#but a thing i learned while doing it is that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

otakufilms · 2 days ago

Text

‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓾𝓯𝓲𝓵𝓶𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝔀𝓲𝓷𝓰…‧₊˚﹒♡﹗₊˚⊹❀

cinnamon. toji.

𓊆ྀི warnings .ᐟ + word count— 14.7K, original!blackfemalecharacter, original!blackfemprekteacher, megumifushiguro implemented!, tojifushiguro!, southerncoded!toji, aggressive!toji, dadcoded!fushiguro, sweet!toji, dominant!toji, possessive!toji, pet names, dirtytalk!, rough!sex, unprotected!sex, nutting on face!, swallowing!, squirting!, creaming!, stand and carry position, riding, doggy style, pussy eating, dick sucking, minors are not welcome! 𓊇ྀི

メモ。— a lil’ late night post, will apologize for that. but hey, it’s me. had to post mine + apparently y’all’s favorite toji fic first, teehee. and bc i didn’t do it last time, will preface by saying the main characters name is asael, pronounced ah—sigh—yell, bc i think some of y’all were confused. anyways, here’s cinnamon remastered— cute, hot, sexy times combined into one fic ! love you, hope you enjoy.

ビジュアル。

DOODLES OF SPIDER-MAN WERE DRAWN ON THE RIGHT CORNER OF HIS PAPER, THE HANDWRITING EASILY RECOGNIZABLE TO HER SLENDER EYES. A small grin rises on her full lips, vision flickering up to search for her favorite student—there he was, bashful unintentionally, darkened hair and flushed cheeks hiding within his journal as usual.

Some children were like him, while some weren’t. She adored her career within education, a Pre-K teacher always being the walk of life she’d wanted for herself—it’s was their genuine giggles, their doe eyes curious with every question, their excitement of learning something new each and every day—if anything, it made her feel like the same superhero drawn upon the paper she currently graded. Speaking of that drawing, it belonged to a particular student of hers. Megumi.

She wasn’t supposed to have favorites, but he was hers.

Onyx hair that sprawled around his head, round deep blue irises that beamed when something caught his interest, to the shy giggle he gave when he found something entertaining. She never had any problems with Megumi—well, all but one.

Anti-social was an understatement. He would stay inside and draw rather than be outside during recess, and his refusal to participate in group activities didn’t make it any better. She respected her students and their personal space, but after a year of the same pattern? It was starting to become concerning.

They were all currently assigned to work stations, finding him in the Art corner of the room, of course. Doing a brief check of each station, she tip-toes over to a yellow table, the painted oak glowing an amber hue from the years of it being used.

“Hey, Meg. You okay?”

When she doesn’t receive an answer, she gives a warm smile to her other student at the table. Layla. Tawny brown skin beautifully complimented with her light brown pigtails, humming softly as she scribbles her own drawings on construction paper.

So she tries again, “Did you see what Layla drew?”

Megumi peers up at his teacher, face hidden underneath the veil of his messy bangs. As usual, his cheeks gain that familiar crimson color, and he nods. He didn’t mean to ignore her, he just had his focus on something—in this case, another Spider-Man drawing. At his teacher mentioning Layla—he leans over towards her paper with wide eyes. The drawing was of a family, a mom, dad, and their baby all sitting on a picnic blanket.

The only thing she receives is the smallest mumble of, “Pretty,” as he quickly goes back to his own craft.

She blows out a soft exhale.

“It is.”

At another attempt, she leans in closer—her fingers point to the little girl’s drawing, “Hey, Lala. That’s a pretty picture. Did you see Megumi’s drawing?”

Layla lifts her head and immediately smiles. The five year old loved to talk, which was the opposite of Megumi, a bundle of sunshine ready to explode next to the starry night that was her classmate.

“Mhm!”

Layla leans forward to get a better look, brown curls bouncing with her gasp, “That’s so cool!”

Megumi visibly preens at the compliment, eyes widening like a puppy would as they receive a treat. Being a more timid child, he wasn’t one to receive the attention of others too often, so when it happened? It was all the more special.

His round face beams, turning a darker shade of pink as he nods his head rapidly, “…I did it all by myself.”

“How about you show Layla the Spider-Girl you drew? Better yet, you can make her one to take home, yeah?”

“I love Spider-Girl!” Layla gasps, “Can III get one, Megumi?”

Megumi’s eyes light up like twinkling stars. The shy boy nods his head eagerly, happy to have someone interested in something he enjoyed, a slight smile now spreading across his small face.

“Mhm…”

He nods his head, going into his desk as he then says, “I can make you another Spider-girl one, this one’s for my dad, okay?”

A giggle escapes Layla, a nod in return as she bounces up and down in her chair, pigtails bobbing along with every move. Megumi starts to quickly draw another version of the super hero he so admired, but through this adorable interaction, he mentions something that does distract his teacher—his father.

Like Candyman or Bloody Mary, these were examples of ominous things that possibly existed, including her students' father. She’d attempted to contact him since the year started, Megumi’s nanny being the only person that dropped him off from the first day up until now. When she asked the nanny if there was any particular reason why he never showed up, it was always vague.

“He’s a busy man,” she’d say.

It wasn’t a teacher's business to pry, but she’d concluded something— The reason why Megumi clung to her so much? It was only because this attention was lacking at home. She proclaimed that whenever his father decided to make his grand entrance, she’d give him a piece of her mind.

She just didn’t know that day would be today.

“Hey, Ms. Honey.”

The familiar voice catches her attention—brown eyes flicker to the doorway of her classroom, seeing lavender overalls coated in colored handprints—Mrs. Emery, a teacher from across the hall that taught first grade.

“‘Afternoon, Mrs. Em.”

“I love your classroom—your kids are like the ultimate palate cleanser,” Mrs. Em grins, “Ready to get out of here?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Ms. Honey sighs, “What’s with the painted overalls? I hope you aren’t exploring a new sense of fashion.”

“Girl, no. My first graders got a little carried away during art time—You’d think they were Picasso.”

“You look like you’ve been vandalized.”

“I was.”

The first grade teacher scans over the room, taking notice of an unfamiliar sight; Megumi leans into his classmate, showing her the drawing he was in the process of completing for her.

Mrs. Em’s eyes go slightly wide as she whispers, “Is that Megumi—making friends?”

Ms. Honey giggles softly, “Trying to. I asked him to show Layla his drawing, I thought he was gonna faint.”

Mrs. Em grinned at her words, hands landing on her hips with a slight laugh, “He’s so shy, what a cutie.”

“I just wish he wouldn’t be so afraid to make friends, you know? Everyone in class always wants to talk to him—And his drawings? It’s nothing I’ve ever seen from a five year old. They’re phenomenal,” she crosses her arms, “You’d think he’d want the company since he’s an only child. I know how lonely that can be.”

“Speaking of home, any updates on Mysterious Daddy?” she raises a brow, “I still need the details on that.”

“Girl, if only there were details to give—I have to go through an interview just to have the nanny tell me he can’t talk—I’ve never spoken to the man directly. To make matters worse, she’s terrified of him.”

“No email?”

“Not even a letter from a bird,” Ms. Honey counters, “The nanny also said she only speaks with him when it’s close to Megumi’s bed time—She doesn’t know what he does for work, nor does she feel the need to ask.”

Mrs. Em leans her elbow on a bookshelf, raising a brow at the information she was given, “Sounds like a mob boss, if you ask me.”

Ms. Honey shoots her a look, shaking her head before saying, “If you ask me, he’s a lazy parent or doesn’t even want to be one. What man can’t talk to his child’s teacher about his own kid?”

Both women’s gaze fell towards Megumi once more, the little boy now showing the finished drawing to another classmate that peered over his shoulder with curiosity.

“At least he has you, Ms. Honey. You’re practically a Mommy.”

Ms. Honey sighs, a small smile at the notion, “I’m trying—But it’s not enough. I can tell he craves that one on one attention from a parent, and that’s not something I can fully give as his teacher.”

“Are you gonna give his father a piece of your mind if he ever comes up here?”

“A piece of it? No. My entire cranium? Absolutely.”

Mrs. Em grins widely at that, letting out a chuckle as she concludes, “Now that I’d pay to see.”

The two women continued their gossip for another minute or so—but this introduction needed no words to gain attention.

Cologne wafts at their nostrils, pulling their eyes in the direction of the classroom’s door frame.

A scar. Jagging across full, deep pink lips told Ms. Honey everything she needed to know. The scent of him was sharp and spicy—an epitome of masculinity, heavy boots made for the ground to quake with every step he took—eyes grey, but dark enough to appear almost black, like a raging storm in an unforgiving ocean beneath his equally onyx eyebrows and hair. His broad shoulders were camouflaged by a sable shirt, tight along his hard torso that almost pulled inwards—that’s just how built he was.

The two women went silent in their conversation, eyes widening at the presence that stood in the classroom’s doorway—He stood tall, so tall that both of the teachers had to look up from where they stood, their eyes scanning his body with clear intrigue. Tattoos, tattoos, tattoos. They cover his body like art, all the way up to where his neck ended and his jaw began—but the star of show was a skull seeping within the flesh of his throat on the left side, radiating an intimidation Ms. Honey never thought she’d engage with. He dropped the motorbike helmet and leather jacket he held within a vein covered palm, furrowed brows searching for something—or someone within the room.

"Who's that?”

Ms. Honey murmurs, “…I don’t know.”

The moment his stormy eyes lock onto hers, it’s like lightning striking twice—She could feel the crackle of tension in the air as his gaze rakes her frame. A rose blooms against the side of her neck, the wine red ink contrasting with her honey brown freckles and caramel complexion. His vision drags lower—taking in the curve of her waist, hips that sway even when she stands still, legs barely hidden beneath the flowing burgundy fabric of her skirt. The deep ginger of her curls are snatched into a ponytail to show the pure beauty of her face, edges curled along her forehead, spiraling down to her lower back.

Giving a comforting touch to Mrs. Em’s arm, she then makes her way over towards the door—a polite smile reaches her lips, “Good afternoon, um—I don’t think you have the right classroom, what teacher are you looking for?”

The man’s eyes never wavered from her form. He noticed a nervous habit as she tugged on her ponytail, anxious as she waited for a response. Her scent then wafts his nose—Cinnamon.

“Nah.”

His voice had a rasp, a deep baritone that crawled through her entire spine.

“I’m in the right place. ‘You Ms. Honey?”

Her eyebrows raise up.

She replies, “Um, I am. I just—I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you to be one of my students' parents,” she places her hands behind her back, his eyes dropping down to her physique, eyebrow twitching.

“I’m Megumi’s father, Toji Fushiguro.”

His words hit her like a ton of bricks. All that shit talking had gone out of the window, never expecting this to be the moment of their long awaited confrontation.

“Oh,” she murmurs out loud, turning back into the classroom’s direction, “Mrs. Emery, would you mind getting the kids started with dismissal?”

Her first grade colleague nods, “Alright—let’s gather all our things and get ready to leave for the day!”

Ms. Honey’s smile fades as she turns back in his direction—she exhales, “So, you’re Megumi’s father?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, “That’s what I just said.”

She blinks at that.

Reaching a hand out anyway, she smiles, “It’s finally nice to meet you! You’re the person I’ve been wanting to speak to, actually.”

A hand never comes out in return.

“You’re the one with concerns ‘bout how I’m raisin’ my kid.”

Okay, so he wasn’t the type to be passive aggressive. Just aggressive aggressive.

Ms. Honey places her tongue within her cheek—she laughs awkwardly in response, “Well, I just more so wanted a conversation to happen between us. You’re a very difficult man to get in contact with,” she attempts to joke, “Would you have time to talk?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, biceps bulging through the fabric of his shirt—Toji glared down at her with those unreadable, steely eyes.

“I’m listenin’.”

Her chin lifts slightly at the challenge in his tone. Sweet as honey she may be, that sunny disposition began to dissipate.

“Well, Megumi’s a brilliant child—but he's struggling socially,” She keeps her voice low, “He avoids group activities, has an issue making friends, and the only thing that keeps his interest is his school work and drawing.”

“You’re upset ‘cause the kid ain’t a social butterfly?”

Her eyes squint at him.

She pensively disagrees, “No. When I asked him who he’s drawing for, he said his father. He seems to be seeking your approval, Mr. Fushiguro. It’s not my place to give tips on your parental guidance, but I’d give the notion that if you were more of a figure in your child’s life, his participant skills would bloom just like a social butterfly.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You’ got kids?”

The question makes an etch of emotion flicker across her face.

It fades, her voice flat as she responds, “No, sir. I don’t.”

“Then who the fuck are you to tell me ‘bout raisin’ mine?”

There it is. Her nostrils flare, irritation now rising at his response.

“What I am is somebody tellin’ you to watch your mouth around my students. Quickly,” her voice goes lower to repeat, “What I am is someone who knows with enough love and attention to your son, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place, Mr. Fushiguro.”

“You think you know me?” His voice was equally low, dangerous—each syllable dripping with warning, “You don’t know shit.”

Ms. Honey doesn’t flinch—her back straightens and she holds her ground, eyes blazing right back up at him despite the obvious difference in height and intimidation factor.

“I never said I knew you,” she counters, “But I do know your son—and he deserves to feel like he matters to somebody.”

“You don’t think he matters to me?”

His voice carries, “Who do you think puts the clothes on his back, the food in his mouth, tucks him in bed at night? I don’t need some gentle parentin’ bullshit ‘bout how to raise my own son. ‘Know I’m not one of those other parents you’re used to—I’m your worst goddamn nightmare.”

She knocks her face back, raising an eyebrow. Was this motherfucker trying to scare her? Who in the goddamn hell was he talking to?

All of her professionalism went out the window.

She sneered, “Come find me in my sleep, then. I’d appreciate the effort of at least faking as if you’re committed to having a child, rather than clockin’ in and out when you don’t feel like being a father.”

“Maybe I ain’t one of those fathers that bakes sugar cookies with my kid and reads him a bedtime story, Ms. Honey, but I’m present. I don’t need your fuckin’ advice.”

“Then double it and pass it to the next person, Mr. Fushiguro. I literally don’t give a fuck!—“

“Ms. Honey, can I take this book home with me from your shelf?”

A sweet voice calls from below, the teacher's attention being pulled away by a pair of doe eyes. Green, round and curious as they lift The Hungry Caterpillar in her direction.

The mindless eyes of her student Rhylin brings her to reality. She takes a step back, pressing her fingers softly into the four year old’s cheek—“Of course, baby boy. Make sure to bring it back tomorrow, okay?”

Rhylin nods profusely, scurrying off into the flurry of other children with no awareness of the tension between the two adults.

Her warm voice, her gentle touch, her calmness—how easily his son could have been on the receiving end of such a gentle, motherly natured woman didn’t go unnoticed—Toji shoved his hands deep within his pockets, the veins along them protruding as large fingers curled tightly into the black material.

When she faced this man again, it also made her realize that she’d made a fool of herself. She allowed him to rile her up in a way that she’d never interacted with a parent.

Taking a deep breath, she leaves him with, “I’ll go get Megumi.”

She makes her way over to the art station—squatting down, her fingers rake back the tousled hair sprawled along the five year old’s cheeks, “Hey, handsome. Look who’s here for you.”

Megumi’s head snaps up at her words, his dark blue eyes lighting up like tiny fireworks when they land on his father. In an instant, the shy little boy transforms—his small legs carry him across the classroom in a flurry of excitement, nearly tripping over his own feet as he bounds toward Toji.

Similar to his son, Toji’s entire demeanor shifts—the moment those tiny arms wrap around his leg, all that gruff hostility melts away. His large hands scoop Megumi up effortlessly, settling him against his chest with a tenderness that stuns Ms. Honey where she stands. The way he cradles the back of Megumi’s head with one palm while pressing a firm kiss to those messy black bangs, it doesn't match the man who was just snarling at her seconds ago.

His native tongue naturally flows through the scar of his full lips, voice deep, “Daijōbudesuka? Kyō wa dōdeshita ka?”

No response escapes Megumi at first, his round face buried into his father’s chest as his tiny arms tighten around the man’s broad neck. Toji doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the lack of words, stroking a callous palm down the back of his son’s head. Pressing his tiny face into his father’s neck, he then murmurs back in Japanese—quiet words that only his father could hear. The man hums in response, rubbing circles along the boy’s back with rough fingers that somehow handle him so carefully.

The contrast is jarring.

Ms. Honey can only stand there frozen, still squatted by the art station as a realization settles over her—She might’ve been wrong.

“You wanna take home your morning snacks, Meg?”

She tries to sound normal, but her embarrassment of the previous interaction has her awkwardly smoothing out her skirt as a distraction.

Megumi peeks at her from over Toji’s shoulder—his cheeks still pressed against his father's neck, but he nods shyly, “Yes.”

She manages a smile despite the tension in the air, moving to gather up his little paper bag of snacks. She somehow avoids her gaze along Toji when she drops the bag in his hand, taking a breath as she clasps her palms together, “I didn’t hear the clean up song while Mrs. Emery instructed dismissal time!”

The entire class began reciting the tune, collecting up their last bit of things into their backpacks. If only she’d noticed the way a pair of eyes dropped down to her ass, watching the flesh jiggling with every step she took around the classroom.

“Bye, Megumi—“

A shriek interrupts her sentence as he swiftly drops from his father, tightly wrapping his arms around her lower half.

Ms. Honey can’t help her small giggle, hugging him back as she speaks softly, “I’ll see you tomorrow, handsome. ‘Promise I’m not gonna run away.”

Megumi squeezes her middle even tighter, tiny fingers bunching up the fabric of her skirt as he buries his face against her hip. For someone so quiet, he sure knew how to make his affection loud—the sheer force of his hug nearly knocks the breath out of her.

She smooths a hand over his unruly black hair one last time before offering him that warm smile again, “I promise.”

With a final shy wave from Megumi, small fingers grasp onto Toji's much larger hand. His father gives their intertwined hands a gentle swing as they begin walking away—but not before those dark stormy eyes flicker back towards hers.

The weight of their gaze feels like lightning crackling between them—heavy and charged with something neither can name yet. Toji doesn't say another word though; just holds her in that silent stare for one heartbeat longer before turning on his heel, guiding Megumi out into the hallway.

When she turns back towards her classroom, her brown eyes go wide as saucers as she locks in with Mrs. Emery, who stands there with a hand pressed over her mouth to stifle laughter.

“How bad was that?”

Mrs. Em gives her an innocent shrug, hiding the slight grin on her lips with her hand.

“I definitely got my money’s worth.”

Yeah, it was bad.

Being left alone within the classroom gave her time to think as it was an hour after dismissal, wishing that conversation hadn’t gone so left. Crashing out on a parent could’ve gotten her fired.

She simmered on this thought as she sat at her desk going through her students homework, the buzz of a FaceTime call tugging her eyes in the direction of her phone.

Ezra.

She sighs, connecting the call in preparation to hear the rambles of her best friend.

“Yes, Ezra?”

Ezra groans dramatically as his face appears on her screen, brown skin and emerald green waves appearing through the camera. He draws out her first name, “Asael, I’m boooooreeeed.”

“Don’t you have that car show to go to later?” Asael looks over the camera, “Or have a little sneaky link to link with?”

Ezra rolls his eyes, “That last nigga was a lil’ hookup. Besides, you know I have a new boo—Cameron,” he dreamily sighs, “Speaking of, that’s actually what I called you for. The car show is tomorrow night—and you’re coming with me.”

“Says who?”

Ezra glares at her through the screen, a scowl falling across his flawless features.

“Says me. I need you there for moral support—what if all them’ country bama, Confederate flag loving niggas is out? I’m only going ‘cause my Cameron wants to show off his car. Or maybe, all the fine niggas will be out! You could find a sexy biker to swipe your little celibacy card,” he teases, ignoring the glare she sends back through the camera.

“It’s abstinence, smart ass.”

“A year of no dick is insane either way. You have a strong sense of mind and body,” Ezra hums.

“Anyways, I’m good. Not in the mood to watch a bunch of guys do donuts on the street for hours.”

Ezra pouts, his plump lips turning into a frown as he whines.

“Come on, it’s not gonna’ be just guys doing donuts. There’s going to be live music, food—hot guys, oh, and hot guys again! You know the fine niggas be on Bourbon Street.”

Asael thinks it over, tilting her head to the side.

“Hot guys, food, and hot guys with their cool cars? ‘Guess that doesn’t sound too bad.”

She finalizes, “I’ll come. I need a drink after the shitty day I’ve had.”

This piques Ezra’s interest.

“Do tell. Who pissed you off?”

“It’s not—“

She sighs, “Do you remember my student, Megumi?”

“The adorable little quiet one that draws all those Spiderman pictures? Of course I do—Wait,” Ezra gasps, pressing closer to the screen dramatically, “Did he get into a fight with another kid? Throw crayons at someone? Bite ‘em?!”

“Worse, I finally met his father. Ghostface ripped my ass to shreds. ‘Told me it wasn’t my business how he raised his son, that I needed to mind my own, and that I didn’t know what the fuck I was talking about.”

Ezra’s brows shoot up so high they almost disappear into his hair.

“Bitch, you’re lying.”

“Did I mention the bastard is the hottest fucker you’ve ever seen?” She adds on, seeing Ezra’s jaw drop down to the core of the earth.

Asael nods at his reaction, “The nigga could put a nun out of commission.”

“And he ate you up that bad?”

“‘Chewed me up and spit me out. I was ready to swing on his ass, but I’m starting to feel like that entire argument wasn’t my business to begin with. He seemed—comforted in Megumi’s presence.”

Asael then sighs, “But you know how I feel about his son, Ezra. I’m just afraid that the lack of attention will cause him to change.”

Ezra hums in thought, propping his chin on his palm.

“So let me get this straight—fine as hell, bad attitude, but then is all gentle with his kid?” he tilts his head, “‘Sounds like someone caught feelings after realizing he’s a good man.”

Asael scowls at him, “What? No. I just—”

“Aht,” Ezra cuts off , wagging a finger, “When men show softness like that? That’s how you know they got layers.”

“Whatever,” she huffs, “All I said was the nigga wasn’t wrong about me stepping out of line, I’m not tryna’ give him a bouquet of flowers. Now he hates me.”

"Don’t say that. You were just worried ‘bout baby boy, and that man knew it deep down."

Asael tugs at her pony tail once more—she parts a sigh from her lips once more, “I feel bad. I want to apologize—even if he was a dick.”

She leans back into her chair, rubbing a hand over her face as she groans, half covering her mouth as she quietly admits, “He had a fuckin’ neck tat, Ezra! I wanted to lick him.”

Ezra snickers, “‘Can’t believe you didn’t snap a picture with your eyes and mind transfer it to me,” he smacks his lips, “But seriously. If he comes to pick him up tomorrow, just take off your prideful panties and apologize! That’s all.”

“You think he’ll accept it?”

“You’re not apologizing for him to accept it.”

Asael grumbles, “Right. You’re annoying.”

“And also morally correct.”

She softly laughs, rolling her eyes as she finalizes, “I gotta finish these papers—meet me at my place by the time I’m off work tomorrow?”

“Noted. One more thing?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don’t want him, can I have Ghostface? I promise imma’ answer the phone.”

“Ezra, get the fuck off my phone.”

“Muah! Bye!”

When the next day comes, Asael becomes antsy; glad for it to be Friday, but not glad that she admittedly had some apologizing to do. She hoped that she’d receive an apology in return, but she wasn’t holding her breath on that one—especially when the person who picked up Megumi was the nanny and not Toji.

“Are you almost ready? Cameron said we’re gonna be late!”

Asael stands in front of her full length mirror, still lost in thought. Her burnt orange curls cascade wildly down her back and shoulders, framing that flawless caramel face with delicate freckles dusted across it. She smooths her hands down the black baby tee that hugs her chest—the outline of her nipples visible beneath the fabric, matching mini skirt barely covering the poke of her ass, riding high on thick thighs that taper down into toned calves.

The early 2000s vixen heels add an extra three inches to her already blessed height—but not even their fluffy fur trim could distract from the way she chews at her bottom lip.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, “I’m ready.”

The Bourbon Street Car Show had the usual energy of nightlife, a melting pot of people filling up the area as they admired all the custom vehicles. The air was thick with the smell of southern food, the sound of music and chatter, and the occasional squealing of tires. It was the perfect Friday night.

But Ezra was right about one thing. This would be a good night—she’d forced to be even if it killed her.

“Daddy!”

Ezra squeals as a tall, broad figure comes up behind him, wrapping thick arms around his waist from behind. The stranger spins him playfully before setting Ezra back down with a chuckle.

Cameron was dark-skinned and devastatingly handsome, sporting deep brown waves that glisten under the neon lights—strong jawline dusted with neatly trimmed stubble, lips curled into an easy smirk as he looked down at Ezra like he hung the stars.

"Damn," Cameron rumbles, pressing a kiss to Ezra’s temple while eyeing Asael appreciatively, "’This your girl?"

"Yep!" Ezra beams proudly, “This is Asael. Asael, this is Cameron—don’t let that pretty face fool you though, this nigga built like one of them Titans underneath all this!" He tugs teasingly at Cameron’s loose brown sweatshirt, hiding his massive shoulders.

Cameron grins sheepishly as he reaches out for her hand—his grip warm and calloused, “He’s tryna’ make me blush. But it’s nice t'meet you, Asael.”

Asael takes his hand with a warm smile, “Nice to meet you too. Ezra won’t shut up about you, so I feel like I already know half your life story.”

Cameron chuckles as Ezra dramatically slaps her arm—only for Cameron to reel him back in by the waist. The little moment between them makes Asael smile, happy her best friend had found someone who adored him this much.

“I hear Ezra had to drag you here. Not a big fan of car shows, huh?”

“Correct. ‘The thought of motorbikes and extremely loud cars is annoying, but they’re cool to look at. I’m just here for the ride—No pun intended.”

Cam grins, “By all means, you can always just chill by my car. It’s the ’79 Dodge Charger.”

The vehicle sits low and menacing—jet black with red pinstriping that gleams under the streetlights. The chrome detailing makes it glint like a blade, its thick tires hugging the pavement as if built to tear through asphalt. The whole thing exudes raw power, an unspoken promise of speed lurking beneath its glossy hood.

Ezra bounces excitedly on his toes before dragging her towards it—Asael raises her brows, “This is amazing, Cam. How much did you spend on all the work?”

Cameron flashes a proud smile, running his fingers across the glossy black hood as if caressing the very heart that beats beneath.

“It was fasho’ a splurge, but worth every penny. She purrs like a kitten when she's revved up."

Ezra leans onto the vehicle, “It purrs better than me?”

His boyfriend smirks, pulling Ezra flush against him with a possessive grip on his waist—he murmurs, “Nothin’ sounds better than you.”

Asael barely catches the way Ezra mewls before Cameron’s lips are on his, swallowing whatever flustered comeback he was about to throw out.

She rolls her eyes fondly, third wheeling as if it were a profession.

“I’m gonna’ go find a drink.”

Slipping away unnoticed, she weaves through the crowd towards the nearest drink stand. The scent of fried food and spiced rum hangs heavy in the air as she orders herself something strong enough to erase the past couple of days.

Two tequila shots and a margarita later? She starts to feel alive again. Music thumps from nearby speakers, bass rattling her ribs pleasantly as people dance between parked cars glowing under neon lights.

Asael strides down the street, hips swaying with an almost feline-like grace as she struts between the rows of gleaming cars, men pausing to look her way. A few of them even try to catch her attention with low wolf-whistles, only to be met with a roll from her eyes. Women carry a mixture of envy and suspicion, pulling their partners close with each step she takes.

She slows down her stride as she saunters past a slick red Porsche with a glossy hood—a brown skinned man leans into the engine, grease staining his strong, tattooed forearms as he works.

Maybe she was feeling a little overzealous.

Asael leans against the hood of a nearby car, stirring her drink idly as she watches the stranger adjust something beneath his Porsche’s open hood. The muscles in his back ripple through his thin white tank top—the sight enough to make her sip just a bit slower.

“So,” he drawls, “You gon’ tell me why you starin’, or I gotta guess?”

She takes another sip from her straw. Her curls sway as she tilts her head, “Just admiring your car.”

“Yeah, aight.”

His lips twitch upward slightly as he reaches for an open beer beside him, taking a swiping gulp before meeting her gaze again—smirk still intact.

"’My ride’ too nice for you to look away, or you really lookin’ at me?”

"’Could be both.”

"Mmm,” He licks beer foam off his bottom lip lazily, eyeing her over once more.

“Maybe I need a lil’ passenger princess.”

“Maybe you do.”

The sound of rowdy voices and engine roars has her attention pulled briefly in a different direction of the night, where a group of people have seemed to gather around one particularly loud and obnoxious street bike.

It wasn't hard to miss—no, he wasn’t hard to miss.

Standing tall amongst his entourage of groupies and admirers alike, his skull neck tattoo gleams beneath the neon glow. It’s as if the hairs on her body stand up; Asael instantly recognizes that aura from a mile away.

It was him.

The lights reflecting off chrome and polished paint do nothing to hide that familiar stance—shoulders wide, spine straight like he was carved from stone. The flicker of his lighter catches her eye first, illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw as he brings a cigarette between those scarred lips. He takes a slow drag before exhaling smoke into the thick air—his deep-set eyes scanning lazily over the crowd like some bored king observing peasants at his feet.

Then she sees it—the quick exchange between him and another man; money slipping into pockets with practiced ease before something small gets tucked away discreetly through their clasped palms.

Asael’s stomach twists. Once again, she could’ve minded her business. Should have. But she could blame this instance on the alcohol—her heels click sharply against pavement as she marches straight in that direction without hesitation, ready to blow up this entire car meet.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

It was her.

His gaze drifts from her face to the outfit that accentuates the natural curve of her figure, a mused twitch tugging at his scarred lips. His shoulders are more relaxed, voice calm and collected to her surprise.

"Evenin’, pretty girl.”

She bristles at the pet name; dark eyes narrowing slightly, a scowl marring the features of that pretty face. He takes another drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke away from her direction before flicking the butt to the ground.

“You look good as fuck,” he rasps, “Who you showin’ out for?”

That statement makes her mind go blank. She realizes once again that she’s outside of her job atmosphere, pulling at the mini mini skirt. The last person she expected to see was one of her students' parents, especially the one she’d just previously had beef with. To make matters worse? He was looking at her in a way she hadn’t felt before. She wanted to punch him. Or make out with him—no, she wanted to punch him.

“Are you serious, Toji?”

“Say that shit again. My name.”

Asael blinks.

“Bastard. What the hell are you doing here? What the fuck are you even doing?”

He actually does smirk—and it’s sexy—like her anger entertains him.

"Answer my shit first," Toji rumbles.

His voice drops lower, rough like gravel under tires as he murmurs, “Who got you lookin’ like that tonight?”

“Me. Wait—No, that’s not what we’re talking about! Answer my question!”

“I’m just showin’ off my bike like everybody else.”

“And the handoff I just saw? That part of the show too?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw—his casual amusement dims slightly, forcing her to crane her neck even more to hold his gaze.

That’s when the corner of his scarred mouth ticks up—Toji exhales sharply through his nose, grinning like a wolf as he tilts his head down at her.

“Donatin’ to charity.”

The irritation runs so deep, her own native language spouts—“Donating to charity. You tryna be funny, nigga? Ou soti isit la ap fè kaka estipid lè ou ta dwe enkyete sou pitit ou a—“

She halts, taking a deep breath. Another breath to calm herself, she then asks, “Where’s your child, Toji?”

Toji raises an eyebrow at her sudden change in language, seeing how riled up he could easily have her. But overhearing her question brings him a sense of reality.

“You think I’d have my son around this kinda environment? Don’t fuckin’ play with me.”

The sneer in his voice has her cross her arms, needing more information than that.

He then confirms, “I’m not a dumbass, woman. He’s with the nanny—her kid comes over durin’ the weekends to hang with Megumi. ‘Got some other shit you wanna scream ‘bout?”

“You act like I’m screaming for no reason. Actually, I can give you five more things I wanna scream about!—“

“I got your beer, Fushiguro.”

Before Asael can finish her sentence, a blonde in a crop top and ripped jeans appears—her freshly manicured fingers curl around the neck of an ice-cold beer as she hands it to Toji with an exaggerated sway of her hips.

Her eyes flick towards Asael—pale blue irises narrowing ever so slightly before she looks back at Toji, “Who’s this?”

He cracks the beer open with his teeth.

“Megumi’s teacher, Ms. Honey. ‘Ain’t nowhere near sweet, though.”

“Funny,” she sarcastically drawls, “It’s just Asael.”

The blonde giggles at Asael’s tone—high pitched and grating—before looking her up and down again.

"I wouldn't have guessed,” she leans closer to Toji's side like she's trying to stake some kind of claim, “Teachers don't usually dress like that.”

Was that shade?

Yup, had to be. Asael feels every muscle in her body tighten at once.

“Sorry I wasn’t able to please you,” she dryly counters, “Would a cardigan satisfy?”

The girl rolls her eyes, flicking a blonde curl from her face before wrapping a slender arm around Toji's bicep. He doesn't make an attempt to pull away, and she seems to take it as some sort of win—her fingers toying with the sleeve of his shirt with a smirk.

