#but I do get that you don't actually want to

[egophiliac]

don't think I'm not still obsessing over 7-12

[novascharms]

calming angry rafe down..... i NEEEEEED himmmm asdfghjkl

“wanna talk about it?” you ask softly, leaning toward him, your hopeful gaze searching his face.

he shakes his head faintly, eyes closing as he rests his head back against the seat. “nothing to talk about. just topper being topper—trying to get me to break his fucking kneecaps.” his tone is flat, but the undercurrent of frustration is unmistakable.

you blink at his casual mention of violence, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “he doesn’t like me very much, does he?”

at your words, rafe’s irritation flares visibly, his fingers flexing as if resisting the urge to punch something. “he just needs to piss off. fuck,” he growls, his voice low and rough. “and i know—i know—he can’t stand it. he hates that i get close to someone he can’t touch, someone who’s fucking mine. he’s a pissy little bitch, and the next time i see him—”

“rafe,” you interrupt softly, sensing the dangerous direction his thoughts are heading. “calm down…” you murmur, your voice soothing as you lean in to press a featherlight kiss to his cheek.

his breathing is still uneven, his chest rising and falling with controlled restraint. “you’re getting way too worked up,” you whisper, cradling his face with one hand, your thumb grazing along the sharp line of his cheekbone.

his lips remain tight, his gaze hard, but he doesn’t pull away. you take the opportunity to scatter soft kisses across his cheeks, the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips. your touch is gentle, alternating between quick pecks and lingering brushes. at first, he’s unresponsive, but slowly he starts kissing back, his lips yielding to yours in unspoken surrender.

you trail your kisses lower, down along the line of his jaw to his neck. you feel the tension in his shoulders begin to ease, the tightness in his posture softening under the warmth of your lips.

your hand glides down his chest, your fingertips barely grazing the ridges of his abs, tracing slow, soothing patterns. his breaths come slower now, steadier, the anger slowly ebbing away with each kiss you leave on his skin.

rafe remains still, his arms resting at his sides, his body still tense under your gentle touch and then your hands find the edge of his sweatpants.

your hand is halfway in when he tenses, "you don't have to do this—" he starts but you're cutting him off. "i want to." you whisper softly and he knows you want to, you've been trying and asking for days. he was the one to insist you go slower which was fair since you were the one who wanted to go slow in the very beginning. that all changed the moment you two made out for the first time. you'd quickly thrown 'slow' in the trash.

you kiss your way back to his lips, "will you tell me how?" you'd seen videos and could also imagine what to do but actually doing it was a lot different. rafe hums against your lips, "take it out first," he mutters with his lips inching yours.

you glance down and slowly take his semi-hard cock out of his pants. you stare at it for a couple of seconds. it's heavier than you'd imagined, fat and veiny with this glossy pink tip that makes your mouth water just a little. without a word from rafe, you're curiously running your hand along it.

you don't expect rafe to tense at your touch and you're immediately looking up at him in surprise when he does. "did that hurt? did i just hurt you?" you ask and his smile is genuine, "quite the opposite." he rasps and then his hand is covering yours gently. he guides your hands up and down along his fat cock and you're a little mesmerised watching it slowly grow in size.

rafe's heavy breathing tells you it's going good so far but you want to get it in your mouth. the nerd in you is trying to calculate how it would even be possible, how you could get such a big dick past your lips without choking on it.

you're lowering your head to get him into your mouth when he stops you gently, fingers on your chin. "no teeth." he explains and you're nodding before you're desperately trying to get down there again. he stops you, again. "just..take it easy, start with the tip and slowly take more." he continues, eyes boring into yours. you could see the lust in them, just pooling in his eyes as he watched you practically drool to get his cock in your mouth.

the moment he let go of you, your tongue was darting out just enough to slowly lick along his fat tip. rafe hissed and gripped the car handle, "fuck," he whispered lowly. you pulled back and looked at it. you weren't sure why you expected it to do something and when it didn't, you just gave it another experimental lick before slowly wrapping your lips around the tender head, suckling gently.

"that's it, baby..take it easy.." rafe is muttering as you suckle on his warm tip. you hesitate for only a second before you're taking more of him in your mouth and you don't expect the tears to come so quickly. they don't really bother you. you realize nothing really bothers you while he's in your mouth. your mind has gone completely empty, void of any noise or thought, he's all you can feel, all you can sense is him filling you up.

it doesn't take long before you're bopping your head up and down and drooling all over his cock. rafe is groaning and grunting every couple of seconds and his hands are in your hair but you can feel him resisting, can feel the moment he wants to push your head down but every time, he stops himself and just lets you go at your own pace.

you whimper when you attempt for the third time to get his entire lenght down your throat and almost want to cry in frustration that he just won't fit. rafe is holding your head back, trying to say something but continously getting cut off by his own moans. "p-perfect, baby, fuck, that's perfect.." he tilts his head back and holds onto you so you stop moving for five seconds. you were eager, so goddamn determined. "stop forcing..you'll hurt yourself." he grunts before he's letting you go and your mouth is right back on his cock, seeking that fuzzy feeling, that instant quietening of the mind.

you know he won't fit unless rafe bucks his hips up and fucks your mouth and you know he won't do that so you settle for using your hands for the part of him you can't reach. you stroke him up and down and your drool helps keep it all smooth and wet. "jesus..fuck, fuck.." rafe moans, voice low, and then you're speeding up, just a little. you just want more, want it to take you over, want to make rafe feel good.

something seems to snap in him because his hands fly to your hair and he's groaning, shoving your head down onto his fat cock. he forces you to take more and more of him and the noises you make are filthy and down-right obscene. you're whining, high, and desperate around his veiny cock as you try to keep up with how he's pushing your head down over and over.

you're choking around him, tears streaming down your cheeks and he's doing all the work now, gripping your hair and shoving your head down, pushing your mouth onto his cock. "g-god..that's it..!" his hips stutter, and then he's hurriedly pulling your mouth off of him as his cum squirts out and covers his cock and a bit of his shirt.

you stare at his tip, a little dazed while you catch your breath. you watch the creamy white lines cover it and without giving it much thought, you're licking the cum off his length and tip. rafe hisses at the feeling of your tongue on his sensitive tip, "if i knew you wanted it, i would've come in your mouth." he's mumbling, and only then do you look at him, "why didn't you?" you ask, mind still a little fuzzy.

"because a lot of people don't like it." he's got this lazy smile on his face as he runs his fingers through your hair. you blink at him and try to think of a reason someone wouldn't want it. all that hard work for nothing?

"did you like it?" you ask him as he sadly puts himself back in his sweats. he's chuckling, "did i like it? that has to be a rhetorical question." he pats his leg gently and you're on his lap in a matter of seconds. "i liked it." you mutter as he presses a couple of kisses to your lips. he pauses and cups your cheeks gently, "are you sure you liked it?" he's whispering softly, "you seem..out of it."

you were out of it; eyes still dilated, mind still fuzzy, brain still empty. you'd never ever felt like this. "i'm really sure i liked it." you nod and rest your head on his shoulder. "i wanna do it again." you confess which has him chuckling again. "you won't hear a complaint from me.

snippet from 'teach me' series

[lepidopterium]

Video originally from Bisan Owda's Instagram page, posted on February 10th, 2025

Transcript:

Hi everyone, this is Bisan from Gaza. I am still alive, and it's been a while since the last time I posted.

I was just trying to realize the new reality. You know, there's no bombing, but a lot of restrictions in the movement. No supplies, no Internet, no electricity, massive destruction we need to deal with...yeah, and a lot of things.

But I have a lot of updates, [of course] besides the, you know, the bullshit about the German guy (Donald Trump) meeting the Polish occupier (Benjamin Netanyahu) discussing on a stolen land, the Turtle Island, that Gazans must flee their land so other random rich people can sit in.

Besides all of this, the updates are:

First, the Israeli army withdrew from Netzarim checkpoint. So, actually for 15 months they have been telling the world that this is a strategic step, and they will not withdraw from Netzarim crosspoint, and that they will allow the settlers, the Israeli settlers, to enter to the settlements in Gaza Strip using this road. But Subhanallah, Subhanallah, they withdrew and the landowners got back to their lands in the north and around Netzarim checkpoint. That's the first thing.

The second thing is that, OK, OK… [Like], the world happily celebrated the ceasefire, the moments of joy while Palestinians are returning, are claiming their homes, while we're crying, happiness tears, but now it's time to point again to to the main problem.

Actually, we are still in… We're still facing the same dangerous displacement and, let me say, forcibly immigration, actually. It's not a voluntary immigration because there is no rebuilding. There's not even tents for people to survive this winter, to survive the new getting back to their…to the north, to their areas, but… in other words, displacement, because no homes to get back to.

So we're still living this. It's really hard to survive this.

So now it's time, first, to put Israel, the Israeli regime, the Israeli occupation, accountable for all of this, to put the Polish guy (Benjamin Netanyahu) discussing the fleeing, the emptying of Gaza Strip, in jail because this is his place, because he's a war criminal. This is time to rebuild Gaza. This is time to enter Gaza by foreign workers, by [foreign] journalists, by the people of Gaza who evacuated during the genocide, and now until this moment, they cannot get back to Gaza again.

So this is, yeah, this is time. [Enough]. Enough cheering, enough happiness, because what happened and what's still happening is a genocide, OK? It's not a turn off-turn on mode. No, no, no. It's a genocide. And everyone must be accountable for what they have done.

The occupation, the international organizations, the occupation, the [genocide] supporters... Even the companies that supported the genocide, supported the weapons, supported the the Israeli regime economically. So it's time.

If it's not time now, then it will not be the time to put all of these people, to hold all of them responsible. And another thing, if we didn't do it now, then everything we have done as Palestinians, and you have done as people supporting the Palestinian people, is in vain. Everything is for nothing.

We don't want to just forget what what they have done, what the Israeli army has done, what the Israeli regime, ministers, supporters, what the U.S., what everyone [who] funded the genocide has done, okay?

It's time to hold them responsible to make sure that this will not happen again, and that Gaza and Palestine will just be free and will be rebuilt.

[Let's go], let's continue.

end of transcript

source from Bisan Owda's instagram page

Bisan supports Ela Elna Elak, an on the ground organization providing food, water, and other resources, including temporary classrooms, to rebuild the Gaza Strip.

You can support them and follow their work at this link.

You can follow their work on Instagram as well.

[sheepispink]

lt simon riley x hybrid!reader in which you're forced into his life and he cant handle it, ignoring your existence until you talk to inanimate objects to make up for it. angst ofc

sorry if this is lowkey bad, my writing has been flopping rn (inspired by a mdni’s work summary, i have removed the link because i am unsure as to how to address this properly.)

edit: i am aware that the og had more than a few similarities to the op who i credited’s work. I have responded here

The news of a hybrid being assigned to him was the worst possible, maybe even comparable to the time he had to wear full gear in the middle east. There was just something about it he didnt like, not that he wanted to stereotype their kind but some could be so clingy, so needy and to think he’s have that, following him around? . But what he hates more is the way you’re sitting outside his flat door when he hears the knock, wide eyes trying to entice him to your outstretched hand. Though unfortunately for you, he just closes the door again.

For the first week, you tried over and over again. He didn't seem to want to talk to you at all, let alone acknowledge that you were in his house. The only instructions he ever spoke was to not leave the house nor damage anything inside the house. It wasn't like you’d attempt to test either rules on purpose anyway. Instead, you tried to be useful by cleaning up where you could, even if you couldn't help but get distracted by how fun sliding across the freshly mopped floors were. Plus, blanket forts were so fun to make, what do you mean they made more mess? You switched to cooking soon after, attempting to make him breakfast except every time you tried to wake up early, he was always already gone. So, you wake up extra, extra early, finding out he wakes at five and so you wake up at four the next day. You decide on sizzled meat rashers, a fried egg and a toaster waffle because you don't really understand how the oven works. It’s not your fault his has so many funny buttons.

Unfortunately for you, his hearing is almost as good as yours, or perhaps he just never sleeps properly. That’s why he walked in just when you were nodding off in a bowl of cracked eggs, the time too early for a young one like you, even if you were well into your twenties. He left the house with a slam that day.

After that you stopped trying, noticing it to be clearly obvious that he didn't want anything to do with you in the slightest. He didn't even glance at you, or ask if you wanted to eat anymore. The only reminder that you actually lived here were the remnants of your fur on the fluffy pillow that was your bed, and your name written on your pre-bought meals since he didn't trust you in his kitchen anymore. Questions were left to hang in the air, soft whines echoing around the empty room each night and only the dim TV for company.

Ghost had returned early today, a problem in base had left the place in slight disarray and the task force thought it’d be better if they just packed up for the day, maybe do paperwork at home instead. He clicks open the door, surprised to actually hear noise in the usually silent flat, though he’s already dreading whatever mess you’ve cooked up. As he enters the hallway, the noise becomes clearer, sounding like a voice, your voice, actually. “This is a super secret covert meeting, alright everyone? No one can know!” You squeak, and he’s raising a brow, mind already jumping to conclusions of you being a double agent sent to spy on him. He should’ve known they’d pull a dirty trick like that, especially with how Graves has been acting, there’s bound to be others to follow. But to infiltrate his own home is something that brings him great anger, making him all the more silent when he sneaks around the house, mind running through potential ways he’ll interrogate the information out of you.

A double agent was far too much credit for you though. You were just a silly animal who was sitting on the sofa opposite a tatty teddy bear, a pillow with a messily drawn paper face stuck to it and a t-shirt that you had draped over a pillow, the cartoon cat staring back at you. They have mugs in front of them, albeit not full of anything apart from your own mug of tea. “Just kidding, let’s order then we can start.”

