweat, beer, weed, and cheap cologne. Typical. Your friends disappeared as soon as you walked in, squealing at someone they recognized near the kitchen. You stayed back for a second, just long enough to scan the crowd. Not because you were looking for anyone. Not on purpose, anyway. And then you saw Weno. Leaning against the far wall near the stairs, hoodie half-zipped over a white tank, cargo pants hanging low on his hips, the hem of his boxers peeking a little. He wasn’t dancing. Wasn’t talking loud or laughing or drinking like the rest of them. Just standing there, calm and unreadable, eyes lazily moving through the room like he’d been here a hundred times before. He was talking to someone, dapping them up quick, pulling something from his pocket and handing it off like it was nothing. No one looked twice. Just a quiet exchange, over in seconds. He didn’t try to be subtle, he didn’t have to. People came to him. You stayed near the edge of the crowd, drink in hand, pretending to be more focused on your friends than you were. But your eyes kept drifting back. He looked good. Effortlessly good. And he hadn’t seen you yet. You tried not to look over too often. Tried to focus on your friends and their chaotic conversations, the loud music, the colorful lights. You laughed at jokes that didn’t really register. Nodded along. Sipped water from your cup and told yourself it wasn’t that serious. He wasn’t even talking to you. He was doing his own thing. Still, your gaze kept drifting. Just to see if he was still there. Still. Every time you checked, he was. Some minutes passed like that—just you pretending to be more chill than you felt while your friends chattered and moved toward the crowd. You stayed behind, needing a second to breathe. You slipped into the kitchen, mostly empty now, except for the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint bass vibrating through the floor. You reached for the fridge handle, intent on just grabbing some cold water and hiding out for a bit, but when you turned, he was already there. Standing just inside the doorway. Watching. Your breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. His eyes scanned you slowly—top to bottom, unhurried. You felt it like a heatwave, settling low in your stomach. His gaze was darker than usual. Focused, sharp. You dropped your eyes immediately, trying not to fidget. Tugged lightly on the hem of your dress like it might help somehow, like maybe it covered more than it did. You felt your cheeks flush without him even having to speak. You weren’t even sure why you were so nervous. You’d seen him like this before, but something about tonight made it worse. Made you bite your lip without thinking. Made your cheeks burn just from the way he looked at you. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice calm and even. A little rough from the smoke, but still warm. You glanced up, heart racing. “Yeah,” you said, “Wasn’t really planning to, but… my friends dragged me.” He smiled a little. “I’m glad you came.” Your breath hitched. You weren’t expecting that. “You look good tonight.” It landed heavy in your chest. No teasing. No smirk. Just him saying it like it was a fact. Your whole body flushed. “Oh,” you said, voice small. “Um. Thanks.” He nodded once, eyes still on you, and then glanced back toward the hallway. “I’m heading up to the balcony for a bit. If you wanna get some air.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Just gave you one last look—soft, lingering—and pushed off the doorframe to leave. “Come find me,” he said, and then he was gone. Leaving you standing in the kitchen, heart racing, lip caught between your teeth, wondering how the hell he always made you feel like this without even trying.

You lingered in the kitchen for a while after he left, pretending to scroll through your phone, half-listening to the party still pulsing through the walls. Your friends had fully disappeared into the crowd by now, probably dancing or taking shots or screaming over music. You told yourself you were just cooling off. Just getting a break from the noise. But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at you. The way he said it—You look good tonight. Like it wasn’t up for debate. Like he meant it, and he knew you’d heard him loud and clear. Eventually, you texted some excuse about needing air, said you’d be right back if anyone even cared that you left. You slipped out of the kitchen and made your way upstairs, heartbeat loud in your ears, feeling a little ridiculous and a lot nervous. The hallway was quiet, just some closed doors and the muffled hum of bass below. You found the door to the balcony slightly cracked open, soft breeze pushing in from the night. You pushed it open gently. There he was. He sat on a low, beat-up couch tucked against the wall. One leg stretched out, the other bent, arm thrown over the backrest like he owned the space. Head tilted back just slightly, hoodie slipping off his shoulder, lips parted around the blunt as he took a slow drag. The ember glowed red in the dark, lighting up the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. He looked unfairly good. Like the air belonged to him. Like nothing touched him. He turned his head lazily when he heard the door, eyes finding yours through the smoke. Didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything for a second. Just looked at you, then took another slow hit, exhaling with a quiet sigh before speaking.

“Knew you’d come.” You swallowed hard, heart kicking up again like you hadn’t already spent the last fifteen minutes trying to calm it down. His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something behind it—something that made your chest tighten a little. You stepped out and quietly shut the door behind you. You sat down beside him, slow and careful, the cushion dipping under your weight. His knee brushed yours just slightly, warm through the fabric. You glanced over, then down again, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I just—I’d rather be up here with you than down there in all that chaos.” That got him to finally look at you. Head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed just a little like he was trying to read deeper than what you were saying out loud. He didn’t answer right away. Just flicked the ash from the blunt, leaned back again, eyes still on you. You breathed in through your nose, steadying yourself. Then softer, barely louder than the wind, you added, “I missed you.” He turned his head fully now, letting the blunt rest between his fingers. The pause that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Warm. His eyes softened just a bit. “Yeah?” he said, voice a little quieter than before. “I missed you too.” It landed in your chest like a weight—like the kind of thing you weren’t sure you were allowed to want, but did anyway. He leaned in a little, not close enough to crowd you, but just enough for his knee to press softly into yours. His eyes didn’t leave your face.

“You been thinking about me?” he asked, voice still calm, but something about it made your stomach twist. You blinked. Heat rushed to your cheeks again, and you had to look away. “…Maybe.” He smiled at that, small and crooked and unfairly attractive. “Same.” And then he took another hit like he hadn’t just wrecked you with a single word. He let the silence hang for a few seconds after that, the blunt burning slow between his fingers, and then he said it quietly, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Come closer.” Your eyes flicked to his, heart stuttering a little. He didn’t look away, didn’t shift or make room, just waited. You hesitated for a second and then moved, scooting over until your leg was pressed fully against his. He reached out casually, like it was second nature, and slid his arm around your shoulders. A soft tug, and suddenly you were leaning into him, your head falling against his chest like it belonged there. You could feel everything. His warmth, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the steady thump of his heart under your cheek. His hoodie smelled like smoke and laundry and him. He brought the blunt to his lips again, took a hit, then lowered it and turned his head slightly toward you.“Want some?” he murmured. You shook your head, just once. “Not right now.” He hummed, didn’t push. Just let his hand stay where it was on your shoulder, thumb brushing idly against your arm. You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he. You both just sat there, pressed together on the old balcony couch, the party a muffled storm below you, the stars wide and scattered above. You listened to the wind. The soft scratch of fabric when he shifted. The occasional drag and exhale as he smoked. You closed your eyes for a second and just let yourself feel all of it.

He shifted a little, moving his hand lower on your arm, caressing the skin, his breath warm against your hair. You felt his heartbeat quicken just a bit beneath your cheek. The silence between you was thick. to be noticed. You glanced up at him, your eyes catching his in the dim light. There was something softer there now. Something unspoken, but heavy. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering near your temple. Your breath hitched. He leaned down just a little, voice low and casual, “You’re beautiful.” You swallowed, barely able to meet his gaze as your face flushed again. Then, just like that, he closed the tiny gap between you. His lips found yours slow and gentle, before deepening the kiss, like he’d been wanting to do this all night. You melted into him, your hand slowly reaching up to rest on his chest as the world around you faded. It’s not gentle anymore, it’s urgent, needy. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling you closer as his tongue slides against yours, deep and demanding. You whimper softly, the sound lost in the press of his mouth, your body melting into his. He pulls back just enough to whisper in your ear, voice husky, “Wanna get out of here? I’ve got my car nearby.” Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You just nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, breath catching again as he wraps his arm tighter around you.

He doesn’t rush you, just laces his fingers through yours, warm and firm, and gives your hand a gentle tug. You follow without thinking, legs shaky as you leave the balcony behind and slip back into the quiet hallway. The party feels distant now, like the world narrowed down to just him, the weight of his hand in yours, the aftertaste of his kiss still lingering on your lips. The walk to his car is quiet, but not awkward. When he unlocks the door and slides into the driver’s seat, you hesitate for half a second before slipping in beside him. The doors shut with a soft thud, sealing you both inside the low, warm hum of the vehicle. He leans back, legs stretched out, calm like always, but there’s a heat behind his eyes when he looks at you. A spark still flickering from earlier. “I’m gonna roll real quick,” he murmurs, pulling out his tray and grinder from the center console like it’s second nature. You nod, watching him work—his fingers nimble, methodical, the lighter’s flame briefly illuminating his face when he brings the blunt to his lips. The car fills with the earthy scent of smoke, and his head tilts back slightly as he exhales, half-lidded. He looks so fucking fine like this, bathed in shadows and smoke, hoodie loose around his collarbones, the faint red glow of the blunt lighting up his lips. Then he turns his head toward you again and you don’t even get the chance to fully catch your breath before he leans in again, free hand finding your cheek as he kisses you.

The smoke still lingers on his breath, and you melt into it, moaning softly into his mouth as his tongue slides against yours. His fingers are on your thigh, squeezing gently as he pulls you closer. The kiss turns messier, full of need, soft gasps and low groans echoing through the car. Your hand grips his hoodie low, holding on like you might fall apart if you let go. He pulls back only enough to whisper, breath ghosting over your lips, “Could do this all night.” Then his mouth is on yours again. More heat, more tongue, more breathless little noises spilling from your lips as your body starts to tremble in his hands. Without breaking the kiss, his hands move, one sliding up your thigh, the other settling on your waist. “C’mere,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice low but soft. You barely register what he means until his hands are guiding you, pulling you gently, firmly, right onto his lap. One leg at a time, knees sinking into the seat on either side of him, hands braced on his shoulders, your dress hiking up as you settle onto him, straddling him, face to face. He leans back just enough to look at you, eyes hooded, red from the weed, blunt still between his fingers. One of his hands slides up your side, fingers grazing your waist and ribs over the thin fabric of your dress. He takes his time with it, like he’s learning your shape. Your breath stutters as his hand travels higher, stopping just under your arm. He brings the blunt to his lips again, takes a long, slow hit, his chest rising beneath you, and then leans in close. His free hand curves around the back of your neck, guiding your face closer to his. You part your lips on instinct, and he exhales the smoke right into your mouth, warm and slow, curling over your tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as you breathe it in, heart thudding, and then he kisses you. Kisses you like he’s taking the air right back from your lungs.

Your breath catches when you feel his hands slide down, beneath the hem of your dress. He pushes it up slowly, bunching the fabric around your waist until the cool air hits your thighs. You shift slightly, nervous, thighs tightening around his hips as he exposes more of you. He doesn’t say anything, just stares for a second, eyes flicking down to where your panties are now visible, his palms firm on the back of your thighs. “Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he leans forward, mouth finding your neck, and everything gets messier after that. He kisses down the side of your throat, open, warm, wet, his lips dragging along the skin, tongue flicking against your pulse point, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips twitch against him. You whimper quietly, trying to stay still, but he’s already pulling you closer with both hands, guiding your body into his like he knows exactly what you need. You tilt your head for him without thinking, shy sounds escaping your mouth as he works his way up to your jaw, then down again, kissing a little rougher now. “Weno…” you whisper, voice breaking around his name. “Shh,” he murmurs, his voice low against your skin. “You’re okay.” Your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively, face burning as you shift in his lap, unintentionally grinding down just slightly. His reaction is immediate, a quiet groan right into your neck, his hands tightening on your hips. “Just like that,” he breathes.

Your hips grind down harder without thinking, breath coming out in shaky gasps as the friction starts to feel almost too good. His hands slip under the back of your dress, squeezing the soft flesh of your ass, guiding your movement like he needs it just as bad. You’re whimpering into the heated space between you, clinging to his hoodie, your body trembling slightly with every slow drag of your hips over his. Your panties are soaked. His pants are straining. The windows are fogging up, and the whole car smells like weed, sweat, and heat. He tilts his head, catching your mouth again in another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, like he can’t stop tasting you. His hand slides up your waist, grazing under the curve of your chest over the thin fabric of your dress, and you shudder, moaning softly into his mouth. Then he pulls back, just a little, resting his forehead against yours as both of you try to breathe. “Fuck,” he whispers, chest rising and falling beneath you. “You look so fucking pretty like this.” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen and barely parted, still trying to catch your breath. He looks at you for a long second, hands still on your waist, grounding you. “I don’t wanna do this in the car,” he says, voice rough. “You deserve better than that.” Your breath hitches, heat flaring even higher at how serious he sounds. “Wanna go to my place?” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your side. You nod slowly, shy but needy, your fingers curling in the collar of his shirt, a little scared to let go. “Yeah,” you whisper, barely audible. “Okay.” He kisses you once more, soft and sweet, before pulling back just enough to reach for the keys.

The door shut with a quiet click, sealing you into the warmth of his place. It was dark, mostly, just the glow of a streetlamp slipping through the blinds, casting faint lines across the floor. Neither of you spoke. You turned slightly, lips parting like you might say something, but he was already reaching for you. His hands found your waist in the dark, pulling you in with no hesitation, and his mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. Kissing you hungrily, deep and needy. Everything he hadn’t said tonight was pouring out of him all at once, into the way he held you, the way his lips moved over yours. His grip was firm, hands splayed over your hips, your back arching into him as you kissed him back just as desperately. He walked you backwards without breaking the kiss, slow, steady steps through the short hallway, lips never leaving yours. You barely registered the corners of the space or how you ended up where you did until the back of your knees hit something soft. And then he was lowering you onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath you, and your breath caught as he hovered above you, eyes dark and steady on yours. Then, without a word, he zipped down his hoodie and took it off. Now just in a white tank, it clung to his frame in all the right places, the cut of his collarbone visible, shoulders broad and sharp under the light. He looked down at you for a second longer, breathing hard, gaze lingering on your face like he couldn’t believe you were really there. Then he leaned down, kissing you again, less rushed, but just as intense. His hands slid up your sides, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of your dress, moving deliberately, memorizing the shape of you. You whimpered softly into his mouth, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. He pulled back for a second, eyes flicking between yours, voice low and wrecked. “You good?” he asked, forehead brushing yours. You nodded, cheeks burning, lips swollen already. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m good.”