“No. But maybe a whole outfit that doesn’t beg for attention.”

The girl's insults are corny, not enough to actually entertain. Asael dismissively turns Toji—her tone a bit more serious as she exhales, “We need to talk.”

“Now?”

“Do you think I give a fuck about your play time with Barbie?” she narrows her eyes, “I don’t. Yes, now.”

The blonde snaps like a live wire, stepping forward with a scoff.

“Excuse me? Who are you calling Barbie?”

Asael blinks slowly at her—completely unfazed as she deadpans, “Would you rather play-thing?”

“I’m not a play-thing, bitch.”

Asael raises a brow, “Who are you calling a bitch, bitch?”

She steps forward, allowing the alcohol within her system to take control of her patience. She wasn’t exactly thinking, either.

The blonde scoffs, “What’s your problem?”

“Now you wanna ask what my problem is? You just called me out my name, now I’m on whatever type’ of time you on!”

Toji wasn’t the type of man to get into women's business. But this particular interaction has him irritatedly standing to prevent an escalation—his large frame steps between them in one fluid motion, a palm landing on Asael’s waist to firmly nudge her back before she could get any closer. His grip is ironclad, making sure she stays put despite the fire in her eyes.

"Chill,” he murmurs lowly.

The blonde huffs behind him, crossing her arms with a glare aimed at Asael.

“No one’s worried about her,” the girl sneers, "She's just acting like a typical New Orleans hoodrat.”

“Hoodrat?”

Asael lunges forward—she doesn’t even get a chance to swing before Toji locks an arm around her waist, hauling her back against his chest. The sudden press of his hard body against hers nearly knocks the wind out of her, but she’s too busy spitting fire to care.

"Say that shit again!" Asael snarls, “I dare you!”

The blonde actually flinches this time—taking a full step back under the weight of Asael's fury. Toji tightens his grip around her waist like steel bands—his chin brushing against the top of her head as he mutters low into her ear.

“Knock it the fuck off.”

His breath is warm on the shell of her ear; it sends an involuntary shiver down her spine despite how pissed she was—but it doesn't stop Asael from twisting in hold just enough to glare up at him.

"Let me go, Fushiguro.”

"’Can't do that."

She jerks in his hold, “You like bitches who throw slurs?! ’Fuck off me, bro. I’m not playing.”

He doesn't even blink at her struggling form, his scarred mouth twitching at that accusation.

"Calm your ass down. I’m not worried ‘bout nothin’ else but you right now.”

Asael frowns below his glare, “Don’t tell me to calm down! Tell yo’ hoes to watch they’ fuckin’ mouth! Talking ‘bout some hoodrat—you don’t even know me!”

She attempts to lunge once more, the girl flinching back again. Toji grips Asael even harder, now pissed off rather than being irritated.

"You ain’t listenin’. You're not gettin’ into a fight over this.“

He then turns towards the girl as he simply commands, “Go.”

“What?” She frowns, “Go?”

“You heard me. Fuck off.”

The girl looks dumbstruck, her pale face turning a scarlet red at his harsh tone. She looks ready to argue, but a subtle stare shuts her up. With a huff, she murmurs, “Whatever,” her blonde locks flying all over the place as she weaves through the crowd.

The moment she leaves, Asael still feels herself still shaking— she rips herself away from Toji as she sneers, “I didn’t need your goddamn help.”

He instantly tugs her back, “Yeah? Then why was your little ass about to start a fight in the damn parking lot?"

“You think I was gonna let some white girl call me a hoodrat? Have you lost your mind? Like I’m just actin’ out for no reason—“ she yanks herself back, a game of tug-o-war at this point.

Toji was now fully pissed off.

His voice was low, “Get in the car.”

She looks over to the nearest car being a Dodge Durango Hellcat—the engine hums, wrapped a shiny black with blood red headlights shining across and below the vehicle.

“What? I’m not getting in your fucking car.”

“Woman. Get in the goddamn car.”

Asael doesn’t budge an inch—she stands there, shoulders squared, chin tilted up at him in open defiance. The glow from the streetlights reflects off her burning glare, lips sneered as she holds her ground.

Toji spares her for a couple more seconds. He rolls his neck with a quiet crack, exhaling sharply through his nose. A humorless chuckle escapes him—Before Asael can react, his calloused fingers curl around the back of her neck—not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to make resistance futile, yanking her towards the car in one smooth motion. She squeaks at the sheer force behind it, having no time to scramble for balance as he’s manhandling her into the passenger seat with ease.

The leather creaks beneath Asael as she straightens up sharply, “The fuck is wrong with you!—“

Toji braces one massive forearm on the roof of the car, leaning in so close his breath fans across her lips—his voice is nothing but a rough growl, dark eyes flashing with something dangerous.

"I’m seconds away from handlin’ your ass in this backseat. Put your damn legs inside.”

The command leaves no room for argument—his patience hangs by a thread as she glares up at him through thick lashes. However, another chill runs through her spine. For once, Asael actually listens, tucking her legs into the car without another word. The second they clear the doorframe, he slams it shut with enough force to make the entire frame rattle—she jolts at the vibration.

His shadow looms through tinted windows for another moment before stalking around toward the driver’s side—he falls into the seat, reclining back with a sigh—his body relaxed as he reaches into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes.

With a practiced ease, he plucks one to his lips before searching for a lighter, finding it tucked into the center console. He flicks the flame to life and brings it to the tip of the cigarette, inhaling deeply as he exhales through the window. Grey smoke curls out into the humid air, the smell of nicotine clinging to the interior.

He takes his time as he glances at Asael, dark eyes scanning over her tense form.

“You’ good now?”

“I’m fine.”

"Like hell. You nearly got into a fight over some dumbass words,” he mutters, exhaling smoke from his nostrils.

She turns her head.

“Do I need to repeat why I was initially upset? I don’t give a fuck about that hoe. I’m mad about what she said.”

He flicks ash out the window, unfazed.

“And you thought scrappin’ was gonna’ solve it? ‘Fuck you think that would’ve done?”

She bristles at that, looking away from him to stubbornly stare down at her heels—her body is still rigid as she murmurs, “It’s just the principle of it all.”

Toji lowers his brows.

He then says, “You gotta’ let stupid shit roll off the tongue, baby.”

She glares at him, but she stays quiet.

He exhales another stream of smoke, leaning back in the seat as he watches her from the corner of his eye, “Don’t give strangers the time of day. It ain’t ever that deep.”

He flicks his cig out the window as he continues, “You give them that kind of attention, shits gonna’ keep goin’. You’ll be wastin’ all your energy on people who don't matter, ‘stead of focusing on the ones who do.”

“So what— I’m just supposed to let people say whatever they want to me? Just like you don’t need my advice, I don’t need yours. Fuck off.”

“You always gettin’ this pissed off?”

“No. Probably that damn Tequila I drank. I don’t know,” she murmurs, the alcohol within her system feeling like two cups of coffee. Her knee immensely shakes as she feels more and more frustrated.

He watches her leg bounce up and down, feeling the entire seat vibrate with her. With an annoyed click of his tongue, Toji reaches out—his large hand grips the flesh of her thigh firmly, holding it still with ease.

“Quit doin’ that. You’re ‘bout to shake the goddamn car apart.”

The size difference is stark; his hand could circle her entire leg—Asael tenses at the contact, immediately stopping.

To her horror, he starts to rub his thumb over her skin. Soft circles over and over, almost comforting—almost hypnotic.

Toji glances back at the crowd outside, leaving Asael fighting off several thoughts all at once. She could blame her flushed cheeks on the alcohol, too.

God, why was this touch rushing all the way to her clit?

She gives it a couple more seconds.

Asael then mutters, “My bad.”

"That's all I get?”

“I’m not apologizing for nearly giving that bitch a hands on tonsil removal. But I didn’t mean to make a scene,” she mutters, making that her version of an apology, “But don’t sit here and act like if some dickhead came up to you talkin’ shit, you wouldn’t have had his heart placed within his prostate. Don’t even lie.”

Toji actually chuckles at that—it was deep and raspy, tightening his grip on her thigh.

“Nah. I can’t lie to you,” He admits, “Difference is, people don’t run their fuckin’ mouths ‘round me unless they’re lookin’ for a problem.”

“So people are scared of you,” she concludes, “Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical?”

His thumb stops rubbing—he exhales sharply through his nose, pinning her with a heavy look.

"Fear ain’t the same as respect. I don’t want folks shakin’ when I walk past—just means they know better than to try me,” his voice drops lower, “But you? You ain't scared of nothin’."

Oh, how wrong he was. Asael didn't know it, but her heart was beating at a thousand miles a minute—his every touch had a way of setting her nerves on fire, the rough callouses of his hands creating a delicious friction against her heated skin. His palm practically dwarfs her in size—She swallows, shifting in her seat as she murmurs, "Maybe I just don't always have a sense of self-preservation."

“Mm.”

His thumb drags down a bit, coming within her inner thigh. Asael watches. She can feel her nipples tearing through the fabric of her shirt, hornier than she’d ever been in a while. She imagines herself stroking her tongue against his, tugging his fingers further into her—

“You said you wanted to talk?”

She hears his voice, but she can’t look at him.

She tries to remember the question.

“I did,” she swallowed, “About what happened on Thursday.”

Toji hums, deep and slow—his fingers graze higher up her inner thigh, dangerously close to the damp heat of her now soaked panties.

The thought of spreading them wider torments her—begging him silently to drag those fingers across where she aches most.

"Thursday, huh?”

And then it happens—his thumb hooks under the lace now, just barely dipping beneath it to skim over the coated flesh of her folds.

Hell, maybe she was scared of something.

It’s as if that one moment sobered her up—she jumps out of the seat as she bleats, “We can talk another time!”, slamming the door as she flurries through the crowd of people to find that Dodge Charger.

When she does, she finds Ezra seated atop of Cameron’s vehicle, wrapped up under his lap as they cuddle like no one’s watching. He catches sight of a flustered Asael, eyebrow raised instantly in worry.

“What the hell happened to you?!”

“Summary—saw Toji, almost punched him in his face—almost got into a fight with some hoe callin’ me a hoodrat, almost got my coochie touched by Toji!”

Ezra stares with wide eyes, Cameron burying his face within his boyfriend's shoulder to mask his laugh.

“Oh, friend.”

She could’ve cried on the spot.

Asael was unsuccessful in all of the promises to herself—talking to Toji about Megumi, or even getting that hot guy's number. All she wanted to do was ball up in a corner and disappear at this point. But instead, she sat atop of Cameron’s car, watching as people swerved around the street with their own vehicles.

An hour had passed as it was now time for the annual motorbike show, large custom bikes revving loudly as they began flying past parked automobiles. Asael’s burnt orange curls fly back at the haste of wind—But of course, one roars louder than the others.

The thunder of an engine cuts through the cacophony—a sleek, black motorcycle rolls up with an effortless glide, its chrome accents catching the lights like a blade. The rider towers over most of the bikes around him, muscular frame encased in that tight fitting black tee that strains against his shoulders, tattoos snaking down his thick arms.

She watches as the helmet tugs to release his onyx tresses—scarred lip twitching as he grunts, “Get on.”

“I’m not getting on that.”

Ezra’s eyes could’ve popped out of his head.

“This is Toji?”

“Ezra.”

A boot sinks into the gravel of the concrete—Toji winks in Ezra’s direction, “Your friend’s been avoidin’ me.”

The wink makes Ezra’s jaw drop—he grins, “Shame on you. Asael. You’ve been holding out on me.”

"I haven't been doing anything!"

Ezra gasps dramatically, clutching invisible pearls as he turns to Toji with exaggerated sympathy in his eyes—like they were suddenly co-conspirators.

"Poor guy," he teases shamelessly, "My friend here can be such a handful."

“Really? I’m standing right here!”

Toji chuckles deeply at their antics—he brings his attention back towards her, “I ain’t askin’. Get on.”

Asael doesn’t budge—standing there with her arms crossed, her refusal couldn’t be clearer.

“You need me to come get you?”

Asael sneers, “You wouldn’t—“

He swings his leg off the bike in one fluid motion, boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. The second he takes another step forward—Asael squeaks, scrambling towards the motorcycle before he can reach her.

Ezra and Cam cackle in the background as she awkwardly tries to climb onto the seat, nearly flashing half of the South when her skirt rides atop of her ass, showing off the black thong she wears—Toji reaches over without hesitation, yanking the material over the tremble of her ass.

"Damn near givin’ motherfucker’s their money’s worth,” he grunts.

She shoots him an incredulous look over his shoulder—pointing at herself, “Me? What’ I do?”

When he doesn’t respond, a small pout comes to her face. Her eyes narrow as she questions, “Do I need a helmet? It’s gonna ruin my hair.”

Toji just looks at her—deadpan, expression flat as he swings a leg back over the bike, “Then pray we don’t crash and your head explodes.”

Asael’s eyes go wide, “What? Toji!”

"You gon' trust me or not?”

“You’re scaring me!” she whines, hiding her face within his back, “What am I gonna tell my students when I die?”

The way she hides into his back is sweet; he can practically feel the heat radiating off of her skin through his shirt. Her face burrows deeper in between his shoulder blades, hands gripping the front of his shirt as she clings on for dear life.

“Please don’t kill me.”

"We’d both die if you wanna be technical.”

Asael closes her eyes at the thought, whimpering into his back.

Toji feels the way she trembles against him—not the playful, flustered kind from earlier. This is real fear—her fingers digging into his shirt like she’s preparing for impact. His smirk falters, brow furrowing as he reaches down with one hand, covering both of hers where they grip him tightly.

"Hey.”

His voice drops low—gruff but unexpectedly gentle.

"Ain't nobody dyin’ tonight,” he murmurs over his shoulder, giving her hands a firm squeeze before letting go to adjust something on the handlebars, “Relax, baby. You’re good.”

“You promise?”

“Damned if I’m not.”

A voice calls, “C’mon, Fushiguro! I ain’t put five bands on this race for muhfucka’s to play around!”

Asael peeks up from his back, eyes blown wide at the line of bikes waiting for the green light. The noise is almost deafening, dozens of engines revving to life along with them—her heart hammers against her sternum.

When she loosened her death grip, that was all he needed.

With a final rev of the engine that vibrates through both of them, Toji kicks off—the bike lurches forward with enough force to make Asael screech, arms locking around his waist like steel bands as they shoot into the neon-lit night.

Toji’s voice is heard over the noise, "You good back there?”

She shakes her head. Her eyes are still tightly closed as she squeals, feeling as the bike increases in speed. It swerves through the streets, snapping past other bikes, gas within her nostrils as engines plummet and roar within her ears.

One eye cracks open—just a sliver—and the sight steals her breath all over again. Lights blur past them, the wind whipping her curls wild as they carve through traffic like a blade. Toji leans into each turn with effortless control, his body moving with the machine beneath them as other bikes struggle to keep up behind.

It’s soft, but noticeable. A giggle bubbles up in her chest when she feels that familiar lurch of weightlessness—the same feeling she’d get at the peak of a rollercoaster drop—her stomach flipping as they zip down the street. Yam by Yeat plays through the speakers, a curse yelling out from a couple bikers beside them as they flurry past like lightning.

Toji feels her arms relax slightly, her body responding to the movement of every turn. A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips when he actually hears her giggles.

"You gettin’ used to it?”

She nods her head, softly replying within his ear, “I’m okay.”

Toji’s smirk turns wicked—he reaches the front of the pack as the street opens up—the moment he gives the throttle a twist, the front tire suddenly lifts off the pavement with a sharp jerk, balancing on just the back wheel as they continue speeding down the street.

Asael squeals, arms tightening around him again—but this time, there’s laughter mixed in with her panic.

Other bikers holler from beside them, their own front tires lifting into the air in response—women clinging onto their men with equal parts terror and exhilaration echoing through their voices. The entire pack of bikes becomes a moving spectacle of chrome and noise under flickering streetlights.

“Still scared?”

She doesn't give him an immediate answer, her voice swallowed by the rush of wind. When he feels her head shake against his back, Toji’s smirk spreads into a complete smile.

He can't shake the way her laughter vibrates against him—how her arms cling, the warmth of her pressed along his back, firm and soft all at once. The racing adrenaline shifts into something else entirely, something thick and heady curling low in his gut. Animalistic, almost.

The finish line is a blur of flashing lights and cheering people. Tires screech as they reach the end with a final snake, skidding around the corner before Toji hits the brakes—The moment they cross it first, he throws his head back with a deep howl, one hand letting go of the handlebars just long enough to grip Asael’s thigh possessively.

"That’s five grand on me, bitch!”

Cheers erupt around them as bikes screech to a stop behind them in varying placements—riders cursing or laughing while their passengers catch their breath.

Asael peeks up from where she was plastered against him earlier, cheeks flushed pink from windburn and exhilaration alike. Her ginger curls messily fly around her caramel skin, freckles bright under the moonlight.

She pants, “I look okay?”

She looked more than okay. Toji can't help the way his gaze lingers over her flushed skin, her lips, the freckles across her nose, the messy curls sticking to her neck. Her face is glowing—she looked good all dolled up, but she looked just as good like this, too.

He takes in a slow, measured breath—then grins, flashing his signature set of straight teeth, “Never better, baby. Damn good, actually.”

Her body still shakes, an excited jitter as her round eyes return to a slender—they graze his entire body as she lifts her arms, “You gonna’ help me off?”

"Nah—”

Toji’s palms grip under the backs of her still-shaking thighs, hauling her off the bike in one effortless motion—One arm hooks under her ass, hoisting her up higher—a squeak of surprise leaving her as she grabs onto his shoulders on instinct. Asael giggles, wrapping both legs around his hips instinctively, arms looping over his broad shoulders as they nearly collide face-to-face.

Their eyes lock—something hungry flashes in Toji’s arrogant grin, lingering on the plush curve of her mouth before dragging back up.

"Still shakin’, huh?”

Asael barely has time to respond—Ezra bounds over—slapping a hand on Toji’s shoulder with an exaggerated gasp.

“Damn. You really know how to show a girl a good time,” he teases, eyeing their position with raised brows before turning to Asael excitedly, “Bitch! I had no idea you were into freaky shit like this. Did you have fun?”

Asael giggles again—the sound coming out more breathless, shaky and awkward. Not to mention, Toji’s dark eyes hold something feral, something that makes her stomach swoop.

She squirms until he reluctantly lets go—her feet hit the pavement with a soft scuff, his fingers trailing down the back of her legs just a little too slowly before he finally pulls away.

"I had fun," she admits, “It was cool, ‘can’t even lie.”

Ezra waggles his eyebrows suggestively—but thankfully doesn’t press further, Cam coming up behind him with car keys jingling in hand.

“Babe—we gotta roll,” Cam murmurs lazily, “‘A nigga ready to hit the bed.”

Ezra pouts but relents, “You ready to go?”

Asael exhales, smoothing her wrinkled skirt—she smiles up at Ezra before shaking her head, “I still gotta talk to him about something. You go ahead.”

“Oh? Talk about what?”

“Ez,” Cam deadpans, wrapping a heavy arm around Ezra’s waist from behind—he gives a respectful nod at Toji, "Let them be.”

Ezra huffs, dramatically draping himself over Cam as he glares, “Fine. But I better get a text when you get home,” he says pointedly at Asael, shifting that same look onto Toji—his tone drops into actual seriousness for once, “And you? Keep her safe or I'll hunt your ass down myself.”

Toji doesn't even flinch—just gives him a lazy smirk in response as he pulls another cigarette out from seemingly nowhere, “Ain't nowhere safer than when she's with me.”

“Go be with your pretty little boyfriend, hm?” Asael pinches Ezra’s cheeks, “You love me?”

“Of course I do! And he ain't little.”

"C’mon. You can show me off another night—let the adults talk,” Cam chuckles, “Be safe, aight?”

"I hate you," Ezra whines, sticking his tongue out before letting Cam tug on his arm towards the car, "Bye, babe. Stay safe, please."

"Love you too, drama queen."

She watches as they disappear into the crowd—only then does she turn back to Toji, suddenly hyper aware of how alone they are now in the midst of all this chaos.

“We really need to talk about Megumi.”

Toji exhales smoke through his nose—considering her for a long moment before stubbing the cigarette out under his boot. He nods towards the bike without another word, holding a hand out for her.

“I know. C’mon, I wanna show you somethin’ anyway.”

She raises a brow, “I have pepper spray, gorilla.”

That earns her a raspy chuckle—his calloused fingers twitch in silent demand until she finally takes it, “Wouldn’t expect nothin’ less from you."

This ride on his bike was particularly more calm—the engine growls beneath them as they weave back through crowded streets—this time slower, steadier with no races to win. Soon enough, Toji pulls up to what looks like an old mechanic's garage—a rusty sign barely hanging on by its hinges above a chipped red door.

Asael frowned.

“I’m serious, Fushiguro. I do have pepper spray—where are you taking me?”

He chuckles, tossing one long leg over the side and grabbing her waist—effortlessly lifting her off the bike once more, “Keep tellin’ you to trust me, woman.”

Toji punches in a code—the garage door rattles as it lifts, revealing what definitely isn’t a mechanic’s shop.

Inside is more like an artist's loft. One half of the space is a sprawling studio with canvases stacked against walls, jars of brushes on tables, sketches pinned haphazardly over every available surface.

The other side? A lived-in bedroom—low-lit with a projector casting black-and-white movie scenes against the far wall.

But nothing made Asael go more stiff when she continued walking forward—a wall, every single drawing Megumi had ever brought home from her class. Even Thursday's artwork is there—carefully preserved among all the others.

She takes one trembling step forward, fingertips ghosting over them. Drawings of Megumi and his father, drawings of his Ms. Honey.

Toji leans along the wall beneath the vent to smoke the rest of his cigarette, his expression unreadable under dim lighting—yet, his shoulders are tense.

"Kid talks 'bout you nonstop.”

Asael swallows hard—suddenly feeling ten times worse for jumping to conclusions; Megumi hadn't been neglected at all.

“You weren't supposed to make me feel bad about this."

"Wasn't tryin' to. Just wanted you to see.”

He pushes off the wall, taking slow steps toward her—each one deliberate and measured—until he’s close enough for her to catch that familiar scent of smoke and leather mingling with something distinctly him. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes nearly against the side of her neck—right where Megumi’s latest drawing hangs— a family with crayon-scrawled letters at the bottom: MS. HONEY AND ME.

“‘Kid don’t draw me shit unless it matters,” he murmurs, “You matter to him.”

Her heart aches.

“I feel really bad about the first conversation we had,” she admits.

"You mean the one where you called me a bad father?”

Asael’s arms drop, eyes narrowing as she says, “You know that’s not what I said, Fushiguro.”

Toji's expression remains stoic, his eyes fixed on hers. He leans onto the wall nearest of him, “Potentially bad father," he corrects, his voice heavy with derision.

She blows out a breath—her arms throw themselves up as she huffs a seat onto the edge of the bed, “What was I supposed to think, Toji? I mean—I’d never met you. You ignored my emails, my phone calls, my

notes home? What was I supposed to think?”

“So the first thing to assume is that he’s neglected? That I don’t want to spend time with my own damn kid?”

He sees the guilt on her face. Toji exhales sharply through his nose—his jaw clenches visibly, eyes narrowing as he also considers her words.

“You think I want to miss shit?” His voice is low, rough—like gravel dragged over pavement, “Every time you sent something home, every fuckin’ note—”

For a man who looks so unbreakable standing there like this—muscles taut under ink and scars—there’s something unexpectedly raw in his gaze when it meets hers again.

“I ain’t built like other people,” he admits, “My shit has always been on survival mode.”

His throat works—his voice drops to almost nothing, rough and hollow.

"I grew up in Tokyo before I came down here," he explains, fingers flexing around nothing at his side—like they're still fighting ghosts from years ago, “Ain't exactly had my folks holdin' my hand through life. Megumi’s mom? She's gone. And the shit I do for work—the way I gotta move?" His dark eyes lock onto Asael's with brutal honesty, "’Ain't safe. My kid can’t be anywhere near that."

That’s all he offers—but it’s enough to paint a picture—A man raised by wolves, who learned too young that love was conditional if it existed at all. A father trying like hell not to repeat cycles he barely escaped from himself.

Asael winces, looking away—she feels the weight of his stare bearing into her when she admits,“I get it. I do, okay? I understand how badly I messed up. And I'm sorry, Toji. I just—“

She pauses, swallowing around a lump in her throat. She wasn’t trying to be vulnerable, she just didn’t know how else to express why she made the choices she did. Her fingers twist into the hem of her skirt—knuckles white with tension. The words come out in a whisper, like ripping off a bandage she’d kept pressed over an old wound.

“I can’t have kids of my own.”

The confession hangs between them—raw and aching. She forces herself to meet his gaze, her brown eyes glistening with something fragile.

“So when I see those babies every day? It’s not just teaching for me,” she continues hoarsely, “They’re all I get.”

Toji doesn’t react at first. His face stays unreadable, but something flickers in his dark eyes. He takes a step closer—then another—until he's standing over her where she sits on the edge of the bed.

"Then stop feelin' guilty for givin' a fuck."

The words are gruff, but not unkind.

"You did what you thought was right," he murmurs lowly, "Ain't no shame in that."

His words hit her more than she expected them to. She can feel her eyes desperately wanting to water, but she refuses to cry. She exhales heavily as she gives a soft smile, “Say something that doesn’t make me wanna cry, please.”

“Shit, uh—“

Toji grunts—dragging a calloused palm down his face before scratching at the back of his neck.

"’Kid's got way too many socks," he mutters, “They’re all ugly as hell, too.”

It works—a surprised laugh bubbles out of her immediately, shoulders shaking as she wipes hastily at her eyes.

"I knew he was the one picking them out,” She giggles, "The dinosaur ones with the googly eyes he always comes to class with? Terrify me.”

He smirks, “‘Said they're good luck. I ain't got the heart to tell him they’re a fashion crime.”

Asael smiles, rubbing her palms across her face to brush the last of her developing tears away.

Her heart is thudding again, but from something else this time. Toji stands so close to her now—still and imposing like a pillar of muscle and scars—close enough she can smell him.

“You know, I’m still waiting for my apology.”

"For?”

"Um? The way you spoke to me at the school," she says simply, "You were an asshole."

Toji huffs—the closest thing to laughter he seems capable of. He then admits, “Heard that too many times.”

She rolls her eyes, “Can’t even kiss my feet, act like you’re sorry?”

Toji’s expression darkens.

“A kiss, huh?”

His eyes graze over the flushed skin of her face and down her throat, the curve of her shoulders, even to her legs. Her miniskirt rides up as she sits, revealing the silk of her thong, just barely covering the puffy pink of her folds. Taking another step forward, his hands come up to slide between her knees, fingers gripping the underside of her thighs as he forces them apart—her back hits the mattress with a soft gasp—he begins to unlace her heels, sucking his lips against the arch of her foot when they find contact with his mouth.

“Like that, huh?”

She giggles breathlessly, “Mhm.”

He raises an eyebrow.

His gruff voice calls, “Yeah?”

The giggling she does comes from still being slightly tipsy, nodding her head as she musingly stutters, “T—that’s a start.”

“Now I got you’ stutterin’.”

Toji removes the other heel, connecting his mouth back to her flesh—He sucks at the skin of her ankles, now giving both legs attention—from gentle pecks to harsher kisses, he latches the skin into his mouth with a popping sound. Her giggling subsides with each release of his full lips, as this causes her hips to raise a bit.

Within all this, she’s even more nervous. She clears her throat as she dumbly asks, “Um—did that hurt?”

She refers to the tattoo along his neck.

She feels him grin against her ankle—his tongue swipes lazily over his bottom lip before he answers, voice thick and rough.

“Nah. ‘Ain’t hurt too bad.”

“Mine’s hurt.”

She distractedly refers to her own, pointing at the rose as if he couldn’t see it. But to be truthful, she was really trying to keep up the conversation as she felt herself trembling—why was she trembling? Has it really been this long?

"’Tell me where else you got’ ink.”

He keeps her talking to hear the shake in her voice, looming his muscular frame above hers, slowly placing both ankles upon each of his shoulders.

“S—Something on my hip…little drunk ideas at the time,” she slurs, her mouth barely able to find the words.

Yup, he definitely was a bastard. The moment her eyes lock within his, the tips of his fingers gently graze upon her inner thigh— it halts right over the thin material of her panties, Asael’s mouth slightly parting as he places his forehead along hers.

In an instant, she rests her hands along his shoulders—Asael grips his shirt to stop her hands from shaking. He leans forward more, allowing their lips to just barely touch.

His index and middle finger press at the cloth, dragging against the fabric down to her opening—he hears just how wet she is, dropping his eyes down as he grunts, “Ooh, fuck.”

Toji's low, raspy growl vibrates against her mouth—the sound sends another electric pulse straight between her legs. He doesn't hesitate—his fingers hook into the silk, peeling it aside to expose her glistening heat. The sight of her was ethereal—already wet, gummy and pink.

"Fuckin' pretty.”

She frowns along his mouth, spreading her thighs in the way she wanted to hours before—her voice is low as she begs, “Want em’ in me.”

He grunts, “Slow?”

“Slow, please.”

He can hear the wreckage in her voice. He sinks them in slowly, sucking her mouth within a kiss to swallow her whimper—her thighs tremble with every knuckle that buries into her, pumping out with a squelch of her pussy.

“Fuccck, baby.”

Her moan drags the words, “That felt so good.”

“You’re so wet,” he groans in return, stroking his tongue against her own, swirling her mouth into a filthy kiss.

He spreads his fingers wider—filling her up with every push of his hand. She gasps, chest rising and falling against him at the overwhelming stretch. She moans helplessly into a kiss, pulling him lower to drag her tongue against his own. Toji sucks her bottom lip between his teeth, growling through their make out.

Her voice is broken, pouty on his lips, “I’m gonna cum already. S—Stop, Fushiguro.”

“Pussy keep pullin’ my fingers in, baby—‘Tight as hell, ‘how long since you been fucked?”

“Don’t ask that,” she whimpers, pressing her forehead against his, “Please.”

“‘M sorry,” he rumbles, “S’all you, baby,” he groans in her ear, sucking that soft lobe in between rough, hot kisses, “You need this shit. Open up f’me.”

Her body hadn’t felt this much pleasure in so long, it nearly aches. As his fingers pound into her, a gasp tugs from her mouth once more—she drenches his palm, Asael's body shuddering and shaking, releasing all her pent up frustration in hot, messy streams.

“That’s it, good fuckin’ girl.”

His voice is low, gruff against her ear, deep breaths against her neck, “Drenchin’ all over my fingers, baby’s got so much built up.”

Her chest rises and falls, whimpering as she kisses him again. She’s tugging her hands on his shirt, “I want you so bad.”

“I’m right here.”

He drags her to the end of the bed, tongue already dropping on her clit—he’s widening her legs, shaking his head side to side as he spreads her opening with his jaw. His tongue laps at her wet folds hungrily, teasing her clit with strokes of his tongue—her thighs quiver, raking her fingers through his hair, already too sensitive at this point.

“You taste good as fuck,” he moans against her—she squirms again, whining—the grip in his hair tightens more as he sucks her clit between his lips in return.

Asael’s panting, whimpering. Every single sound is just adding fuel to the fire, pulling her tighter against his tongue as he begins to lick up and down her folds like a meal.

“‘Need you to make a mess like this on my dick.”

She nods her head, begging with her eyes nonetheless, but unsure if she even trusted her own body to hold out.

“‘Know you will,” he grunts, “‘Shit’s gonna’ look so fuckin’ good.”

His palm slides down to clutch a hold of her hip, using it for leverage as he starts to rock her hips forward—he’s driving his tongue in and out with relentless drag, face and nose drenched within her.

She’s just moaning, and it’s like music to his ears.

“‘Gonna cum, baby.”

“Nah’, next time you cum it’ll be cause’ I’m fuckin’ you stupid,” he corrects her, “Better wait for me.”

He’s lifting her within the air as if she weighs nothing—her legs are thrown over his shoulders, her arms locking around his neck—she exhales, trying to catch her breath as she locks their lips together with another moan.

It’s all chaotic, but in the best way. His large palms hold the skin of her ass with long fingers, spanking the flesh as it’s hot under his skin—His tip is full, fat—it smushes along her folds as if to tease her body more.

“C’mon, Toji.”

“I’m comin’.”

But maybe she wasn’t as ready as she thought. Her mouth goes from parting lightly to dropping open, feeling as he slowly sinks her onto the heaviness of his dick—a sense of discomfort ruptures through her spine as it’d been so long—but it overrides by a pleasure that nearly causes her to black out.

Toji’s silent, except for the low groan against her mouth. He just wants to hear her reaction, wants to listen.

Asael’s eyes roll back—and then, her thighs tremble as she shockingly squirts along his abdomen, body shuddering as she groans from the unexpected orgasm.

He’s relentless, his palm connecting with her cheek, “Look at you—cummin’ from me just putting my shit in.”

His hands squeeze at the back of her legs, spreading her open even wider. There was no warning as he began tugging her onto his dick, sliding in and out of her at a pace that was slow, but harsh.

Tears begin to fill her vision, gasping mercilessly against him. Her body hasn’t subsided from her orgasm as he bounces her down, skin clapping together—Asael can only sob, “Oh my god, fuck.”

