#but trying to find something nice to think about

[rex-rambles]

➤ THE (OTHER) COSTUME | LANDO NORRIS

pairing: lando norris x single mom!reader

summary: after lando surprises your son for his birthday, you decide to surprise him by dressing up for silverstone, only this time, it's not spider-man: milo dresses up like lando himself. 

wc: 7.6 k

warnings: none!

authors note: okay so the love 'the costume' has received has been wild?? y'all are fantastic

➤ MASTERLIST - part one

You wish orange were a more common colour for clothes. After all, it could be bright and colourful or muted and rusty, a nice warm tone to add to your everyday wardrobe. 

It totally didn't have anything to do with the fact that you and Milo had nothing to wear to Lando's race next week.

Not remotely.

"You could dress like a car?" Milo says, running his hands along a display of dress pants, much to the disdain of the shopping attendant. 

"We want to wear Lando's team colours, silly." Despite all the time you had spent with the driver, you had yet to have a real piece of McLaren merch, or Lando's, or anything even remotely F1 related. If Lando were currently in England, you fantasize about the idea that you could call him up and ask him to borrow something of his, a daydream of wearing something that he'd worn before. 

It's the kind of thought that makes you blush in the middle of the store, the ridiculousness of it all getting to you. It's a childish thing, the sort of act a teen would blush over, but you couldn't help it. Lando had returned you to a youthful, bubbly sort of romance that you had thought you'd never get the chance to experience again. Well, you hope it's a romance, at least, and not just another doomed infatuation.

After all, it was hard to call something a romance when you hadn't seen the man in two weeks.

Lando hadn't been back to England since the birthday party, which was expected of someone like an F1 driver. A race in Austria, a movie premiere in New York. You, on the other hand, were a single mom halfway across the world. You had kissed him, sure, but that wasn't anything concrete. You knew how whirlwind romances could end, what those quick kisses could turn into. 

The evidence of it was currently trying to sneak his way into a rack of coats. "Milo, I don't think we're finding anything in there." You hold out your hand, and he happily runs to grab it. "How about we try another store?" 

"Won't Mr. Norris have things for us at the race?" He asks as you lead him out of the store, and it's a fair question. Lando certainly could surprise you with merch, but seeing as you have a week until the race, and that he's off travelling the world with far more important people, getting McLaren hats and shirts for you and Milo wouldn't be top of his list. 

Well, perhaps not for you. After all, despite the connection you hoped to grow with the racer, it was obvious he already loved Milo. He'd come dressed as Spider-Man, got Milo gifts, babysat when he could, hell, he was paying for you to go to Silverstone!

Really, the fact that he kissed you almost takes a back burner to just how involved he is in Milo's life. So, who's to say he wouldn't be thoughtful enough to remember merch?

Then, just as soon as the thought arises, it leaves a strange feeling in your stomach. Lando was an unfathomably wealthy person, compared to your situation. How could you possibly want more?

Oh, you don't have something orange to wear to support him, so you need whatever ridiculously expensive merch he has? 

You don't want him for his money, and more than anything, you don't want him to think you're ungrateful. Milo tugs at your hand, breaking you out of your thoughts, and he grins so wide that for a moment, you forget what you were thinking of entirely. "Mum, look!" He says, pointing to a charity shop. "A race suit!" 

And, because maybe miracles do happen, or some parent was cleaning out their kids' clothes, there's an old Lightning-McQueen race suit costume slung over the back of a chair in the shop's display, with a five-pound note sticker attached to it.

All you need now, you think, is some black dye, some orange paint, and some white paint markers. 

-

Lando makes it exactly three weeks before he cracks. Well, that's not exactly true. He sends you an Instagram reel on Wednesday night, questions about hotel preferences on Saturday morning, train times the following Tuesday. 

However, he hadn't talked about the party, or the aftermath, or the fact that he kissed you at all, and it was sort of driving him mad. He was given a glimpse of the domestic life, of what his days could look like off the road and off the track, and it was eating him away inside. 

How do you not fall in love like that? 

Well, love might be a strong word, but Lando was feeling things for you he'd never felt this fully before, and he had no way of knowing if that was a pity kiss, or a kiss with no strings attached, or if maybe, just maybe, you did like him back, and Lando had to consider a lot of things about his future if you did. 

However, none of that mattered right now, because Lando was slightly tipsy, and he just really, really wanted to see your face. FaceTime rings twice before you pick up, looking at him rather confused. "Lando? Everything alright?" 

"M' perfect." He says, sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, loosening the tie around his neck. "You?" 

"I'm doing alright," You say with a laugh, and as Lando squints down at his phone, he realizes you have a streak of orange paint near your chin. "Busy getting ready for the race this weekend." 

"Is that Mr. Norris?" Lando hears faintly, and he perks up instantly. 

"Milo! Can I say hi?" You pause, glancing down to where he imagines Milo stands by you, and something stutters in his chest. Did he do something wrong? 

Do you not want him to see Milo? 

He fully well could've overstepped some boundaries, tucking you both in like that, reading, invading your personal space. It had felt right for Lando to have been part of that equation, but it didn't mean-"You can, but you're not allowed to say anything. It's a surprise." 

"A surprise? For me?" With a slowly easing heart, you pass off the phone, and Lando laughs so hard he has to fall back on the bed. 

Milo is just covered in orange paint. It's on his hands, smudged on his face, splattered on an old t-shirt he's wearing. It was very obviously a surprise for the race, probably a sign, he thinks, and he takes screenshots as he stares at Milo grinning at him. "Hello, Mr. Norris!" 

"Hey, you muppet. Did you get into some paint?" Milo nods, turning to show him something, and your hand covers the camera. "Aw, come on!" 

"It's a surprise, sweetheart." Lando knows you're talking to Milo, not him, but god, does the name do things to his insides. "You can't show him yet." 

"Oh," Milo says, as his face returns to the camera. "Mum says you can't see." 

"I'll just have to wait. You excited for the race?" Milo nods excitedly, once again trying to show the camera something, but your hand covers it once more as you laugh, an unexpected sound. 

"Milo, what did I just say?" 

"I was just going to show how excited I am! Here." Milo steps back from the camera, and he spreads his arms super wide. Rather than focusing on the cute moment, however, Lando's gaze drifts to the background of Milo's bedroom. His McLaren Lego car box is proudly on display, however, all the Spider-Man decor is not. Or, at least some things were missing from when he tucked Milo and you in. Not that he memorized the room, or anything, but simply that he'd been replaying that memory in his head so often, it felt like he knew what the decorations should be.

"Wow, that's pretty exciting." He says, tuning back into the conversation. When you flip the camera around to show yourself, you immediately catch the furrow in Lando's brow. 

He's sure it's just from you being attentive to your own child's needs, but something is telling in the way that, just from looking at him, you know what he's thinking. "Everything alright?" 

"Where's all the Spider-Man stuff?" It couldn't have been long enough that Milo had changed interests. Sure, kids go through different interests, but Lando had got Milo web shooters, he had posters on his walls, comic books on the shelves. Now, it was oddly bare, and Lando's immediate first thought, his first fear, is that you could be moving, and he refuses to allow it to take root in his brain. 

You would have a nice and simple and not scary explanation. You had to. "He's going through a bit of a phase, right now." You explain, turning the camera back to Milo, who is still grinning up at you, gap-toothed and all. "Milo, who's your favourite hero?" 

And there, Milo says the one sentence that makes Lando wonder if he should abandon everything to fly home early just for you, and more importantly, just for Milo: "Mr. Norris!" 

"Me?" Lando squawks out, words caught in his throat. "But I'm not a hero." 

"Well, you are in this house." You'd just shot him in the heart, he thinks. He can't imagine an appropriate response, just staring at Milo, who keeps grinning. In this house, which means Milo and you. Lando was his favourite hero now, for reasons even Lando didn't quite understand. Sure, he was a F1 star, a celebrity, but he wasn't anything important. He wasn't a hero, by any means, but with Milo staring at him like that? He just might believe it. "He wants to do another birthday party Lando-themed." 

"Can Milo hear me right now?" You shake your head, and Lando dramatically throws an arm over his face, trying to cover his growing blush and crack a joke, because if he doesn't, he might cry. "So I dressed up for nothing?" 

"Lando!" You're laughing in unison now, and he wishes, above anything, that it wasn't just over the phone. Seeing you in person might ease the ache in his heart or the anxiety growing in his head. Honestly, it could just make it all ten times worse, but all Lando can think is that you had to like him back. Even if there were concerns of how Milo might fit into the equation, or his racing career, or your own past, you had to.

He was a hero in your household, anyway. 

Which meant he might be a hero to you, and really, Lando would give anything to be that knight in shining armour, whisking you away to experience the finer things in life, to give you and Milo the happiness you deserve. 

He just sort of has to get off of Facetime and into your life to make it happen. 

-

"Mum," Milo whispers up to you, "Why are they taking our picture?" 

The cameras flash around you as you enter the Silverstone track, however, even as your heart rate picks up, and the fear sets in of what Lando's world means, you know exactly why the cameras are flashing: because a little Lando Norris just walked in, decked out in a little McLaren racesuit, made as accurately as you could. "Because they love your costume, sweetheart." 

"I made it myself." Milo then says up to one of the photographers as you pass. "Mum helped." 

"I'm sure mum helped a lot!" The woman says with a laugh, and you offer her a warm smile. You're sure, if people knew you were here at Lando's request, after he dressed up as Spider-Man for Milo's birthday, they'd be acting much differently. 

But, for now, you're fairly invisible, able to walk through the paddock with Milo and enjoy the morning for what it is. Lando had told you to message him when you arrived, but had so far been MIA. It was qualifying today, so he was probably just swamped with media, or training, or getting ready to race, or more important people. 

Milo, however, very obviously notices Lando's disappearance. "Where's Mr. Norris?" 

"I'm sure he's getting ready," You say, stopping under the shade of an umbrella. It was a ridiculously hot time for England, and coming in an all-black outfit wasn't the best decision, but it was the nicest thing you owned for this kind of event. "We'll see him later, sweetheart." 

"I want to show him my suit." Milo says, tugging at your hand toward the bright orange McLaren hospitality. You were a guest of McLaren, technically, so if you were to be anywhere, you think this might be it. Milo, marching his way toward the building, draws the attention of even more cameras, and even more people. In your eyes, Milo truly was adorable, and deserved to be the centre of attention, but even this was a bit much.

"Look, it's a mini you." Someone says, and to your surprise, you look up to see the other McLaren racer standing by the doors. 

"Oh, wow." Oscar says, offering a little wave to Milo, who, for some reason, immediately hides behind your leg. You squat down to his height, gently carding your hand through his curls, as you try to figure out how he'd become so shy so fast.

"Look who it is!" You say, as Oscar approaches with even more flashing cameras, and Milo stares up at him, wide-eyed. "Can you say hi to Mr. Piastri?" 

Oscar crouches to also be Milo's height, which helps somewhat, but the boy is obviously wary. "Hello," Milo says shyly. "Mr. Pias-tri." 

"Hi there," Oscar says, holding out a hand for a high five. Much to your horror, Milo leaves him hanging. "I like your race suit." 

"It's for Mr. Norris." Milo says, pulling at the front of it. "We made it at home." 

"You must be Milo," Oscar says, and for a moment, your heart stops. Lando spoke about Milo. And, probably not just Milo, but you, and you're not sure what to do with that information. "Lando told me you were coming today. Are you having fun?" 

Milo nods, turning to look at you with a strange sort of look in his eye, and you still can't figure out why. Sure, it's not Lando, but Oscar is just as impressive! "It's okay, sweetheart. Mr. Piastri is also a pretty cool car driver." 

"Lando and I are teammates," Oscar says, and Milo shoots him an unimpressed look. After all, considering the little racing fan Milo was turning out to be, he seemed to believe Oscar was underestimating him.

"I know." He says defensively, and Oscar cracks a smile. "I saw you on TV." 

"Do you want a photo?" Someone says from above, and Oscar shifts to kneel beside Milo as you rise, giving the two of them space.

Milo finally seems to warm up to Oscar, offering a little smile, and without much thought to the action, Oscar takes off his hat and puts it on Milo's head. Milo gasps, grabbing the brim as he tries to look up at the hat, and ends up pulling it over his eyes. The small group laughs, including Oscar, who folds in on himself as he rises. "He's adorable," He says, reaching down to gently pat Milo's head. "I get why Lando loves him so much." 

Loves. 

I get why Lando loves him so much. "Oh, well, thank you," You manage to stutter out. "Milo, what do you say to Mr. Piastri?" 

"Oscar," Oscar says, extending a hand. "You don't have to call me Mr. Piastri." 

You shake his hand, and somewhere in the universe, you feel a change you can't describe, a cord unplugged from something too early. You turn to your right instinctively, where you find Lando a few steps away, out of breath and panting, staring you down, like a man who'd just spotted his lost love coming home from war. 

At least, that's what you hope that expression means. "Mr. Norris!" 

-

Lando's going to fucking die, and so far, there's at least like three potential reasons for it. He missed your text of your arrival, missed sending his attendant to gather you to bring you back to his drivers room and the paddock early, and then couldn't find you. He'd run around, probably looking a little mad, until he thought to stop by the McLaren hospitality, where he finally did find you. 

However, you were looking at Oscar and blushing and stuttering out something before shaking his hand, and his heart turned into something he could only describe as shrivelled. You were supposed to look at him like that, like when he stopped to help you bring groceries in, or fix your wifi router, or when he held the door. That hand you were shaking, even if it was just Oscar, wasn't right. Oscar shouldn't have been the first person to greet you, it should've been him. Lando should've been here, for you, and he wasn't, and how did that show he was dependable? That he cared? 

However, all of that sort of went out of the window when he heard Milo call his name, and then his shrivelled heart exploded, because all the orange paint made sense now. 

It wasn't for a sign, it was for an outfit. Milo was stood in a perfect little replica race suit, running at him full tilt with his arms spread out, and Lando wasted no time bending down to scoop the boy up, happily holding him in his arms as he babbled on about something, but Lando was sort of too far gone to hear it. 

You had made Lando's race suit. You got all the details right, even the little sponsor names, the little British flag and the name Norris on his hip, and for a moment, Lando has the realization that if, one day, you took his last name, Milo would too. Milo Norris, he thinks, is a perfect name for a perfect kid. 

Then, Milo pulls the hat off his head, and Lando gets a glimpse of the number on it. "What! 81?" He says, taking the hat and happily tossing it at Oscar, who catches it with a laugh. "That's betrayal! That's-that's enemy territory, Milo. What number should it be?" 

"Four!" Milo says as Lando reaches up to take his own hat off his head and place it on Milo's. 

"Exactly. 81's for ass-" Well, that's certainly not a word you would approve of him saying in front of Milo. "Uh, Australians." 

"Nice catch." You tease, coming to stand beside him, and there really must be something wrong with him, there's got to be. Because with you at his side, adjusting Milo's hat, smiling at him like that? All he can picture is this one day being his, and he's only kissed you once. "Did you just come from a work out?" 

A work out? 

Oh, him being out of breath and sweating. 

"Yeah, getting ready before qualifying." Totally not because he ran here. 

Not at all. "Can mum have the hat?" Milo asks, and Lando blinks a couple times before realizing he's never given you any merch, and for a moment, he just sort of hears ringing in his ears. 

Because how could he have never given you merch? Both McLaren or his own? How could he have never seen you in his shirts, wearing his number, god, maybe even just some of his own worn clothes? It's all he can picture, of you curled up beside him, repping him, and he has to think about rather terrible things to keep his body from reacting. "You know what? Let's take a trip to my store." 

"Lando, you don't have to-" Lando holds up a hand, cutting you off, and he then beckons you to follow. 

"I hope you brought a bag," He says. "Cause you're getting everything." 

-

Lando gets it, now. 

Why the guys like having their partners at races. It's sweet to have anyone come to watch, to celebrate, but coming off third, a not-so great result, coming back to his drivers room, and coming back to you? 

Oh, it takes so much restraint not to just kiss you senseless, because you're in his jersey, grinning at him with Milo in your arms, the image of perfection. Who cares about third when you have this?

Lando gets it, now, as you wrap an arm around him in a hug, squeezing Milo between the two of you as you laugh. 

He gets why guys put everything on the line to come home to something like this. 

-

McLaren having a partnership with Hilton is, you think, maybe one of the best perks Lando comes with. Sure, there are the fancy cars and free t-shirts, but a two-room hotel suite for you and Milo? At no cost at all? 

Well, that's the sort of thing you could see yourself getting used to, and as you wrap yourself in one of the comfy, complimentary robes, the thought doesn't bring about giddiness of the future, or of Lando, but a strange unease. This was a whole new world, where things were just handed to you on a silver platter when before, you had to fight tooth and nail for the same kind of respect. You got the free merch, the complimentary food and drink, the beautiful hotel suite, and it was all because of Lando. 

Lando was out there wearing watches more expensive than your apartment, and Milo was in a charity shop jumpsuit that you hand-painted. It was a very new world to step into, and one you're not sure exactly how to adjust to. There's a soft, tentative knock on the door, and you press your face to the peephole to spot Lando with a plastic bag in hand. 

"I hope I didn't wake Milo?" He says as you open the door, gesturing to the bag. "Just wanted to drop off something." 

"I just put him down," You say softly, letting him in. "Poor guy fell asleep on the way home." 

It was also a stupid thing to get caught up on when you and Lando had only kissed once. He probably had made out with countless women and let them go in a single night. Doesn't mean you didn't value his presence, or that you didn't miss the absence he filled. The empty side of the bed, the empty plate at dinner. Lando had played that role only once, and yet it had just felt so right. It was delusion, probably. Having fallen so quickly, after a single day, but you can't forget how right it felt, how much you wanted it, how long you'd seen him with Milo before it finally tipped over the edge. 

"You're something else, you know that?" Lando says, sitting down on the edge of your bed with a grin. "For dressing him up like that. Think it might've stopped my heart." 

You come to stand between his open legs, and somehow not quite getting the message, Lando extends the plastic bag. "It was all his idea," You say, taking the bag. "He wanted to dress up like his hero, after all." 

"Oh, you can't say that!" Lando covers his face and leans back on the bed as you crack open the bag. "I'm not a hero, I'm just-" He props himself up on his elbows when he hears the crinkling of the bag. "Oh, that's for you." 

In hand is a worn McLaren sweater you're pretty sure you've seen Lando wear at least ten times, which isn't a lot, but considering how little you saw him? It was a staple piece of his wardrobe. You must turn bright red, because Lando turns a matching shade as he quickly gets up, leaving little space between you. 

"It's just-I thought it might be a better everyday colour than the...the green." He tries to take it from your hand, and you pull it away from him, much like a child refusing to share. "If you don't want-" 

"Oh, you're never getting this back now." He gave you. 

His sweater. "I thought it matched you more." Then, because saying you matched an old worn hoodie, more than you did brand new, expensive merch might not exactly be taken the best, you watch his face fall in real time. "Because you should be comfortable! And it's like, the most comfortable thing I own! I-" 

"Lando." He immediately shuts his mouth, and sits back down on the bed, and you can't help but laugh, coming to sit beside him. So maybe you weren't alone, in how new this all was, the strange territory you toed the line on. "It's very sweet." 

"You're laughing! I gave you my jumper and you're laughing." He lets out a low breath, but you can see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting his own smile. "And to think I flew you out here." 

"We took the train, actually." You correct, folding the sweater up and leaving it beside you. "Which I never got to thank you for. All this has been...so much." And as much as you hate to admit it, you need to start being honest at some point. "Maybe too much." 

Lando pauses as he watches you, you fiddling with the tie of your robe as you wait for his response. Telling him this was too much, to his face, was probably an idiotic decision, but this was all so foreign. The glamour, the respect. People didn't just do these sorts of things for you, didn't do anything anywhere near as close. 

But Lando? He came dressed as Spider-Man, and invited you to races, and for the first time in a long time, made you feel something in a heart normally reserved for Milo and Milo alone. "I couldn't tell you the last time I went on holiday." You finally say, just barely above a whisper. "Had someone pour me champagne, got more free, fancy things than I could ever name. And I'm so grateful for all of it. For you, Lando. I just..." 

"It's a lot." Lando finishes for you, rubbing his hands together. "It's okay, if I'm too much too." 

"You?" You turn to look at him, and Lando refuses to meet your eye, staring a hole into the carpet. "I don't think I could ever get enough of you, honestly." 

"I just really want this to work, you know." Lando suddenly blurts, cheeks tinted pink from your comment. "And I don't know how to do that without just fucking going crazy. Like the Spider-Man suit, paying for you to come to a race? Who does that?" Lando Norris does, apparently. "I just...I want you, and I want that little guy at all of my races, in that little suit, cheering me on." It all sort of comes out in a tumble of a confession that just keeps going. "And not just at races. I want to come home to this, to the Spider-Man webs on the walls, reading him a bedtime story, and I want to come home to you. Wearing my jersey, or my jumper, being with me, kissing me over the backs of couches." Lando looms nearer, then, and in another life, you might grab his face and kiss him, if it weren't for that little, minuscule fear that held everything back. Your words, your future, your feelings. "I think I'm sort of going crazy about it, actually." 

"Oh." You were supposed to be confessing your feelings of inadequacy to him, not him confessing actual feelings for you, but you truly don't mind the flip in conversation. However, he looks on the edge of something, a word that he just can't quite get out. "But?" 

He drops his head into his hands, raking his fingers through his curls. 

It's something he doesn't want to say, and it's something you've had to face for the past four years. "But having that is more than just races and little orange track suits." You fill in for him this time. 

"It's a lot of travelling, and a lot of away days, but...other drivers do it?" 

"With their own kids, Lando. That's a bit different." You break slowly,  because it's the truth. 

Lando adored Milo. It's one of the things that made the man so dear to you, but there was a difference between being good with kids and being good at raising kids, between being a babysitter and a potential father. "Milo's pretty much mine, if you want him to be." Lando admits quietly. "D'you see what number he was wearing? Whose name you put on that suit?" 

There's a part of you that wants to yell at him to be realistic. His world is so far from yours, with so much more to offer. There must be models and actresses and others cut out for this, not you, not Milo. But when he says things like that? When he looks at you like that? It's a lot harder to make that argument believable. "Kids are a lot of responsibility, Lando. There's more than one heart at stake here. I need you to think about this seriously." 

"Mum?" Both of you jolt at the sound of Milo's voice, somehow having gotten out of his room without either of you noticing. You have half a mind to put some distance between you and Lando, considering how close you're sitting, but Milo doesn't seem to care, scrambling up the other side of the bed to sit near you. 

"Missing out?" Lando says, turning to sit cross legged on the bed, and letting Milo join the little huddle. It's an act that shouldn't be as heartstopping as it is, but it was Lando, and it was Milo. 

It was the realization that you could have someone else to turn to on those sleepless nights, someone at your side who accepted Milo, not rejected him. It was someone in your corner, who wanted you, and it was the first time, in a long time, that anyone's made you feel so...whole. You'll cry about it later, you decide, when both your boys aren't present. 

"You should be in bed, love." You whisper, gently pressing a kiss to Milo's forehead. "So should Mr. Norris." 

"Sleepover?" Milo asks behind a yawn, and Lando laughs softly, shaking his head. 

"We've got a big day tomorrow. We can't stay up." Lando pats the pillow at the head of the bed, and Milo crawls up to lie against it. "How's that?" 

"I'm sure it's great, stealing my bed." You tease, coming to lie on one side of Milo, tickling his stomach as he cackles with laughter. Lando falls onto the bed on the other side of Milo and looks over at you with a grin.

As much as you would like to continue your conversation, some things in life are just more important. Seemingly tired of your presence, Milo rolls away from you, and plants his head on Lando's chest. Lando doesn't move, freezing immediately as the boy curls up into his side. "Picking favourites, are we?" You ask softly, and Milo yawns into Lando's ribs. 

"I am a pretty good pillow." Lando says, shooting you a wink, and you move onto your side, your arm splayed over Milo and onto Lando's chest. Your palm flattens against him to feel his pounding heart, the movement quick enough to convince you that he'd just run a marathon, or maybe won a race, instead of lying next to you. 