You hum, pretending to take a list from the bear though it’s actually those takeaway menus that come through the letterbox. He watches carefully as you pick up one at random, eyes squinting as you attempt and almost fail to read the text. Facilities never bothered with educating their hybrids, only intent in teaching them the arts of being loyal and desirable so they’d get their pay.

“Men….u? St.. art…eer?” It’s near impossible to understand any of it, and eventually you have to put it down, huffing out a complaint. “Okay fine, i can't read at all.” Frustrated, you pull off the t-shirt, leaving the pillow to fall on the floor. You’ve watched countless videos, only with the help of the voice recognition function on the remote control, and have attempted daily for this whole week. “So what have you guys done this week?”

He notices now that you have the tv displaying an episode from those random TV series, you probably don't even know the name of it. You’re almost attempting to recreate the same scene of the friends sitting around the table, eyes flickering at the TV as you eye how they sit. You mimic a squeaky voice, holding the teddy bear by the scruff as you move its head around. “I went to the park with my handler.”

Somehow your eyes light up despite the fact you had made that up yourself, clapping your hands together. “Wow, I love the park! I wish I could chase the squirrels…” Your expression falters for a second, eyes drooped until you shake your head, moving to puppet the pillow in the middle instead. “I went to the movies with mine, and then we got icecream.”

You smile again, retracting your hand and placing it on your hips. “Damn, icecream too! ..Um.. It doesn’t matter what I did. We should do something together, but it has to be something easy.. and not too fun because if we leave a mess Simon will be mad.” He almost feels bad, but it’s not his fault, you will make a mess, and he’s already tired enough as it is. What he hadn't expected was what you’d say next.

“I don't think we’ll be able to do these meetups anymore guys.” You mumble out, frown growing on your lips as you puppeteer the bear. “What, why?”

“I-i think I’ll be getting kicked out soon. Or maybe I should just run away.. Should I? I mean, it’s not a totally bad idea and Simon won't have to deal with me!”

You stare back at the two fake people in front of you, the silence hanging heavy in the air until you reach forward, plucking the paper smiley face off the pillow and sticking on a sad face instead. “I know, I know— running away is bad and I'll only get hurt. What else then?”

The silence is long again and for once Simon can feel the distraught look on your face as you clench the hem of your loose sweater, nose wrinkled. It’s clear you’re not feeling too good, especially if you’ve resorted to talking to your own stuffed animals about running away to make him happier. It’s a pitiful sight to say the least but he can't blame you either, he’s purposefully ignored every single one of your feeble attempts to talk to him. It’s not like it helps that you’ve been cooped in a house for two weeks straight, not able to talk to anyone else. Now that he’s forced to notice, forced to think about it, it’s clear he’s torturing you, in some sick unintentional way. You’re locked away, a prisoner, a ghost— someone no one even knows exists despite how much you cry and beg for a sound to be made.

The small shuffle of your steps is sad, the way you put everything into position perfectly in case he gets annoyed, not that he’d ever express it anyway– sometimes you wish he just would say something, anything. But he doesn't, and you take the tatty teddy bear, hugging it to your chest. Not even your tail can bring you much warmth, the matted fur rough against your skin as you’ve failed to upkeep it’s maintenance the more miserable you grow.

You wont stay here for long, you’ll be moved elsewhere and grow older, less ‘desirable’ as you lose all your hybrid fluffiness until you’re finally left on the streets, scavenging bins for food like your parents did. A cycle that only repeats for you.

—————-

part 2 (coming soon, ask to be tagged)

other hybrid drabble i did

[mattscoquette]

nerdy!bf!matt eating you out for his own pleasure

the small whines and moans that escaped matt’s lips filled your bedroom, along with the squeaking of your mattress as matt’s hips rutted into it.

“so good,” he whined against your aching pussy, his voice strained as his nose bumped against your clit, “tastes so good baby.”

his tongue flicked up and down your slick folds as he pressed his face further into you, his large hands holding your hips steadily as he kept you pinned down, devouring you liked a starved man.

your hands threaded through his brown locks and tugged at his scalp, eliciting a moan from matt. his eyes flicked up to meet your own, his glasses perched lowly on his nose as they grew foggy.

"could do this all day, princess," matt mumbled practically to himself, the vibrations of his words going through you. he tilted his head to give himself better access while his tongue moved in circular motions along your pussy.

the noises coming from matt were nothing less than obscene, a mix between his whimpers and the slurping sounds of his mouth working against you. you were practically seeing stars, your back arching and legs convulsing. matt kept you down, though, his strong grip allowing you to stay put as he continuously ate you out.

matt would spend all day in between your legs if you let him, and he was drunk off the taste of you. it didn't take much to get him going anyway, but something about him taking control while pleasuring you could make him cum from just the thought alone. his dick strained against his tight jeans as he pressed them into the mattress, trying to relieve himself in some way as his hips involuntary bucked up into the bed.

one particular motion of matt's mouth had you pulling at his hair, a loud whimper escaping him as he whined against your folds. "fuck, keep doing that," he whined, "feels s'good."

you nodded as you repeated your actions, causing matt again to moan against you. he was nearly suffocating himself the way his face was buried between your thighs, his glasses smushed against his face. his mouth moved up to your clit, his tongue running along the sensitive bud in circles as he drew you closer and closer to your release.

"please cum baby," he mumbled into your pussy, "pleasepleaseplease, wanna taste it."

the whiny tone of his voice was all it took for you to let go, your juices coating matt's lips and chin as he worked you through your orgasm. your legs shook around his head, your hips bucking up against him while he licked and cleaned you up, making sure to savor every last drop.

he sat back on his knees shakily, his hair sticking to his forehead and his glasses askew. he smiled at you sheepishly when you saw you took notice of the dark stain on the front of his jeans, his cheeks heating up in embarrassment.

"matt it's okay," you giggled when you saw him try to cover himself, "i think it's hot you can cum from eating me out."

he buried his face in his hands, letting out a loud groan. "don't say it like that, you're gonna make me get hard again."

© mattscoquette

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. ⋆˚꩜｡ rylee actually writing and posting ????!!!!!!! lowk don’t fw this a ton but nerd matt has my heart and i want him to eat me out sooooo. also inspired by a tweet i saw that said “i cum from eating pussy” and thought that was so matt coded so here we are !

[yaniluvs]

don't leave me , my love

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

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

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

the room smelled like rain.

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

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

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

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

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

you felt it like a weight pressing against your ribs.

how it had started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’re not fine, chan.”

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

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

your heart sank. “do what?”

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

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

“well, it doesn’t feel that way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you felt something splinter inside of you.

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

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

and that—that—was what broke you.

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

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

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

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

there it was. the breaking point.

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

silence.

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

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

“that’s not what i meant—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i think we should take a break.”

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

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

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

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

but neither of you did.

and that was how it ended.

or, maybe, how it all began.

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

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

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

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

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

present time : the first snow.

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

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

almost.

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

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

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

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

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

you’re warm. stay like this forever.

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

it had been weeks.

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

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

no. stop it. get up.

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

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

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

you ignored it.

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

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

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

you swallowed.

the clock on the wall read 10:42 am.

late. you needed to leave soon.

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

the sweater you had chosen—it was his.

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

his sweaters, hoodies, tees, sweats.

maybe this was the unlucky— or lucky one.

a quiet, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

of course it was.

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

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

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

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

routine.

just keep moving.

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

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

“morning, boss.”

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

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

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

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

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

and just like that, the day began.

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

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

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

“you always say that.”

“i mean it this time.”

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

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

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

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

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

“uh-huh. sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you swallowed. “i will.”

you weren’t sure if that was a lie.

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

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

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

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

“i won’t.”

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

you exhaled, running a hand through your hair.

the silence was heavier now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the night was waiting.

and so was the silence.

. . .

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

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

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

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

then, finally, you pulled out onto the road.

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

the world kept moving, even when you felt stuck.

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

and they did.

“you’re always working.”

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

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

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

“maybe we need a break.”

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

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

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

and him.

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

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

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

“you say that every year.”

“and every year, darling, you lose.”

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

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

it had been easy, then.

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

before you started feeling like you were losing him.

the light turned green.

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

and then—

the world tilted.

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

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

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

silence.

everything felt… far away.

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

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

voices.

faint. muffled.

“is she breathing?”

“call an ambulance—”

“stay with me, okay?”

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

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

somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed.

then—

darkness.

. . .

the world around you existed in fragments.

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

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

voices. sharp, rushed. urgent.

"bp’s dropping—move!"

"we need to stabilize—"

"get her on the stretcher—"

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

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

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

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

then—light.

harsh, fluorescent, searing through closed eyelids.

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

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

"get an iv started."

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

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

rest.

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

when you resurfaced, it was slow.

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

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

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

a hospital room.

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

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

there was movement beside you.

a nurse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

lucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so you let your eyes slip shut.

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

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

the hospital was quiet in a way that felt unnatural.

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

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

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

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

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

"it’s listed as her emergency number."

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

one ring.

two.

a click.

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

"hello?"

"hello, is this..."

. . .

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

the kind that carried weight.

and then the line went dead.

the waiting room door pushed open half an hour later.

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

"i’m here for y/n l/n. i got a call."

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

"she's stable. sleeping. but—"

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

the doctor nearby spoke this time, his voice calm.

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

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

"can i see her?"

the doctor exchanged a glance with the nurse before nodding.

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

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

room 801 was dimly lit, the blinds drawn halfway.

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

and there you were.

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

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

he took a step forward. then another.

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

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

and then—finally—he let himself feel it.

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

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

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

but his eyes were burning.

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

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

you didn’t hear him.

but he said it anyway.

. . .

the room was quiet—too quiet.

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

and then there was him.

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

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

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

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

it didn’t feel real.

none of this felt real.

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

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

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

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

but the harder he tried, the worse it got.

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

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

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

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

he wasn’t supposed to be like this.

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

but right now?

right now, he felt helpless.

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

but he couldn’t. because.. again,

because what if it wasn’t?

what if this was his fault?

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

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

what if—

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

it wasn’t enough.

it would never be enough.

but it was all he had.

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

he hadn’t moved from his spot.

couldn’t.

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

the guilt still clung to him like a second skin.

and the worst part?

you didn’t even know he was here.

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

didn’t know how much he missed you.

how much he needed you.

he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face.

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

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

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

his throat tightened.

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

it wasn’t a demand.

it wasn’t even a request.

it was a plea.

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

but you didn’t move.

didn’t stir.

didn’t even twitch.

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

the past few weeks : what remains in the silence

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

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

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

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

but he couldn’t leave.

not yet.

not when his chest still ached like this.

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

"you don’t get it, do you?"

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

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

and then it had ended.

just like that.

no closure. no finality. just silence.

and god, the silence was worse than anything else.

it was deafening.

it followed him everywhere.

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

they knew he was a storm waiting to happen.

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

because every melody he wrote sounded like you.

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

and he couldn’t do it.

he couldn’t use your voice as his muse.

so he erased them. again and again.

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

but it didn’t stop.

it didn’t stop the ache.

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

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

"hyung."

the voice was soft, hesitant.

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

minho.

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

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

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

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

"i’m fine."

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

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

but minho never left things alone.

"you look like hell."

"thanks."

"that wasn’t a compliment."

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

"i just need to finish this song."

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

chan didn’t answer.

because he didn’t know.

didn’t know what came next.

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

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

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

chan swallowed. looked away.

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

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

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

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

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

he should go home.

should rest.

should sleep.

but he wouldn’t.

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

in his memories. in his mind.

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

present : five days in winter

the hospital was cold.

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

chan had learned to hate that smell.

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

five days.

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

and he hadn’t left.

not really.

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

and when he was here, he stayed for hours.

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

he didn’t care.

he couldn’t.

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

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

but what if time took too long?

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

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

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

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

a bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

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

silence.

the only response was the quiet beeping of the monitor.

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

it wasn’t fair.

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

stuck.

frozen.

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

hyunjin and felix.

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

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

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

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

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

"have you eaten?"

chan shrugged. he didn’t remember.

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

chan exhaled sharply.

"you don’t know that."

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

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

hyunjin frowned, his expression softening just slightly.

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

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

but it didn’t make this any easier.

didn’t make the waiting any less agonizing.

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

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

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

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

like something unfinished.

like something waiting to break.

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

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

he arrived early. earlier than usual.

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

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

still, chan had hope.

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

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

just something to keep his hands busy.

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

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

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

silence.

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

chan swallowed.

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

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

he exhaled through his nose.

"i think about stuff like that a lot."

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

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

the day passed like that.

slowly.

like wading through water.

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

the others didn’t visit today.

he was grateful for that.

he didn’t want to share this space.

not today.

not when he felt so—raw.

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

chan hadn’t moved much.

still in the same chair.

still holding your hand.

his thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin.

the exhaustion was catching up to him again.

he fought it.

tried to ignore the heaviness in his limbs.

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

but eventually, he gave in.

just for a second.

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

minutes passed.

then—

a twitch.

a faint pressure.

the smallest tug against his hand.

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

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

had he imagined it?

had his mind finally started playing tricks on him?

no.

because there it was again.

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

his breath shuddered.

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

the door creaked open before he could finish.

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

"what’s wrong?"

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

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

"doctor!"

chan barely registered the next few moments.

footsteps.

voices.

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

"vitals are stable," one of them murmured.

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

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

. . .

darkness.

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

then—something shifts.

a sound.

faint. a murmur against the quiet.