"Tearin’ your shit up so good, baby. You feel that?”

He’s as sinister as he looks, continuously dropping her up and down on his length, gradually increasing the intensity of their movements, battering her walls while maintaining eye contact with her tear-streaked face.

Asael’s nails scratch his back, leaving half-moon indents on her track upward as they reach his shoulders— he grabs her by the roots of her curls, forcing her to look him in the eye again.

“You hearin’ me?” This is what you wanted, huh?”

His tongue trails against her earlobe, sucking along the reddened flesh.

“All you’ been thinkin’ about.”

Asael just nods her head, her eyes falling down to watch the way his dick nearly splits her in half.

She nods, “Uh huh.”

The way he moves her body was almost effortless—the spank he gives her ass makes her mewl softly, an almost irritation along her face from how good it all felt.

“Fuck, baby. Fuck.”

“That’s all you got now?”

She drags her palm against her lips to cover her mouth, unable to stop herself from the broken moan she releases—she shudders, “Fuckkk, my god. Stop it.”

He’s snapping his hip up to meet hers, taking her mouth all in one rough, deep motion. She’s so small in his hands, practically a toy almost. He continues to slam her down, over and over.

“You takin’ it so good.”

She can’t control the way her legs tighten around him—her hands clenching onto his shoulders for dear life, nails dragging along his skin again.

“I’m gonna’ cum again.”

“Thought you wanted me to stop, huh?”

His mouth sucks against hers—she whimpers as he starts to bounce her up and down even harsher on his tip, “You lyin’ now?”

Her eyes roll as she moans against his mouth, clutching her fingers within the nape of his hair once more—she mewls, “‘Didn’t mean it.”

He grunts in return, “’Know you didn’t.”

Each time he slams her down onto his dick, her pussy grips tightly around him, releasing harsh waves of pleasure that seem to radiate throughout both their bodies. It’s like an unrelenting ocean.

“Pussy’s talkin’ to me baby.”

“Ugh—mhmmmm.”

She holds the side of his face, giving another nod of her head—she begs, “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t stop?”

His fingers sink into the flesh of her ass, grinding her onto his abdomen, arousal dripping down his pelvis each time their bodies connect.

“Don’t, Toji.”

She’s starting to feel like he’s punishing her for the mouth she had before they ended up here. Now here she was—broken and needing him, attitude nowhere in sight.

“Reckless ass fuckin’ mouth. Now look at you.”

“Ughn, baby. Please.”

“‘Keep callin’ me,” he growls, “Don’t even know what for.”

The back of her thighs clap against his hips, coating her arousal along his length in white cream. It has her breathlessly whimpering, “Sorry.”

“I’m knowin’.”

A peevish whine leaves her lips, dragging her tongue along his jaw until it reaches his lips as she weakly repeats, “Need you so bad.”

A gruff chuckle vibrates against her forehead, Toji’s hands slide down to cup her ass, spanking her cheek again and again—his tongue licks along her neck again, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its path as he repeats, “I know.”

The room is lewd, filled with the sounds of their bodies connecting, the sounds of pleasure they’re both making.

"’Never heard pussy talk the way yours talkin’ to me. You want this shit bad.”

She nearly whines like a brat when he pulls out of her, carrying her over to the bed as he lays himself against the sheets. He’s tugging Asael by her fiery curls, gripping his tip within his other hand, slapping it along her tongue.

And Asael just moans, opening her mouth wider, sticking out her tongue in return.

His free palm rakes into her curls, bobbing her mouth up and down that it creates a schluck, schluck, sound— her eyes roll back, clit throbbing at the sound of his low voice echoing within her ears. She’d never expect herself to be this indulged or submissive in a man’s words—but it made her even hornier.

“I’m so wet.”

She admits this as she draws her mouth away from his tip, rotating her palm against the base of his dick, coating it with her saliva.

“Yeah?”

He’s growling, “Show me that shit.”

Asael crawls up his body, straddling his waist—her hands grab palms, guiding his fingers to the damp heat between her legs. A feral groan echoes in her ear as his hands grab both cheeks of her ass, spreading the messy folds as his thumb rolls against her clit, “So fuckin’ nasty.”

She leans her head against his shoulder, mewling, "See.”

He’s guiding her over the fat of his tip once more—she’s sinking down onto it, her walls hugging his length as Toji growls against her mouth, “Keep goin’. Take my shit all the way.”

It’s slow, inch after inch—filling every empty space she trembles, “Ooh,” all while he grumbles in return, “‘She missed me.”

He’s propping her up to have her feet along the bed, placing her in an almost squatting position— his muscular arms go beneath her thighs, tugging her by the thick flesh of her ass to slam her down. Cream coats through the separation of their skin, Asael gasping deeply at the sound it makes, painting his dick like her own canvas.

“Spread your pussy. Gonna’ go deeper.”

He guides her hands, pulling her folds apart from one another even more. Asael mewls defeatedly, feeling her eyes brimming with tears once more—pleasure is all she feels.

“Nuh-Uh. Don’t be cryin’ now.”

"Fuuuuuck, baby.”

“Keep goin’ with all that whinin’ shit you were doin’ earlier,” he grunts to her, a shockwave being sent along her body as he’s back to spanking her with both palms.

Asael spreads herself even more from behind—she whines lowly against his lips, “You’re so fucking deep, baby.”

“In your stomach?”

She just nods.

"Pussy tuggin’ my dick,” he groans breathlessly, “Like you were made for me," he prods, his voice rough with each word, “Just needed to be fucked.”

“Toji.”

“Just needed to cum, huh?”

“Yeahhh.”

“Yeah?” He arrogantly grunts, thrusting his hips up into her.

“Uhhhh—ugh, fuck. Yeah.”

The sounds are wet again, Toji’s balls slapping against her clit.

“That’s it—you whinin’ for me?”

She just nods once more, desperate and exhausted—she can hardly moan anymore, whining each time his tip disappears.

“I’m gonna’ cu—uhhhh.”

His voice lowered, deeper, darker, “You got it, baby. Need you to make a fuckin’ mess.”

Maybe this was all to break her. Asael’s mind flickers with that thought as he swiftly throws her within another position, her stomach pressed against the sheets, hips arched up within the air.

She hopes—prays he tires himself out. One palm wraps around her throat from behind, the other holding the flesh of her hip as he grinds down, tip sliding across her folds eagerly.

His lips began sucking at her throat, “Pretty ass tattoo, looks like the shit hurt.”

Her eyes clasp shut as he’s making out with her flesh, squirming beneath him as he grunts into her skin, “Lemme’ kiss that shit.”

He’s sopping it down with a growl, dragging his tongue along the flushed ink. His mouth is like molten lava, a slow burn spreading up her body to warm every pore with anticipation.

“Didn’t hurt as bad as you’d think,” she whispers; her voice is soft and shaky, feeling him tease her entrance from behind, “But—fuck.”

Then—he’s dipping his tip at her opening, quickly tugging it back out. He doesn’t stop. He just keeps doing that. It has her hips trying to catch him, whimpering softly as she can’t.

“Gonna cum. S—so close, put it back in.”

“You’ need it?”

“Need it.”

Her body trembles and shakes, only receiving the drag of his hips in return.

“Please.”

“Pussy tryna’ have me fall in love,” he grunts, spreading her apart with his own hand, seeing her opening throbbing, gummy pink walls pulling themselves inward as they need his connection.

“You wanna cum?”

“Mhmm.”

“Say that shit, then. Mean it.”

“Wanna cum all over your dick, baby. Can’t wait.”

Toji rumbles a deep chuckle against her body, pulling her hair into his fist as he twists the tresses into a ponytail, other hand spreading her opening farther as he shoves his dick back inside—he’s yanking her hips back, an angle to hit directly to her g-spot.

Asael feels elated, a high-pitched giggle leaving her lips as she whines, eyes rolled to the back of her head—she’s squirting again, nearly pushing his tip out by the strength of pleasure, face shoved into the pillow as she releases wildly, moaning in chaotic shouts.

He jerks her head up as he grunts, still keeping his hips plummeting into her, “Nah. Fuck all that. Cum. Shit feels good, doesn’t it?”

She can’t even speak in words anymore, crying out, “Uhhhh—oh my god, Toji. I’m cumming. I’m cumming,” she whimpers in high pitched repetitions, turning her face towards him as she begs, “Kiss me.”

He’s releasing his grip over her hair, leaning down to kiss her messily, more teeth than anything. Her body was shaking almost as if in a fever, feeling him begin to pound her again, squeezing his mouth roughly against hers. He’s growling like an animal, the pleasure now consuming his body too.

She pulls her mouth back from his just centimeters apart—her voice is wrecked as she softly begs, “Cum, baby. ‘Want you to cum with me.”

That voice of hers is all he needs. His face is buried alongside her neck, groaning as his hands grip her hips rougher, a fire building within the pit of his stomach, spreading throughout his core as he buries his tip in her deep.

The chaos of the moment drives him to a brink of insanity. To hear the suction of air spouting from her opening, Asael defeatedly gasping, head turning as her mascara ridden face tiredly moans, its euphoria.

His hips tremble as he pulls out with a moan—Asael turns her body, lowering herself to allow the warmth of his cum to spread across her face. Her hands wrapped around the base of his length as she sticks her tongue out, catching the rest within her mouth.

Toji glares.

“Shit,” he grunts, “‘Must’ve been wrong as hell. You are sweet.”

She giggles.

Asael runs her tongue along her lips, “‘Could just be one of my better moods.”

“Better? You’re not in the fuckin’ heavens after I just tore your ass up?”

She shrugs, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

As she continues to giggle, Toji locks in on her. She must’ve forgotten who he was just that quickly.

But she’s about to be reminded, a gasp falling from her lips as he twists her hair into his fingers, tugging her eyes up to meet him so she can hear every word.

“Nah, fuck that. Turn over.”

#thecoochiefairy #toji fluff #toji x y/n #toji x you #toji smut #jujutsu toji #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #jjk characters #jjk smut #jjk fanfic

579 notes · View notes

malfoys-demigod · 2 days ago

Text

The Firefly

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★ JOHNNY STORM X SHY!READER

requested by @artbysuzanne summary: A shy girl with strict parents only feels free to be her goofy, authentic self when she’s with her best friend Johnny Storm. One night, Johnny finally confesses he’s always loved every side of her, not just the quiet version the world sees.

You’d always been the quiet one.

Your parents preferred it that way—head down, polite, never drawing attention. If you laughed too loudly at the dinner table, your mother gave you a look sharp enough to cut. If you voiced your own opinion, your father would sigh, as though you’d committed some kind of offense.

So, you learned to fold yourself smaller. To move carefully, to speak softly, to live in the background. People at school called you shy, reserved, “the quiet girl.” You didn’t mind—it was easier than trying to explain.

But Johnny Storm never bought it.

The first time you met him—loud, charming, grin too big for his face—you’d assumed he was the kind of person who’d never notice you. Yet, somehow, he did. And not just the neat, reserved you everyone else saw. He noticed the way your eyes lit up when you whispered a sarcastic joke under your breath. He noticed how, when you did relax, your laughter was contagious.

And over time, Johnny pulled that side of you out, piece by piece, like coaxing a firefly from a jar.

Tonight, you were at his apartment. Your parents thought you were “studying with a friend”—they never asked too many questions, as long as you were home on time and behaved.

Johnny’s living room was scattered with snack wrappers and mismatched throw pillows, and it felt more like home than your actual house. You were curled up on the couch with him, a half-watched movie playing while Johnny gave a dramatic retelling of his day.

“And then—get this—this reporter shoves a microphone in my face while I’m literally extinguishing flames. Like—hello? Man on fire? Give me a second to not be barbecue!”

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth. “You’re so dramatic.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse me, I am dramatic? You’re the one who nearly spit out your drink laughing at me yesterday.”

You swatted his arm with a pillow. “That was your fault!”

Johnny caught the pillow mid-swing, grinning at you with a mischievous spark. “Oh, it’s on.”

A pillow fight erupted, laughter bouncing off the walls. You were breathless, hair messy, cheeks flushed. Johnny dropped back onto the couch, laughing so hard tears stung his eyes. You collapsed beside him, both of you giggling like kids.

And then—you noticed the way he was looking at you.

Not just amused. Not just playful. Something softer. Like you were the brightest thing in the room.

You shrank a little under his gaze, cheeks heating. “…What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Just—you’re different when it’s just us.”

Your laughter faded into something quieter. You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. “Different how?”

Johnny leaned back, watching you. “You let yourself breathe. You’re goofy. Loud. Weird. And it’s my favorite thing in the world.” His grin softened into something nervous. “But then I see you with other people, and it’s like you go back into your shell. Like you’re afraid they won’t like you if you’re… you.”

You swallowed hard. He wasn’t wrong.

“My parents…” you started, voice small. “They like me quiet. Perfect. Not… silly. So I guess I got used to hiding that part.”

Johnny’s chest ached. He wanted to storm into your house and tell them how lucky they were, how wonderful you were—but he kept his voice gentle. “Hey. You don’t need to hide anything with me. Ever.”

You met his eyes, and there it was again—that steady warmth, the kind that made your chest feel safe, like you could finally exhale.

And before you could shrink away, Johnny spoke again, quieter this time.

“Y/N… I don’t just like being your best friend. I mean, I do, obviously, but—it’s more than that. I like you. All of you. The shy girl who whispers jokes, the goofy one who smacks me with pillows, even the one who thinks too much about what people expect of her. I like every version.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You stared at him, wide-eyed. “…You do?”

He chuckled softly, but his voice cracked with honesty. “Yeah. I think you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I want to be the person who makes you feel free to just… exist. No rules. No shrinking.” He leaned closer, voice low and earnest. “You’re not too much. You’re not too little. You’re just… right.”

Something in you broke open. All the years of holding back, of never being enough, of biting your tongue—melted under his words. And suddenly, you were laughing again, but this time through tears.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, cheeks blazing. “But… I like you too.”

Johnny’s grin stretched so wide it nearly split his face. He whooped, throwing his arms around you and pulling you into his chest. His warmth was instant, comforting—not burning, but steady, like sunlight.

“Best day ever,” he murmured into your hair. “I swear, I’m gonna make you laugh like this every day.”

And as you sat there tangled up with him, you realized something.

For the first time in your life, you didn’t feel like you had to hide. With Johnny, you were allowed to glow.

Like a firefly, safe in the dark—finally free to shine.

#johnny storm x reader #joseph quinn x reader #johnny storm x you #johnny storm x y/n #johnny storm imagine #johnny storm fanfic #johnny storm fluff #johnny storm fanfiction #fantastic four first steps #johnny storm #joseph quinn #mcu imagine #mcu #mcu x reader #fantastic four x you

604 notes · View notes

watchmegetobsessed · 3 days ago

Text

SWORN ENEMIES

A/N: i know its only august but i've been starting to feel the fall vibes and for me those mean college fics, so i had to write something to ease into the mood

WORD COUNT: 8.3k

SUMMARY: Y/N and Harry are sworn enemies, have always been. The teasing and banter just never stops when they are in the same room. One bet however turn things around and while Harry thought they were on the same page, he realizes that Y/N's denial is deeper than he thought.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Y/N adjusts the stack of textbooks on the corner of the worn oak table, her pen hovering over her notebook. Eyebrows furrowed, she is focused on the paragraph she’s been trying to understand, her leg gently bouncing underneath the table. She jots down a few more notes and leans back in her seat, turning towards the window. It’s only September, but the leaves are already turning golden and auburn outside. The weather is still warm, but not summery anymore, she needed a cardigan when she left her dorm.

She turns her attention back to the book, moving onto the next chapter just as she notices a figure approaching her table, then the chair across her scrapes the floor. Y/N looks up, but she already knows who it’s going to be.

“Really?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “All these empty tables, and you pick this one?”

Harry grins, shrugging, and drops his backpack onto the floor.

“Closest to the history section,” he says smoothly, nodding toward the shelves right next to her. “I like to minimize steps. Efficiency.”

“What a sports man,” she grumbles, looking down at her notebook. “Can’t walk an extra three meters.”

“Need to save my energy for practice,” he says in all seriousness as he sits. “And this table has the best view,” he then adds, gesturing towards the window, but Y/N just rolls her eyes, that breaks his act, a pleased smile stretching across his face as he grabs his own notebook from his backpack. And Y/N is bracing herself to try her best to ignore his presence.

Which is quite hard. Harry Styles is anything but ignorable. He is tall, cheeky, popular and liked by practically everyone. Captain of the football team, because of course he needs to be the cliché he started to turn into in high school. Y/N witnessed it all, they were classmates all through high school and somewhere along their journey of turning from teens to young adults, they clashed. Maybe it’s because all they kept hearing growing up was comparison.

Y/N, let loose a little, be more fun, like Harry.

Harry, you should learn to be more organized from Y/N.

Y/N, sports are just as important as good grades, look at Harry! He is doing them both!

Harry, you need to decide where your head is at. Like Y/N did.

They practically set them up to be sworn enemies without any real confrontation and when they found out they would be coming to the same college, they carried their dynamic with themselves.

For a little while they tolerate each other’s presence, but then slowly and not surprisingly, Harry starts to get on Y/N’s nerves. With the way he clicks his pen, taps on the table, turns the pages or keeps clearing his throat when he obviously doesn’t have to.

“Are you on crack or something?” she whispers at him when he has changed his position for the millionth time, making her lose her train of thoughts.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I bothering you?” he asks, pretending to be concerned. Y/N narrows her eyes at him, her whisper sharper than she intends.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

Harry leans back, hands behind his head, looking completely innocent or at least he’s selling it perfectly.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I had no idea I was such a menace. Should I stop breathing too?”

She gives him a not at all friendly smile.

“Thanks for suggesting. That would be great.”

He grins, unbothered, and reaches over to tap the edge of her notebook with a finger, just enough to make confused about what he is onto.

“I’m actually just keeping you alert so you don’t fall asleep on your neat little notebook.”

“How noble of you,” she frowns and then goes back to reading or at least pretending, because it’s hard to focus when Harry is still in his peripheral vision, slowly crawling into her thoughts.

His phone buzzes and Y/N’s gaze flicks up as he pulls it out of his pocket and reads a text. Then he closes the book in front of him and stands from the table.

“That was a short study session,” she mumbles under her breath. Harry puts the book back on the shelf, grabbing his backpack from the floor.

“Aw, are you worried about my grades?” He slings his backpack over his shoulder, looking down at her with a pleased smirk that just irks her even more. “Don’t worry. I’m still good, better than you.”

“You wish,” she scoffs.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Y/N,” he chuckles and then walks away before she could retort.

***

By the end of September the weather gradually cooled down and the true autumn vibes have settled over the campus. It’s a gloomy Thursday morning when Y/N is sitting in the lecture hall, her eyes roaming over her notes from last week.

Harry strolls in two minutes before class starts, casual as ever, a grin thrown to someone across the room. He drops into the seat beside Y/N like he owns it. Even though they don’t share a major, they ended up taking the same psychology class for extra credit.

“Really?” she mutters, not even looking at him. “You couldn’t sit literally anywhere else?”

“This is a sweet spot,” he replies easily, pulling out his notebook. “Close enough to hear, far enough not to look desperate.”

“Have you missed all the other open seats in the row?”

“Oh, I don’t miss anything, ever,” he grins at her just when the professor walks in and the lecture starts.

They are actually interested in Professor Gautier’s class, so their bickering is paused and they both give their undivided attention to today’s topic.

“So, who can explain the significance of this concept in real-world applications?” the professor questions.

Y/N’s hand shoots up immediately. But at the exact same moment, Harry answers out loud without waiting to be called on.

“It’s about adaptability,” he says. “Theory is useless unless you can apply it to actual situations.”

“Yes, exactly,” the professor nods.

“You didn’t even raise your hand,” Y/N complains quietly.

“Didn’t need to.” He smirks. “Got the answer right though, didn’t I?”

“Barely,” she snaps, raising her hand again. “Actually, if you look at it from a structural perspective–”

And just like that, they’re in a back-and-forth game again, building on and undermining each other’s points while the rest of the class watches in amusement.

Finally, the professor cuts in with a chuckle.

“Well, I think we’ve just witnessed a live debate. Thank you both. Perhaps I should pair you together next time. It seems you bring… passion out of each other in arguments.”

The class laughs. Y/N wants to sink into the floor but Harry just leans back in his chair, satisfied, whispering: “See? We make a great team.”

“Over my dead body,” she hisses back.

Harry chuckles at how easily he can get a rise out of her. Then the class continues and Y/N ignores his presence until it’s over. She packs her stuff, feeling his amused gaze on her and then marches out of the room without even sparing him a look.

***

The house is packed, music pounding through the walls, the smell of beer and sweat in the air. Y/N is already regretting saying yes the moment she squeezes through the front door.

“How long are you planning to stay?” she asks her roommate, Tilda, who's been bugging her for weeks now to join her for a party, but Y/N did everything she could to get her out of it, until yesterday when Tilda practically cornered her and forced her to say she would come.

“We barely just got here. Relax, try to enjoy it!”

“I don’t know if you noticed, but this is not my style of relaxation.”

“Okay then we’ll do your version tomorrow, but today, we are letting loose!”

Unwillingly, but she tries her best to at least give it a go, not wanting to be the miserable party pooper. They grab a drink, look around, meet up with people they know from different classes and lectures and slowly Y/N eases into the whole party thing.

Then her peace is flipped over by Harry.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, red cup in hand, surrounded by people who are laughing at something one of his friends just said. When his eyes land on her, his grin shifts, sharp and smug, like he’s been handed a gift. He pushes through the crowd easily, towering over everyone until he’s right in front of her.

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says, voice raised just enough to be heard over the music. “Did someone lose a bet?”

Y/N crosses her arms over her chest.

“I don’t need a bet to come to a party,” she scoffs, keeping the tiny detail to herself that she was practically dragged here by Tilda.

“Ah, or maybe you just wanted to see me!” His grin widens even more.

“Not everything has to be about you.”

“But when it comes to you, I know your world revolves around me. It’s okay, I get it that you want to be like me, academically and athletically gifted, I’m the whole package.”

“A package I want to return to the sender,” she grimaces at him, but her retort just makes him laugh.

“Someone is in a bitter mood. I would bet a great amount that you’ll be leaving in an hour.”

“Maybe you should go to therapy about your gambling addiction. And that’s not happening. I’m here to have fun.”

“I don’t think you can do that. Not here, in a frat party,” he keeps teasing her, taking a sip from his drink.

“Really? You must know me so well then,” she gives him a sharp look. “Want to actually bet?” she suddenly challenges him and that brings a glint into his eyes.

“Alright, what do you have in your mind?”

“I bet you I will stay for at least two hours and actually let loose.”

“Make it three.”

“Okay, then three,” she agrees with an eyeroll.

“What does the winner get?” he cocks his head to the side. Y/N thinks to herself for a moment before answering.

“If I win you leave me alone at Professor Gautier’s lecture for the rest of the semester. You can’t sit next to me, can’t talk to me.”

Harry smirks, leaning closer so she has to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact.

“Fine. And when I win–”

“You mean if,” she cuts in.

“When,” he repeats firmly, eyes glinting, “you have to come to every party I go to for the rest of the semester.”

Y/N scoffs, but her pulse jumps, she wasn’t expecting that.

“Why would you want that?”

Harry shrugs. “Guess I just want to make you suffer.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Scared you’ll lose?” His grin turns mischievous, knowing he’s cornered her.

She narrows her eyes. “I’m not scared of you, Styles.”

“Then it’s settled.” He clinks his red cup lightly against hers like they’ve just signed a contract, before backing away into the crowd, still smirking.

Y/N glares at his retreating figure, the crowd swallowing him back up like he owns the place. She takes a long sip of her drink, muttering under her breath, “Arrogant son of a bitch.”

But her heart is racing faster than it should be.

Three hours. That’s all she has to last and then she can rub it into Harry’s face until the end of time.

It’s been maybe forty minutes, though it feels like an eternity of shouting over music, dodging spilled drinks, and politely refusing to play beer pong, when Y/N feels a presence at her side.

“Still alive?” Harry’s voice cuts through the noise, smooth and teasing. He leans against the wall next to her, casual in that way that makes her want to roll her eyes and… maybe stare a little too long.

“I’m thriving, actually,” she shoots back, tightening her grip on her cup. “You’re going to lose this bet. I can already see you sitting across the room in class.”

Harry’s lips curl into a smirk as his eyes scan her in a way that makes her shift uncomfortably.

“You call standing in the corner thriving? Hate to break it to you, but you look about two seconds from bolting.”

“I’m just having a break, thinking about whether I should play beer pong or join the never have I ever circle.”

She works hard not to sound sarcastic, she really does, but she is not fooling Harry.

“Really? Because I think I heard them needing one more person for the next beer pong match. Come on, you can join them!”

Her eyes widen and she replies out of instinct. “Absolutely not.”

Harry raises a brow, his grin spreading slow and wicked.

“What happened to letting loose? You’re already halfway to losing, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

“Fine. Darling. Take your pick,” he teases, and when she opens her mouth to snap back, he suddenly takes her hand before she can protest.

“Harry–” she hisses, but he’s already steering her through the crowd toward the beer pong table.

“Relax,” he says over his shoulder, fully unfazed by the glares from people they squeeze past. “You might even be good at it. All that precision you’ve got from underlining every single word in your textbooks…”

“I do not underline every word.”

“Sure,” he smirks, stopping at the table and nodding at the guys waiting to start. “Got you a partner.”

The group cheers, and before Y/N could object, someone shoves a ping pong ball into her hand. Harry leans down, his mouth just inches from her ear.

“Show me what you’ve got, Darling.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she narrows her eyes at him, giving him a sharp look over her shoulder.

“Maybe,” he says simply, leaning back with that infuriating grin.

And with that, he steps aside, folding his arms to watch her like it’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all night.

Y/N narrows her eyes at the table of red cups lined up like little soldiers. She’s never touched a beer pong ball in her life, but she refuses to let Harry see her squirm.

She takes aim, tongue poking through her lips in concentration, and lets the ball fly. It lands cleanly in the very first cup.

The table erupts with cheers, and Harry’s brows shoot up in mock surprise, while Y/N is actually shocked she made it with her first throw.

“You’re a natural, Y/N,” he teases her. She smirks with a shrug.

“Beginner’s luck.”

The game goes on, and to her own shock, she’s not terrible. Every miss makes her groan and every hit earns her a triumphant grin. Each time her team loses a round, she takes her turn drinking the foamy beer. It’s not good, kinda lukewarm, tastes cheap but after the second cup she can feel the effect.

By the fourth round, she’s laughing, genuinely laughing, shoulders looser than they’ve been in weeks. Her head is spinning just a little, but it actually feels nice.

Harry, of course, doesn’t miss a thing. He leans against the table, arms crossed, watching her like she’s a puzzle finally clicking into place.

“Look at you,” he says, grinning. “Didn’t think I’d see the day when Y/N Y/L/N is getting drunk at a frat party and actually enjoys it.”

“Shut up,” she laughs, brushing past him to retrieve a ball. “I’m still winning this bet.”

“Sure you are,” he chuckles softly.

Y/N and her partner end up winning the game. Following a bathroom break she reunites with Tilda, who welcomes this loosened up, carefree version of Y/N and the two of them join a bigger group outside.

Next time Y/N checks her phone she almost chokes on her drink. Three hours. Exactly three hours.

She did it.

She instantly rushes inside and pushes through the crowd, looking for Harry. She finds him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with some of his teammates. He looks effortlessly at home here, tall and commanding, but when his eyes flick across the room and land on her, his grin shifts. Turns sharper, like it was meant only for her.

She squares her shoulders and marches over, ignoring the flutter in her chest.

“Three hours,” she declares, holding her phone up like it’s evidence in a courtroom. “I win.”

Harry takes one look at her phone, then at her flushed face.

“Hm, you’re right.”

“Yes,” she says firmly, even though her voice wavers just a bit. “I stayed, I had fun, I even played beer pong–”

“And laughed,” he cuts in smoothly, stepping closer. “Don’t forget that part.” She glares at him, but ignores his comment.

“So, we’re done, right?”

He tilts his head, that infuriating smirk back in place.

“The deal was you let loose. You sure you weren’t just… pretending to prove me wrong?”

Her jaw drops. “Are you seriously trying to cheat your way out of this?”

“Not at all.” His voice dips lower. “I just want you to admit you had a good time. Otherwise I win and then I can enjoy your company at every party until the end of the semester.”

“You’re being unfair,” she argues, heat crawling up her neck. Maybe it’s from the alcohol, maybe it’s from Harry’s closeness, she can’t tell.

“It’s okay, you can admit you actually want me to win so you can spend more time with me.”

“You’re delusional,” she fires back. “Why would I ever want that?”

Harry just grins, unbothered. “Because deep down, you like me.”

She lets out a sharp laugh, a little too high-pitched to be convincing.

“I tolerate you. Barely. Don’t twist that into some kind of fantasy where I’m desperate to hang out with you.”

“Mm.” He leans back slightly, sipping his drink, eyes still fixed on her. “So you stayed three whole hours at a frat party, putting up with the crowd, the noise, the drunk people, and it had nothing to do with me.”

“Exactly,” she says quickly. Maybe too quickly. “I can have fun without you, Styles.”

“Then why are you so red right now?” he teases, leaning in again, his grin straight up devilish.

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out and that just gets her even more flustered.

“You’re an asshole,” is all she says before turning around and marching through the people, towards the front door.

She doesn’t have to stay any longer. She doesn’t want to. Not if Harry will just keep making her feel uncomfortable.

“Y/N, wait!”

She’s halfway down the front steps when she hears him call out behind her. She doesn’t stop, but his longer strides catch up easily.

“Go away, Harry.”

“Come on,” he says, a little out of breath as he moves in front of her, blocking her path. The cocky grin is gone now, replaced by something softer. “I didn’t mean to push too far.”

She crosses her arms, staring him down. “You always push too far.”

He exhales, running a hand through his hair, frustration flashing across his face.

“Alright, fine. Maybe I do. But that’s because…” He hesitates, then looks at her, really looks at her. “Because we have… something. You feel it too, don’t even try to deny it.”

Her stomach flips violently, but she scoffs, stepping to the side.

“You are out of your mind. There’s nothing between us except mutual annoyance.”

Harry shifts, moving with her, refusing to let her dodge the conversation. His voice lowers, more serious than she’s ever heard from him.

“If that’s true, then why do we always end up here? Why do you always get so worked up when I tease you? Why do you even care what I think?”

“I don’t!” she snaps, though the heat rising in her chest betrays her.

His eyes linger on her, searching, almost pleading for her to admit it. But when she doesn’t, when she just presses her lips together stubbornly, he huffs out a humorless laugh and steps back.

“Fine,” he says, jaw tightening. “Keep lying to yourself.”

And with that, he turns and walks back toward the party, leaving Y/N standing in the cool night air, pulse racing, his words echoing in her head long after he disappears inside.

***

Harry has lost his mind. Y/N is sure of that.

Why would he ever think they have anything between them? That is absolutely ridiculous. They are sworn enemies. They hate each other, with passion, have always hated each other.

There’s no other explanation to what he said other than that he is going crazy.

She is lying in her bed awake when Tilda arrives sometime around two am.

“Hey, you’re still up? Thought you’d already be snoring,” she jokes, kicking her shoes off as Y/N sits up.

“No, can’t sleep.”

“When did you leave?” she asks. Y/N texted her when she was already in the dorm just so she wouldn’t look for her.

“After like one, maybe?”

“That’s great! Did you have fun?”

“I guess,” Y/N shrugs. Tilda sits on the edge of her bed, examining her curiously.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to combust?”

Y/N presses her palms to her face, muffling her groan.

“Because Harry Styles is the most infuriating human being alive.”

“Ohhh.” Tilda leans forward, eyes glinting with interest. “What did he do this time? Tease you about your color-coded notes again? Try to get you to dance?”

Y/N drops her hands and glares.

“He implied that there’s… something between us.”

Tilda blinks back at her like she sees no problem at all about that.

“But… there is,” she points it out.

“No, there isn’t!” Y/N insists, grabbing a pillow and throwing it at her. Tilda catches it with a laugh. “We’ve hated each other since high school. He thrives on having the upper hand, and I–” she gestures vaguely at herself, still breathless from the memory of him standing so close “--I’m not falling for it, unlike everyone else.”

Tilda smiles at her, but it screams that she doesn’t believe her bullshit.

“You only get this worked up about him. Tell me, if it’s really just hate, why do you let him get under your skin so much?”

Y/N groans again, flopping back against her bed.

“Because he’s everywhere! Same classes, same campus, and now apparently determined to make my life hell at parties.”

“Mmhm,” Tilda hums knowingly. “Sounds more like chemistry than hell.”

“Stop.” Y/N throws her arm over her face. “It’s not chemistry. It’s… static. Annoying, buzzing static. The kind you want to shut off.”

Tilda just grins, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so.”

But when the room falls quiet again, Y/N can’t stop hearing Harry’s voice in her head, low and certain: You feel it too, don’t even try to deny it.

She rolls over, determined to push it away. Except her racing pulse refuses to settle.