It would be a more intimate moment if Milo didn't wipe his drool on Lando's t-shirt, who luckily takes it in stride. "I should take him to races more often," You say absentmindedly, stuck between watching Milo and watching Lando. "He's pretty tuckered out." 

"You can come to every race," Lando says softly, rolling his head to the side to look at you. "I'll pay for every one." 

"Lando..." The thing is, when he said things like that, you knew he meant it. You knew that this could be your future, such an opportunity for both you and Milo, but it shouldn't be yours to take. At least, it shouldn't be yours to take, unless Lando considers all the little repercussions that come with dating you. "I just want you to think about this." You peek down at Milo, whose eyes are fluttering, still fighting sleep. You move your hand from Lando's chest to gently rub at his back, and in seconds, he's finally dozing. Only when you're sure he won't wake from your whispers do you continue. "You mean more to me than you know, so if we're doing this, I don't want...I just, I need you to know that I need all of you." 

"You have all of me." Then, because he knows it's not a fair thing to say, "I'll think about it." 

As gently as you can, you pull Milo back off Lando's chest and onto the bed. Lando's face falls at the loss, and you have to steel yourself to stop from confessing something catastrophic then and there. Despite all the doubts you have, the way Lando looks at Milo stirs something deep in your heart. "Don't worry about it at the race, either." You warn, knowing how he might stew over this long enough to hurt his performance tomorrow. "Just...when you know, tell me." 

Lando leans over, and you expect him to say something, but instead, he presses a kiss to your cheek. "Trust me," He says, "You'll be the first to know. Goodnight." He then gently places his hand on Milo's head and whispers, "Goodnight, Mini-me." 

-

So, maybe Lando's love confession didn't exactly go as planned last night. He had gotten the two-room suite for a reason: Milo goes to bed, you stay up, he confesses everything he's been dying to say, maybe you kiss him, it all works perfectly. 

However, that sort of love confession wasn't realistic, and he'd ended up not beginning a relationship with you, but he did kiss you on the cheek, and got a reminder to think about the relationship, you, and Milo. Despite your warning, it's all he can think about the entire time he's in the car, which most certainly isn't helpful. 

He wanted this. 

He wanted you. And Milo. 

And despite what those around him might think, it was realistic. It could be, anyway. He was young, he was well aware, but he had the energy to be a father. Other people had kids at his age! I mean, Milo wasn't exactly a teenage pregnancy, you were both in your twenties. You could handle this. He could handle this. Or, at least, he was pretty sure he could. 

He had already cornered Max in the Red Bull Motorhome to annoy him with enough questions about being a step-dad that the man now refused to answer his texts. He had done the research. He'd seen Milo in that race suit. He knew how his own father raised him, the kind of kindness that he couldn't believe others never received. 

That was enough. You were enough. And, as he overtakes Max, he hopes you know that. He hopes that you delaying this wasn't coming from your view of yourself, because he knew what the media could be like. You weren't what most people might expect from him, but that didn't make it wrong, didn't make you any less of a partner. Milo was a glorious part of this, not something for you to ever feel ashamed about. 

He had meant it, when he said Milo was his. He might not know exactly how to be a dad, but he knows how to be himself, and everytime he is himself, around you, around Milo, it feels right. It feels like he belongs, like that kid was always supposed to be his, like you were always supposed to be his. 

Mr and Mrs Norris, and Milo Norris. 

As he pits, he wonders where you're watching from, if you'll get to the Parc Ferme in time, or get to the barrier. It's cocky to think of, halfway through a race, but he can't help it. It's his home race; he might die if he loses, especially now that you're here. His mind drifts, as he takes off, wondering if he'll get to kiss you.

Then, as Lando gets back out on the track, weaving his way back to first, he lets himself wonder, just once, if this is the right decision. 

Because what if he did make a mistake? What if he screwed up? What if he messes up Milo? If he messes up what you have? He'd never forgive himself. A child is such a large commitment, and honestly, if he ignores Milo, a very hard task to do, you're a big commitment too. Lando's not sure what happened to you in the past, to leave you with Milo and no one else, but he couldn't fathom hurting you further, seeing you hurt at all.

God, if he fucked this up, he could never-

"Message for you, Lando." A voice cuts through his earphones as the worst of the thoughts spiral, giving him just enough of a branch to cling onto. 

"Mr. Norris?" Milo says, "There's a-what is it? Oh, there's rain expected in ten minutes." 

Lando has to suck in a breath to respond, his mind going blank. "Yeah?" 

"If you win, will you give the trophy to mum?" And there, on the Silverstone track, Lando realizes he could never screw up. 

Not with Milo or you on the line. Not with this. He might be young, and this might be new, but he knows he'd give everything up in a heartbeat to have this at every race. 

To have someone to give his trophies to, to have someone to come home to, to have you, and Milo. To have a happily ever after that didn't depend on a race car, or winnings. One that simply depended on you saying yes in a white dress someday. And, long before that, of you meeting him at the barrier after this race. "Of course, you muppet." 

-

When Lando wins, because of course Lando wins, Silverstone goes ballistic. It's the sort of celebration you'd never witnessed before, all the mechanics, all the orange staff, all the fans in the stands, they all erupt in cheers and hugs, a morphing, crushing mob that rushes towards Parc Ferme with a speed that forces you to pick up Milo to avoid him getting trampled.

"The trophy!" He says, smacking against your shoulders as you join the rush, jogging to keep up. "He promised you his trophy!"

"I think I'll keep it in the kitchen," You say with a soft laugh, taking off your earmuffs to let them hang around your neck, settling nicely against Lando's jumper. It might not be the prettiest of things to wear to an F1 race, but who else could say they were wearing Lando Norris's clothes when he won his home race? "We can serve pasta out of it."

"Or sweets!" Milo says, trying to get up out of your arms to see over the crowd as you approach. "Or apple juice!"

Lando stands on top of his car, and for a moment, you regret not keeping the earmuffs on, because the screams around you are deafening, your own included. It's the sweetest possible sound of victory, Lando jumping up on his car and shaking his fists in the air, a ball of energy that belonged there.

He makes his way around the crowd, throwing himself at mechanics and other staff, embracing family and friends, celebrating like he deserves to. As he takes off his helmet, you watch him pause, jumping up on the tips of his toes to try to scan over the crowd, and it's Milo who figures it out before you do.

"MR. NORRIS!" He screeches, startling the few people in front of you. They awkwardly shuffle to the sides to let you and Milo through, and Lando is instantly reaching for the boy, swinging him over the barrier and hoisting him on his shoulders.

It's the sort of view you don't think you could ever get tired of. In fact, it's the sort of memory you want burned into the back of your eyelids to see every time you blink, or sleep, or dream. It's Milo and Lando, matching suits and curls and grins, stretched from ear to ear. The crowd keeps chanting, hollering at the two of them, but all the noise sort of fades as you watch.

That, you think, is how you want Milo to look at a man, at someone who might be your partner. That's the kind of care you want your partner to have, holding Milo like his own, spinning around in circles as the cameras flash and the world applauds them. At least, you think, the world sees your boys as you do.

Absolutely perfect. Lando catches your stare as he ends his celebratory dance, stopping a few feet away as he watches you right back. And that smile, that ridiculous, contagious smile, only grows.

"I thought about it!" He has to shout, words barely heard as he approaches.

"What?" You ask, leaning against the railing to try and make out the meaning.

"I said," He repeats, ducking forward to hover just above you, "I thought about it."

His lips are on yours before you can even react. To some, it probably isn't the most pleasant kiss in the world, with the sweat and the heat and the crowd crushing in, but you find there's not a single thing you could ever complain about as your hands come up to cup his cheeks. It's Lando, in the clearest declaration you've ever seen, calling you his, in front of Silverstone, in front of everyone, in front of Milo, in front of you. It's not a soft thing over the back of the couch in a Spider-Man costume, but it's so much more real, heavy and yet somehow lightening all the weight on your shoulders, all the worries preying at the edge of your mind.

This is how it should feel when you kiss someone. This is how it feels when you know it'll last, when that love extends past you and into the boy resting on Lando's shoulders. It's how it feels when you know, and he knows, and there's nothing else to say about it. "You won!" You say against his lips with a smile, and he pulls back to practically cackle at you.

"I won!" Later, when you tell him there were tears in his eyes at this moment, he'll deny them, but you watch the way they shine, all that hard work and effort paid off. "I've got my good luck charms with me. Now you have to come to every race."

"Oh, we'll be there." Lando reaches over the railing to pull you somehow closer into him, bending his head to press a kiss to your cheek, and whisper something without the world to hear.

"Thank you," He says, almost choking on the words. "I'll make this work, I promise."

"I believe you, Lando." You say, and you'd say more, but the moment gets interrupted by a certain someone.

"Mr. Norris!" Milo says, pulling softly at Lando's hair. "You kissed my mum."

Lando freezes, realizing that, as much as you might be happy about this relationship, Milo might not be. "That okay?"

Milo thinks for a moment. "Can I get your trophy?"

"I'll give you all my trophies from now on," Lando says, letting the boy down and back into your arms. "Do we have a deal?"

"Deal." Lando laughs, a pure, bright thing, and heads back to do whatever it is he does after a race, and you let reality settle in. There are cameras, and people staring, and questions to be asked, but you find that they don't quite matter, because you can't stop grinning like an idiot.

This, you think, was how it should feel, being in love. 

It's the way your heart calms, watching Lando get up on that podium, accept his award, knowing he deserves it all and more. It's you screaming until your lungs are raw in celebration, watching him spraying champagne, holding his trophy high, beaming down at you.

It's the Lego trophy that's in Milo's hands mere minutes after it's given to Lando, who, in his post-race celebration, hoists the boy back up on his shoulders, looking more proud of the boy above him than he was to win. They match, in their outfits, and their trophies, and their smiles, and their curls, and the way you're so utterly smitten for both of them. 

It's the sort of joy you hope will never fade, and after it's all done, and the fans go home, and the energy wears off, you doubt it ever will, as you discover Milo and Lando passed out together in his little en-suite room. The man had insisted on coming over to read Milo a bedtime story, but it seems the two never got that far, the book still open in Lando's lap.

Without much thought to the action, you press a kiss to Lando's temple and Milo's forehead, close the book, and turn off the light. 

It's this sort of love you hope to experience every day for the rest of your life.

a/n: i tried so hard to balance cute and realistic in this one, so i really hope i did them justice <3 (also i rewrote the ending eight times.)

[wonbyyou]

the loyalty test | park sunghoon

synopsis: you're friend asked you to test her boyfriend, sunghoon.

cara's corner: don't stay with a cheater. leave your boyfriend if he cheats on you, leave your best friend if she sleeps with your man. with that being said, let's get into the story. i didn't think the story would be this long but here we are. this is 11.1k words, i'm actually impressed.

taglist: @underyang @k1ttyjwon @miauumin @hi00000234567 @nnmura @jvngw0nlvr @avaloveshoon @acidsoju @liciaunlockmyheart @yunlazia @kristynaaah @calilovesdilfs @skzenhalove @fakeuwus @tobiosbbyghorl @starry-eyed-bimbo @qualityghostgirlie @kirakun @bossbitchbabie @cheryyluv @rikidaze @pinkieluvv @dazedhqqn @kaiaonsaturn @whateverhoon @hwang-hynjin @hoonatic @babygguk98 @chvconn3 @nithxhoon

-

You adjusted the thin strap of your deliberately chosen dress—dark red, silky, cut to cling just right—feeling utterly out of place amidst the beer-soaked chaos. Your friend’s instructions echoed in your head like a relentless mantra: Find him alone. Get close. Touch him. Flirt.

You spotted Sunghoon almost immediately, a still point in the swirling madness. He was leaning against the wall near the makeshift bar in the crowded living room, nursing a plastic cup of something clear. He looked effortlessly cool in dark jeans and a simple black henley that hugged his lean frame, the sleeves pushed up to reveal taut forearms.

The chaotic energy of the party seemed to part around him, respecting his quiet intensity. He wasn't scanning the room; his gaze was fixed thoughtfully on the ice swirling in his cup, a slight furrow between his brows. Handsome. Your friend’s voice hissed in your memory. Huge dick. You shoved the thought down, a flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the stifling heat.

Taking a deep breath that did little to steady your nerves, you navigated the sweaty bodies towards him. The scent of cheap beer, stale smoke, and too much cologne assaulted your senses. As you approached, you saw his head lift slightly, those dark eyes flicking towards movement, then locking onto you.

Recognition dawned, followed by a flicker of polite surprise. A small, courteous smile touched his lips—the same one he always gave you, reserved but friendly.

"Hey," you said, your voice needing an extra push to be heard over the music. You stopped just slightly closer than strictly necessary for conversation in a noisy room. "Sunghoon, right?"

He nodded, straightening up from the wall. "Yeah. Nice to see you again." His voice was deeper than you remembered, a smooth baritone that cut through the surrounding din. His gaze traveled over you, quick and assessing but not leering—taking in the dress, the effort. "You look different," he observed, that faint smile lingering. "Not usually your scene, is it?"

The directness threw you. "Is it that obvious?" You forced a light laugh, trying to channel Jisoo’s instructions. Touch him. You reached out, letting your fingertips brush lightly against his forearm as you gestured vaguely towards the pulsating crowd.

"Bit overwhelming." The contact was electric—his skin warm, the muscle beneath surprisingly firm. You pulled your hand back quickly, hoping it seemed natural.

He glanced down at the spot your fingers had touched, then back up at your face. A trace of amusement danced in his dark eyes. "Very." He took a slow sip from his cup, watching you over the rim.

"What brings you into the lion's den tonight? Research for sociology?" The ghost of a smirk played on his lips. He remembered your major from that group dinner weeks ago.

"Something like that," you deflected, seizing the opening. Compliment him. Make it personal. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze directly, letting your eyes linger on his face before dropping deliberately to his mouth for a heartbeat, then back to his eyes.

"Actually, I saw you standing over here looking… admirably patient. Most people look like they’re about to vibrate out of their skin at these things." You paused, leaning in a fraction closer under the guise of being heard.

The clean, woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with something inherently masculine enveloped you. "That color," you murmured, nodding towards his dark henley, "it really makes your eyes look… intense."

Sunghoon didn't move away. He held your gaze, the amusement deepening into something more focused, more… intrigued. The polite mask slipped just enough to reveal a sharp intelligence, a hint of something far less passive simmering beneath the surface.

"Intense?" he repeated softly, his voice dropping lower, somehow more intimate despite the noise. He mirrored your posture, shifting his weight so his body angled slightly towards yours, closing the space further without actually touching. "Is that a good thing?"

His proximity was dizzying. You could see the fine texture of his stubble along his jawline, the way a stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. See if he flirts back. He was definitely flirting back.

"It can be," you breathed, holding his gaze. Your heart hammered against your ribs. The guilt over Jisoo warred violently with the undeniable thrill sparking along your nerves. This wasn't just politeness anymore; this was a subtle, dangerous game. "Depends on the context."

Sunghoon’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile—a smile you’d never seen him direct at Jisoo. It transformed his face from handsome to dangerously alluring.

"And what context are we operating under right now?" he asked, his eyes drifting over your face again, lingering on your mouth this time before meeting your eyes. The implication hung heavy in the air: Why are you really here? Why are you looking at me like that?

Before you could formulate a response—something clever, something flirty that didn’t betray your mission—he gestured towards your empty hands with his cup. "Can I get you a drink? This punch is lethal, but they have beer that's marginally less likely to induce blindness."

"Surprise me," you said, recovering slightly, injecting a playful lilt into your voice. "Though blindness sounds… adventurous."

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated pleasantly in your chest. "Adventure has its place." He pushed off the wall fully. "Don't move." The command was gentle but firm, accompanied by another of those penetrating looks before he turned towards the crowded bar.

You watched him go, your breath catching as you saw the confident set of his shoulders, the way people subtly made space for him. He wasn't just handsome; he possessed a potent magnetism that drew attention effortlessly.

Huge dick.

The intrusive thought resurfaced, bringing a fresh wave of heat to your face and lower. This was worse than you'd imagined. The tension wasn't just palpable; it was a living thing coiling in the pit of your stomach, tightening with every lingering glance, every subtle shift in his demeanor.

He was playing along, and he was good at it. Too good? Was this just how Sunghoon was? Or was Jisoo right? The line between loyalty test and treacherous fascination blurred dangerously as you waited for him to return, the pulsing music fading into the background.

Sunghoon returned, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. He held two plastic cups, one filled with something suspiciously pink, the other with amber liquid. He handed you the pink concoction with a wry quirk of his brow. "Adventure, as requested. Proceed with caution."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the cup, another jolt of awareness shooting up your arm. He’s Jisoo’s boyfriend, your conscience hissed, but the thought felt distant, muffled by the pounding bass and the intensity of how close he was.

"What horrors await me?" you asked, forcing a lightness you didn't feel. You took a tentative sip. It was cloyingly sweet, laced with cheap vodka.

"Survival," he countered, leaning back against the wall beside you, his shoulder a whisper away from yours. He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before settling back on you. It wasn't predatory; it was… intensely focused. Like you were the only clear thing in a chaotic painting.

"So," he began, his voice a low rumble designed to cut through the noise without shouting, "this 'research'. Are you cataloging mating rituals? Or just seeking inspiration for your next paper on social deviance?"

Flirt back. Keep it light. But the sheer weight of his attention made lightness impossible. He wasn't buying the academic cover.

"Maybe I just wanted to see if the quiet guy in the corner was actually plotting world domination," you deflected, meeting his eyes. The dim light caught the dark flecks within their deep brown, making them seem fathomless. "You have that look about you. Calculating."

A genuine laugh escaped him this time, warm and rich, briefly cutting through the party’s din. It transformed his face completely, softening the sharp angles and revealing a surprising charm. "World domination requires better snacks than these," he gestured dismissively towards a bowl of stale chips nearby.

"And a quieter venue." His eyes locked onto yours again, the amusement fading back into that unnerving focus. "Though plotting... sometimes happens. Especially when someone interesting walks up and starts paying very specific compliments."

The directness stole your breath. He was calling you out, gently but undeniably. The carefully constructed persona Jisoo had demanded—the flirty temptress—crumbled under his scrutiny.

The guilt flared briefly, sharp and cold: Jisoo. Betrayal. But it was instantly drowned by a wave of something hotter, more immediate. His nearness, the heat radiating off him, the way his gaze held yours with such unsettling intelligence… it was intoxicating. The mission blurred, then dissolved entirely. You weren't pretending curiosity anymore; you were genuinely fascinated.

"Specific?" you echoed, your voice lower than intended. You took another sip of the vile punch, needing the burn to ground you. "I just call it like I see it." You let your gaze travel deliberately over his face again—the strong line of his jaw, the defined curve of his lower lip.

"You’re easy to look at, Sunghoon." The words came out husky, stripped of artifice.

He didn't look away. A slow, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his posture. The casual lean against the wall became something more deliberate, more… possessive. He set his beer cup down on a nearby ledge littered with empties.

"Easy?" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a private vibration between you in the crowded room. He took half a step closer, eliminating the last sliver of space. You could feel the heat of his body now, smell the clean scent of his skin mingled with the faintest trace of beer.

His hand lifted, not quite touching you, but hovering near your waist as if to steady you against the press of bodies behind. "I find looking at you requires significantly more concentration."

The air crackled. Every nerve ending screamed. The party noise faded into a dull roar, muffled by the frantic pounding of your own pulse in your ears. His nearness wasn't just physical; it felt like an embrace, a magnetic pull that threatened to erase all reason. Jisoo’s boyfriend. The thought flickered weakly, a dying ember against the wildfire he was igniting.

"Why's that?" you breathed, tilting your face up towards his. The challenge was there in your eyes now, stripped bare. Not Jisoo’s challenge, not a test—yours.

Sunghoon’s gaze darkened, intensifying. He didn’t smile. His focus was absolute, consuming. That careful reserve he usually wore had vanished completely, replaced by a raw intensity that was both thrilling and terrifying.

His eyes traced the line of your cheekbone, down to your mouth, lingering there with an undisguised hunger that sent shivers cascading down your spine. His hand still hovered near your waist, radiating heat.

"Because," he said slowly, each word deliberate and heavy with unspoken meaning, his voice rough around the edges, "you walked over here playing a game I know very well." He leaned in infinitesimally closer; you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your lips.

"But somewhere between the 'intense eyes' and that dress..." His gaze dropped momentarily to the silky fabric clinging to your curves before snapping back to your eyes, burning with a fierce curiosity, "...you stopped playing." He searched your face, his expression unreadable yet profoundly potent. "Now I'm just… fascinated. Trying to figure out what you're really after tonight."

The confession hung in the humid air between you—a detonation of pure, undeniable tension. Jisoo, the loyalty test, the reason you’d sought him out… it all evaporated like mist under a hot sun.

There was only this: the pulsing music vibrating through the floorboards, the press of bodies creating a false intimacy around you two, and Sunghoon’s overwhelming presence—handsome, sharp, and looking at you as if he wanted to unravel you thread by thrilling thread. You were no longer gathering evidence.

You were caught in a current you hadn't expected to find, pulled inexorably towards a dangerous depth where consequences felt like a distant shore. The game was over. Something far more real, far more perilous, had begun.

-

The walk to Sunghoon’s apartment building three blocks away was conducted in a silence thick enough to choke on. The night air clung to your skin like damp silk, amplifying every brush of his arm against yours as you navigated the cracked sidewalks under flickering streetlights.

Your mind raced, scrambling for justification. Evidence. I need evidence. Jisoo needs to know. But the arguments felt hollow, paper-thin defenses against the raw magnetism pulling you towards him. Every step felt less like reconnaissance and more like surrender.

He’d simply said, "It’s too loud to talk there," after your stilted agreement to leave the party. His tone hadn’t been a question, nor an overt invitation laced with promise. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that unnerving calm that seemed to cut through chaos.

He hadn’t touched you beyond the necessary guidance through the crowd, yet his presence beside you was a physical weight, a current of awareness humming between you.

His apartment building was a renovated brick structure, older but well-maintained. The lobby was quiet, cool, and smelled faintly of lemon polish. You followed him into a small elevator, the confined space amplifying the tense silence. He stood close, staring straight ahead at the polished metal doors, his profile sharp and unreadable in the dim elevator light.

You studied the controlled line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled slightly at his nape. Handsome. Dangerous. The duality was intoxicating.

The apartment itself surprised you. It wasn’t the messy bachelor pad you might have expected. It was minimalist, almost starkly elegant: clean lines, low-slung modern furniture in shades of charcoal and cream, a single abstract painting on one wall lit by a discreet spotlight.

Shelves held books—actual books, not just textbooks—and a few sleek pieces of tech. The air was cool and smelled faintly of sandalwood and something else… him. It felt curated, controlled, a reflection of the man himself.

"Make yourself comfortable," Sunghoon murmured, gesturing towards a deep charcoal sofa. He moved with quiet efficiency towards a sleek kitchenette area separated by a breakfast bar.

"Can I get you something? Water? Soda?" He opened a stainless steel fridge, the light illuminating his profile—the sharp cheekbone, the focused set of his mouth. He glanced back at you, his dark eyes catching the light. "Or," he added, his voice dropping slightly, resonating in the quiet space, "something stronger? I have whiskey. Bourbon."

The offer hung in the cool air. Something stronger. It wasn't just about the alcohol; it was an invitation to shed the last pretense of the party, of Jisoo, of anything outside this contained, intimate space. Your throat felt dry. You perched on the edge of the sofa, the leather cool beneath your palms despite the warmth flooding your body.

"Water is fine," you managed, your voice sounding thin. Evidence. Stay sharp. You needed your wits. But even as you said it, your gaze drifted over him as he moved—the way his black henley stretched across his broad shoulders as he reached for glasses, the defined muscles in his forearm flexing as he poured water into a heavy crystal tumbler.

The quiet domesticity of the scene was deceptive. The tension hadn't dissipated; it had deepened, becoming a low thrum in the room's very atmosphere.

He brought your water first, setting it carefully on a coaster on the low table before you. His fingers brushed yours as he handed it over—a deliberate touch? An accident? The brief contact sent a jolt through you, making your breath hitch audibly in the stillness.