He didn’t wait long after your answer. His mouth moved to your neck, warm and open, lips brushing your skin before he started kissing, slow, deliberate, dragging his tongue gently along the curve of your throat. You gasped, breath hitching as he sucked softly at a spot just below your jaw. Then again, a little lower. Your hips twitched beneath him when you felt his teeth graze you. “Weno—” you whispered, but it came out as more of a breath than a word. “You’re so pretty” he murmured, voice barely there, like he was talking to himself. “Always are.” His hand moved down slowly, slipping over your waist and along the outside of your thigh before sliding back up under the hem of your dress. His touch was patient, teasing, he didn’t rush. Just let his fingertips brush along the top of your thigh, higher and higher until they were tracing the edge of your panties. He pushed the fabric of your underwear to the side, slowly, and let his fingers slide between your folds, touching your bare heat. You gasped, head tilting back into the pillow, lips parting in a silent moan. “Shit,” he whispered, breath warm against your collarbone. “So soaked f’me, baby.” Your cheeks burned, thighs tensing slightly around his hand. He kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower, just above your chest, tongue wet and warm as his fingers began to move—slow circles at first, barely-there pressure that made you squirm beneath him. His free hand gripped your waist, holding you steady like he could feel how close you already were, how much you wanted him. “You’re so sensitive,” he muttered, voice deep and low, teeth grazing your skin as he kissed up to your ear.

You whimpered his name, hips grinding into his hand without meaning to. His fingers never stopped moving, dragging slick circles against your clit as he kept his mouth on your neck. Every kiss felt more urgent, but not rushed. It wasn’t just lust. It was something else. Something heavier. And then he leaned up, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think about you all the time,” he murmured, breath warm, fingers still teasing between your thighs. “Even when I’m not supposed to. Even when I try not to.” Your heart flipped, aching at how raw it sounded coming from him. “I don’t even think you know what you do to me,” he continued, a soft kiss behind your ear. “How long I’ve wanted you like this. Letting me touch you.” The words hit harder than anything else had—deeper than the kisses, deeper than his touch. Your chest tightened, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers slid into his hair, pulling him down until your lips met again. Your moans melted into his mouth, the rhythm of his fingers picking up as your hips rolled up into his hand. His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider for him.

And then, without warning, he shifted his hand lower, deeper. Your lips parted in a quiet gasp as he slid one finger inside you, slow and careful. Your walls clenched around the intrusion, already aching from how worked up you were, how long he’d been teasing. He didn’t wait long before easing in a second finger, stretching you just a little more. His movements were smooth, curling them up inside you just right, drawing out whiny, breathless little sounds from your throat you couldn’t hold back. You buried your face in his shoulder, hands gripping his bicep, your hips rocking involuntarily into every slow thrust of his fingers. He moved deep and steady, his palm pressing into you, thumb dragging lazy circles over your clit in rhythm. He kept moving inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. You were so close, the tension winding tighter and tighter in your stomach, breath catching with every stroke. But just as your legs began to shake, just as your hips bucked up into his hand with a quiet, desperate moan—he pulled out. You whined at the loss, hips stuttering forward instinctively, chasing the friction. “Weno…” “I know,” he murmured, breathless himself, voice thick with need. “I know, baby.” He leaned back just enough to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere to the side. The soft light coming through the cracked door hit his chest just right—shoulders broad, abs toned, skin flushed and warm. His chain shifted against his skin when he moved.

Then he was reaching for you again, hands gentle. “Can I?” he asked, fingers brushing the hem of your dress. You nodded, cheeks hot, eyes wide and dazed. “Y-Yeah” He pulled it up slowly, lifting it over your head. His eyes dropped to your body as it was revealed to him—bare chest, soft skin, rising and falling with every shaky breath. He leaned his mouth to your nipple, giving it a soft suck while sliding your panties down your legs, dragging his hands along your thighs as he did. Then he moved lower. He settled between your legs like he belonged there, hands spreading your thighs gently, thumbs brushing along the inside. You whimpered, body already arching at the sight of him down there, the feel of his breath ghosting over your skin. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than anything, eyes locked on your soaked center. And then he leaned in. His tongue was warm, slow, one long, deliberate lick up your folds that made your back arch off the bed. Then again, this time with more pressure, more intent. His mouth locked over your clit, sucking softly before he flattened his tongue and circled it. You gasped, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling as your thighs tried to close around his head. He just groaned into you, gripping your hips and pulling you closer, keeping you wide open for him. The sounds—wet, messy, sinful—filled the room along with your breathy moans, soft whimpers, the quiet creak of the mattress beneath you.

He didn’t stop. His tongue moved with purpose, lapping, circling, flicking. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything but moan, soft and desperate, your hips twitching with every stroke of his tongue. And then you felt his hand again. Sliding up the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing through your slick folds before one dipped inside you, curling instantly. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry. He added a second immediately, stretching you and pumping into you while his mouth never left your clit. “Weno—fuck,” you whimpered, body jolting as he curled his fingers just right. Your walls clenched around him, needy and tight. His groan vibrated through you when he felt it. His tongue pressed harder, fingers pumping deep and slow—each drag of his knuckles making your toes curl. Your moans got higher, breathier, as your body trembled under his touch. “You close, baby?” he muttered against your clit, fingers never slowing. “Wanna feel you cum on my fuckin’ fingers.” You nodded, frantic, too far gone to speak. Your back arched, thighs shaking as he held you open, ruined you with his mouth, pushed his fingers deep inside you until the heat building in your stomach finally snapped. You came hard, legs trembling, hips stuttering, a loud moan spilling from your lips as everything clenched and pulsed around him. Fingers still working you gently through it while his tongue slowed, easing the intensity but never leaving you empty. Weno pressed one last kiss to your thigh, lips lingering as he pulled his fingers from you slowly, savoring the way your body jolted at the loss. He sat back on his heels, chest rising and falling a little faster now, eyes heavy as they dragged up your body.

You watched, dazed, flushed, and breathless as he reached for the waistband of his cargos, unbuttoning and sliding them down. They hit the floor with a quiet thud, leaving him in just his boxers—black, stretched tight over the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. He palmed it slowly, eyes still fixed on you, thumb pressing down over the thick outline like it ached. You squirmed beneath him, breath catching again when he leaned forward, caging you in with his arms. He kissed you slow and deep, tongue sliding over yours, moaning into your mouth. Then he reached between you and pushed his boxers down just enough to free himself, hissing softly when his length sprang free and brushed against your thigh. “You still good?” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, his thumb caressing your cheek. You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah… I want you.” That was all he needed. He reached down, guiding himself to your entrance, dragging the tip through your slick folds, teasing you both with the heat of it. His hand found your waist again, grounding you as he pushed in slowly—inch by inch, thick and hot and stretching you just right. You gasped, nails digging into his biceps, body arching as he filled you completely.“Fuck,” he breathed out against your mouth, kissing you again as he bottomed out. “So tight. So good.” He didn’t move right away. Just stayed there, buried deep, letting you adjust while he pressed soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your lips. His hands smoothed over your sides, grounding you. And then he started to move.

He started slow and deep, rolling thrusts that dragged every inch of him along your walls. Your body clung to him, welcoming each stroke like it had been waiting, aching, for this exact moment. His hands moved down your sides, palms warm and firm, before sliding under your thighs to hitch your legs higher around his waist. The new angle made you gasp, your head falling back into the pillow as he sank even deeper. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice all breath and gravel, “So fucking perfect like this.” You whimpered, lips parting with every slow rock of his hips, every soft press of his chest to yours. One of his hands slipped under your back, pulling you closer, the other traveling to cup your breast, squeezing gently, thumb circling your nipple. “Love your body,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone. “Every inch. All mine now, yeah?” You could only nod, breath shaky, heart pounding. He moved again—long, deep thrusts that made your thighs tremble around him, that had you clinging tighter to his shoulders, trying to ground yourself in his touch. “So fuckin’ good,” he groaned, kissing your neck, “Fuck—look at how you take me.” He slid his hand down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you up into each thrust, letting you feel just how hard he was holding back. You cried out softly, tears blurring your vision as the heat coiled tighter and tighter inside you. You felt stretched, full…loved. Every part of him was on you, in you, his lips, his hands, his voice. He slowed for just a second, chest heaving as he looked down at you.

His hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing your lip as he whispered, “No one’s ever made me feel like this.” You blinked, another tear slipping free. He caught it with a kiss. He pushed in deep again, groaning low as your body clenched around him. Your eyes fluttered shut as your lips parted in a sob, overwhelmed. The pleasure, the emotion—it was too much, and not enough. You gasped out his name, voice broken, tears spilling freely now. “You’re doin’ so good,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “So good for me. You feel so fuckin’ good—can’t get enough of you, baby.” He cupped your breast again, his other hand squeezing your ass as he rocked deeper, firmer, filling you completely with every thrust. The mattress creaked beneath you, skin slapping, breathy moans and whimpers. He lift your legs higher, folding them up toward your chest as his hands slid beneath your knees, guiding you open. His body shifted with yours, hovering close, his chest pressing to yours as he settled into the new position. You were utterly vulnerable, and so full. “Fuck,” he breathed as he pushed back in—deeper, impossibly deep, the new angle hitting something inside you that made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp. Your thighs trembled against his sides, your arms wrapping tight around his shoulders as he rocked into you again, slow and hard. His face was right above yours, eyes dark, mouth parted, breath hot on your cheek. His forehead pressed to yours. You pulled him down, fingers tangling in his hair, and kissed him hard, messy, open-mouthed, desperate. You sobbed into the kiss, the pleasure blurring everything, making your whole body feel like it was about to break apart in the best way.

He moaned against your mouth, thrusts picking up just slightly, deeper and deeper, hips pressing you into the mattress. One of his hands cradled your cheek as the other gripped under your thigh, holding you open for him while his body kept driving into yours, filling you perfectly. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, kissing along your jaw between gasps. “So good for me, baby… fuck.” Your body clenched tight around him, your moans turning into cries as your nails dug into his back. “Weno— I’m close, I—please,” you gasped, barely able to form the words through the sobs that kept catching in your throat. “I got you,” he panted, hips grinding down, pace relentless now. “Cum for me, baby. Wanna feel you.” It only took another stroke. One more hit just right, and you shattered. Your second orgasm came, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, tears slipping down your cheeks as you sobbed his name, legs shaking violently around him. You clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to earth. “Shit—baby—fuck—” he groaned, eyes squeezing shut as your body pulsed around him. “So good. So fucking good.” He barely lasted another few thrusts before he was pulling out quickly, stroking himself through the last moments, his body jerking forward with a final moan as he spilled across your stomach, thick and warm. He collapsed onto his forearms above you, forehead to yours again, breath ragged, lips ghosting yours.

He was still above you, body trembling slightly as he caught his breath, his lips brushing yours in soft, lingering kisses that felt more like confessions than touches. You were trying to breathe too, heart racing, chest rising and falling as your mind spun. Every nerve in your body was still alive, aching with how full he made you feel—physically, emotionally, all of it. And yet, even in the quiet after, something heavy sat in your chest. You swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting at his sides, your eyes darting everywhere but his face. You could feel it pressing against your tongue—those words—so big and so terrifying, but so real. Too real to keep inside. “Weno…?” you whispered, voice barely audible. He blinked down at you, soft and hazy from the afterglow. “Yeah, baby?” Your lip trembled as you looked up at him, wide-eyed and afraid. “I… I think I’m in love with you.” The second the words left your mouth, your stomach dropped. You felt exposed, like you’d stripped yourself bare in a whole new way. Your eyes filled with panic—what if he didn’t feel the same? What if this ruined everything? “I—I’m sorry,” you added quickly, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to ruin it, I just—fuck, I don’t know, I just feel so much and I couldn’t keep it in and—” He cut you off with a kiss. Not a soft one, not a careful one, but deep, sure. His hand cupped your face as he leaned into you, kissing you like he needed to feel every word you’d just said on his tongue.

When he finally pulled back, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the little tear that had escaped down your cheek. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispered. “You could never ruin anything.” Your heart fluttered painfully. “I’ve been in love with you,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Since before I even knew what to call it. You don’t scare me, baby. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.” He kissed you again, tender. His hands wrapped around you, pulling you close until your body was pressed to his, skin to skin, and you could barely breathe from how tight he held you. You buried your face in his neck, arms tucked between your chests, your heart pounding against his. The silence that followed was heavy with warmth—safe, soft. Eventually, he shifted just enough to reach for the blunt on his nightstand, lighting it with a quiet flick of his lighter. The glow lit up his face in soft orange as he took a long drag, exhaling with a sigh, head tilted back slightly. You curled into him, cheek pressed to his chest, ear catching the steady thrum of his heartbeat. His arm came around you instinctively, holding you tighter, and his hand drifted lazily into your hair, fingers combing through the strands. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. He held you like he was never letting go.

my other works ➵ masterlist

@0403s

© guliexe 2025 all rights reserved.

[tttabii]

── 西村 力 EYES ON YOU ; NISHIMURA RIKI

pairing ୭ bad boy! ni-ki x student council president! reader.

word count: 9162 ; mentions of ni-ki and the others smoking cigarettes, fluff, college au!