***

Next Thursday, Y/N is already settled in her usual seat, notebook open, pen lined up neatly along the margin, today’s date already written on top of the page. It’s been almost a week since the party and also since she has talked to Harry.

So when he walks in, she feels her gaze pulled towards him like he is a magnet.

Harry strolls in just a few minutes before the start as usual. He does look at her. Briefly. His gaze brushes hers for half a second before he heads straight for a seat three rows back, nowhere near her.

Exactly like she told him to during the bet.

She should feel relieved. She should be happy he’s finally giving her space, that he’s not sitting down right beside her to annoy her by tapping his pen on his notebook or kicking her feet under the table just to throw her off. But instead, her stomach twists uncomfortably.

It sinks in a little heavier, the things he told her that she hasn’t been able to get out of her head ever since. It’s been probably the longest they went without any interaction. No smirks in the hallway, no sarcastic remarks in class, not even an accidental run-in in the library.

But this is exactly what she wanted, right? To have some peace. So then why does it feel like something’s missing?

Her eyes flick back to him against her better judgment. He’s slouched in his chair, pen spinning lazily between his fingers, focused on anything but her. Like she doesn’t exist.

It bothers her. Way more than it should.

Y/N forces herself to look down at her notes again just when Professor Gautier walks in.

She’s not hurt. Not at all. This is what she wanted. So then why does it feel like she’s losing a game she never agreed to play?

***

There are several coffee places on and near campus, but the one next to the pilates studio is the best in Y/N’s opinion. Or maybe she is just biased, because after a killer class she likes to treat herself to a coffee and the place next door is the closest. It has become her Sunday ritual to attend the ten am class and then grab the coffee of the week from Chestnut Corner and either sit outside if the weather is nice enough or read a little inside before heading home.

By now she is a regular, so when she strolls in, wearing yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, the barista, Alex is greeting him with a smile while already making her order.

“How was class?” he asks her as she walks up to the counter.

“Tiring, but good,” she chuckles. “What’s this week’s drink?” she asks, peering over the counter so she could see what he puts into it.

“Pumpkin Chai Cappuccino,” Alex announces as he places the mug in front of her.

“Wow, this smells amazing,” she hums as she taps her phone on the terminal, then digs into her bag and grabs a bit of change, dropping it into the tip jar.

“Reserved a table for you outside,” Alex nods at her with a warm smile.

“Thank you,” she returns the smile and taking her drink she heads outside.

It’s a warm noon, a little windy, but not too much, it’s even nice after sweating for an entire hour in class. She settles by the table Alex claimed as hers, rolls the sleeves of her sweatshirt up and just enjoys the sunshine while sipping on her drink, mentally trying to note what else she needs to get done today.

She is halfway done with her drink when Alex appears, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Mind if I sit for a sec?” he asks, already pulling out the chair opposite her.

“Sure,” she says with a shrug, though it surprises her. Alex has always been nice, but he usually just sticks to his role behind the counter.

“So,” he leans forward, elbows on the table, “I was thinking… You come here every Sunday, and we always talk a little, but maybe we should actually hang out? Dinner sometime?”

Y/N blinks, caught off guard, her fingers tightening around the warm mug. Alex is cute, charming, definitely the type plenty of girls would say yes to without hesitation. She opens her mouth, still trying to decide what’s about to come out, when Alex spots someone approaching somewhere behind her, so he nods their way.

“Hi there! I’ll be inside in a minute.”

Y/N turns and sees Harry walking up to the café, he is in sweats, hair damp, he is carrying a big sports bag so he must be coming from practice. Their eyes meet for a second and while her breath hitches, he appears completely unbothered and neutral about her presence.

“It’s alright, I’m in no rush. What’s up?” he asks, stopping by the table.

“Just trying to chat Y/N up,” Alex chuckles. “Asked her out to dinner.”

“Huh, that’s nice,” is all he says, but he doesn’t even look at her. That annoys her. His reaction and the lack of interest on his face.

“I would love to go out with you,” she then says, maybe a little too enthusiastically, but Alex’s face brightens at her answer.

“Really? That’s great! How about Wednesday?”

“Sure, that’s great,” she nods and keeps glancing at Harry, who is now on his phone, looking like he is not even paying attention to them.

She hates how infuriating that makes her.

Alex asks for her number to work the details out over text and hands her his phone. She quickly types her number in and then gives it back to him as he stands from the table.

“Amazing. I’ll text you then. Harry, your americano is coming right up,” he points at Harry, who finally looks up from his phone, nodding.

“Thanks.”

Alex jogs back inside, practically jumping in happiness and Harry is about to head after him, but Y/N stops him suddenly.

“Wait.”

Harry pauses, one eyebrow lifting as he shifts the strap of his sports bag higher on his shoulder.

“Yeah?”

Y/N swallows, suddenly very aware of how ridiculous she must sound, but the words tumble out anyway. “That’s it? No comment, no… nothing?”

His brow furrows, like he has no idea what she’s talking about.

“About what?”

“You just heard him ask me out.” Her voice drops, sharper than she intends. “And you’re acting like you don’t care.”

“I don’t,” he says simply, but there’s a flicker in his eyes she doesn’t miss, something quick and guarded. “Why would I? You can go out with whoever you want, Y/N.”

“Yeah but… Not even a joke?” she asks with her last sliver of hope.

Harry sighs, looks away, then back at her.

“No,” is all he says and walks inside, leaving Y/N stunned and at a loss for words.

Her thoughts are racing and her mind is blank at the same time. She can’t decide what to think of it, of his nonchalant act, the lack of interest towards… her.

She is still in a bit of a shock when Harry walks out with his coffee in hand. He walks straight past her and then starts walking towards the campus. Before she could even think twice, she jumps to her feet, her drink abandoned and she rushes to catch up with him.

“Styles! What was that?” she asks once she falls into steps with him.

“What do you mean?” he asks in an even tone, taking a sip from his coffee, not looking her way.

“You’re ignoring my existence, what the Hell?”

“I’m not ignoring your existence, Y/N. I’m giving you your much wanted peace. Isn’t it what you wanted?”

“That’s not– I don’t…”

Harry stops and finally looks at her.

“You want me to make a joke, tease you, pick a fight, because that’s safer than me actually saying what’s on my mind.” He shakes his head, a humorless laugh slipping out. “And the second I don’t play along, you freak out.”

Her heart hammers against her ribs.

“That’s not true.”

His eyes soften, but there’s something raw there too. “Isn’t it?”

She opens her mouth, but no words come. Because deep down, she knows he’s not entirely wrong. Harry lets out a breath, his jaw flexing as he starts to turn away again.

“Enjoy your date, Y/N.”

And before she can find her voice, he’s walking off again, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with her pulse racing and her chest aching like she’s the one who just lost a bet.

***

The restaurant Alex picks is cute, a small Italian place a few blocks from campus. Candles on every table, low music, the kind of place Y/N would usually find charming.

Alex is… fine. He’s attentive, asks about her classes, tells her funny stories about ridiculous customer orders at the café. He’s polite, his smile soft and friendly and she keeps telling herself this is nice. Normal. What she should want.

And yet…

She laughs at one of his jokes, but even as the sound leaves her mouth, she hears Harry’s laugh echoing in her head. The way he’d lean back, eyes sparkling, like he knew he was ridiculous and dared her not to find him funny. That would make her laugh even more, enjoying the banter she complains so much about.

She shakes the thought away, takes another sip of her lemonade.

“So,” Alex says, leaning forward slightly, “are you from around here originally, or did you move for school?”

“Moved,” she answers automatically, launching into the story she’s told dozens of times. He listens, nods, asks a follow-up question. Perfect date behavior.

And still, it feels like something’s missing. Like there’s a spark she’s waiting for that never comes.

When the waiter clears their table and Alex pays, strictly refusing to let Y/N cover her half, he gives her an easy smile over the dancing flame of the candle.

I’m really glad you said yes. Been wanting to ask you for a while.”

Her stomach twists, not unpleasantly, but not the way she wants, either. She forces a smile.

“It was nice.”

He offers to walk her to her dorm. She lets him, because it’s sweet, and when they stop at the steps, there’s a beat of silence. He shifts, looking nervous but hopeful.

“Can I… kiss you goodnight?”

Y/N hesitates for a second, but then nods at last.

The kiss is soft, a little too bland for her taste. Nice. But that’s all, it’s just nice. When they part, Alex looks pleased and she manages another smile before saying goodnight and heading inside.

The second the door closes behind her, her heart sinks. Because instead of replaying the kiss in her head, she’s thinking about a smirk, green eyes, and a voice that always manages to get under her skin.

***

Y/N slips into the library late in the afternoon, already stressed about the mountain of readings she needs to get through. She heads straight to her favorite table and just as she sets her bag down, unpacking her notebooks and pens, she spots an all too familiar figure a few tables away.

Harry is hunched over the table, curls messy, his feet gently shaking underneath the table. And he is not alone.

Y/N has seen Mila around, they had a couple of classes together last year, but she doesn’t actually know her. Only knows that she moves in the same circles as Harry, but seeing them right now, she realizes they might be closer than she thought.

Mila sits beside him, their chairs pushed close, a heavy textbook sprawled between them. They’re both leaning over it, Harry pointing something out with his pen, Mila smiling as she nods along.

Y/N doesn’t miss the way her stomach tightens.

She sits and finds the chapter she left off, but no matter how badly she tries to focus on the words in front of her, her gaze always ends up slipping over to them.

Every time Mila leans in, Y/N’s pen stills in her hand. Every time Harry grins at something she says, heat creeps up Y/N’s neck. It’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. She tells herself it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care who Harry studies with. She doesn’t care if Mila laughs at his stupid jokes, or if Harry lets her sit closer than strictly necessary.

But the tightness in her chest doesn’t budge.

At some point, Harry leans back in his chair, stretching, and his eyes flick across the room. For one split second, they land on her. Y/N freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. She expects him to smirk, or wave, or toss out some teasing remark like always. Instead, he just blinks, expression unreadable, and then turns back to Mila without a word.

It’s a knife in her stomach.

She forces her attention back to her notes, but the pen doesn’t move in her hand, she just stares ahead of her, the words blurring into one big mess. Then she hears Mila’s muffled giggle and it’s the last straw.

She packs up in a hurry, shoves everything into her bag, not even caring if she rumples the pages and then bolts towards the exit, almost tripping in her own feet. When she reaches the heavy doors of the library she stops just for a short second, eyes jumping back to him, only to find him looking at her already.

The blandness is gone from his eyes, but she can’t read them. There’s something in them, something beyond the nonchalantness she’s been getting from him, but it’s not loud enough for her to make it out.

She breaks her gaze away and pushes the door open, fleeing from the library that felt more like Hell this time. On her way back to the dorm she can’t stop recalling the feeling in her gut the sight of Harry and Mila caused and she always ends up with the same conclusion, one she chooses not to acknowledge just yet.

***

Y/N steps out of building D with a heavy sigh. This study session for her economy class stretched way too long, group projects where they can’t find common ground are too draining, she thinks to herself as she starts walking towards the dorm.

On her right the doors to the gym open and Harry walks out, hair damp, drinking from his water bottle and he heads down the pavement that meets the one she is walking on. They lock eyes for a second, but she is quick to look away and set the tone for their encounter, which is going to be quiet, just like everything else between them lately.

The rain starts without warning, fat drops smacking against the pavement, then a full-on downpour. Y/N curses under her breath, pulling her bag tighter to her side as she starts jogging. Beside her, Harry does the same, his long strides catching up easily. Neither of them says a word, just racing down the pavement until they spot the small gazebo near the fountain.

They duck under the roof at the same time, breathless, Y/N shaking the water out of her hair while Harry drops his sports bag to the ground with a thud. For a moment, the only sound is the rain hammering against the wood and concrete.

“Great,” Y/N mutters, brushing at her damp sweatshirt. “Just what I needed.”

Harry smirks, leaning against one of the posts, his curls plastered to his forehead.

“What, are you afraid of thunder?”

She shoots him a glare. “You’re not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” He chuckles softly, then tilts his head at her. “What are you doing out this late anyway? Thought you were the type to be in bed by ten with chamomile tea.”

“Group project study session,” she answers. “Every student’s nightmare,” she adds then quietly.

“Mm. And here I thought you ace everything school related without breaking a sweat.”

“No one is good enough to make up for others’ stupidity,” she scoffs and it actually makes Harry huff out a laugh. It throws her off for a second, it’s the most interaction they’ve had since the party and just the sound of his laugh spreads warmth in his chest.

She walks over to the small bench in the middle and sits, dropping her bag to the floor, staring out into the pouring rain that hasn’t eased at all. Harry watches her for a long moment before pushing off the post and sitting beside her, leaving just enough space for the air between them to feel charged. He leans back, stretching his legs out, the damp fabric of his sweats clinging to him.

“Group projects really that bad?” Harry asks, playfully bumping his shoulder against hers. Y/N sighs.

“Worse. I have a guy in my group who thinks Freud is a painter.”

Harry barks out a laugh, head tipping back. “No way.”

“Yes way,” she smirks, unable to stop herself from joining his laughter. “And another girl spent half the time asking me if I could ‘just do her part too’ because she was tired.”

“Sounds like you’re carrying the whole thing.”

“Story of my life,” she mutters, but her lips are curved.

“Maybe you should let them fail.”

“That means I would have to fail as well,” she gives him a sharp, but playful look.

“Right. We can’t have that. You have a reputation to keep up” he smirks back.

“Says the guy who is literally the popular guy with the most cliché reputation.”

Harry places a hand over his heart, faking to be hurt by her words.

“What?! You’re saying I'm just another popular guy who will end up with crushed dreams and no achievements once he is out of school?”

“You said that, I didn’t,” she raises her eyebrows at him, but he just chuckles, shaking his head.

“You’re so cruel, Y/N.”

“And you’re an idiot,” she retorts instantly and it feels like something was just clicked back into place.

Harry’s grin softens into something lighter, easier.

“Maybe. But at least I’m entertaining you.”

For a beat, neither of them says anything, just listening to the rain hammering around them, the air between them warmer than it’s been in weeks. Y/N realizes her shoulders don’t feel as heavy as they did a few minutes ago.

Then Harry stands, grabbing his bag.

“Come on, if we wait for the rain to stop completely, we’ll be here all night.”

“It’s still raining pretty heavily. You’re just gonna run for it?”

“Why not? Worst case, I catch a cold. Then you’ll feel guilty.” He flashes her a crooked grin that makes her heart squeeze unexpectedly. Before she can reply, he jogs out into the downpour, water splashing around his sneakers, curls bouncing as he disappears into the storm.

Y/N sits frozen for a moment, then bites down on a smile she can’t quite fight. For the first time in a while, she doesn’t feel like she’s losing.

***

Normally Y/N would be questioning her sanity now as she and Tilda are walking into yet another party, but she has done a lot of thinking lately so it’s not that big of a surprise she is here, not if we mention that Harry is here tonight as well.

They grab a drink, mingle a little, but Y/N keeps checking the room for one specific person. Then he finally appears.

Harry is across the room, red cup in hand, a few people orbiting around him like always. Mila leans in close to say something, her hand brushing his arm and Y/N feels a stab of something sharp and ugly in her chest. The kind of jealousy she can’t deny anymore.

Before she can overthink it, Harry’s eyes find hers. For a split second, his face goes neutral and then he smirks, like he knows exactly what she’s thinking. He doesn’t come to her right away. He lets her stew, lets her feel it, until eventually he peels away from his little circle and strolls over, curls falling into his eyes, confidence radiating off him as always.

“Well, look who made it through the door without a bet this time,” he teases her, stopping in front of her.

“Very funny,” she shoots back, though her lips twitch. “Shouldn’t you be busy entertaining your fan club? Keeping up the popular guy reputation?”

He glances back at where Mila is still standing, watching, before leaning closer to Y/N.

“If I didn’t know you better I would think you’re jealous.”

She scoffs, even though her pulse spikes.

“Of what? Please.”

He grins knowingly, sipping from his cup.

“That sounded a lot like denial.” He sings that last word and that just strengthens the urge in Y/N to smile, but she bites it back at last. She narrows her eyes at him, but the heat in her cheeks betrays her.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late. Already did.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

She feels that this is the moment when she should take a step closer, open up the door she previously shut in his face, but just when she opens her mouth someone calls out his name and he waves back at them.

“I’ll see you later. That is, if you stay longer,” he smirks at her teasingly and she just rolls her eyes at him before he disappears in the crowd.

Y/N does stay. Longer than she planned. Long enough that she’s finished her drink and is leaning against the wall in the hallway, trying to decide whether she should find Tilda or just head out, when Harry reappears out of the crowd.

“Told you I’d see you later,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wow. A man of his word.” Her tone is dry, but the way her lips twitch gives her away.

He nods toward the back door. “Come on. Too loud in here. Let’s have some fresh air.”

She hesitates, but curiosity and the flutter in her stomach makes the decision for her. She follows him outside, where the music dulls to a distant thrum and the cool night air brushes against her skin. They find a quiet spot on the porch steps, just far enough from the crowd.

For a moment, it’s silent, except for the muffled bass inside and the faint sound of crickets. Then Harry glances sideways at her, the corners of his lips curling up.

“So, how was your date?”

Her brows knit. “What?”

“Alex.” He says it casually, but there’s a tightness in his jaw he doesn’t quite hide. “Mr. Pumpkin Chai himself. I’m guessing it went well, since you were so… enthusiastic when you said yes.”

Y/N blinks at him, then laughs softly.

“You’re actually jealous.”

“Not jealous,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Just curious.”

“Uh-huh.” She lets the silence linger, enjoying the way his shoulders tense. “For your information, there was never a second date.”

That makes him look at her properly. “Why not?”

She shrugs, pretending to examine the rim of her cup.

“No spark.” She simply says, then she tilts her head, watching his expression shift. “You know what that’s like, right? When you’re talking to someone and you can tell it’s just… not there.”

His eyes darken, and this time there’s no mask of indifference. He leans closer, voice dropping.

“Yeah. I know exactly what you mean.”

The air between them goes heavy, electric, like it always does. Y/N’s pulse hammers in her ears, and she knows she’s not in denial anymore, hasn’t been for a while.

“You know, if you weren’t there when he asked me out, I don’t think I would have said yes,” she admits, heat crawling up her neck as she speaks the truth without playing games.

“What?” Harry laughs in disbelief.

“I was so mad that you were acting so… distant and nonchalant, I just wanted to get a reaction out of you. Which I didn’t get,” she adds with a chuckle.

“I was fighting for my life, actually,” Harry admits, joining in on sharing the truth.

“Really?” Y/N’s eyes widen as she turns to him. “Didn’t seem like that.”

“I was very close to turning into a mean little kid and mock him or something for asking you out. Not my proudest moment.”

“Well, none of that was showing. I’m surprised my ears were not steaming from the anger.”

They share a quiet laugh, then Y/N asks: “And what about Mila?”

Seeing Harry’s smirk she expects him to come back with some teasing, but then his features soften.

“Nothing. We’re just friends. She is actually crushing on one of my teammates, I’ve been wingmaning her.”

“Oh.”

Harry studies her, like he’s waiting for her to say something else and when she doesn’t, his lips twitch into the faintest smirk.

“So maybe we stop wasting time pretending.”

She purses her lips, pretending to think about it, but the smile that’s tugging on the corners of her mouth gives her away.

“Hmm. I don’t know, I like this dynamic, I like roasting you.”

“Oh sweetheart, you are giving yourself way too much credit,” he barks out a laugh.

“Hey!” she protests, bumping her shoulder against him, but then Harry’s arm comes up to curl around her, keeping her close this time. Suddenly, she doesn’t feel sassy anymore, not when his gaze flickers down to her lips and hers do the same. The air has shifted quickly, her heart is pounding in her chest and when Harry leans in, she doesn’t pull back. Instead, she meets him halfway and the kiss is all heat and inevitability, the weeks of tension between them finally snapping.

All of her denial unravels as his lips move against hers, the heat of his hand sliding up to the back of her neck gives her shivers.

Y/N makes a quiet sound in her throat she didn’t mean to let slip and Harry grins against her mouth, deepening the kiss just enough to steal her breath. She fists the front of his sweatshirt, dragging him closer, like she can’t stand the idea of space between them.

When they pull apart he curls an arm around her waist, the other one moving to her legs and he pulls them until they are across his, hand resting on her thigh.

“Look at you, kissing your sworn enemy,” he teases her.

“What if I told you I was dared to?”

His face falls and she can’t hold back her laughter.

“See, I think I’m pretty good at roasting you,” she grins triumphantly as Harry realizes she was just messing with him.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for this.”

“Yeah?” she keeps smirking.

“Absolutely.” He nods and he is already leaning in, capturing her lips in a passionate kiss and she thinks about how this is a price she would happily pay any day.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

#harry #styles #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles one shot #harry styles fluff #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x reader #harry styles blurb

481 notes · View notes

stargazedwinchester · 3 days ago

Text

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `baby fixes baby, dean winchester ༘♡

summary: dean tries to teach you how to fix Baby--you end up with grease and kisses all over your face. word count: 713 pairing: dean winchester x reader

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You know nothing about cars.

Not a single thing.

You never learned anything growing up, not like Dean. So when it comes to you wishing you did, he was more than happy to help teach you a few things.

“Okay, so now…” Dean trails as he circles back to the bonnet of the Impala. “You’ll need to find the oil cap.”

You look at him, puzzled, because everything that’s under the hood is covered with dust and grease. “Dean,” you pause, “it’s covered in grease.”

He shrugs. “Yeah?”

You press your lips into a thin line. “You’ll have to get your hands dirty at some point, sweetheart.”

You blink at it. The black circle cap with a slightly yellow petrol can icon looks back at you. You twist it, placing the lid on top of the engine. “Now the stick,” Dean instructs.

You slide the stick out of the holder, dipping it into the oil. Pulling it out reveals a burnt umber colour. Dean tuts.

“Yep. Just what I thought.”

Most of the time, it feels like he just knows when to give Baby a spa day. To buy her new tyres or new mirrors. There’s being good at knowing things—but this? It’s like he talks to Baby telepathically. It’s almost like she tells him exactly what she needs.

“How did you know?”

“Usually, your engine makes a weird noise. Like a rumbling sound. Or when you step on the gas, dark smoke blows from the exhaust.”

You nod your head, showing that you kind of understand. “So… how do you change the oil?”

“That’s what we’re about to do. It’s so easy.”

Easy. Of course he says it’s fucking easy.

Luckily, the bunker has a platform that can raise cars. So, one press of a button, and Baby is two feet in the air.

Dean moves quickly while gathering items to drain Baby’s oil. You stand there a little awkwardly, unsure what to do next. Dean begins to lay underneath the car. “C’mere,” he ushers you over, and you lay down next to him.

He positions a pan underneath the engine, explaining everything step by step. By this point you’re not really paying attention—because Dean’s too busy focusing on showing you how to change oil in a damn car.

But you?

You can only focus on him.

How his lips part when he’s thinking of what to say next—how his brows furrow when he’s sure on something.

You stare at him like he holds the whole world in his hands.

He turns to look at you. “Got it?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You don’t.

You twist the cap off, chocolate brown sludge pours out of the pipe, pooling into the pan between yourself and Dean.

Surprisingly, it was actually quite easy.

“Wow! Look at that,” Dean gasps, “that’s disgusting.”

“That smells really bad.”

The pair of you chuckle to each other, surprised that you’ve actually managed to not get it everywhere.

When the oil begins to drip, he wipes the rim with an old rag, then tightens the cap back on. You bouth shuffle from under the car, a couple of loose strands fall over your face. Dean moves toward you as you push them out of your face.

Dean leans toward you, that same smile from earlier hasn’t budged from his face. “You have oil on your face.”

He tries to wipe the oil from your forehead, but only makes it worse. “Dammit,” he sighs, and you smile brightly at him. Dean huffs out a laugh, thumb smudging more oil across your temple. “You’re makin’ it worse,” you giggle, batting his hand away. “Here, lemme…” He trails off, eyes flicking to your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before you can say anything smart, his mouth is on yours. Warm, tasting faintly like motor oil and mint gum.

You swat at his shoulder, laughing as he catches your wrist easily, pulling you in until there’s barely an inch between you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Next time, we’ll tackle changing a tire. Might get ya a little dirtier.”

That damn smirk tells you something neither of you quite want to say yet. And maybe you don’t know much about cars, but you know you’d learn anything, so long as it’s with him.

#spn #supernatural #supernatural imagines #spn imagines #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #dean winchester #dean winchester imagines #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural fic

418 notes · View notes

justfeatherpen · 3 days ago

Text

All of the above and I believe that being anti-ai (specifically generative ai) is being a fucking person with morals and empathy and creativity and--you get the point.

If you use Ai for creative works then your head is a decor and if you use it for, godforbid, grocery list or meal plan, then I can probably hear raisins rattling in your skull when I shake it.

Oh but ChatGPT help with my work/essay GODFORBID YOU WRITE IT???? THATS THE WHOLE POINT??? GODFORBID YOU DO YOUR OWN REASEARCH??? ITS PROBABLY WAY MORE ACCURATE THAT WAY??? GODFORBID YOU GROW AND LEARN SKILLS FROM ACTUALLY DOING IT, YOU KNOW, YOURSELF????

Oh but I don't have the skills/talent to be an artist and I don't have the money/time to commission. EXCUSES EXCUSES. AI STEAL THEIR STUFF FROM ARTISTS, you're getting a lower quality version of the thing you want while actively harming the artists with the style that you want. And if it's a corporation then it's even fucking worse because the moment I see you use ai is the moment I know you suck and your product suck. Oh but ai makes art more access--- I DONT EVEN WANT TO TYPE THAT SHIT OUT. ART IS ALWAYS ACCESSIBLE SINCE WE PAINTED ON CAVE WALLS. SAYING IT HELPS PEOPLE "WITHOUT TALENT" CREATE ART IS LIKE SAYING FROZEN PREMADE FOOD HELPS PEOPLE BECOME CHEFS WHILE THEY JUST PUT IT IN THE DAMN MICROWAVE. NOT TO MENTION IT'S A FUCKING INSULT TO DISABLED ARTISTS WHO HAD TO OVERCOME BARRIERS TO CREATE. GODFORBID, BEETHOVEN WENT DEAF AND MONET WENT BLIND.

I don't even wanna go into how harmful it is to the environment if you wanna read more check out this article by MIT News: https://news.mit.edu/2025/explained-generative-ai-environmental-impact-0117

Or the more recent news how data centers are taking so much water from people that they can barely live while the government told them to "take less showers"

In summary fuck generative ai and fuck prompstitutes. Using and defending AI is lame and cringy and your mother should've taught you better. On the otherhand, creativity is cool, having basic morals/awareness/empathy is cool, being a real writer/artist/musician is cool. Don't let AI take it from us.

being anti ai is making me feel like in going insane. "you asked for thoughts about your characters backstory and i put it into chat gpt for ideas". studies have proven its making people dumber. "i asked ai to generate this meal plan". its causing water shortages where its data centers are built. "ill generate some pictures for the dnd campaign". its spreading misinformation. "meta, generate an image of this guy doing something stupid". its trained off stolen images, writing, video, audio. "i was talking with my snapchat ai-" theres no way to verify what its doing with the information it collects. "youtube is impletmenting ai based age verification". my work has an entire graphics media department and has still put ai generated motivational posters up everywhere. ai playlists. ai facial verification. google ai microsoft ai meta ai snapchat ai. everyone treats it as a novelty. every treats it as a mandatory part of life. am i the only one who sees it? am i paranoid? am i going insane? jesus fucking christ. if i have to hear one more "well at least-" "but it does-" "but you can-" im about to lose it. i shouldnt have to jump through hoops to avoid the evil machine. have you no principles? no goddamn spine? am i the weird one here?

#fuck ai im so goddamn tired #hey can you tell ai is one of the few things that legit piss me off by like A LOT #Every time a creative use ai my soul dies #There might be fields where ai is justified like medical etc but it will NEVER be valid in the creative field #Also there's a MIT study on how using AI to do your work makes your brain shrink as well :))

145K notes · View notes

cherie-doll · 2 days ago

Text

LADS: If The Roles Were Reversed

༻ Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb ༺

a/n: i've been seeing this trend on xiaohongshu within the lads community where the LI are the players instead of us so i decided to write about that bc those vids pop up on my feed all the time and i love them

₊˚✧ Xavier who couldn't care for anything but having his pantry stocked and enough time to sleep. He's a simply guy; or so he likes to think. He'll do his job, pass by the grocery store on his way home and knock out. People say he's too simple, but only closeminded individuals say that about him. In his mind, he's working towards a bigger goal; inner peace. And he's doing a good job so far. On a regular afternoon as he's walking out of the grocery store, bags filled with ingredients (he wants to learn to cook apparently) he passes an advertisement and stops in his tracks. It's an ad for a game he hasn't heard of until now. The character on the advertisement is quite the eyecatcher, but there's something that pulls at him from within his heart and innermost thoughts. Like something resurfacing, like refreshing and... relief? It feels as if he's found something he's been looking for for a long, long time. Unknowingly this is what he needed. Trading his nap times just to spend more time with you, and he's so excited with the new update that allows him to fall asleep with you.

₊ ೀ Zayne is the doctor everyone assumes to be too busy to date anyone. He's reasonably the most crushed on guy at his workplace; with him being hardworking, respectful and caring for his patients, who wouldn't like him? But he likes to keep things professional, or so he says... which is why many people stop bringing up the subject after he tells them he's too busy to date. Little do they know... this doctor who often goes out to eat alone does not feel lonely at all when he looks up from his plate and observes the couples sitting at the tables around him. To solve that, he'll just pull his phone out, open the app with the familiar icon and wait for the game to load. Don't you look beautiful in that classic black look of yours? Despite Zayne changing your outfit in game quite often, you still choose to go for the same black shirt and pants. Well, if that's what his beloved chooses, why would he change that? You look so warm sitting there, propped up on the table so the screen is facing him and he feels as if you're genuinely content to be there with him. Although, sometimes he wishes that when he extended his hand to caress your cheek, he would feel the burning sensation of your skin instead of his fingertips touching the cold screen of his phone.

༄༢ུ࿓ Rafayel has always heard about artists and their muses. How they ignite that flame of creativity to start the passionate mixing of colors from a single glance. How could someone be so beautiful to stir your thoughts? On most days, a cloud would fog his mind; lingering. He was unable to think and it would lead to him sulking. While procrastinating he came across an ad for a popular otome game. He scoffed. It couldn't be that good would it? After all, there was only one love interest to pursue. He downloaded it anyways. What was expected to be a moment of checking the game out and then deleting it turned into hours of immersive gameplay. Not only was he hooked but he felt this strange yet familiar pulse within him; the urge to create. He dearly hoped Thomas wouldn't question his seemingly random surge of fuel as he completed paintings and sketches, most being messy and rushed because his brain was pumping idea after idea and it was difficult to keep up with. He, like always, would neglect his needs like eating and sleeping just to keep trying to paint you realistically. He wanted to see you as real, to have you as his motive to keep creating.

ᨳ᭬ Sylus had no need of downloading a game such as the one currently waiting to be clicked on his phone screen. Honestly, what would someone like him be doing on a game? It was ridiculous. Especially considering it was Luke and Kieran who suggested it in the first place. They had made promises of him liking it, with thumbs up as they shoved a phone in his face. He had no reason nor obligation to pay any attention to his assistants and yet he found it.. amusing. He must know what the appeal is. He got invested to say the least. Won't let on just how much time he spends on it but if you check his screentime it is pretty damn high. The combat is intriguing but what's more interesting is you. There are things he'd like to do for fun with someone. Unfortunately, due to his position not many are willing to take him up on that offer without having underlying intentions. And the twins can only provide so much company without causing chaos. Opening the app to be greeted by you fills a space he didn't know he had. Indeed, he found it appealing.

❦ Caleb already had a hobby; his model planes, he didn't need another hobby to consume his time and money... or did he? He enjoyed cooking often, but had he anyone to cook for other than himself? He had been pretty popular in school so it's not like he never had a chance at making friends or even dating, but... none of it seemed to appeal or interest him in a special way. He liked his quiet moments plenty, so why... when and how, did he become so attached to the person on his screen? Even when he knew what he wanted to eat, he still choose to ask what you craved from the dialogue options. He would feel his heart squeeze when he would cook something you craved, and even if he couldn't actually feed you he liked to pretend you really enjoyed and savored that meal. He was also oddly defensive about you... despite others saying how strange some of your dialogue sounded, Caleb would always come through and say you were more of a complex character they simply couldn't understand. No one knew his "pipsqueak" better than he did.

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #caleb x reader #lads xavier #lads zayne #lads rafayel #lads sylus #lads caleb #lads fanfic #lads fluff

395 notes · View notes

thatsthatbridepresso · 2 days ago

Text

7:00 AM

Rating: 18+ because it may get a little graphic plus there is medical talk and suggestive themes

A/N: Does this maybe deserve a second part?

Warnings: age gap (Michael in his late 40s, reader is in 20s). talks of pregnancy, death, vomiting, COVID pandemic. If I forgot anything, please let me know.