He didn't comment, merely holding your gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, that unsettling intensity back in full force. His eyes seemed to say: I know why you're here isn't simple. And I'm waiting.

Then he turned back to the kitchenette for his own drink. You heard the distinct clink of ice cubes, the smooth pour of amber liquid into another glass. Bourbon. He returned not to the armchair opposite, but sat on the sofa beside you.

Not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He stretched one arm along the back of the sofa, not quite touching your shoulders, but the implication was clear—an open space, an invitation held in abeyance.

He took a slow sip of his bourbon, the ice clinking softly. The silence stretched, thick and expectant. He wasn't pushing. He wasn't demanding. He was simply… there. Waiting for you to make the next move.

The apartment felt like a world apart, insulated from reality, where the only things that mattered were the space between you on the sofa.

The water glass felt cold and slick in your hand, utterly inadequate against the heat building inside you. The mission was a distant memory, drowned out by the deafening silence and Sunghoon’s patient, predatory stillness.

The silence stretched, thick as the humid night air outside the sleek apartment windows. The only sounds were the distant rumble of thunder promising a summer storm, the soft clink of ice in Sunghoon’s bourbon glass, and the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears.

The cool water in your hand did nothing to quench the heat pooling low in your belly. His gaze, heavy-lidded and unnervingly direct, held yours.

"So," you began, the word scraping against your dry throat. You took a quick sip of water, the chill a brief shock. Ask him about Jisoo.

"Jisoo mentioned you had a big presentation this week. How'd it go?" The question felt clumsy, forced, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself in the reality of why you were here.

Sunghoon took another slow sip of his bourbon. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, not quite reaching his eyes.

"It went," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet space. "As well as these things ever go. A lot of posturing, a lot of jargon." He swirled the ice in his glass, the sound sharp in the stillness. His gaze never left your face. "She tell you that? Or were you just… making conversation?"

Your fingers tightened on the cool glass. "Making conversation," you admitted, the lie tasting bitter. You forced a lightness you didn't feel. "Seemed like a safe topic. Safer than…" You trailed off, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, encompassing the charged atmosphere, the proximity, him.

"Safer than what?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement brought him fractionally closer. His dark eyes held a challenge, a spark of dark amusement.

"Safer than asking why you followed me home from a party where you looked like you didn't belong?" His tone was teasing, but the intensity beneath it was undeniable. He remembered your discomfort, your initial reluctance. He’d seen it.

A flush crept up your neck. "I didn't follow you," you protested, the defensiveness sharpening your voice. "You suggested leaving. I… agreed." For Jisoo. For the test. The mantra felt flimsy, a child’s shield against a storm.

"Did you?" He tilted his head, studying you. The lamplight carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, making his gaze seem even deeper, more penetrating. "Or did you just see an opportunity?" He paused, letting the word hang, heavy with implication.

"An opportunity to… what, exactly?" He took another deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the glass.

"To see if the quiet guy in the corner was as interesting as he looked when someone paid him the right kind of attention?"

The directness was breathtaking. He was peeling back the layers of pretense with surgical precision, leaving you exposed. The carefully constructed narrative of the loyalty test felt like ash in your mouth.

"Maybe I was just curious," you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance you didn't entirely feel. "You’re not exactly an open book, Sunghoon. Jisoo talks, but…" You let the sentence hang, a deliberate provocation. See if he takes the bait about Jisoo.

He didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips, transforming his face from handsome to dangerously captivating. It wasn't the polite smile he gave Jisoo; this was something darker, more intimate, reserved for this charged space between you.

"Jisoo talks," he echoed, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. He leaned back again, his arm returning to the sofa back, his fingers now dangerously close to brushing your shoulder. "But does she see?" He held your gaze, the intensity in his eyes burning away any pretense of discussing his girlfriend. "Do you see?"

The question wasn't about Jisoo anymore. It was about this. The electric current humming between you on the sofa. The way your breath hitched when his fingers neared your skin. The way his gaze dropped to your lips for longer than necessary. The way the air felt thick with unspoken desire, a palpable force pressing in from all sides.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. The water glass was forgotten in your hand, condensation slick against your palm. The mission was a distant, irrelevant speck.

There was only Sunghoon, his proximity, his scent, the raw magnetism that made rational thought impossible. You were adrift in the tension, no longer pretending to steer the ship.

Sunghoon didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, his dark eyes roaming your face—tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your cheek, the slight part of your lips. The silence stretched, thick and sultry, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.

The storm outside rumbled closer, a low growl mirroring the turmoil inside you. He finally lifted his bourbon glass, took a slow, deliberate sip, and then set it down on the low table with a soft clink.

He turned his body fully towards you on the sofa, one knee brushing lightly against your thigh. The contact, even through the fabric of your dress and his jeans, sent a jolt of pure electricity through you.

He leaned in, just slightly, invading your space in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. His voice, when it came, was a low, intimate rumble, laced with bourbon and a promise that made your core clench.

"You tell me," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek. His gaze held yours captive, dark and fathomless. "What are you hoping to see?" The question hung in the air, heavy as the impending rain, stripping away the last vestiges of the loyalty test and laying bare the dangerous, undeniable attraction that had brought you to this point, to his sofa, trembling on the precipice of something you could no longer pretend was just for Jisoo.

His gaze, intense and unblinking, held yours captive. It stripped away the feeble justifications, the crumbling facade of the loyalty test.

Jisoo’s name flickered in your mind, a ghostly ember, then vanished.

All that remained was the raw need coiling deep within you, answering the magnetic pull emanating from him. The air crackled with unspoken desire, thick enough to taste.

You didn't answer with words. Words felt inadequate, brittle things against the sheer force of his presence. Instead, your breath hitched, a soft, desperate sound that seemed loud in the profound stillness. Your lips parted slightly, an involuntary surrender.

Your gaze, wide and dark with a hunger you could no longer deny, flickered down to his mouth—that sculpted curve you’d noticed since the party, now dangerously close.

A slow, predatory satisfaction bloomed in Sunghoon’s eyes. He saw the answer written plainly across your face, in the trembling of your hand still clutching the forgotten water glass, in the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath the silky fabric of your dress. He didn’t need words either.

With a deliberation that was agonizingly slow, he lifted his hand from the back of the sofa. Not to touch your shoulder, as it had hovered before. His fingers, warm and sure, brushed a stray strand of hair back from your temple.

The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt straight to your core, making your muscles clench involuntarily. His thumb traced a scorching path down the delicate line of your jaw, stopping just beneath your chin.

His touch was electric, claiming. It silenced the last, faint echo of protest about Jisoo. There was only this searing point of contact, the rough pad of his thumb against your sensitive skin, the dark intensity of his gaze holding yours prisoner.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, husky rasp that resonated deep in your bones. It wasn't harsh; it was possessive, an anchor in the dizzying current pulling you under. "Just look at me."

You obeyed, drowning in the deep pools of his eyes. You saw the banked fire ignite, the careful control fracturing to reveal the raw, primal hunger beneath. He saw the answering surrender in yours—the dilation of your pupils, the flush staining your cheeks, the way your lips trembled ever so slightly, aching for something only he could give.

The distance between your mouths was a mere breath. You could feel the warmth of his exhalation. His thumb pressed more firmly beneath your chin, tilting your face up towards his. His other hand finally abandoned its casual perch and settled firmly on your waist, pulling you fractionally closer on the sofa.

The heat of his palm burned through your dress, branding your skin. His fingers splayed possessively over your hipbone.

"Stop thinking, baby," he murmured, the endearment rolling off his tongue with a low cadence that made your stomach flip. "There’s nothing out there but noise." His gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering, a dark promise. "Just this. Just us."

The last thread of resistance snapped.

His head dipped. Slowly. Inevitably. Giving you one last heartbeat to pull away, a moment you couldn't have taken even if your life depended on it. Then his lips met yours.

It wasn't tentative. It wasn't gentle exploration. It was a claiming. His mouth slanted over yours with a fierce, sudden hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. His lips were firm, demanding, moving against yours with an urgency that ignited an instant, answering blaze within you.

The taste of him flooded your senses—the complex warmth of bourbon, the underlying sweetness of his skin, an intoxicating flavor that was purely Sunghoon. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard planes of his chest met your softness, the heat of his body enveloping you.

A soft moan escaped you, muffled against his mouth. It wasn't a sound of protest, but of pure, helpless surrender. Your hands, trembling, found purchase—one gripping the cool leather of the sofa beside your thigh for stability, the other rising instinctively to clutch at the soft cotton of his henley where it stretched across his shoulder. The fabric bunched in your fist, an anchor in the dizzying rush.

He deepened the kiss immediately, his tongue seeking entrance. You yielded without hesitation, opening for him. The slick, hot slide of his tongue against yours was an erotic shockwave. It was bold, possessive, exploring the sensitive contours of your mouth with a skill that made your toes curl.

His thumb continued its maddening stroke along your jawline, angling your head to take the kiss even deeper. The scrape of his faint stubble against your sensitive skin added another layer of delicious friction.

The storm outside broke with a sudden, violent crack of thunder and the drumming rush of rain against the windows, mirroring the tempest he was unleashing within you. His other hand slid from your waist, gliding up your spine beneath the silky fabric of your dress.

The cool air hit your exposed skin for a split second before his large, warm palm settled possessively between your shoulder blades, pressing you even closer, erasing any lingering space between your bodies. The thin barrier of clothing felt suddenly unbearable. You arched instinctively into him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of him.

He shifted on the sofa, his leg sliding between yours, the hard muscle of his thigh pressing intimately against your core. A sharp cry escaped you, muffled against his mouth, as the delicious pressure sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward. You arched instinctively, grinding against the firm pressure, seeking relief and friction in the same desperate movement.

Sunghoon broke the kiss abruptly, pulling back just enough to look down at you. Your lips felt swollen, sensitized, glistening. Your chest heaved, straining against the confines of your dress. His own breathing was ragged, his dark eyes blazing with unchecked fire, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of brown remained.

He looked utterly wrecked, his usually impeccable control shattered. His gaze raked over your face, down your throat, lingering on the rapid pulse fluttering there, then lower, to where the neckline of your dress clung damply to your flushed skin, hinting at the swell beneath.

"God," he breathed, the word rough, strained. His hand on your back slid lower, fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip beneath your dress, his grip tightening possessively.

The hand that had been at your chin now traced a scorching path down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, until his thumb hooked gently into the thin strap of your dress. He didn't pull it down yet; he simply held it, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the sensitive skin of your shoulder. His gaze locked back onto yours, intense and demanding.

"Tell me," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. His thumb pressed more firmly against your shoulder strap. "Tell me this is what you wanted." His thigh pressed higher between yours, intensifying the delicious friction. "Tell me you feel this… this need."

You couldn't speak. Words were impossible. Your body answered for you. You surged forward, crashing your mouth back against his with frantic hunger, your hands tunneling into his dark hair, pulling him closer, deeper. Your hips rolled against his thigh, shamelessly seeking the pressure, the heat.

A ragged groan tore from him as he met your desperation with his own. His hand at your hip slid around to grip your ass, fingers digging into the yielding flesh beneath the silk, pulling you harder against his thigh, guiding the rhythm of your frantic grinding. His other hand finally tugged your dress strap down your shoulder, the fabric pooling slightly, exposing the swell of your breast and the delicate lace edge of your bra.

He broke the kiss again, panting, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, along your exposed throat, sucking lightly at the frantic pulse point. His teeth scraped gently, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your ass to slide up your side, his thumb brushing boldly over the lace-covered peak of your breast. A sharp gasp tore from you as the rough pad ignited sparks even through the fabric.

"Sunghoon…" It was a choked plea, your voice barely recognizable.

He lifted his head, his eyes burning into yours. His thumb continued its maddening circle over your nipple, the lace rasping deliciously against the sensitized bud. "Tell me," he demanded again, his voice a guttural command. "Say it."

"Yes," you gasped, your hips still rocking against his thigh, the slick heat between your legs undeniable. "Yes. This. You. I need…" The rest was lost as his mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing your confession. His hand slipped beneath the cup of your bra, his warm palm closing possessively over your bare breast, his thumb rasping over the hardened nipple.

The sensation was electric, blinding. The kiss turned savage, hungry, a prelude to something far more primal than conversation, far more explicit than any test.

The shift was immediate, primal. Sunghoon hauled you fully onto his lap in one powerful motion, your knees sinking into the sofa cushions on either side of his hips. Your dress bunched high around your thighs as you straddled him, the sudden, intimate press of his hard body beneath yours stealing your breath anew.

His erection, thick and insistent even through his jeans and your damp panties, ground against the exact spot that ached for him. A low, desperate sound vibrated from your chest as you instinctively rocked your hips, seeking that pressure, that friction that promised oblivion.

"Fuck," Sunghoon hissed through gritted teeth, his head falling back against the sofa for a heartbeat, his eyes squeezed shut as your movement dragged against him. His hands flew to your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hip bones, holding you stead—or perhaps just holding on. When his eyes opened, the look he gave you was pure, feral hunger.

His gaze dropped, ravenous, to where your dress had slipped off one shoulder, the lace cup of your bra doing little to hide the peaked nipple beneath. With a growl that resonated deep in his chest, he yanked the other strap down. The silky fabric pooled around your waist, leaving you bare from the waist up save for the flimsy lace bra. The cool air hit your exposed skin for a fleeting second before his large hands were on you.

He didn't tease. One palm closed possessively over your covered breast, the heat searing even through the lace. His thumb found your nipple immediately, rubbing the stiffened peak with deliberate, rough circles that made you cry out and arch into his touch. "Sunghoon!" His name was a gasp, a plea, an affirmation.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice ragged, his eyes glued to the sight of his hand on you. "God, so damn perfect." His other hand abandoned your waist to slide up your spine and fumble with the clasp of your bra. It sprang open easily. He peeled the lace away with agonizing slowness, letting it fall forgotten onto the sofa beside you.

Then there was only skin. Warm air, then his searing gaze, then finally—his hands. Both palms closed over your bare breasts, kneading the soft, heavy weight with a groan of pure appreciation. His thumbs swept roughly over your nipples, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to your throbbing core.

You gasped, your head falling back, your hands gripping his shoulders for purchase as he molded and squeezed, worshiping the soft flesh with a possessiveness that left you dizzy.

"These," he murmured, his voice thick and dark. "Been driving me crazy." He leaned forward abruptly, catching a taut nipple between his lips.

The sensation was explosive. Hot. Wet. Devastating. He sucked deeply, pulling the peak into the scalding heat of his mouth, his tongue lashing the hardened bud with relentless pressure. A ragged cry tore from your throat as your back arched violently, pressing your breast deeper into his mouth.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there, urging him on. He groaned against your skin, the vibration traveling straight to your clit. His other hand continued its assault on your neglected breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger with delicious roughness.

He switched sides with agonizing leisure, lavishing the same fierce attention on your other breast, sucking hard, licking and teasing until you were whimpering, grinding down onto the hard ridge of his erection in desperate, involuntary circles.

The denim of his jeans was rough against your sensitive flesh through your soaked panties, but the pressure was exquisite torture. Each downward rock dragged the soaked fabric against your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through your entire body.

Sunghoon lifted his head from your breast with a wet pop, his lips swollen, his chin glistening. He watched you writhe above him, grinding against his cock like a woman possessed, his eyes burning with dark satisfaction and unchecked lust.

One hand slid down from your breast, over your trembling stomach, pushing the bunched fabric of your dress higher until he found the hem of your panties.

"Look at you," he rasped again, his gaze locked on yours as his fingertips traced the soaked lace stretched tight over your aching heat. "Riding me already. Soaked clean through for it." His finger dipped beneath the elastic waistband at your hip, sliding downwards over the curve of your ass. He didn't go lower yet; he just held you there, feeling the heat radiating from your core, his gaze daring you to keep moving.

So you did. You locked eyes with him, defiance and pure need warring in your expression. You braced one hand on his shoulder, lifted yourself slightly, and then ground down onto him again—hard, deliberate, letting him feel every slick inch of your need through the layers separating you. The friction was almost unbearable. A choked groan tore from him, his head thudding back against the sofa cushions.

His hand at your hip tightened like a vise. The other hand slid back up to grip your bare breast roughly. "Keep going," he commanded, his voice guttural, strained to breaking. "Keep grinding that sweet little cunt on my cock." The crude word, spoken in that low rasp, sent another bolt of pure heat through you.

You obeyed, rocking against him with increasing abandon, chasing the pressure against your clit, feeling him thick and hard beneath you, every shift a promise of what was to come.

His thumb finally breached the waistband of your panties fully, sliding down to find your slick heat directly. Not delving inside yet, but pressing firmly against your clit through the sheer lace, right where you needed it most as you moved.

The grinding down onto his cock and having his thumb press firmly against your clit was too much. A sharp cry escaped you, your rhythm faltering as white-hot pleasure spiked through you.

Sunghoon chuckled darkly, his thumb pressing harder, circling firmly. "Not yet," he growled, watching you unravel. "Not nearly done." His free hand slid from your breast down your body, following the curve of your spine to grip your ass cheek firmly through the silk of your dress and panties. "Keep moving. Show me how bad you want it." He pulled you down harder against him as he thrust his own hips up off the sofa cushion in a short, sharp jerk, grinding himself against you with brutal force.

The breath left your lungs in a rush. You were pinned between the relentless pressure of his thumb on your clit and the hard ridge of his cock grinding against your core.

Reason drowned in sensation. There was only this: the wet heat of his mouth on your skin, the bruising grip of his hands on your flesh, the relentless friction building towards a shattering peak, and the raw, undeniable knowledge that you’d crossed a line there was no coming back from—and you didn’t want to. Not for anything in the world.

Sunghoon’s other hand still kneaded your bare breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out. Sweat slicked your skin where your bodies pressed together, the air thick with the scent of sex and bourbon and desperate need.

He watched you with burning intensity, his breath coming in harsh rasps that matched your own. A dark, predatory satisfaction curved his lips as he felt the tremors building in your thighs, saw the frantic helplessness in your eyes. You were close, teetering on that knife-edge.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice a rough scrape against the pounding rain outside. His thumb pressed harder against your clit, making you whimper and jerk against him. "Taking it like you were made for this. Taking me." He leaned forward, his hot breath washing over your damp neck just below your ear. "Not like Jisoo."

The name hung in the charged air like a slap. Your rhythm faltered for a split second, a flicker of something sharp—guilt? Shame?—piercing the haze of arousal.

Sunghoon felt it. His grip on your breast tightened almost painfully. "No," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "She’s… careful. Polished. Likes it slow. Sweet." He ground up against you deliberately, the hard length of him rubbing perfectly against your core through the layers.

"But you…" He pulled back slightly to look down at where your bodies were joined, then back up at your face, his gaze scorching. "You're fire. You're wild. Taking my cock through my jeans like a fucking dream." He leaned in again, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly confession that vibrated through your bones. "Better. So much goddamn better."

The words shouldn’t have sent that jolt of pure, illicit heat straight to your core. But they did. It was a wave of dark, forbidden pleasure that washed over the flicker of guilt, drowning it in pure arousal. A deep flush bloomed across your chest and neck.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. You squeezed yours shut instead, biting your lip, trying to hide the undeniable surge of excitement his cruel comparison ignited.

He saw it all. The blush. The clenched jaw. The way your inner walls fluttered desperately around nothing but the promise of him. His eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing.

"You like that?" he demanded, his voice suddenly harder. His thumb stopped its circling on your clit and pressed down with deliberate, steady pressure. "Hmm? Tell me." When you didn't answer immediately, trembling under his scrutiny, his hand on your breast moved.

He lowered his head. For a heartbeat, his hot breath fanned over your taut nipple. Then his teeth closed on it. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough—a sharp, possessive bite that made you cry out, arching violently against him.

"Ah! Sunghoon!"

He released the tender peak with a wet pop, laving it once with the flat of his tongue. "Answer me," he commanded, his gaze locked onto yours, unyielding. "Does it turn you on? Hearing me say she ain’t got shit on you? That you’re taking what’s hers?" His thumb resumed its torment on your clit, insistent.

Tears of overwhelmed sensation pricked your eyes—shame and pleasure tangled inextricably. "Y-yes," you gasped, the confession ripped from you, raw and helpless. "Yes… it does."

A savage smile touched his lips. Triumph. Possession. "Knew it," he breathed. He shifted his grip on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer until not even air existed between your bodies.

His other hand slid from your breast to cup the back of your neck, holding you still as he brought his mouth a breath away from yours. His eyes held you captive, burning with months of suppressed hunger.

"That party," he rasped, his voice thick with memory and desire. "First week of fall semester. You walked into that crowded room wearing that little black thing… laughing." His thumb traced your jawline.

"Jisoo was talking at me, and I couldn't hear a damn word. Just saw you. The way you moved. That look in your eyes… like you knew something wild." He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Wanted you then. Wanted to pin you against the nearest wall and make you scream my name loud enough to drown out the whole fucking school." He brushed his lips against yours, a ghost of a touch. "Wanted to see if you tasted as good as you looked."

His confession, raw and explicit, obliterated any lingering shred of thought about Jisoo or loyalty tests. It was gasoline on the fire consuming you.

"Every time," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, guttural and rough against your mouth. "Every goddamn time she brought you around… it was torture. Watching you smile at me. Smell you." His hand on your hip slid around to grip your ass firmly through the silk, grinding you down onto his aching cock with deliberate force.

"Wanted to ruin that pretty lipstick smudged all over my cock." He finally closed the minuscule distance, crushing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was pure possession, laced with pent-up craving.

The kiss was fierce, consuming. You met it with equal desperation, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips moving in frantic circles against him again, spurred on by his words, his touch, his overwhelming presence.

The comparison to Jisoo wasn't forgotten; it was fuel now, feeding the inferno, making every touch feel forbidden and exquisitely stolen.

He broke the kiss only to suck another bruise onto your collarbone, then capture a nipple again in the searing heat of his mouth, sucking hard as he rocked up against your grinding hips, both of you chasing the precipice he'd pushed you towards with his words and his touch. There was no going back. Only forward, into the consuming fire.

The tension coiled so tight between you threatened to snap the very air.

One hand remained buried in your hair, fisting the strands possessively at your nape, while the other slid down your trembling body, over the curve of your hip slick with sweat, to grip your bare thigh where it pressed against his hip.

His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. "Need that pretty mouth on me." His gaze dropped deliberately to his lap, where the thick outline of his cock strained obscenely against the zipper of his jeans, damp from your grinding. "Suck my cock."

The command, delivered in that low, velvet-rough voice, punched through you. Heat flooded your face, but it was drowned by a wave of liquid desire pooling lower, making you clench around nothing.

He didn’t wait for verbal assent. The hand in your hair tightened, guiding your head down firmly. "Come here, sweetheart." His other hand went to his belt buckle, the metallic clink loud in the heavy silence broken only by your panting breaths and the drumming rain.

He made quick work of the buckle and button, then dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, the sound obscene. You watched, mesmerized, as he pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down just enough over his hips, freeing himself.

The gasp that escaped you was involuntary, genuine shock mixed with pure, carnal awe. He was big. Thick, hard as iron, flushed a deep red, veins standing out starkly along the rigid length. The sheer size of him, the intimidating reality of it pressing against your lower belly for a moment before he guided you lower still, stole your breath.

"Look at that," he murmured, a dark thread of satisfaction in his voice as he watched your wide-eyed reaction. "Knew you'd appreciate it." His thumb stroked your jawline. "Now open."

You obeyed, lips parting instinctively. He guided himself with firm pressure, the blunt, broad head nudging against your lips, already slick with pre-come. The salty, musky scent of him filled your senses. You tentatively flicked your tongue against the weeping slit.

Sunghoon hissed sharply, his fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair. "Fuck, yes. Just like that." He pushed forward gently, the fat head breaching your lips, stretching them wide. "Take it."

You sank down slowly, the sheer girth requiring focus, forcing your jaw wider than felt comfortable at first. You concentrated on relaxing your throat as he filled your mouth, thick and heavy on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked experimentally.