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

you want to reach for it.

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

another voice.

closer this time.

then—a touch.

warm, real.

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

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

your fingers twitch.

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

the silence ripples.

then— light.

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

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

then, after what feels like forever—

you open your eyes.

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

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

a hospital.

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

but then—

"y/n?"

a voice.

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

chan.

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

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

your throat is raw when you try to speak.

nothing comes out.

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

"here. just a sip."

you take it.

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

his hand returns to yours.

like it never left.

there is a moment of silence.

then, softly—

"you scared me."

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

the weight of it settles in your chest.

you swallow. try again.

"how long?"

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

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

"six days."

you blink.

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

"i was… asleep?"

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

he stops. shakes his head.

"it felt dangerous to me."

your chest tightens.

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

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

he stops himself.

his jaw clenches.

you squeeze his hand.

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

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

it’s not much.

but it is enough.

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

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

the tension in the room softens. the air shifts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"i’ll try."

it’s the best you can offer.

and for now—

it is enough.

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

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

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

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

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

you swallowed, throat still dry, but nodded.

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

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

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

your injuries.

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

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

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

your brows furrowed, but you managed a light nod.

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

the road.

the red light.

the blur of headlights.

the sound—

your stomach twisted.

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

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

a few days.

that still didn’t feel real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you froze.

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

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

boyfriend?

boyfriend.

your thoughts fumbled over the word.

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

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

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

your fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

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

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

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

the warmth in your chest grew.

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

something swelled in your throat.

you hadn’t been aware.

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

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

your breath hitched.

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

chan had been here. everyday.

talking to you.

waiting for you.

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

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

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

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

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

and then, the door opened.

and chan stepped in.

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

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

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

there was something about him. something different.

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

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

afraid you’d send him away.

a lump formed in your throat.

“you stayed,” you whispered.

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

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

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

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

“of course i stayed,” he murmured.

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

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

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

you knew that look.

he was overthinking.

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

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

your lips parted.

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

you swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you swallowed, blinking through the blur of your tears.

“i’m sorry, too,” you murmured.

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

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

a sharp breath left him.

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

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

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

his breath trembled against your skin.

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

your heart clenched.

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

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

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

“i love you,” you whispered.

his breath stuttered.

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

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

neither of you spoke for a moment.

just breathing. just existing.

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

then—his voice.

soft. shaky.

“thank you for forgiving me.”

you swallowed.

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

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

your breath hitched.

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

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

your thumb brushed over his cheek again.

“just stay,” you whispered.

his lips parted.

then, slowly, he nodded.

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

you knew.

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

you had found your way back to each other.

and that—

that was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

[prael]

Day 12: Three Shades of Sin

Le Sserafim Kazuha & Yunjin & TripleS Xinyu

words: 11,736 12 Days of Praelmas Masterlist

Look, you know this story starts with the way Xinyu has her fingers threaded beneath Kazuha's jaw, her lipstick smeared off in bits and pieces, but that’s not actually how it ends. It’s a slow descent; watching your girlfriend kiss someone new is a beautiful disaster that never really loses its lustre, and the truth is, there’s no moral at the end of this tale - the closest you’ll get to something cathartic is this:

Yunjin grinning at you, sunshine-bright and wickedly gorgeous. “You gonna invite us in, or what?”

-

First things first: the bar is packed - oh, it's always packed - but especially so on the nights when Kazuha performs. It's not a burlesque club, not really; in theory, it's not all that much more than an upscale lounge for yuppies with more money than they need, trying to pretend they're living sophisticated lives with a splash of debauchery on the side.

It's packed, obviously, because they're getting a little more debauchery than expected tonight - but all the familiar faces are there: the grad-school crowd who treat this club like the neighbourhood dive bar; the pretentious A-list types who claim to hate this kind of thing but always seem to show up anyway; the trust-fund kids and their vices and habits; the semi-locals, like you. They’re the mainstay: you know their drink orders, what they’re into, whether you’ve gone home with them before. You know who is dating who. Who's got a looser distinction between romance and just fooling around. Who got fired. Who's always fucked up beyond all help. You know the girl sitting at the end of the bar nursing a cosmo and waiting for you, alone.

She'd come to see Kazuha perform like everyone else.

"You missed my boyfriend," Xinyu says to you, just shy of winking. She looks beautiful - she always does, of course, but this time: she's wearing black leggings and a crop top that shows off the cut of her waist, her toned abs. The skirt is so small it's basically an accessory to how she's got her dark hair pinned up into something half-bedroom, half-backstage-chic, hoop earrings that dangle just above the slope of her neck.

"Did I?" you reply, coy. It's not flirting - or maybe it is, you're not sure.

She tips her head, cheek resting delicately on her knuckles. You end up staring at her mouth; the words coquettish and prurient and absolutely, unquestionably fuckable are swirling around your brain. "Yep," she says, and her lips curve beautifully. "You did."

Xinyu turning up the dial until she's impossible to resist is pretty much standard-operating-procedure here- it's sort of like this place runs through her blood. She's claimed ownership of it for herself.

"It's too bad," she says, drumming acrylics on the countertop. She shoots you a look that's all bedroom eyes: that drowsy, liquid-lidded kind of want that tells you she'd have her head tilted back against your pillows in less than a few minutes if you asked. "I think you would've really gotten along."

"Guess I'll just have to settle for his girlfriend." You lean closer to her, conspiratorial. "This is fun. What else are we doing tonight?"

"Oh, yeah, you know." She stretches long and languid, satisfied. "Same as usual." That means dancing - some partying, probably lots of drinking, flirting. You're going to take her home and pin her wrists to the pillow above her head. You don't mind any of that - it's become your life, these last months, too. You know the routine here like you've known it for years.

"Want something to drink?" you ask her, and Xinyu considers you. Like she's going to pounce.

"Not really," she says, and then her chin fits into the dip between her thumb and pointer finger. You get closer. "Think I'm thirsty for something else." There's nothing left of the distance between you, and you're not kissing her yet, not yet - but the tension is making a point of shuddering and cracking.

All that promise of something more.

"Don't let this go to your head, but." Xinyu reaches out a hand. You play into the script; you take it and bring her knuckles to your lips. Her wrist smells like the perfume you bought her a Christmas ago. You kiss there, too - for a split second. "I love my boyfriend. He's great." Your eyes dart to hers again - she's always watching, waiting for the attention to come back her way. "But sometimes girls just hit differently, right?"

"See anyone in particular?" you say, still nonchalant, while Xinyu hooks a fingertip onto the neckline of your shirt.

"Oh," says Xinyu. Her grin is devilish, dangerous: like she'd carve right through your throat. "That's cute of you. Like, you really wanna know, hm? I have a list."

"How long is it?" You raise an eyebrow, feign boredom. She likes the challenge.

"Depends on the night."

"But I'm at the top," you continue, unabashed - your usual brand of charming. "Right?"

Xinyu laughs; it's a delight, musical and precious. You'd listen to it for hours if you could.

"You already know, honey." Her nails skim your neck; they catch in your hair. The strands fall over the silver around her fingers. "Top of my list, and everyone else's, too."

"Nope." You lean even further over the bar, stealing the inches, taking them for your own. "Not tonight."

"I don't share." Xinyu taps your nose, prim, smirking. Her eyes are shining, brimming with energy - you can't look away from her. She's intoxicating. She's beautiful. "He wouldn't like that anyway."

"Oh, come on. That sounds like a 'him' problem. Right?"

There's a raucous chorus of laughter from across the floor: people coming in from the cold, wanting to see the show, see a gorgeous girl in next-to-nothing strut her stuff up onstage. You watch as Xinyu's eyelashes flutter, delighted - she's waiting for something to begin; this is a ritual that repeats, the fervour starting low and ending high.

And it starts, and it ends, always, with you looking at her.

"We'll see," sings Xinyu, and she twirls on her stool, one leg neatly hooked over the other. The bar erupts into thunderous applause - the lights dim, and Kazuha emerges onstage.

-

See, the club isn't normally about stripteases - sure, some girls dance - but this is still a place with bottle service and $18 cocktails, not one where dancers make a show of stripping out of their lingerie. And it's not like you care much for how people try to make themselves seem better than they are, really: if you wanna be trashy, fine. If you want to keep up appearances, put on some kind of show like you're worth a dime more than anyone else out there, great, fine, do that. This place may be the latter, but in the end, it's all the same; everything falls apart once the night sets in. Everything stays messy, no matter which box you paint yourself into.

That's a long preface to say: you're just not expecting her in the slightest.

To be honest, most nights aren't all that exciting - there are people to remember, drinks to mix up, tabs to close and mouths to kiss, sometimes - but mostly, there's not a lot worth mentioning. When people come into the bar - the people who are new, the people who think that this is an opportunity for the night to turn interesting - you look up, size them up, wonder who they're going home with, if you're interested at all. More often than not, it's none of the above.

"Hi," says the new face as she slides up to you on the stool. Well, okay, so this part is different.

Xinyu stepped out earlier - said she had someone else to find, said you'd probably like who she had in mind, but whatever. You'll see when you see. You're not picky. You were ready to dick around on your phone until your girlfriend figured out which plaything you were both in the mood for tonight - you're not opposed to another addition, not at all - but then-

Then the girl sits at the bar, leans on her elbows over the polished surface. Rakes her fingers through the wisps of dark hair at her forehead, pushes it back, and -

And meets your gaze dead on, and doesn't break it. Not even a bit.

Okay - so, she's blindingly, impossibly stunning. A textbook fucking ten.

"Hi," she says again, firmer, like she knows what you're thinking. "Do they serve anything here that isn't blue or tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt?"

It's such a shockingly mild opener that you immediately laugh at her. It just spills right out of you.

"Yeah," you say, leaning against the bar, mildly amused. You call over the bartender, order in duplicate - you're pretty sure that's how this works, you have to get the drink in front of her, not even mention it, just let her know that you're calling the shots here - and then fix her with another look, eyebrows quirked. "New in town?" you ask. Small talk. Sure.

"No," she replies, "just new in here." She tosses her silky red hair over her shoulder. Reveals the halter-neck of her blouse and the deepness of the dip. Her collarbones are out. You barely even notice. "Also," she continues, "this place is a fucking zoo."

There's no patience to her. She's harsh, no filter. Your drinks arrive, and she hardly reacts when they do.

"It's a bit crowded." You're trying somewhat to stay diplomatic. "It's the girl on stage," you offer, and you gesture vaguely towards Kazuha's figure: long legs and curves in all the right places, raven-black hair falling to her waist. Everyone looks at her like she's a gift sent down from heaven. She's dressed in something gold, sequin, and she knows that they're pretty much right.

"Well, I guess that explains it."

"Everyone's hoping she'll take off more clothes." You shrug your shoulders at your new companion. "But she never does, so I'm not quite sure why everyone thinks tonight will be the exception."

"No shit," the girl drawls, her tone entirely blasé - she's so painfully disaffected, the disinterested, entitled type; your heart skips a beat. "No offence to you, man, but I think most of the guys here are either idiots or creeps." The redhead wrinkles her nose. "Or both."

"A fair assessment, honestly," you muse. Sip your drink. It's bitter. She hasn't touched hers. "You think I'm any different?"

The corner of her mouth ticks up. "No," she says.

The room seems to tilt sideways, and everything gets fuzzy: it feels like you're supposed to be talking in code or perhaps just reading between lines - there's a whole secret conversation happening beneath this surface-level, meaningless banter. You're making contact, making plans. She knows where this is going. You're right there with her.

"The girl up there is cute," the redhead says after a while, thoughtful. "What's your deal with her? How come you haven't turned into one of the animals in the horde yet?"

It's an obvious line of questioning.

"She's nice," you admit, "but I've already got something good going with someone. No need to push my luck with anyone else."

At this, she raises an eyebrow, curious, cautious, wary. "Nice, how?"

"I mean, she's beautiful," you say, "very pretty." Easy things. Surface things. These things anyone could list off. "Cute voice."

"Nothing in particular, though, huh." Her eyes flick back to the performer onstage - Kazuha's walking the catwalk, kicking her heel out at the men closest to her; her skirt rides up, and everyone goes absolutely wild for it - and then returns her focus to you. "Not your type?"

You've been in this seat - or one just like it, at least - watching Kazuha's ass onstage for countless nights. You're well aware of her appeal, but you can't figure out a harmless way to say your mind is giving you three images of a palm-print burning across the same expanse of skin at any given moment.

You shrug, ambivalence feigned. "I guess not."

"It's funny." She props her chin on her palm, her nail polish glittering against her jawline. She's barely touched her drink. "The girl's normally such a doll, right? Kind of girlish. Could barely hold a conversation with a boy when I met her. And now she's all that. On stage."

"Hmm," you reply, like you can't imagine it. "Is that right?"

"Oh yeah," she tells you, half-smiling. Her lipstick leaves marks on the glass as she takes her first sip. "Years of ballet school will do that to a girl. Though maybe something about performing just became second nature."

"Explains the legs," you mutter, feeling the look she levels with you; dangerous. "And the gracefulness," you amend quickly. She raises an eyebrow at you, and you raise one right back; it's a power struggle, and when her fingers curl across her chin, you almost choke on nothing.

"Legs and grace," she says. "That's about it for her, huh?"

You nod, your voice quiet, soft.

"How do you know her?" you ask gently.

"Oh, honey," she croons. Her face is halfway to laughter, mirth perched like a threat in her voice. She puts a palm flat on the counter and slides it forward so her manicure scrapes at the varnish. Leans into you over the edge of the bar and presses her lips to your ear. "I'm fucking her."