7:00 am had came faster than you wanted to or wished it would. It had taken everything in you to drag yourself out of the bed and get ready for the long twelve hour shift at work. To be more specific, the chaotic and stressful day in the emergency department where you had been a nurse for the last six years. You had gained more seniority, even gaining the title of charge nurse. Not that you had wanted it. Because you didn’t. You didn’t want the responsibility that came along with it.

However, administration thought it was time for you to take the reins, offering relief for Dana, the other charge nurse who had trained you. She was funny, adding sarcastic jokes to the day to make everyone smile and maybe even laugh. It made things easier and that’s how she dealt with all the trauma and death you all often saw. You had decided it was better to take separate cars than ride with your husband.

Your husband who just so happened to be the ER attending doctor during dayshift, Michael “Robby” Robinavitch. Sometimes he was late getting off or you were late leaving depending on what was happening and besides HR didn’t like it when they found out you both were a thing. Both of you had to have counseling and sign paperwork, stating it wouldn’t affect your jobs or work ethics. It was shocking they didn’t make you change departments. Gloria, of course, was the head of this discussion. That was another story.

But you all didn’t always see eye to eye. When you first started as a nurse, you hated to see Dr. Robby, he was affectionately referred as by everyone else come in the door. It was going to be a rough day. You both had clashed with each other often. It was hard not to let your temper flare with him, but Dana had reminded you not to make enemies with the senior attending ER doctor.

She sympathized with you that he could be grumpy but she chalked it up to the lack of sex he was having at home all while telling you to ignore it and he would come around but you imagined he would have been married with kids. It was surprising, if you were being honest, that he wasn’t. Even if he was an asshole at times, he was hot for his age. He was at least twenty years older than you, but that didn’t intimidate you.

It was hard to say when you became enemies to lovers but here you were, married to him. It might have been the day you lost a patient and slipped off into the supply room. Michael had seen this happen and decided to go let you know your efforts had been appreciated during the code and you had done everything in your power to help. The double ER doors opened automatically, the sound of instant chaos and noise filling your ears.

“Hey, good morning dear.”, Dana greeted you, peering over her grey readers. “Or should I say Mrs. Robinavitch.”, she teased.

“Hey Dana.”, you returned, rolling your eyes playfully, and walking over to the nurses station sitting your bag down.

“Hubby’s already here—you all didn’t ride together this morning?”

“No,”, you sighed before rubbing your face lightly. “I wasn’t feeling well this morning so I was dragging ass and I told Michael to go on without me.”

Dana raised an eyebrow but quickly fixed her face, something she had learned to do over the last thirty-three years here. “Feeling not good, how?”

Dana noticed you were paler than usual, not looking as put together as you usually did. But she didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

“I’ve felt nauseous all morning.”

Dana watched you rummage through paper charts, acting like this was nothing more than a casual conversation. Maybe it was to you, but were you not picking up the signs?

“Nauseous?”, she repeated.

You could see out of the corner of your eyes that she had halted her work, staring at you.

“Nauseous.”, you confirmed. “I threw up this morning after Michael left. Safe to say, I had to forego breakfast.”

You and Michel had been married almost a year now. Your anniversary was coming up in just a couple weeks. Dana watched you as your silver wedding band and engagement ring glistened in the light. Michael had done good with that, if she had to say so herself. It was beautiful.

“When was your last period?”

Your heart stopped, realizing what she was insinuating. She watched as you stopped dead in your tracks, but before you could answer the double doors opened revealing two paramedics with a stretcher. The child was unconscious as Dana gave them a room to take child to. This would be Robby’s patient along with one of his residents.

“What happened?”, you finally choked out, your mind being taken off the question Dana posed just moments earlier as you grabbed a pair of gloves.

“Seven year old male, Oliver Rhodes, found unconscious near the family’s swimming pool. Grandma was watching he and his younger sister.”, one paramedic reported.

The boy was grey, which was never a good sign. His brain was doing without the oxygen it needed to perfuse his organs efficiently. It was unknown how long he had been down and immediately your husband entered the room behind you, his voice echoing through the room and instructing the team on what to do. Immediately, you grabbed the thermometer to check the core temperature.

“89.8 degrees.”, you responded.

You and your husband worked well together, like a perfectly well-oiled machine. You knew each other’s next moves and what needed to happen. Michael not only loved you but he felt good when he knew you would be there by his side, working with him in perfect harmony. The yin to his yang.

“Let’s get a bair hugger in here and try to bring his core temp up so we can get his heart to a shockable rhythm, please.”

Your husband was confident, collected, cool, and calm while in the ER, being one of his most endearing qualities. Not that things didn’t affect him, because they did. He was emotional when he could be but at work, he tried to turn it off. Sometimes, that was hard to do.

“Also, continue compressions. This gives us extra time to resuscitate the patient.”, Robby echoed, eyes meeting yours.

He could tell this morning that you hadn’t felt well, but he knew you would come to work anyways even if you needed to stay home. Work was important to you and you didn’t like to miss work unless you were dying or the world was ending. All his career he had heard that nurses and doctors make the worst patients and he would have to agree, both of you were real life examples.

Crying could be heard in the background as the boy’s grandma explained what had happened and it was obvious she had felt guilty, blaming herself for this unfortunate event. You glanced over to see his sister, terrified and confused, watch as the doctors and nurses tried their best. It was relayed to everyone that the parents were not far behind and would be arriving soon.

Dana volunteered to return to the nurses station and offered to bring the parents back when they arrived, eliciting a thank you from Michael. Everyone was hard at work and no one noticed exactly when the parents arrived but the mother was in tears and crying over her son, begging him to pull through this and come back to them. It was heart wrenching but something that definitely happened here in the emergency room.

Michael closed his eyes just for a moment before pinching his nose. He hated when children came into the ER. Especially when they were down and no one knew how long they had been down. He’d seen a lot in his career as a physician but seeing kids hurt, abused, dying or dead never made it any easier. When patients coded and no family was present, it was easier to compartmentalize and realize you had a job to do. But when there was a wife who cried for her husband not to leave her or parents begging their child to pull through this, he began seeing the patient more as a person, someone who had loved ones.

He didn’t want that to sound heartless but it affected him as well as the other members on the team. Loss was hard but it was part of the job. It came with the territory. Michael’s eyes opened and he continued to give direction to the team but you could read your husband like an open book, this was bothering him. It was hard for him. He had struggled more with death during the COVID pandemic and since then, he hadn’t been the same. But you didn’t push him to talk about it. You were allowing him to open up about it at his own pace. You understood him to a degree that no one else did.

Thirty minutes went by and you all rotated compressions, giving one another a break. Countless pulse checks had happened since then and labs had been drawn, awaiting the stat results. Oliver was still in asystole (flat line) on the monitor regardless that his core temperature was creeping up. The phone rang in the room and Michael watched as you stepped over to answer it. Your chest fell as you listened to the lab tell you the results of his potassium level.

Michael could read your body language and knew the outcome wasn’t good as you hung up the phone.

“Potassium came back. It’s twelve point two.”

Michael sighed before coming over to the parents. This was the hardest part of his job, the part he hated. He hated delivering bad news but he tried to remind himself that the families deserved the truth no matter how hard it may be for them to hear it. Staff started slowing down resuscitation efforts, beginning to turn off monitors.

“Why are you stopping?”, the mother exasperated through tears.

“Mrs.Rhodes, no one has ever survived a code that had a potassium level of twelve point two. That’s extremely high.”, Michael rested his hand on the mother’s shoulder.

She began sobbing harder, pulling at your heart strings and part of you felt tears swell in your eyes. Fuck, why were you so emotional here lately? This wasn’t your normal. He began explaining to her in a calm voice and she eventually nodded, sobbing against her husband’s chest as they mourned the loss of their son, realizing he was not going to pull out of this.

“Would you like us to go get his sister so she can say goodbye?”, Michael asked.

They shook their heads, stating they didn’t want his younger sister to see him like this. He nodded, accepting their decision. All of a sudden you felt light-headed and nauseated. Fuck, not right now. Dana had peeped her head back in the room to let you all know of an incoming trauma and how long before it was expected to be here. She also noticed you.

“You alright, Y/N?”

“Yeah, fine.”

This caught Michael’s attention and he turned to you, noticing you didn’t look well. You looked a little green around the gills.

“It’s okay, Y/N.”, he remained crouched down with the parents. “We got this. Take a breather.”

You nodded, exiting the room and being led by Dana. Shit, now Michael knew you didn’t feel well and you knew he was chastise you later about coming to work in this condition. But you didn’t want to hear it right now.

“I’m gonna puke.”, you announced, stopping at a trash can just outside the room, and haulting Dana in her steps.

With instinct, she grabbed your hair and held it back before pulling it up in an extra clip she had. She was always prepared, she was the mother bear when it came to nurses. She had trained almost all of you there. You closed your eyes, instantly feeling sweat on your forehead while praying this would end soon. You hated throwing up. Besides, there was hardly anything for you to throw up.

She patted your back and comforted you, telling you it was okay. You could feel eyes watching you but Dana’s glare told them to move on with their day and stop making you a spectacle. Finally, you felt like you were finished and wiped your mouth on your sleeve under your scrub top before raising up.

“Let’s go in the break room.”, Dana smiled sympathetically.

You nodded, finally agreeing to relax a moment. But then your brain instantly remembered the announcement Dana had made about the incoming trauma, immediately questioning it but she assured you that she had people ready to take care of it. She closed the door as you sat down, holding your head in your hands.

“So, back to my question earlier,”, her hands were on her hips. “When was your last period?”

You felt like a patient.

“Um, about five weeks ago.”, you responded meekly.

Dana sighed just like a mother would as she opened the fridge, handing you a cold water. “Five weeks ago? Have you been late before?”

“No.”, you responded. “I’m usually pretty regular.”

You took the water from her, debating if you should try to drink it or not.

“I’m going to be invasive here, but are you using protection?”

Deciding to take a sip of your water, you almost choked on it. She was asking if you were using protection while having sex with your husband.

“Um, no. Well, I had a follow up with Dr. Davis about my birth control pills. I ran out and well, I missed it.”, you hung your head.

Dana sighed. “Don’t you both know how babies are made?”, she scolded, almost laughing. “He’s a damn doctor for crying out loud and you’re a nurse.”

“I know.”, you sighed before tears began pooling in your eyes, threatening to fall. Dana sighed before massaging your shoulders.

“I’m not being mean, dear. I’m not but you could be pregnant and there’s a high possibility you are. Morning sickness is one of the earliest signs. Anything else?”, Dana sat down beside you.

“My breasts were really tender this morning.”

Dana nodded. “Why don’t we get you a pregnancy test?”

“Without Michael knowing?”, you rubbed your shoulder nervously.

It wasn’t that you wouldn’t tell him, somehow you would find a way to tell him. But you didn’t want to get him all excited and in a fizz for nothing.

“Without Dr. Robinavitch knowing.”, she confirmed, holding your shoulders as she hugged you tight. “But you are going to eat something. If you are pregnant, you need to nourish that baby.”

It was hard to imagine the possibility you might be pregnant. You might be becoming a mother and making Michael a father. Only time would tell. And your stomach would be doing somersaults until you figured it out.

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavich x you #the pitt fanfiction #Michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #dr robby x y/n

364 notes · View notes

monkebearness · 18 hours ago

Text

Into Her Den

Gong YuBin (tripleS) x Male Reader

Tags: smut, fluff-ish, workmates, fingering, cunnilingus, creampie

Word count: 6.5k

a/n: for a while, this will be the last fic that I write in second person p.o.v. before I forget my third person "roots," 'cos I am missing it lol. like the last one, this doesn't have much plot, but I hope you enjoy it.

“That’s what is left of the stock,” Yubin notices while listing down notes on her phone. “We’ll have to make another batch by tomorrow. Take note of that as well.”

“Ne,” you nod, while you list down more of your joint observations on your phone. You take a look at the chef scanning the whole room for any missing or faulty ingredients that she may have missed, but her fresh and casual look has simply captivated you.

Neither of you normally work on a day like this. However, she asked you if you’re free, and you agreed to organize the supplies and deliverables in the kitchen for this month. Two people were enough to deal with it. And what better way of helping out while your head chef is out, than to attend and assist the second-in-command aka sous chef of the latest hierarchy in the ModHaus Kitchen.

You also look around the pantry, making sure all the ingredients are stored in place. Of course, the woman just did the same thing, but something about her ‘unorthodox’ appearance makes you double-check the spots again.

You have stolen a few glances of her outfit by now, but you kept on looking away before she catches you like another pervert outside the building. Unless you’re just too slow to notice. From your memory, she is not one to wear these kinds of clothes while around you, but you’re not at work, anyways. It is new and unfamiliar to you, for a chef who’s not in their uniform. For someone to be wearing tighter pants under a short skirt. She can wear whatever she wants, your rationale withholds you from making judgements.

“And that’s the last batch of flour,” you inform her, right as you take one last look at the shelf of a newly organized set of baking ingredients stacked on the corner of the kitchen pantry. Everything is pretty much done. Objective completed. Both of you can go home.

However, right as you return your phone back inside the pocket of your pants, you turn around to meet eyes with the chef. She marches towards you like a sprinting tiger.

With you cornered to the wall next to the pantry door, Yubin tiptoes and pounces on you with her lips, stunning you for a few seconds. As your eyes close with submission toward her tongue, your other senses allow you to relish the brand new taste of her lip balm and the scent of her perfume, a much stronger and more alluring one, while also letting your hands trail down her curves through the fabric of her much newer and thinner clothing.

Until recently, you’ve only learned of one dimension from Gong Yubin. The strict and sassy yet acclaimed and no-nonsense chef you didn’t know you could handle—barely. Some of your fellow waiters or chefs would call her a meanie or even a bitch in worse scenarios behind her back, but you were only either fearful or respectful of her. One expression of putting it would be that she has put the fear of God into you that night.

Now, you’ve gotten closer enough to have learned about her second dimension, first-hand, and her actions speak much louder, stronger than her words this time.

But as you would’ve reached her plump ass out of your ignited lust for this woman, you instead change your grip into her arms.

Doing it inside the storage, let alone at the kitchen itself, is unsanitary and hazardous. Her lips detach from yours a second later, sensing the discomfort oozing from you, while your mouths briefly leave a string of your accumulated saliva. While her eyes hunger for you, her right thumb latches onto your lower lips, unbothered by its moistness. It’s one of the only times her gaze towards you has drastically shifted. “W—what is it?”

“Yubin-ssi…” you’re even hesitant to mutter her name, having been used to formality until recently. “I—I can’t do this… Joesonghaeyo… This is the pantry. I can’t afford to contaminate these goods, or break something.” You’d bow too, if you have to. But this doesn't work. Right now, Yubin’s not your superior… You're not even sure what she is. You just know this isn’t the right place for something like this.

She shakes her head slowly, maintaining her subtle stare of disappointment at you. Slowly crossing her arms, she tilts her head in silence. Before you can speculate her thoughts or ask, she lets out a chuckle.

You swallow your throat, but you can’t help but find her laughter enticing, captivating more than frightening, unlike before.

She pulls something out of her pocket. You catch it with both your hands, immediately recognizing that it’s a silver key, branded with the company name. “Fix yourself. Meet me in my room… Just tell the guards you’re there to visit me,” she tells you as if she’s instructing a legitimate errand right now because of her chilling and direct cadence.

You stare at the key, bewildered at her idea. “Wait. How will—”

“My keycard,” she hollers from outside, predicting your query without a seed of doubt.

As she leaves the kitchen with her handbag, you’re on your own to decide. You can just back off and text her you’ll be heading home. Alternatively, you can head there, return the key, and say no right in her face. That’d be as formal as it would be foolish.

Due to the absence of crowd traffic throughout the building, it took you a three minute walk to the company’s housing units, and one elevator ride to her room. It’s a building you never expected you would ever set foot into. But, thanks to the key she gave you, you unlock and enter the door of Room 205 with ease. At first, you never really took Yubin for someone living in a corporate residence, considering the fancier places she’s gone to with you in the past few weeks. Admittedly, unless she hits you up, you barely meet her outside of the company building before or after hours.

For a few seconds, you’re able to have a good look around the interior of her unit. It’s basically a simple yet lavish apartment with only two doors, which you assume to lead

to a bedroom and a bathroom. The living room is a bit smaller than you imagined, but it has every necessity in your mind, if not more. Convenience through a coffee table and a desk with a laptop and her handbag on it. Entertainment through the flat, widescreen television on the wall and a bookshelf of what appears to be cookbooks next to it. There’s comfort in the form of a small sofa, two chairs, and something you’ve only seen a couple of times. A six-feet oval, dark rose-colored bean bag. A little excessive, you ponder, right before feeling that thought simply doesn’t sit well with you. But who am I to judge her? She’s from a different world and class… After all, you only expected this woman to live in a high-rise apartment, because of her four-year experience and reputation.

“You arrived a little later than I expected,” she mumbles, her eyes focused on her phone, before placing it on the small table to look at you. “You could’ve just said no, if you do—”

“Aniya…” you didn’t even want to let her finish, noticing that she's taken off her pants, unveiling her slim, light legs under her skirt. “I just bumped into some folks outside.”

“Like who?” Her right eyebrow raises right alongside a soft smirk. “It’s Sunday today… I doubt there'd be a lot of residents here on a weekend.”

“I mean, some cleaners and residents barely recognized me. When I took the elevator.”

“Of course…” She didn’t consider that one, yet her confidence doesn’t wane. “Well, if some of them somehow get suspicious, they’ll just confirm that you work here. Some employees move in and out these days… Besides, I told the guard on my way here.”

Feeling a sense of relief, Yubin gets up from her chair and walks closer to you, taking her time while locking her eyes with yours. That smirk on her face makes you freeze in place. The room is humid, but your body temperature somehow is torn between experiencing hot and cold, reacting to both your hunger and intimidation towards this teasing vixen. Maintaining your composure, you hand out the key to her. She takes it, before lightly and somehow accurately tossing the item into the surface of the desk.

“You really this paranoid?” Yubin unbuttons your polo, tittering at your hesitation. “You know… You better not waste your time here…” While her warm, sultry breath brushes on your face, her hand hovers down to your body, making its way into your inner thigh. “We may not get another next week.”

Rather than letting her taunts completely get into your nerves, you pull her by the waist and initiate the kiss this time. Relying on your memory in the momentary absence of sight, you slowly corner the woman into the wall. Having missed her sweet and salty taste, you swear to yourself that Yubin's whole mouth tastes a lot better than any dessert you've had—maybe even as good as her dishes, though you've probably just under the influence of your lust—you can’t help but be the one to invade her piehole with your tongue to extend your time locking lips. And as you expect, Yubin does not hold back easily, showing it with her muffled cackle, even her tongue proceeds to battle yours for dominance simply because she finds fun in it. The restless clashing between your mouths would last for ten more seconds, before you lean down holding onto her waist, making her back bend slightly backwards until your other hand moves down and finds each of her ass cheeks.

“Ngauh!” she puffs, inevitably breaking the kiss as she feels the stimulating pinch on her ass. She keeps her hold on your shoulder to catch her breath alongside you. “Cheater…”

“Just improvising,” you shoot back, slightly wondering why she thought of it like that. But going back into the heat of the moment, you move your salivating lips on her soft neck, slowly lowering your legs to suck down on her collarbone, reigniting her moans. With your right hand, you reach three of your fingers down her crotch to feel the tight yet moist spot of where her cunt is. Seeing her in a skirt isn't a first, but one this short, with the absence of the pants she was wearing, definitely gives you an advantage with reaching into her more sensitive and pleasurable zones.

Below her skirt, your fingers eventually reach her thin underwear, performing the set of acts you’ve only ever known once you feel her clit. And out of nowhere, she moans as a wave of juices continuously squirt out of her folds, beyond her control. Such a moment turns out way earlier than either of you had expected, but this discovery amuses you, making yourself scratch your head while pursing your lips to hide your smirk.

“Fuck… That’s… Shit. I came too early,” she mumbles, trying to hide her frustration, while you distance yourself a little farther. Her own mind apologizes to you, but her face is enough to tell you how pitiful she is feeling. Her pride must've been shattered.

Sometimes, you questioned how things have led to this. Whatever situation you have now. You recalled Yubin’s ear-shattering roar, this is the same woman that broke your spirit on your first night because you tried to cover up one of the station chef’s mistakes. Of course, how could you not forget? Your close friends even criticized and cursed at her from behind, because you still blamed yourself. In the next few days, she gave you the silent treatment right after apologizing to you.

Fast forward to a few more months until now, she has you at her beck and call after your promotion. For a month, you’ve basically become her “booty call,” as you’ve heard and read the term online.

“Gwenchana,” you reassure, cupping her left cheek with your hand. Often finding each other’s lips like a pair of magnets, you enter another passionate makeout session. Once you both tilt your heads into the opposite direction, her hand slowly trails across your body, starting from your chest and down to your bulge, which she wraps around her palm, giving your cock and testicles a squeeze just to get something out of you.

Yubin parts her lips from yours as you groan, allowing you to see the reignited libido through her stare. “I’m on the pill,” she fires back straight into your ear with a hot huff of breath, sending chilling spikes through your spine with those words of confirmation. That’s one of her ways of encouraging you, heightening your fervor like a sleeper agent being awakened by that phrase.

Setting your workplace association aside, you’ve learned that you’re the same age, albeit a little younger than her, but the fact that the tables slowly turned in terms of your influence, simply because you are “technically” not at work, still confounds the rationale in your brain. You’d think this is the least rational thing you’ve ever done in your mid-twenties and possibly one of the most irrational things in your whole life. You shake these thoughts off as your lips part.

You clear your throat, swallowing your drool before telling her the words, “Turn around.” with a deeper tone.

With a grin on her lips, she follows you without hesitation, even doing you a little tease by bending her ass, her hips giving it a shake that perplexes you. Your left hand crawls to her bottom, giving each cheeks a slow squeeze before raising your right hand in the air in order to give the middle of both cheeks a slight curious smack.

“Auuuuuugggh!” she yelps. Slight might’ve been an understatement. No thanks to your excitement, it must’ve felt like a thin, wooden ruler had hit her. You only feel thankful she didn’t say the word, otherwise it’d all be over. Slowly unfolding her skirt to see her wet panties, you pull it down between her legs until it slides off the floor, noticing the reddening spot on her ass. Your fingers make their contact with her ass cheeks, sliding in-between the crack, but not before pulling the skirt down to cover it. Now, your hand touches her asshole through the fabric of her dress, similar to how you touched her cunt earlier in a teasing manner.

“Gaauuuuuuugggghhhh,” Yubin groans while you begin to rub them using your index and middle fingers. Testing your limits, you use those same fingers and slowly apply a little pressure, pushing a little further, making the woman yelp in surprise. “Oh, fuck!” The surprise isn’t a negative reaction, however. Although fear is something that you’d expect to feel from her, you’re unaware that her excitement is fighting through in the pursuit of her explorative lust.

But you remember an important fact. You haven’t done it before. Maybe she has. Maybe not. You don't want to ask her. It’s not worth the pain, you think, before pulling down her skirt once again before your eyes to focus on her other hole, which you're more familiar with... You unbuckle your pants and pull down your underwear, leaving it on the floor. Hearing your old belt fall with your pants, Yubin steals a look at you in your naked form, only to look back like some curious cat after a second, while her arms and elbows keep resting on the wall in front of you. She breathes slower in anticipation for your next step.

“I’m gonna put it in, now, all right?” you warn her, not realizing your tone’s no longer coming off as commanding as last time. “Unless… You want to do something else first?”

Thanks to your involuntary self-consciousness, you sense your voice to be more than gentle, if not sensitive, enough for her to answer. In your previous encounters, Yubin would first lubricate your cock with some lubricant or with her saliva with a blowjob. Maybe you can eat her out first, but you wait for her answer while stroking her waist.

“Please do it,” she murmurs under her breath, hiding her wide smile. “Put it in.” That’s a first, you realize, but you follow suit. Maybe she wants to try something different.

Gently, you take two steps closer to her. From behind, you place your left hand on hers, pulling her skirt high enough to reveal her pink entrance, with your right holding your cock for support while you aim it next to her vagina with your tip. With everything aligned, you carefully insert your manhood inside Yubin.

“Gggggnnnnnhhhh,” she clenches her fingers, making you hold her hand a little tighter as you inch your legs and waist closer and push yourself through her clenching walls, til you reach halfway. With some struggle, Yubin inches herself a little closer to you, a deed balanced by the electrifying pleasure firing down from her cunt up to her spine, lowering her head and pinning herself on the wall until you look down to only see your shaft right outside her opening. “Youuuu’re… Sooooo…” You feel her nails on your fingers. “Fuck!”

Now that your whole manhood is inside her, you begin your thrusts. Slow and gradual. With it, the sound of her soft moans begin to increase in volume. Your hips work with hers, helping you accelerate your pace within a matter of a minute. “Soooo tight,” you murmur next to her ears, the realization itself makes you lean your head on her back while she instinctively praises you with chuckles mixed with purrs, leaving salivating kisses beneath her neck long enough to form spots of hickeys, appearing like craters.

You’re not friends. Before this, you’re close acquaintances at best. You just found a way to wind up your tensions between each other even if it’s an unusual method of handling it, you didn’t resist it because you haven’t felt anything ecstatic like this in a long time.

“Faster!” she hollers, unable to decide whether to be commanding or submissive, though you’d think she’s not one to come off as the latter that easily. Even if she’s showing it more often during your intimate meetups. She likes a challenge too.

While she arches her back with a louder set of moans, you take advantage of her slight change in posture by placing your hands on her bouncing breasts and grabbing them. You wish you could turn her around right now, but you keep on thrusting. “This…. Is… Amaaaaaazing,” she whines while feeling her body shake under your rhythmic pounds.

You could’ve said no to her advances. Reported to H.R. if you had too. You wouldn’t quit if you had to. But you had no good reason to, considering the fact that you remember acting into the moment as well when she first made that kiss. None of you were even under the influence that night. You both chose to continue this, but you have to reason to regret it either.

“Fuuuuuuck, mmmnnnnggghhh…” she bites her lower lip, unable to handle the raging throbbing of your cock while you add another sensation into her cloth-covered asshole, once again sticking two of your left fingers until she yelps in surprise, being tickled and invigorated by your trick. “Baaaaaabe, that’s… Daaaadd—”

Analyzing her “mischievous dimension,” Yubin called you plenty of names in the past month since you first did it. None were degrading, but some did almost make you lose your focus. Unfortunately for her, you're just not in the mood to hear any of them. Just for that, you immediately stop touching her asshole so you can fix her hair to the side and suck on her nape, getting her dried sweat and perfume with your tongue.

“Aaaaaaaahhhhhoooooouuuuugggghhh!” the woman screeches, almost on the same level as her furious roars. The same level she gave when she yelled at you that night. Immediately, your nerve has been struck, but you can’t let this ruin your own focus.

With panic ringing into your ears, you clench your teeth and cover her mouth with your left palm while you transfer your right hand onto her waist, turning your head to left for a moment while you proceed to amp up your thrusts on her while she claws through the wall. You feel her drool leaking and spreading through your fingers, but you keep her muffled as she revels in the ecstasy of your manhood ramming her inside her shivering walls as long and as strong as you can. Not rageful, passionate. Within those following seconds, you start to feel the mark of her upper teeth and her tongue licking your hand like a cat, doubling the amount of drool you tried to contain a while ago. Unbeknownst to you, her eyes have just rolled into the back of her head, entering her heavenly realm.

You figure that your build-up is slower, considering the fact she just orgasmed, but you force yourself to keep going. In these following seconds, you feel Yubin’s hands guiding yours back to her breasts, giving you one last boost to make yourself harder. You can’t help but chuckle louder at her sudden assist, groaning from the top of your lungs as you’re getting closer.

Two more final thrusts and you let your own build-up break free of your cock, busting inside Yubin's walls. Like a trust fall, you let her slowly lean into you from her behind, her head resting on your chest. As her disheveled hair is right below your head, your nose whiffs the scent of her shampoo. Herbal, citrusy, and most likely pricey, it lulls your senses, influencing you to peck her head three times before finally realizing it. Prompting yourself to finally pull out of her cunt, you hear Yubin’s weak gasp.

Sensing your lips on her head, Yubin turns to face you, to which you lean in and give her the comforting kiss she has been longing for. “I—mmmmm—really thought… you'd go… for it,” she hums in-between your kiss. You don't regret making the decision, but you can’t help but feel as if your little pride has also been shaken due to her giggle, not realizing that she wasn't mocking you like you often presumed. She might’ve given you an earful a couple of times, but it was never because she demeaned you. You don’t want to excuse her outburst, but you figured she’s got her own baggage to sort out. Your attraction towards Yubin may have slowly buried your chances of ever spiting her.

“I didn't want you to hurt… Yubin-ssi,” you utter your reason. “But if you really want…”

“Shhhh…” she purrs with your panting, calming you with her hands caressing your right shoulder. Your words sounded like a poem to her ears, making her turn to you and take your hand before walking you to another spot in the room. “Some other time, hmmm?”

You stop before you could’ve arrived close to her sofa, much to your confusion. You're only halfway to her bedroom, which is about thirteen feet away from your vision.

Seeing her undress her entire outfit, you assist her with pulling her skirt down while she pulls up her top, revealing her strapless bra in front of you. You take another step closer, but you haven’t seen her wear this one yet. “It’s the same as usual,” she tells you. You are quite easier to read than most folks, you realize, but you don’t wanna think of it as a bad thing. Without the need to go to her back, you reach her hands and unlock her bra while the blazing lust in both your eyes keep flaring up, restraining yourselves from acting up in this more or less neutral step before the exciting part of the morning.

Yubin takes hold of her undergarment right from your hand, only to toss it right beside her, plummeting on the floor as she tiptoes and hungrily leans into your lips, her fingers clawing behind your hand. Feeding into each other’s lust, you let your hands feel Yubin’s body once more, sliding down her curves.

She pulls you down as you both fall into the large bean bag that fascinated you earlier. You fall directly on top of her, although you keep your arms between her anchored on the bag, much like you are in a planking position. Her fingers hold onto your still erect and wet cock, tickling it. Even in intimacy, her actions are clear and direct. Yubin wants to feel more and a lot harder, while your craving for her has yet to wither away.

Instead of playing right into her request you first lunge at her neck, kissing it tenderly, right as you slowly descend into the rest of her body, leaving some gentle bite marks on her collarbone. Her breasts had always allured you, no doubt. The fact that you rarely get the chance to touch them compels you to take her left tit on your mouth. Such a surprise makes Yubin arch her neck backwards, holding in her squirms of delight.

Finally, you reach her nether regions, much more up close. Parting her legs by holding each of your hands onto her knees, you watch Yubin’s cunt still glistening with her damp juices. You dig in by giving her clit a long and gentle smooch, treating the rest of her cunt like a buffet all of you to savor, while she squeals with more sets of moans for your ears to take delight in at the same time you’re focusing on your meal. She braces herself for your improvised step, slowly placing her hand on top of your hair as you inch closer.

“That’s—aaaaahhhh—that’s gooood,” she exhales, feeling her breath ease up while you move your right hand from her left knee onto her inner thigh to give it a soft rub, slowly heating this region up through friction. Above you, Yubin begins to salivate once more, habitually puckering her lips about three times to alleviate her whimpers of pleasure.

Starting to put more spice and spin with your tongue, you make more twists and turns inside her walls, instinctively triggering Yubin to claw through your curly hair with her fingernails. Enduring through the prickling sensation of her claws now making contact on your scalp, you close your eyes and move your tongue in an attempt to spell all the letters of the alphabet. However, the louder her moans get and how much they sound ragged, you realize she’s getting closer once again.

Of course, the challenging side of you doesn't allow that... You stop by once you’ve reached “G,” holding onto her knees as you detach from her genitals, leaving a string of drool that you wipe with your knuckles, making her imitate your gesture by instinct.

“The fuck?” she gasps, your blank mind getting filled with confusion and desperation for anything to continue the ethereal sensation down her nether regions. “Why’d you stop?” She would’ve cursed at you, but it seems you have the upper hand, while she recovers her breath from holding it in longer than she imagined.

You didn't make her finish just yet, leaving her with only a few squirts. “Jamkkanman,” you assure her. Still feeling your slimy left hand, you smear most of the saliva into your shaft, giving Yubin a quiet look of fascination. As if she's pondering how you're learning fast. She pulls you in again despite her weaker tug, but you slow your fall by placing your arms on the same spot where you fell in before.

Without much of a verbal warning this time, Yubin lets you enter her for a second time. Akin to a workout, she slowly raises her left leg, placing it on your right shoulder, giving you a little sense of pressure. This is new. But it's also thanks to the woman's gesture that you're able to reach much deeper into her womb within seconds, having your tip make contact with her cervix with a little forceful nudge from your hips and knees.

For good measure, you feel an encouraging thrust from Yubin, prompting you to begin your own movement as well. Your genitals crashing and bodies making slapping noises would continue within the next several minutes, further complemented by the noise of your huffs and puffs combined with abrupt teasing remarks and unintelligible banters. One word that you’ve been keeping your ears for has yet to leave her mouth, enabling you to maintain your pace in rhythm with hers while your stimulation keeps elevating. You expected her to be close, but it seems that interrupting your cunnilingus restarted her progress. “Youuuuggghh. How are you getting—nngggghhhh—bigger?” Until now.