A guttural groan ripped from him, his hips jerking upwards involuntarily. He gasped, head falling back against the sofa cushion. "Just like I dreamed. That mouth… so goddamn good."

Encouraged, you began to move, establishing a rhythm. Up and down, your lips sealed tight around his shaft, tongue swirling around the head each time you pulled back, sucking firmly. Your free hand braced against his rock-hard stomach, feeling the muscles jump and tense beneath your palm.

The sounds were obscene: wet suction, his harsh breathing, the low groans that rumbled in his chest every time you took him deep. You looked up through your lashes to see him watching you, his expression fierce with rapture, sweat beading on his temples.

Seeing his control fray under your mouth sent another surge of heat straight to your own core; you moaned around his cock, the vibration making him curse violently.

"Shit! Keep looking at me just like that," he demanded, his voice thick and strained. "Watching you swallow me down… fucking beautiful."

His hand fisted in your hair controlled the pace now, urging you down deeper, holding you there as you fought your gag reflex. Tears pricked at your eyes, but the feeling of him pulsing against your tongue was intoxicating.

"Taking it so well," he praised raggedly, his knuckles white where he gripped the sofa cushion beside him. "Such a good fucking girl for me… Sucking my cock better than…" He trailed off with another groan as you hollowed your cheeks fiercely on an upstroke.

He let you work for another few glorious, desperate moments before suddenly tightening his grip in your hair and pulling you off with a slick pop. Your lips felt bruised, swollen. You looked up at him, dazed, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his glistening cock.

"Enough," he growled, his voice ragged but laced with iron control returning. "Need more than your mouth now." In one fluid motion born of startling strength, his hands slid under your ass and hauled you fully off the floor.

Before you could register anything more than a gasp, he stood, effortlessly lifting you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The hard ridge of his cock pressed insistent and burning hot against your soaked panties through his open fly.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his strides long and purposeful across the dimly lit living room towards a hallway. The world tilted; you clung to his shoulders, burying your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his skin.

He shouldered open a door and kicked it shut behind him. The master bedroom was shadowed, dominated by a large bed. Without ceremony, he walked to its edge and threw you down onto the plush comforter. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. Before you could even process it, he was on you, kneeling between your legs.

"Off," he commanded roughly, fingers hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties and the bunched silk of your dress tangled around your waist. He didn't bother with finesse. He pulled both down your legs in one sharp yank, practically tearing them off and flinging them aside. You were suddenly naked.

The cool air hit your exposed skin for a fraction of a second before Sunghoon’s large hands were on your inner thighs. He pushed them apart ruthlessly wide, spreading you open completely before him in the dim light filtering through the window. His gaze was pure fire as it raked over your glistening sex—swollen folds slick and bare, your clit throbbing visibly at its apex.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word reverent and rough. "Look at you. Dripping." He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, settling himself between your thighs. His large hands slid under your ass, lifting your hips towards his face. His thumbs hooked into your folds and spread you wider still. "Perfect."

And then his mouth was on you.

It wasn't gentle. His tongue swept through your soaked slit from bottom to top in one long, flat stroke that made your back arch off the bed with a sharp cry. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine.

"You taste so good," he muttered against your flesh before diving back in.

He devoured you. His tongue was relentless—broad strokes lapping up your essence, then focused circles around your throbbing clit that made you whimper and fist the comforter. He sucked the sensitive bud lightly at first, then harder, drawing it into his mouth and flicking it rapidly with his tongue-tip.

"Oh God! Sunghoon!" Your hips bucked helplessly.

He held you firm, thumbs keeping you spread wide open for his assault. "That's it," he growled against your clit before sucking again. "Sing for me." He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them upwards instantly to find that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Yes! Right there!" You were sobbing now, lost in the sensations of his mouth working magic on your clit and his fingers pumping relentlessly inside you, stretching you deliciously.

"So fucking tight," he praised, his voice muffled against your skin as he added a third finger, stretching you further, his thumb rubbing firm circles against your clit in counterpoint to his sucking.

"Take three fingers so easy… greedy little cunt for me." The crude word shouldn't have made you clench around him harder than ever, but it did. He groaned at the sensation. "Yeah… squeezing my fingers… knew you needed it bad."

He increased the pace of his fingers, pumping hard and deep, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit as his mouth sealed over it again, sucking fiercely. You were hurtling towards the edge, sensations coiling unbearably tight.

"Gonna come?" he demanded roughly, lifting his head just enough to watch your face contort. "Look at you… all flushed and desperate." He sucked hard on your clit again while simultaneously thrusting his fingers deep and crooking them perfectly.

"Sunghoon! I'm– I can't–!"

"Do it," he commanded, his voice guttural with need. "Come all over my mouth. Show me how good I make you feel."

The command shattered you. Pleasure detonated, a white-hot explosion tearing through your core and radiating outwards in violent waves.

You screamed his name as you convulsed around his thrusting fingers, your hips bucking wildly against his relentless mouth as he kept sucking and licking through every pulse of your climax, drawing out the shattering pleasure until you collapsed back onto the bed, trembling violently, utterly spent.

He slowly withdrew his fingers and lifted his head, his lips and chin glistening wetly in the dim light. He looked down at you, wrecked and trembling beneath him, with a look of primal satisfaction that promised this was only the beginning.

Sunghoon then loomed over you, the heat radiating from his body like a furnace against your trembling skin. His eyes, dark pools of molten hunger, locked onto yours as he shifted his hips, positioning himself between your spread thighs.

The thick, flushed head of his cock pressed against your soaked, swollen entrance. You felt impossibly stretched already, the sheer girth promising to breach boundaries.

"Nervous?" he rasped, a flicker of dark amusement in his gaze as he saw the apprehension warring with raw desire in your eyes. He brushed a thumb over your slick lower lips, gathering your arousal.

"Look at you…so wet for it. Soaked through just thinking about taking me." He leaned down, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, his breath hot on your face. "Gonna fill you up… make you feel every fucking inch."

He pushed slowly. Deliberately. A low groan rumbled in his chest as your tight entrance yielded, stretching agonizingly wide around the broad head. The sensation was overwhelming—a burning fullness, an exquisite invasion. You gasped, your hands flying to his biceps, nails digging in.

"Oh god… Sunghoon…"

"It fits," he ground out, watching your face intently, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint. "Just gotta take it." Another inch sank deeper, stretching you further. The friction was intense, a sharp blend of pain and profound pleasure. "Tight…so goddamn tight."

He kept pushing, sinking deeper into your clutching heat. You felt impossibly full, stretched to your absolute limit. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision. "Please…" you whimpered, arching against him, torn between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need for more. "I can’t… it’s too much…"

Sunghoon froze, buried deep within you. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. He lowered his head, his lips brushing your ear.

"Can’t?" he whispered, his voice dripping with mocking challenge. His hips gave a subtle, grinding thrust that made you cry out. "This isn’t what you wanted? Crawling into my lap… letting me taste you… begging for my cock?" His hand slid down to grip your hip possessively.

"Don't lie to me now, sweetheart. You wanted this. You wanted me. Deep inside this sweet little cunt." He emphasized the crude word with another slow, deliberate grind deep inside you.

The tears spilled over, tracking hot paths down your temples. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, the sheer size of him pushing you past comfort into a dizzying realm of sensation.

Sunghoon saw the tears. His mocking expression softened infinitesimally, replaced by a fierce intensity. He didn't stop moving. He began a slow, deep rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with that same devastating fullness. But his thumb came up, surprisingly gentle, brushing the tears from your cheeks.

"Shhh," he murmured, his voice losing its edge, becoming almost tender amidst the relentless possession of your body. "That's it. Taking it so well. Taking me deeper than she ever could…" He kissed your damp cheekbone. "My good girl. So fucking perfect stretched around my cock."

His words, the jarring contrast of the brutal penetration and the gentle caress, the sheer presence of him inside you… something shifted. The sharp edge of pain began to melt, transmuting into something else entirely.

A deep, throbbing pleasure started to unfurl from your core, radiating outwards with each deep, slow thrust. You felt… owned. Filled. Utterly consumed. A helpless moan escaped you, different this time—less pain, more surrender. Your hips began to tentatively lift to meet his downward stroke.

Sunghoon saw the change instantly. The dazed, overwhelmed look in your eyes softening into pure, cock-drunk need. He let out a low groan of approval. "There it is," he breathed, his thrusts gaining a fraction more force. "There's my girl. Feeling it now, aren't you? Feeling how good my cock feels buried inside you?"

"Y-yes," you gasped, your voice thick, barely coherent. "Sunghoon… feels… so full…"

"Full of me," he growled possessively. His pace quickened, no longer slow and deliberate but purposeful, driving deeper with every snap of his hips. "Tell me," he demanded, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hiking it higher over his hip to open you wider, sink deeper. "Do you want me to tell you how much better it is… better than her?"

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensations—the stretch now a delicious ache, the friction sparking fire along your nerves, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside that made your toes curl. Forming words was hard. "Tighter…" he said, the confession made your toes curl. "So much… tighter…"

He slammed into you hard, drawing a choked scream from your throat that dissolved into a sob of pleasure. "Yeah," he hissed, his control fraying. "Fuck yeah, you are. She doesn’t take it like this… doesn’t feel this fucking good." His hand slid up to squeeze your breast roughly, pinching your nipple.

His thrusts became punishing, brutal, driving into you with enough force to rock the bed against the wall.

Your body clenched around him like a vice, waves of pure, blinding ecstasy crashing through you. The climax tore through you, obliterating thought, leaving only sensation—the relentless pounding of his cock, the searing heat pooling and exploding, the feeling of drowning in pure, carnal bliss.

He roared your name as he felt you clamp down, your inner walls milking him. His rhythm faltered, then became frantic, jackhammering into you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

"Gonna fill you up," he gasped, his body rigid, trembling. "Fuck! Take it! Take my cum deep!" With a final, guttural shout, he slammed home and held himself there, buried to the hilt as hot pulses erupted deep inside you, flooding you with his release. You felt the warmth spreading, the sheer intimacy of it pushing another soft whimper from your lips.

He collapsed partially onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest heaving against yours. He stayed buried inside you, softening slightly but still impossibly large and deep. After a moment, he lifted his head.

Sweat dripped from his brow onto your chest. He looked down at you, utterly wrecked beneath him, tears dried on your cheeks, lips swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction. A slow, utterly possessive smile spread across his face. He leaned down and kissed you, deep and lingering, tasting yourself and him on your lips.

When he pulled back, his eyes held a dark promise that sent a fresh shiver through your sated body. He gently brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead. "That," he murmured, his voice rough but satisfied, "was just warming you up, baby. Just the start of what I’m gonna do to you tonight." His thumb traced your swollen lower lip. "We aren't close to done."

-

The air in the quiet coffee shop felt thick, charged with the unspoken. Rain streaked the large windows, blurring the grey city street outside. Jisoo slid into the worn leather booth opposite you, her usual bright energy dimmed, replaced by a nervous exhaustion. The sharp scent of espresso couldn’t cut through the heavy guilt settling in your stomach. Two days. Two days since you’d looked your best friend in the eye and lied.

"Hey," Jisoo said, her voice tight. She fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater. "Thanks again for… you know. Testing Sunghoon for me. I just had to be sure." She took a shaky breath. "So? How did it go? Honestly?"

You forced your face into a mask of reassuring calm, the lie tasting like ash. "It went fine, Jisoo. Really smooth. I did everything you asked—flirted, suggested meeting up, the whole thing."

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "Sunghoon? Didn’t take the bait. Not even close. Said he was flattered but completely committed to you. Solid as a rock. Definitely not a cheater." The words felt like stones dropping into a still pond.

Relief washed over Jisoo’s face, softening the tension around her eyes. "Oh, thank god. I just… I needed that reassurance." She took a gulp of her latte, then her expression clouded again.

"But… it’s weird now. Since then? I barely hear from him. Texts go unanswered for hours, sometimes a whole day. And when I do see him…" Her cheeks flushed, not with shyness, but frustration. "He’s… distant. Doesn’t want to be intimate. At all. We tried last night, and he just… pulled away. Said he was too tired. It’s like he’s switched off."

A cold shock, followed immediately by a treacherous, unwelcome surge of heat, flooded your core. He doesn’t want her. The realization hit you like a physical blow.

You’d stupidly, selfishly assumed he was still sleeping with Jisoo too, that the stolen hours in his bed were just… extra. But this? This meant every desperate moan he’d drawn from your throat, every deep, claiming thrust, every time he’d filled you completely… it was reserved solely for you. A dark, possessive thrill warred violently with the crushing weight of your betrayal.

"That’s… strange," you managed, your voice sounding strained even to your own ears. You reached out and squeezed her hand, the contact feeling like a lie. "Maybe he is stressed? Work pressure?" You babbled generic comforts, your mind flooded with visceral memories: Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips, his mouth hot and demanding on your skin, the thick stretch of him inside you.

Your phone buzzed violently on the table, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet café. Jisoo jumped. "Someone’s eager," she remarked, a weak attempt at lightness.

Your throat closed. The screen lit up: SH. Your fingers felt clumsy, slick with nervous sweat, as you unlocked it.

Sunghoon: Can still smell you on my fingers. Been driving me crazy all evening.

Heat exploded low in your belly, a sudden, slick pulse of arousal that soaked your underwear instantly. The memory was overpowering: those long fingers, skilled and knowing, sliding deep inside you, circling your clit with relentless precision until you shattered.

The phantom sensation, combined with the raw intimacy of his words, made you clench your thighs together under the table, the ache intensifying to a sharp throb.

Before you could even begin to type a frantic Stop or We need to talk, another message flashed up.

Sunghoon: Come over. Now. Need you riding me until you can’t walk. Want to feel that tight heat squeezing my cock dry. Picture you bouncing, taking every inch… gonna make you scream. *Image Attached*

You tapped the image. A choked gasp caught in your throat. It was him, just the lower half. Grey sweatpants stretched obscenely tight over a massive, rigid erection. The thick outline of his cock was unmistakable, the head a prominent bulge near the waistband, a distinct, dark patch of dampness where pre-come had soaked through the thin fabric.

The raw, visual demand, the sheer carnality of it, sent another gush of wetness flooding your core. You were drenched, trembling with a need that momentarily eclipsed everything else.

"You okay?" Jisoo’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with concern. She was leaning forward, studying your face. "You look… really flushed. And you’re breathing fast."

You snapped your head up, tearing your gaze from the image seared into your mind. "Fine!" you blurted, the word too loud, too high-pitched. "Just… warm. It’s warm in here." You fanned your face uselessly, hyper-aware of the slickness between your legs, the frantic drumming of your heart. The guilt was a crushing vise, but it was no match for the wildfire Sunghoon had ignited with a text and a picture.

Driven by a hunger deeper than shame, your thumbs moved almost of their own accord.

You: I'm on my way.

You hit send. The single syllable felt like a point of no return. Jisoo was still talking, her voice a distant murmur about Sunghoon’s confusing behavior. You barely heard her.

All you could focus on was the phantom weight of him, the remembered stretch, the image of that desperate bulge, and the promise in his words. You mumbled something vague about needing to leave, grabbing your bag. Jisoo looked puzzled but nodded.

You practically bolted from the booth. Pushing through the café door, the cool, damp city air hit your heated skin. You leaned against the rain-slicked brick wall of the building, the scent of wet pavement and distant traffic filling your nose.

Closing your eyes, the conflicting sensations overwhelmed you: the insistent, throbbing ache between your legs, Jisoo’s trusting, worried face, and the stark image of Sunghoon’s cock straining for you. It all collided in a wave of unbearable tension. One word escaped your lips, a raw, breathless whisper laced with desire, guilt, and the terrifying thrill of the secret:

"Fuck."

[thatonegrimm]

Helluuu, I just read the post/req that reader called saja boys "husband" to get a creep to scram

Sooo, what about marriage proposal 😍 like, will saja boy ask the big question??? 🥰

(No need to do if ur too busy, thank you!)

Thank you for the request! This is such a sweet idea ❤️ Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Reader—marriage proposal

---------------------

🧿 Jinu

Jinu had the ring for weeks.

It lived in a tiny box tucked inside an even tinier compartment in his nightstand, where he checked on it more often than he’d admit. He practiced the words under his breath while brushing his teeth. Rehearsed with Derpy. Even tried to script the moment—quiet music, nice dinner, sunset maybe.

But none of it felt right.

Until one lazy morning, you walked into the kitchen wearing one of his hoodies, hair messy, yawning like a cat. You rubbed your eyes and said, “Hi,” like it was the best part of your day.

And something in him broke open.

"Wait," he said, heart in his throat. "Don't move."

You blinked, confused, as Jinu bolted to the bedroom. When he returned, he was breathless, ring box clutched in hand.

“I was gonna wait,” he said, “but then you walked in like that and I just—no. I wanna wake up to that face for the rest of my life. Please?”

You stared.

“Please marry me,” he added, stumbling through the words with zero coolness and full sincerity. “I’ll re-ask it better later. But for now. Say yes?”

Your mouth fell open—and then you smiled so big it made him tear up.

“Yes,” you whispered, arms around his neck. “Even if you do re-ask it later.”

He absolutely would.

But the first time was already perfect.

---------------------

💪 Abby 

It was the day after a grueling performance—everyone sore, exhausted, barely functioning. But Abby insisted you come with him to the beach, just for an hour. “Fresh air,” he said. “You’ll like it.”

You didn’t expect to find a blanket already laid out. Your favorite snacks. A thermos of cocoa. And Abby, trying not to look proud of himself as he offered you a seat.

“Okay,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “what’s all this?”

He shrugged. “Wanted to spend time with you.”

He did. But also, he was nervous as hell.

You lay side by side for a while, watching the ocean. It was quiet. Golden.

And then Abby shifted. Sat up. Fished something out of his hoodie pocket.

“I’m not great with fancy speeches,” he started, voice low and a little shaky. “But you already know that.”

You turned toward him, breath catching.

“But I’ve been thinking… if I’m gonna build something strong—like really strong—I want it to be with you. And I want to protect it for the rest of my life.”

He opened the box.

Simple. Classic. Completely him.

“So, yeah. Will you marry me?”

You didn’t even let him finish before throwing your arms around his neck.

“Abby,” you whispered, laughing against his shoulder. “You absolute idiot. Of course I will.”

He held you tight like he’d just won the whole damn world.

---------------------

📚 Mystery 

Mystery didn’t make plans like this. Not usually.

But tonight, the rooftop was clear. The moon was covered. The night sky was soft.

And you were beside him, legs tucked under a blanket, sharing the silence.

He reached into his coat and pulled out something small—a folded scrap of paper. At first, you thought it was a note. But when you unfolded it, something heavy slid into your palm.

A ring.

Plain but smooth. Black, with faint silver etching along the inside.

You looked up, heart thudding.

Mystery didn’t smile.

He looked at you. Like really looked, in that way only he could. Quiet. Intense. Real.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want to be known this much,” he murmured. “But you made it feel… right. Like the world got quieter when you said my name.”

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’m still a work in progress,” he added. “But if you want me… if you’ll have me…”

He paused.

“I want to be yours. Every strange, sharp part of me.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time. Just slid the ring onto your finger and curled your hand around his.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Always.”

Mystery didn’t smile.

But his hand trembled when he held yours.

---------------------

💋 Romance 

You thought it was just a regular performance night.

Until the lights dimmed early.

And the screen above the stage flickered to life.

Photos of you. Candid, blurry, sweet. Clips of your voice, giggling off-camera. A song you didn’t recognize but that clearly had you in the lyrics.

And then—

Romance.

Walking onto the stage in a fitted black suit, looking nervous for the first time in your life.

“This,” he said into the mic, “is the scariest and easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

You froze.

“I fall in love with you every day. In dressing rooms, in traffic jams, in grocery store lines. You’ve turned every ordinary thing into a love story.”

A hush fell over the room.

“I don’t want it to be a story that ends.”

He knelt. Right there. With a ring that sparkled under the lights and a gaze that didn’t look anywhere but at you.

“So please, my love,” he said. “Let’s make this permanent. Marry me?”

Your hands flew to your mouth.

And through a blur of happy tears, you nodded.

He was on his feet in a flash, lifting you into his arms.

The crowd exploded.

But he only looked at you.

As if none of them mattered. Only you.

---------------------

🔥 Baby 

He didn’t ask your size.

He just made the ring.

Melted scrap metal, crushed stones, laced it with fire and a whisper of demon magic. He worked on it when you weren’t looking, lips pursed, soot on his cheek, hands covered in tiny burns.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was his.

The night he gave it to you, there were no candles. No setup.

Just Baby handing you a small black pouch in the hallway, looking like he might combust from nerves.

“…I made you something.”

You peeked inside.

Your heart skipped.

“You didn’t even ask if I’d say yes,” you said, voice catching.

Baby crossed his arms, defensive. “Yeah, because I know you’ll say yes.”

You stared at him.

He looked ready to fight you for your own hand in marriage.

You stepped forward, eyes shining.

“Of course I’ll marry you.”

“…You will?”

“Yes,” you whispered, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “You chaotic, flame-sneezing gremlin. I love you.”

He blinked.

“…Okay cool,” he said, trying and failing not to smile. “Yeah. Cool. Good. Okay.”

Then he kissed you like you’d just promised him eternity.

Because you had.

---------------------

M-List

[yandere-daydreams]

tw - hybrid au, non/con, mentions of violence/death, and obsessive behavior.

puppy-hybrid!gojo, who's never been very good at thinking for himself.

it's not his fault! he's a pure-bred war dog, meant to follow orders and track scents and chase when told to chase and bite when told to bite. he's all instincts and training, but the former's only good for making his mouth water when he smells meat and the latter goes to waste here, in your cozy apartment, where the only threats he has to deal with are the fancy collars you ask him to wear and your free-roaming vacuum cleaner. it's hard to remember why he's not on the field anymore - something happened with his handler, he thinks, something that involved a lot of blood - but it doesn't really matter. the details aren't important to him.

what's important, in satoru's mind, is that he gets to be with you.

you don't care that he's not the smartest mutt in the shelter. you're too nice to chastise him when he growls at the friends you try to bring home every so often, the strangers you invite into the sanctuary he guards so diligently. you don't raise your voice when refuses to wear a leash, or pull his snow-white hair while you're brushing it out in the morning. you don't even scold him when he crawls into your bed at night. he has his own, but you know he can't sleep in it. as hard as he tries, he just can't get it to smell like you.

you do get a little angry when you find him chewing on your panties, but you can't blame him. it's like his mind shuts off and something more primal takes over - the need to be close to you, to taste you, to comfort himself because you leave him for so long every day and he loves you so much and you know you can't stay mad at your big, dumb puppy for very long, right? he promises up and down at the damp stains he leaves on your pillowcases are just from his post-bath naps, and he swears, if you let him walk you to work again, he won't snap when one of your coworkers inevitably gets closer to you than he'd like. and if he does, he'll even make sure not to draw blood this time. he knows you don't like the idea of a violent dog.

and he's not a violent dog. really, he's not. it's just - he doesn't know his own strength, and he can't control what his brain tells him to do when he thinks about the way your nails feel against his scalp and his cock gets stiff and heavy and uncomfortable. he can feel you squirming underneath him, but if you really wanted him to stop rutting against you, he's sure you would yell, scream, order him to stop. he's sure that, if you really hated him like you keep whispering you do, he wouldn't fit so perfectly inside of you.

he knows he's being bad. the last time he followed his instincts so blindly, it ended with his handler's throat crushed in his jaw and enough sedatives to put down a grizzly bear shot into his system. but, last time, he'd been scared and alone and everyone had been so mean. last time, losing control had brought him to you.

if he could think at all, he would think that this time, it'd only bring the two of you closer together.

[rawjutsu]

jjk men with an easily overstimulated reader <3

gojo satoru 

oh, he lives for it. you whimper once, and his pupils dilate like he just hit the jackpot. you twitch, squirm, try to close your legs—and he just laughs.

“aww, what’s wrong, babe? thought you said you could handle me.”

he pretends to slow down, to "be nice," but five seconds later his fingers are back, curved just right, tongue lapping at your clit like he’s starving, your thighs clamped around his head—and he's thriving.

and when you're overstimulated to the point of tears? he coos at you like it's the sweetest thing in the world.