THE STUDENT COUNCIL OFFICE WAS unnaturally still save for the swish of the papers as you flipped through another round of proposals for the festival. All the ideas had been swimming around in everyone's heads since the fall festival only a month away; some of them were truly imaginative and some just downright stupid.

You let out a tired sigh as you stamped "Approved" on a handful of ideas that might actually have a chance: a food fair, with international dishes made by students, a photobooth with a vintage train design, and a long horror escape house that jumped off the page. You had to admit it was smart. If executed well, they could get interest from other nearby schools and also be a plus on the academy's record. That was worth approving.

You finished up the last file and then you heard it; that knock. You had become used to it. Annoyingly familiar like a ringtone you had grown too tired to change. 

You groaned. "Ni-ki... what now."

When you opened the door you saw the same sight: Nishimura Riki with a crumpled piece of paper in hand and an annoyingly smug smile like he had already won. 

"I know the deadline's over, but come on—just take a look at it," he said, holding out the paper with those stupid puppy eyes he always used when trying to get his way.

You crossed your arms. "No. A deadline's a deadline. I'm not making exceptions for some dumb festival stunt of yours."

You were closing the door when he stuck his foot in like his mother owned the place, and let out an exaggerated sigh. Rolling your eyes, you back at your desk, regretting not locking the damn thing.

He strolled in with bravado. "Come on, baby. Just this once."

You gave him a glare, your heart beating just a bit faster with that term of endearment, which only annoyed you more."I'm not your baby. And you can stop calling me that. This isn't one of your little games."

But you took the paper out of his hand anyway. Because, of course, you always ended up hearing him out, no matter how much you told yourself not to.

You quickly scanned the proposal. A foam party.A real foam party. It sounded absurd and almost genius.You cocked an eyebrow. "And who exactly ae you doing this with?"

He leaned on the edge of your desk with ease. "My bros. We've been talking about it for a while."

You sigh quietly and gave the paper back. "I'll think about it. But don't get your hopes up."

He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment, and began stepping away from you to head to the door. "I won't. but you are going to approve it, I know you can't resist a good-looking guy with an agenda."

You dismissed him, "Go away."

He walked away, but not before catching the way your eyes lingered a second too long on his outfit. He has seen it, he knew it. You never stared outright—but with guys who know how to dress, he knew he could expect your attention, whether you liked it or not.

The next morning, the wind was light as you walked up the few stairs of the school, the white sundress flowing around your knees. You wore your bag slung over one shoulder, your glasses slipping down your nose as your eyes tried to focus on the paper in your hand. You were mentally reviewing your schedule for the day, already dreading the backlog of reports you'd have to approve.

You'd seen Ni-ki earlier, surrounded by a couple of girls leaning against a tree, wearing that obnoxious smile that surely belonged on the cover of a magazine. You ignored him, as you always did.

But of course, he had to announce his presence. He deliberately collided with you, and before you had a chance to do anything, he had snagged your glasses off your face, holding them above him like a smug toddler with a toy.

"Ni-ki!" You shifted your arms to reach for them, annoyed. "Give them back!"

He just grinned like he was in on the joke, and held them a little higher. "Nope. Not until you say please."

You stood on your tiptoes again to reach, and one hand instinctively gripped his arm for balance. Standing that close, he could see everything. The soft curve to your lashes, the blush on your cheeks, the way your eyes appeared so much clearer and prettier and more... you without the frames.

"You know," he leaned in and teased, "you look so much better without these."

Without warning, his other hand slipped around your waist, steadying you when you almost lost your balance. You jolted, realizing it was him, and stepped back instantly. "You're such a nuisance," you muttered, snatching your glasses from his hand and hurrying off toward the student council office, vision still slightly blurred.

Behind you, a few boys turned to look to take a good look at you.

And Ni-ki noticed.

Oh, they were definitely going to be a problem.

As the girls from earlier tried to distract him, laughing too loudly and clinging to his arm, Ni-ki wasn't paying attention. His eyes were still on you.

You had just rubbed your eyes tiredly, while waving small hellos to your fellow student council members. Your dress was hugging you beautifully perfect—elegant while also feeling effortlessly comfortable.

Your hair was down with soft waves and a small white bunny pin on the side, held back just enough. Your bangs framed your face gently, loose and natural. He thought you looked way too cute for someone who claimed to be tired.

His eyes dropped down to your lips. You had put a light gloss on your lips—subtle and pretty but also dangerous. He wondered what type of lipstick it was. Actually, maybe he didn't care. Maybe he would just wipe it off with his lips if given the chance. Those girls would for sure be jealous.

But they didn't matter.

He had long stopped being a playboy, the moment he actually laid eyes on you for the first time. It all started weeks ago in the infirmary. He was only there to skip class, claiming to be sick when in reality he just wanted air conditioning and a decent bed. He was about to fall asleep himself—until he noticed you.

You were all curled up on one of the beds, face slightly to the window so that warm sunlight hit your cheeks. You looked peaceful at first, and then your brows furrowed as the discomfort woke you. A heat pack pressed to your stomach, and you were hugging a pillow tightly. He wasn't expecting that.

The cold, powerful student council president fitted into the bed, looking so small, like a girl who just wanted to survive painful cramps in peace. That was the moment he realized there was more to you than just a sharp tongue and standing straight. When you did wake up, he was there, watching you.

"Can I help you?" you asked flatly, your eyes still narrowed as if you just woke up.

"Yeah," he said, already smirking. "Do you mind giving me a little kiss?"

You grimaced. "Are we deadass right now..."

You then stood up and walked away without second thought. And yet, you still lingered in his thoughts.

The very next day, you caught him smoking behind the school building with Jake and a few others. He figured he was done for—but Jake gave you those ridiculous puppy eyes and, surprisingly, you let them off with a warning. Strict, but not cruel.

He remembered how close you stood when you handed out the warning. Your cherry-sweet perfume hit him all at once. You avoided his gaze when he looked straight at you. He saw the way your fingers fidgeted at your side. Even then, he could tell: you weren't as cold as you pretended to be.

Later, his friends told him you were actually younger—by a full year. The first and youngest student council president their school had ever had. You earned that title by merit, not by a favor—organization, leadership, and grace under pressure.

The resentment that came from the assistant president—also one of Ni-ki's exes, the one that lasted all of one month—was inevitable. Actually, almost every relationship he ever had lasted a month. If not, even less time.

But it all stopped once he started seeing you from a distance. And realized something even worse—

You might be unattainable. 

If someone good—really good—were to notice you, they could take your heart before he got the chance to do it. Someone with no bad boy reputation; who had no gossip flying around like second skin. A clean-cut man who liked cold girls with secret warmth who would treat you right. And never make you cry. Someone worthy of you.

But he also knew... you weren't cold. Not really. And he certainly was not going to let anyone else be the first to warm you up.Not without a fight.

('−ㅿ−')

It was already the evening, the softly lit glow of the sunset streaming through the windows as students hurried about with flyers, costumes, posters, decorations—the whole deal. Some students were juiced and rehearsing on the quad lawn. Others were in deeper planning meetings, but you had just ended yours with the council. Your arms were filled with files and event charts—everything neatly color-coded.

That was when it happened.

Yunah. Again.

She plowed into you on purpose right outside the council room, her shoulder hitting your shoulder harder than it needed to have . You twisted your heel a bit, and your knee smashed into the cold, hard, and rough concrete floor, scraping it hard against the tiles.

"Oop-sorry," she said with her make-believe sweet voice as she never even turned her head as she took off down the hallway.

You took a deep breath, moving your hair back and squeezing the files harder to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured to yourself, hoping to sound more convincingly steady than you felt. 

You stood up, brushing the dust from your skirt, and limped forward—unaware of the thin trail of blood running down your knee. You had a job to do. The gym was the final stop on your daily rounds. After this, you could go back to your dorm, shower, and maybe nap before the late council online meeting tonight.

You pushed the gym doors open.

The air carried that rubber flooring odor mixed with sweat, pierced with metallic clinks of weight and the sounds of boys' voices. You had your clipboard in one hand, scanning the space quickly and efficiently. Everything in order. Equipment in appropriate locations. Towels where towels belong. Floors clear. Good.

And then you saw him. Ni-ki.

He was rocking a black tank and pants, hair slightly wet against his forehead. He was seated at a weights machine, forearms pumping with veins as he effortlessly lifted. You could see his biceps flex every time he pulled the weights, and your breath caught in your throat before you reignited and glanced away in a panic.

Stay focused, damn it.

You took a shaky step back, still limping without realizing you did, and flipped your clipboard to the gym report—

"Hey." 

You blinked up in surprise. Ni-ki was suddenly standing before you, holding a towel against his neck, brow furrowed as he looked you over. 

"What happened?" his voice now a lower pitch.

"What?" You looked up in confusion for a moment, before following his gaze. He wasn't looking at your face. He was looking at your knee. 

Where blood was trailing slowly down your skin, now obvious against the pale background of your socks. You flinched slightly as he dropped to one knee, his hand resting gently on your injured one. The touch was light, but you still shuddered.

"Oh... it's nothing," you mumbled. "Someone just... bumped into me."

"Uh huh." His voice was dry, clearly unconvinced. He looked up at you for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. And then—without another word—he stood and called over his shoulder to the other boys, "I'm heading out. Later."

"Where are you—"

"Sit."

He motioned to the bench nearby. You blinked, unsure if you were even supposed to obey—but your legs were tired, and honestly, your knee stung.

So you sat.

You watched him silently, as he cleaned up the wound, and then unwrap the bandage with just as much caution as he used to dab away your blood, pressing it to your knee just right, running his thumb over the bandage to make sure that it was secure. He didn't say anything again until he stood back up, wiped his hands, then jogged over to the vending machine.

He was back in a moment, and dropped a cold chocolate milk into your hands.

"What's this for?"

"Sugar," he said, now sitting beside you, again not too close, but close enough that your knees nearly brushed.

"You looked like you could use it."

"I'm not a child," you countered, though you were already uncapping it.

"I know," he said, looking sideways to you. "You're the president. Cold, nonchalant and untouchable." 

You raised your brow at him, but he wasn't finished.

"But you limp like a normal person," he added, biting back a smile.

You exhaled a short laugh despite yourself and took a sip.

Ni-ki leaned forward, arms resting on his knees as he looked ahead. He leaned back, elbow resting casually behind you on the bench, eyes glancing sideways as you sipped quietly on the chocolate milk he got you.

"Who pushed you?" he asked, voice steady, but there was a weight there, layered underneath. He didn't look at you—just stared at the gym wall across from him like your answer didn't matter.

You didn't say anything.You kept your eyes down on the page you held in your lap, fingers messing with the edge of it, pretending that the milk tasted more interesting than the buzzing tension between the two of you.

He made a small, humorless laugh. "Figured."

You glanced at him, brows drawing slightly together. "Yunah has always been looking at you like that," he said plainly, like it was something that he had noticed a million times before and filed away. "Especially when I'm around. Like this morning."

You blinked. "This morning?"

"Yeah, when I took your glasses and I held your waist."

You immediately looked away, the heat rushing up your neck as you let the memory wash over you—how close he had been, how your heart jumped and you pulled away very quickly and blushed.

"She saw the whole thing," he added, not sounding particularly concerned. "She didn't say anything though."

You paused, then mumbled, "Could've just been someone else who pushed me. Maybe it was a stranger."

Ni-ki shrugged, like he had already thought of it and shot it down. "Maybe. But I don't usually guess wrong. And Yunah... she's petty enough to push someone over less."

You took the last sip of your milk, and held the empty bottle in your lap for just a second, until Ni-ki took it from you, just brushing his fingers against yours as he did so. He stood up, walked to the bin, and tossed it without saying a word.

You stood up too, dusted off your dress and grabbed your clipboard, and walked off without saying goodbye.

You turned on your heel, and his voice came behind you, teasing."Not even a bye, prez?"

You didn't turn back, didn't answer.But he caught the way your hand went up for just a moment to scratch the back of your neck—anxious, a bit flustered—as you walked down the hallway and turned around the corner toward your office.

૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

The library was quiet, the soft hum of the built-in café mingling with the distant sound of pages turning. Instead of locked in your student council office like usual, you chose to be on this rare break in a different spot—curled up by the corner window seat of the library, nursing a cold latte, and flipping through your notes for the upcoming autumn festival.

Honestly, you were juggling more than you should be. Between your responsibilities in student council and being part of a baking club—which let's be honest, insisted on running a full baking competition booth—you hardly had time to breathe.

It was a fun idea: visitors could taste different pastries and vote on the best one, provided the participants knew what they were doing. This wasn't a bake-off for beginner bakers. You already wrote of the safety list three times.

But for now, you just wanted your highlighters. You rifled through your bag, trying to dig out the familiar pack when your fingers stopped, heart sinking ever so slightly.

One of your plush keychains was gone.The little bunny with the dark red ribbon. Missing.

You paused for a moment, scanned your open bag again just in case, and then exhaled softly through your nose, disappointment creeping over your expression.

Your fingers clenched around the only charm that still hung from the zipper, and your teeth grazed your lip as your face dipped from its normally neutral expression.

It was subtle, but still—anyone who truly knew you would see it. You didn't show much in public. Stoic, organized, composed—always. But right now, you were unguarded in a way you rarely allowed.

Meanwhile, on the rear path near the library's back entrance, Ni-ki had been taking a quiet smoke break. The wind ruffled his black hoodie a little, and he was leaning against the railing with half-lidded eyes, letting his mind wander. That was when he noticed something odd in the grass. 

A little, dirty, plush bunny, facedown. 