Her nails dig on the skin of your back, getting a little deeper the stronger you pound her. She bites your right shoulder, making you growl in a tone and volume you would not be able to replicate in any normal circumstance. You hear her ragged giggles, although her moans would return when you dig your upper teeth on her neck in retaliation. “Mmm!” she muffles her lips, experiencing the same level of pain and pleasure she just gave you.

She fixes her gaze into your eyes, sticking her tongue out with her gaping smirk. You notice her mouth drooling, something you can no longer contain. “Fuuucck—I never knew… you hah… had it… in you.”

That’s the second dimension of Yubin you’ve made yourself familiar with in the past month. “I guess… I failed your… Expectations?” you ask, your breath mirroring hers.

Her eyes start to squint as your stronger thrusts start rubbing on her cervix repeatedly, getting a little lightheaded. “Ani…ya… It's the… Auuuuuoopposite…” But she has yet to back down, keeping up her thrusts against yours as long as she can.

Finding a weird sense of achievement from her words allows you to lunge your lips back into her right tit, giving Yubin a reason to use her hand to caress your hair amidst the union of your quaking bodies. As if she’s your pet or something else. Producing a series of vibrations with her nipple inside your mouth, you move your lips like a motorboat’s engine, prompting a reaction you expect from her. Even with her short burst of laughter, Yubin maintains her shrieks with higher levels of satisfaction, even though your thrusts have been slowing down. You widen the scope of your mouth, taking in her areola in the distance between your front teeth right as you slowly close them.

“Auuughhhh—fuck!” she hollers louder in a mix of abrupt pain and greater pleasure, forcing you to let your mouth off her breast to maintain the pace of your ramming. She tightens her arms around your shoulders and finally closes her eyes to cherish the waves of pleasure spreading across her erogenous zones, mostly in her cunt. At this point, she’s at loss for comprehensive articulation. “I'mmmm—aaaauuugh—cllauwse! Oooooooough, jebal! It’sss—aaauugh!”

You turn your head to the right, your chin hitting your collarbone, hoping that the pressure on your member would also persist through the build-up of your semen. As it turns out, you and Yubin are not far off from each other. “Meeeee… Shit… Meee—too!”

She climaxes again more, as you fill her up to the brim for a second time. While still lying on top of Yubin with her head arched upside down, you keep the silence broken through your breaths gasping for air in front of each other’s faces, letting your bodies take their time to recover. Through the curtained windows, the sun shines on both of your faces, but not enough to be blinding your visions. As she raises her head, you lock eyes with each other, almost sensing more vulnerable aspects of her soul. Ones that you seem to resonate with. And yet before you can process what more of those are, you both happen to lean closer to each other for another kiss neither of you just can’t get enough of. Your tongues dance in unison, her mouth letting yours take the lead the more your breathing eases up through this calm exchange of air, saliva, and perhaps to an extent, your souls.

As your lips part, the air of awkwardness enters the room. Your heartbeat has steadied in pace, but it’s still loud in your ears. She gently taps your nape with her right fingers, signaling you to scooch yourself off her. If that’s not enough, she whispers, “Geuman.”

The word rings right into your brain, and she’s barely used that unless she has or wants to. Thankfully, you didn’t crush her throughout the intercourse because of your slightly heavier build compared to the woman. But you’d expect it to be uncomfortable for her, even if it was compensated by your minutes of carnal union. You carefully help Yubin get her left leg off your shoulder, letting her slouch on the bean bag for a while.

“Mianhae,” you tell her as you pull out and get up from the bean bag with immediacy. Standing up while pulling Yubin with you using both arms, your eyes catch the digital clock on the wall hitting 12:00 noon. Now you've definitely stopped.

= = =

It took you both sixteen minutes to fix yourselves, taking turns in the small bathroom. But, even its minimalist interior, the decor made it look more luxurious nevertheless. The counter next to the sink has a diverse array of perfumes, some of which you once saw either on television ads at the mall or products online under six to seven digits. That's the same one she was wearing. Shit... Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

You take a look around the room. It’s as wide as a medium-sized apartment room, but not big enough for a condo. Not that you’ve ever lived in one… She exits the bathroom; hair is fixed, but what surprises you is that her outfit’s slightly changed. Another set of blouse and pants, making you assume she’s going out after this. As usual, her presence often keeps on making your perception of time slow down. It’s cliché, but that’s just you being yourself. You assume that she doesn’t know or have to know that.

Yubin catches a contrasting smell to her new scent. “Did you spray my perfume inside?”

“Ne.” You had to be straight with her, subconsciously scratching your head. “I, uhh, didn’t mean to… I just got curious—”

“I don’t mind… I was just asking.” You expected her to say something else after the “don’t.” It’s also strange you no longer expected her to hold a grudgeful stare at you. “Now I understand why the bathroom’s perfume.”

“Joesonghamnida,” immediately comes out of your mouth as you slowly bend forward.

She snorts, her eyes widening for a second, before walking and sitting down on the chair in front of her desk. “Don’t apologize… It was a good perfume, after all.”

“Yeah, it was,” you mumble with a soft nod. “So… Do you live here?” you ask her, still making some last second adjustments to your bangs while she’s not looking at you.

“Mmmm-hmmm…” she nods her head, though her focus remains on her desk while she checks her face in the mirror. You wonder why she double-checks her face when she has always stunned you whatever look she’s in, but maybe that’s just you, slowly reminding yourself of your complex situationship. You’d expect her to fire her sharp eyes at you, but she just casually answered the question. “You don’t think I’d just steal someone’s key, and sneak in here with you, do you? Would’ve that been worth it?” However, her sass remains. She’s still the same chef who tested your patience and outlook on people.

You suddenly recognize her voice coming off from her first dimension, which you've always been dreading to face again. “Aniya. Aniya… I was just wondering—”

She turns around to face you. “And before you ask, no. I’m not homeless. I got my own place elsewhere.” Somehow that was close to what you were gonna ask her, despite the doubt already warning you not to do it.

You didn’t know if you should’ve chuckled, but you just did. “I never thought of that.”

“I just spend more time in here whenever the Kitchen gets a little busier, if you’re still wondering,” she adds. You restrained yourself from asking more questions about her living situation, but her follow-up, her subtle way of opening up, makes you feel less agitated at her presence whenever you’re communicating.

“Ah, I see…” It's more than livable, although, you also think it's well above pay grade. “It’s just surprisingly larger than I thought, that’s all.”

“That’s ModHaus for you.” She chuckles right after, but unbeknownst to you, she doesn’t want to break the silence once your laughter subsides. Or let this day end like you always do during your weekday meets together. In your mind, you’re simply allured by this tone of chuckle she just let out. It’s refreshing. With her left palm, Yubin slowly rubs the area under her chin, looking away from you for a second. “Soooooooooo… Do you want to grab a bite?”

You have known since then that chefs rarely cook food for themselves, despite spending days and weeks cooking and serving hundreds of strangers. Just getting to have that feeling from a professional chef amuses you, but not as much as her just asking you out to eat in the early afternoon. She hasn't done this since the day she first apologized to you. Or the other time she crossed paths with you after a team dinner. Or that time when—

“Unless you have other plans?” With your silence still going on, she's ready to take her words back out of embarrassment, given the likelihood of you politely rejecting her.

“Aniya…” is the first word to come out of your mouth. “I don’t have plans now… Of course, I can go to lunch with you right now, Yubin-ssi.”

“Drop the formality,” she immediately corrects you. Her cadence is firm and confident, but not as demeaning and sometimes wrathful like you took it from her back then. Once again, you gotta remind yourself that this isn't work.

You try to back track and correct your wording from earlier. “Yubin-ah?”

“Yep…” she affirms, slowly nodding her head before picking up her handbag. At the same moment, you notice a smile slowly forming in both corners of her lips. Not just a slight smirk raised in one corner. “Just… Don't get too comfortable around it, arasseo?”

With your hands clasped together, your smile would follow hers, a little wider than you usually do. “Sure—”

“Or too uncomfortable,” she adds, as you follow her walk to the door. You find her a little unbelievable and more eccentric than you've expected. Not that it's a negative in your eyes. Seeing a new light, a new dimension in the layers of her personality changed your outlook, you don't know what else to expect from this woman. Perhaps you should stop expecting whatever this is, whatever this will be. Maybe everything will simply fall into place. “Let’s go, Daewon-ah.”

= = =

so yeah, if you've noticed that little link, this is actually a follow-up to that chapter in my main series. I decided it'd be better for these two to have a series of fics of their own... hope you liked this one.

In other news, I am already cooking up another fic with someone not from tripleS, but that one will take a little longer, but not as long as a series or anything. at the same time, I will most likely be continuing "Our Story, Like a Romance Novel" because it will be heavy one(s). anyhoo, thanks for the read (as always), and until next time!

#kpop au #kpop smut #triples smut #yubin smut #male reader smut #x male reader #gg smut #gong yubin

196 notes · View notes

sunishake · 2 days ago

Text

ʚĭɞ 𝐏.JS ᝰ is writing — “I bleed on your guitar with every lyric I’ll never sing”

vol 12 . ─── 𝐄𝐍 𖹭 박종성 : bleed on your guitar

a mute girl working at a bar hopelessly falls in love with Jay, the guitarist of a rising band, who drowns himself every night in liquor. In hope of knowing him better she writes lyrics, lyrics that rock her entire world, but would the words reach to Jay who is drowning in silence.

𖹭 strangers to lovers, angst, slow burn, drama, musical, yearning men

𖹭 thank you for 200 follows (ToT), this blog is growing so much faster than I expected, I love each and everyone of my readers so much :(( mwahhhh

note: not proofread !! I actually fell in love with Jay while writing. Goodbye.

ʚĭɞ if you liked this don't forget to check out my other works in library

01.

The bar was never truly quiet, situated in the heart of Gangnam there were rare moments when the noise softened, when the music shifted to something slow, something worth stop thinking about future or past and just live in the present, when the laughter dipped into low murmurs, when the clink of ice in glasses was the loudest sound in the room. Those were the moments you worked best in. Your job wasn’t anything glamorous. Sweeping the sticky floor after a spilled drink, scrubbing the counter until your fingers smelled like citrus cleaner, gathering empty bottles before they could be knocked over.

You moved through the bar like a shadow, quick, unnoticed, careful not to bump into the servers weaving between tables.

You didn’t speak to customers. Partly because the manager had told you not to, partly because the other staff had made it clear you’d just “slow things down.” They didn’t say it outright, but the message was there stay in your lane, do your job, don’t get in the way and partly because of your inability to hear and speak.

And you believed them. Why wouldn’t you? They smiled when they spoke to you. At least that's what your eyes traced, the way the corner of their mouth rose when they teased you sometimes, like friends would. If they took the better shifts, if you got fewer tips, it was just bad luck, wasn’t it? If you were called out for mistakes that weren’t yours, it was because you could’ve done better. That was fair.

You didn’t know and no one told you that there was a rule in the bar, whoever drew in more customers earned more. Attention meant money, and you were never meant to be the one drawing it.

But there was one man who drew yours without even trying.

He came in almost every night, always alone. Black shirt, black jeans, black jacket hanging off one shoulder like he had been wearing it all day and couldn’t be bothered to take it off properly. His hair fell just enough to shadow his eyes, but never enough to hide the sharp, clean cuts of his face. Handsome, yes, but not in the warm, approachable way some of the regulars were.

He looked distant. Like he was always somewhere else, even when he was sitting at the corner table with a drink in front of him. You never saw his lips moving, Jungwon always gave him his usual drink orders, he had just mentioned it once and that was it. No interaction anymore. Not once. From the first time you saw him, something in you had been quietly, hopelessly drawn to that stillness. While others filled the room with noise and movement, he seemed carved out of the shadows, an unshaken point in the chaos. He spoke your language despite of not knowing you.

You learned his patterns without meaning to. He came late never before ten, never after midnight, sat with his back to the wall, facing the room, like he needed to see everything but didn’t want to be seen himself. The others noticed him too. The servers tried, more than once, to engage him leaning closer than necessary when they took his order, smiling a little too brightly. He thanks them, voice low, eyes already back on his drink. Whatever they keep looking for in him, they don't get it.

And neither did you.

You weren’t allowed to. That was the rule, no interaction, no stepping past the invisible line between you and the people on the other side of the counter. But you watched. From the corner of your eye while polishing glasses, from across the room while stacking chairs. You noticed the way his fingers tapped an absent rhythm on the glass, the way his gaze sometimes lingered on nothing in particular for far too long.

There was a heaviness about him. Not loud, not messy, the quiet weight you only recognised because you carried a little of it yourself.

A group of servers passed by, laughing about something you didn’t catch. One of them, Chaewon, glanced your way with a smirk. “Careful,” you recognised the way her lips moved, she murmured as she brushed past, and then the next set of words rolled out of her tongue “don’t stare too hard.” You blinked at her, confused. She didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. It was the kind of teasing that left you unsure if there was a joke you were supposed to get or if you’d just made a mistake.

You kept your head down.

The studio air was heavy. The walls, soundproof and padded, seemed to close in on themselves, swallowing the faint hum of the amplifiers. Sunghoon and Jake lingered near the door, restless and uneasy. “Out,” Yuki said sharply, not raising his voice but leaving no room for argument. They exchanged wary glances, but none dared to push back. Shoes scuffed against the polished floor as they slipped out. The door clicked shut behind them, and the room fell into a silence that felt almost accusatory.

Yuki’s hands were clenched at his sides. He stood there for a moment, his lips pressed thin, as if he were trying to choose his words carefully though the tension in his jaw suggested the opposite.

“Jay,” he began, and even saying the name sounded like effort. “I know you’re going through stuff. I do. But that doesn’t mean you get to sabotage your career.” Jay sat on a low stool near the centre of the room, guitar resting across his lap. His head was slightly bowed, hair falling into his eyes, his fingers moved without purpose, plucking, loosening, tightening the same chord until it sounded more like a sigh than a note. His manager took a step closer, his voice low but firm, each syllable weighted. “I hate to be that person, but this isn’t just about you. The boys didn’t work this hard for you to throw it away. We built something together—blood, sweat, years of it. If you keep going like this, you’re going to burn it all to the ground.”

Jay’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, more of a tired twitch. He didn’t lift his head. “Well,” he muttered, “I can’t do shit right now.”

“That’s not—”

“I mean it,” Jay cut in, still focused on the strings. His voice was flat, the words sliding out without any sharp edges. “If you force me, I’ll just leave.” He paused, finally glancing up, his eyes dull but steady “give the boys their credit. They deserve it. I don’t want anything.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the quiet buzz of an amplifier somewhere in the corner.

Yuki’s mouth opened, but no words came. He looked like a man trying to pull someone back from the edge, only to realise they had already stepped off. Jay didn’t wait for him to find something to say. He set the guitar down carefully, like the instrument was the only fragile thing left in the room and stood. His steps were slow, deliberate, as if each one was dragging him through mud.

The hallway outside was cooler, but it didn’t feel like relief. Jake’s voice cut through the quiet almost instantly.

“Jay!”

It came from the far end, urgent and worried. Jay’s shoulders flinched, but he didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to see the expression that voice carried. He didn’t want to see concern, or frustration, or worse pity.

He kept walking.

“hyung wait—”

The footsteps quickened behind him, but Jay’s pace stayed the same. He lifted his hands to his ears, pressing them there like a stubborn child, as if sealing himself in would make the world stop trying to reach him. The sound of Jake’s voice was muffled now, but not gone. It still slipped through in faint, strained syllables, chasing him like a shadow. He wished it would stop. He wished all of it would stop the questions, the interviews, the lights, the relentless cycle of expectation. Even the music felt different now, hollow in his chest where it used to burn bright. His steps carried him out the back exit, into the dim evening light. The city noise was far off, softened by distance and the low hum of passing cars. The air smelled faintly of rain that hadn’t come yet.

He pressed his palms harder over his ears. A kind of exhaustion that seeped into the bones, making even the thought of answering feel impossible. He didn’t want to explain himself, because he didn’t have the words. He didn’t want to be convinced to stay, because part of him already knew he was halfway gone.

You didn’t notice how long you’d been sitting there until a gentle tap on your shoulder startled you. The pen froze in your hand, its tip hovering over the paper, and you turned sharply. With furrowed brows, you signed 'I told you not to approach me from behind!'

Jungwon giggled, He signed slowly, each movement deliberate so you could catch every word 'It’s late. Aren’t you going home?'

You pressed your lips into a thin line and glanced toward the small clock mounted above the bar’s entrance. The glowing hands confirmed it was well past closing time for you. That man hadn’t shown up tonight. Without him at his usual spot, black clothes, unreadable eyes, the invisible gravity he always carried, the night had felt strangely hollow. In his absence, you’d taken your time, letting yourself sink into the thing that made you feel most alive

writing lyrics.

You had loved writing since you were a child. Back then, it had been a way to put a shape to feelings you couldn’t voice. Now it was something more, a quiet rebellion against the silence the world had pushed onto you. Each line you wrote was proof that you could still say something worth hearing, even if no one’s ears ever caught the sound. Jungwon didn’t rush you. He simply stood there, a steady presence, until you finally closed your notebook. He helped you gather your things, the familiar rustle of paper and zip of your bag the only sounds between you. The night air embraced you the second you stepped outside. It was cool and damp, scented faintly with the ghost of earlier rain and the sharp tang of metal from the street. The neon lights from the bar cast long reflections across puddles, their colours blurring in ripples with every gust of wind.

Jungwon adjusted the strap of his bag and gave you a short wave. 'Get home safe', he signed before turning down a side street, his silhouette shrinking until it was swallowed by the dark.

You lingered a moment before setting off in your apartment's direction. The streets were nearly empty just the occasional hum of a passing car or the faint shuffle of someone heading home late. Your apartment wasn’t far, maybe fifteen minutes on foot, but it was enough distance to give you that small pocket of solitude you craved. You loved this part of the night. The way the city seemed to exhale once the crowds had gone. The way your footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, unchallenged by anyone else’s. Here, no one was watching you, no one was expecting you to be anything more or less than you were. The night didn’t care who you were, it simply existed beside you, unjudging.

The silence spoke to you, though not in words. It spoke in the rustle of leaves against a chain link fence, in the distant rattle of a bicycle chain, in the sigh of wind curling around the streetlamps. It was a language you’d learned to understand over the years, one that never failed to wrap itself around you like a blanket.

And yet, even in this comfortable quiet, your thoughts drifted inevitably to him. The moment he brushed your mind, warmth bloomed across your cheeks. You hated how easily he could do this to you without even being here, without you not even knowing his name.

You wanted him. Not in some fleeting, passing way but with the slow, steady certainty of someone who had carried a feeling too long for it to be mistaken as temporary. Despite the distance between you the space you never dared to close he felt close in your mind. You could picture him as clearly as if he were walking beside you now head tilted slightly down, dark hair brushing against his forehead, fingers curling loosely in his pockets.

You wanted to cradle him in your arms and ask him why he always seemed so sad. Wanted to see the corners of his mouth lift in something real, something unburdened. You wanted to know what his laughter sounded like.

Oh, you almost forgot that you couldn't.

You wanted to love him and truth was, you already did.

Jay hadn’t come to the bar for almost two weeks. You found yourself scanning the door every shift anyway, half hoping, half expecting him to appear, even when you knew it was pointless. It wasn’t unusual for him, he had this pattern. He shows up almost every night for five days straight, then vanishes like smoke curling out of sight, only to reappear after a couple of weeks as though he never left. You never knew where he went, or what he did when he was gone. You liked to imagine, though.

Maybe he had a strict boss, who barked orders the way yours did and that’s why his shoulders always seemed weighed down. Maybe, he sat through long scoldings, staring at the floor, pretending not to care. Maybe, your lips twitched at the thought—he also called his boss a bald cauliflower in his head. The thought made you giggle, the sound lost in the clamour of clinking glasses and low music.

When he finally returned a few days later, you spotted him instantly, your eyes finding him in the haze of cigarette smoke and swaying bodies, the dim lights painting sharp edges on his face. He was dressed in black again, as always, the colour clinging to him like it belonged. You smiled before you could stop yourself. The night stretched long. He stayed until the bar thinned out, until the drunk and the desperate gave up their games, until someone’s girlfriend became someone’s ex, and someone’s ex managed to leave with someone new. By then, the place was more shadow than light, the air stale with alcohol and the scent of sweat. Your gaze kept drifting back to him, tracing the slope of his shoulders, the way his hand curled lazily around his glass. You were so caught in the quiet rhythm of watching him that it took you a moment to notice movement in your periphery.

Yunjin.

She was stepping out of the changing room, a stack of papers clutched in one hand. Her gaze was sweeping over the room, calling out for Chaewon maybe, you recognised the way her eyes lit up.

It took less than a heartbeat for recognition to strike.

Your lyrics.

The air seemed to tighten in your lungs.

No, no, no.

They weren’t supposed to be out here. You left them tucked under a tray of dirty glasses in the back room, thinking they would be safe until you finished your shift. They were private, your scraps of lyrics. They weren’t for anyone else to see, especially not in the middle of a crowded bar. You slipped between two men arguing over a spilled drink, muttering apologies that went unheard. The bass from the speakers pulsed through your chest, but it wasn’t enough to drown the pounding in your ears. Yunjin was already halfway across the room, heading toward the bar counter where Chaewon was currently doing her shift.

You reached her just as she opened her mouth, your hand closing over her wrist before the words could leave. Her brows shot up, eyes screaming the familiar 'what's your problem?' Glare. You shook your head sideways and pulled them from her grip. The edges were already bent, smudged with fingerprints. You tucked them behind your apron, pressing them flat against your stomach as though you could hide them from the world.

Yunjin tilted her head, studying you. Then a smirk formed across her face.

Before you could react, she yanked the bundle of paper from your hand. The sudden loss made your fingers curl around nothing. She called across the bar, “Chaewon!” Chaewon turned from wiping down the counter, brows lifting. In one careless sweep, Yunjin tossed the loose sheets in her direction. They didn’t make it far and scattered here and there, fluttering, spinning, falling over the sticky floor. Your eyes went wide. For one heartbeat, you couldn’t move. Then panic snapped you forward. You dropped to your knees, ignoring the faint stick of dried beer and the grit of broken glass under your palm. Your papers, your words lay crumpled and curling in puddles of spilled rum.

Behind you, Yunjin laughed as Chaewon frowned, watching you scramble. “What the fuck are these?” she asked, her tone annoyed and flat. “I don’t know… some kind of trash,” Yunjin answered, still grinning. “Must be important to Y/n.” Her eyes followed you as you darted between stools and bent to snatch another sheet.

When the last page was safe in your arms, you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. You stood, ready to disappear into the changing room, but Yunjin was suddenly in front of you. She spun you around by the arm, her grip light but unyielding. Her grin softened into something almost playful. She clicked her tongue, then signed with quick, practised hands 'You know we’re just joking, right?'

You forced a smile and signed back 'Oh no it's fine' Your mouth remembered how to do it even though your chest still felt tight. Of course, she was joking. Yunjin teased everyone maybe she just wanted to show Chaewon what she’d found. You shouldn’t have left the papers there. It was careless, stupid even. This was a bar, not a safe. People threw things away all the time here. Papers left in the wrong place would look like nothing more than trash.

Jay’s head throbbed as if someone had taken a hammer to his temples. The sharp sting of leftover alcohol mixed with the dull heaviness of fatigue sat deep in his skull. His vision swam when he opened his eyes, light from the flickering neon sign bleeding into strange shapes. With a low groan, he lifted a hand, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the skin between his brows, wishing the ache would stop even for a moment. When his sight finally steadied, he saw a small figure leaning into his view, Jungwon, the youngest of the bar staff. His voice came muffled at first, like it was reaching him from underwater.

“Sir… it’s closing time.”

Jay gave a slow nod. Jungwon straightened, waiting patiently, hands tucked into his apron pockets. With an effort, Jay pushed himself upright. The motion stirred the air around him, and something fluttered down from his lap to the sticky floor. A single sheet of paper, edges curled from being handled too often. Jay frowned. He bent to pick it up, the movement making the blood rush unpleasantly to his head. Turning the page over, he was met with cramped, flimsy handwriting, messy but oddly deliberate.

wanna make you smile whenever you’re sad, carry you around when your arthritis is bad

Maybe we can sleep in, I’ll make you banana pancakes, Pretend like it’s the weekend now.

You're the reason I'm riding 'round on recapped tires, And you're the reason I'm hanging our clothes outside on wires

But I would walk 500 miles

nothing after that, except a small note at bottom.

I can't think of the next line :-(

Jay blinked. His head was still foggy, but the absurdity of it landed all the same. His lips twitched before he could stop them. Then, without warning, a quiet, breathy laugh escaped half amused, half disbelieving.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to startle Jungwon. His eyes widened slightly. He had worked the late shift long enough to assume Jay probably had Botox-related issues since he didn't show any expression. Yet here he was, shoulders shaking just a little, gaze fixed on the ridiculous sentence as though it were the most precious thing he read all week. Jungwon’s gaze flicked from Jay to the paper and back again. He knew that handwriting. He had seen it on scattered napkins in the backroom, on half-crumpled receipts, on the little notes tucked behind the bar counter.

Y/n's lyrics?! How the hell this end up here???

Jay folded the paper with unusual care, smoothing the crease once, twice, and simply slid it into the pocket of his jeans. “Go on, lock up,” Jay murmured, his voice rough but softer than usual.

Jungwon came into the kitchen practically buzzing, ready to launch into a you won’t believe what happened speech only to stop mid stride. You were hunched over the counter, rifling through scattered sheets of paper, your hands trembling just slightly. Pens rolled across the marble as you flipped one page after another.

He signed, his brows furrowed. 'What happened?' You looked up, pout tugging at your lips, eyes glassy with frustration. 'I can’t find the last lyric I wrote, It was with the others and now it’s just… gone'

Jungwon blinked once, then twice. You could almost see the light bulb flicker above his head. Slowly, he facepalmed, dragging a hand down his face. He stepped forward and caught your restless hands in his, forcing you to stop. ' Your paper was just in that handsome guy’s hand I saw him reading it—with a biiiiiiiig smile—and then he took it home. ' he signed emphatically, exaggerating the 'big smile' (or maybe not) You froze, mouth parting. 'What do you mean he took it home?' The corners of Jungwon’s lips twitched in annoyance when you gave his arm a light slap.

'Don’t play with me! '

He rolled his eyes with the grace of someone used to being doubted. ' I’m serious ' , he signed again, sharper this time. The words hung between you like the pause before a confession. Then came the sudden warmth in your cheeks, the dizzy rush flooding your chest.

He took your paper.

Your lyric. The idea alone made something chemical crackle under your skin, like sparks threatening to catch fire. But before the giddiness could take root, your eyes went wide, panic replacing the blush. 'JUNGWON—YOU IDIOT, IT WAS UNFINISHED! ' Outside, the world remained blissfully unaware, but inside your kitchen, your heart was a storm of mortification, curiosity, and something you weren’t ready to name.

02.

Jay stirred awake, the heaviness in his limbs anchoring him to the bed. His shirt was nowhere in sight, the air brushing cool against his skin. He blinked slowly, gaze fixed on the ceiling until sensation returned to his fingertips—something crumpled and thin resting in his palm. Lifting it into the dim light, he recognized the uneven lines and messy scrawl. His lips twitched in faint realization, voice low and almost amused. “Oh… the lyrics.”

The next night, Jay came to the bar again. Same time, same black clothes. His routine never changed. Order, drink, sit in silence. But tonight, his eyes weren’t fixed on his phone or the amber swirl in his glass. They kept drifting, scanning the crowd like he was looking for something. Or someone. The music thumped, neon lights painted everyone in feverish shades, and bodies moved in the dim heat of the bar. But his gaze kept flickering toward the counter.

When the crowd thinned, he reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, neatly folded piece of paper. He placed it under his glass with a kind of quiet precision, his eyes wandered one last time across the room before settling back on the counter, at unfamiliar faces shaking cocktails, wiping glasses, and leaning lazily against the counter.

He let out a long sigh.

You didn’t see him that night.

“Why do these rich assholes leave trash wherever they go?” Yunjin muttered the moment she spotted the table. She was already bent over, picking up vapes, used tissues, and crumpled napkins, tossing them into a black trash bag with sharp flicks of her wrist.

“Look at this wannabe different ahh mf, leaving his poetic trash on the table like I’m supposed to worship it.”

She clicked her tongue and snatched up the folded paper left under the glass where Jay sat. It made a faint crackle before she shoved it deep into the trash bag.

Jungwon, sweeping nearby, caught sight of you moving like a storm toward Jay’s table, your eyes scanning every inch, your hands darting under napkins and empty glasses.

' Maybe he forgot? ' he signed, leaning his broom against the table. You shook your head immediately, the corners of your mouth tugging downward. You signed with quick, decisive movements ' He doesn’t look like someone who would forget ' Jungwon sighed, running a hand over his face. “God save these lovesick idiots,” he muttered under his breath before crouching down to help you search. The two of you combed the area until there was nothing left to turn over.

Your chest felt tight, like all the air had been swapped out for smoke. You stepped outside, the cold air brushing over your cheeks. The sky above was black velvet, and the moon hung there, round, luminous, almost cruel in how serene it looked compared to you.

Maybe he really forgot, maybe he crumpled it up, maybe it was in some corner of his apartment, buried under bills.

Or maybe he fed it to his cat just to see it disappear.

Your lips pressed together as you groaned quietly, the frustration hot in your chest. You kicked the nearest trash can, the metallic clank echoing through the alley. The lid tipped and bags tumbled out, spilling trash onto the pavement. You stared at the mess and almost laughed at how perfectly it matched your day. With another sigh, you crouched down and began picking up the debris, your hands moving automatically.

You almost missed it.

There, half-hidden under a torn takeout box, was a familiar fold of paper. Your paper. Your handwriting peeked out through the crumpled edges. Your heart stuttered as you snatched it up, smoothing it open with trembling fingers. The words you wrote stared back at you, slightly smudged from its short time in the garbage

wanna make you smile whenever you’re sad, carry you around when your arthritis is bad

Maybe we can sleep in, I’ll make you banana pancakes, Pretend like it’s the weekend now

You're the reason I'm riding 'round on recapped tires, And you're the reason I'm hanging our clothes outside on wires

But I would walk 500 miles

And I would walk 500 more, Just to be the man who walked a thousand miles To fall down at your door.

Beneath your lines, there was more written in an elegant, neat cursive.

And I would wait a thousand nights, If it meant I’d hear your song again

don't make me wait anymore

Your breath caught.

And then, at the very bottom, a small signature, almost playful in contrast to the rich handwriting

— From Jay, to the unknown who couldn’t think of anything :)

Jay. His name is Jay?!!

It felt like someone had dropped a lit match into your chest. You pressed your thumb over the ink as if to confirm it was real, as if your touch could make it stay. He had not ignored you. He answered. All you could feel was the paper in your hands and the weight of his words in your head. You folded it carefully, tucking it into the pocket of your apron like it was something fragile. Something alive.

Jay’s foot tapped restlessly against the studio floor, the soft thud echoing in his own head more than in the room. Inside the booth, Jake’s voice floated through the glass. "You're doing great Jake” the producer’s voice crackled through the intercom. Usually, Jay would be the first to agree, to grin and add some teasing comment, but today, his mind was too crowded for celebration. He stared at the floor until Yuki leaned toward him with a clipboard “Jay, you’re next.” He let out a long breath. “Alright. Let’s do this.” By the time his part was over, the day’s recording had wrapped. Jake bounded out of the booth, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Hyung, you killed it. Oh em gee,” he said, holding up his palm for a high-five. Jay gave him the faintest smile, meeting the gesture without much energy.

Not long after, the three of them ended up in the small café tucked beside the HYBE building. The place smelled of roasted beans and fresh pastries, a familiar comfort from their trainee days. Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Feels like it’s been decades since we’ve hung out like this.” Jay wrapped his hands around his cup but didn’t drink. His voice was low when he spoke. “I’m sorry, guys… You’ve had to deal with so much because of me. I’m not a good leader, and now I’ve failed as an older brother too.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “the hell are you even saying? You didn’t ruin anything. Everyone has ups and downs, Jay. That’s life.” Jake shifted closer, draping an arm around Jay’s shoulder. “We miss you, hyung. And it’s not your fault. What happened… happened. People online live for drama anyway.”

Jay swallowed, his throat tight. “She hates me now.” Sunghoon’s tone sharpened. “She never loved you to begin with.”

Jake shot him a warning look, brows furrowed in silent plea, but Sunghoon only shrugged. He knew where this conversation always ended. Jay’s fingers clenched against the coffee cup. “…But I did love her, right?”

Silence settled over the table, the café’s espresso machine suddenly too loud. Jake tried to bridge it. “I’m sure Sunghoon didn’t mean it like that. He just—” Jay cut him off with a faint chuckle. “It’s fine, Jake. He’s not wrong. It was my fault for giving myself away so easily.”

Sunghoon nudged his arm. “Bro, loosen up. I’ll set you up with a baddie if you—”

Jay interrupted, his voice oddly calm. “Would you walk five hundred miles for someone and collapse in front of their door if they were baddie enough?”