“c’mon, one more. you can give me one more, right? be a good girl for me.”

literally feeds on the way your voice breaks mid-moan. will overstim you on purpose just to watch your hips jerk and your body betray you.

fushiguro toji 

toji. you poor thing. the overstimulation with him is so nasty in the best way because he is ruthless. doesn’t matter if you’re shaking, babbling, trying to crawl away—he’ll just pull you right back by the waist with one arm like:

“what’s the matter, baby? you were beggin’ for it five minutes ago.”

he gets this low growl in his throat when you clench around him from overstimulation, like you’re just too much. he's obsessed with your limit and loves finding ways to push past it. that smug smirk only grows when your eyes roll back and your legs are trembling too hard to keep you upright.

“you’re twitchin’ like a fuckin’ mess. that mean you’re close again? thought you were done cryin’.”

his favorite thing is when you go limp in his arms after like the fifth orgasm and he has to hold you up just to keep going. 

nanami kento 

oh, nanami is such a soft dom at first, like—he tries to take it slow. he’s respectful. he asks you what feels good, kisses your neck, lets you ride the high of your first orgasm and praises you so gently...

but then he sees how sensitive you are and it awakens something feral in him. that neat composure starts to crack.

“you’re shaking already, sweetheart? just from my fingers?”

the glasses are off. his tie is undone. he’s got your legs over his shoulders and he’s watching you fall apart, murmuring praise through gritted teeth.

“you can take another. you’re doing so well. so sensitive for me.”

if you’re crying or begging, his tone turns into that firm voice:

“no, don’t shy away now. i want to see all of you.”

bonus: he’ll eat you out through the overstimulation while holding your thighs apart with a death grip.

geto suguru

suguru is the sweet sadist. he’ll talk you through it like he’s teaching a class. you say you’re sensitive? oh baby, you just unlocked his favorite game.

“already? you’re overstimulated already? hm… maybe i need to train that sweet body of yours.”

he's calm, in the most terrifying way. he holds you down gently but firmly, with that honey-smooth voice whispering how pretty you look trembling under him. he's always testing you.

“does this feel too good? or is it just enough to break you?”

overstimulation via toys + his fingers = his favorite combo. he loves seeing your body betray you, even when you’re sobbing and shaking, and his lips are at your ear murmuring,

“there it is. that’s it. just let go, baby. cum again for me.”

will overstim you until you pass out with a smile on his face.

ryomen sukuna 

overstimulating you isn’t even about your pleasure to him at first. it’s about dominance. it's about owning every twitch, every hiccupped gasp, every soaked inch of your overstimmed, ruined body.

he loves when you beg for a break because that’s when he knows he’s winning.

“begging? you think i care if you’re tired, little thing? you’ll take what i give you.”

imagine four hands keeping you pinned. two gripping your wrists above your head. the other two… one on your throat, one between your legs, rubbing your clit even while his cock is still buried inside you, relentless.

you’re squirming, crying, mind blank from cumming too many times and he just laughs.

“look at you. can’t even speak. just a drooling mess and i’ve barely started.”

he feeds on overstimulation. you arch away from him? he pulls you closer. your legs try to close? he forces them open.

“your body’s so honest, pet. you say ‘stop’ but your cunt’s begging for more.”

he’s the type to dare you to pass out— and when you do? he’ll wake you back up with another orgasm.

[stickthisbig]

I weep for the people in the notes to this goddamn post, who are running circles around themselves trying to differentiate between a police officer and a cop and trying to reconcile that the friendly rangers might also have guns and be capable of committing crimes against citizens

Most of the people who you meet who are taking your money and showing you where the bathroom is and leading you on tours are interpretation staff. They are park rangers. The people with the radios and the guns are law enforcement officers. They are park rangers. If you ever fucking worked in a national park, you would know that 90% of the time when somebody walks in and says "I need a ranger", they are asking you to retrieve a cop for them. And you know what? Especially a small parks, a lot of the time the person who's handing you a brochure is just a cop who's bored

And before you convince yourself to think that the LE park rangers are all sweetness and light, read up on some of the shit that the DC park rangers been up to in the last 5 or 6 years. My siblings in Christ, the law enforcement park rangers train at the same academy as all the other similar police officers for the federal government. They all go to FLET-C together. These are cops who love the woods, and don't delude yourself into thinking that it's something different. If you truly think that ACAB has no exceptions, that means that you do not get to exempt the nice gentleman who helped you find your dog or told off the loud drunk couple fighting in the campground or whatever

And damn, if you can't digest that, you are not the fuck ready to learn about the cops at the Bureau of Land Management. Can we please be adults for five the fuck seconds, these are your ideals and you picked them

Just saw someone say park Rangers are cops. 30 year old person. Believing that the guys telling you how to not get eaten by bears are cops incarcerating people in the glorious name of the prison industrial complex. Park Rangers.

[fairestwriting]

Can i request for ruggie, jamil, kalim, and idia a gn reader who gifts them homemade food and desserts when they have a crush? :3 i just think its cute

𐙚 Ruggie Bucchi

Honestly. It's probably not the best strategy to take if you want to drop hints that you like him— Not because he doesn't care about it, of course! He'll accept any gift you give him with a big, bright smile.

It's just that he's done similar things for friends back home, so if you're already somewhat close, it doesn't strike him as anything that's too unusual. "You gotta tell me what kinda food you like best, so I can repay you later." He says, happily digging in.

If you do tell him, as soon as he gets time inbetween his part time work, he'll show up at your doorstep with the dish. Because he just had to properly show his gratitude, you know!

He also insists to wash the utensils the food you give him come with. Tupperwares, bowls, whatever it is. He'll have them returned to your dorm in a timely manner, probably cleaner than they've ever been.

𐙚 Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim's history with food gifts is, to say the least, complicated. But when he sees the look on your face as you hand over the food you make, he can't help but smile himself. "Aw, that’s sweet of you! Thank you so much! I just gotta take it to Jamil first…”

Things get just a little awkward then, with Jamil right between the two of you for a moment, because Kalim will drag you along when he takes the food to him — He wants you to see his reaction when he tries it, after all! And the Jamil thing is just a formality, you’re his friend, he trusts that you wouldn’t want to hurt him.

…The whole process might feel a little discouraging to you. It happens every time you give him anything, and Jamil is never thrilled over Kalim being so trusting of you. Or anyone else, really. Kalim feels a little bad for you, deep down, having to witness all of that. Though if you do have the patience to get through that ordeal every time you want to give him some food, it definitely won’t go unnoticed.

Because while he does love your food, pretty much regardless of what you’re gifting him, what makes Kalim feel the most appreciated is how willing you are to still make him food despite that whole situation... And while he might remain oblivious to your crush on him for quite some time, you might notice how, one day, the way he looks at you suddenly becomes even warmer…

𐙚 Jamil Viper

Goes quiet for a second. It takes a moment for his brain to process what's going on. "Thanks, I didn't know you were into cooking." Jamil says after the pause, just to keep the conversation going. He feels a little flustered while he goes for the first bite, hesitating a little on instinct.

He takes another brief moment to think when you ask him how it tastes... he does already like it, just because it's a gift— But he does also have a lot of opinions about food, so if he thinks it could use more spice, he will let you know.

Of course, he's nice about it. Even if he doesn't love the food itself, Jamil still finds himself enjoying it. He might even ask if you want to cook with him sometime, if it sounds like something you'd like to do.

Maybe he'll make you something in return, or maybe you could make something together? He quickly realizes that his proposal might sound a little sudden, but you don't seem to mind it, so...

𐙚 Idia Shroud

It's for him? Really? Are you sure? He stutters out a thank you before he even knows what it is. All his brain has registered so far is that it's a gift. "Uhm, I'll take it to my dorm... a-and eat it later. Thank you." He mumbles, saying he's not hungry, but it's really just because he's too flustered to eat in front of you.

...Unless you prompt him to do it. Like asking him to try some of your food instead of just handing it over. He might just internally explode on the spot, but in a good way.

Idia is honestly a really picky eater, he doesn't really feel like eating anything other than candy unless he's really hungry... but if you're making the food for him, it's different.

He does start kind of wondering if it's a romantic thing, because some characters do that in romance anime. But he's probably just overthinking it, right...? You're just a really nice person. Of course.

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[yasministration]

apartment hunt - remus lupin

remus lupin x potter!reader secret relationship au summary: when sirius reveals he's moving out of the potter household to fleamont and euphemia, you and james decide to reveal to him some exciting news wc: 1k+

The living room is completely silent other than the occasional sound Euphemia Potter makes as she sips her tea. You sit facing her, next to the fireplace as she flips over to the next page of her book, humming quietly. It’s been difficult, this past week, trying not to say anything. You and James had discussed moving out of the manor and finding a flat with Remus and Sirius — you liked the idea, but was it too soon? Neither of you even had jobs yet, and the security of living with your parents was nice.

It’s time for you to say something. You know Sirius hadn’t told your parents yet, but your mum would be able to keep things between you. At least for a little while.

Euphemia lifts her eyes from her book, finding you squirming on the rug. She lifts her eyebrows at you. You open your mouth, then promptly shut it. She shuts her book, setting it aside. Your mother only looks at you, waiting patiently for you to begin speaking. So you do. “Sirius told James and I that he’s thinking of moving out.”

“Oh.”

“He and Remus are going to move in together.”

“Oh.” Euphemia pats the spot on the sofa next to her, and you scramble up from the floor to join her, nervously chewing at your bottom lip. “And?” She prompts, lifting her mug to her lips again. “They’ve basically extended the invitation to me and James. Not extended, but-”

“You were always invited.” She finishes for you. You nod slowly. “What are you thinking?” You sigh deeply, moving your gaze to the fireplace again. You carefully pick your words, curious for your mother's opinion without revealing too much. “I- we don’t even have jobs yet, and I don’t know if I want to move out so soon. You know, we’ve just been at Hogwarts for seven years, and I like being around you and dad.”

“Honey, if you move out, it doesn’t mean you won’t see us. I’ll be expecting you for dinner every night.” You smile at your mother’s words, recognising the genuineness in them.

“If we move in, me and Remus will share a room.”

It’s your mother’s turn to smile, and one of her hands reaches out to brush some hair away from your face. “Yeah? How does James feel about it.”

“At first he was, you know, the usual James. But he’s okay with it. He says he gets how much we love each other, and he knows the relationship is really serious. And if I ever get sick of Remus, I can hide in his room. I just- I just don’t want to do this if I have any doubts.”

“And do you have any doubts?”

“Not doubts. But, worries. In general. I’d like for us to all find jobs before doing this.”

“You’re just like your father. He’s always been a worrier.”

“What did you just call me!?” The mock offended voice that cries out comes from the door to the backyard. Your dad and James are making their way into the house, and your mother raises her eyebrows at the sight of brooms in their hands. “I thought we agreed that brooms stay outside.”

Your dad pushes his broom into James’s chest, and your brother scurries back to put them in the shed. When he returns, you notice how flushed his face is, and how his shirt clings to his back, spots of sweat seeping through the fabric.

“Where’s Sirius?” You ask, waiting for the third man to show up. James runs a hand through his sweaty curls, a grin on his face. “Guess.”

“Is he showering?” Your mum assumes, and James points two finger guns at her in victory. But then soft dabbing of feet on the stairs reveals that Sirius is out of the shower. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a letter in front of him.

“Um, I have an announcement to make.”

“Sirius, love, we know you’re gay.” Your dad says, and you giggle joyfully, pressing a hand to your mouth when Sirius glares at you. “Come sit down, honey.” Your mother says, and all three men obey her words, taking a seat in the living room. James settles on your retired spot on the rug, and your dad stretches his limbs as he sits on an armchair.

“I’m moving out.” Sirius says, and your eyes go wide. You didn’t think he’d do it so soon. “Well, when I find a flat and everything. But, yeah, uh, I got an internship with Ollivander.”

“Ollivander!?” You cry, rising from your place on the couch and snatching the acceptance letter Sirius held. You quickly scan through it, jaw dropping lower and lower as you realise he is telling the truth. “Sirius, Ollivander never takes interns! Like - ever. Wow, congratulations” Sirius grins, face flushing brightly when you lean down to wrap your arms around him proudly.

The rest of your family follows immediately, standing up to give him celebratory hugs. Sirius wrinkles his nose when James hugs him, and he mutters “You seriously need a shower, mate.”

“Yeah, alright, come on.” James wraps and arm around Sirius’s shoulders, and with one last glance to your parents, you follow the two boys upstairs, into James’s room. The door shuts behind you, and you linger in front of the closed doors, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You glance towards James, who looks at you quickly before turning his gaze towards Sirius again.

“Uh, you know, if the invitation is still open, I think we’re gonna join you and Remus.” Sirius grins unbelievably wide, and he jumps up from the bed, glancing back and forth between you both. “Yeah,” You confirm, “And I think sooner than expected too. I got accepted for an internship at the Magical office of Law. It starts at the end of summer.”

“Yeah, and my auror training does too.”

“Auror training? Your internship? You guys both-?” Sirius cuts himself off with a loud laugh, jumping up and down with his arms extended. He pulls you into a hug first, releasing you from his grip only to hug James. “Does-does Remus know?”

You glance down at your feet, nodding guiltily. “Yeah, I told Remus.”

“When did you tell Remus!?” James cries, head snapping towards you.

“Like two minutes after I told you.”

“I see how it is.”

“Our parents don’t know though.”

“Does this mean we can start apartment hunting?”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @cakiebleh, @slytherin-princess-x, @daydreamandforget, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @5sospenguinqueen, @aouoo, @spider–girl, @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @selenewowww, @paytonluvxx, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @rhettsluvr, @iluvhrj

[reallyromealone]

Title: Idol

Chapter: 5

Previous - next

Fandom: Kpop demon hunters

Genre: omegaverse

Warnings: male reader, omegaverse, angst, fluff, major character death

Notes: I'm posting this before I get on a plane, I'll fix it when I get off

Summary: idol awards

Tag list:

@robbin-g @heinzsqueezebottle @sooobiinn @sfxtiebee @kittenwerewolf @gh0stiedd3ath @strangebarbarianbarbarian @0eye0 @barrythestrawberry041 @cherry-blossoms-187 @snowy-violets @akira3na

🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛

(Name)s feet dragged forward, his heart and head heavy with thoughts of shame, mumbling apologies while he looked at his mates, tears rolling down his face.

Jinu stared at him while he sang, his heart breaking at how defeated (name) was and the way he looked at them like he was the problem...

They deserved to die again, after what they did to him... Even if they survived this would he forgive them?

(Name) Reached out to baby, eyes flickering and the Alpha froze at him and could tell despite the trance, (name) was running on subconscious instincts "alpha... I'm sorry..." (Name) Mumbled and baby groaned in pain while fighting with Gwi ma and his instincts "shhhhh Omega" he hissed "be a good boy... Go home..." His voice changed and altered and (name) looked even more broken "you really don't want me..." (Name) Mumbled and the spell took a stronger hold "I don't deserve love..." (Name) Whispered to himself and the Alpha for once looked crushed at the reality of what they did and (name)s eyes grew empty and distant 'kill him, he betrayed you' the dark voice spoke and (name) began crying and trying to resist 'do it... It's not like you guys can be together, even if you could... Who would want a useless Omega like you?'

(Name) Pulled at his ears in distress, a habit he picked up lately and the voice grew more vicious while the alphas struggled with the reality of what was their perfect mate now turned into broken glass.

"Nothing but the truth now..."

Baby turned his attention to the singing voice of Rumi, the Alpha singing softly and looking disheveled and her voice carried across the stadium, slowly souls began to glow as Mira and Zoey joined her.

"Baby...?" (Name) Mumbled, his soul glowing and he reached out to the alpha but Mira struck the Alpha with her weapon "back off from my brother!" She screamed and continued her song while the crowd joined in and baby avoided her blade and (name) watched in horror and then he saw Jinu...

"Protect him for me..." He said to Rumi before his soul went into her sword and the stadium began blowing.

And before he knew it...

It was over.

His mates were gone.

They were all gone...

It was a blur, getting home... Trying to not breakdown around the Alpha popstars "(name)... We're sorry..." Rumi said seriously and (name) stared at her and gave a sad smile "it's not like it would have worked out anyways... A human and five demons? That's insane...."

"We can find you a nice alpha when you're ready, that handsome actor you liked is single!" Zoey said to try and cheer him up and (name) gave a lifeless laugh "yeah... Maybe..." And then shut down a bit after, turning to look out the window of the limo and the girls watched him with worry and glanced at each other.

-

"Poor (name)! Something happened and he's not telling us because he is really attached to the Saja boys" Zoey said worried and Mira nodded and thought "do you think... He was seeing them behind our backs?" Rumi spoke up and the other twos eyes widened "that would explain why he was so upset, why didn't he say anything?"

"Same reason I never spoke about my marks" Rumi said softly and the two alphas sighed "yeah, he was probably terrified to talk to us about it"

"I feel like a shitty sister"

"You're not a shitty sister, you did what you thought was right to protect him" Rumi defended her and Mira plopped on the couch "all we can do is give him time, let him heal and support him" Zoey hugged Mira from the left and Rumi hugged from the right "he's practically out brother, once you work the courage to tell him about us" Zoey teased and Mira blushed at the idea "maybe when he's less heartbroken"

"Oh definitely"

"That's not even a debate"

-

He was thankful he didn't toss the clothes, crying softly while hugging the Saja boys clothing and letting their scents envelope him.

Jinu's tiger slept in the corner and the magpie slept on top of him, the last memories of his mates...

Knock knock.

(Name) Ignored the knocking "go away!" He yelled with a wet voice and the knocking progressed and he stood angrily and marched to his front door and ripped it open "what!?"

Nothing stood at the other side but looking down he saw an ornate letter.

Lifting it, the Omega inspected it before opening the letter "don't fret, dove... We will be there soon" was this a late letter or something?

Either way, he kept the letter with romances writing close before closing the door.

[eevyerndracaneon]

This post is kind of insane to me as someone who basically only plays Fate Core nowadays, which is much heavier on the narrative and plays more like a show or movie than like a jrpg

I think Dungeons and Dragons has extremely limited people's minds on what TTRPGs and DMing can be, and has led to forever DMs and people thinking they can only have a good game if it has the chance of becoming the next Critical Role and lasting for years and years and years (sorry CR for that being a side effect of your popularity)

In reality, TTRPGs are just games. They're just games to play with friends. One person tends to be "in charge" of making sure the game runs smoothly but that doesn't mean they can't be a player, that doesn't mean the players can't understand the rules deeply enough to keep things running smooth without the DM.

It shouldn't matter if the way you prefer hosting is via a chunky rules heavy game with years worth of original content straight out of your skull or if you prefer a shorter experience with more loose play to focus instead on characters or literally any other way you'd want to play. And that's true of any TTRPG system.

Modules are so incredibly helpful for people who need them, even if they can make their own stuff it can be nice to have something premade as a little experience. Sooo logically that means that they should exist in some capacity whether it's official or fan made. I don't see why it's even remotely necessary for someone to imply they're not needed in a TTRPGs list of materials

I guess it's all because there's so much weird like...elitism??? Around the Right Way to play TTRPGs and it's so crazy to me as someone who loves DMing and using my own settings for anyone to be like...high and mighty about that specific combo being better than a module.

It's just a game!! You find the people who want to play the same sort of thing you do and you just go for it. If anything stresses you out then don't bother with it or try something different...because it's just a game!

Anyways people should peruse rulebooks and videos about the following TTRPG systems to see if they intrigue you: Fate Core, Mothership, Slugblaster, Triangle Agency, Delta Green, Mythic Bastionland

The more I think on it, and I know this greatly differs from what people have come to expect in recent years, but to me a TTRPG with no adventure modules is like booting up a video game and finding out the devs didn’t make any levels. Like I wanted to play this but I guess we’ll have to wait until someone in the group, who may have never played the game before, spends a not-insignificant amount of their free time in the level-editor throwing something together for us to play.

[tttabii]

— 박종성 unexpected problems ; park jongseong

pairing ꪆৎ gentleman!jay x reader ; genre: fluff. one sided enemy to lovers. reader swears that she hates jongseong's guts. word count: 5855.

YOU SWORE THAT PARK JONGSEONG was a living breathing problem.

It was all triggered when he spilled an entire cup of iced americano onto your blouse in front of the humanities building. It was a nice day—sunny, calm, until he bumped into your shoulder with his loud laugh.

The second the freezing liquid soaked through the fabric, and your audible gasp reverberated in the hallway, all he did was look down, blink, a few times... then give you a ward cash.

No "sorry."

No "are you okay?"

Just... fucking money.

You remembered his expression too. Like it was no big deal. Like he bumped a water bottle over, not his cup of coffee on your whole outfit and morning.

And since then, you resolved: Jay Park, is not a good man.

It didn't help that your friend group had the biggest crushes on his.

"Sunghoon's so cute I want to cry,"

"Ni-ki's dancing are unreal."

"Jongseong has such good boyfriend energy, like—ugh, imagine."

"Do you think he smells good?? He looks like he smells good."

You just wanted to scream.

What could be interesting about a bunch of rich boys playing sports? What could you find appealing about these kids who acted like campus royalty? Especially Jay, the way he walked like the whole school was his catwalk? That shit-eating grin like he had a thousand secrets when you definitely weren't interesting enough to even know one?

You didn't care if he was hot. Or rich. Or had nice hair that always flopped perfectly over his eyes. No. You were not like all the other students. You weren't going to fall for it.

...that is until the professor told you about your new seating arrangements.

And just like that—you were seat partners with Park Jongseong.

He never ignored a chance to talk to you, either. From day one.

"Are you always this quiet or do I scare you?"

"That's a nice pen. You want me to get you a gold one?"

"Your notes are too cute for you to hate this class."

You either waved him off or answered him in one word. But he never stopped trying. The effort was honestly... strange.

Jay, however, noticed every little thing.

The way you always furrowed your brows when trying to understand something.

How you fidgeted with the cap of your pen during pop quizzes.

How you zoned out halfway through lectures but still somehow managed to pass.

He remembered the coffee incident, unfortunately.

And maybe he should've said sorry instead of throwing money.

But you looked so pissed, he genuinely thought you were going to throw the cup at his head.

Still, he noticed you in the crowd.

At the basketball match.

Under the scorching sun.

Not screaming his name like the others, but sitting stiffly, clearly dragged there by your friends, lip gloss melting off from the heat. You didn't even like him—he knew that—but something about you kept catching his attention.

Today when you walked in late a cup of coffee was waiting for you on your desk.

You stared at it, then stared at him. You stared back at the cup, and then back at him.

Jay, crossed arms leaning back in his seat looking way, way too smug.

"It's for you. An apology," he said nonchalantly.

You blinked. "Took you that long to apologize?"

"Hey, at least I apologize," he said raising an eyebrow.

You scoffed, pulled out your laptop, and opened up your notes—fighting the way your lips twitched. Not a smile. Not at all. Class moved slowly. You did your best to pay attention, but Jay's tapping his pen and glancing at you every so often pulled you out of your thoughts.

It wasn't until the professor began writing complicated diagrams on the board that you furrowed your brows in confusion. You didn't say anything—but Jay noticed.

Without saying much, he leaned a bit closer and explained it quietly, simplifying everything so well that you almost forgot you were mad at him.

"...Oh. That... actually makes sense," you muttered, barely taking your eyes off your screen.

He just shrugged like it was nothing.

But Jungwon—who sat behind you two—definitely heard the soft "thank you" you mumbled under your breath. He noticed how you didn't pull away as quickly when Jay leaned in. He noticed the slight shifts in your body language.

Maybe Jay wasn't just a problem anymore.

Maybe he was becoming... an unexpected one.

After class, you hurriedly grabbed your stuff, and made your way right outside the hall, where you eventually found yourself scrolling through your phone to pass the time until your friends showed up.

They came a few minutes later, immediately nudging each other, as one leaned toward your ear and said, "Don't freak out. But Jay's totally watching you right now."

You looked up, and sure enough—in that moment he sat leaning against the brick wall with Jungwon by his side, arms crossed, hair a little tousled from running his fingers through it, and staring at you directly.