He stared for a second, then bent down and flicked the ash from his fingers, and carefully lifted the bunny by the ribbon.

He recognized it right away.

Of course he did.

He'd seen it enough times hanging off your bag—cute, a little worn, something he figured you probably had for years. His lips twitched in a tiny smile, just barely there, as he tucked the bunny into his pocket and stubbed out his cigarette.

You had just come out of the library, clutching on to the last charm on your butchered bag, distractedly gazing at your feet.

You were perhaps hoping the bunny had dropped somewhere close and that no one had stepped on it or thrown it somewhere completely different. And then you heard it—the sound you had grown unfamiliar too. The sound of jangly chain jewelry.

You almost choked, eyes instinctively shifting without even turning. You knew who it was before you had turned.

Ni-ki, walking up the path toward you, the chrome hearts keychain on his belt swinging and clinking as it bumped against the metal chain clip on his pants. A few charms were hanging loose, glistening as they swayed in the briefest of sunlight exposure.

His heavy silver earrings twinkled from their usual spot, and the fake lip ring—one of the things that always made your stomach twist for reasons you refused to acknowledge—sat crooked against his lip and stuck out like a sore thumb.

His messy black hair fell over his eyes, bangs as low as always and unkempt around his forehead, as if he had just rolled out of bed without a thought. He never made it look intentional, and yet it was so infuriatingly good on him.

Your hand curled instinctively around your bag's strap, trying to act unaffected as he slowed to a stop in front of you.

He didn't say anything at first. Just held something out.

You blinked.

And there it was—your plush bunny, a little dirty now but still intact, dangling from his fingers by its dark red ribbon.

"You dropped this," he said, voice low, casual.

"Oh... thank you," you said, your fingers brushing against his as you got the stuffed bunny back. You couldn't even look at him—either too awkward or maybe just too closed off—before quickly re-attaching the charm onto the zipper of your backpack and sort of twisting away. You stood there for a second, awkward, not knowing what to do, and then made the choice to do what you always did when things felt strange.

You walked away.

The faint smell of smoke was still with him, curling around you along with the warm wisp of that familiar cologne of his, something sharp and clean, something spicy underneath. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it felt... familiar. Even comforting. You didn't recoil from that smell. Not the way most people did.

You grew up with it. Your parents smoked when you were little, and the smell was forever tied to memories of home, of quiet evenings, and cold winter nights. It didn't disgust you. It never had. He noticed. He caught the tiny change in your face, the nuance of bringing the smell into your body with no negative reaction. He didn't say anything. Just stood silently and watched, as he always did, as you walked away.  

          ૮ – ﻌ–ა

It wasn't the last time he "coincidentally" ran into you.

You had your doubts about how accidental it really was.

Especially when it kept happening like this—in places you definitely wouldn't expect him. Like, for instance, the baking club room. Today was extra busy, obviously. You and your clubmates were trying out different cake flavors as you attempted to work your way through which flavor would be used at the festival's opening ceremony. The whole campus was abuzz about the festival, especially with some higher-profile guests likely to show up.

The club wasn't really that big, but was really close-knit. You weren't the leader—there was enough responsibility on your plate being student council president already—but you still pulled your weight, always listening to the instructions and never acting like you were above it. You liked it this way. Less pressure, more time to focus on the fun.

And today was fun.

You were dressed casually, in low-hanging sweatpants and a slightly oversized jersey top, one side slipping off your shoulder, the black strap of your bra visible in a way that was clearly intentional—it matched the design, and you liked the look. Your hair was pulled into two loose pigtails, bangs falling messily across your forehead, and your apron was already a little dusted with flour and sugar.

You stood at one of the mixing stations, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the thick, creamy mixture, wildly. Quickly, checking around to see if anyone was paying close attention - you dipped your finger in and popped it in your mouth—soft vanilla with a warm cinnamon background.

Your lips turned into a small smile, briefly so, it could've gone unnoticed. You quickly released it when you realized. You weren't alone. You added a pinch of cinnamon sugar anyway—quietly hoping—wishing, that your cake will receive more votes. That people would like it. And even if you didn't show it, you love when people like the thing you bake.

You spent time, figuring that flavour out, layering it warmth with some little surprise at the end. It mattered to you, more than anyone cared to know. You turned to help a clubmate ice another test batch, apron tied tight behind you. 

And just outside the door, lingering just out of sight—was Ni-ki, with Jake and a few of their friends, having been roped into delivering something artwork nearby. But he'd stopped when he passed the glass window and caught a glimpse of you.

His gaze lingered.

The way you smiled to yourself—a real one, so rare it almost felt like a secret. The way your top slipped down slightly to give me a glimpse of that black strap. The way you licked the batter off your finger like you didn't even know that was distracting.The look on his face changed ever so slightly.Jake caught it right away.

"Bro," Jake grinned, shoving him with his elbow. "You're down so bad."

Ni-ki didn't say anything. He looked away with a blank expression and ignored the teasing as he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked ahead like he hadn't been caught.

After Ni-ki left the baking club hallway, he meandered through the main building with his usual lazy charm, side by side with his group of friends, and a handful of the girls from his class following closely behind him, still asking him questions about the course they were in—but let's be real, half of them were just using the questions to try and keep his attention for another second.

He hardly looked interested. Answering with some short, amused comments. His hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, chain jewelry chiming softly as he walked, their silver glimmers reflecting from the hallway lights. After the end of class, he stepped outside to breathe, leaning a little and then stopping suddenly.

You were there.   

Right on the edge of the main path with your clubmates. You were holding out your tray of neatly portioned cake samples to passing students. You were focused and professional—smiling only slightly, your usual guarded expression locked back on your face. Still, you had a rhythm. Offer a piece, introduce the flavor, remind them to vote at the club.

Jake stepped out of class and you caught him first, carefully holding the tray out toward him, quietly saying: "Try this one."

He took a bite, eyebrows raising. "Oh—yo, this is actually fire."

That was when Ni-ki walked up, that telltale sound of his pants chain dragging against metal making your ears twitch slightly before your gaze flicked in his direction. You immediately recognized the grey hoodie—sleeves bunched at his elbows, zipper half undone, showing a glimpse of his collarbone and toned chest.

Fuck.

He didn't even try to look good. He just was.

You swallowed hard, lips twitching with annoyance, and turned to leave when—

"You're just going to ignore me after giving Jake cake, huh? Damn," he called out behind you, his tone casual but still hinting at that smirk. "What a president you are."

You froze for a second, rolled your eyes slowly, then turned back and deadpanned. "Do you want to try it or not?"

He raised an eyebrow, stepping in a little closer. He still had his hands in his pockets. "Have you even tried your own cake?"

You gave him a confused look. "No. Except for the batter."

He smirked, that lazy smug smirk of his. "Try it, baby."

You exhaled sharply. "I told you to stop calling me that."

Jake snorted. "You two sound married."

Before you could snap back, Ni-ki moved casually and took the small plastic fork out from your hand and shoved a bite of your own cake in your mouth before you could stop him. "Mmh!" You choked, in shock, at how fast he'd gotten the fork around your lips. 

He smirked wider. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and dragged the same fork through the cream on the remaining cake sample and licked it clean with a hum of approval. "Damn. That's actually so good."

You were still flustered, wiping your lips when his eyes locked onto your mouth. There was whipped cream clinging to the corner. He didn't say anything for a few more seconds, and before you could wipe it away yourself, he discreetly used his thumb—almost teasingly—to brush it off gently.

"Sweet," he muttered quietly before licking off his own thumb with a satisfied expression on his face.

Your brain literally flat-lined for a second.Then you heard it—a voice that could ruin any moment.

"Ugh. Didn't think she was the one who baked it. Looks like someone's using her position for pity points," a girl's voice sneered from behind. She was clearly talking to her friend, but her eyes were on you.

One of Ni-ki's exes—not Yunah. Another one. Pick-me energy, rude smile, and only trying not to conceal the blame dripping off her every feature.

Ni-ki's whole face changed right away, jaw tensing—but he was still not reacting outwardly. Just standing there, silent. Like the calm before the storm. Pretending like neither of you heard it, still clear as day.

You muttered to yourself more than you were talking to him, "Why do you date such weird girls?"

His gaze darted back to you, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just a little as he tilted his head. "Aren't you a weirdo one, too?"

You scoffed, "Well, we're not dating. And we'll never date."

That amusement, sharp look returned to his face—one brow raised, his eyes seeming to dip for one impossibly small moment to your bare shoulder. The little curve of your collarbone showed under your loose jersey top. It wasn't scandalous, if anything it was trending. A lot of girls wore it. But you saw where his eyes traveled and the way they paused made your heart skip.

"Mhm," he said with a hint of a smirk, and his voice low. "Whatever you say, princess."

The word dripped off his tongue, a bit of tease and a bit of dare. Jake, still chewing on his second sample, muttered "This is better than Jungwon's K-dramas." 

You rolled your eyes, spun around, and whipped away in a whirlwind—muttering curses under your breath—but not before hearing Ni-ki chuckle behind you.

Then the votes were tallied and the results posted on the club board.

You saw your name first again. You blinked at it for a second until the club members screamed and brought you in for a mini group hug. You had won. That cake would be served to our guests for tonight's festival.

A smile immediately stretched across your face as your club began preparing to haul the cake to the display area. The cake, embellished with whipped cream, fruit slices and nice touches, looked beautiful. You just gave them a few quick instructions about not tilting the tray or turning the garnishes around. It had to be perfect as it sat there until tonight.

By the time everything was settled and the club booth was set up, the grounds were starting to fill with energy. Students were dragging props out, hanging decorations, testing lights and microphone systems. Music faintly played in the background, greetings were being shouted from all over the campus, and the buzz was everywhere.

It was only 10 a.m. but the ambience was already wild— and it wouldn't be until 7 p.m. tonight before the real thing began.

Still, after baking the entire morning and walking in and out of the sun making sure every tiny thing was in place, you were parched.

You held your printed speech in one hand, eyes scanning it while your throat started to feel dry and rough. You glanced around the campus yard, seeing booths still half-open—no one seemed to be selling drinks yet.

Then, without warning, a warm hand pressed gently onto your shoulder.

You turned around.

Ni-ki stood there clad in a black tank top, silver chain at his collarbone, and hair still damp from the heat. His fingers were cold from touching your shoulder, but in his hand was a small chilled yogurt drink pack, the same kind you used to drink with breakfast while still trying to rush out the door.

He just held it out to you, saying nothing, eyes soft but unreadable.

You blinked at it then at him. "You looked like you were about to pass out," he said as simply as ever. "Take it. It's good for you in the morning. Probiotics and all that."

"...Thanks," you mumbled as you took it. The cold plastic felt so nice in your hand, and you didn't realize how badly you needed it until now.

You poked the straw in and sipped as he stood beside you, like it was totally normal. "You ditched your booth?" you asked, side-eyeing him.

"They'll survive without me," he said. "Besides, they're doing the foam thing right now. I'm not trying to get soap in my eyes this early." 

"You mean you ditched your bros to stalk me?"

"I'm accompanying you," he corrected, pretending to sound offended. "Very different."

You shot him a look, but he only smiled and walked alongside you as you did your rounds. He didn't try to take over, didn't interrupt, just followed along—his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting between the booths and your checklist.

The assigned students was setting up a horror escape room, and someone from the art department was hanging huge photo booth banners and string lights. It actually looked kind of... magical. The warm colors, everything for fall. The music floating by.

You felt the excitement growing in your chest, but that familiar emptiness was also there—a quiet reminder that you didn't really have anyone to enjoy this with. Not really. Not like that. Most people didn't get too close to you. Some people were intimidated. Other people didn't bother.

You learned to manage. Ni-ki didn't seem to mind though. He wasn't talking much, but he matched your pace, sometimes handing his bottle of water to you without asking when he saw you squint from the sun. His presence was annoyingly... soothing. You hated how comfortable you were getting with it.  

At one point, he tilted his head toward the large LED board being wheeled toward the main stage. "You nervous for the speech?"

You shrugged. "It's just a welcome speech. I've done worse."

"You practicing earlier was kinda cute."

You turned your head sharply. "What?"

He lazily shrugged again, pretending he was too invested in some balloon arch being taped together across the walkway. "Just saying. You get all serious and focused when you take charge. It's adorable."

You stared at him.

He blinked at you like what?

You turned away quickly, sipping the rest of your yogurt drink. "You're annoying."

He grinned at the way your ears turned a little red."Can't be that annoying. You didn't brush me off this time."

After making sure every booth was set and all details were arranged, you quickly ran back to your dorm around 5 p.m., like the rest of your group. The buzzing sensation in your chest was starting to get harder to ignore. You took a quick shower to wash the day away and let the steam take away some tension from your tight muscles.

The shower also allowed you to take time with your skincare routine. You brushed out your hair, curling just the ends, incorporating your straight bangs to fall just right across your forehead. You picked out the little dress you had been planning since the day you decided to host this festival. It was cute, not too much. And it was enough that you would be noticed faster than the guys with their decorated crops.

You sprayed perfume gently behind your ears, the floral scent subtle but sweet. A few pieces of jewelry shimmered softly on your neck and wrists. One last look in the mirror... and you nodded to yourself.

By 6:30 p.m., you were back on the festival grounds.

Everything looked different under the setting sky. Lights had turned on—golden, pink, soft blue—casting a warm glow on students from both your campus and others who were already lining up at the entrance. The atmosphere was buzzing with anticipation.

You inhaled deeply and checked in with each of the club presidents over your phone and some brief verbal check—in rounds to make sure everyone was settled. You held the speech card with shaky fingers although you had said that speech hundreds of times. You weren't afraid of the crowd, you simply didn't want to screw this up. Not after all that work.

Then the clock hit 7. The festival officially started.