Everything in your brain stops, and starts; everything crashes down around you; everything rearranges.

"You know," the girl continues like she's explaining something casual, something innocent, "she's real fun on her hands and knees. Can't get enough of me." She tilts her head, contemplative. "I suppose she is beautiful," she adds, almost thoughtfully, and then reaches out her fingers. Tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "And graceful."

All you can picture are those gorgeous, creamy thighs marked up by nails like razors: bruises shaped like fingertips, angry scratches that would leave scars if pushed hard enough. Things for her to return to.

You swallow. You blink.

"She's very lovely," you say, careful, careful.

"Listen." The girl leans away, sweeps her red hair back over her shoulder, fixes you with her heavy-lidded eyes again. "We don't have to pretend we're in love or anything." Her voice is velvet, husky; the words catch at your eardrum and melt there, dripping down the bones of your skull like liquid seduction. "She's busy, clearly. So, I'm looking for a little company tonight, and I think I've found it."

"And your girlfriend?"

"Can't make it." She smiles, wolfish. "Which, if you don't mind me saying, is very lucky for you."

"Girlfriend, who you fuck into the mattress," you clarify. "She'd have no problem sharing?"

"With a pretty thing like you?" Her eyelashes flutter - the way they sweep low makes shadows across her cheeks, delicate. "No chance she'd object."

Your mouth twists to the side. "What's the catch?"

"No catch," she purrs. "Just: I'm going to go to the bathroom, and I think you could follow me there in five minutes, tops. Sound like a plan, handsome?"

Oh.

Okay. You think vaguely that Xinyu's probably got a hand in this, somehow. Doing this on purpose, leaving you here to fend for yourself - and it's a very Xinyu kind of move, really: setting you up with some stranger, letting her proposition you, and waiting for it to escalate past the point of return. Sending you right up to a pretty pair of vices, telling you to chew them down to size. Maybe if you do good - you already know how she wants you to perform - you'll get an actual reward later. Another girl for you to fuck, or maybe Xinyu herself. Or both. Your brain is spinning in circles. You really, really can't think straight with her breathing right onto your pulse.

"What, you've got something better to do than fuck two girls tonight? The girl seems to weigh something out in her mind; watches you through a side-long glance. "You really can't drop everything to play around for a little bit?"

So maybe it's not Xinyu's handiwork - this is a little too far-fetched, even for her - but you can't lie. When she goes ahead, drags her fingers on your shoulder as she glides by and doesn't bother looking back, the way your cock throbs makes it easy to decide that it doesn't matter.

-

You get lost a bit on the logistics. (That'll actually be a recurring theme.)

There's a pair of single-occupancy toilets in the back of the bar, ostensibly family washrooms; for mothers with children, wheelchairs, sloppy bathroom sex with god-blessedly gorgeous strangers, that sort of thing - but they're occupied. Both the handles spun up; red tags flipped up to indicate engagement, a motif, and symbolism in spades. Something heavy-handed and easily ignored.

"Maybe I should just get on my knees right here," she suggests eventually - like a joke, but she'd do it. You're pretty sure.

"Absolutely not," you counter, only a little bit scandalized. She grins and presses a palm flat to your abdomen.

"Just problem-solving." She's totally blasé. "Critical thinking."

"Careful with that," you warn her, sorta unreasonably given where your fingers are on the cut of her hips.

She pretends to think about it, fingers tapping thoughtfully on her lip, a comical exaggeration, and you just roll your eyes. You think about getting her name, maybe a number - you could just leave it at that, save her contact info under tall, great ass, (fuckable) lips and pray to hell it never comes up as recommended when someone else texts you.

Yeah, right. It's better to just bury yourself in this until it all dissolves - stick to the immediacy of it. Get your mouth on every part of her body and lick her clean, and then be gone before the sun rises. Right?

She pulls you down by your neck and slots your lips together again, slow, agonizing, her lips slipping over yours like they're made to be there. She kisses like it's an art form - something you can perfect, practice - and her tongue darts along the seam of your mouth like she wants to coax you open. There's the bite of cherry lipstick, sweet and candied; her fingertips into your belt loops, then yanks you toward her with her nose scrunched and a wicked smile.

"I can't believe you'd let me fuck you with your back against the wall like this." Her hips bump forward into yours - she's playing at bashful, coy and innocent. She's failing miserably. "What if someone sees?"

"I think you'd like that," you answer.

"Mmm," she agrees. She's tipping her head back, sliding her tongue across her upper lip, baring her neck to you. Her eyes flick back up, dragging like a blade. "Letting someone walk by, seeing you pushing into me, knowing I was about to make you lose control...yeah. Sounds hot, honestly."

"Shut up," you murmur, leaning closer.

"Make me," she kisses back, eyes flashing; oh, if you didn't feel it before, this is definitely how you know you'll see her again: you recognize the power in her stance, the firecracker-red blaze in her glare - it's like looking in a mirror, that domineering aggression. It's the promise of a rivalry; something you'll want to tame.

A wayward thought lingers: oh, hell - your mind is rapid on the recall, an endless, eager, addicting memory loop - how she kisses, too. The silky sweetness, the enthusiasm - the way her hands bury in your shirt and her pitched, muffled sounds of appreciation spill right into your throat. How she's such an obscene daydream, and the filthy, filthy things she tells you with her hands in your hair - the shock of that, her bold, pretty mouth telling you what she's fantasizing about right now and the fact that those fantasies line up with yours in nearly every sense. Her very presence is a contradiction, her mismatched gestures: tender kisses and wandering hands; how, for every inch given, she'll take five more.

You get your fingers under her skirt, pull her legs up to your waist; she wraps her palm over your cock; smiles against your lips, almost smitten but too arrogant for it: a villainous grin. You hitch one of her thighs over your hip, her panties damp against your slacks. Oh, how good she is - how perfect the feeling, how beautifully her teeth sink into the soft underside of your lower lip like you belong to her: a piece of property.

"That's it, sweetheart," you groan, kissing the apple of her cheek, letting the blush seep right under your tongue. Your hand hovers near her inner thigh. "God, you're so fucking sexy."

"Touch me," she hisses into the skin of your cheek.

"So demanding," you hum.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," she moans, arching into your chest - but her eyelashes flutter as your thumb ghosts across the fabric of her underwear, teasing. "Ah-ha..."

You'll justify it later, somehow: a cheat night, maybe - Xinyu's so used to getting other girls all to herself, you should have a few all to your own - and this one doesn't count as one, really; she belongs to someone else anyway, the raven-haired girl with the siren voice, long legs in silk stockings and pearls across her neck and high-heeled boots clicking across the pavement. And Kazuha doesn't even have to know: she's busy, probably; off with another guy or two or three. No reason to tell her what happens - you certainly won't complain. One orgasm and the redhead will be out of your hair.

There's a side door, some stairs. Nobody stops to ask who you are or where you're going, or even so much as bat an eye as you spill out into the alley - where people go to smoke or fight or vomit; she kisses you outside in the cold air, sliding her hands into your pockets and pushing up to the tips of her toes. There's a smile on her face like you're her best idea ever. It's cold out; she doesn't appear to care.

"God, I'm wet," she breathes, and you don't have to believe her.

"I bet I can help with that." Your jacket slides across your shoulders, off onto the concrete. You're leading her around a corner and against a brick wall. It's dark here. Dark enough for mistakes. Dark enough that you can press her spine to the bricks, slide your hands to her sides and lift her up, taste the lipstick across her jawline-

"Oh my god," comes a voice - softer, sweeter, a total siren lilt. "Please, fuck, that feels so-"

Both your heads swivel.

One streetlight illuminates Kazuha with her back pressed to the bricks and her hand curled tightly in all this black hair, panting, pleading: a perfect fucking masterpiece. She's got her eyes screwed shut, her lips parted; she's absolutely lost.

"Huh," says the redhead, dispassionate - and her fingers curl loosely over your forearm, drumming rhythmically. "Looks like she got distracted after all."

The hand between her legs is fucking her up and doing it fast, snapping sharp wrist motions accompanied by these rhythmic, throaty gasps from Kazuha as she holds onto the edge of a dumpster lid, clawing at metal. There's a muffled string of curses as the woman crouches, leaning forward - shoving her tongue inside. "Fu-uck," Kazuha manages, two distinct syllables - and her grip tightens around her waist, her spine. You catch the light shining off her gold earrings like a flash-warning, and you fall short of a breath.

“Xinyu?” you sputter. “What’re you-”

Xinyu extracts her hand from Kazuha’s cunt, licks her fingers clean and turns to you, not at all guilty - but she isn’t sorry, either. You blink hard.

“Oh, hey,” says Xinyu, cheery as anything. She brushes off her dress. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.”

“Neither did we,” you choke, dry-mouthed. “Are you…”

“We’re making use of some downtime,” offers Kazuha, smoothing down her hair, wiping off her smudged lipstick. The makeup is so precise that it doesn’t look smudged at all - or maybe that’s just how used she is to covering it up. “Is there a problem?”

“No, none-” Your mouth snaps shut as Xinyu meets your stare and gives you an impish little shrug, biting back a smile. She saunters over to where you stand, keeping a respectable distance.

“Look at this, babe," Xinyu says. She gestures to the girl you were making out two seconds ago, casual. "I found him first. Isn’t he handsome?”

“You’ve got weird taste,” replies the redhead, not unkindly, tilting her head back against the wall and exposing all that gorgeous skin. You can see her chest rise and fall in ragged breaths. Xinyu walks a hand up your torso, palms your collarbone with a suggestive smile - it's a little possessive, but then again, you realize you’ve forgotten to let go of the other girl's hand.

“You would be into him,” retorts Kazuha. She laughs softly. “Hi, Jen,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

“Hey,” Yunjin says, wiggling her fingers, lazy. “Loved the performance."

"Shut the fuck up," snipes Kazuha, rolling her eyes, but she's flushed, halfway to an orgasm that's not gonna happen because everyone is apparently choosing now to puzzle this one out. "Could see you flirting with him the entire time, idiot."

"He's super fucking hot," says Yunjin. "Oh, speaking of which-" She tugs you closer by your wrist - you're stuck, standing still, trapped between three gorgeous women ready to argue over who saw who first.

“Wait,” you manage, breaking free. Yunjin huffs. Xinyu frowns, blinking. Kazuha leans back against the wall.

“We didn’t plan this or anything,” explains Kazuha. “Xinyu just likes what she sees sometimes.” There’s a practised ease in the way she says this - like this has all been rehearsed before between the two of them. "Or, well-" Kazuha lifts a shoulder, delicate, polished. "A lot of the time, I guess."

"Yeah," Xinyu says, not defensive. "So?"

"Well," you say, after a long moment - your mind working furiously to process, reconcile, synthesize - this scene where you're being pulled in six directions at once, trying to put this story together before any more pages flip.

"That's your girlfriend," you say to Yunjin, finally - and point a finger towards Kazuha.

"And yours," says Kazuha, one hand on Xinyu's hip. “Hi,” she adds.

"Yep," says Xinyu. "How about that."

She steps up close to you and bats those dark lashes. Behind her, Kazuha’s gaze catches your glance; it takes you a solid ten seconds to realize she’s trying to place where she’s seen you before - it clicks for her all at once, though it's a lot quicker for you - and then it all slots neatly into place, every cog and screw lining up in an easy motion.

“So.” Yunjin chews idly at the pad of her thumb. "What, you guys met once at the mall or something?"

"Yeah," you reply, realizing exactly how you and yours have come to fall for two of the same type. "We met at the mall."

If you'd like to imagine that this goes smoothly after that - it doesn't. Not really. It's more accurate to say that Yunjin looks at you, your blank stare, the panic - and the three girls just dissolve into laughter, giddy and conspiratorial like they've just pulled off the world's greatest coup.

"C'mon," says Yunjin. She's so good at reading social cues - like, oh, you being totally stunned-silent by the sheer amount of sexual energy suddenly coursing through this alleyway. "You said it yourself," Yunjin reminds you, gesturing at Kazuha, "beautiful, very pretty, nice legs." She brings her lips to your cheek. "You didn't lie about that."

"What?" says Kazuha.

Yunjin just smiles, brushes a lock of red hair behind her ear. "We have taste," she tells Kazuha, confident and poised - and then to you, hushed under her breath, "I'd watch you rail her," she murmurs. Her tongue darts out, pressing wet and warm into the shell of your ear. "Would you like that?"

"That's-" you start. You stop. Xinyu looks over at you, a devious flicker lighting up her eyes - oh, god; if that doesn't spell disaster, nothing does -and the grin she gives you is so downright evil you wonder why you ever dared dream you stood a chance. She looks back over at Kazuha, reaches out a hand to clasp gently at that impossible waist, pulling her in close.

"Sweetheart," Xinyu drawls, tracing a thumb over her jawline. "Doll," she continues, letting the nickname linger. She leans up, pecks a kiss against Kazuha's mouth - but her eyes don't leave yours for a second. She bites down gently on Kazuha's lower lip, tugging lightly at the skin before letting it snap back.

"You know I wouldn't ever get jealous over sharing something with you," Xinyu murmurs. She says it like a proclamation; something binding, solemn - a pact signed in ink, wax-sealed and pressed into the skin of Kazuha's collarbone. They're practically the same height. It makes your throat run dry. "You get me," she says.

Yunjin laughs, but not meanly. "It's cute how you pretend you aren't selfish," she says to Xinyu, rolling her eyes. Her lips curve upwards. "Tell me something I don't know." And then - you feel her fingertips trail delicately over your waistband, slipping her thumb below the hem of your jeans. "Hey, Kazuha?"