Jake and Sunghoon nearly choked on their drinks, both staring at him.

“What the fuck?” Jake sputtered.

“Say what now?” Sunghoon asked, blinking in disbelief. Jay only smiled faintly, eyes distant, as if the question wasn’t meant for them at all.

'You're gonna burn holes in his head' Jungwon signed with exaggerated brows, snapping his fingers to bring you back to earth. But you were too far gone, drifting somewhere between reality and the little daydream you’d built around Jay. Your eyes stayed locked on him, seated in his usual spot by the window. Today, he wore a maroon shirt that clung just right, his hair a little messy. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it. You stifled a giggle, pressing your lips together. It still felt unreal

Jay had read your lyrics. Not only that, he had added a line of his own.

And I would wait a thousand nights, if it meant I would hear your song again

The words echoed in your mind, stirring something deep inside you. Almost without thinking, your fingers brushed over your throat. You wished you could speak, wished you could sing the song he’d unknowingly written for you. But reality was cruel. You were mute. Your voice was a locked door with no key. And the truth settled heavy in your chest,

your love for him would never find its way out.

Jay found his way into the bar for 4 consecutive days, still not knowing why and what he was doing this for actually.

“Excuse me.” he stopped Seri, his waitress for the night while she was setting down his drink. She cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh? Didn’t know you could talk, gorgeous.” He ignored her attempt at flirting “Do any of you.…kinda write lyrics?” Her brows knit. “What? Write what?”Jay pressed his lips into a thin line. No, this is not what I’m looking for. Seri lingered, fluttering her false lashes, fingertips grazing the back of his shoulder. But his gaze kept drifting past her, scanning the room. Eventually, she huffed, muttering, “Weirdo,” under her breath before stomping off.

In the bathroom, the air smelled faintly of perfume and setting spray. Yunjin and Chaewon were middle of their makeup touch-ups when Seri burst in, frowning as she twisted the faucet. “What’s got you all worked up?” Chaewon asked, catching her reflection in the mirror.“Why are people recruiting songwriters in our bar?” Seri grumbled. Yunjin giggled. “Ehhh? What?”

“That hot guy—probably an undercover gay—just asked me if someone here wrote lyrics. Like, be serious. I was literally touching his thigh.” Chaewon laughed, but Yunjin’s smile faltered.

“Someone… who wrote lyrics?” she repeated, her tone shifting, she knew who he was searching.

“Beomgyu, have you seen Y/N?” Jungwon’s voice carried urgency as he stopped yet another person in the crowded hallway. Beomgyu blinked, shook his head, and shrugged helplessly. That made five people now, all giving him the same answer. No one knew where you were. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where the hell could you be? For a brief moment, he considered asking Chaewon or Yunjin, but he knew better. They’d either brush it off or turn it into a joke. By the time nearly an hour had passed, frustration and worry clawed at his throat. He finally climbed the stairs leading to the private lounge, hoping for a miracle. That was when he saw you.

You were crouched at the edge of the pool, body trembling, shoulders quaking as you wiped furiously at your tears. Water clung to your clothes, dripping into small ripples beneath you. His heart dropped at the sight. “Y/N!” Jungwon sprinted across the floor, his shoes squeaking against the tiles. He fell to his knees beside you and gripped your shoulder. Your head lifted, eyes swollen and red, cheeks streaked with tears. You were completely drenched, hair plastered against your face. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your shivering form. The fabric hung heavy over your soaked clothes, but at least it shielded you.

Your lips trembled. A sob tore free, your chest heaving, and with shaking fingers you signed the words with dread

'Jungwon, someone dumped my lyrics in the pool… I tried saving it, but I couldn’t '

The scraps of your lyrics floated limply at the pool’s edge, ink bleeding into illegible swirls, letters dissolving into black stains that mocked every sleepless night you had spent pouring yourself into them. Jungwon crouched beside you, his jaw tense as he lifted one of the soggy pieces between his fingers only to watch it tear apart instantly. His chest rose with frustration. “Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the fragment back into the water. You sat there motionless, shivering beneath the weight of his jacket, but the warmth couldn’t reach past your chest. The ache gnawed there relentlessly, hollow and heavy. Your fists clenched in your lap, nails digging into your palms until Jungwon gently tugged your arm.

'Come on' he signed, softer this time. 'Let’s get you out of here' You nodded faintly, dragging yourself upright, but your knees buckled from exhaustion. Jungwon steadied you, wrapping his arm firmly around your shoulders, guiding you toward the stairs. But before either of you could move further, the faintest throat clearing echoed in the stillness.

“Ahem.”

Jungwon stiffened, spinning around instinctively. His eyes narrowed when they landed on Jay, standing several feet away with a slightly sheepish, confused look. Jay shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his hair. “I—uh… I forgot my lighter here.” His voice was quiet, uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he should even be explaining himself. Your body tensed instantly, every nerve aware of him. His gaze flickered over Jungwon before it landed on you. His brows pulled together at the sight of your trembling form, hair dripping, eyes raw and swollen. The moment your eyes met his, you felt warmth bloom unbidden beneath your skin, heat rushing to your cheeks despite the chill that clung to you.

His lips moved—shaping words—but no sound reached you. The confusion must have been evident on your face because you glanced at Jungwon desperately, tugging on his sleeve.

Jungwon signed quickly, his expression impatient.

'He said he left his lighter here'

Jay must have realized then, his eyes widened when Jungwon's finger formed certain signs. His shoulders jerked slightly as he stumbled over his own words, voice rising a notch in panic. “It’s okay! You guys look… troubled. I’ll just look for it and go—” But his sentence trailed off as your hand moved instinctively to your pocket. Your fingers brushed over something smooth and familiar. When you pulled it out, the small red lighter gleamed beneath the low light. You picked it up earlier while cleaning, absentmindedly slipping it away.

His eyes widened faintly. You hesitated before holding it up. He stepped closer, slowly, as though careful not to scare you. His height lowered until he crouched in front of you, aligning his gaze with yours. The nearness made your breath stutter. “Thank—you,” he mouthed, deliberate and gentle. The corners of his mouth tilted upward into a small smile that carried nothing but sincerity. With trembling hands you placed the lighter in his palm. His fingers brushed against yours for a fleeting second, warm, grounding—such a stark contrast to your cold skin that it sent a shiver running down your spine. You froze, staring as he straightened, sliding the lighter into his pocket. Without another word, he turned away, his figure disappearing into the dim hallway until only silence remained.

The air hung heavy. You pressed Jungwon’s jacket tighter around yourself, struggling to steady your heart.

“Okay,” Jungwon groaned finally, dragging a hand down his face with exasperation. “What is even going on?”

03.

Your lighter in my pocket, A spark I shouldn’t steal, But tell me how a borrowed thing

Can make a heart feel real?

I gave it back, our fingers touched,

The air was warm, the world was hushed, I swear I fell a little more, Returning what was yours.

Jay sat frozen on the couch, his eyes glazed over the glowing television. The voice of the reporter droned on, tinny and irritating, but he didn’t change the channel. He didn’t even blink.

“Song writer Lee Dasom has finally confirmed her relationship with Actor Byun Jaehyun. Rumors suggest an engagement might be on the horizon—”

The remote clattered onto the table as he switched off the screen. The silence that followed felt heavier than the words he had just heard. The blank, black surface reflected his face back at him, tired eyes, messy hair, a hollow expression he barely recognized.He leaned back against the couch, exhaling through his nose. Dasom. Her name alone used to taste sweet on his tongue. Now it felt like glass. He should have been angry. Maybe even heartbroken. But as the minutes ticked by, all he felt was emptiness, like he had already mourned the loss long before this announcement.

It wasn’t even the fact that she had moved on. It was who she had moved on with. His own cousin. Jaehyun, with his perfect smile and effortless charm, the one his family always compared him to. It stung in a place Jay didn’t want to admit still existed.

By the time he realized where his thoughts were dragging him, he was already out the door. His car seemed to move on autopilot, carrying him across the familiar streets until neon lights flickered in the distance.

The bar. Of course.

The place everyone went to when the weight of the world was too heavy to carry. The place where people drowned heartbreak in cheap liquor and temporary company. But Jay knew, even as he stepped through the smoky doorway, that Dasom and Jaehyun weren’t the reason his feet had brought him back here. No, his chest told a different story. His pulse quickened not at the memory of his ex but at something else, or rather, someone else.

It was like the faint pluck of guitar strings, delicate but insistent. A call he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t name it, couldn’t make sense of it. All he knew was that the more he resisted, the stronger it pulled.

The bar was louder than usual that night. Laughter, arguments, the clinking of bottles, and the dull thrum of music all collided into a restless wave that never seemed to end. It was the weekend, which meant chaos too many people, too few hands. Most of the workers had taken leave, so the weight fell on you, Jungwon, and some other workers.

You were already on your third round of cleaning tables, your palms slick with soap and sweat, your apron clinging uncomfortably to your waist. Glasses clinked together as you carried them back behind the counter, your arms aching from repetition. Every time you stopped to catch your breath, your eyes betrayed you. They wandered.To him. Jay sat in his usual spot at the far corner of the bar, posture straight, his hands resting loosely around his glass. Tonight was different. He didn’t look troubled or distracted, didn’t look as though his mind was elsewhere. Instead he was focused, calm. Almost like he belonged there.

“Shit—watch yourself!” You jerked upright, startled, as your shoulder collided with someone’s chest.

A man loomed over you, the bitter stench of alcohol seeping from his shirt. His brows pinched in irritation, his lips curled with disdain. you backed away quickly, bowing your head in apology. His glare lingered for a beat too long before you scurried away, your cheeks burning with shame.

The night dragged on endlessly, but everything eventually had an end. The crowd thinned as the clock ticked closer to closing. The air settled into something quieter, though a few stragglers still clung to their drinks. Jungwon handled them with polite smiles, ushering them gently toward the door. Your gaze flickered instinctively back to Jay’s corner, but the chair was empty. A hollow pang bloomed in your chest. He must have left. Slowly, you approached his table anyway. The glass he’d been nursing sat there, faint traces of condensation still clinging to it. Your hand brushed the seat before you slipped a small folded note from your apron pocket.

A thank you letter.

You had written it hastily earlier, between customers, your handwriting uneven from rushing. You wanted to thank him for the reply, for the words that had comforted you. And you wanted to apologize for failing to protect them, for watching them dissolve in the pool water until all that was left were ruined scraps.

Your fingers trembled as you laid the note down. Then, suddenly a hand brushed your waist. You jolted violently, a sharp gasp escaping your throat. Your body whipped around, and you froze. It was him, the man bumped on earlier. His face was flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded with intoxication.“Hey,” he slurred, his breath sour with alcohol. “You still haven’t paid for my ruined shirt, you know…”

You stumbled back a step, confusion flashing through you. you whimpered helplessly, trying to push his hand off, but his grip lingered stubbornly against your waist. The man clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Really? I hate women who play hard to get now....you were basically giving me signs—”

Your chest tightened, panic rising. Your eyes darted wildly around the bar, searching desperately for help, your expression screaming what your lips couldn’t say 'help me'

But before his words could fully sink into your skin, a force slammed into him. A pair of strong hands ripped him away from you, dragging him by the collar. In the next instant, the man’s body was hurled across the floor, crashing against a stack of neatly arranged chairs. The crash echoed, loud and violent, scattering the silence that had begun to settle. You flinched, your breath stuttering.And then you saw him.

Jay?!

He stood there between you and the fallen drunk, his chest rising steadily, his jaw clenched. His eyes were sharp and unreadable and burned with a quiet rage that made the air feel heavier. His fists were still curled tightly, knuckles white, as though he hadn’t quite convinced himself to let go. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Jay turned his head slightly, his gaze sweeping over you. His expression softened just barely when his eyes found yours, just enough to steady your trembling legs.

The drunk groaned on the floor, too dazed to rise. Jungwon came rushing over, his usually calm face twisted with alarm “What the hell happened?!” he crouched beside you. You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. Jay, however, didn’t say anything. He simply kept his body between you and the man on the floor, his stance rigid, protective “Get him out,” Jay said finally, his tone low but commanding.

Taehyun appeared then, grabbing the drunk by the arm and dragging him toward the door. The man resisted weakly, muttering curses under his breath, but he was too intoxicated to put up a fight. And just like that, the bar was quiet again.

Your mind buzzed with too many thoughts, too many feelings. Gratitude, fear, relief, confusion. But above all,you felt the weight of Jay’s presence beside you. The way his eyes refused to leave yours, like he was silently making sure you were safe, here, with him.

You packed your bag with slightly trembling hand. The zipper snagged, your fingers fumbled, and all you could think about was the ghost of that man’s touch on your waist. You expected Jungwon to be waiting outside for you but what you did not expect was to see him standing beside Jay. Your eyes darted between the two of them and lingered on Jay’s face longer than you meant to. The soft glow of the streetlamp fell across his sharp features, the faint shadow of a bruise on his knuckles.

“Thanks, man… I really don’t know how to thank you,” Jungwon muttered, his voice quieter than usual, almost reverent. Jay shook his head, his mouth curving slightly though it never reached his eyes. “It wasn’t anything. If anything, I regret not punching him”

The two of them let out an airy chuckle, but you only stood there, wide-eyed and silent, watching them. You wanted to participate, to add something, to thank him yourself, but the words would never leave your lips no matter how desperately you wanted them to. Jungwon turned back to you. 'Let’s get you home' You frowned, your fingers immediately moving in protest 'You’ll be late and you have college tomorrow. Just go back, I’ll walk' He gave you a sharp look his hands snapping back, signing firmly 'are you serious? I’m not leaving you alone, idiot'

Your lips pressed into a stubborn line. Jay tilted his head slightly like someone witnessing a cat fight. “What’s going on?” he asked finally. Jungwon translated, his voice explaining everything. You caught the way Jay’s eyes lingered on you after.

And you didn’t miss the subtle spark as Jungwon listened to something Jay said. His lips curved into a smirk before he looked at you with a maddeningly giddy expression 'Good luck. He’s taking you home'

And that was how you ended up walking beside Jay, steps uneven and rushed at times, quickening to match his long strides. Every so often, he would glance down, notice, and slow his pace as if it were second nature. You never lifted your head as your eyes stayed locked on your shoes, terrified that the warmth blooming across your cheeks might be too obvious if you dared to meet his gaze. Still, just being beside him made your chest tighten in a way both comforting and overwhelming. His tall figure cast a shadow over you wrapping you in security. Every brush of his sleeve against yours, every quiet step you took together, felt like a secret you were holding too tightly inside your heart. You were so lovesick it almost hurt.

“Ah—” You gasped softly when your forehead bumped into his back, the sudden stop startling you. Your eyes flew upward, wide and startled, as Jay slowly turned around. He reached for your wrist, fingers curling gently, careful not to startle you, and he placed something into your palm. A piece of folded paper. His brow arched, wordlessly telling you to open it. Curious, you unfolded the paper,

You don’t have to say thank you or apologise for anything. I don’t know how to put this into words, but your lyrics saved me, and I can never be more grateful.

P.S. I read your note when you were busy packing your bag.

Your breath hitched, and your whole body warmed at once, the words blurred in your vision as if your own pulse was ringing in your ears. Yes, you had wanted him to read that note, but not like this, not with him standing right in front of you, admitting your words had saved him. When you finally dared to look up, he was smiling at you—his signature smile, dimples carving into one side of his cheek. And in that moment, your mind went completely blank.

He was even more beautiful up close than you had ever dared to imagine.

“Thank you,” he mouthed gently, his lips forming the words with sincerity. You shook your head quickly, unable to accept thanks for something you felt was so small.

The rest of the walk carried on in silence, but it wasn’t awkward, the silence settled softly, filled with warmth rather than emptiness , where every step beside him felt like the start of something fragile, something precious. You found yourself listening to the rhythm of his shoes against the pavement, the quiet cadence of his breathing, and each second tethered you closer to him.

When the familiar outline of your apartment gate appeared, you tugged lightly at his sleeve to stop him. Gathering your courage, you turned to face him and signed slowly, 'We’ve reached. Thank you' Jay tilted his head, his expression caught somewhere between adorable confusion and curiosity. Oh. He didn’t understand your signs. You couldn’t help but giggle softly at his puzzled look, the sound bubbling up like it was beyond your control. Fishing your phone from your pocket, you quickly typed your gratitude and held the screen out to him.

He read it, then looked back at you with a sheepish smile, waving his hand as if to say 'No, no, it’s nothing' For a moment, the two of you simply stared at one another, the world outside shrinking away. Then, like an automatic response, you raised your hand and signed a small wave for goodbye. Without hesitation, Jay copied you, the gesture almost childlike in its simplicity.

You were just about to turn away, ready to slip into the safety of your apartment and your foolish daydreams alone, when his hand caught your wrist again.

The touch was light but firm enough to stop you. Your heart skipped, leapt, then soared all in a single moment. You turned back, pulse racing, to find him gazing at you. His lips parted, shaping the word soundlessly

'Name?'

The world seemed to tilt. Heat rose in your chest, your fingers trembling slightly as you reached for his palm. You traced your name onto his skin, each letter a silent confession, your fingertips gliding over the warmth of his hand. When you finished, you let your gaze linger on his face for just a second longer, lips tugging into a small, bashful smile.And then, before you lost your courage entirely, you stepped back and disappeared into the building.

“Y/n…”

04.

Growing up, Jay never lacked material things. Being born with a silver spoon seemed to solve every problem, or at least that’s what people liked to believe. What they didn’t believe were the shadows stitched into his life, the constant comparisons to his cousins who excelled at academics, the suffocating pressure of being his father’s heir, the endless questions about cram schools, test scores, and futures that never felt like his own. He had fought hard for his dream, to sing, to stand on stage, to form a band that carried his heartbeat in every chord.

Winning that battle with his parents should have brought freedom, but instead came another cage.

The unyielding expectation to maintain a spotless image, to smile when he wanted to scream, to carry the burden of perfection while his soul ached for something real. The noise, the demands, the endless cycle of “not enough” clawed at him until he sometimes wished he could disappear.

Yet, Jay never broke. There was a gentleness in him, a compassion that refused to harden. He loved recklessly, gave selflessly, and never asked for anything in return. Even when it hurt, he held on,

because loving, for Jay, was the only way to survive.

So when, Dasom pulled him close only to push him away, broke him apart only to stitch him back together, he never found the strength to say no. To him, she was everything, the pulse behind his melodies, the reason his lyrics bled with sincerity. When she finally slipped out of his reach, her hand tangled with Jaehyun’s, Jay could only watch. The world was quick to decide his part in the story.

Absent-minded boyfriend. Too obsessed with guitars and meaningless songs. So selfish! so selfish!

The words clung to him like a curse. He didn’t fight back, instead he drowned in silence. Days in the studio became torture. His pen scratched out lines that collapsed into nothing and his guitar strings refused to sing for him. Every note came hollow, every melody empty. He swept papers from his desk, overturned a chair, let the storm inside spill outward until all that was left was him curled on the cold floor, knees pressed to his chest, sobs wracking through him. The sound was raw, like his heart tearing with each breath. And then—

Four lines scribbled on a sheet of paper, dropped almost carelessly into his lap. Like a blessing.

Words so tender they felt like a hand brushing over his wounds. Jay’s chest tightened.

Could it be real? Could someone else love like this? love with the same reckless devotion he carried in his chest?

He imagined someone at his side, not taking from him but giving—singing with him, tuning his guitar when his hands shook, whispering good job from outside the glass walls of his studio.

Then what was he even doing here?

Standing frozen in front of the small, dimly lit bookshelf, eyes scanning the uneven piles of paperbacks and manuals. His fingers stopped at one slim volume wedged between two heavier tomes.

'HAND SIGNS GUIDE—Communicate With Your Loved Ones More Efficiently'

Almost without thinking, he pulled it free. He stared at it as if it might hold an answer he hadn’t dared to form into words. Why was he doing this? For you? For the fragile token of gratitude you had offered him when he least deserved it? Perhaps it was guilt, an attempt to pay you back for the note that had pulled him from the edge of an endless void. Or maybe it was pity, a reflex born from seeing your trembling figure that night, drenched and shaking, your eyes swollen with tears.

Jay was not a simple man. For all his outward confidence, he was painfully needy in the quiet moments. He craved love, he wanted to be wanted, to be seen, to be heard. Applause from faceless crowds meant nothing compared to a single word of affirmation whispered from someone who mattered. He craved attention like it was the very rhythm that kept his blood moving. And above all, he craved music. You were not a gentle melody, not a song he could hum and set aside. You were a complex tune, wild, unpredictable, impossible to replicate and he wanted to memorize every note, every shift, every trembling cadence. That was why his hand tightened around the book. Because somewhere in the mess of pity, gratitude, and aching desire, Jay realized he didn’t just want to play you once and let go. He wanted to keep you, your rhythm, your voice, your essence.....strung into his guitar forever.

You are the clouds of dusk, I gaze and lose myself. You drift across another sky, Never glancing where I stand. It wasn’t your words alone that bound me, It was the silence in between. You never meant to call me near, Yet I heard you anyway

You couldn’t tell if Jay was being serious, or if your hopeless crush was playing tricks on your eyes again. He had always been unreadable. But when, during your break, he slid a folded piece of paper across the counter, you unfolded it only to find four words written in his tidy hand 'I want you to write for me.' Your breath hitched. Surprise swelled in your chest, followed closely by something much more dangerous—hope. Too much hope. So much that you choked spectacularly on your half-bitten Subway sandwich, coughing and wheezing as Jungwon nearly dropped an entire tray of glasses trying not to laugh. You flailed your hands in a panic, trying to form signs something between 'no' and 'are you serious', though to anyone else it probably looked like frantic semaphore. Your heart was a snare drum in your ears, loud and unrelenting.

Then Jay moved. Calm, unhurried, none of your chaos startled him. He reached across the counter and gently took your hand, and then he signed 'I mean it' For a moment, your brain went completely blank, static roaring louder than the jukebox in the corner. You stared at his fingers, at the deliberate motion, at the undeniable sincerity. Jay Park, of all people, was using your language. He hesitated, his brow tightening. Then his fingers moved again, slower this time, each motion careful.

'Sorry if… hard to understand. Started watching YouTube… last week only.'

He looked almost self-conscious, waiting for your reaction, like a man afraid of playing the wrong chord. You shook your head furiously, your hands trembling as you signed back, 'They are perfect!' Your chest felt too small for everything inside it. Breathless. Stupidly, hopelessly breathless for this man who looked at you like you weren’t invisible. And in that moment, with sandwich crumbs still on your lap and Jungwon giggling in the background, you realized you were already his.

It began like a flood, words spilling faster than you could catch them. Thoughts tumbled into ink as if your pen had been waiting all along. During slow hours, when the bar filled with the low hum of voices and clinking glasses, you scribbled verses. Crumpled papers piled up, scratched-out lines testifying to your impatience with imperfection. Yet nothing ever felt wasted because Jay was there. He lingered beside you when you wrote, leaning on the counter, eyes following the movement of your pen as though every word carried weight. When you folded a sheet neatly and slipped it across, he’d accept it with both hands, smoothing the crease before tucking it carefully into his pocket like it was something fragile. On days when he wasn’t there, you carried your chaos to the rooftop. The city stretched beneath you, indifferent, and your heart thrashed against your ribs as if it could break free.

You wrote then too

I’ll bleed on your guitar, With every word I hide away.

The red will hum beneath your hands,

While I’m the song you’ll never play.

lyrics you swore you would never give him, confessions too raw to bear the risk of being read. And somehow, without realizing when it started, you found yourself slipping into Jay’s world outside the bar. His apartment became familiar ground. His studio smelled faintly of cedar and worn out strings, the walls lined with the silent witnesses of his craft. Guitars leaned in corners and against stands, their varnish catching the lamplight like polished stone. You knew their names by now, the way he said them like they were old friends.

One evening, your fingers brushed the strings of one left on the couch. The sound was tentative, a soft vibration that lingered in the quiet room. You froze, uncertain if you’d overstepped, and looked up.Jay was watching you, a softness tugging at the edges of his otherwise steady expression. His hands moved slowly, deliberately. 'Do you wanna play?' The question hit harder than you expected. Not just an invitation to touch wood and wire, but to step further into the space he rarely opened to anyone. Your chest tightened, your hands shook. You didn’t answer right away afraid your voice, or your signs, would betray just how much you wanted to say yes.

You had settled cross-legged on the rug, the soft weave scratching pleasantly against your skin as you adjusted yourself. His guitar rested clumsily on your lap, the weight foreign, the strings unfamiliar beneath your hesitant fingers. Jay knelt just behind you, his presence steady, grounding, yet the closeness made your heartbeat scatter out of rhythm. He leaned slightly forward, his hand hovering above yours, guiding you to position the guitar properly. You tried to follow, mimicking his gestures, but it felt impossible. Too many strings, too many rules. Your fingers stumbled, your shoulders stiffened. Frustration bubbled in your chest. You puffed your cheeks and signed with a pout, too hard. Then, after a pause, you scribbled another set of shaky signs

'what’s the point? I can’t even hear it. What’s the point, really?'

The confession hung heavy in the space between you. A minute passed in silence.

Your gaze drifted toward the open window, where the rain fell in gentle sheets. The sound of it was beyond your reach, but you could see it, water streaming down the glass, droplets racing each other, trees swaying under the weight of it. The world outside was a blur, a secret orchestra you weren’t invited into.

But then you felt it. Jay shifted closer, so subtly at first you thought you imagined it. His warmth pressed against your back until your spine met the solid surface of his chest. Your breath faltered, catching on nothing. His arms reached forward, sliding carefully along yours until his hands rested lightly on the guitar—over your fingers, around your palms. His chest rose and fell behind you, and with each breath, warmth fanned against the bare skin of your neck. Your throat dried instantly. He didn’t move carelessly. His lips parted slightly before he raised his hand, fingers brushing against your wrist to catch your attention. He signed slowly, hesitantly, let me know if you’re uncomfortable. You only managed a shaky nod. Your fingers felt too weak to reply, jelly in your lap. Jay exhaled quietly, then lowered his hand back onto yours. His palm was warm, rough with calluses from years of playing, while yours were soft, smaller, trembling in his grasp. He positioned your hand over the strings and guided you, one note at a time, pulling the sounds you couldn’t hear but could feel. The vibrations thrummed faintly against your skin.

Then, with his fingertip, he traced patterns on your palm. One by one, he drew the letters of the chords A, D, G, patient, deliberate. You doubted you remembered anything correctly. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the closeness, the shiver climbing up your spine at every brush of his touch. You had never experienced something so intimate. So wordless. So heavy with meaning. Jay suddenly paused. His gaze dropped to your hands, then lifted slowly to your face. His brow furrowed. He signed carefully, 'are you cold?' But upon receiving no answer he looked up at your face.

Your eyes were shut tight, your body trembling, but not from the chill. Heat spread like wildfire beneath your skin. Still, your lips quivered when you exhaled, betraying you. Jay’s gaze softened. His chest tightened with a warmth he hadn’t expected. He hadn’t realized until now just how close you two had become until he could see the fine tremor of your lashes, the blush painting your cheeks, the way your lips parted like you had forgotten how to breathe. Slowly, you opened your eyes. The world spun for a moment before your gaze met his. Another pair of dark, searching eyes, so close it startled you. His finger brushed against your forearm, tracing letters delicately, 'Y/n..… are you cold?' Your throat was too tight to answer out loud, instead, you reached for his palm. Carefully, you traced the letters back, each stroke trembling '…Yes'

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It swelled. It pulsed. It echoed with something unnamed. And then, gently, you felt it—the softest touch brushing behind your ear, a trail of warmth searing into your skin. Jay’s fingers wove through yours, intertwining, holding them tightly as though to steady your shaking, his lips found the space just beneath your ear. Your body froze. The kiss was feather-light at first, a lingering question against your skin. But when you didn’t move away, he pressed again, lower this time, his mouth grazing the curve of your neck. The sensation burned, leaving sparks across your body.You gasped silently, your chest heaving as he pulled you further into him. His arms tightened around your waist, lifting you slightly until you were perched on his lap. His legs braced yours, caging you in the warmth of him. The guitar slipped from your lap, landing on the rug with a dull thud. Neither of you looked down. Jay’s lips trailed lower, brushing across the slope of your throat, tasting the shiver in your skin. He whispered something against you, words you couldn’t catch, couldn’t hear, but felt all the same, warm syllables melting against your flesh. His mouth traveled upward, along your jaw, grazing the corner of your lips before sliding to the small mole on your cheek. Your body trembled violently now, a storm of nerves and want. You had never known that skin could burn like this. Finally, Jay stilled. His lips left your skin, only for his face to lower into the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, nuzzling into you as if memorizing the shape of your presence, the scent of you, the way your body melted despite the tremors. His arms tightened again, clutching you with something dangerously close to, you felt it, the unspoken words, the rhythm of his breath, the confession buried in the way he held you like he had found something he didn’t want to lose. Outside, the rain continued to fall. Inside, the world narrowed to the warmth of his embrace and the faint vibration of his heart against your palm.

The guitar lay forgotten on the rug.

05.

Jay sat hunched on the edge of his bed, fingers tugging nervously at the hem of his shirt. The phone pressed to his ear felt heavier than usual. His throat closed up the way it always did whenever his father’s voice came through the line.

“How’s your little band thing going?” Mr. Park’s tone was clipped, distant, yet sharp enough to slice through him.

Jay swallowed. “Good… we’re preparing for a comeback,” he whispered, voice breaking as though the words weren’t meant to exist outside his chest. A silence lingered, long enough to make his palms sweat. Then came his father’s voice again, cool and calculated “Come home this weekend. Your mom misses you.”

Jay drew in a breath. “Ok—”

“I want you to meet someone.”

His stomach dropped. Not this again. He bit the inside of his cheek until the metallic taste of blood surfaced.

“I don’t want to.”

A low chuckle rumbled from the other line, “Son, I know you don’t want to. But to me, my legacy matters more. You’ve done enough damage to yourself and to us… please don’t add more.”

And just like that, the line clicked dead.

“Leave? Suddenly? Wow, our Y/N finally going on trips with her secret boyfriend, huh?” Your manager’s laugh grated like nails on glass. You blinked at him, unsure what exactly he was insinuating. Jungwon, beside you, waa two shibals and one scream away from flipping the table. His hands signed quickly under the desk 'He’s bullshitting'

You weren’t used to being in the office, leaves weren’t something you ever asked for unless absolutely necessary, and even then, never for more than a day. But visiting Jay’s house? That was no twenty-four-hour thing. This was dinner with his parents. You remembered last week when Jay’s head resting against your stomach, his lips leaving featherlight pecks across your face. He had signed hesitantly about his mother calling, and he wanted you to accompany him. His eyes had sparkled with a childlike hope you couldn’t say no to. Which was why you were here now, facing your obnoxious manager.

“Say, Jungwon, are you tagging along too? Translating?” The man’s laugh was uglier the second time. Jungwon closed his eyes, fists clenched. You slipped your hand over his knuckles under the table, grounding him.

“I don’t mind if my pay gets deducted,” Jungwon said evenly, translating your signed words. “She just needs this leave.”

Your manager leaned back with a scoff. “Fine. Yunjin can cover. You’re deadweight anyway.” The door slammed shut so hard the walls rattled, Jungwon muttering under his breath about poisoning the man’s drink one day.

But at least, your leave was approved.

The ride to Jay’s home was quiet, though not in the suffocating kind of way. His hand rested firmly over yours, thumb brushing slow, calming arcs across your skin. Every time your thoughts slipped into dark corners, the possibility that you might not belong there Jay’s grip reminded you otherwise. That simple, steady warmth said what he didn’t voice.

Generational wealth wasn’t a phrase anymore, it was a living reality. The driveway alone stretched wider than streets you’d grown up on, lined with polished cars and manicured gardens. The house, or rather the estate, rose in front of you like something out of a history book, white columns, sprawling wings, balconies that could each fit an apartment.

Inside, the sight only intensified. Servants rushed the moment Jay stepped through the doors, bowing, collecting his coat.

Security lingered at the edges, stiff and unyielding. Others glanced, whispered, moved in a rhythm. Their expressions were carved in stone polite but cold, untouched by warmth. Just watching them made your stomach twist, nausea rising with each unfamiliar detail.

Jay’s childhood room felt like stepping into a memory that never belonged to him. It was pristine, too polished, untouched by the chaos of teenage years. Not a single poster on the wall, no forgotten trinkets just neatly aligned furniture and shelves that carried the weight of emptiness. It was larger than his apartment back in the city, yet it lacked the warmth that made his place feel alive. Standing there, you found it hard to believe that someone like Jay so radiant, so full of laughter and music had grown up in a place that seemed so cold. Jay noticed the way your eyes roamed, the furrow in your brow, and a quiet chuckle slipped from him. He lifted his hands to sign, 'My parents never supported my dream of becoming a singer. That’s why I don’t have any of my belongings here'

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat. There were so many questions bubbling up, about his childhood, the battles he fought in silence, the kind of boy he used to be before the world knew his voice. But the stillness in his expression told you enough. This room was not a place for questions. It was a reminder, and perhaps, a wound. Before you could dwell too much, warmth wrapped around you from behind. You let out a startled yelp, instinctively smacking the hands that had snaked around your waist. you yelped, voice light but heart still racing.