From the stage, you saw faces—so many faces—and just off to the side you could see Ni-ki in the crowd wearing a loose dark jacket and black tee, slightly damp from the foam, laughing at something Jake said as they finished adjusting the drink booth setup.

You swallowed your nerves and stepped up.

Your voice warmed through the field, steady but bright. You welcomed the guests, thanked everyone for coming, and opened the festival. You even got a cheer. When the MC mentioned the winning cake, your name was said—along with the tray. Students actually clapped when they tasted it. You stood at the side, cheeks warm, heart full, pretending not to look for a certain someone's reaction.

Later, you returned to your stand beaming as students were now piling up for pastries and treats. You handed out cake slices and mini croissants, complemented peoples costumes and hair in passing, softly chuckling when someone recognized the fruit tart from your submission. You carefully packed one into a box, waved goodbye to your club members now arriving to take the next shift, and just let your feet go where they always went these days.

Ni-ki's booth.

You noticed Jake first, then Jungwon, both were busy pouring drinks or were busy chatting it up with the students that slipped in and out of the foam pit. There was laughter and chaos, but it was a fun chaos, the type that endears you to the moment, making you feel and think this was something you would want to remember.

You avoided the foam, walking up to the drink section instead, and delicately placed the box of tarts on the counter. "My treat," you said softly, smiling.

Jake blinked. "Wait—really?"

"Seriously?" Sunghoon ventured as he looked over his shoulder. "Are you actually treating us now?"

"Just shut up and take it," you said lightly again, your eyes darting Ni-ki, who seemed to pause mid shake with the drink blender.  

They all exclaimed, "Thank you!" as they opened the box and saw the tart; their eyes widened as they cut into it with plastic forks and started to compete for the strawberries.

Ni-ki backed away from the counter and wiped his hands with a towel, heading straight for you and sliding into your space like it belonged to him. "Didn't think you'd actually come by," he said, his voice lower now, only meant for you.

"I said I'd roam freely," you said, "I just happened to look in here."

He raised an eyebrow. "While holding a box of fruit tart?"

You rolled your eyes, but a smile peeked through as you lightly leaned against the counter. He looked at you for a second—really looked. From your curled hair to the light shimmer on your cheekbones to the little details in your jewelry.

"You look..."he paused. Then leaned just a little closer. "Dangerously good."

You scoffed. "Are you working, or are you flirting?"

"Multitasking," he said plainly, giving you that infuriating soft smirk. "Wanna try one of our drinks? I'll make it special."

You raised an eyebrow. "Do you say this to every girl?"

"Is it bold of you to assume I have other girls?"

"Uh huh," you scoffed. "Wanna look at the line of girls behind me? I'm practically cutting the queue."

"Yeah, but they're obviously here to see the other guys," he chuckled as he nodded towards his friends.

You narrowed your eyes. You're not sure about that, as you caught sight of a girl by the foam pit sheepishly pointing to Ni-ki, and absolutely squealing to her friend. "I see one already squealing looking at you."

He just laughed, a low laugh, the kind of laugh that made something flutter in your chest—and walked away to grab you a drink. He didn't ask what you wanted. He just knew. A little sweet, a little refreshing—something cold and creamy to balance out the summer night heat. 

He handed it to you with a grin before casually slipping his arm around your shoulder like it was second nature. His fingers played with the end of your curled hair, making your stomach twist in ways you hated admitting. The guys behind the booth were already yelling things like "Whipped!" and "Get a room!" as Ni-ki waved them off, dragging you gently away from the foam party.

"Why are you leaving your friends?" you asked, sipping the drink—and wow, it was good.

He shrugged, leading you into the crowd. "The student council president needed some time to enjoy with a hot guy like me."

You glared at him. "Your ego is insufferable."

"You still haven't denied it," he teased, his thumb briefly brushing your shoulder as he adjusted his arm around you again.

You really tried not to get flustered. But the way his cologne wrapped around you like a second skin, woody and warm, and the way he just effortlessly steered you through the crowd like he belonged beside you, it was too much.

He led you right to the food district. The lights here were golden and warm, and the stalls were bursting with colors and scents. You let him lead you to a takoyaki stall, and you could see that his eyes were sparkling with excitement.

"Alright, this one is non-negotiable," he said. "You have to try this."

"Why?" you asked, letting him handle the ordering.

"Because I'm Japanese," he said with pride, "and I'm making it my mission to teach you all the things that are tasty."

You blinked, your lip curling. "So you're essentially flexing your culture onto me?"

"Damn right," he smirked. "You need to know what actual good food is."

You and him moved from booth to booth trying mochi, karaage, yakisoba—him explaining each dish with that stupid twinkle in his eye, the way he seemed to be sharing part of himself with you, and you paying way too much attention for someone who swore to not fall into his trap.

People noticed—of course they did. Your usual cold expression had softened, and Ni-ki, the boy known for charming every girl that breathed near him, hadn't flirted with anyone else the entire month. Not once. Just talked politely when someone approached, but his attention always snapped right back to you. Boys who usually tried to talk to you looked away, realizing they didn't stand a chance when Ni-ki was practically glued to your side.

You pretended not to care.

But your fingers brushed his when he handed you another skewer, and your heart jumped. Just a little.

Then, he turned to you again with a glint in his eye.

"Wanna try the horror escape room next?"

You froze. "Like... right now?"

His smirk widened. "You're not scared, are you?"

"No," you lied immediately.

You couldn't understand why you agreed to it—perhaps it was how his eyes lit up with mischief, or how smug he looked when he said, "Scared? You?"

But here you stood, at the door of a horror escape room, regretting your whole life. Ni-ki handed the entrance tickets to the usher in one hand, and took your hand with the other—and just like that, he was pulling you inside. His jacket was draped loosely over your shoulders—warm, slightly big, the sleeves covering your hands because the moment you'd shivered earlier, he had taken it off without a word, and draped it around you, and now you were holding onto it like it was a lifeline.

As the door creaked shut behind you, darkness covered the room and creepy music began to play, like a reverberating echo. You shrunk your pace, stepping cautiously. Ni-ki turned around and grasped your hand like it was something he was used to.

"Come on," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I'll lead."

And lead he did. You mostly let him guide you, letting your body follow his—walking just behind him, peeking out from his side, your fingers now clutching his bare arm since the jacket had already claimed you. His skin was warm, and the muscle beneath was hard, flexing slightly each time he moved.  

You almost jumped out of your skin when the first actor hopped out, wailing. You screamed. Very loudly. And you immediately threw yourself to Ni-ki's side, clutching his arm with both hands in a tight grip.

"You okay there?" he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. You nodded quickly, releasing him a little, but not much.

When there was finally a moment to breathe, he pointed with one of his long fingers to a dim hallway. "We should separate for the first part that's reasoned-"

"No." You started to shake your head so quickly you reminded him of a panicked puppy eyes wide, as if defiant to abandon him even the slightest.

He burst into quiet laughter, "You're like a scared little puppy." He chuckled, clearly enjoying his laughter at your expense. "Kinda cute though."

You scowled at him defiantly, but it probably looked like you were not even close to ready to cause any bodily harm to him being practically glued to his arm. He merely ruffled your hair with a smirk, and continued walking while you pressed against him the entire time.

Eventually, when you escaped, blinking into the hallway lights as you exited the room, you shoved him softly with your hand heel. "I am never doing that again. Ever."  

He laughed, full-bodied and proud. "You were clinging to me like I was your boyfriend."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up," you muttered.

But the extra warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. You barely got a second to breathe before he pulled at your wrist, tugging you along. "C'mon."

"To where?"

"The photobooth," he said, smiling. "Duh."

The tiny booth was only about big enough for the two of you—warm and faded with the weight of the last couple, barely lit by peeking neon hearts that flickered with the camera sensor. As soon as you crossed the threshold, Ni-ki plopped down onto the seat and pulled you into his lap like you barely weighed anything.

You squealed in surprise. "Ni-ki!"

He laughed loudly and freely and it really sounded like he loved the sound of it. His hands barely rested on your waist steadying you. "Relax, it's just a chair, and you're sitting on me. I'm fine with that."

Not able to connect with any words, you huffed but stayed put. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the slight breeze of his breath on your neck from how close he was. And his hand had moved a little to play with the hem of the jacket he had draped over you.

The camera blinked.  

First photo: He reached up and squished your cheeks together, pulling the most dramatic heart-eyes face while your expression was frozen mid-annoyed-pout, lips squished and eyes wide in disbelief.

Second photo: He nudged you. "Flex your arms. C'mon."

"I don't have muscles," you muttered, but did a small awkward pose anyway.

Ni-ki laughed and put his arm behind you, flexing. The camera caught the ridiculous contrast between his sharp, defined muscle and your soft arm and the look of pure betrayal on your face.

"Wow," you muttered. "Thanks for embarrassing me in high def."

Third photo: you gave up and finally decided to just throw a peace sign with your lips twisted up into the faintest of smiles. Ni-ki did some random sign that didn't even look like anything—something between a thumbs up and finger guns—all while grinning like an idiot.

Fourth photo: You weren't prepared. You weren't even looking at the camera when you felt it—soft and sudden, a warm press of lips to your cheek. You turned your head sharply just as the flash went off, catching the exact moment that your eyes bulged open and mouth dropped in shock, a single hand reaching gingerly to your cheek in disbelief.

Ni-ki leaned back, victorious, completely unconcerned.

"You—! That's cheating!" you groaned, lightly slapping his chest.

He tilted his head, "You didn't say no."

After the photobooth, you were still in recovery mode from being surprised by that last photo—the press of his lips against your cheek, your heart still thumping. And as if all of that wasn't enough, Ni-ki went even a step further.

He pulled out his phone, and instantly inserted the strip of photos into the plastic case on the back, smoothing it down in pride. "There," he said proudly, holding it out towards you. "Now you do it."

You blinked. "No way."

"How come?" he smiled as he was reaching for your phone. "C'mon. Let's be matching."

"Ni-ki, it won't even—" you said, but he was already messing with your phone case. And even though it was clear that the case was not made for photos, he somehow manhandled the photo in there, bent in half and slightly crushed, until it was behind your phone just like his.

You looked at it trying to look annoyed. "You just ruined my aesthetic."

"I am your aesthetic," he smirked.

That was that, and together you walked back to the foam party. 

The scene had changed drastically—the field was alive with glowing lights, music thumping through the air, and foam cascading from the machines like snowy clouds. There were students everywhere now, splashing around, slipping and sliding like kids at a water park.

As soon as you entered the suds, Ni-ki didn't waste any time—he scooped a handful of bubbles and threw it directly at you.

You shrieked, stumbling back. "Ni-ki!"

Of course, your hands retaliated, flinging a palm of foam into his chest. It splattered across his shirt and him only laughed, shaking his head like a wet puppy, sending suds flying.

He leaned in close and used a finger to dab just a bit of foam to your nose. "Boop."

You wiped it off with a glare and then used your hand to pointlessly run it through his hair, making it appear he just survived a soap hurricane. His friends were somewhere to the side losing it over the two of you—hollering half-teasing comments like

"Get a room!" and "We totally lost him to the council president!" as you both rolled around on the ground, chucked, and begged bubbles to go his way. 

You were laughing so hard, you didn't even notice he was standing over you, still grinning, with foam sticking to his shirt. His chest was puffing a little bit as if he couldn't manage keeping up with his own grin, and then...

He leaned down.

Before you could react, Ni-ki took your face in his warm, slightly damp hands from all the foam. He leaned forward and kissed you before you even got the chance to blink.It wasn't rushed. It wasn't sloppy. But it was slow and deliberate, almost instinctual—like he couldn't help himself anymore.

Then, the ghost of his tongue ran across your bottom lip asking for entry, waiting. You froze. And then you let him in. The world melted away. The music, the foam, the teasing voices, all of it blurred until it was nothing and your lips moved against his. His hands stayed put, just holding you, almost afraid to let you go like you would disappear when he did.

He tasted like fruit punch and something sweet that you didn't know. Maybe it was just him.

Oh god, Ni-ki thought, heart racing as he kissed you deeper, the shy ones are always the boldest. He didn't even see the people watching or the foam that was still being thrown in the background. All that mattered was just you. 

But then you pulled away.

Not because you wanted to—but because reality struck you like a cold gust of wind. Your eyes were looking around. Public. You were in public. Your heart dropped. Your reputation.

What if you were just another girl? What if you were just a girl that he was messing around with like they said—like all the rumors suggested? You pulled back quickly, a shaky breath leaving your body, Ni-ki looked at you blinking, his expression changing—then reaching out and brushed your cheek for the foam residue.

You swallowed. Because maybe you weren't sure if you were just another girl. Or maybe you were starting to hope that you weren't.    

"Are you okay?" Ni-ki asked, voice softer than usual and assessingly scanning your face for any sign of sickness.

You slowly nodded yes, even though your heart was still pounding, and your lips still tingled from the kiss. The foam clung to your body like snowflakes, soaking into your clothes, coating your arms and bare legs.

You stood awkwardly, trying to brush it off when Jake tossed you a towel from the sidelines with a cheeky grin. "Here. You might wanna clean up before someone thinks you got into a war with a bubble machine."

You gave him a half-laugh before Ni-ki stepped closer, towel in hand, brushing the soap gently off your arms and shoulders. Then he crouched down, hands ghosting over your legs. "Sit," he said, glancing up at you with a small smile. "You'll slip."

You paused considerably, but finally sat on the wooden ledge of the booth, he looked so earnest, and you didn't want to disappoint. His fingers were soft as they wiped away the foam from your shins, just the tender kind of attention you would never have expected to come from a self-proclaimed playboy. His hoodie still draped your shoulders, still warm and slightly damp from you earlier, and your mind was racing.