Kazuha drags her focus off Xinyu with visible effort, snapping back into the conversation.

"Wanna ride his face?"

Xinyu is grinning like a lunatic, gorgeous and predatory.

Kazuha gathers her hair off her neck. “He seems like the type who would want to eat pussy for hours."

"I wouldn't complain," you croak out - and Yunjin laughs. It’s genuine, unpracticed, the sort of thing that shakes her shoulders; it fills you up.

"Why don't you sit back down against that wall," she tells you, nudging at your ribs. Her touch feels electric. "Relax."

Oh. She says it like an order, and you realize that she knows full well what it'll do to you. She's still smiling, though it's sharper now, sharper, hungrier - like the glint of fangs that'll tear you apart. It's really no wonder you ended up exactly where she wanted you - but then you realize Kazuha's looking at you, and you realize that you're not entirely sure whose team you're on or if there even are any teams here. It's not like you can complain. The most you can manage is a grunt of acknowledgement, sitting down slowly, trying not to trip over your own feet and ruin everything.

"Good boy," Yunjin quips, quiet enough to feel private, intimate. You blink up at her, still holding her hand in your lap as you sit down, staring like she holds the key to all seven wonders of the world in her palm. "Kazuha," Yunjin calls over her shoulder, patting your arm. "Get over here. Come meet my new friend."

And that's sorta how you wind up in some kind of...what-the-fuck situation? Some otherworldly thing you shouldn't even hope to explain - some alternate dimension shit with two beautiful women pressing you back against some dirty-ass brick wall in the alley behind your usual haunt, a third one laughing hysterically at all four of you. You feel like the dumbest motherfucker alive, especially when Xinyu whispers something in Yunjin's ear, and it earns a resounding laugh, but mostly just because your girlfriend's hands are everywhere and Yunjin's sitting back and watching like it's prime-time television.

That - and also because Kazuha's decided she needs your face buried in her cunt ASAP, and frankly, you can't even muster up the energy to disagree.

-

First things first: the bar is packed - oh, wait, no: it's always packed. But especially so on the nights where you're trying to navigate this stupid situation, you got yourself into where three fucking goddesses have you on rotation, like clockwork. 

You're collecting coats and closing tabs, doing your absolute best not to bring any more attention to how Kazuha's wobbling on both legs because she can't quite walk straight anymore.

Yunjin - your current distraction, clad in the most perfect shade of red lipstick, clinging onto your favourite girl like a lifeline - keeps leaning over to Xinyu, whispering frantically in her ear, and it's like the more they talk, the more amused Xinyu gets.

"I told Yunjin your apartment's the closest," Xinyu says to you, eventually, a small smirk forming on her face. "Think she wants you alone for a while. Sounds like she thinks you could really, uh-" She nods toward you, gesturing pointedly towards your belt. "Blow her back out, is how she phrased it."

Oh. Well, then. Yeah, no, you'd be perfectly okay with that.

When you glance back over at the rest of your - you don't have a word for it - entourage, all three pairs of eyes are locked on you, expectant and eager. Jesus fucking Christ. You make brief eye contact with Yunjin; her smile grows impossibly wider. This was meant to be a casual night, wasn't it? A nice outing at the lounge bar where you down drinks and enjoy the scenery - that was how it started, right? Then Yunjin had shown up, demanding all your attention like you owed it to her just for existing (and honestly? You kinda do). It'd been an excuse to look at Kazuha's tits, and then another to press your mouth all over Xinyu's - but the way your girlfriend's looking at you makes it abundantly clear that that ship's already sailed. 

Kazuha raises a water bottle to her lips, looking cool and confident as ever (oh, you know better).

"Didn't mean to invite everyone over, but." Xinyu preens, adjusting the hem of her skirt and checking for signs of wear. She knows exactly what she's saying, exactly what you're thinking - there's an intentness to her words. "You wouldn't mind, right, baby?"

"Yeah, sure," you agree, glancing up at all of them with a nod. You've never moved faster in your life; your coat's over your arm, keys in your pocket, the whole ensemble. They're watching you, waiting patiently. Xinyu raises an eyebrow. "Lead the way?"

She beams. She turns, slips her purse strap over her shoulder. "Alright," she chirps - and the four of you take off into the night.

-

It's funny, you think: Xinyu's also had a weak spot for Kazuha, probably since the first time she saw her perform. (That's the part that sticks out in your brain.) But then again, maybe Kazuha knew about Xinyu too; they seem pretty damn cosy for this being their first interaction with each other, though you suppose you can't judge - you were practically aching for Yunjin within an hour of meeting her, weren't you?

But whatever. Your cock is in Yunjin's hand, and your mind is very much not present right now. That's the important thing.

By the time you finally unlocked your front door, all four of you stumbling in - everyone tipsy, aroused, dying to get their hands on someone's skin - Yunjin immediately glued herself to you, pushing your coat off your shoulders. She'd gotten your zipper undone in record time. It's not the first time, obviously: she's got this ghost of a grip around your cock already, a knowing stroke, this way of handling your arousal that feels almost proprietary in its control.

There's an island in the kitchen; you're washed up on its shore. Fingers spread across the marble sand as the edge presses against your lower back. "Drinks are in the—"

"You can skip the fanfare." Yunjin is stroking you, her other hand at the nape of your neck to pull you down, kiss her; your mouth meets hers, hot, messy, too hard. Pick up where you left off sort of thing. Some unheard conversation must have planned this, on the street or in the hallway or the elevator—they'd figured out some secret plot, who got what, how they would split up, and it starts here.

It's in your periphery that you see them cross, hand in hand, watching you come undone by the vixen in red. Xinyu is taking the lead, and you can see her mind working overtime to figure out what would drive you the most insane right now. She stops at the couch, centre-view, perching herself on the back of it to pull the other girl against her. Kazuha giggles in the high pitch, something that sounds too sweet to come from someone whose job it is to get men going—and maybe she does that on purpose: the look over her shoulder accompanies a feigned innocence.

Xinyu looks past her, gaze falling over Yunjin first: red dress, blood red lips, hair like a hearth-fire, and the hand moving on your cock in your unbuckled jeans. "A head start? How unfair." She rolls her eyes with all the mocking derision she can muster, but her smirk betrays her. She's pushing Kazuha by the shoulder, putting the dancer down on her knees. Even in the most compromising position possible, she looks immaculate: she sinks, legs together, ass perched on her heels. There's not a strand of hair out of place, and even in her lust, Xinyu strives to maintain the fact, so she takes care in the way she pulls Kazuha between her thighs. A gentle, fingertip hold, as she spreads her knees to frame her.

You watch with rapt attention; you can hardly look away. The whole thing is artfully posed.

Yunjin says your name, the first word you've heard from her, and you've only missed it a little. Your gaze moves to her. You expect another comment, snide, but her mouth parts, like the words have been stolen right out of it.

"You good?" You're trying to be a gentleman, if not an asshole—and it works, too; it spurs her back. She bites the corner of her lip and hums.

"Yeah, you know." A half-shrug accompanies her words as she lets you slide a strap from her shoulder. "Still waiting for you to blow my back out."

Oh. You laugh, hoarse. Yeah, that's—that's on the agenda, for sure.

It's just—the show, right across from you, has started.

Kazuha, in her performance, has Xinyu's skirt pushed up around her waist, face against her thigh, breath hot on her skin, fingers splayed over her knee to press her legs even wider. The most natural seduction; the effortless allure that laces every part of her. Her lips against skin are soft and pink, moving against the curve of the muscle, mouthing up higher. You know how that feels—travelling the vast expanse of Xinyu's long legs in search of something to bury your face in.

"She's in for a treat," Yunjin whispers.

"So am I," you return, placing a hand on Yunjin's now strapless shoulder and putting just enough weight into your hand that she knows she's going down.

"Can't promise I won't bite," she warns, in the tone that makes your throat dry, in the way you think she just might. But you've also had the image of Yunjin's head bobbing in your lap the whole cab ride home.

If there's a heaven, you'll find it in a mouth like this one: soft-lipped, warm and wet, tongue on you. You reach for the back of her neck, feel the silk of her hair under your palm as she sucks hard enough to make your hips jerk. Then there's the gentlest of grazes—her teeth on your shaft, and it makes your jaw tighten. She's all smirk and smoulder, eyes coming up to see what kind of face she's making you pull.

"Oops," she laughs.

"Fuck," Xinyu gasps, the loudest sound in the room. There's the slightest shift of Kazuha's shoulders, the way her back bows when her tongue drags from slit to clit; nose pushed up tight.

Xinyu, still leaning over the back of the couch, turns her gaze toward you, then, heavy, desperate, and dark: an intensity that hits right in the base of your stomach and twists like a dull knife.

Xinyu trades pleasured gasps for a coy remark. "Look at her go. Eats pussy like she'll starve to death without it." It's like she needs to comment on it, all casual, as if there weren't someone between her legs, making her thighs tense.

Yunjin pulls back just long enough to say, "Tell me about it." Then she goes deep enough that you see your cock hit the back of her throat. No warning. You cough out an obscenity. It's good, and it's better because of what you're looking at.

"Yeah?" Xinyu says. "Be pretty easy to cum like this, you know?" The implication hangs in the air, unaddressed.

Just like Yunjin before you, you agree. "Tell me about it."

Your girl, on the couch, her body twists again. Kazuha is making her work to keep the upper hand in all this, if there's such a thing, and she has to put conscious effort into keeping her words steady. Her focus is on you, on your face, on how your mouth opens every time Yunjin sinks her mouth to the hilt.

"Do you wanna cum like this?" Yunjin says to the underside of your dick, her hot breath against your length.

You look to Xinyu for a final answer: her head's back and her chin tilted high in a groan that fills the room, an arcing note in a rising song that starts between her thighs. Her hands grip the cushions.

"She's close," You say off-handedly. An easy observation. It doesn't answer her question.

"Could finish you so easily," Yunjin hums. You feel her words against the crown. She swirls her tongue, and you clench your fists.

"Faster than Kazuha?"

"Much faster." Yunjin grins like she's just thrown down a challenge. And you get why it works: competitive to a fault.

"No chance," Xinyu manages. There's sweat on the skin that shimmers with highlight, her chest heaving with every laboured breath, "absolutely—" Kazuha presses forward, and the rest comes out a curse. She grits out the words. "Impossible."

"Bet?" says Yunjin, her nails dug deep enough into your skin that it leaves little crescent moons.

Xinyu's head lifts. There's a smile on her face that's just shy of wicked, "I'd say winner takes all."

There are very few bets that Xinyu won't take and fewer stakes that she won't gamble with, but she's got confidence in Kazuha's ability, and time is a-ticking. Even with how wound up Yunjin's got you, watching them, it's still an even race at this point. Kazuha has a lot to prove: this is a test to see if her pretty lips and clever tongue can get her girl to the finish line faster than anyone else.

And, oh—she can taste it, can't she: Xinyu dripping wetness to her chin, her folds spread and cunt eager. The dancer's a performer of many skills: her fingers slide inside, her mouth locked in place and sucking hard until Xinyu is fucking her mouth with the back and forth of her hips. In a moment of indulgence, she presses Kazuha's face deeper, harder. It's rougher, meaner: she pushes her up tight enough that her air might just get cut off, if it weren't for the moans that slip from the singer's mouth. "God—" You think she says, and then nothing but sharp inhale and the jolt of her hips that has Kazuha's nails in the flesh of her inner thighs.

Yunjin's picking up the slack on you. Maybe to wipe the smirk from your girlfriend's face, or maybe she just really wants your cum down her throat. That's fine. You're not opposed.

Mouth briefly replaced by hand, strokes hard and tight, so she can talk and please. "Better cum in me soon. You'll lose." She winks. She's not wrong, and she sucks in her next breath like she knows it. That mouth on you again.

Let's be real. Let's not get it twisted. You win. You always win.

Xinyu will cum first. It's one of those facts in life. Death, taxes and Xinyu's climaxes.

It starts in her chest—a hitch that becomes a heavy rise and fall, a moan from deep in her throat. Her body follows it: every limb taut like strings in a bow. Tension: her head back to the sky and the arch in her back like a crescent. Her legs start to shake. It's there that you feel your blood thrumming, the adrenaline that starts that climb before your fall, and Yunjin takes her cue to speed things up on her end as Xinyu tumbles over on hers. Her thighs tense, tight, trembling.

"Oh—oh fuck—Kazuha." Xinyu moaning another woman's name always has a certain kind of kick to it, even more so with you down Yunjin's throat. She's never shy about this. Never timid. Always, unabashedly, the way it is with you and how she'll scream and cry for it, for the orgasm that wracks her like an electric current.

Kazuha has no interest in easing her down: the pads of her fingertips work her open, pumping inside, tongue flat to lap against the pulsing heat, riding her through each wave and crest, drawing them longer, higher. Xinyu's shaking with the overstimulation, hands in hair, but not pulling back.

"God. Fuck, Kazuha—" This time, there's the edge of desperation to it, so close to pleading for it to stop.

There's a moment when you lock your eyes. Xinyu looking through the strands of her dark hair that stick to her cheeks, and the sweat that glosses her forehead, the flush on her skin, her lipstick smeared in places. And that smile, her wicked grin in full bloom. Her breath coming in shallow heaving puffs. Kazuha is slowing. Stilling.

You've been teetering close to that razor's edge, the precipice of it, but there was only ever going to be one winner. Yunjin pulls her mouth from you and she has no idea just how close you were, just how cruel the denial, as she stands.