Jay’s laugh vibrated against your shoulder as he buried his face near your ear, pressing a kiss against its shell. The tenderness of the gesture sent a shiver down your spine. He pulled back slightly, his lips shaping the words you could catch even without sound—“I missed you.”

When he finally turned you around to face him, his eyes locked with yours. The intensity there made it hard to breathe, like he could see straight through every layer you wore to protect yourself. The world outside—his parents, their expectations, the weight of wealth and silence faded until it was just him, holding you like you were the only thing tethering him to warmth. And in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to disappear into his arms.

"I believe you’ve disappointed me enough, Jay," his father said, voice low and cutting, "First, throwing away everything I built for you. Years of hard work. Now—" his eyes flicked toward you, and for a fleeting moment you wished you could shrink into invisibility. "Bringing a muted girl as your company? God bless Reira’s father is still my business partner. If it were anyone else, your foolishness would have been beyond repair."

The table went still. Even the servants hovering at the edge of the room froze mid-step.

"Uh—uhhh," Mrs. Park stammered, nudging her husband’s arm lightly, a nervous smile tugging at her lips. "It’s okay, Jay. Don’t mind your father. You know he loves Reira. He was just… a little disap—"

"I’m sorry," Jay cut in, his voice breaking just enough to betray the weight he carried. You saw the way his mother shifted awkwardly, her smile faltering, her hands tightening around the napkin in her lap. You couldn’t hear every word spoken at the table, but you didn’t need to. Years of reading lips, of memorizing expressions, had taught you well. The pain etched in Jay’s face was clear as day. The dinner table wasn’t a family meal, it was a courtroom, and Jay was the defendant.

Afterward, Mrs. Park caught him in the hallway. Her voice was softer now, gentler than it had been at the table, though still weighed with uncertainty. "Jay…" she said, touching his arm. "You know I support you no matter what. I admit I was reckless in the past. I failed to see how much music meant to you, and I’ll always regret that. But this…" Her gaze flicked toward you, lingering, hesitant. "Are you sure?"Jay’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped low. "Sure about what, Mom?"

"About her. About Y/n..." The softness drained from her tone. "She can’t speak. She can’t hear. She’s mute, my dear. She’ll never be able to understand your love—your music, your songs, your soul. She’s just a muse. Nothing more."

The words hit him like stones, but his reply came firm, unwavering. "She's not just a muse...she's..."

She frowned, waiting. "What is she then?"

He drew in a sharp breath, steadying himself. But his tongue couldn’t battle the silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Jay felt it press against his skull until the ringing in his ears returned, the familiar tinnitus that always came in moments like this. The voice in his head whispered the same old words 'Run. Cover your ears. Escape' But he didn’t move. His mother’s expression hardened, delivering the final blow. "Are you going to keep hurting us like this? Do you want to break our family apart?"

Jay’s lips parted, his voice shaking with the truth he had buried for years.

"I don’t think I can break something that was never together in the first place."

Jay hadn’t stepped foot into the bar for almost a week. Your lyrics were now piled in the corner of changing room, gathering dust like abandoned dreams. Each time you tried reaching out, your phone lit up with short, clipped replies.

Busy with comeback prep. Busy with rehearsals. Busy. The words were flat, impersonal, as though he were pressing send with half a mind elsewhere. You wanted to believe him, wanted to convince yourself it was only work, but the ache in your chest whispered otherwise.

You missed him. That night, the memory of the ride back from his parents’ house replayed in your mind. The car had been quiet, suffocating almost, despite the city lights flashing past the window. Jay’s hands had rested tensely on the wheel, knuckles pale beneath the glow of passing streetlamps. He didn’t look at you once, didn’t reach for your hand like he always did when silence stretched too long.

You had wanted to ask. The questions had burned on your tongue

Are you okay? Do you regret bringing me there? But the fear of breaking whatever fragile thread connected the two of you kept you silent.

So you stared at your reflection in the window, lips pressed tight, while the warmth you once felt from him drained away, leaving the air between you cold. Now, a week later, that same coldness lingered in everything. In the unread messages, in the untouched lyrics, in the way your chest tightened whenever his name appeared on your screen, on the tv, on headlines where news of his band preparing for a comback was corculating.

Jay was slipping back into the version of himself you had met months ago at the bar, distant, guarded, weighed down by invisible. You believed the warmth he shared with you had been permanent. But as you sat there staring at the dust on your pages, you couldn’t shake the thought 'what were you to him really?'

And this time, you weren’t sure if you had the strength to break your heart.

You straightened your back, trying to calm the anxious rhythm of your heartbeat, but the nervous tapping of your foot against the floor betrayed you. You were standing in front of Jay’s apartment door, staring at the polished wood. Hesitation gnawed at you, wrapping itself around your chest.

Why couldn’t you just wait? He told you he was busy, didn’t he?

But lovesick people were fools. Before you could second-guess yourself again, you lifted your hand and pressed the doorbell. A sharp chime echoed from the other side, then faded into silence.

No footsteps, no response. The door remained firmly shut. You bit your lip, waited a few more seconds, then pressed again. Still nothing.

The hallway was quiet except for the faint hum of the elevator down the hall. You felt ridiculous, standing there with your hope clinging to a door that would not open. Half an hour bled away slowly, painfully, with each passing minute stabbing at your resolve. Your phone buzzed three times, Jungwon’s name flashing on the screen, but you ignored it. Finally, your shoulders sagged in defeat. You slid your bag off and pulled out the thick bundle of papers you had been working on, the lyrics you wanted to show him. Your heart tightened as you placed them carefully on the mat in front of his door.

06.

Jay sat in his studio, eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling as his fingers toyed with the guitar strings.

Dasom had come by the night before,

To give him the lyrics of song she was working on when they were still together. This was her last work with him dressed as a petty goodbye.

“Heard you’re with a mute bar worker now?” she said with a little chuckle, her tone sharp.

“None of your business,” he muttered, voice flat. But she only smiled wider, stepping closer. “That’s a very impressive choice of muse, Jay. I just hope you’re not repeating the same mistake—confusing your love for art with feelings for a person.”

The words had cut him open, ripping through wounds that had only just begun to scar.

“What… did you mean?” His voice had wavered despite himself. She didn’t answer directly, just left the words lingering like poison in the air. And now, sitting alone, Jay felt the weight of them pressing harder against his skull. He knew what she meant. He knew the ugly pattern she was hinting at. His chest tightened as he thought of you, your smile, the way your silence still spoke volumes, the way you had become his anchor without even trying.But the question burned relentlessly

What were you to him? did he love you, truly love you? Or had he, once again, let music blur into something it wasn’t? And worse—did you love him back?

His grip on the guitar tightened. The string snapped with a sharp twang, slicing the corner of his thumb. A bead of blood welled up, bright and raw against his skin. He stared at it, watching the red bloom.

Tonight was his first live show.

The announcement had been spreading like wildfire days ago, Jungwon came running into the bar with flushed cheeks, a crumpled flyer in his hand, stolen from a bulletin board outside HYBE’s building. He slapped it down on the counter with boyish triumph, and there he was—Jay. Dressed in black, eyes sharp, presence commanding even on printed paper. He was shining. Your heart had soared. Had he finally done it? Had he finally read your lyrics? The bar was busier than usual as the weekend crowd pushed through the doors, the low hum of chatter swelling into a restless sea. Glasses clinked, laughter erupted from the back tables, and the big screen on the wall flickered with the live broadcast.

Every head in the room turned toward the glow.And then you saw him. Jay’s face filled the screen, sharper and more magnetic than the paper flyer could ever capture.

The lights from the stage caught the slope of his jaw, the gleam of his dark hair, the way he held himself as though he carried the weight of a thousand eyes effortlessly. You felt something flutter in your chest, warmth, pride, giddiness, all tangled together.

Beside you, Jungwon snickered and nudged your arm. You tried to suppress your smile, but your cheeks betrayed you.

The MC leaned forward, mic in hand, asking the usual questions, about the band’s comeback, their preparation, the message behind the new music. Jake spoke first, then Sunghoon.

Finally, the microphone passed into Jay’s hands. You leaned closer to the screen, your whole body tense. His lips moved. The sound of his voice filled the bar, deep and steady. You tugged urgently at Jungwon’s sleeve. He understood instantly and bent toward you as he translated.

'This comeback, marks a very important part of my career. And I don’t know how to thank people enough, my members, my manager, my parents…'

Your chest tightened, breath catching. This was it. You could almost see the words forming already, the acknowledgment of your quiet devotion, your pages of lyrics stacked in the corner of his room. You waited, hands trembling against your apron.But then Jungwon’s voice faltered. His fingers froze mid-translation, eyes flickering nervously toward you.

'...and to Lee Dasom' Jungwon's fingers halted. "Who the hell is Dasom...?" He muttered under his breathe, probably throwing the question at you but you were far away to process anything.

What?

all of it sounded horror, distant, like you were in underwater.

Jungwon looked at you with wide, worried eyes. His mouth formed the words, what’s happening?

But you had no answer. You shook your head slowly, as if that might clear the fog clouding your mind. Who was he talking about? Lee Dasom? Whose absence carved him hollow enough to bleed into his music?

The show moved on. The stage lights dimmed, and the first chords rang out. The screen filled with lyrics, subtitles rolling beneath Jay’s voice. You scanned them desperately, your eyes searching for familiarity, for fragments of your lines, your words, your soul. They weren’t there. The lyrics were strangers, phrases you had never strung together, metaphors that didn’t belong to you. They carried someone else’s fingerprints, someone else’s memories. Not yours.

Your throat tightened as you stood frozen in the crowd. You didn’t need to hear the melody to understand the truth pressing down on you. Your place in his life, the one you had so carefully nurtured in the silence of your unspoken love, did not exist.

You had been waiting, writing, giving pieces of yourself you couldn’t voice aloud. You had believed, no, hoped that Jay had been reaching for you too, even if from a distance. But now, staring at him through the bright filter of stage lights, you realized with brutal clarity.

You were never the name he whispered into song. Your heart cracked open with a quietness that no one else in the crowded bar noticed. To everyone else, Jay was electrifying,

but to you—he was something else. Something unattainable.

You turned your gaze away, and your legs moved on its own. Because it hurt too much to keep looking.

You didn’t know why your eyes burned when you hadn’t been promised anything. All you knew was that in this moment, as Jay’s voice echoed through the speakers and strangers screamed his name, you had never felt smaller.

And you knew, with an ache that hollowed you out, you didn’t have a place in Jay’s life. You never did.

Something was wrong.

Jay’s mind screamed it, but the source eluded him. His stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat as the aftertaste of something bitter spread across his tongue. He sat there in the dressing room, shoulders tense, trying to steady his breath. Jake threw an arm around Sunghoon’s shoulder with a grin. “Great work”

Sunghoon didn’t return the smile. Instead, he shot Jay a sharp glance. “Yeah—except for the part Jay had to mention Dasom, we could’ve performed a different song”

Yuki peeked in, brisk and professional. “Boys, our next show starts in fifteen minutes. Get ready.” Jake clapped his hands together, “Let’s do this, boys!” The room moved. Noise. Chatter. Equipment checked. But Jay sat frozen in the middle of it all. His fingers trembled when he reached for his guitar. He clenched them into fists, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe through the ache clawing at his chest. When the lights finally dimmed, he stepped onto the stage. The crowd roared, but Jay barely heard them. His heartbeat was the only drum in his ears. He leaned into the microphone, his voice softer than usual, raw.

“This song… it’s very special to me.” He paused, his throat catching. “I don’t know if it’ll ever reach her, but I hope my melody stays as a feeling… rather than a memory.”

The silence that followed was palpable, heavy. Then he whispered the words that broke open the room.

“…This is to my music.

My Y/n”

Back at the bar, chaos erupted. Jungwon’s eyes widened as he muttered

“Holy shit—?”

Whispers sparked like fire across the staff. Chaewon leaned close to Yunjin, her voice sharp. “Y/n? As in the Y/n who works here?” Yunjin rolled her eyes with disdain. “I knew she was seducing that weirdo. But damn—guess she scored herself a big one.”

Jungwon didn’t care for their words. His gaze darted around the bar, desperate. “Where’s Y/N?” His voice shook, but no one answered. He scanned the room again, heart pounding, but your small figure was nowhere in sight. Panic flared in his chest. He didn’t even think. He just ran.The night air was thick, humid, buzzing with people spilling onto the streets of Gangnam. Neon lights reflected against puddles, laughter and music tangled in the air but you weren’t there.

Jungwon pushed through the crowd, his breath ragged. He searched alleyways, asked strangers, his lungs burning with each step. Still nothing. His throat felt like sandpaper as dread coiled in his stomach. “…This is not good,” he muttered, panic splintering his composure. After what felt like hours compressed into minutes, he crouched on the pavement, hands braced on his knees, gasping for air.

“Boy, move!” The sharp voice jolted him upright. A group of civic volunteers rushed past him, all sprinting in one direction. His eyes followed instinctively and then he saw it. A crowd had gathered at the end of the street. People murmured, clustered, some with their hands over their mouths. The atmosphere was heavy, electric with unease.

Dark thoughts filled Jungwon’s mind.

No.

This can’t be.

His legs moved before his brain did, sprinting toward the commotion. He grabbed the arm of a passerby moving away from the scene. “What happened? What’s going on?”

The man’s face was pale, his voice hushed. “A girl… a mute girl was trying to cross the road, and—”The words fractured into static. Jungwon’s heart stopped. His vision tunneled. Without waiting for the rest, he tore forward, feet pounding the asphalt, lungs burning with desperation. His mind screamed your name over and over, each repetition sharper than the last. Because if it was you, if it was you lying there then Jay’s words on stage had already turned into something unbearable. And Jungwon wasn’t sure if he could live with that.

Jay’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since the performance. Every second it lit up, texts from friends, industry colleagues, fans flooding his inbox, all of them congratulating him, all of them screaming about the mysterious “Y/n” he had confessed about on stage. Messages blurred together until they lost meaning. But hidden beneath them, buried deep in the notification log, were missed calls from Jungwon. Calls Jay hadn’t even noticed.

“So,” Sunghoon drawled from across the practice room, trying to cut through the tense air. He tossed his water bottle into the corner and smirked. “When are we finally meeting this Y/n? You’ve been hiding her like some sort of national treasure.”

Jake laughed too loudly, elbowing Jay’s shoulder. “Yeah, hyung, bring her out already. Don’t keep us guessing.” Jay flinched at their teasing. His legs bounced restlessly, body leaning toward the door as if pulled by some invisible thread. Every muscle in him screamed to see you, to run back to the bar where your absence still lingered like smoke. But another voice chained him down, the one whispering that maybe you hated him now, that after the way he had pushed you aside, ignored your messages, protected his own fragile heart instead of yours…. maybe you never wanted to see him again.

The thought alone made his chest tighten until he could hardly breathe.

Then the television in the corner blared louder as a reporter’s voice cut into the room.

“BREAKING NEWS: At 9:15 this evening, Gangnam police arrested a truck driver involved in a hit-and-run case. The alleged victim, a mute girl, has been admitted to Seonshige Hospital in critical condition—”

The words froze in Jay’s ears. His breath caught, body turning cold.

Mute girl. Hospital.

Your face slammed into his mind so sharply it was like being struck. His hands shook as he fumbled for his phone. And then he saw them, thirty-five missed calls. Jungwon’s name over and over again.

His vision tunneled. The phone almost slipped from his grip. No. No, no, no.

“Jay?” Sunghoon’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears. “What’s wrong?”Jay didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His body moved before his mind did, legs sprinting for the door, phone clutched tight in his sweaty palm. His bandmates’ voices echoed behind him, confused, alarmed.

“What the fuck—?” Jake’s shout was cut off as Jay shoved through the hallway and into the night. The world blurred around him. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, the reporter’s words looping like a curse.

Mute girl. Hospital.You.

07.

The stack of pages lay just inside the doorway, scattered across the floor as if dropped in a hurry. They fluttered slightly when her heel brushed against them.

“What the hell is this…”

Dasom muttered, crouching down. She picked them up one by one. Inked words, scrawled melodies, fragments of lyrics drenched with raw feeling. Every line bled through like torn skin, love carved into metaphors, longing pressed into verses, grief strung across notes.

Lyrics meant for him.

Pages soaked with your heart.

Her face twisted as she read, bitterness curling at the corners of her mouth. Something ugly and sour coiled in her stomach the longer her eyes trailed down the ink. On mind. On body. On a song’s melody. On a singer’s guitar.

Every word screamed of devotion. Her jaw tightened until it ached. She crumpled the pages in her hands one after another, fingers trembling not with sadness but with fury.

He doesn’t deserve this, Jay doesn’t deserve such pretty words. Her nails dug into the paper until it tore.“The only thing he deserves,” she hissed under her breath, tossing the ruined lyrics into the trash bin outside his door, “is to bleed.” With one last glance at the closed apartment, her eyes narrowed coldly. She pressed her lips together, straightened her posture, and walked away, leaving your words buried in the garbage, silenced before Jay could ever see them again.

But Jay didn’t know that. Not yet. All he knew was the suffocating weight in his chest as he ran, the frantic pounding of his footsteps against the pavement, the way his heart kept chanting the same desperate plea.

Please, please, let it not be you.

The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic hit your nose before your eyes even fluttered open. It was familiar, painfully so. Hospitals had been a recurring setting in your childhood, the place where your mother clung to fragile hope that your silence was temporary, that one day a doctor would deliver a miracle and return your voice.

But now, that old memory was tangled with fresh agony. Every nerve in your body screamed, the pain sharp and uneven, darting across your wrists, your ribs, your legs. It was as if your body had betrayed you, each pulse of pain a reminder that you were alive, but broken. You blinked slowly, your vision hazy, fragmented pieces of reality seeping through. Figures in white coats moved around you, voices low and rushed, like muffled echoes inside a dream. You couldn’t follow the words. Couldn’t focus. Your head spun, and your heart tried to race ahead of your fragile body.

'...Jay' The name was instinct, desperate and barely formed on your lips. You reached for him in the dark, but blackness claimed you again before you could grasp anything solid.

Outside your room, the tension was thick enough to crush lungs.

“Her vitals are holding stable for now,” the doctor said, his tone both cautious and heavy, “but she’s in severe trauma. We have to monitor her closely for the next twenty-four hours.” Jay nodded absently, but his face gave nothing away. His body was there, rooted in the corridor’s cold light, yet his mind seemed to drift somewhere unreachable. His jaw clenched, then loosened, then clenched again. Beside him, Jungwon wasn’t so restrained. His hands shook, his voice cracked. “W-what about her injuries?” he managed, his throat thick, his body trembling as if the answer alone could shatter him.

The doctor sighed, shifting uncomfortably before glancing at the file in his hands. “The wounds on both her wrists are… severe. Deep enough that I can’t guarantee full recovery even with extensive physical therapy. We’ll try, of course, but it’s uncertain if she’ll regain full use of her hands.”

The words landed like a blade. Jungwon staggered back, collapsing into the hard plastic chair against the wall. His face buried in his palms, a choked sob tore out of him. “I’m sorry, Y/N… I’m so, so sorry…” The sound echoed in the sterile hall, raw and devastating.

Jay stood silent. He didn’t move to comfort Jungwon. Didn’t speak to the doctor. He didn’t cry either. His chest felt hollow, scraped clean of anything human. He had imagined countless times how this might unfold what it would mean to lose you, or worse, to break you himself with his negligence. But this reality? This aching, bloody truth? It was unbearable in a way his mind refused to process. Every memory he held of you, the laughter you had when you scribbled lyrics to him on notes, the spark in your eyes when you wrote them, the warmth that softened his guarded heart flashed in brutal fragments. And with each one came the reminder that he had pushed you away.

He had left you waiting. He had ignored the way you reached for him when he was too afraid to feel. All the songs you wrote him, the ones that became his lifeline on the darkest days, suddenly felt like ghosts. Empty, cruel reminders of what he had taken and given nothing for. And now he wondered if they would be the last pieces of you he’d ever hold. How was he supposed to face you again? How could he stand at your bedside, knowing you had bled words onto paper for him while he kept his heart locked? How was he supposed to meet your eyes if you even opened them again and explain why he abandoned you when all you had done was give?

Jay swallowed, his throat raw though he hadn’t spoken. The antiseptic air stung his lungs, and still he stayed frozen, hands curled into fists at his sides. Jungwon’s sobs filled the corridor, cracking the silence. “

She trusted us,” he whispered through broken breaths. “And look what happened… I couldn’t protect her.”

Jay’s gaze flickered to the door that separated him from you. He wanted to move, to rush inside, to hold your hand no matter how weak or bandaged it was. But his body refused. He feared that if he crossed that threshold, you’d see him for what he truly was selfish, cowardly, a man who took your love and left you alone.

He didn’t deserve your words, your words, or even your forgiveness. All he could do was stand there in the sterile hospital light, watching the closed door, praying you’d open your eyes again, though he wasn’t sure if you’d want to see him when you did.

Jay hesitated. His hand hovered over the door, fingers trembling as though the simple act of entering would condemn him. His legs felt like they had been nailed to the floor, heavy with guilt, but the pull inside his chest was stronger. Voices in his head screamed at him to turn away that he was forbidden, unworthy, that you would never want to see him again. But against every ounce of reason, his body moved.

He stepped in. The sharp sting of antiseptic filled the air, clinging to every surface. The steady beep of the monitor beside your bed felt like a cruel reminder that you were still here, suspended between fragility and survival. Almost a week had passed since the accident. Almost a week of Jay waiting, pacing, drowning in silence and fear. And now, for the first time, your lashes fluttered against your cheek, and consciousness slowly seeped back into you.You shifted slightly, trying to sit up. The effort looked monumental, your face tightening with each movement. Thick bandages wrapped around your wrists, swathes of white gauze that looked more like shackles than healing. Your stomach dropped at the sight. You wanted to scream, to claw them off, to erase the truth written across your skin. But the pain was sharp, immediate, like blades pressing against your throat. What the fuck.

Jay’s breath caught. His chest heaved as he rushed forward, instinct overriding hesitation. He was at your side before he knew it, his face crumpling when he saw you wince, struggling against your own frail body. His eyes glossed, and the tears he had been holding back for days finally spilled over.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head as if to erase your pain. His hands hovered near your shoulders before gently guiding you back down onto the pillows.

You tried. God, you tried to lift your hand, to bridge the aching gap between you and him, to touch him in reassurance that you were still here, that he was still real. But the moment you moved, pain shot up your arms, tearing through muscle and bone, and a gasp escaped your lips. The sound was soft,broken, breathless. But to Jay, it was the loudest thing in the world. It shattered him.

You saw it in his face, in the way his jaw clenched and his shoulders curled forward, like he could fold himself small enough to disappear. The universe had already taken your voice, and now it seemed determined to strip you of everything else.

Why were you even alive? The thought crashed in your chest, cold and merciless.

Your body shook as sobs tore through you. And then his warmth.

Jay pulled you into his arms, gently, his embrace was trembling but steady, his cheek pressed against the crown of your head, breath hot and ragged as it tangled in your hair. His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles along your back, even though his own body quivered.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. The words fractured, breaking into pieces that barely left his mouth. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You tilted your head, desperate to look at him, desperate to cling to the sound of his voice. Your lips parted. You shaped his name on your tongue, you tried to scream it, tried to let the syllables fly into the air the way you used to in your head. But nothing came. Not a whisper, not even a breath that resembled language. Silence.

God wasn’t on your side. Jay’s heart shattered as he watched you struggle, as your throat worked and your lips trembled but the world remained deaf to you. He cupped your cheeks with shaking hands, forcing your gaze to lock with his. His thumbs brushed away your tears, chasing the salty trails even as more spilled, endless and cruel.

“Look at me,” he begged, voice breaking. “Please, just look at me.” Your lips quivered under the weight of his desperation. The taste of salt lingered on your skin as he leaned forward, pressing soft kisses against the tears that streaked your face. His lips were tender, frantic, as though by kissing them away he could erase your suffering.You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe the world hadn’t turned this cruel. But all you could feel was the heavy unfairness pressing down on your chest. Your voice was gone, your wrists bound in pain, and yet the universe had left you alive. Alive to feel the emptiness, alive to watch him break beside you.You shut your eyes, trembling under his touch.

Why was the world so unbearably unfair?

Jay stayed by your side.

The white walls of the hospital room became his prison, the monotonous beeping of the monitor his cruel metronome. He was there when you stirred occasionally, when your lashes fluttered open and confusion replaced the stillness of unconsciousness. He was there when your bandaged wrists trembled as you tried to move, when the shadow of realization crossed your face. He never left, not at first.

Jungwon came occasionally, quiet and careful, his youth etched with concern no one his age should carry. But when the door closed and it was just you and Jay, silence pressed heavily between you. Silence filled with the unsaid, the unbearable.He blamed himself. For everything. The night he saw you clawing at your own bandages nearly broke him. You, desperate and frantic, as if tearing away those layers of gauze would free you from the torment caging you. Your nails dug in, shaking, reaching for something, reaching for him. He caught your wrists, his hands trembling, his voice breaking as he begged you to stop.

“Please,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “Please don’t do this.”

But your eyes empty, hollow, screaming for release were burned into his mind. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear you in pain, couldn’t bear that it was his fault you were in this bed at all.

And so, one night, he left.

The chair where he used to sit was empty in the morning, only a folded letter resting there in his place. His voice lived in those words, etched with all the fractures he couldn’t say aloud

I have always hated myself the most. And I’ve been convinced for as long as I can remember that there isn’t a soul in this world more miserable than I am. When your lyrics first reached me, I thought it was a trick of the universe. A blessing I didn’t deserve. Were those pages for me? I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. Because if they were, if every page was your heart stitched into words for my sake, then it only reminded me of the truth I’ve been running from. I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve the fragile, stubborn love you carry like a flame cupped in your palms. A flame you’ve tried to share with someone like me, someone who can’t even hold it without burning you. But in this moment, with my world unraveling and my chest cracking open, I need you. I know I’ve caused you pain. I always do. To everyone. My parents, my bandmates, my manager. I’ve been nothing but distress to them. And now to you. I feel suffocated. Even music, the only thing that ever defined me can’t pull me back anymore. After Dasom left, I was barren. Empty. I kept asking myself why I was sad. Was it her I mourned? Or was it the melodies that only flowed when she was near? But you… what I feel for you goes beyond my love for music. You help me breathe. Your lyrics give life back to my silence. You are not just a muse, you are my music y/n. Without you, I can’t function. But I am selfish. God, I am so selfish. I want you all for myself, even when I know I only bring you pain. And in that selfishness, I forgot to ask, did you even want this? Did you ever want me? I love you. I want you. And I am sorry if all I have ever given you is pain.

His handwriting ran across the page, ink smudged in places where it looked like the pen had wavered or his hand had trembled. The words, they read like a surrender. Every sentence was a scar.

And you sat there, trembling as you held the letter in your bandaged hands. The edges of the paper pressed into your palms, sharp enough to sting, but you didn’t let go. The room was empty without him. His absence was louder than his presence had ever been. The air tasted colder, the silence deafening. You wanted to scream his name, wanted to drag him back, to shake him until he understood that his misery wasn’t a burden to you,

it was a part of him you had been willing to carry. But your voice, already stolen by the universe, betrayed you. You pressed the letter against your chest, eyes stinging, body trembling.

EPILOGUE.

You shook your head for the third time, the fabric pooling at your feet as Sunoo huffed dramatically. His lips pursed, his arms crossed like a disgruntled stylist in the middle of a fashion show gone wrong.

'This is the eleventh dress you’ve rejected' he whined, his voice pitched high with frustration. “At this rate, I fear we’re going to run out of designs before you even make it out of this room.” He sighed loudly, collapsing onto the couch as though he were the one forced into gowns.

You rolled your eyes and drifted past him, fingers brushing over hangers as you studied the array of colors and textures. Sequins, lace, satin, none of them felt right. Then, tucked at the far end, something soft caught your eye. A peach-colored dress, delicate in its simplicity, almost glowing in the low light. You reached for it, letting the fabric slip between your fingers, and turned to Sunoo.

How about this? you signed, holding the skirt out slightly. Sunoo’s eyes widened in theatrical disbelief. “How—how did I never notice this one?” He rushed forward, pulling it free and holding it up against you with both hands. The peach warmed your skin, catching on your glow in a way that made even you pause. His jaw dropped.

“I’m afraid you’re going to outshine the bride.”

The wedding venue was a dream in motion, buzzing with laughter, footsteps, and gentle music that wrapped around the heart. Chandeliers threw golden light across white tablecloths, while flowers bloomed in arrangements tall enough to brush your shoulder as you passed. You clutched Jungwon’s arm a little tighter, nerves fluttering at the pit of your stomach, when you spotted Mr. and Mrs. Park making their way toward you.

Mrs. Park greeted you first, her warmth undeniable. “So glad you made it today.” She didn’t hesitate, her arms wrapped you into a mother’s embrace, soft and reassuring. No translation. A mother’s love had always been bigger than language.

Mr. Park was more reserved. He gave a small nod, his eyes searching yours with something between caution and understanding. You nodded back, letting him take his time. You weren’t surprised, some walls took longer to crumble, and you respected that.

Your gaze wandered then, scanning the room. There were faces you recognized, people who lifted their glasses in acknowledgment, others who waved. You returned each smile, each gesture, your heart swelling with quiet appreciation.

And then you saw him.

Park Jay.

He was across the room, dressed in a sharp black suit that fit him like it had been made only for him, hair styled neatly, though not without that effortless charm you had always loved, and his face, handsome, unforgettable angled slightly as though he, too, had been searching for you.

And he had found you.

Beside him stood Reira, radiant in her white gown, her beauty soft and undeniable. Yet when Jay’s gaze locked with yours, the rest of the world melted away. For a heartbeat, maybe two, time itself stilled.

Jay moved first, steps deliberate, steady. Reira trailed behind him gracefully. When he stopped before you, his eyes softened in a way that belonged to no one else but you.

'Hi… you look beautiful' he signed.

Heat rose to your cheeks. 'Thanks', you signed back, your movements shy but steady.

There was silence then, not awkward, but comforting. A stillness that carried the weight of your history. You couldn’t even recall the last time you had looked at each other like this, perhaps the day he had first walked into that bar, when you hadn’t known yet that your world was about to change forever. You had never expected this day to come, yet here it was, real and undeniable.

“Will you two stop acting like you weren’t eating each other’s faces outside my apartment last night?” Sunoo groaned, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick.

Jungwon choked on his drink. Mr. Park coughed into his hand. You nearly died of embarrassment.

Jay, on the other hand, only smirked, unbothered. “I haven’t seen my wife for more than twenty-four hours since you kidnapped her for styling. God forbid a hopeless romantic loves his woman.”

Sunoo gagged dramatically. “I was expecting a compliment..... Spare me”

You laughed, your shoulders shaking, their never-ending banter. Some things, no matter how much life changed, remained constant.

'What’s up, handsome? Still miss your wife?' you teased with your hands, lips curling at the corner.

Jay shot back immediately, his signs quick and eager. 'I can’t wait to go home—'

“If you think you’re gonna sex talk in sign language and none of us will get it, fuck off!” Jungwon yelled from the side and Jay flipped him off.

Your cheeks burned, but the warmth of the moment, of being surrounded by people who knew you so well, made it impossible not to smile.

The evening blurred into light and celebration. Cheers erupted when Sunghoon and Reira stood together, their hands intertwined as they announced their engagement. Glasses clinked, music swelled, and happiness echoed in every corner of the room.

Everyone celebrated, but you and Jay existed somewhere else entirely. Different stars, the two of you, bound in a universe only you understood. You missed him, even now, even when he was right there, close enough to reach. It was ridiculous, but that was love, wasn’t it? To miss someone even when they were only inches away.

Time had taken many things from you. You had eventually lost your ability to write, your once endless notebooks now abandoned, your words stubbornly trapped inside your chest. But Jay was there. Always. He became your voice. He learned every sign, every gesture, until his hands moved with the same fluency as his guitar strings. He would sit with you late into the night, watching your fingers dance, and then he would translate, turning your silence into lyrics, your emotions into melodies.

The songs were imperfect. Sometimes messy. Sometimes broken. But they felt like home.

And when Jay strummed his guitar, you realized it had never sounded sweeter. Because at last, his music had found its destination.

It had found you.

On the other shore of my song You preside, The notes of my song kiss Your feet, but I cannot reach You. The breeze is in the air, do not keep the boat tied—Cross over and reach my heart. The play with You is a play of songs and a play from afar. You play the flute of pain all the while. When will You take my flute and play it as You wish, In the joyful dense darkness of the silent night?

— rabindranath thakur

THE END

lyrics used in this work —

1. “You’re the Reason Our Kids Are Ugly” – Loretta Lynn & Conway Twitty

2. “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” – The Proclaimers

3. “Grow Old With You” – Adam Sandler (from The Wedding Singer)

4. “Banana Pancakes” – Jack Johnson

5. “Tumi sandhyar meghmala” – Rabindranath Thakur

6. “Daariye acho tumi amar gaaner opare” – Rabindranath Thakur

209 notes · View notes