And then he left—telling you he'd be right back. Just disappeared into the crowd.

You stared at the foam affect that covered the ground and your mind was racing. That kiss. Those eyes. His hands on your cheeks. His arms wrapped around you like you were some kind of trophy.

Sunghoon sat down beside you a moment later with Jake behind him and, then, Jungwon and Jay following. They were all smiling—like they'd just witnessed a rom-com scene play out in real time.

"What's with the serious face?" Sunghoon nudged your arm.

You hesitated. "...What if I'm just another girl to him?"

You could see their instant reactions. Jake snorted, "Oh please. You're the only girl on his mind right now."

"Yeah." Jungwon nodded. "You think he goes around making out with every girl in front of all of us?"

"He's been different. He barely smokes anymore, he keeps leaving parties early because you're not there... he doesn't even flirt around like he used to. It's weird." Jay leaned in, shaking his head with a grin.

"Weirdly wholesome," Jake chimed in.  

Before you could respond, Ni-ki reappeared—holding two cones of ice cream, one already melting a little. Tucked into one of them was a folded piece of paper and a small flower, slightly crumpled but clearly picked with intention.

He walked straight over to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. "It's not fancy or anything. But..."

You took the paper cone and opened the note.

Will you be my girlfriend?

Straight to the point. Direct. Just like him.

Your breath caught in your throat. "Ni-ki..."

Jake leaned over next to you, speaking in a whisper like it was some deep secret, "When he goes after something he wants, he makes a move before anyone else does."

You smiled then—your heart flipped, your pulse racing—and looked up at Ni-ki. "Yes," you breathed.

The minute the word left your mouth, his hands were right back on your cheeks, thumbs moving across your skin like he didn't even think about it and he kissed you again. It was a softer kiss this time, but no less full of meaning. God, this was the first time you had ever been with someone like this—someone so openly affectionate, someone who made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. Like you weren't being seen, but rather... chosen.

He pulled back, smirking at you with eyes full of mischief. "You're in for a long ride, princess."

Then, without warning, his lips pressed against the corner of your jaw, trailing lower to the curve of your neck. Your breath hitched—completely caught off guard by how intimate he was being, especially with everyone watching.

But for some reason you did not give a fuck.

[fic-girlie]

hi! I was wondering if I could request a jackson joel x reader and he’s finding out about her sh. idk i’m sorry if it’s weird, but i just want to see nonchalant joel actually care, and be scared of what she’s doing to herself

Held

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: In Jackson, you’ve kept your scars hidden—until Joel finds them. Instead of walking away, he stays, offering the quiet, steady love you never thought you deserved. Warnings: angst, self harm, insecurity, memories, trauma

You've been there longer than you can remember. Jackson has been your safe place for years now. The little place tucked away in the mountains with enormous walls that hides all the people from the world that went to hell under a night two decades ago. A night where you lost everything and everyone. The night you lost all the things you loved. The night where you saw the light go out in your father's eyes and be replaced by a monster’s. The night when you had to see how he threw himself at your mother and killed her. The night you had to make the tough decision to kill those people who once raised you.

You still remember the sound the blade made when it sank into his neck, how hot his blood felt on your shaking hands, how you didn't even cry—not then. Not until after. Not until hours later, curled in the corner of that cold kitchen, your mother's body cooling not five feet from you, and the sun rising like it didn't care that your whole world had just gone up in smoke. You don’t talk about it. You’ve never talked about it. The world moved on—maybe not healed, maybe not forgiven—but it moved. And somehow, so did you. Eventually, Jackson found you. Or maybe you found it. You can’t really remember anymore. Just the quiet crunch of snow under your boots, your breath stinging in your lungs, and the overwhelming relief when you saw people—not infected, not hostile—just people. Real, living people. A gate. A wall. A promise. Safety. Peace.

And for a while, you believed it. You built a life here, or something that resembled it. Routine was safety. You worked in the greenhouses. You helped with school kids sometimes. You learned to cook again, even though it felt foreign at first, like a language you used to speak but hadn’t practiced in years. You smiled when people talked to you. You said good morning. You danced at the winter festival last year when Maria practically dragged you out of the corner and wouldn’t take no for an answer. And when Joel Miller came to town, bristling and haunted and carved out like the mountains he’d ridden in from, you started to feel something else, something more dangerous than survival. You started to feel… hope.

Joel is a quiet man, but you speak the same silence. The kind that says I know what you’ve lost, without needing to say it out loud. He doesn’t flinch at your moods. He doesn’t press when you’re not ready to talk. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just… sees you. And in his own careful, deliberate way, he started to stay. Sitting next to you at community dinners. Fixing things outside your cabin without being asked. Bringing you coffee—black, scalding, too strong—before your morning shift and pretending it wasn’t for you. You never asked why. You never had to. He doesn’t look at you like you’re broken. But sometimes, late at night when his hand is resting warm on your back, you wonder how long that illusion will last.

Because what Joel doesn’t know—what no one knows—is that the cracks in you never really healed. They just shifted. Covered over with layers of routine, with work and friendship and carefully measured smiles. And when it gets too loud—when the memories start to push up against the walls of your chest, when your mother’s scream echoes like a ghost in your ears—you reach for the only thing that still feels like control. The knife in your kitchen. The edge of the scissors in your drawer. You don’t cut to bleed, not really. Not anymore. You do it to breathe. To pull yourself back into the now. To stop the spinning. To feel real. And then you hide it, clean it, tuck it away like a shameful little secret between folded laundry and polite conversation. You tell yourself it’s not hurting anyone.

Until Joel finds out.

It happens on a Sunday. You’ve spent the morning in the greenhouse, and the sun’s been especially brutal today. The air stings with pollen, your arms scratched from repotting all afternoon. You’re washing up in your cabin, peeling off your long-sleeved shirt when the bathroom door creaks open. You didn’t hear him come in—you always leave it unlocked now, for him. There’s a soft hey from the other room, and before you can answer, he’s already stepping into the doorway, pausing like he always does to make sure he’s welcome. His eyes are kind, thoughtful, and then—he sees it.

The look on his face changes so slowly it feels like drowning. His mouth opens, just slightly. His eyes drop to your forearm—your right one, where the fresh ones are still red and angry, framed by older, paler lines. He doesn’t speak. He just stares. And that silence—his silence, that you’ve always trusted—feels like a knife in your ribs. You yank the shirt back down, too fast, heart kicking into overdrive, shame washing over you in a hot, suffocating wave.

“Don’t,” you whisper, voice brittle, already backing away. “It’s nothing, it’s not—it’s fine.”

Joel doesn’t move. Not at first. His brow furrows like he’s trying to understand something he doesn’t want to believe. Then he steps forward, slow and careful like he’s approaching a wounded animal. Which, you suppose, he is.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly, voice thick. “Don’t say it’s fine.”

You’re shaking. You don’t know if it’s anger or fear or embarrassment. Maybe all three. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

His jaw tenses. He’s still looking at your arm, even though you’ve hidden it. “But I did.”

You wish he’d yell. You wish he’d get mad or walk away or say something cruel. It would be easier to take than the way he looks at you now—like his heart is breaking. Like he’s seeing all the pieces you’ve tried to hold together alone for too long.

He takes another step. “How long?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You look at the floor, at the old tile near the sink, at anything but him.

“Hey,” he says again, gentler now. He crouches a little, trying to catch your eyes. “How long, sweetheart?”

Your throat burns. Your lips tremble before you can stop them. “Since I got here. Before. Years.”

Joel breathes in like he’s steadying himself, and then he does something that shatters you—he reaches out and takes your hand. Carefully. Reverently. Like he’s touching something sacred and fragile all at once.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I should’ve known.”

“You couldn’t have,” you say quickly, ashamed. “I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want anyone to.”

There’s a long pause. His hand is still holding yours, firm and grounding. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore. You hear me?”

Your eyes sting. “I don’t know how not to.”

Joel pulls you in slowly, carefully, until you’re wrapped in his arms, your forehead pressed against his chest. His heart beats slow and steady beneath your cheek. He smells like sun and leather and the cedar soap you gave him last winter. His hands are warm on your back, not gripping, not controlling—just holding. Just there. He kisses the top of your head, voice rough.

“Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

[synthetickitsune]

Could I kindly and respectfully request mafia!Hao with very dramatic angsty number 37? (Insert smug cat here SKCJFKDJDJ it now feels freaking weird texting u being unable to use that) Just without anyone actually dying, PRETTY please ✨✨✨

here you go for kindly and respectfully being my writing company when this was made uwu

Mafia!The8 (SVT) | "Who did this to you?" angst | 0.8k | gn!reader cw: injuries, murder, guns

You’re alive. Breathing. Blinking. You can hear your heartbeat deafeningly loud in your ears. The organ itself pushes against your ribs with each pump. You feel your pulse pound in your temples. You can see but everything’s blurred together.

And then, a snap of fingers.

Suddenly the image is sharp. You gasp when your vision focuses and you see his eyes right in front of you. Cold. But you don’t make the mistake of being fooled by appearances. Under the carefully pieced together facade, there’s a beast roaring for revenge.

He takes the handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently dabs at your bloody lips. As you’ve tried to explain, as best you could without speaking a word, the lips are your doing. Partly because you knew this is the situation you’ll end up in, so your anxiety got the better of you and you chewed them raw. You weren’t really that hurt. The doctor confirmed as much to him too. Really, this was an overkill.

“Now, I’ll ask one last time and then I’ll start shooting,” Minghao says, slowly, deliberately, like it truly didn’t matter to him if you respond or not, “Who did this to you?”

The suspects are in the next room. You can see them through the one-way mirror but you don’t look. Truly you don’t want to see them. The less you know, the better.

“My heart,” his voice softens. It’s only you two in the room, so he doesn’t mind getting on one knee in front of you. His hands are gentle, careful not to touch any discolored patch of skin where bruises bloom as he cradles your face. You sniffle and barely stop yourself from wincing. It hurts. “You won’t get into trouble. Just tell me. I’m not mad at you, I’m not disappointed with you.”

Usually you’d hate that he’s talking to you like you’re a child but his earnest eyes and soft touch, softer voice, and most importantly your altered state of mind make you crumble. The dams break, no mercy on your battered and bruised body, and from relative calm you go into hysterics within a fraction of a second. 

Minghao’s on his feet immediately, pulling you closer to his body while still mindful of your injuries. It doesn’t matter. The sobs wrecking through your body cause enough agony. He guides your head to rest against his stomach, gently running his fingers through your hair. You can’t say you really feel it, though. It’s like someone’s stabbing your stomach with every move, every breath. 

He tries to be your pillar to lean on, he tries to keep you from falling apart but it’s a losing battle. You slip through his fingers, you can feel it. You don’t know what to do but cry. Is there even anything to do? You’re in pain. It hurts so much, inside and out. Layer after layer, the pain cumulates. You’re scared of what he’s going to do.

“You can’t be soft with them,” he whispers, almost as if he’s chiding you but his voice is too gentle, “They wouldn’t treat you kindly either. They didn’t.”

He’s right, but what does it change? Violence only spurs on violence.

“My reputation is on the line too,” he adds, voice dropping. You barely hear it. The tears come in streams again. 

How are you supposed to break free of this paralysis? Naturally there are appearances to keep. Powerful men don’t let their family get hurt. And if such an act against who could very well be a god is committed, there needs to come a retribution.

What does it change if you speak up?

Minghao has the capacity for cruelty. He tries to shield you from it. You know, though. You’ve heard. You’re smart enough to realize. You used to think it doesn’t concern you. You made yourself believe it. And then you get involved with evil, albeit against your will, and suddenly you can’t ignore the truth right before your eyes. 

“Your loyalty could be questioned,” his voice keeps getting harder to hear. 

The way he says it. Like there’s some third party to witness this moment. Like it’s the anonymous them judging your actions and picking them apart. 

So you say a number.

Because what he’s doing hurts more than the bruises, than the cuts, than the pain. 

A shot echoes through both rooms, then panicked screams muffled by the gags in their mouths. You hear it under the ringing in your ears and the imaginary water you’re drowning in.

“Thank you,” Minghao tells you. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’ll have someone else clean up,” he says like he’s talking about cleaning up the basement of your home, “But you’re my pleasure to take care of.”

It should be reassuring. It is. You want to go home. You want to be away from all this. 

You want your Minghao. The real one. The one that’s getting further away each day.

He takes some version of you with him. They’re both escaping to safety. Somewhere you can’t follow.

[krispdreemurr]

ok we're into the "ill post things behind read mores" phase of the spoiler policy. starting with some more coherent(?) thoughts on the whole thing

as you may have guessed from the two posts I couldn't resist making before the embargo ended, I am like... captivated by the whole carol and kris situation in the worst way. apologies to the Carol truthers who i doubted, but I don't think anyone called Kris being manipulated by her into trying to kidnap their mom and a cop, so,

it's just like. so. i had truly thought our presence in Kris' life was the worst thing, but it turns out we're the much more manageable source of overwhelming control.