You say her name as a question: why would she ever fucking stop?

Her mouth to your ear, and you feel her smirking again, her teeth against the shell: "You lost," she murmurs.

"You lost," Xinyu echoes from across the room. She pushes Kazuha away, legs still unsteady, as she slides from the couch to her feet and straightens out the fabric of her dress. You watch as Kazuha touches the gloss of her lip and sucks it off her finger. Her smile is soft and warm when she gets to her feet. It's like a stage; everything posed: Xinyu and Kazuha, standing side-by-side and arms entwined.

"Second place," says Xinyu, looking you right in the eyes.

"I get it," you say. Your cock stands at full mast. "You don't need to remind me."

"Oh," she grins, leaning against the dancer, "I absolutely do." Her hand touches Kazuha's chin and lifts, kissing her deep, tongues dancing against one another's. When Xinyu's teeth drag along her bottom lip, you know she must be able to taste herself. "She's real good. Though I do wonder what her girlfriend is like," she whispers as she eyes Yunjin.

Kazuha speaks up. "She can definitely make a girl cum." She speaks with such nonchalance as if she's discussing the weather or what brand her shampoo is and not the way she's had Yunjin eating out of her cunt.

Kazuha is a professional; it's no surprise to hear she knows how to get a girl to see god, and it's no surprise that anyone she lays with has to be on top of their game. Xinyu knows, too. She grins, and she laughs, and she holds her waist like Kazuha's some sort of prize, and it's just so Xinyu, this display. "Lucky us." She touches a hand to the dancer's hip. She says to Yunjin, "We oughta try her out."

"You're going to leave him hanging?" says Yunjin, running a hand down your chest dangerously low before taking it back, a gentle press of lips on your jaw. "That's not very fair."

"He can help you out, right?" Xinyu offers, gesturing in your direction with one of those looks in her eyes. You know that one. "Make us cum." And her hand slips to the swell of Kazuha's breast, groping greedily. It's a demand that comes out as a suggestion.

Kazuha whispers something inaudible to Xinyu's ears and it must've been good because the woman hums, intrigued, the smile on her mouth turning wider and more mischievous by the second. They both take a step, both reach out, Kazuha takes your wrist and Xinyu takes Yunjin's. Wordlessly, they take you away from the kitchen and to the window: the massive wall of windows that line your apartment with the city behind.

"I want the world to see," Kazuha explains. "To wish they were you."

"Sounds a little cheesy," you quip.

"Sounds hot," Xinyu retorts as she places her hands on the glass. She bends forward so that the swell of her ass pushes out against the hem of her skirt, and against Yunjin, who is standing right behind her. "Don't you think, babe?" she teases Yunjin.

"Very," Yunjin says. She moves her fingers along the seams of Xinyu's body, finding their way underneath her top. You hear Xinyu breathe out through her mouth. Yunjin moves closer to Xinyu's ear and bites it. "But the only ones that'll actually get to touch you, to taste you... that'll be us, huh?" She moves her fingers along the waistband of her skirt.

Xinyu turns her head back at her, smiling. "They'll be able to see how well I can take it, too. You'll let them see, won't you?"

Kazuha perches in front of you, spreading her fingers out against the glass, lowering her shoulders, arching her spine and lifting her ass to the sky for your taking. In an instant, you're on your knees and appreciating her for everything she's worth. "You don't need to be a gentleman. Just go for it. You already had the courtesy earlier," she tells you as you move closer.

"Can't I take a moment to appreciate you first?" you reply.

"Do you have to?" Her laugh is half a moan, and she's pulling up her own dress. "Are you so infatuated by the sight of me? Because, believe me—" and her words are cut off as you sink your teeth into her cheeks, your fingertips pressing tight into the skin at her hip— "you've seen more than most get to."

You run a hand up the expanse of her thigh. "Savouring every moment," you hum into her skin.

"How romantic," she laughs. There are the smallest noises in the back of her throat that come with your touch as you caress her ass. Fingers into flesh, gentle pressure until you feel her roll against it. The perfect ass. The kind people would kill for.

You hear Xinyu gasp, the sharp breath: Yunjin's got her face pressed hard between Xinyu's spread thighs from behind. "Y'know—" your girl manages between moaning pants, "wasn't sure what to expect. This isn't how we usually do things." She's trying to hold the conversation together while Yunjin works to make a ruin of it. Xinyu braces herself against the glass. "Two girls at once is a pretty good score."

"I'd call it that," you hum in agreement as you pull Kazuha's delicate panties down her thighs.

"The two of you do this often?" Yunjin asks between licking Xinyu's dripping cunt and then slapping an ass cheek hard, enough to sting. It leaves an angry pink imprint on the flesh of her. Xinyu hisses, her fingers curling against the glass as she struggles to hold herself steady. Kazuha arches her spine to give you better access.

"See them all the time," Kazuha gently laughs, the breathiest moan breaking her sentence up, and she rocks herself back against you. "Taking someone home before my show even ends."

Xinyu's eyes open, and her vision is clear. She looks over her shoulder. Her hips are slow, riding the tongue that pushes deeper inside. Her voice is steady, and she's trying hard not to let Yunjin catch her completely, though the pressure on the glass betrays her. "Been keeping an eye on us, hm?"

You're dragging your tongue against Kazuha, circling around the wetness between her legs. You taste the sweet musk of her, and then you drag the flat of your tongue along the folds. She hums with a laugh that sounds a little breathier, more strained. Your tongue moves deeper, dipping into the parting of flesh, to taste the soft, velvet feel of her, the slick heat that comes with her arousal.

"You're not exactly subtle. Hard not to notice."

You push a little firmer, face into her ass, tasting the deepest parts of her and as she shifts on her knees, she lowers a hand to your hair and grabs a handful of it, keeping you where she needs you, fingers curled around the strands and the sting that follows. You hear the noise she makes, the way she shivers under your attention. It feels good.

"We have a fan," Xinyu jokes, but her laughter is cut off by a moan as Yunjin sucks harder on the soft folds between her legs. "Maybe two." There's the sound of skin hitting skin, and then a gasp. You know the sounds of Xinyu when her skin is slapped, or her flesh is bit.

Yunjin's hands roam her body freely. They're everywhere: touching, teasing. Her nails scratch and drag, and Xinyu groans when teeth meet her inner thigh again.

Kazuha is dripping against your chin now. Every lick sends another jolt up her spine, and every circle against her sensitive clit has her moaning. You squeeze her ass. She rocks forward. "Mhm..." Her lips part, and her jaw goes slack.

"What a pretty fucking mess," you hum against the wetness.

Xinyu takes Kazuha by the chin, pulling her into a kiss, and there's no way for anyone else to appreciate how beautiful they look against each other. Xinyu runs a hand up into Kazuha's hair, and her hips are still grinding, still pushing down onto Yunjin's mouth. "I'm gonna cum if she doesn't stop."

"Cum with me?" Kazuha says. It sounds desperate, almost needy in its demand: an urgency to share this. To do it together.

It doesn't sound like a bad idea at all.

"Not stopping," is the last thing Yunjin says as she continues to feast. You think she might have a point to prove, but if that means she wants to eat a pussy that good, then so be it. Your mouth works Kazuha faster: you spread the folds with your fingers and go to work on her clit. Your teeth catch the sensitive flesh, and she shakes with it, thighs threatening to tremble and tense, a strangled cry falling from her lips that she smothers by moaning it right into Xinyu's lips.

The taste of Kazuha on your tongue is something you'll never get tired of. Her sweet juice spills over, and when she arches, she cums harder, cries out louder until finally, her knees start to shake. That's how it starts, and with her orgasm comes Xinyu's too. There's a moment when the two are tangled together, when the sounds that fall out of them echo each other's. Their voices meet, their moans mix, and their tongues clash in their kiss, like they can't bear to keep any distance from one another. It's intimate, even amidst the other mouths on them. Even as Yunjin and you coax them through it. When it passes, the two cling onto each other, holding each other up, both of them trembling with the aftermath of a shared bliss.

Kazuha falls first: with a slow slump she sinks down to the floor, falling away from your hungry mouth and onto her hands and knees on the hardwood. She pants, heavy breaths, her head bowed, her hair in her eyes. There's a contented hum to the room as it all begins to settle down. Kazuha turns to you: there's that gorgeous smile, as she pushes back hair from her face. Her makeup is smudged. Her lipstick's a mess.

Xinyu follows after, but not without first stroking Yunjin's hair and kissing her, thanking her. Xinyu falls into Kazuha's embrace, the two of them holding each other up on the floor. Their heads are on one another's shoulders.

You lose your balance to a hard push. Your ass hitting the ground hard, sitting flat on the hardwood.

"Your turn." Yunjin grins, a hand pushing at the centre of your chest, keeping you from rising.

"You're going to do that right here?"

She grins at you. "Right now."

From here on out, it's just an inevitable, sordid decline into depravity. There is no message here, no moral, no meaning beyond the mindless, the reckless. There's nothing profound about the way Yunjin slips the other strap off her shoulder and pulls the material down to her waist to expose her braless chest. There's no wisdom in the way she moves into your lap, arms hooked over your shoulders.

No revelations come from how her bare pussy slides against the head of your cock. No matters of the world solved by the way you grope her tits in your palms. Nothing poetic about the sound that slips between her pretty red lips when you enter her cunt. This is just the way things are. This is barely a footnote on the night, not an epic climax. It's not a resolution or a denouement. Just another impending orgasm. You're just lucky you're at the centre of it all.

"Give us a show, won't you?" Xinyu murmurs.

Yunjin's got a smile on her lips that says, sure, sure, I can do that. She puts her hands on your chest, pinning you against the ground, her hips lifting and rolling as she slides you in and out of herself. "You think we should thank them? The people in the toilets?"

"Why's that?"

"Well, we'd have gone in there." Yunjin pushes her hips down hard onto you to punctuate her sentence. "We'd have fucked." She's taking control here: riding you in the centre of the hardwood floor. "You'd have cum." Another roll of the hips. "In me. On me." She gasps, moans. "That would have been that." It's all being said so nonchalantly. "But now, it's like this."

You laugh a little as you watch the woman ride you for all you're worth. "It's fitting," you say as you push yourself up from the floor, sitting face-to-face with the woman riding you. "Because you deserve so much more than a quickie on a dirty toilet." You wrap an arm around the small of her back. "And I'd much rather take my time with you." You buck your hips up into her, commandeering the rhythm as your pace starts to climb. You drive into her, pounding hard, as you bury your face between her breasts.

There are the smallest of noises that break free from Yunjin: the whines that get trapped behind her throat and the moans that slip between her teeth. She lets you handle her, and the only sound she makes is that soft whimpering and that sharp hiss when your fingers grip tight at her skin, and when her body slams down against your cock, you feel her tense and then shake around your shaft, squeezing and clamping down hard. She stifles her sounds.

"You good?" you whisper. She doesn't answer. At least, not at first. She gives herself a moment to catch her breath, as her nails drag across your shoulder blade.

She moans out a reply. "Oh yeah. So good. I'm so—" her words trail into a hiss of a breath.

You push her onto her back, pinning her to the ground as she laughs, arms above her head and eyes on yours, as you pick the pace back up again. "Show's still on," Xinyu says, somewhere on your peripheries.

"He fucks like a..." Kazuha whispers, unable to find the right words.

"I know," Xinyu laughs, before leaning in to kiss at Kazuha's jaw. "Doesn't he just?" The words are barely a whisper in her ear.

There's this shift in your periphery, Xinyu taking a place on the floor, her hand behind Kazuha's head as she spreads her legs again. It's rare you've found anyone who can keep up with Xinyu, but tonight's proven to be the exception. Kazuha's on all fours, leaning in for another taste. The sight has you groan.

Yunjin laughs at that, pulling your face back to hers, her legs wrapping around your hips, locking behind your back as she pulls you into her. "Don't get distracted now, honey," she says. Her fingertips trace along the muscles in your shoulders. Her lips curl up into a smile as her body shivers underneath yours, and you can feel it: that sweet clamping down of her pussy around your cock, and you know that she's close to coming again.

"Got an idea," you whisper.

"Wait, wait—" Yunjin claws at your back, holding you closer, tighter. "Just let me—" and you feel it. Her wet heat coating your length, pulsing. You roll her into it, feel the slick mess as her hips twist against the hardwood. She shakes, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut, and lips parted. "There we go. Now, idea?"

"Come here." It's seamless, the way you move her around and behind Kazuha, positioning her face right against her girlfriend's ass. "Doesn't that look so good?"

"Beautiful," she says.

"Bet you eat that ass every chance you get, I know I would."

"Me too," Xinyu chimes.

"Yeah?" Yunjin says as she traces her hands along Kazuha's hips and curves, the lines that make her. She touches her thighs, and then she moves her fingertips to the cheeks of her ass. "Well." A kiss on the flesh of it. "You know. She does have such a pretty ass," she whispers.

"You both do," you reply as you mimic Yunjin's touches on her own ass.

She smiles into the skin, pressing more soft kisses along it. Her fingernails dig in gently as her mouth presses a little harder against it. Yunjin drags her nails over it, making marks. Yunjin moans softly, burying her mouth deeper between the cheeks. Kazuha arches with a moan of her own, rocking back. Yunjin sinks deeper, eating her girlfriend's ass like it was the last meal she'd have for days. The sounds are wet and hungry. Her moans are muffled as her mouth does its work. "God..." Yunjin groans into the flesh. Her hands roam up to Kazuha's sides, and she digs her fingers in and holds her, rocking the woman's hips against her face. It's like she can't get enough, and the taste must be so fucking intoxicating.