He wasn't even pretending not to look.

And you tried not to look interested, but your heartbeat said otherwise.

You swore you would never feel this way about him. Not now. Not ever.

But when you caught his stupid gaze—that stupid, confident gaze—and turned away like his stare was on fire. "Whatever," you said real quietly to yourself. "Maybe he he was looking at one of you guys or something."

But none of your friends were falling for it.

"Girl, come on." Juri sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she wrapped around your arm. "Even I like him and I feel like he was staring at you. It feels like it didn't even blink, like what kind of a K-drama is this?"

You bit back a comment, cheeks warming slightly, brushing your fingers through your hair to play it off. "It's not that deep, guys. Come on. I'm hungry." 

"Right, yeah," said one of your friends with a smirk. "Hungry for what though?" 

"Shut up," you sighed, lightly swatting her shoulder as they all burst into laughter, teasing you mercilessly while still debating what to eat for lunch. You could feel the way your heart was skipping in your chest, and you hated it. Hated the thought of him affecting you like this.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the quad, Jungwon was over the staring competition that Jay was losing to.

He abruptly jabbed him with his elbow, sending him an annoyed look. "Stop staring at her and tell me what you want to eat later. You're being weird."

Jay continued to lean against the wall, chewing on his bottom lip, and did not respond right away.

Then finally, a small quiet voice.

"...Do you think she hates me?"

Jungwon blinked and scrunched up his face. "What?"

Jay looked away from where you and your friends huddled, hands stuffed in his pockets. "I mean, I wouldn't blame her. But I don't know, I keep trying."

Jungwon gave him an unimpressed stare before shrugging his shoulders. "She probably does. But..." he paused, watching the way you were trying very hard not to look back at Jay, fiddling with your bag strap, and the way your lips twitched like you were trying not to smile.

"...I think she's warming up to you or something. I don't know."

Jay allowed the tiniest of grins to curve onto his lips, his gaze drifting back to you once more.

Yeah. He was gonna try again.

Your morning was already off to a terrible start. You had cramps twisting in your lower stomach the second you got out of bed, and you knew—knew—the rest of the day would continue in the same terrible fashion.

You wanted nothing to do with the heat. Or your heavy laptop. Or people breathing too loud.

So when you reached your seat and dumped your bag on the chair with a heavy thump, Jay flinched just slightly beside you. He turned his head to look at you, presumably expecting some other cold brush-off or annoyed glare, but instead saw you laboriously pulling out your notebook, then sighing in exasperation as you noticed you forgot your pencil case.

You looked... off.

You were slumped over your desk, one arm under your head and the other curled across your stomach, breathing heavily through your nose. It wasn't hard to put two and two together, especially with how often you shifted uncomfortably in your seat every minute, with your brow wearing an ever-so-slight frown.

Jay frowned a little, his lips pressed together into a line. Was it him? Did he do something again?

But, when class began and you blearily blinked awake, wordlessly pointing at the extra pen laying beside his laptop, he just nodded and slid it to you with a slight gesture of his hand. You took it, wordlessly, and he wasn't expecting a thank you either.

This was different than other days. You didn't brush him off, or fight him with your snarky attitude. You were just tired. And Jay could tell.

And to be honest, he was too.

Jay shouldn't have been taking notes, he shouldn't have been paying attention to the professor, explaining some stat formula. But his attention had gone sideways.

You were slumped again, your head turned toward the window, eyelashes fluttering lightly as sleep began to pull you down again. He took in the way your hair strands framed your cheek, and how the rise and fall of your chest was slightly uneven—probably from the lad style.

You looked soft, he thought. You were still beautiful, and you were still so headstrong in the way you carried yourself every day, but in that moment, you looked really vulnerable—in a way no one ever got to see.

No one, except him—the person you hated the most.

His chest tightened.

And maybe you didn't know, but Jay had always paid attention. It wasn't just basketball and flirting and showing off. He observed you. And he saw every detail about you.

The way you would cross your arms when someone walked in that you didn't like.

The way your eyes always flicked to the exit in your lecture, as if you were planning your escape.

The way your nose crunched when someone said something dumb—which, usually was him.

And now, how your hands were lightly clenched over your stomach, how you didn't have your usual bag, and how your shoulders were hunched the whole class.

Jay wasn't used to being... protective like this.

Once class was over, he reached out, nudging your elbow gently. "Hey..." he said, his voice lower than usual.

You blinked yourself awake slowly, letting out a soft groan while you hurriedly packed your belongings, not saying much, and being slower than you usually are—your usual brisk pace shattering before his eyes.

He stood up before you did, ready to ask if you were okay, when his eyes glanced down.

And froze.

There—faint, but visible to see—there was a stain on the back of your skirt. The guys who were normally a few rows behind, already walking down the stairs were loud as usual.

Jay knew what kind of assholes they were. He didn't need them seeing this. He didn't need you getting embarrassed.

With a rush, he came to put himself closer and then step into your space—with his back now pressed directly to yours just as you turned slightly in confusion and almost bumped into him. "Jay—?"

"Shh. Just..." He mumbled low enough only you could hear it as he was shrugging off his varsity jacket and looping it around your waist. "Don't move yet."

You froze as you began understanding what he was doing. You looked down and back behind you.

Then the panic hit.

Your voice became suddenly small. "Wait—shit—fuck, seriously?"

He tied the jacket around your hips, snugly but not too tight, making sure there was enough cover. "Yeah. But I got you."

Your heart was breathing a little bit faster now, and you were flushed from more than just the cramps. "You didn't have to-"

"I wanted to." He turned slightly and blocked you with his body as the group passed. "Now let's go before those idiots say anything."

You stared at him for a second, heart racing from the embarrassment. But Jay wasn't laughing.

He wasn't poking fun at you, or even looking smug. He was just calm. Calm and somewhat gentle. You looked down at the jacket he tied for you. It smelled faintly of his cologne.  

"....Thanks," you whispered.

He didn't say anything for a beat, just smiled a tiny smile and moved to the side and offered his arm as if this wasn't a big deal. "C'mon," he said. "Let's go. I'll walk behind you—just in case."

You definitely weren't expecting him to say that—that he'd stay behind you just in case. That he wanted to cover you. That he noticed, cared, and took action without a second thought and without judgment.

You didn't even trust your own voice to speak up, you just nodded slightly; you tucked your chin in a little as you ran down the steps of the lecture hall and followed him. He just stayed behind you—not too close to suffocate,  but enough that you could feel the presence of him.

The soft weight of his jacket around your hips wasn't heavy, but it was... grounding. Almost comforting, in the way it made you feel protected.

Jungwon had picked up the hint quickly, walking ahead a little with his earbuds in, choosing not to say anything or third-wheel—bless him for that.

As you both exited the building, the sun immediately warmed your skin, and you saw your friends standing just outside the gates of the campus. They were chatting casually, but the second their eyes landed on the both of you together—it was over.

Juri squealed first.

"Oh my god-" she gasped rather dramatically as she elbowed one of the girls beside her.

Their eyes dropped down to the most easy to identify varsity jacket wrapped around your waist. Jay's jacket. And how he was still standing subtly behind you, brushing your back with his chest whenever you moved even slightly.

You wanted to melt into the floor.

"Hi guys..." You let out awkwardly, waving a bit as you slowed to a stop in front of them, everything suddenly coming to your attention—him, your cheeks, theirs eyes, his jacket.

He remained behind you, levelled like a wall, a quiet assurance behind you.

The excited squeal one of your friends were trying so openly to suppress. Juri was practically bouncing with excitement, mouthing something you didn't need to interpret to know you were going to glare at.

She winked. You glared. She's grinned even wider.

Traitor.

The rest of your friend group quickly caught on to whatever Juri was scheming and played along too well, saying something about being "suddenly so busy" and "oh no, we forgot we have that meeting" and "so sorry, can't join you guys" before waving and scattering in different directions, pretending to be more occupied than they clearly were.

You turned your head to them, deadpan. "Really?"

Juri winked again from behind her iced latte and skipped away.

Jay watched the whole thing with the kind of amused look that was just barely hidden—a small smirk tugging up at his lips as he leaned a little closer to you.

"So I guess we're alone now," he said casually, tone light.

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "You can go find your friends or... practice. I mean, whatever you were supposed to be doing."

Jay shrugged. "I'd rather stay."

You looked up, prepared to protest again, but he was already talking.

"Keep the jacket. It's cute on you," he added nonchalantly, eyes flitting down, clearly taking in how it wrapped snugly around your hips. "Color looks good on you."

Your heart stuttered—an infuriating flutter you refused to admit was because of him.

"Jay," you said, half-informing, half-flustered.

He just chuckled softly. "Wanna join me for lunch then?"

You blinked, surprised. "What about your frie-"

"They'll live," he cut in with a slight grin, nodding toward the sidewalk just past the gates. "They can survive a day without me. I promise."

You hesitated, still gripping the strap of your bag in defiance. But... you were hungry. And your friends really did just ditch you.

And Jay... Jay wasn't being boisterous or cocky like he usually is, he was just... here. Present. Acting like you were a person, not a target. You didn't hate it.

He tilted his head at you, his voice softer this time. "My treat?"

You looked up at him, and bit the inside of your cheek before you sighed. "Fine."

"Fine?" He grinned, eyes bright. "I'll take it. Let's take you back to your dorm first to change?" Jay raised a brow to you, voice softer now, though you could see the teasing in his eyes.

You felt your breath hitch slightly—right, your skirt. You forgot the whole reason you were covered in his varsity jacket. Heat bloomed at the back of your neck as you quickly nodded. "Y-Yeah. Good idea."

He walked next to you in silence, while you led the way. He glanced your way occasionally, when you'd brush your hair behind your ear, or rub your eyes in tired frustration. You weren't used to this—him giving you this much attention.

When you both stepped into the elevator, the air felt thick, like it was charged with things unsaid. Jay didn't say too much either, he just shoved his hands into his sweats pockets and watched the numbers light up until you hit your floor.

You hesitated for a moment before unlocking your dorm door—not because you were scared, but because this was the first time you had ever let any guy inside. Any guy.

But Jay didn't just feel like any guy.

When the door creaked open, he slipped quietly past you. His eyes roamed the small room. It was not too feminine—just cozy, and filled with little details that screamed you.

The soft fairy lights, the half-empty mug on the desk, the pile of books on the chair, the diffuser softly puffing in the corner. Your whole room felt cozy and real, just his type.

He leaned back against the door frame while you set your bag down. "You can shower first if you want," he said casually, shrugging his jacket off his arms. "I'll wait."

You blinked. "Really? I don't wanna take too long..."

"You wouldn't. Go on. It's your priority first alright?" he stated reassuringly, taking a seat at the edge of your bed and already reaching for his phone to scroll until you got into the bathroom.

As the door clicked shut behind you, you let out a big sigh. A sigh of relief but also a sigh of exhaustion from the day. You quickly took off your clothes and got under the water, allowing it to melt the tensions in your lower back and stomach. There was warmth spreading over your skin, the soft smell of your shampoo rising with the steam.

But halfway through drying yourself, your eyes grew wide with horror.

You forgot your clothes.

You clutched the towel tighter around yourself and creaked the door open just enough to peek in the room. Jay was splayed out on your bed; lazy, legs splayed open slightly, his phone sleeping on his chest while he took it all in. At the sound of the crack of your door, Jay's eyes shot up immediately.

"Jay..." you called softly, voice barely audible. "Can you... go to my wardrobe and pick something out for me?"

He blinked a few times; clearly taking in the sight of your bare legs and shoulders wrapped only in a towel. His throat bobbed as he quickly averted his eyes. "Y-Yeah. Sure. I can do that.."

He leapt out of the bed faster than expected and walked over to your closet like he was on a mission. His fingers traced along the hangers while he glanced along before grabbing what looked most interesting one—a soft little sundress and a cardigan.

He looked at it one second. Cute. Way too cute. He thought he was grabbing something easy to put on—not something that made it look like you were on a date.

...wait.

Is this a date now?

He invited you to lunch. He bought you coffee. He gave you his jacket. Was he serious about this? If so, did you see it that way?

His head cocked slightly as he brought the outfit to your hand peeking through the slit of the door. "Here," he said, clearing his throat. "I hope that's okay."

"Thanks," you mumbled, fingertips nudging together for a moment as you took your clothes back in the room and shut the door again.

Jay turned away, allowing for a little more privacy, walking over to the bed and flopping down onto it again, but now he really looked different. His hand was now behind his head, and he just stared up at the ceiling.

His heart felt weirdly calm and loudly beating at the same time.

This wasn't normal for him. But it didn't feel bad at all.

He didn't even care about the fact that he saw some girl in your department giving him a look as he walked into your dorm earlier. He was probably going to deal with a rumor or two by tomorrow, but honestly, let them think whatever they want. It doesn't mean anything unless you say something.

He wasn't a mess-around type of guy. Regardless of what he might be labeled as—confident, cocky, or a tad intimidating, Jay Park has always eventually been a careful chooser. Something about him sitting on your bed, in your space, waiting for you to get ready just to go out and eat, felt like the first time he wasn't choosing with his head.

Maybe you're his unexpected problem.

But maybe you were the only one he didn't mind having.

You emerged from the bathroom, newly clothed in the soft dress Jay had chosen for you, with the cardigan draping you comfortably around your body. You went straight to your vanity, pulling your hair as gently as you could to the side, and reaching for your cushion foundation. 

You didn't want to take too long; he was already being more patient than anyone had ever been with you, but you wanted to look nice.

Jay, still perched lazily at the edge of your bed, watched as you patted on the soft makeup. He tilted his head slightly, admiring the way your brows furrowed when you concentrated.

"You don't have to rush, you know," he said, "You're already pretty, but I get it. Take your time to look good good."

Once you were finished, he stood up, waiting as you grabbed your phone and lip balm, before walking out of your dorm.

The walk to the restaurant was... quiet in a comforting way. The kind of quiet where the air didn't feel heavy or awkward. Jay walked beside you, hands in his pockets, occasionally looking over at you—the way your cardigan sleeves nearly covered your hands, the way your hair bounced softly with every step.

You were beautiful. And he knew he was going to be in trouble.

As you passed through the parkway leading to the restaurant, an older couple walked past you two and the man looked at you with the woman before pausing to lean and give a warm smile. "What a cute couple you two make," the elderly gentleman remarked, nodding his head at Jay before giving you a wink.

You widened your eyes slightly and immediately shook your head. "Oh! No, no, we're not-" you nervously laughed, looking down to hide the growing redness in your ears.

Jay offered a polite nod and, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile coming across his face.

"Well," the elderly man said, his eyes twinkling, "you two would look really good together."

You didn't offer much response to that. But Jay didn't either.

When you arrived at the restaurant—a cute, warm little Japanese place, sandwiched between a couple of shops—he opened the door for you, and then, like it were second nature, he pulled your chair out before sitting across from you. It definitely caught you off guard. You couldn't say many guys did that anymore.

You quietly admired the atmospherics—dark wooden tables, warm light, jazz faintly playing in the background, and the menu was digital, and you scrolled through it quickly while Jay rested his chin on his hand, eyes flicking between you and the dishes.

You finally placed your order, and once the waiter walked away, Jay pulled his phone out to take a picture of the restaurant; you really didn't think much of it—until you noticed his camera stayed pointed a moment too long at you.

"Wait—h-hey!" you leaned forward, a little embarrassed.

He looked up, phone still in hand. "What?" he asked.

"You just took a picture of me."

"You're literally right in front of me. What do you want me to do?"

"Delete it."

"No."

Your mouth opened in protest, but he spoke first, "Don't worry, you look good."

You huffed and crossed your arms, slouching back in your chair. "What if your little fangirl group sees it and comes to murder me in my sleep? You never post girls," you said.

Jay hesitated for a moment, looking directly at you.

"Then I'll be there," he said gently, not teasing, not joking; just being honest. "To protect you."

You blinked.

"And besides," He tilted his head, lips curling into an all too familiar smug grin, "Are you sure you hate me?"

You stared at him, mouth opening but no words coming out—and he knew you couldn't deny how he'd been treating you. The jacket. The dorm. The lunch. The damn picture.

Before you could respond, your phone buzzed.

Jay had posted it—the picture of the restaurant with you slightly blurred in front. And he tagged you. He tagged you.

You looked up at him slowly.

His eyes were still on you—expectant.

"You're waiting for me to repost it," you mumbled under your breath.

Jay gave you a sly smile and leaned back in his seat. "Might as well. You look good. Let them know who I'm with."

Almost immediately after, his phone starts buzzing. Jungwon. Heeseung. Even Sunghoon. His group chat was blowing up with messages that said:

jungwon: finally

heeseung: no way is this real

jake: bro's in love

heeseung: WHO IS SHE

sunghoon: our boy got a girlfriend???

Jay just chuckled, locking his phone.

"Looks like they are freaking out already," he said casually, taking a sip of his water.

Jay was already laughing the minute you said, "My friends are freaking out too."

He leaned in a little more, resting his elbow on the table, as you flicked through the increasing number of likes and notifications about your post on your phone, scrolling nervously with your thumb.

You sat there scrolling through the notifications, and you were only halfway through it when you sighed and started writing back, one after another—

No, we're not dating.

It's just lunch lol.

Nooo he's just being nice.

But texts kept flooding in, from people you hardly spoke to.

And they didn't believe you; why should they? Not when Jay—the guy who has never been seen out like that with a girl—was now publicly posting on his Instagram, tagging you, feeding the two of you in public.

And not when the restaurant he picked was that cute, with it's oh-so-romantic lighting, and view, and the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing he's there for.

Because to him, you were the pretty view. Not the food. Not the street-side sunset later.

You. Only you.

And then the drinks came, the sound of porcelain tea cups softly clinking in the calm space, Jay taking a small sip from one cup, and casually putting it back down, eyes flicking to your plate,  

then to you.

"You're checking mine out," he said.

Your head jerked up. "Wha—no I wasn't."

Jay smirked, grabbing his chopsticks to cut off a perfect bite-sized piece and holding it out to you. "Come on. Eat it."

You hesitated, caught by surprise, blinking as the food stayed in front of your lips. Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you leaned in and took the bite. He watched you chew with content.You had gone silent, now concentrating on your own plate, your cheeks warming up.

He reached for his phone.

"Can I film it again?" he asked. "You looked really cute when I fed you. I'll send it to you—post it if you want."

You stared at him for a beat. "I don't even look cute right now."

"You look perfect."

You tried not to react to that, biting the inside of your cheek before you gave in with a little eye roll. "Fine."

He fed you another bite while filming, a soft chuckle sound leaving his lips behind the camera as you blinked at him mid-bite, clearly shocked.

You looked at the video afterward and well, you liked it. It was oddly cute. Only you were in frame, the lighting soft and golden, the mood intimate.

So you posted it.

Your comments started pouring in. The caption was vague, but that didn't stop people from blowing up your DMs. Your friends were already in your group chat spamming heart emojis and yelling in all caps.

You set aside your phone again and went back to your food.

Jay was looking at you again, but this time he didn't say anything. He just smiled to himself.After lunch, he insisted on paying for lunch—no negotiation—and the two of you walked out into the late afternoon sun walking side by side down the cobbled streets of the city, past window displays and street vendors.

It felt like a date. An actual date.

You weren't sure you were ready to admit that yet.

But he could feel it. The way you hesitated when you were walking past a boutique, the way your shoulders brushed and you didn't pull away, the way your voice softened when you were talking to him. It was different now. You weren't the girl who hated him anymore.  

Eventually, you both reached your dorm, the sky dimming now with an early evening hue. He walked you all the way to the door without a question.

"This is the most fun I've had in a long time," Jay said, with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on the balls of his feet. His voice was softer now—a little shy, despite his confidence.

You studied him for a moment, your heart tugging at something you didn't dare name yet. "Me too," you said, a barely audible whisper.

Then, on gut instinct—uprising from your heart or just the heat of the moment—you tiptoed forward and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. You stepped back, your heart racing, your eyes wide, and your brain scrambling to process what you just did.

Jay stood frozen. Then, his head turned toward you, with a sparkle in his eye and a slow, self-satisfied smile emerging on his lips.

"Well, so much for hating me, huh?" he teased, raising an eyebrow.

You rolled your eyes and shrugged him lightly with embarrassment. "Shut up. It's just a thank you for taking me to an expensive lunch."

He chuckled. In his strange but Jay-like way, he reached out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. "I guess I should take you to lunch more often then."

This time his voice was lower and there was a hint of seriousness.

"I'm not complaining," you said, and you couldn't help but smile.

That next morning everything felt loud.

The whispers, they were everywhere. You don't think you made it onto campus before you heard it-

"Is that the girl from Jay's post?"

"She's the one he fed right?"

"Ugh I can't believe how lucky she is. I didn't even think he liked girls like her."

The stares you got felt heavier than your backpack. You keep walking, brushing your fingers back through your hair like you didn't care, until your best friend Juri comes sprinting toward you with the loudest gasp.

"You. You kissed him!"

"What- I didn't-"

You blinked fast and took a stumbling step back.

"Okay maybe not you, but you two went to lunch?! Girl come on." she whined, pulling your arm through hers. "And don't you try downplaying it. I seen the story. We all seen the story."

You rolled your eyes. "It was just food."

"Yeah, a food date, with Park Jongseong, that fed you and tagged you and now half the girls on campus wanna burn you at the stake."

You sighed, face heating up as your friend group giggled and teased all the way to the lecture hall. When you stepped inside alone, the buzzing died down just a bit. Not because people weren't talking—they were. But because you were suddenly all too aware of your seat.

Beside Jay.

He was leaning in toward Jungwon, laughing about something when you sat down, catching your presence from the corner of his eye. He turned immediately, smile tugging at his lips.

Jungwon, of course, caught on fast.

"Your girl's here," he snorted, stretching in your direction.  

"Shut up," you muttered, slumping in your seat.

Jay just chuckled.

Class started and you attempted to focus, but it was hot. Way too hot. Second day of your period and it hit you harder than yesterday. The cramps were intense, like someone had clamped a fist in your stomach. You winced slightly leaning your elbow on the desk, annoyed at the heat slowly rising through your body in discomfort.

Jay saw.

Without saying a word, he reached into his bag and pulled out a thermal bottle. He nudged it toward your desk.

You stared at it and then looked up at him, confused.

"It's warm ginger tea... my mom said that it helps with cramps." he whispered.

You blinked. "You made it for me?"

He shrugged and looked back down at his notes. "Thought it might help."

You took the bottle, suddenly at a loss for words.

After class, you walked next to him again. The two of you seemed to slide into a quiet rhythm of walking next to each other without saying a word. Jungwon was behind you humming something rhythmic under his breath, but then he abruptly stopped and said bye.

Jay's hand brushed against yours before he gently laced your fingers together.

You didn't pull away.

Outside, your friends awaited again, sprawled at the steps, but so did those girls. The ones who looked at you like you'd sinned just by being next to him. Popular. Perfect. Pretty.

Jay noticed the way your mood shifted, how your smile faded just slightly. And maybe he could've ignored it, or reassured you with words.

But that wasn't his style. Instead he leaned down and kissed you loud on the cheek.

You squeaked a bit, trying to pull away.

"Jay, what the hell are you doing-"

The sound of his mouth making smacking noises on your cheek over and over filled the breeze, making your friends go wide-eyed as you turned a darker shade of red. Your nose crunched, eyes scrunched shut as you half-laughed, half tried to squirm away without offending him.

"You're so annoying-!"

"And you're so cute." he grinned.

You turned your head, wanting to say something but miscalculated.

Your lips met.

His lips were warm and sweet, just enough to make the girls eyes widened from afar. 

Jay blinked, in shock, pulling away a little, and then, "...fuck it."

He kissed you again, this time intentionally. Longer. He was more sure this time around. Your friends behind you screamed. Someone definitely started recording. The girls who were shooting daggers at you are completely shaken. And you?

You couldn't move, your lips tingling, breath knocked out of your body.

Jay pulled away slowly, his lips barely brushing against your own, and soft and low enough that only you would actually hear him say, "Now you really can't say you hate me."