(sidenote: hey remember all the reasons we already knew spamton triggered Kris? well now consider that spamton was being given phone calls by a mysterious entity w unknown orders and then when it got sick of him he was left to die,)

my current theory on what's up with all the Existentially Dubious Kris things and such btw is that to make room for the soul Kris' dark world self was deliberately killed or deleted or something, leaving a living body and mind that would need an external motivating force. kris can't go to the dark world without us because they don't exist there any more without us to form a dark self. this of course puts them in a worrying situation regarding the prophecy and someone possibly needing to die

but speaking of the prophecy and its ending um. susie. dear God Susie. emotional fucking Heart of the game. her being confronted with the horror aspects of deltarune over and over and every time being like Fuck You I Have My Friends was just beautiful. her relationship with notGerson was incredible. the healing arc and the piano arc and how those intersected in her learning it's ok for her to try and improve and get better even if someone else is better already... (did like Everyone pick the "if Susie plays too" option btw bc I haven't seen anyone say anything else fjkgkgk)

and god of course the Kris and Susie friendship. everything in church. them saving each other again and again tower climbing. the Susie award. kris leaping in against notnotGerson. sitting by the lake together after a long night. wuah

i also did warm up a lot to ralsei, yeah. it turning out that he was so smiley and benign and overprotective because he wanted every moment before the horror to be Nice for the two made him a lot more understandable to me. he's just fucking going through it. im glad kris hugs him willingly

the secrets this time... well. ch3 being "not applicable, but" because you do the whole weird route again but in video game form was pretty fucking ominous. the fact that freedom is now being even more strongly tied to the capacity to break things and do violence isn't ideal. i liked Susie coming in at the end and if Kris says they didn't have fun she's just like "so stop playing?" message to all weird route players: you don't gotta.

(and having seen the ch4 weird scenes I. may not. gotta)

also both the egg rooms were worrying in different ways. kris art therapy moments real

i'm just... so excited to see where things go from here. we already fought a fucking titan and won, what is even left to escalate. is kris going to be okay. is Susie gonna be okay.

and thank God I have only a year to wait!!!

[nalyra-dreaming]

I'm curious to see what kind of monstrous powers Akasha (and Lestat once she's done with him) will have. The show made the vamps supercharged- even a young vampire can have the fire gift or the cloud gift- but it's crucial to have Akasha stand apart. QOTD won't work if she doesn't. It's also necessary for the body dysmorphia that Lestat experiences in TOTBT. Are there any powers from the lore you can think of they could give her?

Well, for one, I am... not so sure that the show has made the vampires that supercharged. They have overpowered them, yes, but the skills they have shown so far fall in line with the changes they made.

I mean, Lestat is much older - his blood carried much more power for Louis. Which is why this Louis could "learn" (to handle) the fire gift. He is not as apt with the mind gift, which means the focus and talent in skills is still there, and can very well be different for the characters (which is also in line with the books). (And, as a note - we do not know who Santiago's maker was, but given he can fly he was likely older and powerful, and I wonder if there is a story behind it we will get still.)

That said, for the show... I think Akasha needs to have a very powerful version of the "kill gift" at the ready, which is ultimately the mix of "fire gift" and "telekinetic manipulation" (mind gift). She teaches that (and the flying) to Lestat in the books. Since Lestat can already fly I think they will dig into the "letting people explode and go up in flames at will" skill a lot more deeply.

Akasha goes and burns up the vampires while passing over them - her powers will be more in the way she can wield them and the sheer magnitude of them I think, than in them being different ones.

I talked about the poker game back then as well, ultimately... that was a very cool display of a combination of "mind gift" and "spell gift" with telekinesis mixed in, but well within range of the existing abilities/powers that these vampires have.

So far, nothing we have seen is actually "out of range"... they just boosted them.

Lestat's body dysmorphia will likely come into play simply because Akasha uses and abuses him, and if his skin in the trailer is anything to go by they are going the whitening-because-turning-plastic route (I know that trailer is not "canon canon" but there were choices in there, for wardrobe and makeup, which were very deliberate after all).

They could also shorten the body dysmorphia with the alienation through Amel - because, if they drop the whole replimoids part, and I think they will(!) - then that leaves Amel as the "evil" spirit that possesses them. And though I do not think Lestat will get the core right after Akasha is killed, I think he will get it, like in the books. And that will then likely pay into that.

Because when Amel first "presents", he does so in a mirror, in a "doppelganger" version of Lestat, and I BET Rolin will lean into the full horror of it all that is hinted at there:

"I was there, but not my reflection. It was another me, smiling at me with triumphant glittering eyes, both hands up against the glass as if he were in a prison cell behind it. Same clothes, yes, and me down to the last detail of long blond curling hair and glittering blue-gray eyes. But not a reflection at all. I was petrified. The dim echo of doppelgänger rose in my ears, and all the horror such a concept connotes. I don’t know if I can describe how chilling this was—this figure of myself inhabited by another, leering at me, deliberately menacing me."

(Prince Lestat)

I just BET that's how they'll spin it :)

[a-griffin-in-the-sky]

Do you view all trans-women as inheretly fetishists? Because there are still those who do have dysphoria not born out of sexual reasons

Hmmm yes and no, it's not a black and white issue. I'm not out here saying every trans woman is some cartoon villain with a panty fetish obviously not. Dysphoria is real, some folks are deeply suffering, and I’m not here to mock that.

My issue isn’t really if it’s a fetish or not. My concern is when that fetish crosses boundaries. When it's used as a cover to infiltrate, dominate, or override actual women’s needs and safety. That’s where I draw the line.

Because yeah, there is a disturbing pattern men with autogynephilia who fixate on womanhood in a way that’s all about domination and entitlement, and who then use that to cross lines, commit crimes, or guilt-trip women into silence. And those men are defended more fiercely than the women they hurt.

So no, I don’t think every trans woman is a monster. But I do think there’s a refusal to examine how fetish and identity get blurred when it comes to male socialization. And how that blurring is too often weaponized against women.

And honestly? In my day-to-day life I’m just 4b. I’ve tapped out. I don’t hang around AMABs anymore, I don’t really do friendships with them, don’t trust them, don’t feel safe around them. It doesn’t matter to me what label they pick. Girl, guy, deerkin, whatever if you were born male, I’m not handing over my energy.

It’s not personal, it’s not even political half the time it’s self-preservation. I don’t care what they’re going through. I’m not their therapist, and I’m not their rehab center for womanhood.

Like, I’m sure I’ve talked to AMABs on here. They slip through sometimes. But usually it’s just me picking them apart, watching the same pattern loop entitlement, manipulation, rage when you won’t play nice.

And let’s be real: no trans woman has ever come to my aid in sisterhood. Not when I’m getting threatened, not when the dogs get let loose on me for saying “hey maybe women deserve boundaries.”

Not one of them has stepped in and said, “Hey. That’s wrong. Don’t threaten to rape her for having an opinion.”

That silence? That’s louder than any tweet.

So forgive me if I don’t buy the sisterhood sticker just because you say “girl.” Sisterhood is action. It’s solidarity. It’s risking something. And I’ve only ever seen women-born women take those hits for each other.

They can’t even laugh at Terf-chan. Like girl… how do you get mad at a deliberately cringey 2000s anime girl with jagged little cat teeth and no eyebrows going “nyaa~”?

It’s literally designed to be over-the-top, satire-core, weaponized cringe and if your identity is so fragile that a fake anime girl saying “baka” makes you spiral into threats and meltdowns, then maybe the call is coming from inside the house.

I call her Terf-chan on purpose because that’s the word you throw at any woman who says “hey, maybe I don’t want male people in my changing room.” That’s the slur you reach for when a woman sets a boundary.

So fine. Here she is Terf-chan. A parody stitched together from every insult, every anime joke, every fake argument you’ve ever made to discredit actual concern. She’s sparkly and she’s got no eyebrows.

And she doesn’t care if you cry (　・３・)

Terf-chan is also just… a pressure valve. A vent. A joke because the real conversations aren’t allowed to happen. I already know TRA types won’t listen to me seriously. They’ll twist my words, ignore my boundaries, call me a monster for daring to care about girls and women.

So why should I be serious with them?

Why waste well-crafted essays on people who call you a Nazi for saying “biological sex exists”? Why offer good faith to people who respond to trauma with “cope harder”?

Nahhhhhh I’ll send in Terf-chan instead, you should to, she is for the radfem community to use.

Use her with Twelve kamojis, glitter fonts, and a saccharine “uwu” voice that still tears there argument to shreds.

Because if you’re gonna mock me anyway, I might as well do it better :3c

That being said I have had trans men come to me, say sorry, own up when they were rude or out of line. I don’t forget that I do see that, so thank you to thoose who have had the ovaries to face me and say "my bad,im sorry"

Like, all my callout posts? They’re because someone threw the first punch. I got a saying if you throw a rock at me, don’t be surprised when I toss it through your apartment window.

I’m not the one starting fights. I’m just the one finishing them.

And I get it anger in the moment, it happens, we all snap sometimes. But the difference is… it’s always an AFAB apologizing when they do it. The ones raised like me.

I mean, I’m not some evil spiteful harpy. I mess up everyone does but I can say, “Yeah, I messed up. I want to do better going forward.” And I respect anyone who can do the same It takes guts.

Still, It’s never an AMAB. Never once had of them who steps back, reflects, says “Hey, I went too far sorry."

So long story short, I don’t care if it’s a fetish or not, I just don’t want them in my single-sex spaces.

We can meet up for coffee, chat about whatever, be cool. But I don’t want to share a bathroom with people born male, That’s just how it is.

I really do hope folks with body dysphoria get the help they need. No one should have to suffer in silence or feel trapped in their own skin.

But honestly? I don’t think just doing whatever the dysphoria demands is the right path and that’s just my opinion.

Sometimes healing looks like hard work, therapy, boundaries, and not rushing into things that change your body or identity without deep reflection.

Everyone’s journey is different and I’m just here saying let’s slow down and make sure we’re not trading one kind of pain for another.

Hope this all makes sence I need my coffee and my allergy meds to kick in.

[tenthousandyearsx]

ERHA SPOILERS!!! BEWARE!!!

I finished Erha (*collapses*) and I'm very likely never going to reread it again – but I've been browsing different platforms and reading some meta posts and commentary that I very much disagree with, so now I have thoughts™ that I want to write down before moving on.

1. It's not a redemption arc in the Western sense

A lot of people seem to want Erha to deliver a clean redemption arc, then feel dissatisfied when it doesn't – but I feel like they miss that this reflects a Western take?

Broad generalisation, but Chinese stories are generally not about redemption as intended in the West (the Western idea of redemption has deeply Christian connotations), but about struggling against fate – which is what pretty much all the characters in Erha are doing.

More specifically, the concept invoked here is that of 命运 (mìng yùn) – what one does with the fate that's imposed on them. So: choice within what cannot be changed.

In Erha, while the events of the previous life repeat, none of the two sets of characters we see make the same choices.

2. It's not a story about fixing society

From a Western perspective, one might want the societal struggles and atrocities to be addressed in a "destroy the system and build a new one" way – but from the very beginning, Erha says that cruelty and torture for the sake of a "good" cause are not any better than senseless cruelty and torture.

"How many people in this world used the pretence of upholding justice to do evil? They took all the dissatisfaction in their day-to-day lives — all the indignation, fury, and resentment in their chests — and poured it out this way."

That's the whole point of Shi Mei/Hua Binan.

Erha says that people who have experienced unspeakable atrocities, especially if they felt powerless, will at some point snap and commit more atrocities. This is true of both Mo Ran and Shi Mei.

The difference – and what makes Shi Mei/Hua Binan the villain of the novel – is that he insists he's never wrong to hurt others in return.

Mo Ran, even though he had no real choice once the Flower of Eightfold Sorrows was planted in his heart, later feels regret for his actions. Shi Mei does not.

3. 本心 – the original heart

The reason Mo Ran feels regret is that he has not entirely lost touch with what Chinese philosophy would call 本心 – the original heart.

Both Daoist and Confucian philosophy (as well as strands of Chinese Buddhist thought) emphasise the consequences of not listening to or losing touch with 本心.

This is a core ethical idea across traditions: the notion that people are born with an innate moral capacity or sensibility, and that turning away from it leads to distortion, harm, and inner disintegration. In short, it's the part of us that still reacts when something is wrong, even though we can't explain why.

Since the novel brings up Zhuangzi a lot, in Zhuangzi's thought specifically not listening to the original heart – or deliberately suppressing it – is tragic; it leads to cruelty, delusion, and disconnection. You lose access to spontaneity, clarity, and responsiveness, and become rigid and performative – entirely off-key.

Again, this is a big difference between Shi Mei and Mo Ran. And it's what Shi Mei inflicts on Mo Ran.

4. Carefree Wandering

Carefree Wandering is a classic of Daoist thought written by Zhuangzi, and it's brought up in the novel several times.

According to it, Carefree Wandering means:

moving with the world rather than resisting it,

acting spontaneously, without calculation,

retaining a kind of moral and emotional integrity without trying to be "good".

This doesn't mean being indifferent, but that feelings like hatred, praise, pressure, resentment don't stick, so people don't cling or contort to satisfy those feelings. They're not deformed by them.

Chu Wanning is the closest to this.

Mo Ran has a tendency towards ruminating and holding a grudge. By amplifying this, Shi Mei ruins him.

Shi Mei/Hua Binan – not in small part because of trauma – cannot move with the world rather than resisting it and cannot act spontaneously and without calculation. He's too traumatised and disconnected from the original heart. Because of this, he does enormous damage.

(Shi Mei of the second timeline, however – who's not as disconnected – learns how to. And he literally becomes a wandering doctor by the end of the novel.)

5. The concept of 缘分 (yuánfèn) – the fated connection or karmic bond between people

At the very beginning of Erha, when they try to obtain their holy weapons, the dragon looks into Mo Ran and says:

I cannot make sense of it. I have seen much in my lifetime, but I have never seen a person’s soul with the imprints of two others upon it. Certainly it is utterly perplexing. “My, my soul… has their imprints on it?” Yes. After writing that one word, the old dragon paused for a moment before continuing: I do not know what you could have possibly endured. How deep must an obsession run, for another person to be enmeshed so inextricably in one’s own soul?

My impression is that yuánfèn is one of the primary themes the novel is trying to explore.

Despite all the misunderstandings and betrayals, the characters' fates remain entangled through time, memory, and reincarnation, but the choice to act with cruelty and scheming, to force the other rather than respond to them from the original heart, changes the shape of the relationships – and the characters themselves.