You're back inside Yunjin, the end of the train. She shivers again, moans again. Her nails drag up the small of Kazuha's back, marking the line of her spine with the gentle red trails. Her teeth scrape against Kazuha's skin, and she presses the pad of her tongue between her asscheeks again.

Yunjin's dress is still bunched at the waist, you bunch it and then hold it firm: it pulls tight across her toned stomach and gives you a handle, a grip to hold. You thrust into her, hard. She groans into Kazuha, and in turn, Kazuha gasps into Xinyu.

You hear Xinyu moaning, a note that arcs and echoes and then tapers off again. Kazuha is humming, soft and quiet, and Yunjin groans deeply. When the three of you all start to sync up, to fall into one steady beat, it feels right. It's everything falling together. Waves on the sand.

Xinyu is gasping; her head is back, and her throat is exposed, and her body is writhing with pleasure. She has her fingers buried in Kazuha's hair, clutching at it desperately, as she rocks back onto her tongue, onto her mouth, her hips bucking erratically. You're fucking Yunjin in slow and deep thrusts that have her moaning and shuddering, her fingers gripping hard into the dancer's thighs, and she's eating that ass with hunger, her own body responding to each motion of your hips in a ripple of a wave that runs up her spine, one after the next after the next.

This was never meant to last. There is no way.

You're on edge. Xinyu's on the precipice, and Kazuha is shaking.

There is no way, you say it again, and that's how your mind feels: unsteady, untethered, and it's in that haze that you slip your free hand to Yunjin's hip and guide it under her, have her press two fingers into the slickness that's so familiar, that she knows so well. You tell her. "Make your girlfriend cum." It's not an order. You've no authority here, in the mess that this has become, but she does, doesn't she: she's the only one who could get someone to sing for the world to see.

It's just seconds after when she slips the digits up inside that the woman is shaking, her back arching, and she's moaning in tandem with the way her hips roll back on you. Yunjin's fingers plunge deeper inside, and Kazuha shivers in delight. And then there's the smallest cry of a sound, and she's spilling wet onto the hand that keeps pushing her down. "You're so beautiful, Kazu," Yunjin murmurs, the words muffled by how she's buried her face between those cheeks, she's so damn close to her own climax. Kazuha is trembling, shaking. She moans out her release into Xinyu's wet cunt.

Thighs clamp hard on Kazuha's head. "Yes—" Xinyu cries out, as her hips rock upwards, bucking on Kazuha's mouth as she rides the orgasm hard, hands at her own breasts, groping greedily as her tongue drags her bottom lip under white, teeth bared: it's like a growl, almost, or a snarl, her eyes open wide, but staring right through everything.

And that's what pushes you over. You grab hard onto Yunjin's hip, the bunched fabric of her dress. Your fingernails drag against her flesh as you rut into her, hips thrusting again and again. She can't help the gasp, the sound, as your nails scrape deep into her thigh. She's so sensitive. The skin so soft and so receptive to touch. That noise turns into a moan. You know the sounds of her now. She doesn't need to tell you. You know. The pace of her breathing changes, and you hear the breathy little whimpers. When she gasps and when her cunt flutters, you can tell that she's close. And you know, when she cums because of the shuddering that runs up her body, the tensing of her muscles and that moaning that starts low and quiet before it grows, and then it explodes out of her in a sudden burst, like fireworks.

Xinyu's curling a finger. A beckon. You have a place to take, kneeling over her, and a finish that she demands.

"You know what to do, don't you?" she teases, a laugh on the tip of her tongue: that sharp and mischievous smirk, and the eyes that gleam in the light.

"I do."

She turns her gaze on the couple on the floor, the girls who've sunk onto one another. You can hear Yunjin laughing. Kazuha's fingers trail over her face, tracing the outline. "Go ahead," Xinyu says to you: not permission but expectation.

She presents her face as if it's a canvas and, yeah, sure, maybe you've done this more times than you can count, but you've still got your hand on your dick and the other on the back of Xinyu's neck, rubbing like it's the first time, and—

There it goes.

"God," Yunjin groans, "that's pretty."

Kazuha's contented hum agrees. They both reach a hand out to run their fingers across the mess of your cum, spreading it across the smooth expanse of skin, painting their art of Xinyu. There are no lines, no patterns, just the abstract swirl and the smearing that follows.

"Should take a photo," Kazuha suggests. "For posterity's sake."

"Too late," Yunjin mutters as she leans in to lick at the slick of white on the woman's cheek.

Soon, they're both at it, cleaning your girlfriend like she was the world's finest delicacy. And she basks in the attention. The centre of it. She's used to that kind of spotlight, though you don't think anyone shines as bright as her.

Yunjin takes a mouthful, opening to show the white on her tongue, and then her lips collide with Xinyu's. The cum is passed, tongue-to-tongue, a kiss shared. They share it with each other, a kiss that is truly sordid. You hear Kazuha's moan of excitement before you even realise what's happening: she joins in, making the kiss a trio. Three mouths passing your cum back and forth and the sound of their soft moans of delight.

It's hard to fathom that this is only the beginning. It's almost as difficult to comprehend just how far it's already gone, and the truth, as you see it, is that it doesn't need to make sense. Some nights are destined for excess. Nights like these. With a trio like this. You're not asking for any answers: all you're asking is that the four of you sink deeper, lose yourself to it.

The girls break the kiss, and Xinyu says, "You know, he has this walk-in shower. The big kind." You can hear the smirk in her tone like she knows just the kind of trouble she'll cause with her words.

"Yeah? I bet we could all fit in it," Kazuha hums, and there's that look of hers again, a little devious but mostly playful: a look of a girl who just wants to please everyone she comes into contact with. She can't seem to get enough, and she's just dying for a taste of more. Her hands slide along both women's waists, pulling them in a tighter embrace. Xinyu looks at you.

"You did always say—"

"I did."

"And, honestly, there's no better—"

"I know," you tell her, climbing to your feet and holding out a hand. "Come on."

[harrysfolklore]

hi! i have a little bitch blurb request - piastri sis is on painkillers after a minor surgery or after being at the dentist and while carlos is taking care of her she says things she never would’ve DARED to say out loud - even about the fact she’s been infatuated with him longer than she’ll ever admit 😋

this was so fun write 😭�� i love my little bitches so much

"Carloooooos," you slur through a mouth full of gauze, reaching blindly for him as the nurse wheels you out. "I missed you. Did you miss me? I was asleep but I missed you."

"Yes, mi amor," he tries not to laugh as he helps you into the car. "I missed you too."

"Your face is so nice," you pat his cheek clumsily. "Like... so symmetrical. Are you real? Maybe I'm dreaming."

He buckles you in carefully. "I'm real."

"Prove it," you demand, then immediately start giggling. "My mouth feels like clouds. Do clouds feel things, Carlos? Are clouds sad?"

"I don't think so-"

"We should ask Lando," you say seriously. "He knows about clouds. He's British. It rains there."

Carlos bites his lip to keep from laughing as he starts driving. You're staring at him with wide, unfocused eyes.

"Your hair is so fluffy," you reach for him, missing completely. "Like a lion. My lion. Did you know lions mate for life? Are we lions, Carlos?"

"Eyes on the road, eyes on the road," he mutters to himself in Spanish, fighting a smile.

"Oh! Spanish!" you perk up. "I know Spanish! Te... te something. What's the word? The love word?"

"Te amo?"

"YES!" you try to clap but miss your hands together. "Te amo! I love you SO much. Like... like more than pizza. And I really love pizza. I think I love you since the first time I called you a stupid little bitch."

"I'm honored-"

"But shhhh," you stage whisper. "Don't tell Carlos. He'll get a big head. His head's already perfect though. How is it so perfect?"

"Mi amor, I am Carlos."

You gasp dramatically. "No way! Since when?"

"Since birth, I think."

"Birth!" you suddenly look devastated. "I wasn't there for your birth! I missed baby Carlos! He was probably so cute. With tiny baby abs."

He can't hold back his laugh this time. "I don't think I had abs as a baby."

"Lies," you poke his arm, missing twice. "You came out of the womb with a six-pack. And perfect hair. And that smile that makes me want to take off my-"

"Okay!" he interrupts quickly. "How about some water?"

"Water is boring," you pout. "You're not boring though. You're exciting. Like racing. Vroom vroom."

He hands you a water bottle anyway, helping you drink without choking.

"My hero," you sigh dreamily. "Saving me from death by water. We should get married."

He nearly swerves. "What?"

"Yeah! Right now! Call Lando, he can be the flower girl. Oscar can be the ring bear."

"Ring bearer?"

"No, ring BEAR. He has to dress as a bear. It's traditional."

"Since when?"

"Since right now. I just decided. I'm very smart, Carlos. The doctor said so."

"Did he?"

"Mhmm. He said..." you scrunch your face in concentration. "Actually I don't remember. But I'm sure he did. Because I am smart. Smart enough to date you. HA! Take that, Instagram models!"

"What Instagram models?"

"The ones that slide into your DMs," you try to look stern but your numb face isn't cooperating. "I see them. With their perfect teeth. Well guess what? I have no teeth now! I win!"

"You still have teeth, mi amor. Just minus the wisdom ones."

"Wisdom..." you gasp. "Carlos! Am I going to be stupid now?"

"No-"

"Quick! Ask me something smart!"

"Like what?"

"Like... what's your favorite color?"

"That's not really a test of wisdom-"

"BLUE!" you shout triumphantly. "See? Still smart! And your butt looks really good in blue. Like REALLY good. Science fact. I used to stare at your butt when I pretended to hate you."

Finally, you reach home. Carlos helps you out of the car as you ramble about his "science butt" and whether lions know about race cars.

"Time for rest," he says, laying you on the bed.

"No," you grab his shirt. "Stay. Protect me from the tooth fairy. She's a thief, Carlos. A professional thief."

"I'll protect you," he promises, sliding in beside you.

"My hero," you mumble, already drifting off. "Hey Carlos?"

"Yes?"

"If we have babies, will they have wisdom teeth? Or will they be born wise? Like little wise lions...Or wise little little bitches."

You fall asleep before he can answer, drooling slightly through the gauze.

And Carlos can only smile.

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Author's Note: Old request #3! More Idia for the soul 💙 I think I have a thing for shut-ins/gamer nerds/socially awkward men 💀

Pairings: Idia x male reader

Warnings: Male!reader, dom/top!reader, sub/bottom!Idia, adult Idia, teasing, rough sex, breeding kink, college AU

The bed creaked horribly as the two bodies on top of it collided again and again. Your cock—buried to the hilt inside of your boyfriend—slammed into Idia's ass, leaving his cheeks red and tender from the abuse. Idia's sharp teeth tore into his pillow while his dick rubbed against the sheets from the power of your thrusts.

If your rooms were any further apart, you'd never have such wonderful mornings like this; Mornings where you dump a load or two into Idia before you head off to your classes, leaving him floating on cloud nine as he can't ignore the gooey mess dripping out of his hole and into his boxers until lunchtime. Yeah, mornings like these were the best 💙

“Mmmkhnmffnh-”

“What was that? Can't hear you when you're chewing on your pillow, babe.”

Idia unclenches his jaw long enough to whine “I said n-n-not so rough… aah! If you keep doing that, I won't be able to walk to class–” before chomping down on the plump surface again when you pound into him even harder.

“As if you wouldn't enjoy staying home. Besides, you were just on your knees begging me to– hnmgh… begging me to breed your cunt, remember?”

Your full weight is on top of him—crushing him against the mattress. Idia's eyes roll into his skull when you fill him the first time, followed by a long moan that drips from his lips like honey.

You don't pull out. Cum fills Idia's hole, plugged inside by your thick dick, and he can't fight you off when your tip is so far inside that it practically fucks his brain dumb — not that he really wants you off, anyway. With your pretty boy all pliant, you lift his hips and press a hand on his upper back, forcing him into an arch. Once again, Idia's ass becomes your fleshlight.

“Mhhnmfn–!”

You repeat your earlier sentiment about not being able to understand him when he has a mouth full of pillow.

“Aah- breed me!” Idia cries. Exhausted, but desperate to feel more of your seed flood his guts before his legs quit working entirely. Though staying inside and not dealing with people sounds rather tempting…

Per his request, you fuck another load deep into his hole, pressing your hips as close as physically possible into him so that your cock can unload all the way inside. Still not pulling out, you rub Idia's shoulder while you recover. The entire time, he whines into the pillow, grumbling as you plant little kisses on the back of his neck and try to cheer him up.

His head lifts off of the pillow and he says in a raspy voice, “If I get pregnant because of you, we're in trouble…”

“……Idia? Do you actually…?”

“What?” he finally turns to face you. His brows are furrowed, and the slight annoyance on his face makes you realize that he's serious.

“………”

“Y/n???”

“…you're right, you really shouldn't skip class…”

[moon-ttokki-x]

relight me - skz x 9th member with ed!reader

pairing: ot8!skz x ed!reader

summary: when a once-strong light burns out, someone must relight it.

genre: idol! au, lots of comfort, angsty. mentions of ed, purging, skipping meals, throwing up, self-consciousness, hypervigilance, mentions of reader having a period (it doesn't happen dw) also . . . i'm well aware the title for reader in this one is a little bit primitive but that's the best way i could describe the fic mbmb

a/n: eat, eat, you EAT <3 div by @seulzitos

"Y/n, come and eat!"

You turn towards your opened bedroom door, looking with mild displeasure at Changbin. He can tell you're not pleased with the interruption.