[miserymorgue]

RED | ft. N. ROMANOFF

summary Hiding out in Norway, a wounded Natasha Romanoff finds unexpected comfort in the gentle hands of the sweet cashier.

wc 5.5k words

warnings hurt/comfort, injury/blood, graphicwound stitching, age gap (mild, adult reader), bit of angst, mutual pining, tension, natasha being older/tired/broken, fluff

parings post civil war!natasha romanoff x younger cashier fem!reader

Maybe she used to be a nun.

No, no... that can't be right.

Maybe she was a concert pianist once – until an injury ruined her career. Or something dramatic like that. You hum under your breath, chin propped on your palm as you watch her stalk down aisle three, her bright hair a slash of sunset against cheap laminate shelves, neat braids woven through the waves.

Today, she’s picking out canned soup.

You squint.

Butternut pumpkin. Figures.

Maybe she’s a hacker. Some rogue codebreaker siphoning money from billionaires and funnelling it to refugees in the dead of night. A digital Robin Hood hiding out in your nowhere town on Norway’s ragged coast.

She moved here a month ago. You remember – you’d been making conversation with Mrs Hansen as she unloaded groceries at a glacial pace. Then she walked in: beat-up Lada Niva rumbling outside, sunglasses perched low on her nose, head down like she didn’t want to be seen.

You watched her openly. The flex of her forearms as she lifted baskets. The weary slouch of her shoulders under her leather jacket. She noticed your staring, of course. But instead of frowning or turning away, she gave you a tight-lipped smile and disappeared into the aisles.

That first day, she bought so much it nearly buried the conveyor belt. Canned beans, rice, tea bags, cheap vodka, bandages. Survival gear, you’d thought. Like she was stocking up for the end of the world.

Your daydream dissolves when her basket lands on your checkout with a careless clatter. You jolt. That smirk is already tugging at her mouth, knowing she’s caught you drifting off again.

“Off with the fairies, huh?” she drawls, her voice low, smooth, tinged with some unplaceable accent.

“Nope,” you hum, scanning her soup, “exactly where I wanna be.”

She goes by Fanny.

Stupid name. You’d told her that first time. She’d just huffed out a dry laugh and nodded like she agreed.

You still think about that: the way she let you name her something else.

“Your hair looks nice,” you say as you begin scanning her cans. “It’s getting long.”

She purses her lips, fingers rising unconsciously to touch a braid. “Thanks. Started using that weird serum you recommended,” She recalls. “Busy today?” she asks.

You raise a brow. She’s one of five regulars. The only other customer is a mother bribing her kid with Kinder Eggs in aisle two.

“Very,” you reply flatly.

She chuckles under her breath, watching your hands move deliberately slow. You’re the fastest cashier here, but with her, you take your time.

“You hear about Dale and Melissa’s breakup?”

Red furrows her brows. “They broke up?”

You nod. “Melissa told me about it. Caught him cheating with some out-of-town girl. Brutal.”

“Shit… you think they’ll close the café? Dale makes a hell of a coffee.”

You smile faintly at her genuine concern. “Doubt it. I asked Dale about it and he said he’d rather die than give up the art of coffee, whatever that means.”

Your eyes flick to the bag in her basket. Crispy M&Ms. You hold them up, tsking. “Have you ever tried the peanut ones?”

She shakes her head. No.

“You have to,” you say, ducking out of the cashier bay before she can protest. “Trust me.”

She calls after you, her voice half a groan. “I’m on a budget.”

You return triumphantly with a bag of Peanut M&Ms, slamming it down beside the rest. “You’ll like them,” you hum, punching your employee discount in before she can stop you. “For me?”

She scoffs softly, lips curling into a reluctant smirk. Your stomach swoops.

“Fine,” she mutters, sliding her card across the reader. She eyes you, suspicious, like she’s trying to calculate the hidden motive. Like kindness is always a trick.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, waving her off.

Red slips the M&Ms into her jacket pocket, right against her chest. For a moment, you think about that pocket as a little shrine – your candy sitting there over her heart.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she murmurs, and your cheeks flame. Her voice is warm, almost teasing, but edged with exhaustion. Her accent shifts between American and Russian seamlessly, like water finding cracks in stone.

As she gathers her bags, she pauses, eyes meeting yours. “See you around, fairy girl.”

Natasha had noticed your little crush the very first time you served her.

You weren’t exactly subtle. Small towns like this usually bred a certain fear of humiliation, a carefulness in the way people spoke. But not you. You were… different. Everything about you was different, she realised. 

She’d seen you before, of course—around the market, at the café, chatting with anyone who’d listen. You talked to everyone, from the grumpy old man who barely muttered a hello, to the stressed-out single mother juggling kids and groceries.

You didn’t just exchange words; you made them count. The way you remembered their names, asked about their day, noticed the little things no one else seemed to care about. 

Natasha watched you approach a scowling butcher one afternoon, smoothing his mood with a joke and a kind smile. She caught you helping a nervous teenager figure out the self-checkout machine without skipping a beat.

You moved through the town like a gentle breeze, warm and constant, drawing people out of their shells without even trying.

The way you slowed down with her. The way you asked questions that sounded casual but carried that gentle curiosity she hadn’t felt in years. 

“I like your jacket. Did you buy it recently?” 

“It’s cold today. How’re you finding the weather?” 

You looked at her like she was some puzzle you were determined to solve—your eyes full of that open admiration, tinged with a quiet pride, like you thought you’d already cracked half her code. Your gaze would drift across her face, down her body—not invasive, never leering. Just… reverent. Warm. 

You were younger.

Not by much on paper, maybe, but enough for her to feel the difference like a cold draft down her spine. Enough for her to think, I’ve lived a whole other life before you were even out of high school, kid. 

She wondered if you knew that. If you could sense the years she carried under her skin, the things she’d done before you ever learned how to flirt with such open sweetness. You worked at the market, and she never heard you mention family.

She never asked. 

Being a fugitive meant never getting close. Never letting yourself want anything. But still. Here you were. Looking at her like she was something worth wanting. Like you couldn’t see the blood under her nails, the ghosts behind her eyes. 

And God help her—she almost wanted to keep letting you look.

“See you, Red,” you called, voice bright in the otherwise silent store. 

She paused just outside the automatic doors, hearing them whirr shut behind her. For a split second, she let herself look back through the glass. You were still there, chin propped on your hand again, staring after her with that same soft-eyed smile. The kind that made something sharp twist behind her ribs. 

Natasha shook her head, blowing out a slow breath as she turned away, boots crunching over fresh frost. She really needed to stop coming here so often. 

Even Mason had raised a brow at her frequent grocery runs. “You don’t even eat that much, Romanoff,” he’d teased last time over the burner phone, voice crackling in and out with the Norwegian winds. “You’re just bored out there, huh?” 

But it wasn’t boredom that pulled her to aisle three every other day.

It was you.

The warmth in your smile. The curiosity in your eyes, untainted by fear or suspicion. Like you wanted to see her. Like you liked that she existed at all. It wasn’t something she was used to. 

She loaded her bags into the back of the Niva with mechanical efficiency, feeling your gaze lingering on her through the smudged windows. She’d had her share of women over the years – flings, missions, blurred lines in dark rooms lit only by city lights. 

Women who clawed at her hair and moaned her name, who stared at her with hunger or jealousy or lust. But no one had ever looked at her the way you did. Like she was… human. 

Like she wasn’t Fanny Longbottom, stupid fake name on a stupid fake passport. 

Like she wasn’t Natasha Romanoff, fugitive Avenger, international criminal, assassin, traitor.

No, to you, she was just Red. She liked that.

It had been a week since you last saw Red.

Normally, she came by every two or three days—sometimes once a week if she was busy. Busy with what? You weren’t sure, and maybe you never would be. A part of you liked the mystery—it gave you room to wonder, to daydream, to craft little stories about who she was beneath that leather jacket and guarded stare.

But a week without a sign was different. Unsettling.

She never missed without warning. Even when quiet, she showed up. You checked the usual spots—the café, the market, the dusty trail where her battered Lada Niva usually rested. Nothing.

Whispers drifted around town—rumors of trouble in nearby villages, strange faces near the docks, men with cold eyes and sharper intentions. You didn’t know if they meant anything, but they tugged at your gut.

Then there were the small, strange details you couldn’t forget: the groceries she always bought—enough for one but stocked like she was preparing for a storm. The way she flinched at sudden noises, like a ghost from her past was waiting in the shadows.

A week of silence was long. You couldn’t shake the growing worry.

On your break, you’d checked the only other mart in town—no sign of her. You asked Dale and Melissa if she’d grabbed a coffee. Nothing. The gnawing unease in your chest only grew.

She didn’t frequent any other places in town. From what locals said, she kept to herself in a trailer a few miles out west. Sometimes you caught sight of her battered Lada Niva winding up the gravel road at dusk, headlights flickering through the pine trees like a ghost story come to life.

That evening, you found yourself driving past her trailer on your way home, the sun dipping low behind the cliffs. Just to… check. Just to be sure. You’d visited once, when she had to do an online order instead, eagerly coming by with the products as she ensured you stayed outside, claiming the inside was a mess. 

Her truck was there, parked crookedly in the dirt, but no lights were on inside. The curtains were drawn tight. You almost drove on. Almost. But something pulled you out of the car, gravel crunching under your boots as you approached her door. 

You raised your hand to knock, hesitated, then knocked anyway. Three soft raps. Nothing. You tried again, louder this time. “Red?” you called gently. “It’s me. Just… checking in.”

No answer. Your heart kicked up a notch. You glanced around—silent forest, empty yard, the smell of salt and pine in the evening air. You knocked again, feeling foolish and scared all at once.

“Red,” you said, firmer now. You try her ‘real name.’ “Fanny. I know you’re in there.” 

Still nothing. You chewed your lip, weighing your options. This was stupid. Just as you go to take a step away, you hear the sound of metal falling to the flaw, clattering. You stop.

“...Red?” You call out again.

Finally, you reached down and twisted the doorknob. Unlocked.

The trailer smelled like stale blood and metal. 

“Jesus…” you whispered, stepping inside. 

The dim light leaking through the curtained windows revealed her slumped on the floor by the narrow kitchenette, back pressed against the cabinet. Her shirt was half-soaked through with dried blood, a bandage dark with fresh red pressed to her side. Blood smeared along the laminate floor, trailing from the tiny bathroom to her current spot, telling a silent story of her stumbling path. 

Her head lolled slightly when she heard you enter, lashes fluttering open. She muttered a curse under her breath. “Leave,” she commanded immediately, voice hoarse with pain and exhaustion. 

“Oh, shit, oh shit, Red, you—” You began, panic already rising in your chest. 

“Leave.” She tried again, stronger this time, but it ended in a choked cough against her bandages, blood seeping between her fingers. 

“What? No, oh— I’ll call an ambulance, wh—” You scrambled for your phone in your pocket, hands shaking. 

Before you could even tap the screen, she snatched a postcard from the counter and flung it with perfect aim into your wrist. The force jarred your reflexes just enough for your phone to slip from your grip and clatter to the floor, the screen cracking against the chipped linoleum. 

Your jaw dropped, the instinct to yell at her about your phone bubbling up—you’d have to drive two hours into the city for a replacement, and— 

Then she coughed again, sharp and wet. “No hospitals. No ambulance. Leave.”

You quickly shut the door behind you, doing the exact opposite as you stripped off your coat and gloves, tossing them onto a rusted hook by the door. “Red, what happened?” You knelt beside her, trying to keep your breathing steady. 

She attempted a glare, but it faltered halfway, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. “Don’t… worry about it.” 

You scoffed, beginning to open every cupboard in search of a med kit. “You remind me of my ex.” 

She blinked at that, her brow furrowing through the pain. Confused, and almost amused despite herself. 

“Stubborn. Secretive. Charismatic, but reserved,” you rattled off, rifling through another drawer filled with old cans and chipped mugs. “It’s hot at first. Charming. Until shit like this happens.” 

She let out a huffed breath that could’ve been a weak laugh, or just a sigh of pain. “That… what you think… this is?” she rasped. 

You ignored her question, following the blood trail into the cramped bathroom. The air was damp and smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. On the sink lay a half-used first aid kit, gauze stained with dried blood, surgical thread half unspooled. Your stomach twisted as you imagined her in here days ago, stitching herself up under flickering yellow light. 

Returning to her, you found her head tipped back against the cabinet, eyes closed. Her breathing was ragged, sweat beading along her hairline. 

“Red,” you said softly, dropping to your knees beside her again. 

You peeled her trembling hand away from the wound, inspecting it as gently as you could. 

The stitches had torn open along the lower edge of the cut, about two inches long. Angry red skin, swollen slightly with infection, leaked blood sluggishly down her ribs. The edges were jagged but shallow—defensive, you realised. Like a blade had scraped across her rather than plunged deep.

“Okay… alright…” she swallowed thickly, trying to keep her eyes open despite the grey pallor overtaking her face. She whispered your name, just loud enough to snap your attention back to her.

“Listen to me,” she rasped, voice rough with pain. “Can you do first aid or not?”

You froze for a second, then did an awkward half-nod, half-shrug. 

“What—what the hell does that mean?” she bit out, a flicker of frustration sparking in her dulled eyes. 

“We… we had to do a first aid course at the store,” you stammered, voice trembling as your gaze darted to the gaping wound at her side. “It’s mandatory. I—I remember… orange to the sky, blue to the thigh.” 

She blinked, staring at you in blank disbelief. “That’s… that’s epi-pens,” she croaked, a hint of dark amusement curling her lips despite everything. “And it’s the other way around.” 

She let out a shaky sigh, her head rolling back for a moment before she forced her eyes open again. “Okay. Listen to me. You need to do exactly what I say. Exactly. Alright?” 

You gulped, your vision blurring with tears as you stared at the slick red leaking through her ruined bandage. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! Red—why can’t we just—why can’t we call—” 

“This is what you signed up for when you walked through that door, okay?” she cut in sharply, her tone biting despite the strain. Her breathing hitched as she started to really feel the pain of the undone stitches. You were her only resource right now. “Focus.” 

You nodded quickly, your pulse roaring in your ears. She seemed almost calm compared to you. 

“You’re gonna redo my stitches,” she said, her voice turning soft but firm, like she was talking down a skittish animal. “It’s easy. Think of it like sewing. You sew?” 

“Not… really,” you admitted in a small voice, helping her brace herself as she shifted. 

“Great,” she rasped out a weak chuckle. “You get to learn.” 

Together, you maneuvered her onto the loveseat couch nearby, her weight heavy against you despite how slight she felt under your grip. She let out a low groan as you eased her down, her knuckles white where they clenched the bloody gauze. 

“What if—what if I got Dr. Hansen?” you blurted out, your voice shaking as you rummaged through the half-empty first aid kit, fingers closing around a sterile suture packet and black thread, remembering the local doctor. 

“Not happening, sweetheart,” she ground out, glaring at you through half-lidded eyes. “Now c’mon.” 

You let out a trembling breath, blinking back tears as you tore open the suture pack with clumsy, shaking fingers. “Okay… okay… tell me what to do.” 

She swallowed hard, her breathing ragged as she tilted her head to look at you. For a moment, her gaze softened, something unbearably fond flickering there despite the pain. 

“First… pass me the Scotch,”

Without hesitation, you grabbed the nearby bottle, dark, and cheap, half empty. You handed it to her, undoing the cap and watched as she gulped down some. She let out an exasperated breath, as if she needed that. She takes a second.

“Okay. Clean it,” she murmured. “Use saline. Wipe away the blood. Don’t go too deep… just clean the edges.” 

Your hands moved on autopilot, tearing open a saline vial and sterile gauze, your chest tight with terror as you dabbed gently at the torn wound. 

She winced but didn’t flinch away, her jaw tightening. “Good… that’s good…” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. 

“Red… stay awake,” you say quickly, panic flooding your voice.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m… I’m here. Don’t worry about it,” she mutters, forcing her eyes open again. “You’re gonna thread the needle now. About… six inches of thread. Tie a knot at the end. Pull it tight.” 

You fumble with the suture kit, your fingers slick with sweat as you threaded the needle with shaking hands, tying a hasty knot at the end like she instructed. 

“Okay, alright… now what?” you breathe out, blinking away tears that blurred your vision. 

“Simple interrupted stitches,” she says hoarsely, her words slurring slightly. “Go… in one side… out the other. Pull through… tie it off. Quarter inch apart… don’t make them too tight. Just… enough to close.” 

You swallow hard, your hands trembling violently as you bring the needle to her torn flesh. “I—I can’t—” 

“You can,” she whispered, her voice firm despite the haze overtaking her eyes. “You can. Breathe.” 

A tear slips down your cheeks as you push the needle through her skin, feeling her tense under your hands but hearing no sound from her lips. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the distant creak of pine trees outside in the cold wind. 

“Good… that’s it… keep going…” she whispered, her voice growing fainter with each word. 

You worked gently, slowly. Every time she even winced, you would stop briefly, scared you'd hurt her, but she’d insist on continuing, continuing to sip the scotch. She watched you. The only sound being your breathing and her groans, and the squeak of the cheap couch beneath.

“You live here alone?” Natasha wonders.

You glance up at her now, surprised by her attempt at conversation. In your time of knowing her, which has not been long, you instigate the conversations, you ask the questions. You sigh.

“Yeah,” You mumble a response. “Moved here two years ago, after I graduated.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully, like she’s savoring the sound of your voice. Maybe this is why you talk to everyone—trying to fill the quiet that lives inside you both.

“What did you study?” she asks, eyes softening.

You don’t answer right away, your hands steady as you work on her stitches. Natasha waits patiently, sensing you’re lost in your own head.

“I… I tried to enroll,” she finally says, voice a little rough. “Signed up for a History class, actually.”

You smile gently. “Really?”

She nods, a small, almost shy smile tugging at her lips. “I was… angry at work. Thought maybe I’d rebel by learning something for myself.”

“Rebel against work?” you ask, teasing lightly.

She lets out a soft laugh, eyes flickering away for a moment. “More like... the people in charge.” Her voice is low, guarded, but there’s a hint of openness you haven’t seen before.

You continue sewing, then pause. “What part of history did you like?”

Natasha’s gaze drifts to the cracked ceiling as she thinks. “Rome. The time between the Republic and Empire. It’s… dramatic. Full of change. You’d probably like it.”

Her voice softens, almost like she’s sharing a secret. For a moment, she looks more fragile than fierce, and you feel something gentle stir inside you. Natasha smiles at that, eyes watchful as she takes another swig of scotch. Your eyes meet for a moment. You flush under her gaze, clearing your throat.

“I studied economics,” You tell.

She furrows her brows, shocked. “What?”

You chuckle a bit at that. You take a moment before going back to the stitches. It wasn’t too hard at all, you found. You just needed a groove, a bit of motivation. Her.

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “I know, right.” You take a moment to steady your hands before continuing with the stitches. It’s not as hard as you thought—just a rhythm, a focus. And motivation. Her.

She’s still half reclined against the arm of the couch, one knee bent, the other foot across the other end on the couch, her head lolling slightly as she watches you with hooded eyes, taking the stitches like a champ. “Economics…” she murmurs, a lazy smirk curling her lips despite the pain. “That’s… unexpected.” 

“What, because I work checkout?” you tease lightly, trying to keep your voice from shaking as you knot off another suture. Your thighs are trembling from crouching so long, but you refuse to let it show. 

Her voice is raspy as she smiles. “No. Just… thought you’d do something softer. Art. Literature. Philosophy. Something that matches… all this.” Her hand lifts weakly, gesturing vaguely at your face, at the soft line of your mouth, at the tear tracks drying on your flushed cheeks. 

Your heart gives a little stutter at that, your chest tightening as you focus on threading the needle again. “I like numbers,” you mumble, embarrassed by how shy you sound. “They’re predictable. People aren’t.” 

Her lips twitch into a faint smile at that. “Smart girl,” She pauses. “You seem like such a people person, though.”

You shrug. “I guess. I realised people are way more interesting than numbers. Everyone’s got a story.”

 A pause hangs between you. 

“What’s yours?” Natasha asks, eyes narrowing just a little, curious. 

You shrug again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” 

It’s a challenge wrapped in a dare. She smirks, amused, eyes glinting with quiet defiance, knowing full well that’s not going to happen. Not tonight and leans her head back to lie down.

Your breath catches at her tone, your fingers faltering for half a second before you force yourself to keep going. You can feel her gaze on you like heat, burning into your flushed skin. 

“I um, I never asked what you do,” you say softly, needing to fill the silence before it swallows you whole. Before you say something truly stupid, like please don’t die. 

She chuckles weakly, the sound low and rough. “I… used to work in security, I guess,” she hums, voice distant, words slurring slightly. “Private contracts. Travelled a lot.” 

“Dangerous work,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper as you tug the thread through her skin again, making her hiss softly. 

“Yeah… you could say that.” Her eyes flutter closed for a moment before she forces them open again, pinning you with that sharp, steel-grey gaze. 

Even now, half broken and bleeding out on her shitty couch, she looks like she could snap your neck with a flick of her wrist. And yet… her eyes soften as they trace over your features. 

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, voice dropping lower, turning rougher, almost intimate. 

Your cheeks burn under her gaze, your stomach swooping. “Don’t say that. I’m literally sewing you back together on your couch. This is… this is insane.” 

“Still good, ‘specially for an econ major,” she insists, lips quirking up into a faint smile. 

Her hand twitches, like she wants to reach out and touch you, but she thinks better of it, her fingers curling into her palm instead. You tie off the last stitch with trembling fingers, cutting the thread as gently as you can. 

Her blood is drying tacky on your hands, smeared down your wrists. You don’t even notice. All you see is her, half-naked and vulnerable in the dim lamplight, her skin gleaming with sweat, her hair mussed and clinging to her temples. 

“There,” you whisper, brushing a damp strand of hair from her flushed forehead. “All done. Did I do okay?” 

She glances down at your work, her tank top bunched just beneath her sports bra, exposing the raw stretch of stitched skin. Adjusting her back against the couch, she exhales a shaky breath, tension draining from her shoulders. 

Her head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as relief washes over her. “Perfect,” she murmurs, voice low and worn, but edged with genuine gratitude.

For a moment, neither of you move. Her breath is ragged, yours shaky. Her eyes flick down to your lips, just for a second, before dragging back up to meet your gaze. 

“Thank you,” she says softly, and something about the way she says it makes your chest ache. Like no one’s ever done anything for her without expecting something back.

You smile a bit at her. “No worries, Red,” A beat. “Now, can I ask what happened?”

She sighs, her gaze drifting to the cracked ceiling above. “Um… well, like you said, my job can be dangerous. You… make enemies with some angry people. And I was just… in the wrong place at the right time, I suppose.”

You nod slowly, letting out a short, humourless scoff. “We’re back to vague, huh?”

She says your name quietly, her voice a rasp. 

“It’s fine. You don’t… owe me shit. Honestly,” you insist, your voice soft but firm. “I’ll make you some tea.”

You move around the tiny kitchen, opening mismatched cupboards until you find a chipped ceramic mug and a half-used box of black tea. The smell of blood still fills the trailer, metallic and thick, clinging to your nostrils. You rinse your hands quickly, staring at the rust-stained sink as pink water swirls down the drain.

Behind you, Natasha sighs. You can hear her shifting on the couch, a low groan slipping from her lips as she tries to get comfortable. Her voice comes again, quiet but insistent.

She says your name once more. 

You don’t respond, you just want to make this tea and make sure she’s okay because maybe the secrets are bad, and scary, and maybe you’ve gotten yourself involved in something worse.

Another minute or so of quiet goes by, tense. She says your name again, this time softer.

“Seriously, Red, it’s not—” you begin, not turning around. 

“Natasha,” she interrupts. Her voice cracks a little, and she clears her throat. “My name… it’s Natasha.” 

You freeze. The electric kettle clicks softly behind you, steam curling up into the dim kitchen light. Slowly, you turn to look at her. She’s fidgeting with her fingers in her lap, tracing the gauze near her wound absent-mindedly, eyes cast down like a guilty child.

“My name,” she whispers again, her gaze flicking up to meet yours, weary but steady, “it’s Natasha. It’s not… Fanny.”