"In the last lifetime, love had made him possessive, so he'd become selfish. In this one, love made him accepting, and thus he became selfless."

Moreover, in the scene in which Shi Mei is going to plant the flower in Chu Wanning, both Mo Ran and Shi Mei had received kindness from him in the past. Yet Shi Mei is ready to harm him, while Mo Ran acts selflessly to save him – even though it costs him everything.

Yuánfèn is in fact strictly tied to –

6. The Buddhist concept of "repayment" 还 (huán)

On her deathbed, Mo Ran's mum asked him to always repay kindness.

Because of this, all sorts of things are set in motion.

In Chinese thought – especially in popular Buddhist and Daoist-influenced views – everything seeks balance (平衡, píng héng), and debts, whether of fate, emotion, or moral obligation, must eventually be repaid.

Mo Ran becomes entangled with both Shi Mei and Chu Wanning. Yet, because Shi Mei pretends to be kind whereas Chu Wanning (while actually being so) does not like to show that he has been kind, things get murkier and murkier. Repayment is not possible.

Mo Ran doesn't know who made that bowl of wontons, and thus cannot repay that kindness and restore balance. Confucian ethics values remembrance of kindness (报恩, bào ēn) as a core moral trait, yet because of Shi Mei's actions, it is not possible here.

On another level (and I'm going to link to this post because it explains this much better than I could), there's a whole other series of repayments going on. Chu Wanning saved Mo Ran with the congee, thus Mo Ran is fated to save him with the flower. But in that same congee scene Chu Wanning was actually saved by Mo Ran too – because if he hadn't met him, he'd have been sacrificed by Huaizui.

Chu Wanning loved Mo Ran so completely, did so much for him, and endured so much while only getting hate, abuse, torture, and death in return that by the end of his first life, Mo Ran owes Chu Wanning too much. In the end, the only way to repay that debt and reset balance is his own death.

From the article I linked above:

"With Mo Ran’s death, all the debts of fate – what Chu Wanning owed Mo Ran, and what Mo Ran owed Chu Wanning – were repaid. They no longer owed each other anything. Then, Chu Wanning and Mo Ran began a new cycle of karma. A karmic entanglement born of suffering (孽缘) transformed into a marriage/loving bond (姻缘)."

Anyway, that's it! I just had to put this somewhere.

I read the whole thing in eight days and now I physically cannot take it anymore – but I do love Chu Wanning and Mo Ran, and I wanted to address these points before I forget everything.

[mettleplex]

I'm sorry for speaking so harshly. I will change that. I regret saying you "deserve" negative feelings. My apologies. I let my own triggers inhibit my communication which was unfair.

Please. If anyone reading this is having suicidal thoughts. Call the hotlines. Look after your life.

Feel free to block me, otherwise, maybe we can talk...

You don't want me to use presumptuous wording. Fair.

Of course, it's foolhardy to dehumanise MAPs. They're not monsters. They're humans who need serious help and an appropriate space to really open up.

MAPs tend to have experienced CSA & other traumas. You're a sibling community, currently going off the fucking rails 😩 and you're not the only ones, honestly.

I'm well aware not all MAPs act on their attractions. Risk level can change over life.

this sub is simply to remove negative thoughts and energy. Not guilt.

So can we talk about the logistics of this?

Suppressed feelings don't fade, they wait.

If people are struggling with their thoughts - from attraction to minors, to suicidality, so on - "removing" those thoughts is far from what's needed. It's not even possible.

Cut short - no competent mental health professional will ever recommend or attempt to "remove" any part of you.

I'm not against belief in subliminals - I actually was an active creator in the 2010s. But people don't all end up with the same results.

That's why I'm pointing out that attempting to remove your "negative thoughts" with a pop-culture* delineation of subliminal messaging isn't as risk-free as it might seem. Especially not once it's posted with intent to be shared.

*(cuz let's be honest, the sub community is far departed from scientifically understanding what we do...)

Temporary relief gained through a placebo will not hold.

This could cause a false sense of security;

that would not only potentially endanger the life of the individual, but could also cloud their emotional awareness.

If the root to your negative emotions is still in you, you may cut it back for a while, but eventually you'll have to uproot it. Right?

Here's what I've heard: emotions are your intuitive language. You feel things for a reason. They are complex and layered.

Not all MAPs act on their attractions, yet they still be treated like monsters and predators even though they're not,

Some even become suicidal. This sub is to remove those thoughts

I'm curious about your usage of "remove".

Remove: To move from a place or position occupied

Once "removed", can "negative thoughts" fully exit the psyche? Should listeners expect them to return?

If we're playing into the 'law of attraction', the vibrational energy of acceptance and abundance will get you further.

~ "I accept how I feel" • "I know I am more than my thoughts" • "my self-respect is abundant" • "I am in control of my mind" ~

Are you anticipating people whose subjective view may include emotions surrounding having offended to be simply "negative thoughts"? That could include guilt. Are there limitations on what's ok to "remove"? /genq

I ask because..

Not guilt..

nothing to be guilty of..

Not all MAPS act..

they're not [monsters and predators]..

What of the MAPs who do act, and do feel guilty? Are they part of your target demographic?

I made a friend at 16; by 18, he was a predator. The minors around us were affected.

One day, just before I cut him off, we really got talking and I asked why the hell he did that. He said he didn't know.

"But don't you think about it?"

"No."

With further questions, I discovered he deliberately suppressed it. Every day, it ate away at him. Now he has a record...

"I didn't want to feel it, so I just tried to push it back." His words actually haunt me.

Moreover, what if these negative feelings were layers over the missing pieces to an individual's recovery? Deeply negative feelings can, at times, be a 'fire up one's ass' to seek help.

From a psychiatric perspective, acceptance is generally the first step to recovery. From anything.

For those reasons, I'm concerned that your affirmations may not - as you put it - "remove suicidal thoughts". I respect the sentiment.

I think you could do better.

Your response to my (obviously very poor) critique was that you're trying to save lives here. But is "simply remove negative/suicidal thoughts" a realistic goal?

Is it simple?

I've used subliminals with intent to quell negative feelings in the past. It's like an over-the-counter painkiller. It's no cure and feeling pain is only the surface of any issue, mental or physical.

In my experience, I gained the best results when the sub was about building healthier thoughts and habits. Add, instead of take-away.

I have also heard that negative language (e.g not, won't, can't, remove) will be inferior to positive language (e.g is, will, can, gain). Sub-makers overwhelmingly believe that the subconscious doesn't fully process the negative aspect and will "ignore" it.

So, "I am not blue" would become "I am .. blue". You may prefer, "I choose my colour freely."

I never found a source confirming nor denying this.

Point being: subliminal messaging is anything but simple... All the little scientific(/spiritual) factors determining its efficacy are beyond me. Hopefully you're much more adept at it than I was.

You can help people, and with this attitude, you will. But this shit is beyond serious. Mistakes can & will be made. To be brutally honest, telling me your intentions when making this didn't reassure me at all. I hope you can understand my concerns regarding how this could go wrong.

The worst part is, you'll never know if it's gone wrong for someone - so all we can do is try to provide the most solid content possible. There's no rush.

Having thoughts you wish you could "remove" is never easy.

Btw, I clicked on your content expecting just a cute edit here. That's why I was so horrified as MAPs are a trigger for me due to abuse experiences. Turns out I'm, like, vehemently opposed to loads of your views...

I saw your post about how antis are stubborn. Well, beyond my emotional outbursts - I like to think I'm open minded.

Feel free to block me, cuz if I feel like replying to you I probably will! I like to debate, so, here I am. Cheers.

🗺️ positive subliminal!!

With music

🩷 - a positive sub to remove all toxic thoughts from your head about being a map. Be proud! And love yourself your amazing ^^ first sub btw

I don't feel uncomfortable with Posting on YouTube. But I don't mind if you reupload on YouTube yourself. But PLEASE give me credit.

[thegreatyin]

the difference between the scoundrel and the yearner is simultaneously insurmountable and also pretty much entirely artificial. the scoundrel is basically just the yearner without the crucial power limiter of all-consuming depression and apathy. it's like if you took a restraining bolt off a robot. that being said the depression is very much still there it's just in a slightly different (significantly more batty) flavor now

[electroniccollectiondonut]

I have not been in this fandom long enough to reasonably judge others' takes however. "EPIC fans are so silly to characterize odysseus as feeling guilty for his actions don't you know he's a war criminal" is definitely a wild one. like first of all to each their own so settle down and let people enjoy things ok. and secondly making choices with a bad outcome, even knowingly and deliberately, does not exclude the possibility of feeling bad about it later. in fact it makes for a much more in depth character because then you get to explore what he does or doesn't feel guilt over, and why, and if that guilt ever edges into regret or not.

[thepromisedbride]

i don’t talk about bridgerton on here but just to clarify. i will not be having ANY eloise hate on this account. i will bite.

[rheaxsethi]

Rhea didn’t move right away. The warmth of his hand on her jaw, the weight of his forehead resting against hers—it all rooted her in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t comfort so much as clarity. This wasn’t a moment born out of convenience or weakness. It was something rare and sharp and unspeakably human. The kind of thing she used to scoff at, back when pretending not to care was easier than admitting she wanted something real. Now, real was staring her in the face. And it hurt in all the ways that mattered.

His words didn’t surprise her. They cut, sure—but with the kind of honesty she respected, even when it stung. She hadn’t kissed him thinking it would fix anything. She didn’t believe in fixes anymore. She believed in glimpses—of truth, of longing, of possibility—and that kiss had been all three. A silent confession from someone who didn’t know how to say please, just let me feel something real again. “I know,” she said softly, her breath catching in the narrow space between them. “I didn’t do it expecting to be forgiven. Or trusted.” Her voice cracked on the last word, the emotion catching up to her mouth before she could smother it. Her hand came up to touch his cheek, not to soothe or seduce, but as if trying to memorize the shape of something she might never get again. “You think I don’t trust you? Maybe I don’t. But that’s not because I don’t want to. God, I wanted to and even that day at the festival, I thought about staying--but Duke, it was getting...heavier than I expected.” And she wasn't used to that. Hell, Rhea was a lone wolf, people didn't get close to her and even if they did--they left when they saw the truth of who she was inside.

She took a breath—the kind meant to hold grief at bay. Then she stepped back—slow, deliberate, like peeling herself away from the gravity of something that could have wrecked her if she let it. Her fingertips lingered at his chest, just over his heart. She wondered if it was racing like hers… or steady, like he already knew how this would end. “You don’t trust me,” she echoed, voice quiet but steady. Her eyes were tired, clear. “And I don’t blame you. I’ve spent so long disappearing before people could push me out. But for once… I wanted to stay.” A pause. Her throat tightened, but she kept going. “Even then, I didn’t give in to that instinct. I stayed. I came back. And now—you’re the one telling me to go. So… I guess that’s that.” She didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t wait for him to change his mind.

She stepped away—finally, fully—resigned to the quiet ache that this might be the last time they'd ever meet like this. That whatever thread had once pulled them together was fraying fast beneath the weight of what neither of them could say. Of course he wouldn’t want her now. She was a liability. A risk. And in his world, that was the same thing as dangerous but meant to be eliminated. So now--Rhea wondered if it was just a matter of time.

The kiss hit him like a freight train he never saw coming. One second she was talking about loyalty and choice, the next her lips were on his and every coherent thought scattered like dice across felt. His body went rigid, not from rejection but from pure shock, because this wasn't supposed to happen. Not now. Not when he was still nursing wounds from her disappearance, still trying to figure out if she was someone he could trust or someone who'd eventually burn him. But here she was, kissing him with all the intensity of a woman who'd been holding back for months, and Christ, he'd thought about this exact moment more times than he cared to admit. Just not like this. Not when everything between them felt so raw and unresolved. The shock lasted maybe three seconds before his hands found her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed her back with months of pent-up frustration and want. Every instinct told him this was a mistake, that mixing emotions with the mess they'd created would only make things worse. But feeling her fingers curl against his collar, tasting the desperation and honesty in her kiss, made it impossible to pretend anymore. This wasn't just physical attraction or some game she was playing. This was real. Messy and complicated and absolutely terrifying, but real. He kissed her like he was trying to communicate everything he couldn't say out loud, all the nights he'd wondered where she was, all the anger and worry and stubborn attraction he'd been carrying around.

When she pulled back, he couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare at her with his forehead pressed against hers. Her confession about not fixing anything should have irritated him, should have made him push her away and remind her that trust wasn't rebuilt with a single kiss. Instead, it made perfect sense. Nothing was fixed. He was still angry about her disappearance, still worried about what her knowledge of his world could mean for his crew. She was still someone who ran when things got difficult, still someone who kept secrets behind those careful eyes. "You're right," he said finally, his voice rougher than he intended. "It doesn't fix anything. We’re still who we are and I still cannot trust you. Just like I’m sure you can’t trust me when you fled that day." But he didn't step back either, didn't put distance between them like logic demanded. His thumb traced along her jaw without conscious thought, like his body had made decisions his mind wasn't ready for. “You should go.” He finally said, not knowing what else to say to her.

[slayerdurge]

Listen, I'm well aware that certain audience members are always going to de-prioritize female characters, but at the same time, sometimes you'll encounter a character that's just the most obvious shallow misogynistic stereotype (nagging wife, eternal victim trapped in a tower, etc.) and if you say you don't like her writing, you'll get hit with "Oh, so you just hate women, don't you?"

Like. Dude. You realize this is not a real woman with real thoughts that she's really expressing, right? Someone wrote that script for her to say. Often that someone was a man. I should not have to explain the concept of fiction to you. You are not eight years old. Do you also think the people in the television can see you too?