Setting your pen down and rather fiercely slamming your laptop, you move to the door and attempt to push it shut, only to be blocked by Changbin's firm, solid frame.

"Move," you hiss at him. "Let me work."

He gazes at you coolly, his hair fluffy and messy, large black glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose.

"It's almost half past eight, Y/n. Eat any later than this and you'll feel sluggish in the morning. You've been shut up in your room for too long now. Please?"

You shake your head stubbornly. "Five more minutes."

Changbin actually laughs then. "You said that three hours ago. Take a break."

"No." Your feeble argument does nothing to persuade him. In reality, you'd just been biding your time in your room until everyone went to sleep so you wouldn't have to eat.

His gaze narrows. "I'm gonna tell Chan-hyung if you don't come and eat something. Please don't make me do that. You know how he gets."

You groan so loudly you think the entire dorm hears it. Storming back into your room, you messily reorganize a few papers before grudgingly following Changbin into the dorm kitchen. Your heart pounds harder with every step you take.

Stupid. You really thought no one would notice.

Entering the kitchen, you see most of the boys already seated. Jisung and Jeongin are busy fighting over a piece of fried chicken, Minho and Felix looking on in amusement. Seungmin is on his phone, minding his own business at the end of the table, and Han and Chan are discussing some 3RACHA schedule adjustments for the next week, eating in rather a civilised manner compared to the other members. Hyunjin comes out of the kitchen holding a couple of extra plates, and he sets them down just as Changbin pushes you gently towards the group.

You exhale and sit down next to Felix, who's busy digging his way through a container of noodles. There's been no time lately to cook since schedules have been so busy, and Chan finally gave in when the members pleaded to have takeout for the fifth time after dance practice.

Not you. You disappeared as soon as the practice session ended. You've been so isolated lately that it almost feels strange to be around the members, to watch their antics and listen to their bickering. And normally, being around them would fill you with energy and you would gladly join in, but something inside you tells you to hold back and be quiet. Keep your head down, eat as little as possible, repeat.

Again and again and again.

The thoughts hang heavy in your mind as you're handed a plate. Gulping, you spoon out the smallest possible portion that you can handle without the others noticing the size of it. It's barely half a plate.

"Y/nnie!" Hyunjin calls. "Aren't you gonna eat more? You've been working harder than old man Chan-hyung lately."

Chan lightly slaps the boy upside his head and detaches the piece of fried chicken from within Jeongin and Jisung's shared grip. He lightly chides them and their bickering stops momentarily, hunger taking over pettiness. For the time being, anyway.

Hyunjin has managed to draw everyone's attention to your plate and it's immediately filled with several more portions, the boys chiding you affectionately and heaping more food onto the ceramic. The sight of it makes you want to throw up, and you fight the sudden surge of anger rising in your chest. You want to throw the plate at Hyunjin's face.

But you don't, so you sit and seethe as the boys settle down to eat, munching through sides and conversing cheerily with each other. You feel none of the joy of sharing a good meal with friends; just a cold, dead numbness that makes you feel like a disconnected power plug compared to all the others. You watch them eat platefuls without blinking, without caring, and part of you wishes you could do the same, but it's too much to ask.

Besides, you think, looking down at your plate, it's for the better. Hunger will keep me sharp.

You bite your lip and take tiny, tiny mouthfuls of the food; barely even forkfuls while you try and make up an excuse to leave the table. You could pretend that something urgently needs working on; the new choreo, maybe? No... Minho will force you to sit and eat before you leave.

Or you could say you feel sick, but you don't have a temperature or any physical ailments, and you've been fine since this morning. Not really an option either.

You could also just sit and eat like a normal human being, but the last thing you want is a full stomach, or a stomach with anything in it. And you've already tried purging and it's too messy and loud, so that's out of the question too.

You think about putting on some theatrical display of feeling sick or overtired but you just don't have the energy. And if you get up and just leave, all of them will come and pester you. The last thing you want right now is to talk about it.

Felix nudges you lightly and you almost shoot him a glare, but you reign it in. It's Felix.

"You feeling, okay, Y/n?" He asks quietly, smiling. "You look a little pale."

You thank your stars, and Felix. He's just given you an opportunity to escape. You feign a slow, tired expression.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "I just- I feel a bit sick."

His expression changes to one of affectionate concern and he places a hand over your forehead. "You don't feel warm... maybe it's because you're working too much that you feel sick."

You groan inwardly just as Chan looks your way, checking up. He raises an eyebrow in mild concern and you wince a little, signalling that you want to leave. You feel confident for a minute that he'll let you leave, because he always says yes, understanding that the bickering and noise gets too much for you sometimes. But he just shakes his head and points to your plate, mouthing "Eat.".

He. Shakes. His. Head.

You almost gape and consider getting up anyway, but the prospect of him finding everything out is almost too much to bear. The thought of being exposed makes shame burn through your veins, though it hasn't even happened, and you begin to feel the familiar, heavy inferiority settle in your gut like a teary, reprimanded child.

There's one last, desperate resort.

"I'm going to the bathroom," you murmur to Felix. "I think I got my period."

He nods, and you hope that Chan doesn't call you out as you stand and begin to walk away, every nerve tense. Thankfully, he doesn't, and you make it to your bedroom without trouble, shutting the door heavily behind yourself.

You open the door to the bathroom and immediately step on the scale, just to check that nothing's added itself on. You exhale a sigh of relief at the sight of the numbers decreasing just slightly.

Phew.

You lock the bathroom door and sit on the cold tiles, waiting. You can kill time for a while and then pretend to fall asleep on your bed. No way the boys will tell you off when they find out you just happened to fall asleep due to your consistent early schedules.

You sigh and reach into one of the drawers, pulling out a pad. Ripping the item off of the patterned plastic, you fold the sticky tabs back in and tuck in back in the drawer. You throw the plastic in the bin, making sure to run the tap for a few seconds so it looks like you've put a pad on and washed your hands. Felix uses your bathroom sometimes too because Hyunjin takes so long in their shared one, so you have to keep up the guise of the sudden arrival of a period.

Sighing, you open the bathroom door and are met with Chan. Your heart drops out of your chest and flies out the window entirely.

"C-chan," you stutter feebly, pressing a hand to your chest. "You scared me."

"Sorry," he says quietly. "Felix told me you thought you got your period. Are you feeling okay?"

You nod. He has no idea about what's going on, and the thought makes you feel a sort of twisted pride at the realisation.

"Do you need anything?" he asks. Ever the leader.

You shake your head, risking the next sentence. "I'm gonna lie down for a while, though..."

"Do you want me to bring you something to eat?"

You think before responding, the thoughts flashing through your head quick as lightning. If you say yes, he'll being food and expect the plate to be finished when he comes to collect it from your room. If you say no, he'll get suspicious.

"Yes, please," you say weakly, even though the mere thought of ingesting something makes you want to throw up.

Chan nods and you lie down on the bed, fighting the urge to just spill everything to him. But you can't, so you stay quiet and watch as Chan brings your plate from the table and sets it gently on the bedside.

You expect him to leave, but he doesn't. He sits down on the end of the bed, and your nerves begin to fray a little, feeling irritated that he won't just leave you alone.

If that wasn't enough, you suddenly notice that the faint noises from the members in the kitchen are gone, replaced with a dull, eerie silence. You feel a bit sick until you spot familiar faces lingering near the doorway of your room, their silhouettes visible against the frame of light spilling from the hallway.

"Y/n," Chan says quietly. A cold dread sits in your stomach, chilling you to the stomach. You know exactly what's coming.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out before he can continue.

Chan doesn't even look surprised, and he runs a hand through his hair just as Changbin moves into the room, sitting on the bed next to him. He places a hand on your thigh.

A sinking feeling takes hold of your gut.

They already knew.

Chan starts to talk. "Y/nnie, we know what's been going on. You're not in trouble, okay?"

You groan. "Well, now I feel like I am."

Changbin can't help but chuckle a little, though it's quieter than his usual laugh. "We didn't stop you to begin with because we didn't want you to feel like we were keeping tabs on you."

"And we thought it was something you could handle on your own," Chan adds quietly. "It was wrong of us to stand by and let you do this to yourself."

"We're sorry, Y/n," Hyunjin adds from the doorway. "We thought we were helping by forcing you to eat, but clearly not. And I'm sorry for drawing attention to how much you were eating earlier."

A hot tear spills over the brim and burns a line down the soft skin on your cheek. "Why are you all apologising? I shouldn't have done it, I just felt so low and I couldn't bring myself to eat, and-"

This time it's Jeongin who moves to sit next to you on the bed, and he coos at you lightly, quieting you. "It's okay, Y/n. Most of us know how that feels. But the thing is, you don't have to lie to us. We'll never say anything judgmental to you about it."

You nod tearfully and let Chan stroke your hair lightly, the warmth helping to soothe the storm inside your head.

"Would it help if you could eat alone?" He says quietly. "When most of us were trainees, we weren't used to eating so much in front of others, so most of us ate separately from each other until we felt more confident. Would that help?"

You nod.

"Besides, if you do that," Changbin adds jokingly, "One day, you'll be able to stuff your face like we do."

For the first time in you don't know how long, an involuntary laugh bubbles out of your chest, quite unexpectedly, and for the first time, it feels right.

a/n: no one is allowed to cry on this 9th member fic like last time

[egophiliac]

WAIT when did he get FANGS

[dubioushonour]

Drafted this up after this post broke containment. Good heavens. For funsies, here is a retrospective of things I learned from this poll and other humorous highlights now that the vote is over:

You can't edit the wheel once it's gone live because it changes the URL. Sorry aroace community, I forgot to put No Sex on there and by the time I remembered it was too late and this had like 30k notes 😔

For everyone mad they got something extremely terrible- my three test spins were Drowning, Suicide, and Major Character Death. The Wheel is not only impartial, it is merciless!

I would say like maybe half everyone reblogging understood the assignment so I'm maybe half proud of you, Tumblr.

Several instances of "I don't like what I got but considering what I do to MY blorbos, I get it and I can't even be mad" which I thought was very amusing.

Inevitably, with 300 tags, there were going to be ones people were unfamiliar with (especially older fandom ones or the really niche kink tags). Some people looked them up! Many did not. (Many people regretted looking them up and others learned something new about themselves! Yay!)

In a similar vein, there was a notable population of individuals spinning this wheel who don't read a lot or ANY fanfiction, or have a familiarity with AO3 at all, and they consistently had a VERY bad time with this.

Some people were very, very upset to get #Teeth. Others were VERY enthusiastic about it.

Fewer people were happy to get #Slime (but some were!)

Many people were confused about #Robot Sex. I don't know how I could have been clearer tbh.

A nonzero number of adults were unfamiliar the word "cunnilingus".

I'm not sure what the odds were, but I think it was VERY funny how often the sex repulsed aroace crowd kept getting porn/romance tags VS how often the kinky allosexual crowd kept getting the No Romance Queerplatonic Non-Sexual Unrequited Crush Gen tags. Sorry for the character assassinations/sorry you didn't get laid!

Anyways I don't think I actually learned anything lol. If I did this again I would keep better track of my tags and make it 400 or 500 because I want to see how awful the wheel would look.

Spin this wheel of ~300 AO3 tags three times.

[lazylittledragon]

what if i broke all the bones in your legs actually

[artkaninchenbau]

People keep on asking for more Baby Robin and Papadile so here is more Baby Robin and Papadile. Now never ask anything from me ever again

[bixels]

In the past, people in the Animal Crossing community would make fun of Tom Nook as a sleazy landlord. Since then, he's really rehabilitated his image as this 'heart of gold' businessman (he's the one who puts bells and furniture in trees for you to find! he adopted orphans! he donates to charity!), but New Horizons genuinely paints the most devious version of him.

He's successfully privatized settler colonialism: you pay HIM to move to a "deserted island" (which apparently the oceans in the AC world are just full of) and start a colony that he is directly invested in. At best he's running a weird vacation package scam (you arrive on the island with no money and in debt for "using his services"). At worst, he's using you to set up company towns. For god's sake, he literally has his own fake currency that he forces you to use to pay off your debt. But don't worry, he's repackaged it in a way that definitely doesn't sound like an MLM scam: the Nook Mileage Program!

You're no longer just his tenant or his temporary part-timer, you're his business lackey. The entire tutorial section of the game has you spending actual weeks running around completing tasks and doing hard labor to set up his colony. You're even tasked with preparing his properties and finding buyers for them. No, you aren't a tenant anymore. You work for the landlord. You are directly responsible for finding tenants for him. And he doesn't even fucking pay you. Not for setting up town hall and museum, or his nephew's shop –– which is the ONLY store on the entire island that sells necessities –– or bringing KK Slider to town, or helping populate his town. Not a single cent. No, actually, you have to pay HIM to BUY infrastructure like bridges and stairs and park benches. And all the while, he's telling you're the "resident representative"; you get to call the shots! That the reward is the community's progress. That what you're doing is in everyone's best interest (but most importantly, his).

Since NH's release, people have done a lot of legwork to say that Tom Nook isn't a capitalist while the game shows him at his very worst. He owns the only general store in town. You're forced to use a phone that he modified and branded as his own. Buy Nook-branded furniture and merchandise at the self-serve kiosk in the town hall, a governmental building! There's no conflict of interest here!

But hey, if you're tired of being the landlord/business mogul's goon, you can also find work as a deluxe resort home designer for a company that also pays you in their special company currency that can only be used to buy their products instead of a real salary! Because that's what the Animal Crossing franchise needs! More vacation homes!!!

[soyochii]

Quick doodles before I evaporate.