You stare at her, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs. You let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. “Yeah… I figured that a while ago,” you murmur, trying to ease the trembling in your voice. “Stupid name.”

“Very stupid name,” she agrees, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. 

You hum softly, stepping closer with the mug of steaming tea. 

You kneel down beside her again, pressing the warm ceramic into her shaking hands. “Natasha, huh?” She exhales shakily, nodding. 

“Yeah.” You sit back on your heels, looking at her. Really looking. Her flushed skin, the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the raw vulnerability in her tired eyes.

You both understand that there isn’t a lot of truth she can give you. How this happened, her past, etcetera. But this? This she gives.

“Suits you,” you say quietly, your voice trembling with something you can’t name. She nods again, swallowing hard as she clutches the tea to her chest, letting its warmth seep into her trembling fingers. 

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes dark and damp against her pale skin. When they open again, she looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice breaking around the words. “For… staying.” 

You smile softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of copper hair behind her ear, letting your fingertips linger against the hot curve of her neck. She lets you, surprised by herself as she leans into your touch.

“No problem,” you murmur. 

Her breath catches at your touch, and for a moment the air between you crackles with something thick and electric, something that makes your stomach swoop and your chest ache. 

“Don’t do that,” you whisper, voice trembling with restraint.

She blinks at you, pupils wide and dark. “Do what?”

You swallow, glancing down at her lips before flicking back up to her eyes. “Look at me like that. You’re hurt. It’d be stupid.”

A tired, raspy chuckle escapes her chest. “I’ve already done stupid, sweetheart.”

Your breath falters at the nickname, your heart giving a painful little squeeze in your chest. Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean down and press your lips softly to hers.

She tastes like blood and salt and something heartbreakingly human. She smiles against your mouth, her hand twitching like she wants to reach for you but can’t quite manage it. It’s gentle, fleeting, so impossibly sweet you think you might cry.

Then she suddenly lets out a sharp, pained yelp. You jerk back, eyes wide in horror. “Wh— oh my god, did I hurt you—”

But she’s chuckling weakly, eyes gleaming with mischief despite her exhaustion. “Got you,” she murmurs, voice teasing and low.

Your jaw drops as you realise she’s playing you. “Oh my god— no. No more deathbed kisses for you, alright?”

“Deathbed?” she echoes, smirking.

“I’ll make it one if you pull that shit again,” you threaten lightly, rolling your eyes as relief floods your chest.

She laughs properly this time, a quiet, broken sound, and you grin down at her despite yourself. You brush your hands against your jeans with a sigh.

“I’ll clean up a bit,” you say, softer now. “Try to get some rest, Natasha.”

She hums softly, eyes following you as you move around her small kitchen, her gaze lingering on the soft curve of your hips, the flutter of your lashes as you concentrate. For the first time in a long, long while, she lets herself watch you without guilt gnawing at her ribs. 

And despite the pain biting deep into her side, despite the ghosts howling outside her thin trailer walls, she feels… safe. 

Just for tonight.

note: hello!! how cool! im quite charmed by this, expect some more nat fics in the future. shes interesting to write for, her dialogue can be tricky tho. anyway thanks for reading!!

[rereisstuff]

COSMIC !

summary: a familiar evening, by na pd.

pairing: idol! reader! x idol! Scoups

note: i’m not sure if it’s idol reader x scoups or idol fictional band x svt but it’s fun so read it, and also, i combined a few girl groups so don’t try to find a logical order jsjsjsjs, enjoy.

na pd had the brilliant idea of combining two of the largest groups of the 3rd gen, Seventeen and your group.

as the leader, as scoups previously did, you had to come in with the song you’re well known.

cosmic.

you came out, face overly red, dancing with a smile, you loved the song and the feeling it gave and everyone was aware.

at the end, only the maknae was missing, you smiled when happiness started blasting and she complained about the childishness of it.

“ah how kind my daughter” you sang coming forward as she was dying of embarrassment, singing your part.

soon the room was filled with chatter, all of you ready for na pd indication.

“today we’re making something different” the man said scaring everyone “we’re pairing you up with the other correspondent person, like dk with solji as both are one of the main vocal”.

quickly you could find yourself walking towards scoups, both leaders, looking at your loud members fighting for who was getting mingyu.

“hi” you saluted scoups shyly, he responded quietly as well, with a bow, falling silent after it.

…

the section was named ‘i wonder about you’ where both mixed members in pairs came forward to a platform and have to respond anonymously questions done by the members of other pairs.

the thing was about to get done, the second eldest pair was coming down of the platform, lead vocals, jeonghan and yeji.

scoups and you were up “noona, is there something you like or admire about our group?” you read firstly, seeing an excited gaze on the pairs.

“well chan-ah” you said loudly, making everyone laugh as everyone knew it was Dino who wrote it “i really like your artistic expression, you guys really know how to throw a show, the lyrics and dance and everything is really high quality, i’m always looking forward to seeing you guys”

everyone clapped as Dino complained embarrassed, earning a light punch from your maknae.

“sir?” seungcheol frowned comically as he read the honorific, everyone laughed “have your ever thought you could do some of our concept better? which one?”

“i mean, i think i could’ve mastered in monster or naughty concept” he joked slightly looking at your members, making the8 complain about the fact that he suggested once a concept like that and no one agreed.

“we can accept you in our sub-unit myongo-ah” may reassure him, patting his back.

“you need nice legs for that sunbae” hyomin hit back at the joke.

everyone was laughing and happily exchanging words, na pd looked satisfied about the outcome of his experiment.

“do you think your group is closer off-camera than on-camera?” you read loudly, thinking about it.

“a week ago i came home and found luna and sullyoon in my bed watching tv, eating my snacks with my dog tucked in between them” you mentioned the maknae and visual whom giggled, almost all seventeen confused “we have lived apart for almost four years now, so i guess that anecdote and other more i can tell, answer to that question”.

everyone started to talk as well, some laughing at the anecdotes of the trust between members.

“which of our performances did you secretly like?” scoups read “i could get in trouble” he scratched the back of his neck, side-eyeing you “you make me crazy, where the fan was blowing your hair” he said directly to you.

you couldn’t help to blush, that performances were sexy and revealing, and he looked deadly at you, with that handsome face!

“unnie! what’s wrong?” one of your loudest members said, youngji, sitting with seungkwan, picking at you.

“what are you doing coups-ah? it’s not a dating show!” jeonghan complained making yeji laugh besides him, seungcheol and you getting more and more red with each comment.

na pd could breath of laughter, neither any of you.

[c4tluver02]

hopefully this isn’t too vague but for a request i’d love some fluff! potentially steve and henderson!reader like dustin’s older sister and what that would all entail, like steve being a part of the family :,)

the secret

wc: 2.1k

summary: After keeping your relationship with Steve a secret from Dustin, he just so happens to find out in the worst way.

cw: Henderson!reader, older sister/ younger brother, slight fight, nothin rlly!

a/n: thank you sm for the request i really appreciate it!!! i hope you enjoy!!! <33

As of right now you and Steve are keeping your relationship a secret.  

At least from Dustin. You both don’t know how he’ll react and personally you’d hate for this to be something that doesn’t work out and you ended up getting him mad for no reason. Not that you and Steve are breaking up anytime soon, he’s actually been great. He calls you every night and on dates he gets you flowers. He’s perfect and you’re extremely happy.   

Steve saw you for the first time when he went to pick Dustin up. He sat in his red car with furrowed brows because the kid was late. Like 20 minutes late. Doing what? Steve still doesn’t know to this day but he’s thankful something kept him up. It’s what brought you to his car.   

You had a pretty summer dress on and if Steve were a gentleman his eyes would have found your face before your dress but that’s just how it happened. You also didn’t have shoes on, underestimating just how hot the summer concrete would be, or maybe, probably, not expecting to tell Dustin’s significantly older friend that he can’t go anywhere today. Steve can see your height get higher as you stand on your tippy toes trying to avoid the heat on your bare feet.

It’s how you got into his car, after he offered you to sit in it of course. Letting your feet have a break. It also lets him keep you for a little longer. You had told him all that he really needed to know and yet here you are in his passenger seat with the door open. You’re letting out cold air but Steve would never tell you to do anything about it.   

After that day Steve picked Dustin up more and suddenly he began walking up to the front door. No longer waiting the whole time in his car for Dustin to fix his timing issues. Instead he sits with you in the living room and talks. When Dustin was ready he’d give you a goodbye and Steve would send a smile and wave. It was easy to fall in love with Steve Harrington.   

With all of this being said Dustin knows you’re dating somebody, just not Steve. In typical Dustin fashion he couldn’t care less about it, it’s not affecting him in any way other than you’re gone more. He’s too busy in his own life to notice anything about yours. And you two have been careful so far. Like when he drops you off a few houses down so Dustin doesn’t see his car, or when he sneaks into your room through your window– But that one even your mom doesn’t know about.   

It was working well so far. Would you like to tell your brother you’re dating someone he sincerely looks up to? Well when it’s put that way no. But you would like to stop being secretive. You and Dustin are pretty close, you never keep something this big from him. It’s what eats you up at night when Dustin asks when he’s gonna meet this special guy you talk about.  

But you know it’s best that he doesn’t know quite yet. To know your sister and best friend are getting together behind your back is understandably devastating. Even though it’s 100% serious Dustin doesn’t think Steve is serious about anything and you’re his sister who is lame and boring. It just simply doesn’t work. 

Steve is coming over again tonight, you had spent a few days last week at his place so now it’s his turn to go to yours. A nice back and forth to make things even. Although being at Steve’s is better than being at your place, no hiding, no parents, just you and him in a house all alone.   

However it is nice to be in your bed with your clothes. Not needing to pack a bag of things that you need. Steve packs light anyways, boys are so lucky for that. And he always tells you how much he loves your room, stating that it feels like you are unlike his room. Something that his parents threw together and he just put his personal belongings into. You have posters and pictures of friends all around, your music collection is stacked, and downstairs is a family that’s close and happy. Something Steve doesn’t get to see at his own home.   

When you hear a knock on your window it makes you jump slightly. Your nose stuck in a book you rented from the library when you and Steve went a few days ago. You’re quick to hop off your bed to open it for him. He always tells you to keep it locked even when you know he’s coming.  

 “Hey angel.” He preens once both of his feet are planted on your bedroom floor.   

“Hi handsome. Have you eaten?” You ask putting your arms around his neck giving him a hello kiss. It’s quick despite his arms trying to pull you closer into him and he answers with a nod. Your mom made one of his favorites but he can always take some home when he leaves.  

Your mom is maybe even a bigger fan of Steve than you are. When he has dinners with all three of you– just as a hang out with Dustin of course– she always asks him questions and makes jokes. He gives into her, laughing at anything and everything she says. It’s very sweet, completely unnecessary, but still he does it. Your mom can like anyone so Steve doesn’t need to try so hard and yet he does.   

Dustin will complain if Steve gets seconds and you’ll kick his leg under the table. Not only is he being a brat but that’s your boyfriend who deserves seconds. He gives you a death glare in return that means absolutely nothing to you at this point, seeing it for many many years.  

Steve even sometimes scolds him and you think you like him the most then. All defensive of you and then he puts his hand on your thigh under the table. The flush that comes to your cheeks is missed by your brother but not by the boy sitting next to you.   

His hands squeezing your hips pulls you out of the memory. You can see his eyes traveling around your room, looking for anything new that he might not have seen the last time he was there. When they land on your bed he immediately speaks up.   

“How's the book going?” He nods his head towards the direction of the book on your bed. Steve remembers how happy you were to find it in your local library, it is a fairly new release for Hawkins to have.   

“It’s really good so far, I barely had time to read it cause Dusitn was bothering me all day.” You huff as you sit back down on your bed, Steve follows suit. The way your hands immediately intertwine could almost make it seem like there's a magnet holding them together. Always coming together when close. 

The timing in which Dustin knocks on your door after you mention him is scary. So scary you fear he might have heard what you said about him. But what's worse is Steve is right next to you. Both of your heads turn to look at each other with wide eyes. 

“What?” Your tone is not harsh but it does exactly say ‘come on in!’ 

“I need to talk to you.” 

Dustin never really comes to you about stuff unless it's to complain about your mom. But she’s asleep now so this must be something serious. You get up from your spot on your bed and make a ‘shoo’ motion to Steve. He quickly fumbles his way into your closet, it’s bigger than Dustins which is why you picked this room. Still it doesn’t leave Steve a ton of moving area for him to stand comfortably. Your hanging clothes force him to be pushed against the door. 

When you open your door Dustin is standing in front of you with a frown. Your arm stretches out to let him know he can enter and he sits on the chair by your vanity, the one that's right next to your closet. 

“So, what's up?” You are leaning against the end of your bed, hoping this goes quick so Steve can get out of the stuffy closet. 

“I think Steve is done with me.” The way he lets his head fall into his hands with a sigh tells you he's really been thinking about this. 

“What do you mean ‘done with you’? He’s here all the time.” 

“No, he’s only here for dinners after mom begs him or to pick me up and drop me off. We never hang out.” You could scold him for spinning around in your expensive chair but you decide against it. 

“Well Dustin he is older he’s probably got stuff to do y’know? I doubt it has anything to do with you.” You give him a small shrug of your shoulders, hoping this clears his head for the time being. 

“I think he’s dating someone.” Dustin rolls his eyes, you're glad Steve can't see it. “He’s all happy and it’s weird.” 

“Oh really?” It’s taking everything in you not to grin, trying to come off like you couldn't care less. 

“Yeah, maybe it’s her that's ruining him.” He ponders. This conversation isn't really going in the direction you were hoping for. 

When a loud sneeze booms from your closet Dustin is quick to jump off your chair and run towards you. Could this get any worse?

“Who is in your closet?” The lack of response you had to the sneeze gave you away. His head shoots from you to the door. 

When it opens slowly and Steve's face pops out with a wince you can't help but throw your head back with a groan. He fully steps out and when you look back at him you can see a slight sheen on his face, it probably wasn't the coolest being trapped in there. 

“I’m so sorry Dusty I really didn’t mean for you to find out like this and I-” The nickname slips in hopes of saving this situation. 

“Are you sleeping up with my sister?” Dustin shouts at Steve. 

“What? No! I’m not sleeping, well I sleep with her sometimes but-” 

An ‘oh my god Steve’ comes out muffled as your hands cover your eyes but it doesn't stop the horrible situation playing out in front of you. 

“How long has this been going on?” Dustin's poor little face is red, maybe from shock or anger but it breaks your heart all the same. 

“We’ve been dating for 4 months.” You say. 

“Dating? 4 months?!” His voice breaks mid screech. 

“I swear we were going to tell you but there was never a right time, and we knew you’d be upset. It just happened since he was here so often and, I dunno I just- he’s really great Dustin I promise.” It comes out all scrambled but Steve's smile from your words shows enough. 

“It isn't a fling Dustin, this is serious.” Steve speaks up. You quickly nod in response hoping it comes out as sincere as it feels. 

“So I was right, you are dating someone. It’s just, you’re my sister.” You can see the wheels turning in his head trying to understand how he feels about the situation. 

“Yeah, and m’not ‘done with you’ man.” Steve says, quoting Dustin's earlier words. “And now that you know about us, you’ll probably get sick of me being around.” He jokes trying to save this conversation. 

Steve walks over to you, again his hand magnetizing to yours. It’s a visual that concretes everything that has been said, proof that this isn't some prank or a dream. 

“Please forgive us for hiding this from you.” Dustin finally looks at you and his lack of words scare you. 

A few years ago you accidentally broke his lego set he spent 3 weeks building and he didn't talk to you for 10 days straight. Now he’s got a serious reason to not talk to you for a whole year. 

“Fine, I’ll forgive you but for the next two weeks you have to do my laundry. And you’ll drive me around whenever I need to go.” He points to you then Steve. 

It takes everything out of you to not automatically roll your eyes but you nod in agreement. “Okay, deal. Are we good?” 

“Yup, we're good.” Dustin smiles as he makes his way to leave. But not before, “Leave this door open.”  

Now you feel safe to roll your eyes at his annoying dramatics. Right as he turns his back from you he can hear the shut of your door. You may have been stressed about this but not enough to have your older sister's antics fly away. 

All Dustin can think now is maybe he should have acted more upset… 

[woso-dreamzzz]

Bug and Bear

Lucy Bronze x Child!Reader (Bear) x Bug

Summary: Bug comes to your house

Sometimes, Lucy wonders where she went wrong.

If it was a moment way in the past or something more recent.

Being one of your mothers was the greatest gifts in the world. She loves watching you grow and change and get the tiniest bit more attitude even though she knows it drives Keira crazy.

She loves watching your big full body yawns and your big stretches and the way you insist on curling up on the dog bed with Narla.

What she doesn't love, however, is moments like this.

Sitting on the garden patio is meant to be relaxing. She's meant to be sipping a cold drink in one hand and have her phone in the other. She's meant to be able to see you playing so nicely in the garden. She's meant to be able to look up and feel pride at the wooden pirate ship she'd built for you.

You'd seen one in the store when you still lived in Spain and desperately wanted it but there wasn't enough space in the house. But now you're all back in England, Lucy still hadn't bought you one.

She'd built you one instead, convinced that she could build you the pirate ship of your dreams with just some wooden beams from B&Q and a lot of hope.

She'd slightly overestimated the project but with the help of some of the Chelsea girls, it had managed to get it done.

You love it now and Lucy loves seeing you play in it.

Or, she usually loves seeing you play in it.

Everything gets a bit more chaotic when Leah and Jordan's Bug is around.

Like now as you and her play on the pirate ship with wooden swords that Lucy definitely doesn't remember buying you.

She shoots up, interrupting Narla's (who had been sleeping next to her) nap. "Girls!" She says quickly," Be careful."

"We are, auntie Lucy!" Bug hollers back but it's not Bug that Lucy's worried about.

It's you.

You're docile most of the time, happy to let play happen around you. But sometimes, when the circumstances were right, you can get a bit competitive and Lucy thinks that this is one of those moments.

You've got a sword. You've got Bug nearly walking the plank.

Victory is nearly yours now.

"Don't you dare hit her on the head with that, bear!"

You've got your sword raised high above your head when you turn to look at Lucy, bottom lip already jutting out in a pout. "Why?"

"Yeah, auntie Lucy," Bug joins in," Why?"

"Because it will hurt!" Lucy says, trying to calm her hammering heart," And I don't want to have to explain to Bug's mummies why she's on concussion watch."

"Bug won't be on con-sion watch."

"Yeah, I won't!"

"Concussion," Lucy corrects," And yes she will be because it's like when you ride your bike, remember? You have to wear your helmet so if you fall, you don't hurt your head. Heads can be hurt really easily, remember?"

You think for a moment, slowly lowering your weapon as Lucy breaths a sigh of relief and mentally pats herself on the back for being so responsible.

You take Bug's hand, pulling her slightly.

"Come on, buggy," You say," You can borrow my helmet!"

It takes a moment or two for Lucy's brain to catch up but it's enough time for you and Bug to climb down from the pirate ship and start making you way to the house and, presumably, to the room that has your bike helmet in.

"Wait...Hey, wait, you two! Where are you going?!"

Lucy already knows the answer but she feels like she had to ask anyway.

"We're getting my helmet for Bug," You say with an eye roll and a tone that clearly shows you think Lucy is being stupid," So we can play pirates properly."

"You've only got one helmet, bear," Lucy warns," What happens when Bug hits you on the head?"

The look you give Lucy is absolutely disgusting, completely full of contempt like she's just dipped your blankie in the mud or something.

"Bug won't hit me on the head."

"I won't!"

"Because I'm the better pirate."

"She is!"

"So only Bug needs the helmet."

"Yeah, only I need the helmet!"

Lucy sighs. "Go and get the helmet. Give me the swords."

Perhaps while you're finding the helmet, Lucy can find something soft indoors to wrap the swords in.

If only to soften the blow.

[ablobwhowrites]

If I may add anything to your Shredder! Reader, what if they have a daughter like Karai from the 2021 series? No abuse, though! This shredder's too silly for that. They more or less have a doofenshmirtz and Vanessa relationship where he adores his daughter, and she kinda finds him embarrassing for being the meme of the villain world. She, too, is a trained kunoichi.

(I think the request asked for a karai that's kinda like 2012 karai but if I got it wrong, I'm very sorry I got it messed up but hopefully you still like it!)

I have to tell you. Shredder y/n is the final boss of girl dads cause he loves his daughter, karai so much that he worries for her when shes sparring with his henchmen for training or even go on missions. He is her number on supporter and once when she was little, karai when on her first bank robbery in Gotham and y/n got one of his henchmen to take a picture and still has it hung up in the base and is absolutely proud of it still. When karai was still little, she had doodled on y/n's armor especially helmet and y/n wore it when doing villain stuff because karai said she wanted to make it pretty and god damnit was y/n going to wear it until it faded but was washed off by the rain and little karai got upset when it got washed away.

When karai got to the point of having to care about feminine hygiene. He had called cat woman, Diana, Harley, ivy and everyone who could have advice or tips about helping his daughter because he had a whole list of what could help on those months and every single thing on that list was nearly gone in all the grocery stores just because y/n wanted to be prepared. Plus all the villains and heros met karai some way as some met her when she wasn't a kid and others when we was and cat woman was the first to every see little karai when she snuck into y/n's secret base and saw shredder y/n having tea party with little karai.

If karai ever starts dating, she will know that y/n has some of his foot clan soldiers and regular henchmen to watch over karai to make sure shes safe and even replaced the waiter and karai has to hold it together because henchmen #5 is the waiter and she knows theres about 10 foot clan soldiers outside and three in the restaurant alone with the rest being the chefs (I'm taking inspiration from the game shredders revenge and how you see some of the foot clan soldiers just being chefs and doing other things in the game.) If god forbid does karai's date decide to cheat on her. Shredder y/n will actually kill the date, like I'm not kidding he is like it's the 'open the window Luther' image.

*karai live streaming on her phone*

Karai reading a comment: " 'how old is your dad?' TO OLD FOR YOU AND HES A VILLAIN! STAY AWAY FOR MY FATHER YOU GUYS! STAY AWAY FROM DAD!"

Shredder y/n: "you hungry for pie? Don't worry, y/n's got you!"

Riddler: "Just cause there's wrinkles on the wrapper don't mean the candy ain't sweet."

Karai: "DAD BE CAREFUL THEY ARE FREAKED OUT IN HERE!"

I also like to think the bat kids are kinda jealous because they see how nice shredder y/n is to karai and just wanna have the think karai has. Shredder y/n basically being probably the best dad to her but y/n is kinda is to them but also he's kinda more strict with them because they don't act right sometimes while karai is a full blown kunoichi with shredder y/n's training and listens the first time being told something. (Y/n is basically a second father to the bat kids and super kids as well. Even somewhat the teen titans so imagining that hen with 11 eggs and being all brooding.)

Y/n also had karai's armor custom made by his foot soldiers and y/n is scared to spare with her because he's afraid he'll accidentally hurt her so he tends to be kinda push over a bit and karai is annoyed at and tells y/n to at least try but y/n just says she's not ready. She is a very capable fighter and gets so tired hearing villains ask about her dad and she just complains in Japanese because she hates that every hero and villain what her dad as she sees how 'silly' y/n is and thinks the heros and villains just pity y/n sometimes but y/n can hurt people if he wanted to. Shredder y/n in all is the ultimate girl dad who tries his best to be the best dad and to protect his daughter as much as he can even if it annoys her a lot and she sometimes likes the gifts y/n gets her as y/n remembers if karai says she wants something she said three weeks ago, y/n is getting to and even gets he merch of old cartoons she loved as a kid and she acts like she doesn't like them but she will put them in her room or if it's a plushie, she'll be keeping it on her bed forever and y/n's foot clan soldiers and henchmen like karai as they are basically like uncles and aunts to karai.

Also y/n or one of the henchmen tidy up karai's room and even tucks the plushie she has on her bed in the blankets.

(anyways that's it for now! Hopefully you guys like it and if you do please don't be shy and request any ideas for stories or y/n's you have! But for now please stay safe and drink water!)